Warm Whispers

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter or anything affiliated with it, there would have been a few more lesbians in the series.

This is quite obviously femmeslash. If you don't like it, just hit the back button, close the window and scream, call your mother and tell her you're scared, whatever tickles your fancy, but please don't flame it.

The plot is somewhat DH-compliant, deviating after the Trio's stay at Shell Cottage. I'm borrowing the name of the fic ever so graciously from a Missy Higgins song of the same name. It's a pretty good tune.

Enjoy, everyone! Don't forget to review. ;)

The sheets were ironed, and white. They laid neatly on top of the small bed. The dust boats sailed slowly through the rays of sunlight softly coming through the white curtains drawn across the window. The walls, a pale cream, invited the visitor to come closer, they soothed and comforted.

But Hermione's feet were rooted to the door jamb, refusing to tip-toe across the plush carpet. It was so bright, so crisp. There wasn't a speck of dirt to be found. It was all she could do not to scream.

She felt so dirty. Her fingernails were still brown from the dirt of the dungeon floor, the dirt she had so desperately dug at to free herself from Bellatrix. Her left wrist still hadn't healed fully, and was sore to the touch. She ran one of her soiled digits down the split in her lip; Voldemort's right-hand woman found it necessary to backhand Hermione across the mouth whenever she spoke "out of turn." She shuddered at the thought and attempted to run her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit. Her fingers snagged on a knot and she cried out in pain.

It was too much for her. She collapsed in the entryway, her body wracked with sobs. She couldn't go into that clean room and taint it with her filth. As she sat there, she felt a hand gently pull her back to her feet. Hermione was too ashamed to look whoever it was in the eye, and instead mumbled something between a grunt of appreciation and an apology. The unidentified hand placed its thumb under her chin, slowly drawing her face upward.

"Now this won't do at all, mademoiselle," Fleur Delacour reprimanded her softly. She took the brunette gently by the wrist and guided her away from the guest room, walking through the dimly lit hall past a Delacour portrait that had been painted five generations ago. The matriarch in the painting smiled sadly at Hermione as she passed by, and the young girl was shocked by the compassion displayed by the bewitched oil on canvas.

Fleur halted her steps outside of the bathroom and slowly turned the knob. As the younger girl realized what the French witch was about to do, she tried to scrap together what little pride she had left.

"I can wash myself just fine, thank you very much," Hermione snuffed Fleur and walked deftly past her.

"Just because you can do something alone doesn't mean you should 'ave to," Fleur called from the entrance of the bathroom, leaning against the threshold.

"I don't remember asking for your opinion!" Hermione spat, immediately regretting her words. But Fleur had disappeared, and Hermione was left to wash herself with her sprained wrist. She reprimanded herself internally time and again while cleansing herself. No one else was willing to help you, Hermione. Are you ever going to stop this?

She turned the water off and stepped into the heavy, damp air. The humidity brought back a wave of memories Hermione had been repressing since her arrival. She breathed in slowly, trying to regulate her heartbeat and her thoughts, but her mind immediately jumped back to the dungeon, back to that place… she bolted down the hallway and flung the door open to the bedroom, burrowing between the crisp sheets and under the down pillows, trying to drown it all out, to make it go away.

Hermione didn't realize that she was crying until she heard a soothing shushing noise coming from above her. A hand smoothed her hair down, drawing her into their lap. She slowly opened her eyes to see the French woman biting her lip, holding back tears of her own.

"I'm so sorry Fleur," Hermione sobbed. "I'm so, so sorry." She clung to the hem of the older woman's shirt, her tears welled and flowed the way ice thaws in the spring. They clung to her eyelashes and rolled down her face quickly; Fleur wiped them away with the pad of her thumb, drawing Hermione closer to her.

"Shhh," she whispered softly. "There's nothing to be sorry for."

Well, so ends Chapter 1. Reviews and constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated! (or you could just tell me that it was awesome, that'd be fine by me, too)