Work Text:
Now
“Jean?”
Fleur pressed herself up, the sheet sliding down her naked back. A hand swiping over the empty side confirmed her suspicions; it was cold and only her clothes littered the floor.
A pleased hum broke through her smile, sore muscles making themselves known as she hugged the spare pillow and stretched. Only the faintest of scents of the other woman’s perfume lingered on the fabric.
Out of bed with a silk robe on, Fleur walked into her small kitchen, dining room, living room combo. With the newly filled kettle heating in the background, she eyed her small flat. This was her fourth year living here, and she’d made something livable from the dingy two-room apartment. It had taken time and numerous visits to thrift shops, but in the soft Monday morning light, it looked nice—nothing like where she’d grown up—but nice enough. She banished that line of thinking, choosing to focus on her good mood instead of things that couldn’t be changed.
Next to her work satchel where her bank employee badge peeked out, she spied a ragged, torn piece of paper on top of a stack of to-be-read books.
“I had to run to catch my train. Last night was fucking fantastic. -J.”
Coffee cup warming her hands, Fleur wouldn’t have minded another round before saying goodbye to the Australian woman. The fucking was fantastic, the best she’d had in a long while. With her side gig, it was hard to gather enthusiasm, but Jean drew it out of her with every rough pull of hair and hard nip of her skin. She had been intense.
Honestly, at first glance Fleur hadn’t expected much from the brunette: some fumbling, maybe embarrassment, before Fleur would wish she’d just stayed home and taken care of herself with a vibrator.
But two drinks in, Jean had her so aroused that she couldn’t wait to leave the bar. She even broke her own rule of no one-night stands at her place. Fleur liked to be the one in control, leaving when she wanted, but Jean was considerate there as well. In town for a conference and sharing a hotel room with a colleague, the only option had been Fleur’s place or a quick fuck in the bathroom. And after Jean had whispered all the things she wanted to do to Fleur, a quick fuck was the last thing Fleur wanted.
Sunday evening and Monday day were the only times she was free from both her bank job and the call service. And even though she had a list of errands to run, she reminisced about Jean’s mouth and hands while sipping her coffee.
After showering, getting dressed, and making the bed with a smile, Fleur grabbed empty shopping bags and headed for the door.
The ringing of the phone stopped her with the door open. At the sight of the caller ID, she closed the door, good mood gone.
“’Allo?”
“Good afternoon, Ms Delacour. I’m calling to coordinate the discharge of your sister.” The administrator’s voice was flat, his intonation projecting only polite concern.
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh!” The man cleared his throat, then lowered his voice as if he wanted to save her the embarrassment of being overheard. “When we didn’t receive the regular payment this morning, I was instructed to reach out. We assumed you had procured another facility for your sister.”
Fleur frowned, confused. She hated dealing with the bureaucratic side of medicine, yet had to keep a rein on her temper. If she lost it, she wouldn’t be the one to pay, Gabi would.
“Like the past thirty-six payments, this one is in your account. I scheduled it myself,” Fleur said as she leaned against the door, bags falling to the floor with a soft thump. “Did you make any changes on your end?”
“I will re-confirm with our finance officer, but it is unlikely we’d make such a change without informing you.” There was a pregnant pause before additional words tumbled from his mouth. “Without additional funds, your sister will be released in one week.”
He didn’t believe her. She opened her mouth, searching for something, anything, to convince him she wasn’t lying.
At the click, Fleur banged her head against the door, each time a little harder than the last.
“Putain!”
6 months ago
Ginny entered her flat and was immediately assaulted by the sound of flesh slapping flesh, each hit accompanied by a high whimper. Crookshanks was hiding under the coffee table and even with her fingers shoved in her ears, Ginny could hear, “Oh please, oh please, oh please” before a last scream of ecstasy heralded a lull in activities.
“Bloody hell, I did not sign up for this,” Ginny muttered before yelling, “Hermione!”
When Hermione first came to live with her, the woman was a mess. Outside of work, most of her time had been spent crying or silently staring out the window, gaze distant. By the skin of her teeth (and agreeing to a probationary year), she’d kept her librarian job, although her flat had to be leased out to pay down her credit card debt. Most of her salary went to rent and necessities.
After a couple of months, the tears dried up, leaving something hard and angry: a Hermione that rarely smiled and bore only a distant resemblance to her friend.
Now Ginny was this close to kicking her out and letting Harry deal with her for a while. This Hermione she’d never seen before, this Hermione could be a royal bitch, closed-off and sullen at the drop of a hat.
Down the hall, a door opened, and there was a murmuring of words, an unintelligible rise and fall of sound, followed by a deep laugh, one Ginny had never heard before. Hermione sauntered into the kitchen, shrugging a loose robe over a tank and boxer briefs, hair up in a ponytail.
After pulling a carafe of orange juice from the fridge, Hermione met Ginny’s glare with a grin. “Want something to drink?”
It was one in the afternoon on a Thursday, and if she didn’t have to go back to work, Ginny would be sipping a whiskey, wishing she could scrub the porno sounds from her ears. Instead, she shook her head and opened her mouth to berate her friend when the bedroom door opened and closed, followed by boots clomping down the hallway. At the entrance to the kitchen, a short woman stood, hair shorn, with well-defined deltoids and biceps visible under her tight white t-shirt. The woman was quite attractive, in that “I’ll tell you what to do and you’ll like it” kind of way.
The woman spared Ginny a nod before grinning at Hermione and saying, “Bye, luv.”
“Bye,” Hermione said, then returned to guzzling her orange juice.
Once the door to their flat closed, Ginny gaped at her roommate and asked, “Who the hell was that?”
“Mel. Really likes it from behind. I might have hurt my back,” Hermione said ruefully as she massaged her lower back with one hand.
For a moment, Ginny was stunned as her brain unhelpfully associated that high-pitched begging with the buff woman. After a shake of her head, she said, “When I offered to let you stay with me, I didn’t think I’d have to listen to you screwing every random person you pick up. I never thought I’d even say those words: you… picking up someone. Who are you?”
The refrigerator door slammed closed, making the cutlery jump in their drawer. Hermione glared at her, a combination of shame, anger, and resentment in her look. “So you’d rather say ‘Hermione is tens of thousands in debt from her obsession with a phone sex operator’?”
“’Mione, no! Of course not.” Ginny groaned. This conversation was not going the way she’d hoped. They hadn’t talked about her in weeks; she’d thought Hermione had moved on.
Hermione left the galley kitchen to stand at the end of the bar, arms crossed and brow furrowed. “I thought you, of all people, would understand.”
Ginny had slept with a few strangers before but didn’t know how that could lead to understanding whatever the hell Hermione was doing. She couldn’t help but shake her head in confusion.
“All the work you’ve done to get out from under your family’s expectations. How you’ve struggled to stand up for yourself and your dreams, despite their disappointment.” Hermione explained as if it were an obvious association. “She took more than money from me, Gin. She took my self-confidence, my self-respect. You can barely look at me without some level of pity in your gaze, thinking if I had just gone out to the clubs with you like a ‘normal person’, then none of this would’ve happened.” Hermione leaned toward her, anger deepening her voice.
Ginny spluttered, unable to refute her words. Sometimes she did think Hermione had brought this upon herself.
Thumb jutted towards her chest, Hermione said, “I’m in control now. If I fuck someone, or fuck them more than once—that’s my decision.”
“But are you happy?”
“Fuck off, Ginny. You don’t get to judge me. I have to get back to work.”
Her feet stomped toward the bathroom while Ginny continued to stare at the space where she’d been standing.
“Are you?” Ginny shouted. “Are you healing?”
If Hermione were happy, then Ginny would invest in a solid pair of earplugs and hope most of the hookups occurred when she was out of the flat.
The bathroom door slammed shut. The pipes groaned when the shower taps turned on. Ginny sat there, listening to the water spray and gurgle down the drain, waiting as a door opened and another closed. Another five minutes passed before a well put together version of librarian Hermione stood at the end of the bar once again.
Ginny was certain Hermione had been crying. Her eyes drooped with sadness, and her mouth twisted that way it did when she was upset.
“Are you?” Ginny asked, softly this time.
A fresh tear slid down Hermione’s cheek as her eyes rapidly blinked.
Taking a gulp of air to fight off a sob, she said, “No.”
Now
Two days had passed, and Fleur still didn’t know what had happened to her money. Not only was she missing the regular payment of two thousand pounds, but almost the entire cushion in her checking account was gone. Fleur had misplaced (according to the bank) almost seven thousand pounds and until next payday, had only ninety-six pounds and ninety-six pence to her name. Merde.
Using her bank employee access, nothing looked amiss in her account. On the first and fifteenth of the month, like the last eighteen months, she’d transferred an amount of money to the center’s account, only this month the amount was three times more. After a whole day staring at the transactions, she realized the account number on the latest transfer had two numbers transposed, making it differ from the previous thirty-six.
With a printout of the transaction in one hand, Fleur pinched her cheeks with the other, trying to give them a little color, then strode into the office of the bank’s anti-terrorism liaison. As an interior office, the space was dark and filled with too many files for an institution that insisted it was on the bleeding edge of modern banking.
With an extra sway in her step, she stepped up to the lone occupant and passed over the trace request to the middle-aged man behind the desk. “’Allo, Richard. A standard destination check.”
Richard eyed her a moment, his gaze never leaving her face, before glancing down at the paper. “Standard checks rarely get hand delivered.”
Fleur wanted to stomp her foot in frustration. Why are things never easy for me? She debated what to tell him and settled on something close to the truth.
“That’s a transfer from my account that I swear I did not set up. I want to know where the money went before the police get involved.”
“Ms Delacour, if you believe someone illegally accessed your account, we must involve the police immediately.” Richard folded his hands on his desk, one on top of the other, and fixed her with a disparaging glare.
If her breasts hadn’t tempted him, then perhaps a few tears might. “Mr Perkins, it may have been my sister.” Two tears fell, splashing on the backs of her clasped hands. “She’s had a drug problem for years, and I thought she’d finally made it—almost two years sober—but now this happens. And I immediately suspect my little sister—what kind of person am I? But if it were her, Mr Perkins, then we’ll deal with it as a family without the police.” Fleur held his gaze and added one final touch in a wavering voice, “Please.”
Silence fell between them while Mr Perkins assessed, and Fleur held her pose. Finally, he snatched up the paper and placed it in his top drawer. “Very well. I shall email you tomorrow. Do not make a habit of these requests, Ms Delacour.”
Wiping moisture from her cheek, she nodded one last time at him. “Thank you so much.”
Sleep didn’t come that night, and she logged extra hours at the service to distract herself. Where did her money go? What would happen to Gabrielle if she couldn’t recover the money? Back on the streets, high off her mind? A fatal overdose? As much as Fleur wanted Gabi to be healthy, bringing her here was a horrible idea. She loved her sister—fiercely!—but they were like oil and water now, their relationship deteriorating after their parents’ accident. According to Gabi, Fleur was only good for one thing: footing her re-hab bill.
The day passed in a blur. At 4:59 pm, her email notifier dinged.
From: [email protected]...
Subject: Information
All entities handling the money are legitimate. Your sister must be an antique book aficionado. After bouncing through a charity aggregator, the money was deposited in the Preservation Fund for the London Metropolitan Library.
4 months ago
Ginny eyed Hermione as the two of them set the table for their monthly gathering at Harry’s place. Hermione was humming a pop song, and the soft smile on her face looked genuine. Ginny bumped her with her hip, laughing at Hermione’s squawk of outrage.
After evading Hermione’s slap, Ginny said, “You seem happy today. How long has it been since you last hummed?”
After a wry grin, Hermione said, “Too long.”
“Do these meetings you have with Fred and George have something to do with your newfound happiness?” Ginny tsked at the surprised look on Hermione’s face. “Of course, I knew you visited them multiple times. I am their sister.” Her eyes narrowed as she gave Hermione a calculated look. “One more hack gone wrong and they’ll end up in prison. Don’t do anything they tell you.”
Ginny staggered into a chair as Hermione hip-checked her back and said, “I’m working on that healing question you asked me two months ago. Sleeping with strangers, while nice, was not helping me heal. I’m seeing a therapist now, and I finally have clarity on what I need to do on my healing journey. Your brothers are helping me with that, and in return, I’m doing some in-depth research for them.”
“Hermioooonnnneee.” Ginny drew out her name in frustration.
Hermione held up her hand as if to swear an oath and said, “Nobody is going to get hurt. It’s only a little project. And I might not even execute it, but planning it has been really cathartic. I’m finally working through what happened.”
Ginny wasn’t sure whether she wanted to know more about this “project”—prank, more like—but trusted her brothers to ensure no one would die. They may be hackers with a penchant for anarchy, but they didn’t condone violence. Wasn’t a humming Hermione worth someone else’s discomfort?
Now
A knock on the door interrupted their tired attempt at preparing a home-cooked meal. Ginny divvied the fish and chips across two plates, while Hermione pulled salad ingredients from the refrigerator.
“Is that one of your special friends calling?” Ginny asked with a grin.
Hermione rolled her eyes, turning to retrieve a bowl from the cupboard. “Answer it and find out.”
If it were one of her “special friends” (as Gin liked to call them), she’d tell them it wasn’t a good time and meet them some other day. Even though they were rarely complete strangers anymore, their connection usually fizzled out after two to three dates.
Instead of hearing Ginny’s teasing call, a woman shouted, “’Ermione!”
Fleur.
Hermione closed her eyes and clutched the counter, letting that voice roll over her, leaving a mess of anger and arousal in its wake. When she had approached the twins for help, she’d thought information would be enough, that it’d give her the needed level of control to take back her life. After learning so much about Fleur Delacour, bank peon by day and sex phone operator by night, Hermione thought her obsession would fade. And it did. Then she’d look at pictures of Fleur (who was incredibly hot, which somehow made the whole thing worse) and get angry all over again.
She schemed then, coming up with a plan with Fred and George’s support. She had no intention of executing it. The calm of knowing she could cause Fleur pain soothed her. Until it didn’t.
Whispering “On your knees” to Fleur last weekend on her very own bed had been a balm to her soul, washing away so many of her sins. Hermione had felt so powerful and couldn’t stop touching her, bringing her to orgasm three times before allowing Fleur to return the favor. That, surely, had been the end of it.
On hearing that voice, Hermione knew it wasn’t.
She turned towards the door. There was Fleur, blue eyes blazing, her fury adding to her beauty. Holding the door open, Ginny gaped at the two women.
Fleur pushed past her stunned flatmate, stepping toward the kitchen. “Or should I ask for Jean?” She asked, her accent lilting her words.
This is what Hermione wanted all along. Hurting her wasn’t enough. Fleur needed to know Hermione was the one to do it.
Smirking, she cocked her hip against the cabinets, arms crossing her chest as Fleur blocked the entry to the galley kitchen.
“G’day, mate,” Hermione said in an atrocious Australian accent. “Back for more?”
Her smirk morphed to delightful anticipation as Fleur stalked closer.
“Ninety-six, ninety-six. You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Like an avenging angel, Fleur swooped into her personal space.
Heart thrumming with malice, Hermione nodded. It had been Fleur’s average rate. “I do actually.”
“You are going to give me my money back.”
Fleur’s finger jabbed at her breastbone, accentuating every word. A hum of pleasure escaped Hermione’s lips as the pain built into a warm rush through her body.
This is what Hermione wanted. And she would not give it up.
“No.”