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It’s thundering, the night she stumbles into the coffee shop.
Jars rattle on their shelves and the door shakes in its frame. There is a bitter waft of coffee concentrate in the air as Hermione finishes rinsing the sink, watching the fine powders mix with soap swirling down the drain.
She’s wiping the counter with a dishcloth, when the storm erupts inside the store, howling a wild creature as the chimes hit the wooden frames. Just as quickly, the door slams shut and the sanctity of peace is restored again, save for the dripping of water onto floors Hermione just wiped.
With a hint of annoyance, Hermione looks up. I’m sorry. We’re closed—
“Désolée,” the woman pants, silver hair flashing under lightning. “I did not see a closed sign. I just—”
There is a quiet desperation in her eyes. Hermione grips the towel in her hand, her mouth forming the words before her brain.
“Make yourself comfortable.”
The relief on the woman’s face is instant. “Thank you.” She slumps down into the closest seat and a strong wave of sympathy rises in Hermione.
The woman does not speak but Hermione lights the stove and fires up the kettle.
The shop owner has a strict policy of making their coffees by hand, for the taste, and appreciation of the process. This gives Hermione plenty of time, as she ponders their wide selection of beans, to wonder what Fleur Delacour is doing in this tiny shop.
She hasn’t seen Fleur since her fourth year when Hogwarts hosted the Triwizard Tournament. Fleur had come in second, though Hermione always thought the judges had been unfairly biased.
Fleur went back to Beauxbatons after the tournament, and Hermione struggled with confusing feelings for two years until she realized what they were.
She hadn’t expected to see her again.
Outside, the storm rages; inside, the water boils; Hermione taps her finger against the counter; and all the while, Fleur sits only a few feet from her.
Hermione does not know what Fleur likes. She grinds up a French brand that she’d discovered in a small Parisian cafe a few years ago, recalling how Fleur used to express her preference for all things French.
As the coffee drips, Hermione sneaks a peek.
Fleur sits against her chair with her head thrown back and eyes closed like she’d fallen there from the storm.
Hermione quickens her movements. She pulls a fresh espresso mug, hot from the dishwasher and pours.
She arranges everything on a small tray. Then, taking a deep breath, she walks over, the tray levitating beside her.
Hermione sets the tray down as gently as she can. Fleur still startles.
Bleary-eyed, she blinks at the coffee and Hermione.
“On the house,” Hermione says, seeing that Fleur is about to object.
Fleur deflates quicker than expected and Hermione feels another pang of sympathy.
“Thank you.”
Hermione stays, watches Fleur take her first sip, the way her face smoothes over at the warmth. The low howling wind is muted, worlds away, as Fleur places her cup on the saucer with a clink.
Hermione takes a step back, gives her best comforting smile. “Let me know if you need anything.”
As she walks away, her ears catch the quiet “Thank you,” whispered her way.
Fleur takes her time with the espresso. Hermione takes her time as she cleans the dripper. She thinks of the leftover pastry from the day that she’d eaten not even twenty minutes ago and regrets not waiting.
She catches herself thinking of next time.
Fleur stands up as Hermione’s watching the sink drain again.
Gentle footsteps bring Fleur to the counter, empty cup in hand. Hermione receives the dirty dishes by hand.
“Would you like—”
“I’m sorry, have we met before?”
The question throws Hermione off her rhythm. The possibility of Fleur remembering her, of noticing her in the first place feels like an old delusion born out of an unrequited childhood crush.
Hermione ponders her answer, wonders how much to give away. There is a wanting in her chest, a spilling waiting to happen.
“I was a Hogwarts student when you competed in the Triwizard Tournament,” Hermione says.
“Désolée,” Fleur’s eyes widen before her lips press into a guilty grin. “I do not remember much from that year besides trying to stay alive.” Her gaze flickers to the name tag on Hermione’s apron.
“Hermione,” she sounds out slowly. “You…you were that Gryffindor student all the Ravenclaws could not stop talking about.”
For the third time tonight, Fleur Delacour surprises Hermione.
Somewhere, fifteen year old Hermione is giddy with excitement. Her reply comes slow, gives none of her fluttering heart away.
“I’m surprised you knew who I was.”
Fleur is kind. Hermione had noticed it when she wasn’t cross with the cold weather at Hogwarts. It’s never been directed at her until now.
“It is a hard name to forget,” Fleur says.
Hermione smiles wryly. “Guess that’s why my parents named me that. I suppose it’s helped me more than not.”
“I like it.” Fleur says simply, as if she hadn’t just negated years of name-related bullying from Hermione’s childhood.
“Thank you again,” Fleur nods to the empty coffee mug between them. “I—” she takes a deep sigh, “—really needed it.”
“Anytime.”
Hermione does not want Fleur to go. But like all visitors Fleur does. There is a smile on Fleur’s face when she leaves. Small, but it’s there. Hermione considers it a victory.
Fleur Delacour walks out into the raining night and Hermione wonders if their paths will ever cross again.