The first time Fleur sees her, it's at auditions and she doesn't think the girl has a chance in the world.

She's too shy, she notes, when the girl quietly introduces herself to the auditorium and sets her cello case on the floor. She won't be good, she reasons, seeing how the girl's fingers tremble just from opening the latches to retrieve her instrument. She's sitting near the back with a few colleagues, the end of a pen resting delicately between her lips. The applicants have been underwhelming this year. She watches the girl and fully expects the same. From her peripheral she can see her friends crooning over the screen of a phone, bored from the showings this evening. They ought to leave soon. Her friends giggle at whatever it is they're looking at just as the girl starts the first note of her piece.

Without preamble, there's a rush of arpeggio chords and the soft, full sound unique to cellos that fills the auditorium.

Whatever murmur there was in the crowd hushes immediately as unanimously, every pair of eyes fixates forward. She's playing Bach. The Prelude. Fleur raises a curious brow, wondering why the girl had chosen such a hard piece. She begins to understand why when note after entrancing note, the girl's fingers fly furiously up and down her fret board, playing it flawlessly. The sound reverberates through her chest, so soft and warm in its nature, so beautiful by rite of composition, so perfectly executed, that it sends a chill down Fleur's spine. The girl played music the way one might weave a spell. The way one might conquer nations. It set a stillness about the air, only disturbed by the caressing rise and fall of each riff; the music flowing strong and smooth, demanding to be heard.

The girl, so small and dismissable before, now had presence. Her piece transfixed crowd, not a single person daring to look away. Not daring to breath until long after the final chord rung and lingered in the air like a dream; not until the girl's eyes finally open and her lips part like a fragile gasp; not until her fingers ease off the strings in a beautiful reluctance to halt the music that had captured any and all in the small auditorium.

Finally, the girl looks to the stunned crowd, the slightest of embarrassed smiles quirking at the side of her lip. And then a thunderous applause breaks out.

Fleur takes a moment to react. Her hands clap together slowly, quietly, still in a daze as she watches the girl put her cello back in its case, picking it up and silently moving off the stage. Her eyes follow her, the most curious feeling building up in her chest. And with sudden, wistful regret, she wishes she had caught the girl's name when she'd first introduced herself.

Xxx

They're in different years so she doesn't see her in class. However, she does hear about her. She hears quite a lot about the new girl - the first year who could weave magic with her cello; the girl so painfully talented that even the teachers would stop to hear her play. "This one's going to make it," they'd say, watching her practice. "She's already got it," they murmur.

And so it's jarring when Fleur - not the type to be shy, not the type to be intimidated - finds herself nervous about the girl.

She spots her one day in the coffee shop across campus, curled up with a mug and her nose buried deep in a textbook. Fleur doesn't approach her. But she does look on curiously, quiet fascination threatening to trump her anxiety.

Xxx

It's a week later and every day, Fleur walks by the coffee shop - and every day, the girl is there. It takes another day for her to finally go in.

She strolls in with a learned confidence, the bell jingling to signal her entrance. It's commonplace and not a person reacts. She looks to the girl, engrossed in the pages of her book, and studies her as she walks by. She's all brown curls and soft freckles, all cheekbones and quaint pleasantry. The kind of pretty that gets Fleur to stop for a moment, blink at the comely sight, and bite back the smile that forms on her lips. She goes to the counter and orders a tea, eyes flitting back to the window seat where she'd seen the girl so many times before. When the barista hands Fleur her drink, he follows her gaze, the twinkle of a question in his eye. She catches him looking and grins. "The girl sitting there," she gestures, seeing how the sun lights up her brown hair with something bright and beautiful. "What does she order?"

He tells her and satisfied, she walks past the girl and out the door.

Xxx

The next day she's prepared. Her heart thumps loudly in her chest and she's not sure why, but there's an excitement there to go along with the nerves. She'd resolved to do this because she hadn't had a thought in a fortnight that didn't revolve around the girl. Unexplainable, unforeseen, unbecoming. Fleur needed to meet her, if only to get it out of her system; rid the aching pull.

She waits in the cafe, fingers scratching at the pages of a book that she's not quite reading. The sun spills into the shop, kissing at her fingers. She notes that it's been brighter lately.

She doesn't have to wait long before she sees the girl walking up the path and towards the shop. She goes to the counter and orders her drink, drumming her fingers anxiously as they prepare it. It's the same barista as the day before, and he writes the girl's name on the cup with a kind smile to Fleur. She turns the cup in her fingers, nails tracing the scrawled black ink, mulling it over with a hum. Hermione, she says to herself thoughtfully. A name to the pretty face.

When the girl walks through the door, she casts a look in Fleur's direction. Not because she recognizes her, but because Fleur is sitting in her usual seat. It's not an unkind look; just an observation. She makes her way to the counter.

Fleur watches, though she can't hear their conversation, the barista speaking with the girl. He points in her direction and Hermione looks over, locking their gaze. She looks a bit flustered and confused, but also quietly pleased. Fleur smiles softly, setting the girl's cup in front of her. She tilts her head slightly; an invitation to come sit.

Xxx

They chat for almost an hour, fingers wrapped around warm paper cups that have been refilled twice already. Hermione is quiet, but not shy. Not the way Fleur had assumed she was, when she'd first gotten up on stage. Hermione plays the cello, Fleur plays the violin. They have a lot to talk about. Fleur mentions in passing that she'd seen her at auditions. She doesn't mention that she's looked for her every day since.

And much like the first time she'd heard the girl perform, Fleur is captivated. Up close, Hermione is just as beautiful as the music she plays. Soft and gentle like The Prelude; warm and breezy like autumn. Fleur wants to know everything about her. She can't stop her gaze from falling to the girl's lips as she speaks. She can't stop her heart from threatening to burst from her chest with each thunderous beat. She barely knows the girl, but she wants to.

The feeling is confusing and absurd, and by the time their drinks have long been finished and Fleur finally leaves the girl to her studies; she wonders if Hermione has put a spell on her after all.

Xxx

It's not surprising when placements roll around and she spots Hermione's name on the orchestra list. She swallows down the grin that threatens to split her face in half. It would be a week before practice starts and they'd finally play side by side. Fleur can't remember being this impatient for something in her entire life.

Xxx

Both being string instruments, they end up in the same sessions for practice. Fleur gives her a bump on the elbow and a kind smile when she arrives.

"I'm a little nervous," Hermione admits, sheepishly. At Fleur's questioning brow, she shrugs. "These are mostly upper years. I don't want to mess up,"

Fleur chuckles, deeming the thought ridiculous. Hermione played better than any muscian she's ever heard at the college. Still, the girl held her instrument with a shaky sort of hesitation. The sight endears her. She smiles. "You'll be fine," she reassures her. "You're quite capable."

They receive their sheet music and the practice starts. As expected, Hermione plays well - her sight-reading skills impressive with the complexity of the piece. When they group with the rest of the band, she can't help but try to pick out the sounds of a cello in the background, playing softly with the harmony.

Xxx

The weeks roll on towards their first competition and by then Fleur has already memorized the whole of Hermione.

The way she picks at her sleeve when she's nervous. The way she prefers coffee over tea in the evenings. How her hair falls around her pretty face; how her skin glows with the sun; how her voice rasps in the morning. Fleur is so deep into this girl, she thinks she will never return.

But she also knows that Hermione is focused. So deep into her music, so dedicated to her studies, she knows that Hermione neither needs nor wants a relationship. The thought probably hasn't even crossed her mind, despite consuming Fleur's. Had she meant to be rid of the girl, she's done quite the opposite. It is a torch that burns and only grows brighter.

But Fleur is content with waiting; Hermione's company providing a beautiful distraction.

Xxx

They've become quite good friends and Fleur suspects that she doesn't have many.

Fleur is bold and outgoing; Hermione is reserved with a clever sense of humour. Their balance is impeccable, Fleur thinks. And if all the the time they've been spending together indicate anything - both inside and out of practice - she assumes that Hermione thinks the same. In the way they meld together like a picture to a canvas, she's sure the girl must know.

Xxx

They share the autumn evening and sit by the lake, soaking up the sun before winter can claim it. It's getting colder now and Fleur warms herself with Hermione's presence. The wind tosses their hair across their faces and either girl must constantly tuck unruly strands behind chilled ears. It makes Hermione look terribly beautiful, Fleur thinks. Free with laughter, cheeks dimpling. Another thing to memorize. Another fond thought. She leans back on her elbows, feeling the soft grass tickle at her skin. She casts a look to the girl beside her, sitting in a much same position, and smiles.

"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" Hermione asks, brow raising in amusement. She rests her chin on her own shoulder, locking gazes with the older girl. It is a picture of perfection. Fleur's blue eyes may be piercing, but Hermione doesn't look away. She never does.

To this, Fleur just shrugs. Her fingers comb the grass until she has a tuft she's pulled from its roots, giving her fingers distraction while she thinks about her response.

She looks at Hermione because it's hard to look away these days. There is no better sight. Her heart swells for the girl and there is a fondness so deep that it might burn right through her. Hermione is beautiful and charming, smart and kind; the type of girl that Fleur had decided long ago does not exist in their flawed world.

She looks at Hermione because she wants to kiss her. Because she knows how radiant the girl becomes when she is happy and wants to be every reason for it. She looks at Hermione because she cares. Because there is no other way to feel about the girl; no possible way she could feel anything different.

If she meant to tell her any of those things, all that comes out is a smile.

"You're smart, Hermione," she says, laughing and looking up at the wide sky. "You'll figure it out one day."

Hope you enjoyed. Just a little bit of Fleurmione. A wonderful pairing, so full of possibilities! I just watched Mr. Morgan's Last Love, starring Clemence Poesy (you should watch it if you have two hours to spare, it's a sad and beautiful story), and it reignited some old sparks I have for the lovely woman.

Leaving the short story off here, perhaps to be added to at a later time.

I have a couple pieces I'm working on that won't be done anytime soon. I'm trying not to upload things until I've finished writing them. But you can expect more Fleurmione on my page in the future.

Have a fine evening :)