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You are sitting at your desk, trying to read a book about numerology, but you cannot find the focus that once allowed you to take twelve classes as a third year. You have not been able to focus much at all ever since… You do not want to think about that, so you abruptly turn your thoughts elsewhere.
You know that you are not getting enough sleep. Exhaustion weighs down on you like the weight of the sky. You are having difficulty forcing yourself to go to sleep. When you do, it is restless, and plagued by nightmares. And when you wake up, you want to sleep even less.
This is not healthy, you know. You’ve tried Dreamless Sleep, and Sleeping Draught, and hot chocolate, and steamed milk. None stop your nightmares. And so, when your mind is too agitated from a nightmare, and when you cannot fall back asleep, you spend more time reading. Or trying to read, that is.
And so, when Ginny invites you to a party at her new flat, you say yes. Perhaps it will do you good to see more familiar faces. You meet with Harry and Ron and Ginny for coffee on Saturday nights. You used to catch up with others, as well, but like your sleep, your social interaction has dwindled.
At the party, you nestle yourself into a lounge chair between Harry and Ron, who are in the middle of a conversation with Dean Thomas about quidditch (which you maintain is a poorly thought out and unnecessarily dangerous sport). You take a sip of butterbeer. There are stronger drinks at the party, but you are not yet at the point of exploring alcohol as a solution to your nightmare problem.
The party is a balm for your heart. You spend an hour conversing with Luna about her planned expedition to Sweden to search for the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. You spend another hour staring into Fleur Delacour’s eyes as she reminisces with Harry about the Triwizard Tournament. She does not seem to find this off-putting, for which you are extremely grateful.
You first met Fleur Delacour in your fourth year. You remember being rather annoyed at the group of brainless boys that followed her into the library that year. It was for this reason that you decided that you did not very much like her.
Shell Cottage changed your mind. Your memory of Shell Cottage began a few days after your arrival, according to Harry. You woke up in an unfamiliar bed, shaking from the first of many nightmares. You flinched at the sounds of footsteps at the door. Behind it, Fleur Delacour brought you succour and soothing reassurances.
And so, you began a new ritual. You would jolt awake from a nightmare, and soon enough, Fleur would be at your door with kindness, and tenderness, and sometimes crepes. And you would sit up, eating Fleur’s crepes (they were truly remarkable, you remember) and telling her about anything. About everything. You poured out stories from your childhood. About basilisks and trolls. About books, and holidays in France. And in this binge of storytelling, you could not help but be sure that you also poured out a bit of yourself. Your likes, and dislikes. Your hopes and your hesitance. Your fears and your foibles. A fragment of the cosmic catalogue’s definition of Hermione .
And Fleur would talk to you. About cursebreaking and coworkers. About family. About Fleur. And as you felt Fleur’s voice wash over you, you would feel a sense of calm settle over your mind, followed by the sands of peaceful sleep.
As little as you care to admit it, you are drunk. And, following a particularly indiscreet wobble on your way to the kitchen for a snack, Ginny has taken away your wand.
The party has wound down, and your friends are leaving. Harry hugs you goodbye.
“Well,” says Ginny. “It’s just us four.” Strewn about the now-messy room are Luna, Fleur, and Ginny. And you. And from appearances, none of you are sober enough to travel home magically. “Me and Luna are sharing my room, so you two can take the guest bed,” Ginny says.
Luna turns around and walks up the stairs with an airy look on her face. You look at Fleur. Her icy eyes look warm. You feel a warm blush spread over your cheeks.
“I don’t mind taking the floor,” you say, looking down. You doubt that you are going to be getting very much sleep tonight.
“Hermione,” says Fleur, softly. As you look into her eyes, you feel yourself falling into her orbit. “Come to bed. Please?”
You do not know if it was your sleep deprivation or the blush you were fighting to keep down that compelled you to say, “Okay, Fleur.”
As you walk to the bedroom, you feel yourself swaying. You feel Fleur’s arms come from behind you, steadying you. Your blush overtakes you, even as you lean into her touch.
“Come with me, ma choupette.” You nod your head. You can’t tell if the cloudiness covering your thoughts is from the alcohol, or from Fleur’s intoxicating touch.
As you arrive at the bedroom, you realize that you have not brought pyjamas. You look to Fleur to see if she had any. She holds up two pairs of Beauxbatons blue pyjamas. You wonder where they came from.
“One is for you.” Fleur smiles at you softly. You pick a pyjama set without thinking. Fleur pulls her wand from her sleeve, and waves it at you. You notice a soft feeling over your skin, and look down to find that your pyjamas have appeared on you.
You are a little confused. Why does Fleur get to keep her wand, you grumble in the back of your mind.
Fleur magics on her own pyjamas, and slips into the bed. She holds the covers up, beckoning. “Come to bed, Hermione.” You look into her eyes. You distantly remember that there was some reason not to. But sleep calls to you. So you slip into the bed.
“Goodnight, Hermione.” The sound of Fleur’s voice settles over your mind. You feel sleepy.
“Goodnight.”
You jar awake whimpering and shaking. In the night, Fleur’s arms have found their way around you. You feel her arms squeeze around your torso, tighter, as you sob into her neck. It’s soft. As your sobs taper off, and you relax into Fleur’s arms, you feel your mind relax into the embrace of sleep once again.
You wake up in the morning, nuzzling your nose into your pillow. You notice an enticing scent all around you. You feel safe. And sleepy.
Fleur! You realize with a start that your pillow is not a pillow. It is Fleur’s shoulder. Somehow, you have migrated across the bed to cuddle into Fleur’s side. You feel a hot blush rise to your face, but you don’t move. Fleur cuddles you closer in her sleep.
You only remember waking up once, in the night. You feel better than you have in months. You debate with yourself. You should, you know, begin extricating yourself from Fleur’s arms and getting out of bed. The sun is above the horizon, and it is time to wake up. On the other hand, you think that despite the nightmare, you have just had your first good night’s rest in months. And sleep beckons you back into its hold. Perhaps there is something to be said about catching up on rest, you think, as you feel your mind fill with the scent of security and the heavy haze of sleep.