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Chapter Text

Strangled breaths shatter the silence in the dark room, thick with tension and something deeper—something unspoken— the perfect witness to what they are about to do. Her body is pressed forcefully against the nearest flat surface, a breath leaves her lips, sharp and gasping. Then comes the heat of another body against her front, an overwhelming presence, a collision of mouths—desperate, bruising, more teeth and tongue than anything else. Hands are everywhere now, frantic, clawing, pulling, as if tearing away the layers between them could undo everything that had already been broken.

Neither of them is backing down. This isn’t just passion—it is something more. A battle for control. A struggle for self-preservation. Buttons hit the floor, scattering like fallen leaves as Hermione’s pale blue shirt is torn open without ceremony.

Fleur, who's never been known for her patience, steps back, just slightly, her breath uneven, her hands still resting on Hermione’s waist as her gaze roamed over her, taking in every inch of her as if it were both the first and last time.

Hermione feels naked—far beyond the fabric hanging loosely from her frame. She felt stripped bare, raw, and she knows that Fleur feels the same.

Fleur’s eyes, darkened to endless black pools, didn’t waver. Her throat bobbed, lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. For a terrible moment, Hermione feared she would stop, that she would walk away and leave Hermione standing there, undone. She couldn’t let that happen.

But then, Fleur’s fingers hooked into the loop of her belt, undoing it in one fluid motion, unbuttoning and unzipping her jeans as if the thought of stopping had never existed. There was no hesitation as her hand slipped beneath Hermione’s underwear, fingers gliding through slick heat. Hermione’s breath hitched, her head falling back, a mix between a moan and a whimper escaping her lips. She should be embarrassed by the intimacy of it, but she wasn’t.

Fleur is unsurprised by Hermione’s reaction. She is a Veela, after all.

"It can't possibly be anything more than that." Fleur thinks to herself.

Hermione’s eyes snapped shut, her hands gripping at the smooth, unblemished skin of Fleur’s back, her fingertips pressing into the flesh as if to hold herself together. This wasn’t how she had expected this night to go, but she understood. She knew Fleur needed this—needed to take. And so, she let her.

Fleur, caught between agony and ecstasy, refused to indulge in her own turmoil. Control. She had to keep control.

When Hermione came against the wall, Fleur didn’t offer her comfort. Instead, she pushed her away, switching their positions with an urgency that left Hermione stumbling. For the briefest second, Fleur missed the flash of hurt in Hermione’s eyes. Or maybe she ignored it

Hermione wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on it. Not now.

She understood. Fleur didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to feel. She wanted control. And Hermione was willing to give her that—for now.

Fleur convinced herself Hermione wanted the same thing. That this was just sex, just a body—warm, willing, nothing more. She tried to believe the lie, to ignore the way her heart protested against it. It didn’t matter. This was what it was to Hermione, wasn’t it?

If she could just keep control, she could come out of this unscathed, surely?

She approached Hermione again as if nothing had changed, backing her toward the bed. There was a flicker in Hermione’s eyes—something knowing, something patient—but Fleur refused to acknowledge it.

Hermione reached for her, but Fleur pushed her onto the mattress, hard. Hermione let her. "Not yet." Hermione mused again.

She surrendered, legs parting in quiet submission, offering herself freely, as if Fleur was the only one who mattered. And maybe, finally, she was.

The sex was all-consuming, drowning out everything but pleasure, but Fleur didn’t let Hermione touch her. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t survive it.

So she took.

She poured everything into Hermione—pain, desperation, longing, love—without ever saying a word.

And Hermione let her

But something shifted.

Fleur didn’t know when it happened, but suddenly she was straddling Hermione, their bodies pressed together in a way that felt terrifyingly intimate. Hermione’s arms wrapped around her, holding her close, grounding her, and Fleur couldn’t find the will to pull away.

This wasn’t just sex anymore.

Hermione kissed her—too slowly, too deeply. It meant too much.

Fleur panicked. She tried to fight back, dragging nails down Hermione’s back, biting hard at her lips, punishing her for making this something more. But Hermione wouldn’t yield. She took the pain, absorbed it, accepted it.

And then she kept kissing her.

It wasn’t a battle anymore. It was something sacred. Something Fleur wasn’t ready for.

Hermione’s lips trailed down her neck, pressing against the delicate skin where her pulse pounded. Fleur shivered, fingers trembling against Hermione’s shoulders. She wanted to resist, but her body betrayed her.

She didn’t make a sound.

Not because she didn’t want to, but because she couldn’t.

Hermione’s hands mapped her body, memorizing, reclaiming. When her fingers slipped between Fleur’s legs, her breath caught. But she still didn’t move. She still didn’t speak.

Hermione looked up, her honey-gold eyes burning with something Fleur wasn’t sure she could handle. Love. Devotion. Regret.

"Fleur," Hermione whispered, the first words spoken since this battle started. "Look at me."

Fleur clenched her eyes shut.

Hermione whispered again, softer this time, more pleading. "Fleur, regarde-moi."

And Fleur did.

The moment their eyes met, Hermione entered her—slowly, deeply.

Fleur’s breath shattered. Her body arched into Hermione’s, pleasure and pain and something far more dangerous flooding through her in waves. The dam inside her cracked, splintered, broke. And she couldn’t stop it. She no longer wanted to.

Their foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling, their bodies moving in perfect rhythm.

And Fleur realized, with a terrifying certainty, that this wasn’t just sex.

Hermione kissed her again—softly, reverently—and Fleur melted into it. She clung to her, to the warmth, to the safety. She didn’t care if it meant breaking into a thousand pieces. She didn’t care if she had to gather herself up afterward. She didn’t care because, for the first time in years, she felt whole.

Her body tensed, pleasure coiling tight, her release barreling toward her like a tidal wave. And Hermione didn’t stop. She held her. She watched her.

And then, just as Fleur shattered against her, Hermione whispered:

"Je t'aime. Je vous aimerai toujours. I am here. I will always be here. I am so sorry. I will never leave you again. I promise."

Fleur’s broken sobs were lost against Hermione’s skin, against the remnants of their passion, against the quiet promise that, maybe—just maybe—this time, she wouldn’t be left behind.

I promise.

Chapter Text

Present

The soft sound of gentle breathing filled the stillness of the dark room.

Fleur, lying on her stomach, seemed to be lost in the comfort of sleep, her head turned away from Hermione. Her long, silken blonde hair splayed across her back, giving her an almost ethereal appearance, one that reminded Hermione of her Veela heritage. The exhaustion of the evening, both physical and emotional, seemed to weigh on her.

Hermione, on the other hand, was wide awake.

Lying on her side next to Fleur, her fingers moved idly over the contours of Fleur’s back, her mind racing.

Overthinking was second nature to her after all, a habit that had come with the title of "brightest witch of her age."

Fleur shifted in her sleep, her body instinctively curled into the curve of Hermione’s neck. Hermione couldn’t help but smile, though her thoughts were still tangled in old memories.

Hogwarts, October 1994

It was a crisp autumn evening when everything began to change, though Hermione hadn’t realized it at the time.

It was a Sunday, and the Great Hall dazzling with decorations for the visiting schools competing for the Tri-Wizard Cup.

Hermione, who had already seen more horrors than most could fathom, was hoping for a quiet year.

No dark wizards, no magical creatures wreaking havoc—just a peaceful term.

But she knew, deep down, that trouble always found its way to her, especially when your best friend was Harry Potter.

That night, the announcement of the Tri-Wizard Cup confirmed her worst suspicion—this year would be anything but quiet.

Hermione prided herself on being intelligent, and logical. Her parents had instilled in her the importance of using her mind, and she had never wasted time worrying about her appearance. Her brown hair was unruly, her front teeth a bit too long, and a dusting of freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. She had never considered herself pretty, nor had she particularly cared.

But beauty wasn’t about perfection. Sitting between Ginny and Neville, her nose buried in a book on the history of the Triwizard Tournament, she didn’t yet realize that change was already happening.

And soon enough, others would start to notice too.

She barely registered the commotion around her until Ron, in typical fashion, started to turn purple mumbling something that sounded a lot like “Victor Krum”. Hermione couldn’t help but glance up at him, her thoughts drifting to the absurdity of it all.

Hermione turned her head in the direction that Ron was staring recognising a boy with a permanent scowl etched onto his face. His feet pointed inward, and his hunched posture made him walk with a waddle, resembling a duckling.

Hermione had seen Victor’s performance at the Quidditch World Cup first-hand. She had never been a fan of flying, but she could appreciate the sheer talent required to perform the aerial feats that Victor did.

It stood in stark contrast to what Hermione was now witnessing before her.

Lost in her thoughts, Hermione was pulled back to reality by a chorus of gasps. As her eyes lifted, that was the moment she saw her for the first time.

At first, it was just a blur of pale blue silk and graceful movement.

Then, Hermione’s eyes fixed on a particular girl, a tall figure with an athletic, almost mesmerizing presence, trailing behind the Beauxbatons group.

This girl, with her platinum blonde hair that shimmered almost ethereally, moved as though the world itself bent around her. There was an undeniable magnetism in her every step.

"Bloody hell. Now that’s what I call a nice pair of…" Ron began but was promptly smacked upside the head by Hermione’s book causing several Gryffindors to turn in their direction.

“Shoes,” Ron muttered quickly, clearly trying to salvage some dignity. Hermione, still trying to shake off the strange flutter in her chest, rolled her eyes.

"I’m just saying!" Ron persisted, clearly fascinated. “Come on, ‘Mione, she’s—well—"

"Please don’t," Hermione cut him off, her voice sharp but quieter than she intended. She hadn’t even realized she was blushing until she caught Ginny’s knowing grin.

Harry, having witnessed his friends’ antics over the years, could only snicker into the collar of his robes.

But there was something about the girl—the one with the glowing hair—that lingered in Hermione’s mind. Her beauty wasn’t just superficial.

It was...everything.

And it made Hermione uncomfortable, not because of the girl herself, but because of how she made her feel. She had never allowed herself to feel this drawn to someone like that before.

The girl’s smile as she turned to bow at the front of the hall struck Hermione with a force that left her speechless.

For a moment, it felt like time had stopped.

Deep ocean blue met golden honey for the first time, a fleeting glance that carried something unspoken—silent, yet profound.

Hermione couldn’t explain it.

She quickly looked away, heart racing.

As the night carried on, Hermione tried to push the feeling away. But it wasn’t easy.

She’d barely recovered when Ginny whispered to her, “You’re definitely not imagining it. She’s looking at you like she’s got a secret. You two might just be the next great love story, ‘Mione.”

Hermione felt her cheeks burn again, and she tried to laugh it off, though deep down, she wasn’t so sure Ginny was wrong.

Throughout the remainder of the evening, whilst the arrangements for the Tri-Wizard Cup were discussed and dinner progressed, Hermione sat with trembling hands in her lap and an undeniable feeling that a pair of blue eyes were watching her.

Over the next few days, Fleur whose name Hermione had learned in passing, seemed to appear everywhere.

It was subtle, nothing overt—just enough to make Hermione’s heart flutter in a way she wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

Every time their eyes met, Fleur’s smile was warmer, more intimate, and every time Hermione found herself smiling back before she could stop.

The mere fact that Hermione was receiving a smile at all, was astounding to her. Fleur had come across as icy and aloof toward everyone and seemingly everything around her, and yet, the smiles Hermione received made her heart skip a beat.

They never spoke. There was always a distance between them, but Hermione couldn't deny that the connection was there. It was as if Fleur was always on the edge of her awareness, just out of reach, making Hermione’s thoughts scatter every time she passed by and that frustrated Hermione to no end.

One evening, Hermione’s frustration with Ron and Harry’s constant bickering led her to the library, hoping for some quiet.

The library was her refuge. A place where Hermione could exist in silence, away from the noise of the common room, the suffocating attention surrounding the Triwizard Tournament, and—most importantly—away from the way Fleur Delacour made her feel.

And yet, there she was.

Fleur sat at one of the long wooden tables, her presence impossible to ignore despite her apparent focus on the parchment before her. Her long fingers gripped a quill with casual elegance, tapping it against the table every so often as she thought. The candlelight flickered against her fair skin, casting delicate shadows along her cheekbones.

Hermione tried to ignore her.

She really did.

But when Fleur shifted, one hand moving to tuck a strand of silver-blonde hair behind her ear, Hermione found herself staring before she could stop.

Then, Fleur looked up.

Their eyes met across the space between them and something shifted.

The air seemed to change.

Hermione froze, but Fleur didn’t look away. There was something playful in her gaze, something knowing. Like she was waiting for Hermione to acknowledge whatever this was.

Hermione’s stomach twisted—not with discomfort, but with something more....dangerous.

Fleur tilted her head, her lips parting slightly as if she was about to speak. Hermione didn’t give her the chance.

She quickly turned down the nearest aisle, her pulse a frantic drumbeat. She needed distance, needed to breathe, needed to—

The soft rustle of movement behind her sent a shiver up her spine.

She wasn’t alone.

Hermione didn’t dare turn around, but she felt Fleur’s presence before she spoke.

“Pourquoi est-ce que tu cours, 'ermione?”

Fleur’s voice was a murmur, low and smooth, curling around Hermione’s name like a secret. The words weren’t a question so much as an observation, laced with something slow and deliberate—something that sent warmth curling low in Hermione’s stomach.

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. The shock of hearing Fleur say her name—of knowing it—was nothing compared to the weight of the moment itself.

“I—I wasn’t—”

Fleur tilted her head, watching her with an intensity that made Hermione feel stripped bare. Then, something flickered across her face—recognition. Hermione had understood her. Of course, she had. Fleur should have expected nothing less from the brightest witch of her age.

A hint of something almost teasing—almost pleased—touched Fleur’s lips as she stepped closer. Her smile brightening just a fraction more.

You always look so serious," Fleur murmured, her voice lower now, almost indulgent. "Even when you are thinking of running."

Hermione’s breath caught. It wasn’t just Fleur’s beauty that overwhelmed her—it was the way she watched her. Like she was studying every hesitation, peeling back layers Hermione wasn’t ready to expose. Fleur wasn’t just looking at her; she was seeing her.

"I wasn’t running," Hermione said, but the words barely held weight, her grip tightening around the book in her hands like it could ground her.

Fleur made a quiet sound, something between amusement and a challenge.

"Non?"

Before Hermione could respond, Fleur moved—slow, deliberate. She reached past her, and for a breathless moment, their arms brushed. A whisper of warmth, the barest friction, but it set Hermione’s pulse thrumming.

Fleur took her time plucking a book from the shelf, as if the action was incidental, as if she hadn’t just unravelled Hermione with a touch.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Hermione could hear everything—the steady rise and fall of Fleur’s breath, the distant scratching of quills at the far end of the library, the relentless pounding of her own heart.

Fleur shifted, just slightly, and suddenly her lips were dangerously close to Hermione’s ear. Close enough that Hermione swore she could feel the ghost of a breath against her skin.

"You should not be afraid of me," Fleur whispered, her voice low, threaded with something unreadable.

Reassurance. Or maybe a warning.

Hermione’s fingers tightened around the spine of her book, but she couldn’t seem to move, couldn’t seem to breathe.

Then—just as quickly as she had closed the space between them—Fleur stepped back, taking her warmth with her. She lingered for a second longer, her gaze sweeping over Hermione like she was committing her to memory, before turning away.

Hermione remained rooted in place, breathless and shaken, her pulse still hammering in her throat. She didn’t know what had just happened, only that something had.

And it wasn’t the last time.

Not the last time she would see Fleur in the library.

Not the last time Fleur would look at her like that.

Not the last time those fleeting, electric moments between them would stir something inside her—something she wasn’t quite ready to name yet.

The month leading up to the first task flew by, and Hermione found her sanctuary in the library invaded by another Triwizard champion—Viktor Krum.

Unlike her fleeting, yet enigmatic interactions with Fleur, Viktor had approached Hermione directly, initiating a tentative yet genuine friendship. He spoke of Bulgaria, the rigorous training at Durmstrang, and his experiences as a Seeker. His English was halting, and he mispronounced her name in a way that should have grated on her nerves but didn’t.

Hermione knew his interest in her wasn’t strictly platonic, but with Harry preoccupied and Ron being insufferable, Viktor’s company was a welcome reprieve.
Curiously, she noticed Fleur’s usually easy, radiant smiles seemed to falter when she was with Viktor.

It was subtle but undeniable.

At first, it felt like a relief—Fleur’s effect on her was unnerving, and distance was easier.

But a strange restlessness lingered in Hermione whenever Fleur was near, an invisible thread pulling her attention against her will.
After Harry’s triumphant performance in the first task, Ron finally abandoned his jealousy, and their friendship fell back into place as if nothing had happened.

With the Yule Ball approaching, Ron, in a last-ditch effort to find a date, managed to simultaneously insult and backhandedly compliment her.

Fortunately, Viktor had asked her days before, and she had accepted without hesitation.

Her mind turned briefly to what it would be like if she could take Fleur to the ball. She supressed her thoughts. The knot in her stomach growing tighter still.

The evening of the Yule Ball arrived, and though Hermione wasn’t one to seek attention, she couldn't deny the satisfaction of seeing Ron’s stunned reaction. With her newly shortened front teeth, sleek hair, and periwinkle blue dress, she felt… different.

Not necessarily beautiful, but at least like a version of herself she didn’t mind being seen.

Victor Krum, ever the gentleman, offered his arm, and Hermione accepted, though guilt gnawed at the edges of her thoughts. She knew she needed to clarify things with him soon—he deserved honesty.

As she descended the stairs, a flash of silver-blonde caught her eye.

Fleur.

Even across the room, she was impossible to ignore. Radiant in flowing silk, her presence sent an unsteady flutter through Hermione’s chest. She sucked in a breath, forcing herself to look away. She missed the way Fleur’s gaze lingered on her.

The evening was surprisingly fun.
Hermione laughed more than she had in months, caught up in the whirlwind of twinkling lights, swirling gowns, and Viktor’s easy, effortless charm.

And yet—no matter how hard she tried—her eyes kept drifting toward Fleur.

And Fleur, infuriatingly, always seemed to notice.

Then came the misstep.

Lost in the rhythm of the music, Hermione twirled too quickly, her heel catching awkwardly. The world tilted, a sharp gasp escaping her lips—only to be steadied by strong, sure hands. Warmth bled through the fabric of her dress, steadying her, grounding her.

She already knew who it was before she even turned.

"Careful, ‘Ermione.” The words were smooth, lilting, curling around her name like silk. "I thought you preferred running away."

A sharp inhale caught in Hermione’s throat, her heart pounding—not from embarrassment, but from the way Fleur said her name. It should be infuriating, the way she stretched it out with that accent, like she was tasting it—but instead, it sent an unwelcome thrill skittering down Hermione’s spine.

This time, she didn’t flounder.

"I wasn’t running… this time," Hermione said, her chin lifting ever so slightly as she met Fleur’s gaze head-on.

Fleur’s lips curled—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. But her eyes… they searched Hermione’s face, sharp and assessing, as if she could sift through her words and find the truth hiding beneath.

"Non?" Fleur murmured, a note of amusement threading through the single syllable. "Then what were you doing?"

A challenge. Hermione recognized it instantly—Fleur enjoyed this. The chase. The teasing. The slow unravelling of composure.

And maybe Hermione had been running before.

But not this time.

"Dancing," she replied smoothly, lifting a brow. "Though I suppose I should thank you for preventing a very ungraceful fall."

Fleur chuckled, tilting her head like she was considering something. Or maybe just considering her.

"You are welcome."

The air between them felt thick, heavy, something unspoken threading through the space where Fleur’s hands had just been. Hermione knew—knew—she should step away before she found herself tangled in something she wasn’t prepared to name.

And yet, she didn’t move.

And neither did Fleur.

That scared her more than anything.

Panic flared, quick and sharp. Hermione needed an out.

"Hot, isn’t it?" The words tumbled from her lips, abrupt and forced, but she latched onto them like a lifeline. "I think I need a drink."

She stepped back, forcing space between them before Fleur could respond, and strode away without looking back-running. Again.

She should have felt relief.

She didn’t.

She barely had a moment to compose herself before Ron came storming toward her.

"What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?"

Hermione blinked, unimpressed. "You’re going to have to be more specific, Ronald."

"Oh, don’t play dumb. First Krum, now Fleur?" Ron spat the name like it was something foul. "What, are you trying to collect Triwizard champions?"

Annoyance flared hot in Hermione’s chest, but underneath it, something sharper—something raw.

"What exactly is your problem, Ron?" she asked coolly.

"My problem? You’re fraternizing with the enemy! First Krum—"

"Victor is my friend." Hermione’s voice was steady, unwavering. "That’s what this tournament is supposed to be about—forming bonds, learning from each other."

"Oh, please. You really think he just wants to be your friend?" Ron scoffed. "And Fleur—"

"What about Fleur?" Hermione snapped.

She regretted the outburst immediately. Ron had already pushed her too far, and now her emotions were threatening to spill over.

He smirked as if he’d just won something.

And she panicked.

"I can’t stand her," Hermione said before she could stop herself.

The lie felt heavy on her tongue, but she pushed forward anyway, clinging to the safety of old defences.

"She’s arrogant, rude, a prissy princess. She just won’t leave me alone, okay? It’s irritating."

Ron looked smug. But Hermione barely saw him anymore because standing just behind him—expression unreadable, posture perfectly composed—was Fleur.

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Fleur’s face was unreadable, but something in her eyes had cooled, like a door closing.

Hermione felt it like a punch to the stomach.

Fleur didn’t say a word. She simply turned and walked away.

Hermione let her go.

And she hated herself for it.

She left the ball soon after, retreating to her dormitory with a lump in her throat she refused to acknowledge.

She knew she’d been unfair. Fleur had never been unkind to her—if anything, she had only ever been playful, maybe even kind. And yet, Hermione had thrown cruel words at her like a shield, desperate to protect herself from something she couldn’t quite name.

And now, Fleur was gone.

Avoiding her.

No more lingering glances in the corridors. No more teasing smirks. No more warmth in her voice when she said ‘Ermione.

Hermione told herself it shouldn’t matter.

It mattered.

And she had no one to blame but herself.

Present

Hermione let out a particularly deep sigh at which point Fleur’s voice broke through her thoughts.

“You think too loudly,” Fleur murmured sleepily against her neck, her breath warm and comforting. It was a simple thing, but Hermione felt it deep in her chest.

She smiled and kissed the top of Fleur’s head, knowing there was a long road ahead of them. There was still so much left to say.

“I was thinking about the first time we really met,” Hermione murmured, her voice soft and teasing, though there was a hint of nostalgia. “You know, the proper introduction.”

Fleur hummed in response. “Oh? Would you like to tell me about it?”

Hermione smiled, a warmth blooming in her chest. For once, it felt right to share these things. It had taken time, but the walls between them were slowly, carefully coming down.

And, for the first time, Hermione wasn’t afraid of what was to come.

Hogwarts, February 1995

As the December snow melted into February, the Second Task loomed over them. As usual, Harry had left everything to the last minute, and Hermione had spent countless hours in the library trying to help him crack the mystery of the golden egg.

Late that evening, she had been summoned to McGonagall’s office. There, she found Ron, Cho, and Fleur’s younger sister, Gabrielle, waiting.

Their roles were explained, and before she could properly process it all, she was being given a Sleeping Draught.

The next thing she remembered was gasping for air in the frigid waters of the Black Lake, Viktor guiding her back to the stands.

She spotted Fleur there, already sitting with her hair plastered against her face, looking uncharacteristically anxious.

It wasn’t until Harry surfaced—late, as usual—that Hermione understood why. He had brought both Ron and Gabrielle with him.

Fleur had failed the task.

The Gryffindor common room was alive with celebration, laughter and cheers echoing against the stone walls. The fire crackled, casting flickering gold across excited faces as they toasted Harry’s moral victory and Viktor’s impressive showing.

But Hermione felt restless. The night air pulled at her, whispering of something quieter, something unresolved.

She found herself wandering the castle grounds, her thoughts tangled in the memory of Fleur’s expression—stricken, humiliated.

She had never seen her like that before.

Near the makeshift paddock that housed the Abraxan horses, the sound of muffled sniffles reached her ears. Hermione frowned, rounding a moss-covered boulder—then stopped.

Fleur Delacour sat curled in on herself, knees drawn to her chest, face hidden in the crook of her arms.

For a long moment, Hermione just stood there.

Fleur was always so untouchable—poised, sharp, radiating effortless confidence. Seeing her like this—small, quiet, human—sent an unexpected ache through Hermione’s chest.

She hesitated before stepping closer. “Are you alright?”

Fleur flinched at the sound of her voice, dragging a sleeve across her face before snapping, “What do you want?”

Hermione had expected resistance, had prepared for it. She lingered only a moment before nodding. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you be.”

She turned, but barely took a step before—

“Wait.”

The word was quiet, almost swallowed by the night air, but it stopped Hermione in her tracks.

She turned back just as Fleur lifted her head, blinking away fresh tears. Even through the redness, her blue eyes were striking.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, softly—hesitantly—Fleur asked, “Did you mean what you said?”

Hermione’s breath caught.

She knew exactly what Fleur was referring to.
"No," she said, firm, immediate.

"Not at all. I don’t even know why I said those awful things."

She exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of her neck. "My friend—well, it doesn’t matter. There’s no excuse. I was cruel, and I regret it, I am sorry.”

Fleur studied her, silent, unreadable. Then, after what felt like forever, she extended a hand.

"Let us start again, hmm?" she murmured, a flicker of amusement breaking through the sadness in her eyes.

"Fleur Delacour."

Hermione blinked at the unexpected formality before grasping Fleur’s hand, warmth meeting warmth.

"Hermione Granger."

Their hands lingered—a fraction too long, a heartbeat too much. Hermione swore she felt something, a spark dancing along her skin, but she ignored it.

Fleur tilted her head, her lips curling in a way that was almost—almost—a smile.

"I believe zis is where you say, ‘charmed, I’m sure.’”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her lips betrayed her with a smile. “Don’t get ahead of yourself Delacour. I think I’ll let my apology speak for itself.”

Fleur hummed as if considering this. “Fair enough. But you owe me one thing.”

Hermione tensed slightly. “What’s that?”

Fleur’s smirk deepened. “A proper compliment. Since you have called me prissy, I think it is only fair you say something nice to balance it, non?”

Hermione let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. “Alright. Well… You’re determined.”

Fleur feigned offense. “Determined?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, crossing her arms. “You wouldn’t have made it as far as you have in the Tournament if you weren’t. You may have struggled today, but you still tried.”

Fleur blinked at her, clearly not expecting that answer. Then, slowly, a small, genuine smile softened her expression.

“Better,” she murmured.

Something warm settled in Hermione’s chest.

Maybe this fresh start was exactly what they both needed.

The tension eased after that.

They talked for what felt like hours, conversation flowing more easily than Hermione had ever expected.

Fleur spoke of her family, of the expectations that came with being a Delacour.

Hermione, in turn, told Fleur about her own parents—how, even without status or wealth, they still placed immense pressure on her to succeed.

For the first time, Hermione felt truly seen.

“You know,” Fleur mused eventually, tilting her head, teasing, “I have always found intelligence to be very attractive.”

Hermione felt warmth crawl up her neck. “Really?”

Fleur smirked. “Oui.” She leaned in slightly. “You are lucky you are so very simple-minded, Hermione, or you would be in trouble.”

Hermione gasped in mock offense, shoving her lightly. Fleur only laughed.

And for the first time in weeks, Hermione didn’t find herself questioning why Fleur’s flirtation unsettled her.

Because, this time... it didn’t.

By the time the moon was high, and the air had turned crisp with cold, they finally parted ways.

Hermione walked back to the Gryffindor common room, cheeks aching from smiling so much.

Over the next few weeks, Hermione and Fleur had grown closer—closer than Hermione had ever expected.

Fleur had slipped into her life like a warm breeze, effortless and inevitable. She was there in the quiet moments between classes, in the stolen laughter during study sessions, in the way she always seemed to know exactly when Hermione needed a distraction, a challenge, or just her presence.

And yet, Hermione knew breezes passed. They had to.

She had told herself this more times than she could count, whispering the words like a spell, like a charm meant to protect her from something far more dangerous than dragons or cursed mazes.

Because Fleur would be leaving soon. Magic could bridge distances, but life had a way of pulling people apart. Fleur had a future ahead of her—ambitions, a path Hermione didn’t dare disrupt. A long-distance friendship was already a fragile hope. Anything more was impossible.

But first, they had to make it past the final task.

The evening arrived faster than Hermione would have liked. The starting cannon fired, and the champions disappeared into the maze. She waited, shifting in the stands beside Ginny, hands clenched in her robes. When red sparks shot into the sky, her stomach twisted.

Moments later, Fleur was carried out of the maze, unconscious, her robes torn. Hermione shot to her feet, barely stopping herself from rushing forward. But before she could even process Fleur’s condition, another movement caught her eye—Harry. Emerging from the darkness. With Cedric.

No, with Cedric’s body.

“Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort.” Dumbledore’s voice echoed through the Great Hall. “The Ministry of Magic does not wish me to tell you this… but the truth is generally preferable to lies.”

Everything had changed in an instant.

The final day of term arrived like a dream Hermione wasn’t ready to wake from. She stood on the stone balcony overlooking the Black Lake, its waters shifting under the weight of dusk. The world felt heavier now. The kind of weight that came with grief, with endings, with the knowledge that things would never be the same.

A soft tap on her shoulder pulled her from her thoughts.

Fleur stood before her, quieter than usual, her proud posture softened. “Well, this is me,” she said lightly, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Hermione tried to return the smile but failed. She swallowed against the ache in her throat. “Everything is going to change now, isn’t it?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Fleur didn’t answer with words. Instead, she pulled Hermione into a tight embrace, her warmth anchoring Hermione against the tide of everything that had happened.

Without thinking, Hermione melted into it, her head fitting snugly beneath Fleur’s chin. She swore she felt the faintest brush of lips against her hair.

“L’amour, c’est renoncer à l’intelligence pour vivre de ses sens,” Fleur murmured.

Hermione hesitated, stepping back just enough to meet Fleur’s gaze. “What does that mean?” Her grasp of the French language leaving her wanting for once.

Fleur only smiled—a small, rueful thing. “Nothing.” A pause. “I will miss you, Hermione.”

The way she said her name—careful, deliberate, with the “H” properly pronounced—made Hermione’s heart stutter.

“I’m so grateful to have met you,” Hermione said, blinking back the tears threatening to fall. “I’m lucky to call you one of my dearest friends.” Her voice wavered. “Write to me?”

“Definitely.”

Hermione nodded, but her resolve cracked. She turned away quickly, wiping at her eyes.

“Hermione.”

She didn’t look up.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, she turned her gaze upward.

Fleur leaned in, her lips pressing softly to the corner of Hermione’s mouth—light as a whisper, fleeting as the space between one heartbeat and the next. And then, she was gone, walking toward the waiting carriage.

"Don’t go." The words burned in her throat, heavy and desperate. But Hermione Granger didn’t beg. She didn’t ask for what she couldn’t have. So she swallowed the plea, buried it somewhere deep, and let Fleur slip through her fingers like water.

Hermione didn’t stop her. She couldn’t.

She could only watch as Fleur disappeared into the fading light, the ghost of her touch lingering like a promise that had never been spoken.

Chapter Text

Present

It was late in the evening—or maybe early in the morning. It was hard to tell.

The air in the room was thick with warmth, the remnants of their shared passion still lingering between tangled sheets. They had woken in the dead of night, unable to resist each other, drawn back together as if their bodies had never learned how to be apart.

Now, they lay sprawled across the bed in opposite directions, Hermione’s head resting at the foot while Fleur faced the other way, her bare leg draped lazily over Hermione’s stomach. The silence was comfortable, broken only by the soft rhythm of their breathing.

“Do you ever think about that first summer at the Burrow?” Fleur asked out of nowhere, her voice hushed, almost hesitant.

Hermione exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling. “Of course. I thought about that summer almost every day for years.”

Fleur hummed in acknowledgement, her fingers idly tracing invisible patterns on Hermione’s thigh.

She had never spoken of it, but that summer had haunted her. Not just in fleeting moments, but in the quiet spaces between heartbeats, in the shadows of every choice she had made since. She had spent years pretending she could have changed things—been colder, guarded her heart, turned away before Hermione could leave her in ruin. A life without pain, without sorrow. Unfulfilled, perhaps, but safe.

But lying here now, tracing the familiar curves of Hermione’s body as if memorizing them all over again, she saw the truth for what it was. She had never stood a chance at resisting her. She never would. Because a love like this—love that burned even after years apart—was not meant to be hidden away. It was meant to endure.

They had always been meant to end up here.

Hermione smiled wistfully. “Did I ever tell you I loved the way you said my name in fourth year?”

Fleur smirked. “Eerrrmione?” she purred, exaggerating her accent. “Like zat?”

Hermione laughed, swatting at Fleur’s leg. “Oh, stop it! You sounded much better than that.” Fleur giggled, then after a moment, her expression softened.

“I wish we had just talked about everything back then,” Hermione admitted, voice quieter now.

“Maybe things would have been different.”

Fleur sighed, stretching out a little, her foot nudging against Hermione’s ribs.

“Shhh, don’t think about that now. We can’t change the past.”

Then, a playful glint flickered in her eyes. “Unless, of course, you have another Time-Turner stashed somewhere?”

Hermione chuckled but didn’t respond right away. Fleur felt the shift in the air before she heard the answer.
“If I did,” Hermione murmured, her fingers tightening slightly around the sheet,

“I would have stayed.”

A beat of silence passed before she reached down, threading their fingers together. If Hermione had stayed, would Fleur have still told herself that her feelings were misplaced, childish, impossible?

"You are here now," she whispered, giving Hermione's hand a gentle squeeze. And yet, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered, But for how long?

Hermione turned her head, meeting her gaze, and for once, she let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—this was enough.

The Burrow, August 1995

The Burrow had always been a place of comfort, a haven of warmth and chaos where she could forget about the darker realities of the world—at least for a little while. This summer, more than ever, she had been looking forward to the familiarity of it all. A break from the tension, from the nightmares, from feelings she hadn’t quite worked through.

Hermione had spent the past six weeks convincing herself that her feelings for Fleur had been nothing more than a fleeting fascination. A passing fancy. The kind of admiration one might feel for a particularly dazzling comet—brilliant, beautiful, but ultimately distant.

And it had worked. Mostly.

Until now.

Standing in the warm, familiar chaos of the Burrow, Hermione felt the breath hitch in her throat as her eyes landed on Fleur Delacour.

Six weeks apart hadn’t dimmed her radiance in the slightest. If anything, the golden glow of the late afternoon sun only made her seem more otherworldly.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the way Fleur’s gaze caught hers—hesitant at first, then searching, as if she, too, wasn’t sure what to do with the sudden presence of Hermione Granger in the same room again.

And she had been doing well. Really well.

It had been six weeks since she’d last seen Fleur, six weeks since she had carefully placed any lingering thoughts of her into a box and shoved it to the back of her mind. She had almost convinced herself that her fascination with the French witch had been nothing more than a fleeting curiosity, a product of stress, proximity, and, well…Veela magic.

Something twisted in Hermione’s stomach.

They had exchanged only a handful of letters—polite, carefully worded things that Hermione had read too many times before tucking them away, convincing herself that Fleur Delacour was slipping into the past, into something distant and unattainable. It was for the best.

Fleur was in France, likely starting a glamorous career, surrounded by people just as dazzling as she was. Whatever strange, unspoken thing had lingered between them at Hogwarts was over, dissolved into ink on parchment and silence.

Or so Hermione had thought.

Six weeks.

It had been six weeks, and Fleur had changed. Somehow. Impossible, and yet undeniable.

There was something sharper about her now, something more. The same Fleur, but distilled—like she had shed whatever softness remained from school and stepped fully into herself.

A woman.

Hermione swallowed hard, a quiet war raging in her chest. How could so much have shifted in so little time? How could just seeing Fleur unravel all the careful work she had done to push these feelings aside?

Fleur’s gaze flicked over her, sharp and searching, laced with something unreadable. Teasing. Expectant. Waiting.

“Ah, Hermione,” Fleur murmured, as if she had been expecting this, as if she had been expecting her.

Hermione barely managed a breath before Fleur leaned in, pressing a kiss to one cheek, then the other. The contact was light, almost perfunctory, but it left a trail of warmth in its wake, a static hum beneath her skin.

“Fleur,” she said, her voice embarrassingly unsteady.

Fleur pulled back, her expression caught between amusement and something softer. “You are surprised to see me.” It wasn’t a question.

Hermione’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. “What are you doing here?” The words came out too abrupt, too raw.

Fleur tilted her head, her smile just a shade too knowing. “Bill invited me.”
Hermione barely had time to process that before Bill leaned in, whispering something into Fleur’s ear. Fleur turned to him, laughing—soft, familiar, effortless. Like she belonged here. Like they belonged together.

A weight settled in Hermione’s chest. Fleur was here. With Bill? Close enough to whisper to, to laugh with in that easy way Hermione had never quite mastered.

Her throat tightened. Had she been wrong all along? Had Fleur’s relentless teasing, the unreadable looks, the lingering touches been nothing more than Fleur being Fleur? And had Hermione been a fool to think there was ever more?

Fleur’s gaze flickered back to her, lips still curved, eyes still expectant. But Hermione—Hermione was already retreating, pulling back behind her carefully constructed walls.

She was not ready for this.

Needing a moment to breathe, Hermione seized the nearest excuse. "Erm... I’ll just—I'll take these then." She gestured vaguely at her luggage before making a quick exit from the kitchen.

As she climbed the stairs, her mind raced. What is Fleur doing here? And what was that about her and Bill? Is there something going on between them? Why didn’t she tell me? The questions twisted in her chest, sharp and insistent. She had no right to feel betrayed—she knew that—but the sting of it settled deep anyway. Her stubbornness refused to let her see reason.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, her expression was carefully schooled into indifference. Without a word, she joined Ginny in preparing lunch, moving through the motions as if nothing was amiss.

But her eyes betrayed her. Through the window, she caught sight of Fleur and Bill sitting together on a bench in the garden. Fleur leaned in slightly, her head tilted toward him, laughter slipping past her lips—soft, easy, familiar.

Hermione forced herself to look away, focusing on the task at hand.

It didn’t help.

She tried to swallow the knot in her throat but struggled.

"Are you alright, ’Mione? You’re looking a bit pale." Ginny’s tone was light, but the crease between her brows betrayed her concern.

"I’m fine, Gin. Of course. Perfectly fine." Hermione forced a smile, but it wavered at the edges, never quite reaching her eyes.

Ginny didn’t buy it. Not with the way Hermione was clutching the knife like it had personally offended her. So, she pressed on. "Suppose you’re as surprised as I am to see Fleur here."

Hermione gave a noncommittal shrug, pretending to focus on slicing the bread.

She hesitated, then said carefully, "I didn’t realize Fleur and Bill were close. Apparently, they’ve been writing to each other since before the final task."

Hermione kept her gaze on the bread, slicing with slow precision.

"It makes sense, I suppose. Bill’s always been friendly, and Fleur… well, she has a way of drawing people in." Ginny’s voice was neutral, observational, but her eyes were sharp as she watched Hermione’s reaction.

Hermione exhaled steadily through her nose, willing herself to keep her hands steady.

"He seems to like her," Ginny added after a beat, as if testing the waters.

The knife faltered for just a moment before Hermione steadied it.

Ginny let the silence stretch before continuing, her tone thoughtful. "Though, Fleur’s… complicated. Not always easy to read. It’s hard to say what she really wants."

Something twisted violently in Hermione’s chest, sharp and relentless. The words were reasonable, harmless even, but they buried themselves deep, festering in places she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Ginny didn’t press further. She only watched, quiet and knowing, as Hermione’s grip on the knife tightened.

The ache unfurled, spreading through Hermione’s ribs like wildfire. Each breath felt too shallow, too forced, as if the air had thickened around her. She willed herself to keep slicing, to keep steady, but the weight of it all pressed down, suffocating.

Then—movement.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Fleur rise from the bench outside, her gaze drifting toward the kitchen. Searching. Looking for something.

Looking for her.

A fresh wave of panic crashed over Hermione, sudden and undeniable. She needed distance, needed to escape before her thoughts—her feelings—became too loud to ignore.

"You know what, Gin? On second thought, I think you’re right. I’m really not feeling well," Hermione said, the words rushed, brittle. She was already stepping back from the counter, retreating. "I think I need to lie down for a bit."

Ginny hummed, unsurprised. Her expression held no judgment, only quiet understanding. "Of course."

Hermione barely heard her. She turned sharply, feet moving before she could second-guess herself, making for the stairs just as Fleur stepped into the kitchen.

Their eyes met for the briefest second—enough to send Hermione’s heart into her throat.

Then she was gone.

Hermione forced herself up the steps, willing her feet to move faster, desperate to escape before she shattered entirely.

By the time she reached Ginny’s room, her vision blurred. The moment the door shut behind her, the tears came, silent at first, then wracking sobs that she pressed into her sleeve to muffle. Her breath hitched painfully, and she sank onto the bed, curling in on herself as if that would somehow shield her from the truth.

She wasn’t stupid. She had known for some time now—the way her pulse quickened when Fleur was near, the way a single glance or a teasing remark left her breathless. She had known, even as she tried to ignore it, that it meant something.

But she had been a fool to believe, even for a moment, that it had meant something to Fleur.

Had she imagined it all? The way Fleur’s fingers had brushed against hers for just a little too long? The way her lips had curled in something secretive whenever Hermione stammered in response to her flirtations? Had Fleur been playing all along? Laughing behind her back at how easily she could fluster her?

Or worse… had Hermione simply been too late? Had Bill already claimed what Hermione hadn’t even had the courage to reach for?

She squeezed her eyes shut. She had forced herself to avoid her feelings before, tried not to stop to question the way Fleur made her feel, too afraid of what the answer might be. Being best friends with Harry had left little room for self-reflection, let alone romance.

And besides, she had always known—had been told, over and over again—that love, the kind of love she felt now, didn’t belong to girls like her.

She didn’t know what the wizarding world thought of it. She didn’t even know how to ask without giving herself away.

But none of it mattered now. Fleur had been playing, or Fleur had already chosen. Either way, Hermione had lost.

The next day, Hermione did everything in her power to avoid Fleur. She lingered at the breakfast table long after she had finished eating, pretending to be engrossed in the Prophet. She busied herself with the boys, nodding along to Ron’s half-baked Quidditch strategies and even agreeing—against her better judgment—to watch their backyard match, despite her general disinterest in the sport. Anything to keep herself occupied.

Anything to keep from looking at Fleur.

It wasn’t easy. Fleur had tried—small moments where she caught Hermione’s arm in passing, light-hearted remarks meant to draw her in, the occasional searching glance that Hermione stubbornly refused to meet.

Hermione kept her distance, responding with polite disinterest or pretending she hadn’t heard at all. It was only for a week, she reminded herself. One week, and then she would be back at school, and Fleur would be nothing more than a memory—a lesson in foolish, one-sided affection.

And maybe then, her heart would stop aching.

The next couple of days were spent in quiet solitude, her nose buried in a book as she sought refuge in the warmth of the sunlit garden. It was easier to lose herself in fiction than to dwell on the sight of Fleur laughing with Bill, her radiant beauty seeming to belong to someone else entirely.

Today, the air was thick with the scent of wildflowers, and a soft breeze carried the distant sounds of laughter from the house. Hermione stretched out on a blanket, her fingers idly marking her place in the novel resting on her stomach. Her other arm draped over her eyes, shielding them from the golden glow of the afternoon sun. The world around her felt slow, almost hazy, and for the first time in days, she let herself drift—just on the edge of sleep.

Until a shadow fell over her.

The warmth vanished in an instant, replaced by the cool press of someone’s presence.

“Hermione,” Fleur’s voice was soft, almost hesitant.

A shiver passed through her at the sound, but she forced herself to stay still, to keep her breathing even, to pretend the mere mention of her name didn’t unravel her.

She could do this. She had to.

Fleur’s voice was soft, almost too soft—like she was bracing for something. A shiver passed through Hermione at the sound,
Swallowing, Hermione opened her eyes—only to find Fleur watching her, her expression masked. It reminded Hermione of the girl back at Hogwarts before she came to know the real Fleur.

"Why am I getting the distinct impression that you are avoiding me?" Fleur asked, and though she tried for lightness, the weight of the question bled through.

It wasn’t an accusation. It was something quieter. Something almost wounded.

Hermione stiffened, forcing herself to look unaffected. “What? I’m not avoiding you.” The words tumbled out too quickly, too defensively. Fleur merely arched a perfectly sculpted brow, the silent challenge making Hermione’s face burn.

Realizing she needed to salvage the moment, Hermione cleared her throat and forced a casual tone. “ I suppose I’m just a little surprised, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon. I thought you were busy starting a career in France.”

Fleur hesitated for only a moment before lowering herself onto the blanket beside Hermione. The scent of jasmine and something distinctly Fleur filled the air. Hermione resisted the urge to inch away.

“I am thinking of moving to England, actually.” Fleur studied Hermione carefully as she spoke. “William arranged for me to start an apprenticeship as a curse breaker at Gringotts. He invited me here this summer to spend more time with him… and his family,” she added quickly, almost as if she had noticed Hermione’s grip tightening on the edges of her book.

The knot in Hermione’s chest twisted painfully. She tried to keep her expression neutral, but she knew she wasn’t fooling anyone. “That’s wonderful, Fleur. Really… great.” Her voice came out tight, strangled by emotions she had no right to feel.

Fleur exhaled softly as if sensing the shift between them. “Hermione…” she started, something uncertain in her tone.

Panic flared in Hermione’s chest. She wasn’t ready for whatever Fleur was about to say—couldn’t bear to hear confirmation that Fleur and Bill were together, that Hermione’s feelings had been a foolish fantasy all along.

“So, what does your family think about the move?” Hermione cut in, forcing brightness into her voice as she latched onto the first distraction that came to mind.

For a split second, something flickered across Fleur’s face—disappointment? Frustration? But then she allowed the subject to change, either taking the bait or deciding that whatever she had been about to say wasn’t worth the trouble.

Hermione ignored the pang of regret that followed. It was better this way. It had to be.

For the next few days, Hermione worked tirelessly to control her emotions around Fleur. She told herself it was simple—logical, even. She would leave soon, and whatever foolish longing had taken root in her chest would fade with distance, she could just as well enjoy her friendship and company in the time remaining.

But logic had never stood a chance against Fleur Delacour.

Fleur was impossibly tactile, and it was driving Hermione mad. Every time they walked together, their arms would brush—just barely, just enough to send a tremor down Hermione’s spine. Fleur would laugh at one of her jokes, bright and unrestrained, and then reach out, fingertips pressing lightly against Hermione’s arm, her bicep, her wrist.

It was reckless, Hermione knew, but she found herself trying harder to make Fleur laugh, just to feel that fleeting touch again.

They would take long walks around the pond or wander through the tall grass fields, their conversations flowing effortlessly between weighty discussions of magic and meaningless chatter about everything in between. It was as easy as breathing, being with Fleur.

And yet, the more effortless it felt, the harder it became.

The way Fleur looked at her—Merlin, the way she looked at her—made Hermione’s stomach coil with something dangerous. Something she was too afraid to name.
She had no idea what Fleur was saying now, something about France, but she had completely lost the thread of the conversation, caught instead in the way the late afternoon light turned Fleur’s hair to molten silver, the way her lips curved so easily as she spoke.

A sharp pang of longing struck her, unbidden. Was she imagining it? The soft touches, the lingering glances? Or was she only seeing what she wanted to see?

Then, as if sensing the shift between them, Fleur suddenly spoke, her voice quiet but firm.

“Will we be seeing each other again?”

Hermione faltered mid-step, blinking herself out of her thoughts.

"I'm not quite sure, to be honest, Fleur." She exhaled, gaze lowering. "With You-Know-Who alive again… who knows what the future will hold?"

Fleur’s jaw tightened for the briefest moment, but it passed as quickly as it came. “I would very much want us to remain friends, though. Will you promise to write to me?”

Something about the way Fleur said “friends” made Hermione’s breath hitch. The word lingered on Fleur’s tongue as if she were testing it, as if it didn’t quite fit.

Hermione swallowed around the sudden tightness in her throat.

"Of course, Fleur. We're friends." The words felt stiff, mechanical. She forced a smile. "I promise I will write to you."

Fleur nodded, but something in her expression dimmed, her usual effortless confidence faltering as she fidgeted with her hands in front of her.
For the first time since they’d met, Fleur looked almost… uncertain.

And it was that, more than anything else, that made Hermione’s chest ache.

Fleur was fidgeting, an uncharacteristic uncertainty in the way she wrung her hands together. Then, as if making a decision, she reached out, grasping Hermione’s hand with a sudden urgency.

Hermione barely had time to react before Fleur pulled her to a stop, turning to face her fully. The warmth of her palm sent a jolt through Hermione’s body, and she had to remind herself to breathe.

“Hermione, I… I feel like I need to explain something.” Fleur’s voice was softer than usual, lacking its usual teasing lilt. Her fingers tightened around Hermione’s, as if she was steadying herself. “The thing with William…”

A loud crack of thunder split the sky above them, and suddenly, the heavens opened.

Within seconds, cold and unrelenting rain came down in sheets. Both of them gasped at the abrupt change, their clothes quickly becoming drenched. Hermione let out a startled yelp, but before she could do anything, Fleur tugged on her hand again, this time with a breathless laugh.

Still clutching Hermione’s fingers, Fleur turned and ran.

Hermione didn’t hesitate, falling into step beside her, laughter bubbling from her chest. It was ridiculous, really—they were both witches, capable of shielding themselves with a flick of their wands. But neither of them reached for magic. Whether it was accident or intent, Hermione couldn’t tell. Maybe, selfishly, she just didn’t want to let go.

They were still some ways from the Burrow when Fleur suddenly tugged Hermione in a different direction. Hermione barely had time to react before she was pulled into the broom shed, the wooden door slamming shut behind them.

The space was suffocatingly small, barely enough for them both to fit. The scent of damp wood and rain filled the air, mixing with something distinctly Fleur—warm, sweet, intoxicating.

Hermione was still breathless from laughter, but the sound died in her throat the moment Fleur reached up with a trembling hand, brushing a soaked strand of Hermione’s hair away from her face.

Silence thickened between them.

Hermione felt her pulse hammer in her throat, heat pooling in her stomach under the weight of Fleur’s stare. She looked back, and what she saw made her knees weak.

Fleur’s usually bright blonde hair was plastered to her face, her blue eyes dark and burning with something Hermione could only hope was desire.

A droplet of water clung to the edge of Fleur’s lashes before falling, sliding over the elegant curve of her cheek, dipping into the crook of her delicate nose before rolling onto her lips.

Hermione tracked its path with rapt attention, unable to stop herself from watching as Fleur’s tongue darted out, slow and deliberate, to catch the droplet.

The world outside vanished.

There was only this. Only Fleur. Only the pounding of Hermione’s heart, so loud she was certain it could be heard over the rain.

The words tumbled from her lips before she could think to stop them.

“Fleur, you—” Hermione swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “You are the most devastatingly beautiful person I’ve ever seen. And when you look at me like that…” She let out a shaky breath, her fingers twitching at her sides. “I don’t know what to do.”

Fleur inhaled sharply, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. The hand that had been resting at Hermione’s temple slid down, fingers ghosting over her damp skin before curling around the nape of her neck.

Hermione shivered, her breath hitching.

Fleur’s gaze dropped to her lips, her breathing uneven. The air between them was charged, every heartbeat stretching unbearably.

She leaned in.

Hermione’s body moved on instinct, tilting up to meet her. Their noses brushed, the softest of touches, and Hermione let her eyes flutter shut, lips parting in anticipation of something she had wanted for so long—

A thunderclap tore through the sky.

The moment shattered.

Fleur jerked back like she had been burned, her fingers snapping away from Hermione’s skin as if she had only just realized she was touching her at all.

“Merde…” Fleur whispered, breathless, but not in the same way as before. Her expression crumpled into something unreadable, something torn. “Désolé.”

The apology cut through Hermione like a blade.

Before she could say anything, before she could even breathe, Fleur wrenched open the door and stumbled out into the rain. She didn’t look back, her retreat swift—almost desperate.

Hermione remained frozen in place, chest heaving, fingers clutching the front of her soaked shirt as if to hold herself together.

The message was clear.

Fleur had wanted to kiss her.

But she had chosen not to.

And Merlin, did it hurt.

That evening, Ginny had been relentless, poking and prodding at Hermione’s sudden shift in mood. She thought Fleur had upset her—and she was right, just not in the way she expected.

Hermione had spent hours trying to bury the ache in her chest, but it refused to be ignored. The almost-kiss haunted her, lingering in her mind like a half-formed spell, something on the tip of her tongue that had never been cast. She couldn’t keep this to herself anymore.

Her voice was barely more than a whisper when she finally admitted, “I think I like her, Ginny.”

Ginny’s brows furrowed. “Who?”

Hermione swallowed, her throat tight. “Fleur.”

Ginny blinked, then let out an exasperated laugh. “Well, I’d hope you like her, considering how much time you two have been spending together. I was starting to worry she’d trapped you in some sexy Veela spell or something.” She smirked.

Hermione didn’t laugh. Instead, she shook her head, and when she spoke again, her voice was raw. “No, Gin, you don’t understand… I like like her.”

Silence.

Ginny’s face went slack for a second before her eyes widened in realization. “Oh.” A beat. “OH.”

She immediately placed a steadying hand on Hermione’s shoulder, feeling how tense she was, how she trembled slightly beneath her touch. Ginny had seen Hermione upset before—frustrated with Ron and Harry, anxious about school, worried about the war—but this was different. This was something Hermione had been carrying alone, something heavy enough to make her voice waver, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Ginny softened. “Well, you know, ’Mione… that’s totally okay.”

Hermione let out a shaky breath, but the tension in her chest didn’t ease. “You don’t think it’s… weird? That I’m unnatural?” The words tasted bitter on her tongue, like something she had swallowed long ago but never quite let go of. It was one thing to acknowledge her feelings in silence, to wrestle with them in the safety of her own mind. It was another to say them out loud, to give them weight, to risk someone else confirming her worst fears.

Ginny’s brows knitted together in confusion, her expression flickering with something like hurt on Hermione’s behalf. “Why the hell would I think that?”

Hermione bit her lip, forcing herself to continue, even though it made her stomach twist.

“Because it’s not… normal. Not where I come from.” She glanced down at her hands, suddenly feeling ashamed of the way they trembled in her lap. “In the Muggle world, it’s not just frowned upon, Ginny. It’s wrong. Or, at least, that’s what people are raised to believe. People have been shunned, hurt—killed—for feeling the way I feel.”

She exhaled sharply. “And I—I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove that I belong. That I’m worthy of this world. That I’m more than just a ‘Mudblood’ or an outsider or a—”“Hermione.” Her voice was steady, warm. “You belong here. You always have.”

Hermione sniffed, blinking rapidly. “I just… I didn’t want to give them another reason to look at me like I don’t.”

Ginny’s eyes softened, but her tone didn’t waver. “Then screw them.” She gave Hermione’s hand another squeeze before letting go. “Besides, we’re witches, Hermione. When have we ever been ‘natural’?”

The joke landed just enough to pull a small, broken laugh from Hermione’s lips. Ginny grinned, nudging her shoulder playfully. “Seriously, you think liking girls is the weirdest thing about us? You literally turn hedgehogs into pincushions for fun.”

Hermione let out another shaky laugh, rubbing at her eyes. “That’s Transfiguration, Ginny.”

“Sure, sure.” Ginny smirked. “All I’m saying is, if you’re unnatural, it’s because you willingly spend time with Harry and Ron. And that’s a much bigger red flag.”

Hermione huffed out a laugh, shaking her head.

Hermione could picture it so clearly—the warmth of Fleur’s laughter filling a home they built together, late-night debates over books and spells, stolen glances across a crowded room that spoke of something only they understood. The possibility of it felt as natural as breathing. And yet, it was an illusion, a foolish dream she had let herself believe in for far too long.

Fleur had never truly been hers to want.

Hermione had never been the kind of girl people fell in love with. She was the one others admired, relied upon, respected—but never the one they longed for. Not in the way she longed for Fleur. Every lingering touch, every stolen look, every laugh shared between them—surely, she had read too much into it. Had let herself hope.

Her heart ached with the weight of her own foolishness, screaming at her that she was wrong, that there was something there. But stubbornly her mind refused to yield, relentless in its logic. Fleur was with Bill. Fleur had stepped away. Fleur had run.

Whatever Hermione thought she had seen in those deep blue eyes—it had never truly been for her.

If she had any hope of moving on, she needed to bury this. To silence her heart before it shattered completely. The only way to do that was to leave—get away from the Burrow, get away from Fleur, before she lost herself entirely.

The following morning, Hermione left the Burrow early, citing travel arrangements with her parents. Only Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, and Harry were awake to see her off. She could not stomach the thought of seeing Fleur—not when the memory of almost having everything still lingered on her lips. Not when there was a chance she’d see pity in Fleur’s eyes. So, she left without a backward glance.

Fleur came down soon after, her heart lurching the moment she saw Hermione’s absence. Too late.

Fleur had wanted to find Hermione—to explain, to apologize. To make her understand that it hadn’t been rejection that sent her running, but fear. A fear that had wrapped around her like a vice, tightening with every breath.

Trust had never come easily to Fleur. Opening up was harder still. Being part Veela meant that people rarely saw her—they saw a dream, a fantasy woven from their own desires. But Hermione… Hermione had been different. She had always suspect, but Fleur knew that now, with a certainty that made her chest ache.

And that certainty terrified her.

Her grand-mère had warned her once, in a voice steeped in old magic and whispered sorrow. True Veelas loved only once—one bond, unshakable, eternal. But Fleur? A quarter Veela, born without that blessing? Her magic was crueler-almost a curse.

She could love freely. She could date, marry, build a life. But if she ever gave her heart fully, it would be theirs—permanently. No invisible tether would draw them back to her. No magic would ensure they stayed. They could leave. And Fleur? She would go on breathing, existing, but it would not be a life. It would be an echo, haunted by what she could never reclaim and never have again.

She had been so afraid—so utterly afraid—to give her heart to Hermione.

Fleur wanted to explain all of this. That she had fled because she was scared, not because she didn’t care. That there was nothing between her and Bill. That Hermione mattered so much it made her reckless, unsure. That she wasn’t certain she was strong enough to risk everything—especially now, when war loomed like an unforgiving storm. Not when Hermione was still so young, so uncertain.

But Hermione was gone.

Ginny mentioned it casually over breakfast, and something inside Fleur twisted violently. She forced herself to smile, to nod, to swallow the hollow ache in her throat.

It’s for the best, she told herself.

This way, neither of them would have to break.

But as she sat in silence, staring at the empty space where Hermione should have been, Fleur felt the truth settle deep in her bones.

Her heart was no longer hers to give

Chapter Text

Present

Hermione sat at the breakfast table on the veranda of the little cottage, the remnants of a lazy morning still clinging to the air. The sun hung high, but the sea breeze kept the heat at bay. From her seat, she could see the ocean stretching endlessly before her, its rhythmic waves lapping at the shore like a quiet lullaby.

She sighed, content—until the unmistakable sensation of being watched sent a shiver down her spine. She didn’t need to look to know who it was. The weight of that gaze, the intensity—it could only belong to one person-familiar blue eyes were studying her with far too much amusement.

“What?” she asked without looking, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“Nothing.” Fleur’s response was nonchalant, but the mischief in her voice betrayed her.

Hermione turned to her. Brow arched. “Tell me.” She popped a grape into her mouth, chewing slowly, watching as Fleur’s lips curled into a smirk.

“Well,” Fleur began, leaning back just slightly, as if drawing out the moment. “I was just thinking about the first time you kissed me.”

The grape lodged in her throat, causing a coughing fit, which Hermione failed spectacularly at downplaying as heat bloomed on her face.

She cleared her throat, determined to maintain some semblance of composure. “Yes, about that—”

She barely got the words out before Fleur stood, rounding the table with effortless grace.

Hermione felt her breath hitch as Fleur bent down, her thumb brushing softly against her cheek. Instinctively, her eyes fluttered shut.

“I hope,” Fleur murmured, her voice rich with mischief, “you are not about to tell me you regret that kiss?”

Hermione’s lips parted, but no words came. Fleur’s proximity, her touch, the teasing lilt in her voice—it was utterly unfair.

Fleur leaned in, so close Hermione could feel the whisper of her breath. “Would you like me to remind you how it happened?”

Hermione swallowed. “I—”

Fleur’s lips barely ghosted over her own. “If I recall correctly, it was because you were looking at me with those seductive eyes…”

Hermione huffed a laugh, finally finding her voice. “Me? Seductive?”

Fleur pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, eyes glinting. “Oh, mon cœur. Do not pretend you do not know.”

And with that, Hermione was lost. Again.

The Burrow, July/August 1997

It had been two years since Hermione last set foot at the Burrow. Two years since that almost-kiss with Fleur. And for two years, she had avoided this place, avoided her, unable to face what had nearly happened—or what hadn’t.

At first, she had told herself it was for the best. Certain the rejection was due to Fleur’s budding romance with Bill. That Hermione had been too late. But then Ginny had told her—casually, in passing—that Fleur hadn’t started dating until six months after that summer. And slowly, through the months, Hermione had heard every painful detail of Fleur and Bill’s steady, inevitable courtship.

It had shattered her.

She had made assumptions instead of having a single honest conversation. Instead of being brave. Instead of facing Fleur.

She had run.

She hadn’t spoken to her, hadn’t even read the countless owls Fleur had sent after that summer. At first, they had arrived daily—pleas, questions, words Hermione had been too afraid to see. Then, gradually, they came less and less. Eventually, they stopped altogether.

She had no one to blame but herself.

She told herself she had done the right thing—what else could she have done? The war had escalated, darkness looming closer every day. After the confrontation at the Ministry, after Dumbledore’s death, there was no room for foolish dreams. Even if Fleur had felt something for her once, a real future between them had never been possible.

But regret was a cruel thing.

Her greatest regret, above all else, was never telling Fleur how she felt.
Now, it was too late.

Fleur was marrying Bill in a week.

Hermione had cried herself to sleep for days after hearing the news, grief curling in her chest like something living, something clawing to escape. Only Ginny knew the truth—only Ginny had seen the way Hermione shattered at the mention of Fleur’s name.

And now, stepping back into the Burrow, Hermione knew one thing for certain.

She had made a terrible mistake.

Ginny had been the first person Hermione confided in when she finally admitted the truth to herself—she was attracted to women. It hadn’t been a grand revelation, nor a sudden, dramatic realization. It had come quietly, inevitably, settling into her bones like something that had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged.

And, of course, Ginny had known. She had been waiting, patiently, for Hermione to say it. Since that first halting confession about Fleur, Ginny had encouraged her to date, to try and move forward. But Hermione had always found excuses—too busy, too complicated, too much at stake.

The truth was simpler: no one was Fleur.

Perhaps Fleur’s wedding would finally change that.

Perhaps seeing her in white, standing beside Bill, would force Hermione to let go.

It didn’t matter. There were more important things to think about now.

Before arriving at the Burrow, Hermione had done the most difficult thing she had ever faced in her life—she had Obliviated her parents. She had wiped herself from their memories, erased their love for her, sent them away to a life where she no longer existed. It had broken something inside her.

She was a shell of the person she had been, but she worked hard to hide it.
After Dumbledore’s funeral, she, Harry, and Ron had agreed—they would leave in search of the Horcruxes. A journey with no guarantees, no clear path, and very little hope.

A suicide mission.

They would stay at the Burrow until Harry’s birthday. Until Fleur and Bill’s wedding. And then, they would disappear into the unknown.

Hermione knew she should savor these final moments of normalcy. She should soak in the warmth of the Weasleys—her adoptive family—for as long as she could.

And she would.

At least, as much as her fractured heart would allow.

Hermione was only a few months away from her eighteenth birthday, and in the past two years, she had grown—both in body and in spirit. She was taller now, her once-soft features sharpened into striking definition. Her wild curls had tamed into soft waves that framed her face, cascading just past her shoulders. The girlish frame she once had had blossomed into graceful curves.

She was, without question, beautiful.

Not that it mattered.

Fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.

She was seated at the Weasleys' kitchen table beside Ginny, chatting idly, when the distinct pop of Apparition echoed from the front door. The sound barely registered before a familiar presence sent a jolt through her chest.

She turned, and in an instant, it was as if no time had passed at all.

Blue eyes met hers—those same, impossibly bright blue eyes that had once made her breath catch in her throat.

But this time, Fleur wasn’t looking at her like she used to.

Fleur was smiling, but not for her.

The ache in Hermione’s chest was immediate.

Bill and Fleur approached the table, their hands loosely intertwined as they greeted everyone. Hermione forced herself to her feet, her heart hammering against her ribs as she faced them.

For the briefest moment, something flickered across Fleur’s face—surprise, hesitation.

Was it shock at seeing her after all this time? Was it appreciation…or something else?

The thought barely had time to form before the moment passed, and they stood there, locked in an awkward silence. Hermione realized, with a pang of bittersweet amusement, that they were nearly the same height now.

It was she who relented first.
“Hello, Fleur. It’s been a while.” She kept her tone light, practiced, as though her insides weren’t twisting into knots. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

Fleur hesitated—just for a breath—before nodding. “Hello, Hermione. Thank you.” Her voice was unreadable, her words clipped, and then—just like that—she moved on, greeting the rest of the Weasleys.

Hermione barely registered anything after that.

Because in a single instant, every buried feeling, every painful, carefully suppressed emotion came roaring back to life.

And it was hell.

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright?” Ginny asked when they were finally alone, her voice laced with quiet concern.

Hermione forced a small, dismissive smile. “Of course, Gin. Don’t worry about it.” She exhaled slowly, willing the tightness in her chest to ease. “She’s with Bill now.”

Ginny didn’t look convinced. And, truthfully, neither was Hermione.

That evening, the younger Weasleys gathered in the backyard for a bonfire. The air was warm, filled with laughter and the scent of burning wood. Butterbeer and Firewhiskey flowed freely as they swapped stories about their adventures at Hogwarts, a shared joy hanging in the air in anticipation of the upcoming wedding.

One by one, people retired for the night—first Ron and Harry, then the twins, and finally Bill, who left with a lingering kiss pressed to Fleur’s temple. Hermione barely noticed, too focused on keeping herself together.

Eventually, only the girls remained.

Hermione stood to excuse herself for the bathroom, and when she returned, she found that the fire had burned lower, the embers glowing faintly in the darkness.

Fleur was the only one still there.

Hermione cursed Ginny internally.

Steeling herself, she grabbed two Butterbeers and made her way over to Fleur, who sat on a log, gazing into the fire, lost in thought.

“Care for another?” Hermione offered.

Fleur flinched at the sound of her voice but took the bottle without a word.

Hermione lowered herself onto the log beside her. The silence stretched between them, heavy, unspoken things settling in the space they had spent two years avoiding.

“Fleur, I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Hermione rushed out in a quiet voice.

Fleur let out a cold, humorless laugh. “That’s all you have to say?”

“Well…” Hermione began. Lost for words, but Fleur cut her off.

“I wrote to you every day for a month,” Fleur interrupted, her voice measured, careful. “Then every week for a year. Not one letter was answered.” She turned toward Hermione, something unreadable in her expression. “You promised me.”

Hermione’s chest tightened.

“I know.”

Fleur looked away, eyes flickering with something Hermione couldn't quite place. “I thought we were friends,” she murmured.

“We were,” Hermione insisted. Then, softer, “We are. That’s part of the problem”

Fleur let out a small breath, tilting her head slightly as if debating whether to believe her.

Hermione ran a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. “Fleur, I wasn’t ignoring you because I didn’t care. I was…” She hesitated, forcing herself to meet Fleur’s gaze.

“I was scared.”

Fleur didn’t react immediately.

“Of what?” she finally asked.

Hermione let out a humorless laugh. “Of you.”

That made Fleur blink.

Hermione swallowed hard, gripping her bottle. “You terrified me,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Because you made me feel something. And I—I didn’t know how to handle it. So I ran. I shut you out. And I convinced myself I had to.”

Fleur’s expression softened—just slightly.

They sat in silence for a moment, the firelight flickering between them.

“And now?” Fleur finally asked, voice quiet.

Hermione exhaled. “Now, you’re getting married.”

A flicker of something passed through Fleur’s expression, gone too quickly for Hermione to decipher.

“And you?” Fleur asked after a beat. “Has the brightest witch of her age had her heart stolen?”

Hermione hesitated. Then, with quiet honesty, “Yes.”

Fleur’s fingers tightened around her bottle.

Hermione inhaled sharply. Say it. Just say it.

“Fleur, I know this is your wedding, but there’s something I need to—” She broke off, shaking her head. “Why is this so hard to say?”

Fleur studied her for a long moment. Then, gently, she placed her hand over Hermione’s.

“Hermione,” she stuttered.

For a fleeting second, the space between them seemed smaller, the air charged with something unspoken.

But then Fleur pulled back, standing.

“It is late,” she said softly. “We should go inside.”

Hermione nodded numbly, but when she spoke, her voice was quieter. “I think I’ll stay out a little longer.”

Fleur hesitated—just for a moment. Then, offering Hermione one last lingering glance, she nodded and turned toward the house.

As she climbed the steps, she caught sight of Hermione through the window—head bowed, fingers tangled in her curls.

Fleur’s heart ached.

She stood there, gripping the railing, her breath uneven.

A single tear slipped down her cheek.

The next morning, the Burrow was alive with activity. Today was Harry’s birthday, and for once, there was something to celebrate—something light and joyful amid uncertainty. Hermione could feel it in the air, the desperate attempt to hold onto normalcy, as if war wasn’t looming just beyond the horizon. She let herself enjoy it, if only for a moment.
It felt like old times.

And for the first time in days, she felt lighter.

Fleur, too, seemed different. The sharp edges of their previous night’s conversation had dulled slightly. She was more at ease, more open. Their conversations drifted back to mundane things—safe things. It wasn’t everything Hermione wanted, but it was something.

After the cake was eaten and gifts were exchanged, preparations for the wedding resumed in full force. Hermione joined Harry and the Weasley boys outside to set up the massive marquee tent where the reception would be held. Meanwhile, Fleur, Mrs. Weasley, and Ginny busied themselves in the kitchen, preparing food.

The sun was high, the air thick with the scent of summer grass. They worked swiftly, setting up the tent’s structure, securing the ropes. Everything was going smoothly—until it wasn’t.

One of the anchor ropes snapped unexpectedly.

The force sent it whipping through the air, and before Hermione could react, it struck her across the face. A sharp, searing pain bloomed along her cheek.

“Hermione!” Harry was the first to call out, stepping forward, but Hermione quickly waved him off, pressing a hand to her cheek where she could already feel warm blood trickling down.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, already stepping toward the house. “I’ll just go clean up.”

Everyone hesitated, but knowing Hermione, they let her go.

She moved swiftly, pushing through the kitchen.

She barely made it three steps before Fleur’s eyes snapped to her, instantly catching the crimson staining her fingers. Fleur froze for half a second before abruptly dropping whatever she had been holding and following Hermione up the stairs without hesitation.

Hermione reached the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink with bloodied hands, her breath coming quick and uneven.

The mirror reflected a mess. Windswept curls, wide eyes, and a small but deep cut sliced across her cheek. Swelling had already begun to bloom around it. She winced, wetting a cloth to dab at the wound.

Then the door clicked shut behind her.

"Let me," Fleur murmured.

Hermione turned, heart lurching. Fleur stood just inside, wand in hand, the door now locked with a quiet spell.

"Fleur, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about me."

Hermione tried to wave her off, but Fleur stepped closer, ignoring the protest entirely.

"Non." Fleur’s voice was firm, edged with exasperation. "I will not let you bleed all over yourself."

But her hands—when they reached for Hermione—were impossibly gentle.

Hermione exhaled sharply, bracing herself as Fleur’s fingers ghosted along her jaw, tilting her face toward the light. Her touch was warm. Steady. It sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The air between them was thick, charged.

Fleur was so close.

Closer than she had to be.

Her breath soft against Hermione’s skin. The sharp scent of antiseptic mixed with something softer, something intoxicating.

Fleur’s perfume. It wrapped around Hermione, delicate yet overwhelming, like a spell she never saw coming.

Hermione was drowning in her.

She thought Fleur was too focused on the wound to notice, but then—

"’Ermione..." The whisper, a plea, was thick with something Hermione couldn’t name.

Fleur’s hand stilled, her breath faltering.

"Don’t..." Fleur’s ocean blue eyes snapped to Hermione’s. "Don’t look at me like that, please."

It was barely audible, but it struck Hermione straight through the chest.

"You don’t know what it does to me when you look at me like that," Fleur admitted, her voice raw, unguarded.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

The war loomed over them, a relentless shadow. In a few weeks, maybe days, she could be dead. Nothing was promised.

But this?

This moment, this impossible, aching moment—this was something real.

Fleur wasn’t pulling away. She wasn’t recoiling.

So, Hermione let herself be brave for once.

Slowly, deliberately, she leaned in.

Time stretched, thick and heavy. Fleur’s gaze remained locked onto hers, an unreadable storm of blue. She didn’t move. Didn’t resist. Hand still hovering in mid-air.

And then, finally—finally—Hermione pressed her lips against Fleur’s in the softest of kisses.

A whisper of a touch, but it shattered her completely.

She pulled back, searching Fleur’s face for anything—disgust, anger, regret. Anything.

But there was nothing. Fleur remained motionless, breath shallow, eyes dark. Hermione’s resolve strengthened. She leaned in again, this time capturing Fleur’s lips more firmly, lingering longer.

Her pulse roared in her ears. She was trembling, utterly consumed. Fleur’s taste, her warmth, the way her breath hitched ever so slightly against Hermione’s lips. It was intoxicating.

A drug she never knew she needed but already feared she couldn’t live without.

She hesitated, just for a second, but before she could even pull away, Fleur discarded whatever restraint she had left and surged forward.

The kiss deepened instantly, Fleur catching Hermione’s lips with desperate fervour, as if something inside her had snapped.

A gasp escaped between them as their mouths melted together, urgent and searching. Fleur pressed closer, her body flush against Hermione’s, burning through every barrier between them.
There was no war. No wedding. No consequences.

Just this. Just her. Just them.

Together.

Hermione tangled her fingers into Fleur’s silky hair, pulling her impossibly closer, drinking her in as if she’d never get the chance again.

Because, deep down, she feared she wouldn’t.

Then, suddenly, Fleur stepped away.

The loss of contact was instant—like stepping into cold air after being wrapped in sunlight.

Hermione inhaled sharply, her fingers twitching, aching for something—someone—that was already slipping away.

Fleur looked breathtaking—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. But her face—Merlin, her face—was suddenly unreadable. A mask of perfect blankness.

Hermione’s heart plummeted.

Fleur’s trembling fingers ghosted over her lips as if she could still feel Hermione there.

"Putain," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, shaking with something Hermione couldn’t quite place—shock, regret, longing? All of it?

"Fleur," Hermione tried, desperate to soothe, to explain, to beg—she didn’t even know what she was going to say, but she couldn’t let Fleur walk away like this.

But before she could take another breath, Fleur turned on her heel and fled.

The door clicked shut behind her, and Hermione was left behind in a very compromised position—breathless, trembling, ruined.

A strangled sob tore from her throat.

What had she done?

What was she thinking?

She might never see Fleur again after tomorrow. She might have ruined everything.

Hermione clutched her chest, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt, as if she could physically hold her heart in place—keep it from shattering, from chasing after Fleur wherever she had gone.

It hurt. Not just emotionally, but physically—a searing, unbearable ache that had nothing to do with the split on her cheek. That was a distant, insignificant thing compared to the wreckage inside her.

She forced herself to steady her breathing, swallowing down the tears that burned at the back of her throat. With a flick of her wand, she healed the cut on her face, leaving only the faintest red mark. It would be gone by morning.

By morning, everything would be different.

Tomorrow, Fleur would marry Bill.

And whatever this was—whatever was raging inside Hermione’s heart—had to end.

It would end.

It had to.

At the other end of the Burrow, Fleur was not doing well either.

She gripped the edge of the dresser in her borrowed bedroom, her breath uneven, her entire body buzzing with the ghost of Hermione’s touch, her kiss—those kisses.

Until tonight, she had only entertained the idea that Hermione might have shared her feelings. She had convinced herself that she had misread things all those years ago, that Hermione’s silence had been an answer in itself. It had to be.

Because why else would Hermione have disappeared on her?

Why else would she have ignored every letter, every desperate attempt Fleur had made to reach her?

Fleur ached at the memory, at the way she had waited, hopeful and foolish, until she couldn’t justify waiting anymore.

And now—now—after all this time, Hermione had finally given her an answer.

And it was too late.

Fleur squeezed her eyes shut, willing away the burn of tears.

Mon dieu, what have I done?

She was marrying Bill tomorrow. She had just betrayed him in the worst possible way.

And yet—was this truly betrayal?

Bill had always wanted more from her than she could give. At first, she had only let him be her friend, telling herself that she was still hoping. Still waiting.

Waiting for Hermione.

But Hermione never came.

So, Fleur had let herself say yes to Bill, let herself try to love him the way she should. He was kind, steady, and he adored her. He would be a good husband. In the face of a looming war, she had wanted to live—really live—because it could all end in an instant.

But now, after one single moment with Hermione, Fleur knew—

She knew.

She had never given her heart to Bill.

She had given it away a long time ago.

And judging by the way her entire body yearned for Hermione, she knew she was in trouble.

Big trouble.

The Burrow, 1 August 1997

It was the morning of the wedding.

Hermione felt like she had been trampled by the Hogwarts Express. Hermione had cried the whole night. She had barely slept, her mind playing the events in the bathroom over and over like a cruel, inescapable loop.

She didn’t want to admit the truth—to Ginny or herself—but she knew Ginny had figured it out.

Ginny had asked, gently at first, then more insistently. But when Hermione refused to say a word, she let it be.

Hermione was grateful for that.

Because saying it out loud would make it real.

And she couldn’t afford for this to be real.

So, just as she had done with her parents, Hermione reached deep within herself, searching for the last remnants of resolve.

What had happened between her and Fleur last night didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

Fleur had made a promise

A promise to Bill.

And Hermione—no matter how much her heart screamed otherwise—was not the kind of person who would ask her to break it.

No matter what it had felt like in that moment.

No matter what it still felt like now, with every aching breath she took.

Perhaps, in another life—one without war, without looming death, without impossible choices—she might have let herself hope.

Hope for a future with Fleur.

But this was not that life.

So Hermione did what she had always done.

She buried her heart, locked it away, and prepared to fight a battle she wasn’t sure she would survive.

Because some things—no matter how much they hurt—were simply not meant to be.

The Burrow was alive with celebration, the marquise tent adorned in soft golds and delicate blues, reflecting the ethereal beauty of the bride herself. It was breathtaking—almost painfully so.

Hermione hadn’t seen Fleur since last night.

She was likely tucked away somewhere in the Burrow, preparing to walk down the aisle,
preparing to say I do to someone else.

Hermione swallowed against the tightness in her throat, forcing down the small flicker of jealousy that burned in her chest. It isn’t your place to feel this way.

And yet, she did.

She had never imagined herself as the kind of person who dreamed of weddings, of white dresses and whispered vows. Marriage had always seemed like a distant, abstract thing—something that belonged to other people.

But Fleur had changed that.

The more Hermione fell for her, the more her carefully constructed world cracked and reshaped itself into something unrecognizable.

For the first time, she had imagined a future beyond war, beyond duty, beyond logic.

A future where she wasn’t just watching Fleur walk toward someone else—

But waiting for her at the end of the aisle.

The thought alone was enough to break her.

Hermione smoothed her hands over the fabric of her red dress, its tight fit both a comfort and a burden. The colour felt fitting—bold, unyielding, yet painfully raw. A reflection of her insides, torn and bleeding.

She wondered, fleetingly, if Fleur would notice.

If Fleur would care.

The ceremony was beginning. Hermione slipped into a seat near the back, where she could watch unseen, where she could suffer in silence. A practiced smile sat on her lips, but inside, she was unraveling.

Then, the music started.

Everyone rose to their feet.

And Fleur appeared.

A vision in white, her dress kissed with Veela accents of platinum. Her hair was swept into an elegant updo, a tiara glistening like stardust against the moonlight. She was radiant. Ethereal. Otherworldly.

Hermione couldn't breathe.

And then, as if drawn by invisible strings, Fleur turned her head.

Their eyes met.

Time splintered, leaving only the two of them in the space between heartbeats. Fleur’s lips parted slightly, her steps faltering for just a moment. But then she looked away.
Looked forward.

And by the time she turned back—Hermione was gone.
________________________________________
The reception blurred around Hermione in a haze of laughter, clinking glasses, and fleeting moments of levity. Candlelight flickered against crystal goblets, the air thick with the scent of champagne and roses. She forced herself to smile, to twirl across the dance floor with Viktor, to pretend that her heart wasn’t somewhere else entirely—somewhere locked in the memory of Fleur’s lips on hers.

But soon, the illusion of celebration began to crack.

Fleur sat alone at a table, her graceful expression slipping at the edges when she thought no one was looking.

Hermione was looking.

Steeling herself, she approached. “Care to dance?” she asked, extending a hand. Her smile was soft, but her heart pounded so loudly she wondered if Fleur could hear it.

Fleur hesitated, just for a breath, before slipping her fingers into Hermione’s. They were warm—warmer than Hermione expected—and the touch sent a shiver up her spine.

They moved together in slow, uneven steps—Hermione’s terrible dancing sending them into hushed fits of laughter. With every stumble, every whispered joke, the tension between them began to dissolve, until only the moment remained.

"I am sorry, Hermione," Fleur murmured at last, voice barely above a whisper. "I shouldn’t have run out like that… twice."

Hermione met her gaze, unwavering. "I’m not sorry."

Fleur inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around Hermione’s.

"You have given me the most beautiful gift," Hermione continued. "I have hope now, because of you. I don’t regret kissing you, Fleur. I never will. You taught me so much about myself, and I don’t want to go back."

Fleur’s lips parted—something unspoken, something fragile hanging between them—but Hermione pressed on.

"We’re leaving." Her voice wavered. "I don’t know when, or where, or for how long. Dumbledore gave Harry a mission. Ron and I are going with him."

Fleur’s breath hitched, her grip tightening on Hermione’s waist.

"I just needed to tell you that I’m grateful for you," Hermione whispered. "That I’m going to miss you terribly. That I wish I could go back and make up for lost time."

"Pourquoi est-ce que tu cours, Hermione?" Fleur said with a knowing smile, recalling one of their first meetings.

Hermione could only smile back.

But Fleur—Fleur was fighting a different battle.

She wanted to protest.

To beg Hermione not to go.

To go with her.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she opened her mouth—

And then the world shattered.

A silvery lynx tore through the reception hall, its voice deep and urgent.

"The Ministry has fallen."

The words sent ice through Hermione’s veins. Around them, gasps turned into screams, chairs scraped against the floor, wands were drawn. Someone knocked into Hermione’s shoulder as bodies rushed past in every direction.

Fleur’s fingers curled desperately around Hermione’s, holding on even as the world fell apart around them.

"Go!" Hermione shouted over the chaos. "Be safe! Don’t forget about me."

"I won’t remember anything else!" Fleur yelled back. But she didn’t know if Hermione had heard her.

Everything happened too fast.

And the last thing Hermione saw before she Disapparated—

Was a pair of tear-filled blue eyes, staring after her like a promise left unfinished.

Chapter Text

Shell Cottage, March 1998

Silence. Absolute, deafening silence. It had been nine months of it.

Fleur sat curled up in front of the fireplace, her feet tucked beneath her, staring into the flames but seeing something else entirely.

"Fleur," a voice called, distant at first.

"Fleur," again, a little clearer.

"Sweetheart" firmer now.

"Hmm?" She blinked, pulled from her thoughts, and looked up to find Bill watching her with quiet patience.

"Where did you go just then?" he asked, his smile gentle but knowing. "You were miles away—I’ve been calling you for a couple of minutes now."

"Dèsolè, William," she murmured, closing the book resting open on her lap. "I suppose I am just a little bit tired."

Bill was right—she had been far away. Not in Shell Cottage, not even in this moment. Her mind had wandered back to the Burrow. Or, more precisely, to the Burrow’s upstairs bathroom. Not that she would ever admit that particular detail to him.

Since the day they met before the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament, Bill had been nothing but kind to her. He had offered her friendship, support, and a place in a world that had never quite felt like hers. He had helped her find employment, a home, a sort of makeshift family in England.

And she knew, of course, from the very beginning, that he had wanted more than friendship.

At first, she hadn't entertained the idea. He was handsome, goodhearted, and easy to be around—but her thoughts had too often strayed to someone else. Someone with fierce eyes and a sharper tongue, a young witch who occupied far too much space in her mind.

Someone she had never truly let herself consider.

Hermione’s reaction to her that first summer at the Burrow had been thoroughly confusing.

Fleur would never admit it—not to Bill, not to herself on most days—but part of the reason she had agreed to visit the Weasleys that summer was because Bill had mentioned Hermione would be there. She had wanted, no, needed to see the young witch again.

And yet, Hermione’s response had thrown her off completely. The guarded glances, the stilted conversations, the way Hermione would pull away only to drift close again—it had been maddening.

Until their almost kiss.

For one suspended, breathless moment, it confirmed what Fleur had dared to hope. Hermione wanted her too.

And then she was gone.

A sudden departure. Refused letters. Silence.

The rejection stung deeper than Fleur cared to admit, but she told herself it was for the best. A bullet dodged, so to speak. Better a little disappointment now than a devastating heartbreak later.

But then—Hermione kissed her.

Really kissed her.

And in that instant, Fleur’s heart was no longer hers to protect.

She had made promises to Bill, to his family. She could not betray them. Not like this.

Not for a girl who had spent so long pushing her away.

Because what if Hermione pushed her away again?

Yes, there was every chance she could fall for the girl completely, helplessly. But there was more to life than love alone. Wasn’t there?

That was what she told herself. The truth, however, was far simpler.

She was scared. Incredibly so.

Bill was comfortable. With him, there was no danger of losing herself. She would love him in her own way, be loyal, stand by his side.

And in return, her heart would be safe.

Never quite satisfied.

But safe

It didn’t stop the longing.

No matter how much Fleur tried to push it down, it clawed its way back to the surface. She thought about Hermione most days.

Did she think of Fleur too? Did she miss her the way Fleur did?

Was she happy?

Was she safe?

A chill ran down her spine, and just as if the universe itself had answered her thoughts, her wards shattered. A faint pop echoed down the beach.

“Fleur!” Bill’s voice rang out, urgent.

Her fingers tightened around her wand as she sprinted for the door. The wind howled, the scent of salt and rain filling her lungs as she burst outside. Three figures crouched in the wet sand.

As she ran, she recognized the dirty-blonde hair of Luna Lovegood, a sweet—if peculiar—companion from her Hogwarts days. But Luna wasn’t alone, and the urgency in her posture made Fleur’s pulse spike.

Then another pop split the air, closer this time.

A scream followed. A raw, devastating sound.

Fleur hadn’t even realized the scream was hers. Not until later, when Bill told her.
Her knees hit the sand before she had time to process it, the world narrowing to a single point. A single, unbearable sight.

Ron knelt in front of her, clutching a lifeless body in his arms.

Chestnut curls matted with blood.

No.

She couldn’t breathe.

No.

Her hands trembled as she reached out, her whole body shaking violently. She had lost her.

Hermione was dead.

Then—movement. The faintest, weakest shift of a breath.

Before she even registered the action, Fleur was moving. She ripped Hermione from Ron’s arms and lifted her, carrying her effortlessly despite the dead weight. She didn’t notice Ron’s stunned look at her strength, didn’t care.

All that mattered was getting Hermione inside.

She laid Hermione on the guest bed with a gentleness she didn’t know she possessed, pushing back the blood-crusted hair from her face.

Every inch of skin she uncovered revealed more damage. Each wound was a fresh dagger to Fleur’s heart.

Her wand hovered over Hermione’s body as she cast a diagnostic spell. The results made her vision blur with tears.

Broken ribs. Bruised trachea. Fractured wrist. Broken nose. Internal bleeding. Cuts, scrapes, bruises everywhere.

But worst of all—

Fleur’s stomach churned as her eyes landed on the vile, raw letters carved into Hermione’s arm. A grotesque mockery of her pain, of what she had endured.

Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to move. Forced herself to heal.

One by one, she closed every wound she could, trying to erase the evidence of what had been done to her. But Hermione’s breaths were shallow, her skin ghostly pale, sweat beading on her forehead. The lingering effects of the Cruciatus Curse left her body twitching involuntarily, and Fleur could do nothing but press a hand to her chest and whisper, “Come back to me, mon amie. I’m here. Please, please come back.”

She stayed until Hermione was stable. Until her magic had done everything it could.

Only then did she force herself to leave. There were others to tend to, and they needed her too.

Bruised, underfed, exhausted—but alive.

Yet it wasn’t until Harry and Ron explained, in excruciating detail, what had really happened to Hermione that Fleur felt the true depth of the horror.

And it was then, with an ache that ran deeper than magic itself, that she realized just how much she had nearly lost.

A few hours after their arrival, a piercing, anguished scream reverberated through Shell Cottage.

Fleur’s blood ran cold.

She ran.

Her feet barely touched the ground as she sprinted to the guest room, heart pounding in her chest. She burst through the door to find Hermione thrashing in bed, her eyes wild and unfocused.

She wasn’t here.

She was back at Malfoy Manor.

Fleur turned sharply to the boys. “Let me handle this.” Her voice left no room for argument. She ushered them out, sealing the door with silencing and locking charms before turning back to Hermione.

The young witch was trembling violently, her breath coming in panicked gasps.

“Please,” Hermione whimpered. “Please don’t hurt me. I don’t know anything. Please!”

Fleur swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in her throat. “’Ermione. It’s me, belle. It’s Fleur. I won’t hurt you. You are safe.” Fleur’s accent taking root with the emotion.

Hermione flinched, curling in on herself, arms shielding her face as though expecting a blow. Fleur’s chest ached at the sight.

“Shh, I’m here. Please, don’t be afraid of me.”

She took another slow step forward, hands open, unthreatening.

“’Ermione, can you hear me?” Her voice was softer this time, desperate to break through the terror clouding Hermione’s mind. “It’s Fleur.”

A strangled sound escaped Hermione’s throat. “Fleur?”

Relief flooded Fleur’s body. “It’s me, mon chérie. I’m here. You are safe now.”

But Hermione still wouldn’t lower her arms. Her body remained tense, coiled like a frightened animal. Fleur hesitated, then carefully reached out and brushed her fingertips against Hermione’s uninjured forearm.

The reaction was immediate—Hermione flinched violently, jerking away from her touch.

Fleur’s heart shattered.

“’Ermione, please.” She crouched beside the bed now, voice barely above a whisper.

“Look at me, chérie. It’s Fleur.”

Slowly, cautiously, Hermione peeked out from behind her arms, her expression wary, uncertain—like a child caught doing something wrong.

Then, in a single, broken movement, she lunged.

Fleur barely had time to react before Hermione threw herself into her arms, clutching her with desperate strength. Her entire body shook as anguished sobs tore from her throat, raw and unrelenting.

Fleur held on.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t try to tell her it was okay—because it wasn’t.

She just held her.

Held her as the sobs wracked her fragile frame. Held her as the fear poured out of her in waves. Held her until her breathing slowed, and the exhaustion pulled her back under.

Hermione cried herself to sleep in Fleur’s arms.

Fleur eased her back onto the bed, smoothing the damp curls from her face. With careful hands, she cleaned the blood and grime from Hermione’s skin, whispering soft reassurances she wasn’t sure the girl could hear. She changed her into comfortable pyjamas, magically averting her gaze as she did so. Then she sat beside her for a long moment, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.

She was alive.

Fleur let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She stood on shaking legs, stepping out into the dimly lit hall. As the door clicked shut behind her, the sob tore free before she could stop it.

A hand clamped over her mouth, but it wasn’t enough to stop the hurt from spilling out.
Her knees nearly gave way, and she had to physically hold herself together. She wanted to collapse, to scream, to break.

But she couldn’t.

Not now.

Not when everyone else needed her to be strong.

For months, she had worried herself sick about the trio. About Hermione. She and Bill had listened to the underground radio every day, searching for any sign of them.

Nothing.

The only grim solace had been the knowledge that if Harry were dead or captured, they would have known. And where Harry was, Hermione and Ron would be too.

And yet, nothing had prepared her for this.

She had noticed the change in Hermione at her wedding. Of course, she had always been beautiful—Fleur had thought so from the very first moment they met. But there had always been a hesitance about her, a lack of belief in herself, despite her brilliance.

At the wedding, though, she had seemed different. Stronger. Sure of herself. She had settled into who she was.

And now?

Now, she was small and fragile, a ghost of the girl Fleur once knew.

Harry and Ron had explained it all—every excruciating detail of what had happened at Malfoy Manor. The torture. The way Bellatrix had cut into her skin, carving filth into her arm. The way Hermione had screamed in agony.

But even through the pain, Hermione had fought.

She had spat in Bellatrix’s face.

Fleur felt a strange, fierce pride swell in her chest. That was her Hermione.

And yet, as she looked back at the closed door, she knew—

Some wounds would take far more than magic to heal.

Present

Now, it was Fleur’s turn to watch Hermione sleep.

Stretched out on the daybed, Hermione lay as she so often did—book in hand, fingers curled around the worn pages even in slumber. The late afternoon sunbathed her in its golden light, deepening the warmth of her complexion and accentuating the freckles dusting her skin.

Fleur stood from her armchair, carefully prying the book from Hermione’s fingers. As she bent down, her gaze caught on the faint scars tracing Hermione’s arm—three, just on this one alone. Her stomach tightened. She had tried, more times than she could count, to heal the wounds Bellatrix had left behind. Scourgify couldn’t erase what had been carved so cruelly into flesh.

She resented that.

Resented the permanence of what had been done to her.

With a quiet sigh, she pulled a soft throw over Hermione, tucking it gently around her shoulders. Then, as she retook her seat, she let herself look—really look—at the woman before her.

The last time Fleur had seen Hermione like this, she had still been a shadow of herself.
Even in moments of happiness, her eyes had held ghosts—echoes of trauma, of battles survived but not yet healed from.

But now?

Now, she was different.

There was a quiet confidence in her, a strength that didn’t need to be announced. She knew who she was. She knew what she had endured. And she knew she had come out the other side.

She seemed whole.

Fleur exhaled softly, watching the steady rise and fall of Hermione’s chest. Perhaps, at last, the ghosts of her past had loosened their grip.

Perhaps, at last, she was free.

Shell Cottage, March 1995

Fleur was ripped from sleep by a scream—raw, anguished, piercing through the darkness.

She bolted upright in the armchair, her heart pounding, hands instinctively rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Across the dimly lit room, Hermione thrashed in the bed, her face twisted in terror, her fingers clawing at unseen spectres.

Fleur was at her side in an instant. “Hermione,” she called, gripping her shoulders, shaking her gently. “Wake up, ma chérie, wake up.”

No response.

Fleur cursed under her breath. The silencing charm on the room was a small mercy—otherwise, the entire house would be awake by now. She tried again, smoothing Hermione’s hair back, whispering soft reassurances, but it wasn’t enough.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before surrendering to her last resort—her thrall.

Fleur hated using it. She had always loathed the idea of manipulating emotions, but Hermione was drowning in a sea of nightmares, unreachable by any other means. With careful control, she extended the gentle pull of her magic, wrapping Hermione in its calming embrace.

Slowly, Hermione’s breathing steadied. Her flailing limbs stilled. The tension in her face eased.

Fleur exhaled softly, brushing damp curls from Hermione’s forehead. She dipped a cloth into the basin beside the bed and ran it gently across her brow. “Shhh, mon cœur… Tout va bien.”

Hermione stirred, lashes fluttering. The moment her brown eyes met Fleur’s, something in Fleur’s chest twisted. This was the first time Hermione had truly been awake since she arrived.

“How are you feeling?” Fleur asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you have any pain?”

Hermione shook her head. She looked away, a single tear slipping free, her shoulders beginning to shake.

“Shhh…Don’t cry, mon amour. You are here with me now. You’re safe. I’ve got you. I will take care of you.”

“I’m sorry, Fleur,” Hermione murmured, voice small, eyes still avoiding hers.

Fleur frowned. “Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for.” She sat on the edge of the bed, brushing a thumb across Hermione’s cheek. “I’m so proud of you, mon courageux lion. Don’t ever apologize for this.”

Hermione hesitated. Then, voice even quieter than before, she whispered, “Can you… will you please… hold me?”

Fleur’s chest ached at the vulnerability in those words.

“Of course,” she murmured. “Shift up a little, chérie.”

Hermione did as asked, making space for Fleur to slide in beside her. Fleur leaned back against the headboard, and Hermione settled against her, tucking her head beneath Fleur’s chin, listening to the steady thrumming of her heartbeat.
________________________________________
The next few days followed a rhythm.

Fleur took care of Hermione, tending to her wounds, making sure she ate, and watching over her while she slept. When Hermione was awake, they talked—but only about lighter things. Neither of them dared touch the shadows lurking beneath Hermione’s surface.

When she learned of Dobby’s passing, however, Hermione crumbled. Fleur held her as she cried.

Each day, Hermione grew stronger. At first, she only managed to make it downstairs for short periods, but soon, she began wandering outside—first to the garden, then to the beach. Eventually, she made it all the way to the dune where Dobby’s grave rested.

But at night, the nightmares still came.

Each time, Fleur woke to Hermione’s quiet sobs, to her trembling hands grasping for something—someone—her. Fleur would slip into bed beside her, arms wrapping tightly around her, murmuring soft reassurances until Hermione finally drifted back to sleep.

At some point, Fleur stopped sleeping in the chair altogether.
________________________________________

Days turned into weeks.

Harry and Ron started drawing Hermione back into discussions about their next move. Gringotts. The Horcrux. Bellatrix.

They brewed the Polyjuice Potion, counting down the days until they had to leave. Fleur pretended not to notice how Hermione’s hands clenched at the mere mention of the plan.

Bill and Fleur did everything they could to make their stay comfortable. Bill offered spells and strategy. Fleur cooked, tended wounds, and saw to the household.

Where once Fleur’s furtive touches had made Hermione blush, now they made her wonder—wonder what else those hands could evoke, what other sensations lay just beneath the surface. She knew it was wrong to want someone unavailable, but the thought barely seemed to matter anymore. No one made her feel the way Fleur did.
And as long as she didn’t act on it, what was the harm?

Still, Hermione couldn’t deny that she’d grown bolder. She found herself gravitating toward Fleur, needing to touch her, to feel her, so she did—small, lingering touches, innocent enough to ignore but charged enough to mean something. A guiding hand at the small of Fleur’s back when offering to help, the brush of their legs as they sat side by side on a boulder, watching the waves. She couldn’t help it. She couldn’t stay away.

For her part, Fleur found Hermione’s closeness more and more difficult to bear. What had once been comforting—their embraces at night, the way Hermione clung to her in the quiet—now set Fleur on edge, her body betraying what her mind refused to acknowledge. She had seen Hermione at her worst, seen her nearly break, nearly die, and Fleur had only loved her more for the strength she had shown. The fire in her eyes, the unwavering devotion to her friends, to the cause—it had only made Fleur’s heart beat faster.

And then there was the kiss. The one she never should have allowed, the one she couldn’t regret.

It had been a moment of clarity, burning through years of uncertainty. Fleur had always feared what lay in the depths of her heart, but Hermione had snuffed out that fear with the press of her lips. And in its place, she had left something undeniable.

Love.

Not duty, not obligation, not fondness wrapped in expectation—but love, raw and consuming, warm and thrilling and terrifying all at once.

But love didn’t erase the past. It didn’t change the promises Fleur had made to Bill, nor did it alter the reality of war looming over them all. She could not shatter so many lives, not when tomorrow was uncertain.

And yet, here and now, Hermione was beside her. They were together. It was as painful as it was intoxicating.
________________________________________
After dinner, the two of them wandered down to the beach, leaving the boys behind, lost in a game of Wizard’s Chess. Bill had gone, escorting Luna, Dean, and Mr. Ollivander to Aunt Muriel’s, leaving the cottage quieter than usual.

They walked along the shore, talking for a while before falling into silence, listening to the waves crash against the rocks.

“We’re leaving soon,” Hermione murmured.

Fleur inhaled sharply. “I thought you would be.” She exhaled slowly, forcing the words out. “Do you know when?”

“No, but it’ll be in the next few days.”

Fleur sighed, her throat tight with unsaid things. “Why does it always feel like you’re running from me?”

Hermione didn’t answer.

A fine mist of rain began to fall, cool and weightless against their skin.

“We should head back,” Fleur said softly.

They turned toward the cottage, walking in companionable silence—until the rain intensified, soaking them in a matter of seconds. Fleur laughed as she grabbed Hermione’s hand, pulling her forward. They ran, giggling like schoolgirls, feet pounding against the damp earth.

By the time they reached the front door, they were breathless, drenched, and shivering from something other than the cold. Memories of their almost-kiss came flooding back with fervour. Hermione reached for the handle—only to be stopped as Fleur pressed her against the door. Hermione was leaving and Fleur couldn't bare the thought.

The world fell away.

Fleur’s gaze searched Hermione’s, waiting—always waiting. Their breaths mingled, ragged from the run, from something deeper.

Hermione gave a small nod. It was all Fleur needed.

She surged forward, capturing Hermione’s lips in a kiss that stole the air from her lungs. It was like coming home.

Hermione clutched at Fleur’s soaked shirt, pulling her closer, afraid she might run again. But this time, Fleur didn’t. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t hold back. Her reverence only deepened, hands tangling in Hermione’s curls, lips moving with a quiet sort of desperation.

Hermione cupped Fleur’s face, pulling back just enough to search her expression. The storm raged around them, but here, in Fleur’s eyes, there was only certainty.

“Come with me?” Hermione whispered.

Fleur’s answer was immediate.

“Always”

Hermione eased open the door to the cottage, her breath held as she peered inside. The house was dark, quiet, the only sound the distant crash of waves against the cliffs. She turned back, found Fleur’s hand in the darkness, and laced their fingers together.

Bringing her other hand to her lips, she gestured for silence.

Without a word, they slipped inside and hurried up the stairs.

Hermione led them into the guest bedroom, not stopping until they were inside the ensuite bathroom. She turned on the shower, the rush of water masking their movements. Fleur, ever cautious, locked the door and cast a silencing charm.

Hermione should have felt nervous—should have hesitated, should have second-guessed—but she didn’t. Not now. Not when she had spent months aching for Fleur, longing for her in ways she could no longer deny. They were leaving soon, and war had no mercy. There were no guarantees. If fate were cruel enough to take Fleur from her, Hermione would not let regret be among the things she carried.

She turned back to Fleur—only to feel the breath stolen from her chest.

Fleur stood bathed in the dim glow of moonlight filtering through the window, her eyes dark, pupils blown wide. Hunger rolled off her in waves.

They stood at an impasse, heat crackling between them, until Hermione swallowed hard and took the leap.

I want this,” she whispered. “If you want this.”

A heartbeat passed.

Then Fleur moved.

Her hand curled around the nape of Hermione’s neck, pulling her in, kissing her with a depth that left Hermione trembling. She melted into it, arms winding around Fleur’s shoulders, pressing closer, closer, needing more.

The bathroom filled with steam, thick and heady, the air growing hotter by the second.

Fleur tugged Hermione’s jumper over her head, baring warm, soft skin. Her gaze devoured every inch, dark and reverent, as though she were committing Hermione to memory—mapping uncharted terrain she never wanted to forget.

Slowly, deliberately, she dipped her head, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Hermione’s throat, lingering over the frantic pulse hammering beneath her lips. Her tongue traced the delicate lines of her collarbone, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, drawing a shuddering gasp from Hermione’s lips.

Hermione’s breath hitched, her fingers digging into Fleur’s shoulders. “Fleur—”

A soft hum was her only reply, the vibration rippling through Hermione’s skin, down, down, pooling heat between her thighs. The moan that escaped her lips was swallowed by the steam, thick and suffocating, curling around them like a spell.

Hermione fumbled at the hem of Fleur’s shirt, impatience making her hands clumsy. But Fleur stilled her, guiding her touch—slow, deliberate. Teaching without words. The fabric slid over Fleur’s head, revealing moonlit skin, taut muscle, the elegant curve of her form. Hermione barely had time to drink in the sight before Fleur was stripping off her jeans, the movement fluid, practiced, self-assured.

She stood before Hermione in nothing but delicate lace, unapologetically bare, a vision bathed in silver light.

And she knew it.

A slow, knowing smile curved her lips.

Hermione refused to let her have all the satisfaction. Meeting Fleur’s gaze, she reached for her own trousers, slipping them down her legs with torturous slowness, baring herself inch by inch, watching as Fleur’s breath quickened, as her smirk faltered.

Then the moment shattered.

They collided.

Fleur’s hands framed Hermione’s face as their mouths met in a feverish clash, lips parting, tongues tangling. Hermione felt herself being pressed back, her spine meeting cool tile as Fleur kissed her deeper, harder, stealing every breath, every thought. Fingers tangled in damp hair, nails raking down bare backs, bodies pressing flush, seeking, demanding.

Fleur’s hands roamed—mapping, teasing, worshipping. Hermione gasped as calloused palms slid over her ribs, up, up, until fingers found the swell of her breasts, thumbs circling, pressing, coaxing whimpers from her throat.

Fleur was relentless, her touch alternating between soft and firm, gentle and commanding, guiding Hermione to the edge of something vast, something unknown—

And then Fleur’s mouth replaced her hands.

A sharp gasp tore from Hermione’s lips as Fleur’s tongue flicked, teased, claimed. Her hands slammed against the wall for balance, a fresh wave of arousal crashing through her as Fleur sucked, nipped, sent shudders racing down her spine.>

The steam wrapped around them, thick as a veil, masking their gasps, their moans, the whispered pleas that fell from Hermione’s lips as Fleur worshipped her with mouth and hands, building her higher, higher, until she shattered, trembling beneath Fleur’s touch.

Fleur did not stop.

She pressed Hermione back against the warmed tile, lifting her with ease, wrapping Hermione’s legs around her waist, pinning her there with nothing but sheer strength and want. The position left Hermione helpless, open, utterly at Fleur’s mercy. And Fleur took full advantage, kissing her way down, fingers trailing between Hermione’s thighs, stroking, parting, pressing inside, gently—a slow, relentless intrusion that left Hermione gasping, arching, begging for more.

Fleur gave. And took. And gave again.

Every touch was deliberate, every movement designed to unravel Hermione piece by piece, leaving her breathless, mindless, lost in the sensation of Fleur inside her, around her, everywhere.

She clung to Fleur, nails sinking into her shoulders, hips moving in rhythm with every slow, curling thrust, every teasing flick of Fleur’s tongue. Fleur murmured soft praises against her skin, lips ghosting over her jaw, her cheek, the shell of her ear, promising pleasure, promising ruin.

And Hermione broke for her.

She came with a shattered moan, Fleur’s name falling from her lips like a prayer, her entire body trembling in Fleur’s hold. Fleur caught her, steadied her, kissed her through the aftershocks, whispering soft, adoring words against her mouth.

Later, tangled in bed, Hermione repaid the favour with eager hands and a newfound hunger. Fleur guided her, patient and sure, showing her how to touch, how to tease, how to make her fall apart. Hermione committed every gasp, every shudder, every whispered plea to memory, tracing Fleur’s body with lips and tongue and hands, learning her in ways that felt sacred, reverent.

And when Fleur came, trembling and breathless, Hermione knew—

She wanted this for the rest of her life.

Nothing else could compare.

That night, for the first time since arriving at Shell Cottage, Hermione slept soundly.

For the first time in months, she didn’t dream of war.

She dreamed only of Fleur.

Chapter Text

Shell Cottage, March 1998

“Are you awake?” Fleur’s whisper barely disturbs the hush of the night. Her head rests against Hermione’s bare chest, ear pressed to the steady rhythm beneath.

“I’m here.” Hermione’s voice is thick with drowsiness, her fingers idly tracing patterns along Fleur’s back. The scent of French vanilla and jasmine lingers in the air between them, warm and familiar.

A smile ghosts across her lips. Never, not even in her most indulgent fantasies, did she think she would be here, wrapped in the aftermath of love, holding Fleur as if the world might end.

Because it might.

Fleur shifts, and Hermione feels the tension in her body before she hears it in her voice. “I need to talk to you.”

Hermione’s stomach clenches. “Does she regret this?”

The thought sends a jolt of panic through her, unravelling the fragile contentment that had settled over her.

Fleur hesitates, inhaling deeply, as though gathering the courage to step off a precipice.

“There is something you need to know.”

Hermione forces herself to remain calm, but her mind is already leaping ahead, filling the silence with dread. “Is everything alright?” she asks, voice careful. “Are… are you… do you regret this?”

Fleur lifts her head immediately, sapphire eyes searching Hermione’s with quiet intensity. “Non. Not at all. That is why I must tell you everything.”

Hermione exhales, her relief short-lived as she studies Fleur’s face. There is something else.

Something deeper.

Fleur sits up, the linen sheets pooling around her waist. Moonlight catches the silvery strands in her hair, making her look almost ethereal. She presses her lips together before speaking, as if choosing her words with the utmost care.

“My mother is full Veela,” she begins. “From the moment she was born, her heart had already chosen. It is… instinctive, primal. Soulmates, bound from the very start. They call it lien d’âme—a bond of souls. Unbreakable. Eternal.”

Hermione listens, caught between fascination and apprehension her thirst for knowledge taking over. “And you?”

Fleur’s expression shifts, something unreadable passing over her features. “I am not full Veela,” she says softly. “The magic is weaker in me, but still, it shapes me. My kind do not have soulmates in the way full-blooded Veela do. But we still love only once. Utterly. Permanently.”

Hermione’s breath catches. The meaning settles over her, heavy and inescapable.

Fleur continues, her fingers ghosting over Hermione’s collarbone, as if grounding herself in the warmth of her. “When we give our hearts, it is not a choice. It is a surrender. And once given, it can never belong to another. But – the person we give our hearts to are not bound. They don’t have to reciprocate. They can leave. And we will love them in spite of it”

Silence stretches between them, vast and fragile. Hermione stares at her, throat tight, mind whirring with too many thoughts. Fleur must have already given her heart away—to Bill. This must be her way of telling Hermione that what happened tonight was just an indulgence, a moment stolen before reality sets in.

“Fleur,” Hermione says carefully, forcing herself to sound steady. “Why are you telling me this?”

Fleur’s fingers tighten against Hermione’s skin, and she leans in, her breath warm against Hermione’s lips. “Because it is you,” she whispers. “It has always been you.”

The words land like a spell, stunning Hermione into stillness.

“I love you, ‘Ermione.” Fleur’s voice is unwavering, yet heartbreakingly vulnerable.

“I will always love you.”

Hermione cannot breathe.

Fleur exhales, shaking her head as if in disbelief. “I knew long before I should have. I felt it the moment I laid eyes on you. But we were both young and there was so much uncertainty. I have always known, but I was certain that day in the broom shed. That moment terrified me.” A soft, breathless laugh escapes her lips. “And then you left. I wanted to tell you the next day, tell you that I did not retreat because I didn’t want you. It is because I wanted you so much that I had to clear my thoughts. Try to see reason. To explain to you the repercussions of what could happen, but you were gone.” A flicker of vulnerability passes over Fleur’s face.

“It is the thing that terrifies me most—not death. But giving my heart away and being left behind to exist as a shell of myself. .”

Hermione’s pulse pounds in her ears. “Fleur…”

Hermione tightens her arms around her. So much of her life has been spent preparing for war, for sacrifice. She has never considered a future beyond it. She never let herself believe she could have something as wondrous as Fleur’s love. She could never have imagined the honour of being granted Fleur’s heart. Yet now… now it felt like the cruelest twist of fate.

She wants to tell Fleur that she loves her too. That she wants to stay. That she wants a future where they are together.

But she says nothing. She simply holds Fleur closer, as if by sheer will alone, she can stop time.

Eventually, sleep claims them both, but even in the quiet, Hermione knows—nothing will ever be the same again.

The next morning, Hermione wakes up alone in the room. The space beside her is empty, but the sheets still carry the warmth of Fleur’s body, the faintest trace of her scent lingering in the air. A lazy smile tugs at Hermione’s lips as memories of the night before flood her mind—Fleur beneath her, around her, whispering her name like a prayer.

At breakfast, no one seemed any wiser. The world had not shifted on its axis. There was no indication that Hermione had fallen asleep as one person and woken up as someone entirely different. No one could see that in the span of a few hours, her entire life had changed.

Fleur, for her part, sent her shy smiles, small and fleeting, yet burning with meaning. Hermione returned them in earnest, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest. It felt like being back at Hogwarts in her fourth year, when she couldn’t keep her eyes off the dazzling French witch, when just the sight of Fleur had been enough to send her heart racing. Only now, she knew what it felt like to touch her. To taste her. To have her. And now that she had, she wasn’t sure she could ever stop wanting more.

It was ridiculous, really. For a fleeting moment the world outside did not exist and Hermione sat at the breakfast table aching for Fleur. Wanting to drag her away, back to the guest room, to map every inch of her body with her lips and hands, to unravel her all over again. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and she clenched her thighs beneath the table, hoping desperately that no one could see the way her breath hitched, the way desire pooled hot and insistent in her belly.

She dared a glance at Fleur, who was at the sink with her back turned. It was a mistake. Immediately, Hermione’s mind betrayed her, conjuring the memory of last night—of her hands digging into the muscles of Fleur’s back as pleasure overtook them both. Her ears burned, the heat creeping steadily to her cheeks. And then, as if to torture her further, her mind supplied the sound of Fleur’s moans, low and guttural, spilling into Hermione’s mouth as she trembled in her arms.

“’Mione? Did you hear me?”

Ron’s voice shattered the haze in her mind, and her spoon clattered from her fingers, sending milk and porridge splattering across the table. She flinched, cheeks ablaze.

“Sorry, Ron,” she said hastily, flustered. “What were you saying?”

“We were saying that we want to have another ‘chat’ after breakfast.”

Fleur was moving toward one of the back rooms.

Hermione nodded absently. “Alright.” She cleared her throat, willing herself to focus, but her attention had already drifted elsewhere.

And Hermione had to feel her again. Like an addiction.

She couldn’t help herself.

She rose from her chair, trying her very best to be discreet. With measured steps, she followed Fleur, her pulse quickening with every movement. The blonde had retreated to the back room, standing by the bed, folding laundry as if nothing had changed. As if last night hadn’t them both.

Hermione closed the door softly behind her, the barely audible click sealing them in together. She caught the sharp intake of Fleur’s breath, but the woman didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge her presence outright. That was fine. Hermione wasn’t here for words.

She moved forward, a mere breath away now, standing behind Fleur with only the whisper of space between them. The warmth of Fleur’s body beckoned her closer, but Hermione held herself back—just for a moment. Instead, she let her hands drift upward, ghosting over Fleur’s arms, slow and reverent, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The battle between restraint and desire raged in her, but her mouth betrayed her, pressing the softest kiss to the back of Fleur’s neck.

Fleur trembled. The laundry lay forgotten in her hands.

“’Ermione,” she panted, her voice barely more than a breath.

Hermione smirked against her skin, a surprising thrill running through her at the power she wielded in this moment. When had she become this seductress? This woman who could make Fleur Delacour shake with just a touch? She didn’t know, but she was endlessly grateful for it.

After Malfoy Manor, she had expected touch to become unbearable, a trigger that would send her spiralling into memories she could not escape. But with Fleur, it was the opposite. It soothed her, anchored her, and ignited a pleasure so fierce it was almost overwhelming.

Her hands reached Fleur’s shoulders, and that was it—Hermione couldn’t hold back any longer. She gripped onto them firmly, pulling Fleur flush against her, moulding their bodies together. Their breaths hitched. Fleur let out a whimper, a sound that sent a fresh surge of heat through Hermione. Her lips found the curve of Fleur’s neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the delicate skin as her hands drifted lower, slipping around to the front. She cupped Fleur’s breasts greedily, squeezing just enough to feel the stiff peaks straining through the fabric. A moan tore from Hermione’s lips, unbidden.

Fleur gasped, hands clutching desperately at Hermione, as if she were the only thing keeping her upright.

She turned slightly, as if to face her—but then, a sharp shudder ran through her. A flicker of something tense and urgent crossed Fleur’s face. Her eyes widened.

“Hello all!”

Bill’s cheerful, familiar voice rang through the living room, warm and unassuming. But to Hermione, it was a death knell.

Hermione stumbled back as if burned, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. Shame took over her countenance.

Dread clawed up her throat. Guilt churned in her stomach, acidic and relentless. She recoiled from Fleur as if burned, her body moving before her mind could catch up. She slipped through the door, retreating blindly up the stairs, her breath uneven, her pulse a deafening roar in her ears. She barely noticed the door to the guest room swinging shut behind her.

Her room.

She sank onto the bed, burying her face in her hands as the weight of what she had done came crashing down on her.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” she whispered, her voice trembling, raw with self-loathing. “What am I doing?”

The gravity of last night hit her like a curse to the chest. Fleur had told her everything—what she was, what she felt, what it meant. Hermione knew now. She knew exactly what she was to Fleur, what Fleur was to her, and what lay between them, undeniable and inescapable. But Fleur was married.

Married to Bill.

Bill, who had fought alongside them, who had invited them into his home. Bill, her best friend’s brother. Bill, whose wife she had spent the night unraveling beneath her hands. Hermione’s stomach twisted violently.

She had lost sight of the plot completely. This wasn’t some love story. This wasn’t a romantic getaway or a honeymoon. This was war. They were supposed to be fighting the bad guys, and she had thought she was one of the good ones. But now—

Now she wasn’t so sure.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the sick feeling away. She couldn’t hide up here all day. She still had to speak to Harry and Ron, still had a mission to prepare for. Forcing herself to stand, she dragged her body back downstairs, schooling her face into something close to neutral.

And then she saw them.

Bill and Fleur, wrapped in an embrace.

Hermione stopped in her tracks. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary—just a husband greeting his wife after time apart. But something was wrong. Fleur’s arms hung just a little too loose around him. Her shoulders, usually held with effortless grace, were tight, as though bracing for something. And then, just for a second, Fleur’s gaze flickered past Bill’s shoulder—to her.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

Guilt. A silent apology written in Fleur’s impossibly blue eyes.
A fist clenched around Hermione’s heart, but she forced herself to look away. She couldn’t stand the thought of leaving Fleur behind, leaving her to an unfulfilled life, but she could expect her to break her promises to Bill for Hermione either. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t. There was a war to win, a mission that could cost them everything. She’d already made her choice.

And so, that evening, she let herself pretend.

They gathered in the living room, wine in their hands, laughter on their lips, the fire painting warmth over their faces. Hermione barely touched her drink. She felt Fleur’s gaze burning into her from across the room, but she did not meet it. She knew if she did, she would shatter.

It was late when they finally retired, when silence took the cottage and the weight of what was to come pressed down on her chest like a tombstone. She lay awake, waiting.

Fleur came.

The door whispered open, and Hermione felt the mattress dip as Fleur sat beside her.

“Hermione…” Fleur’s voice was barely a breath in the dark. “I did not know Bill would return today.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “Shhh, Fleur. It’s alright.” She forced herself to sound steady. “Don’t apologize.” She sounded convincing but guilt gnawed at her.

Fleur hesitated, then reached out, her fingers tracing lightly over Hermione’s arm, searching for reassurance. “Will you let me stay?”

Hermione had already lost her.

But just for a few more hours, she could pretend otherwise.

“Please,” she whispered.

Fleur slid under the covers, curling against her, her breath warm against Hermione’s collarbone. And Hermione held on—desperately, selfishly, knowing this would be the last time.

The night slipped away from them in quiet murmurs, in shared memories spoken like promises neither of them could keep. Fleur’s voice grew softer, slower, until her breathing evened out, and she was asleep.

Hermione stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, memorizing the weight of Fleur against her, the scent of her hair, the steady rise and fall of her chest.

Outside, the sky was beginning to change. The first hints of dawn, staining the horizon.

It was time.

She slid out of bed, moving carefully, so carefully. Fleur didn’t stir. Hermione dressed quickly, wand in hand, her heart slamming against her ribs. She turned back, just once.

Even in sleep, Fleur reached for her.

Hermione’s vision blurred.

“I love you, too,” she whispered, voice breaking on the words she should have said long ago.

Then, before she could lose what little resolve she had left, she raised her wand.

“Obliviate.”

Chapter Text

Shell Cottage, 1 May 1998

Tears streak down Hermione’s face as she steps out of the cottage, the cold air biting against her skin—a cruel contrast to the warmth she left behind. The boys are already waiting, their faces creased with concern. It must look strange to Harry and Ron, she realizes distantly, to see the infamous Bellatrix Lestrange with red-rimmed eyes, silent tears cutting tracks down her borrowed face.

“You alright, ’Mione?” Ron asks gently.

She wants to say no. That she feels like she’s been hollowed out from the inside. That she feels raw and dirty—not just because she’s standing here in the form of her worst nightmare, but because of what she’s done.

Because of her.

Fleur, still upstairs in their bed, her silvery hair splayed across the pillow, her lips still parted in sleep—blissfully unaware that the memories they made, the love they shared, had been ripped away in an instant. Fleur, who had reached for her even in slumber. Fleur, who would wake up and not know.

Was it mercy? Or was it cruelty?

She swallows down the lump in her throat. She can’t break. Not now.

“All good. She forces out, voice too thin, too fragile. It’s just… difficult.”
It’s not a lie. Not really.

Harry and Ron nod in understanding, but they think she means the mission, the war, the weight of what they’re about to do. And maybe she should let them believe that. It’s easier than explaining that she just erased the only real happiness she’s ever known.

Before she can think too hard about it—before she can turn back, undo what she’s done—Griphook arrives. A sharp inhale. A flick of the wand. The sickening pull of Apparition.

And then she is gone.

But back in the cottage, in the bed still warm from Hermione’s body, a single tear slips from the closed eyes of a sleeping Fleur.

Hogwarts, 2 May 1998

Hermione had just lived the longest twenty-four hours of her life.

She was alive when she should have been dead a dozen times over. They had broken into Gringotts, stolen another Horcrux, escaped on the back of a dragon, plunged into freezing waters, apparated to Hogwarts, joined the battle, and defeated the most feared dark wizard of all time.

All in one day.

She was alive, and even her hellish tormentor, Bellatrix Lestrange, was not. She would have to thank Mrs. Weasley for that someday.

The weight of it all threatened to crush her, but she barely felt it. Her body was too numb, her mind too raw.

The sound of sobbing cut through the haze.

Fred.

Her chest ached as she turned toward the Weasley family. Their grief was suffocating, a wound that victory could never mend. Ron’s anguished cries echoed in the great hall, a sound so broken it sent another crack through Hermione’s already shattered heart.

And then she saw her.

Fleur.

She was standing near Bill, eyes red-rimmed, expression heavy with grief. Hermione felt her breath hitch, but not from sorrow—at least, not just from sorrow. She’s alive. She had lost sight of Fleur during the battle, had searched for her amid the chaos but never found her. But of course, Fleur had survived. Fleur was a warrior. A force of nature.

A soft, almost involuntary smile ghosted across Hermione’s lips. An ache that had nothing to do with war burned in her chest.

She wanted—needed—to go to her. To wrap her arms around Fleur and bury herself in the safety of her warmth.

Then Fleur moved, brushing away the tears from her cheeks. She looked around the hall, searching, scanning the wreckage of the battle-worn survivors. Hermione held her breath, waiting, waiting for those blue eyes to find her.

Please.

Their gazes finally met.
For half a second.

And then Fleur moved on.

Hermione’s stomach dropped.

Nothing. No flicker of recognition, no moment of hesitation. Just indifference.

Hermione felt like she had been slapped.

She had known this would happen. Of course, she had. She had made it happen. She had whispered Obliviate with her own lips.

And yet, some foolish, desperate part of her had hoped.

Had hoped that something would remain, that Fleur would look at her and know. That some part of her, some piece of her soul, would recognize Hermione as the woman she had once loved.

But there was nothing.

Fleur turned back to Bill, stepping into his embrace without hesitation. She clung to him, burying her face in his chest, and Hermione felt something inside her shatter.

She couldn’t watch this. She wouldn’t.

Her throat was tight, her vision blurred, but she forced herself to move, to turn away before the sob lodged in her chest could escape.

Without a word, Hermione stood and walked out of the hall

She found Harry outside in the courtyard, lost in thought. The weight of the war, the lives lost, and the future ahead seemed to press down on him, yet there was something lighter about him now—like a man who had finally set down an unbearable burden.

He looked different from the boy she had met all those years ago, the one she had come to love as her brother. He was older now, hardened in some ways, but free in others.

She sat beside him, and they fell into easy conversation—soft, meandering, just two people finding comfort in the presence of someone who understood. They had grown especially close during the Horcrux hunt, even more so after Ron left them. Those long, cold nights alone in the tent had stripped them both down to their barest selves. They had shared everything.

Almost everything.

One night, when Harry had asked if she had someone special, she had told him about her sexuality. She hadn’t told him who she loved, but it hadn’t mattered. Harry had just smiled, told her he wanted her to be happy, and then thrown a pillow at her for not telling him sooner. He had held her when she broke down about her parents. He had been there, unwavering and steady, through it all.

And now, sitting with him, all of that felt like a lifetime ago.

“Harry, would you do me a favour?” she asked, hesitant.

He turned to her, brow raised, a teasing glint in his eye. “Hermione, you just spent the better part of nine months stuck in a tent with me, searching for things we didn’t understand in places we didn’t know existed. I think I can spare a few moments to help you.”

Despite everything, she smiled.

“I want to go search for my parents.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “When do you want to leave? I just need to grab a few things, but we can even leave today if you want.”

She exhaled softly. “That’s… not the favour.”

His brows knit together in confusion, and she forced herself to push forward before she lost her nerve.

“I need to do this on my own, Harry. I need to get away from all of this for a while. With Bellatrix, with everything that happened… I just—” She swallowed hard, the words turning to ash on her tongue.

Harry’s gaze softened. “It’s okay, Hermione. I understand.” He paused, considering her. “I mean, I want to argue with you and insist you let me come, but I know what it’s like to have to do something bigger than yourself alone.”

Relief flooded her, but it was tinged with guilt.

She took a breath. “Would you talk to Ron and Ginny for me? I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I’ll try to stay in touch. I just… I don’t think they’d let me go if they knew.”

Harry frowned. “You know they love you, right? They’d be worried—I’m worried.”

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why I can’t tell them.”
He studied her for a long moment, and she could see the war waging behind his eyes. He wanted to fight her on this, to insist that she let them be there for her, but in the end, he just sighed.

“Alright,” he said. “But if you’re gone too long, I will come looking for you.”

A lump formed in her throat, but she nodded.

They sat there in silence, the war-ravaged castle surrounding them, the ghosts of the past lingering in the cold night air. Eventually, Harry wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a quiet embrace, and Hermione let herself sink into it.

For a while, they just held on.

Twelve years later – Cassis, South of France, 2010
(All dialogue in this portion of the chapter takes place in French)

The midday sun bathed the cobblestone streets in golden light as Hermione stood in line at a small café she had discovered a few days ago. The scent of freshly baked pastries and rich coffee curled through the air, mingling with the salty breeze drifting in from the sea. It was a perfect day, the kind she had come to expect in Cassis—bright, warm, slow. She was looking forward to returning to her beachside cottage, curling up on the front deck, and losing herself in a thick, sappy novel.

She had promised herself, after the war, to find more time for life’s simple pleasures. But, as always, duty had come first. Her work was demanding, all-consuming, and her colleagues often joked that it was a good thing she was single—because she was clearly married to her job.

It wasn’t far from the truth.

Twelve years ago, she had walked away from everything. From the war-torn castle, from the people she loved, from the future she might have had. She had said her goodbyes quietly, in her own way, and left for Australia to search for her parents.

Harry had been the only one who knew where she was going. She had given him an untraceable address where he could send owls, and, of course, it had barely been a few days before one arrived—carrying a howler.

Ginny’s furious voice had echoed through the Australian countryside, scolding her for disappearing without so much as a goodbye. Hermione had expected it. What she hadn’t expected was how much it would hurt. She knew Ginny would be upset, but she hadn’t known the full extent of Hermione’s reasons for leaving.

Years ago, in a rare moment of honesty, Hermione had confessed her feelings for Fleur to Ginny. But after Fleur married Bill, she had played it off as a silly crush, nothing more. It was easier that way. Ginny had loved Fleur, too—just differently. Hermione hadn’t wanted to put her in the impossible position of choosing between loyalty to her brother and friendship with her. So she buried it. Like she buried everything.

Ginny had eventually forgiven her. Ron, surprisingly, had understood from the start. He had grown in ways Hermione never expected, realizing his own mistakes after abandoning them on the Horcrux hunt. He knew what it was like to run away. The difference, Hermione thought bitterly, was that Ron had learned from his mistakes.

She wasn’t sure she had.

Finding her parents had been both a relief and a reckoning. Undoing the enchantment had been the easy part; facing them afterward had been far harder. They had understood why she had done it—but they had not forgiven the fact that she had decided for them.

That betrayal, no matter how well-intentioned, had left a crack in their relationship. One she wasn’t sure could ever be fully repaired.

And wasn’t that just the pattern of her life?

She had taken Fleur’s memories, too. But that had been different. It had to be.

Her parents had been given new identities, new lives. Fleur had only been given a missing piece. A fragment stolen, not replaced. Hermione had known the memory charm was irreversible—she had known it and done it anyway.

She would carry that regret for the rest of her life.

She had stayed in Australia for years, rebuilding what she could with her parents, giving them time and space to accept her world again. They had forgiven her, but they never fully trusted magic again.

And Hermione? She had begun to withdraw from it altogether.

She still practised, of course. She honed her skills in private, unable to let go completely.

But every spell she cast carried ghosts, and the Wizarding World felt more like a wound than a home. Eventually, she needed something else—a way to move forward, to make a difference.

So she had turned to law.

It felt fitting, somehow. Justice. Advocacy. Helping people. Atonement.

She had aced her entrance exams at the University of Melbourne, but to attend, she had needed a new identity. Not to erase herself entirely—just enough to keep the reporters at bay. The Golden Girl of the war had no place in her new life.

So she had chosen to go by her middle name: Jean.

Or rather, Jeanne.

A small act of defiance. A quiet tribute to someone who would never remember her.

Someone she had never quite forgotten.

Unsurprisingly, Hermione had completed her Juris Doctor and Master’s in Human Rights Law in far less time than required. Her relentless work ethic and sharp intellect had earned her an internship with one of the most prestigious international legal firms working directly with the United Nations. From there, it hadn’t taken long for her name to rise in the field—she was known for her unwavering advocacy for women’s health and human rights, and soon, she was appointed as a UN advisor based in Paris.

That had been three years ago.

She had taken to France effortlessly, absorbing its language, culture, and cuisine with an ease that even she found surprising. She told herself it was simply because France was a beautiful country, rich in history and art. It had nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with the haunting echo of a pair of blue eyes in her dreams.

She still kept in touch with her friends, though she had never divulged too much about her new life. She visited England occasionally when work required it, always careful to avoid any chance encounters with her. It was a delicate balance—staying connected while maintaining distance. She missed them all terribly. They had moved on with their lives. And so had she.

At least, that was what she told herself.

Now, she found herself in the quiet fishing port of Cassis. After months of relentless work, she had taken a rare and much-needed vacation—a few months of solitude before returning to the unrelenting pace of her career. Cassis was perfect. The pastel-coloured buildings lining the harbour, the winding cobblestone streets, the Château de Cassis watching over it all like a silent guardian—it was peaceful. Safe.

It was a slow morning. The kind she was still learning to appreciate. She had spent the last hour strolling through the market, eyeing fresh seafood and local wines, debating whether she should wander down to the cliffs or spend the afternoon reading on her sun-drenched terrace.

Lost in thought, she barely registered the sound of her name being called.

"Jeanne!"

Right. Her coffee.

She turned, still distracted, reaching for the cup—

And collided, full force, into someone.

There was a sharp gasp, a yelp, and then the unmistakable splat of hot liquid meeting fabric.

Hermione swore under her breath. “Merde—je suis désolée—”

She looked up.

And felt the ground shift beneath her.

Because the woman standing before her, blinking in shock, was Fleur Delacour.

The years had only sharpened her beauty, sculpting her into something even more breathtaking. Her platinum hair cascaded over her shoulders, impossibly smooth, catching the sunlight like silk. She wore a pale blue blouse, the colour reminiscent of Beauxbatons, tucked neatly into a sleek pencil skirt that accentuated her poised elegance. The embodiment of sophistication. A force. A vision. And Hermione… Hermione was frozen.

Fleur barely spared a glance at her own ruined clothing before lifting those impossibly blue eyes to Hermione’s face.

Hermione’s heart pounded. Does she recognize me?

There was nothing in Fleur’s expression to confirm it—not warmth, nor familiarity. Just polite indifference. Not unkind, but distant. And yet, Hermione thought—hoped—that she saw something flicker behind those eyes, something buried deep.

But then, in a blink, it was gone.

Fleur bent down, retrieving Hermione’s fallen coffee cup.

“Don’t forget your cup… er, Jeanne?” she read off the name printed on it, her voice smooth as she handed it over.

Hermione took it without thinking, their fingers brushing. She felt the contact like a jolt of electricity, but Fleur’s face remained unaffected.

"Oui, merci beaucoup," Hermione murmured, forcing herself to sound composed.

She wasn’t.

The universe had a cruel sense of irony.

She had spent years burying this—burying her—under work, under duty, under the pretense that she had moved on. But no matter how far she ran, Fleur had never really left her. Not in her thoughts, not in her dreams. She had locked that love away, hidden it in the darkest corner of herself, convinced she was doing the right thing. Convinced she had no other choice.

Fleur shifted, giving a polite nod as she made to leave. Panic surged in Hermione’s chest. She couldn’t let her walk away. Not yet.

“Wait—Mademoiselle, please.”, The words tumbled from her lips before she could think them through. “Let me buy you a coffee—to apologize for my very rude and very uncoordinated behavior.”

Fleur paused, regarding her carefully. Hermione could see the hesitation in her posture, the slight furrow in her brow. She couldn’t blame her. After all, Fleur had no reason to accept an invitation from a stranger.

Then, after a long, measured silence, Fleur spoke.

“It’s Fleur.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

The way she said it—soft, deliberate, like a quiet offering—sent something twisting inside Hermione’s chest.

Fleur hesitated again, then gave a small smile. “And… a coffee would be nice.”

Hermione barely concealed her sigh of relief. “Of course, Fleur. Please, take a seat—I’ll bring it over.”

She turned quickly, retreating into the café before Fleur could notice the way her hands had started to tremble.

Saying her name again after all these years felt like reopening an old wound. Familiar and raw all at once.

By the time she returned with their drinks, she had managed to collect herself—at least outwardly. Fleur accepted the cup with a murmured thanks, and they settled into an easy rhythm of conversation. Fleur spoke of visiting family in Marseille, and Hermione explained that she was on holiday, taking a break from work.

The words flowed effortlessly between them, smooth and familiar, as if time had never stretched between them at all.

And yet, Hermione couldn’t stop thinking—this could have been us.

In another life, under different circumstances, they could have been sitting here as something more than strangers. If only Hermione had let go of her need to control everything. If only she had trusted Fleur enough to make her own choices instead of making them for her. She had thought she was being selfless—protecting Fleur, protecting them—but she saw the truth now. She had been a coward.

Hermione was in the middle of her musings when the sharp chime of a phone cut through the air. She blinked, startled by the interruption, before realizing that it was Fleur’s.

A flip phone.

Hermione couldn’t help but be impressed—Fleur had always possessed a certain effortless grace, and apparently, that extended to her open embrace of Muggle technology.

Fleur answered, her voice slipping into something softer.

“All right, sweetheart. I’ll see you in a bit.” A brief pause. Then, quieter, gentler—“I love you too.”

Hermione felt the words like a blow to the chest.

She wasn’t meant to hear them. And yet, they rang in her ears, over and over, lodging themselves deep inside her ribs.

Of course.

She had no right to be surprised. Twelve years had passed—twelve years—and she had done everything in her power to avoid Fleur, to forget her. Why would she assume Fleur had spent those same years doing the opposite? Waiting?

Fleur snapped the phone shut, sliding it back into her bag as she turned her attention back to Hermione.

“I’m sorry, I’ll have to cut this short,” she said, standing. “But it was really lovely meeting you, Jeanne.”

Hermione swallowed against the knot forming in her throat. She forced a smile, willing her voice to stay even, to not betray the ache blooming inside her.

“It was very nice meeting you too, Fleur. Perhaps we’ll see each other around again someday.”

The hope in her own voice nearly undid her.

Fleur paused.

For a moment, it looked as though she was debating something, an unreadable expression flickering across her face. Then, to Hermione’s surprise, she spoke again.

“Well, Jeanne, how would you feel about grabbing some lunch with me? I’ll be here for another week, so maybe we can meet again in a couple of days?”

Hermione’s pulse quickened. An opening.

She seized it.

“How about I propose something better?” she said quickly, unable to help herself. “To properly apologize for ruining your lovely blouse.” A small, teasing smile curled at her lips, despite the turmoil still twisting inside her. “I’m renting a cottage by the beach. Let me cook you dinner. Friday at 17h30?”

She pulled a pen from her pocket and scrawled the address onto the back of a napkin, holding it out to Fleur.

Fleur took it, glancing down at the writing. Hermione couldn’t read her expression—contemplative, perhaps.
Hermione knew she was being forward. Knew she was risking Fleur simply brushing her off with a polite rejection. And yet, she couldn’t let this moment pass her by.

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Then, to Hermione’s immense relief, Fleur nodded.

“Bon,” she said. “See you then.”

She turned, slipping the napkin into her bag before walking away.

Hermione sat back in her chair, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The tension drained from her body, leaving her with a stupid, ridiculous grin she couldn’t quite suppress.

For the first time in years, she felt something resembling happiness.

She just hoped she wasn’t setting herself up for even more heartbreak.

Chapter Text

Cassis, France – 2010
(The dialog in this chapter takes place in French, until it becomes obvious that it switches to English)

Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she had been this nervous. She had faced war, dark magic, and life-threatening situations, and yet, standing in her small seaside kitchen, she felt as though she was about to come undone.

The soft crash of waves filtered through the open window, carrying the scent of salt and sun-warmed stone. A crisp breeze curled into the kitchen, rustling the recipe notes she had scribbled earlier that morning. She barely glanced at them now—her mind was too tangled in the weight of what lay ahead.

Less than two hours until Fleur arrived.

She exhaled slowly. A flick of her wand sent the knife gliding through fresh herbs on the cutting board, but even magic couldn’t steady her hands. The rich, fragrant steam of bouillabaisse curled into the air as she stirred the pot, but she barely registered the scent. Instead, her grip on the wooden spoon tightened—too tight, as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded.

It had been years. Years of letters unsent, of words left unspoken. And now, in less than two hours, Fleur would be here.

She should have been ready for this. She had prepared for everything—researched, planned, accounted for every possible reaction. But preparation didn’t make her heart pound any less. It didn’t stop the what-ifs from circling her mind like restless ghosts.

Since her less-than-successful attempts at cooking during the Horcrux hunt and the occasional disaster in her college dorm she had, predictably, turned to research. She read everything she could about food, studied recipes, practiced techniques. But it wasn’t until her mother had given her a simple piece of advice that things had finally clicked.

"You can’t think your way through cooking, darling. You have to feel it."

She had learned to trust that instinct. She only wished she could do the same when it came to Fleur.

Once the food and wine were sorted, it was time to tackle the next challenge—what to wear.

Hermione had learned to put more thought into her appearance—not just because her job required it, but because she had come to appreciate the quiet confidence that came with dressing well. Professional attire was one thing; tonight’s dilemma was entirely different.

"How to befriend the woman of your literal dreams—who doesn’t even know who you are or what you mean to each other—without being obvious about it."

She thought of Fleur’s pale blue blouse from the other day. A safe bet. Hermione had a similar button-down and paired it with well-fitted denim and casual sneakers, aiming for effortless but put-together.

For a moment, she hesitated.

The ethics of the situation gnawed at her.

She knew Fleur—knew the way she stirred her tea absentmindedly when deep in thought, knew how she always adjusted her hair before making a sharp remark. Or at least, she had once known. Time had a way of changing people. Fleur, however, knew nothing about Jeanne. Nothing about the history they shared—nothing about what Hermione still carried.

Was it fair?

Would it ever be?

She didn’t have the answers, only the quiet hope that one day, she would be able to tell Fleur everything. No expectations. No demands. Just the truth.

At 17h45, Hermione sat by the kitchen island, fingers lightly tracing the rim of her wine glass. Soft jazz drifted through the room, the kind her father had introduced her to when she was young. The knots of nervous energy had loosened, replaced by a quiet, creeping disappointment.

Maybe Fleur had changed her mind.

Maybe coming to a stranger’s house in the middle of nowhere for dinner had sounded less appealing upon further thought.

She took a slow breath and tried to accept it as some form of penitence for her past misdeeds.

Then the doorbell rang.

All thoughts of disappointment vanished.

Hermione opened the door—and for a split second, she wondered if this was the universe's way of punishing her after all.

Fleur stood before her, looking spectacular.

There was a hint of apprehension in her expression, something carefully guarded. But beneath it, something familiar—the same haughtiness Hermione remembered from years ago, sharp edges softened by time.

For a moment, Hermione could only stare.

And then, she smiled.

“Bonjour, comment allez-vous ?” Fleur greeted, holding out a bottle of wine. “I did not know what you prefer, so I brought a Chardonnay from my family’s vineyard.”

Hermione blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Fleur had no idea just how fitting the gesture was.

“Merci, you are too kind,” she said, accepting the bottle with a warm smile. “Please, come in.”

The cottage wasn’t lavish—small and comfortable, reminiscent of Shell Cottage in its simplicity. It had all the modern amenities of a Muggle holiday home, but the warmth of well-loved space. Fleur stepped inside, taking it in with quiet curiosity before settling onto one of the stools at the kitchen island.

A slow breath, and then—

“Wow, it smells really delicious in here.”

Hermione exhaled a soft laugh. “Merci. Do you like bouillabaisse?”

“I do. Très bien.” Fleur nodded approvingly before tilting her head.

Fleur’s blue eyes flickered with delight, and Hermione inwardly congratulated herself.

“Do you like cooking?” Fleur asked innocently.

Hermione hesitated, then grinned. “I didn’t used to. I was pretty terrible at it, actually. My friends once accused me of trying to poison them.” She chuckled at the memory. “Didn’t stop one of them from stuffing their faces, though.”

Fleur’s lips curved. “This sounds like an interesting story.”

Hermione shrugged, swirling the wine in her glass. “Well, since moving to France, I’ve fallen in love with the cuisine. Everything French, really.” She cleared her throat, suddenly flustered, before pressing on. “So I decided it was time to expand my horizons. I took a few cooking classes. I was still terrible for a while, but then… something clicked.” She smiled, and this time, it was effortless. “Now I actually enjoy it.”

Fleur raised her glass, expression softer than before. “Then we should toast.”

Hermione mirrored her, their glasses meeting with a quiet clink.

“Cheers.”

“Santé.”

Fleur took a sip, then set her glass down. She seemed to be relaxing, just a little.

“So,” she said, studying Hermione with interest. “You live in France?”

“Yes, in Paris, actually,” Hermione said, setting two bowls of soup onto a tray along with thick slices of sourdough bread. “I moved there about three years ago for work and just… couldn’t leave.”

She gestured for Fleur to follow as she carried their meal onto the patio. The table was set facing the ocean, where the sun was slipping beneath the horizon, setting the sky ablaze in deep oranges and reds. A warm breeze curled around them, carrying the scent of salt and rosemary from the garden.

They sat, the quiet sound of the waves filling the space between them as they began to eat.

“What do you do for work?” Fleur asked, her voice even, measured.

Hermione glanced at her, noting the way Fleur held herself—reserved, as if something lay just beneath the surface. She was careful, deliberate.

Hermione chose to be deliberate, too.

If this night was all she would have with Fleur, she wanted it to be real. If Fleur chose not to see her again, she wanted this—at the very least—to be a proper goodbye.

So, she told her the truth.

She spoke of studying in Melbourne, wanting to be close to her parents (although she didn’t mention the war). She told her about the work she had done with the UN, the policies she had helped shape, the position she held now.

Fleur listened, contemplative, her fingers absently tracing the stem of her wine glass.

“And you?” Hermione asked, careful now, bracing for what she might hear. She had no right to expect anything—but Fleur was here, in France, sitting across from her, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel that meant something.

Fleur hesitated.

“I, uh… how shall I say…” A small, self-deprecating smile flickered at the corner of her lips. “I run the family business, so to speak.”

Hermione’s mind immediately turned to the Delacour name, to the legacy Fleur had always carried with such poise. Did she mean she was now head of the Delacour clan? If so, Hermione couldn’t help but feel a surge of quiet pride.

Fleur tilted her head. “Your work sounds like it keeps you quite busy,” she noted. “Doesn’t seem like it leaves much time for a personal life.”

Hermione should have anticipated the question.

She should have had a smooth, practiced answer.

Instead—

“Well, I… I’ve had relationships,” she started, fumbling. “Things. Uh. But nothing… well. Not right now, so…”

She grabbed her wine glass and took an unnecessarily large gulp, as if that would steady the ridiculous pounding of her heart.

Fleur considered her for a moment.

“Have you ever been in love?” she asked casually.

Hermione nearly choked.

She sputtered, set her glass down, and forced herself to swallow properly. Fleur merely arched a delicate brow, waiting.

Hermione had wanted to be honest tonight.

So, she was.

“Yes,” she admitted, voice quieter now. “I was. Once.”

She swallowed, feeling the weight of it settle in her chest.

“But it was a long time ago.”

The words tasted like a half-truth, but they were all she could give.

“You have only been in love once in your life?” Fleur asked, her tone almost skeptical.

Hermione smiled faintly. “Yes. She was very special to me. Everyone else I’ve met…” she hesitated, searching for the right words, “fails in comparison.”

Fleur’s expression shifted—just a flicker of something, but Hermione saw it. Understood it.

“What happened with her, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Hermione exhaled slowly. Dangerous waters.

“It’s… complicated.”

Fleur’s lips quirked. “Could you try and simplify it, maybe?”

Hermione cursed internally. It was always so easy with Fleur, wasn’t it? Conversation never felt forced, never required effort. She had always been able to talk to her.

Even now.

“Well…” She rolled her wine glass between her fingers. “There were outside factors, but in the end, it really came down to the fact that I was a coward.” A sharp exhale. “I did something terrible, something I believe hurt her very much.” She swallowed hard, lowering her voice as though speaking it any louder would make it too real. “But I loved her endlessly.”

The lump in her throat burned.

Almost to herself, she added, barely above a whisper—

“I still do.”

Fleur didn’t respond immediately.

She just looked at Hermione. Like a stranger trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. Like she was trying to fit something together in her mind, but the shape wasn’t quite forming.
Hermione panicked.

“How about you?” she said, much too brightly. “Anyone special in your life?”

Fleur didn’t call her out on the abrupt shift.

“Not at the moment, no. The family business keeps me quite busy.” A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought. “I was married once.”

Hermione froze.

She gripped the stem of her glass a little too tightly, forcing herself to stay neutral. Single. That was new. That was—unexpected.

Fleur continued, as if she hadn’t just dropped a grenade between them.

“He was a truly wonderful man,” she said, voice quiet. “Much better than I ever deserved. But there was always this… sensation in our marriage. Like something was missing.”

Hermione wasn’t breathing properly.

“I was content,” Fleur continued, gaze drifting toward the ocean. “But never truly happy. And then, later… he wanted children.”

Hermione tensed.

“But I knew I couldn’t give that to him,” Fleur said simply. “It wouldn’t have been fair. So, with nothing else keeping us together, we divorced. And I moved to France to take over the business.”

She took a sip of wine.

Hermione stared at her, heart pounding, head spinning.

She had no idea what to say.

“You live here? In France?”

Hermione barely registered the rest of what Fleur had said. Fleur was single. Fleur had been living right under her nose this whole time.

Regret twisted in her chest.

Fleur had been brave enough to walk away from something that wasn’t right. She had been brave enough to choose herself. Meanwhile, Hermione—Hermione hadn’t even found the courage to face her. Not once.

“Yes,” Fleur said, swirling the wine in her glass. “I moved back home about three years ago.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

Three years.

“My family owns a château and vineyard in La Roche-Guyon,” Fleur continued.

Hermione’s mind stuttered over the words. “That’s—” she almost whispered, “that’s near Paris.”

Fleur gave a small nod, sipping her wine, but Hermione could hardly process it.

Fleur was single.

Fleur had left Bill because she wasn’t happy.

Fleur had been living an hour away from her for three years.

Something was screaming at Hermione to say something. To confess.

This wasn’t coincidence.

Was this fate handing her a second chance?

But how did you look someone in the eyes after twelve years and tell them you loved them? How did you tell them that despite that love, you had betrayed them in the worst possible way?

After dinner, they lingered on the patio, conversation shifting to safer, lighter things. The ocean breeze carried Fleur’s laughter through the air, and Hermione could have sworn—sworn—that Fleur was flirting with her.

It felt like the summer at the Burrow all over again.

Fleur had always been so unapologetically tactile with her, all soft touches and knowing glances. Hermione had been so young, so utterly unprepared for how Fleur made her feel.

And now, sitting across from her, she still wasn’t prepared.

She caught herself staring at the curve of Fleur’s smile, the effortless way she was, and had to force herself to think of Ron. Ron with his overstuffed mouth, his face turning purple from laughter or choking on food—anything to ground herself.

She couldn’t let herself want this.

Not yet.

Not until she told Fleur the truth.

And who knew—maybe, once she did, Fleur would never want to speak to her again.

The stars stretched endlessly above them, scattered like tiny embers in the ink-black sky. The ocean murmured softly in the distance, waves kissing the shore in a slow, steady rhythm. A French ballad drifted from the radio, its melody wrapping around them, warm and wistful.

Hermione knew this moment was slipping through her fingers.

Soon, Fleur would leave. And maybe this—whatever this was—would be the last time they’d ever be together like this. The thought twisted something sharp inside her, an ache she had no right to feel.

She should tell her, but instead, she took a breath.

“Dance with me?”

Fleur blinked, caught off guard. Hermione saw the hesitation flicker across her face, the wariness lingering in her posture. But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

A small, almost imperceptible nod.

Hermione stood and stepped forward taking Fleur’s hand, closing the space between them, and Fleur followed. Carefully—like if they moved too fast, the moment would shatter.

Hermione placed her hands at Fleur’s waist, fingers barely pressing into the fabric of her blouse. Fleur’s hands came to rest at Hermione’s shoulders before slowly gliding around her neck, sending a ripple of warmth down Hermione’s spine.

They swayed.

The music was slow, and so were they. The world around them faded into nothing but the soft glow of moonlight, the distant hush of the waves, the gentle press of Fleur’s body against hers.

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, committing this to memory—the scent of Fleur’s perfume, the rise and fall of her breath, the way her fingers curled ever so slightly at the nape of Hermione’s neck.

Fleur sighed softly. “You dance really well.”

Hermione let out a quiet laugh. “It took me a while to learn. Someone once told me I was hopeless.”

Fleur hummed, amused.

Hermione glanced up at her then, and—Merlin help her—Fleur was looking at her like that.

Almost-almost like she used to.

Hermione’s breath caught.

She knew she had no right to do this.

No right to close the space between them, no right to tilt her chin up and lean in.

No right to want Fleur after everything.

But she did.

For one reckless, selfish moment, she let herself want.

Her fingers tightened against Fleur’s waist, and she leaned in—just a breath, just a whisper. Her heart was hammering, her mind screaming at her to stop, but her lips hovered close, closer—

Fleur inhaled sharply.

Then she pulled away.

“I can’t do this.”

The words cut like a knife.

Hermione stood frozen as Fleur turned, heading back toward the cottage with quick, measured steps.

No.
“Fleur, wait.” She followed her inside, mind racing, panic clawing at her throat. “I—I’m sorry. I overstepped. I shouldn’t have—” She swallowed, forcing herself to keep her voice steady. “You barely know me…”

Fleur stilled.

For a moment, there was nothing. No sound, no movement.

Then, slowly, she wiped at her eyes.

When she turned around, Hermione’s stomach twisted violently.

Because Fleur wasn’t just upset. She wasn’t just shaken.

She was angry.

Fleur took one slow, deliberate step forward, her gaze burning, searching.

And for the first time that night, Hermione was terrified.

In English, Fleur finally spoke up:

“Why don’t we just cut the bullshit, Hermione.”

Hermione had been shocked many times in her life, but she couldn’t quite hold her grip on reality right now. “What?” was the only thing she could stutter out.

Again, in English, Fleur doubled down, taking another step forward. “You heard me!” She stepped forward again, furious.

“What sick game do you think you’re playing, Hermione?”

They were standing face to face now.

Hermione’s eyes widened, her face paled, she could almost not form words. “You know who I am?”

“Of course, I know who you are! I’ve always known. I’ve known for twelve years!” Fleur almost choked out now.

“How?” Hermione’s younger self’s arrogance couldn’t put the pieces together. How could Fleur have known?

“I was awake. I heard you.”

Fleur was crying now, but she needed to get this out, too. She had suffered for twelve years longing for Hermione, not knowing where she was or if she was even alive. Struggling with the fact that she had left her. Hermione had done the very thing Fleur feared above all else.

“I gave my heart to you, Hermione. Your spell would never have worked. My heart would always long for you. You can’t stop magic like that. You can’t stop love like that!” Fleur took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself.

“How could you?” she almost begged.

Realization dawned on Hermione. Her world crashed around her.

She had been such a fool.

She thought she was protecting Fleur, but she couldn’t protect her from herself. She had caused them both so much unnecessary pain.

She wanted to take it back, to make it all better.

She rushed motioned, trying to comfort Fleur, but Fleur wouldn’t let her.

“Don’t touch me,” Fleur said coldly.

Hermione flinched.

“Fleur, I—I didn’t know you were awake. I thought—” she stopped herself. There were no words that could fix this. Nothing that could erase the betrayal.

Fleur let out a bitter, broken laugh. “What did you think? That you could invite me here to try and make me fall in love with you again?”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

Fleur shook her head, looking at her like she was something fragile and unbearable all at once.

“How can I fall in love with you again, Hermione?” Her voice cracked, raw and aching.

And then she said it.

“How can I if I never, ever stopped.”

A sob tore its way out of her, and Hermione could only stand there, helpless, as the woman she loved broke in front of her.
Hermione wasn’t faring much better. She could see what she had done to the only person she had ever truly loved. Fleur, strong and proud Fleur, was standing before her, shaking with the weight of twelve years of pain, and Hermione had been the one to put it there. She had to make this right.

“Fleur, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I know I hurt you. I was trying to protect you. I was trying to avoid exactly this”

Fleur scoffed, a sharp, bitter sound.

Hermione pushed through.

“I know it doesn’t make sense—”

“You’re right, it doesn’t,” Fleur snapped, her voice thick with emotion.

Hermione swallowed hard. “I wanted to be a good person, Fleur. I knew you had Bill, and I wanted to spare you from the pain.” She paused, the words tasting hollow even to herself. Her justifications, the ones she had clung to for so long, crumbled under the weight of Fleur’s devastation. “But I see now—I didn’t spare you anything. I only made it worse.”

Fleur’s breath hitched, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears. “You didn’t save me from pain, Hermione. You condemned me to it. I have lived with this—lived with you—inside my heart every single day for twelve years. And I blame you. I wanted you. I would have chosen you over everything, but you took that choice away from me.” Her voice cracked. “And I hated you for it.”

Hermione’s heart clenched painfully. She understood now that what she had done wasn’t love—it was cowardice. Selfishness. She had tried to decide for Fleur, believing she knew best, believing she was sparing them both. But love wasn’t about making choices for someone else.

“It was a mistake,” Hermione admitted, voice thick with regret. “A terrible mistake. I’m sorry, Fleur. I have regretted it every single day for the past twelve years. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I was so, so wrong. I hurt you.” Her voice broke. “And I will never forgive myself for that.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks freely now, but she didn’t try to wipe them away. Fleur needed to see her like this—raw, exposed, wrecked. Sorry.

Fleur’s breath hitched, her resolve faltering. “Can’t you see?” she whispered, taking a step forward. “I still love you, Hermione.”

And then, before Hermione could say another word, Fleur crashed their mouths together.

Hermione gasped against her, torn between instinct and reason. She had spent years yearning for this, dreaming of it in the quietest corners of her mind. But it didn’t feel right—not like this. Not when Fleur was standing on the edge of heartbreak.

She pulled back, hands gripping Fleur’s arms. “Fleur—maybe we should talk first.”

But Fleur wouldn’t let go. “I don’t want to talk,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, desperate. “Not now.”

Hermione hesitated, her mind and heart warring against each other. And then, suddenly, something surfaced—a memory, a phrase that had haunted her for years.

She had been so young when Fleur first said it, so foolish. At the time, it hadn’t made sense. But now? Now, it was everything.

“L’amour, c’est renoncer à l’intelligence pour vivre de ses sens,” she whispered, repeating the words back to Fleur.

Love is giving up intelligence to live by your senses.

Fleur stilled, her lips parting slightly in surprise. And then, slowly, she nodded.

Hermione closed her eyes and let herself fall.

A few buttons hit the floor as Hermione’s pale blue button-down is torn open with little care, fabric parting beneath Fleur’s impatient hands. She has always been this way—impatient, insistent, needing. But tonight, there is something else beneath it, something shaking at the edges of her resolve.

She takes a step back, just barely. Her hands stay firm at Hermione’s waist, fingers pressing into the warmth of her skin. Her chest rises and falls in deep, uneven breaths, and her ocean-blue eyes sweep over Hermione like she’s trying to commit her to memory. Like she’s afraid this moment will slip away before she can hold onto it.

Hermione feels stripped bare, though she is still half-clothed. It isn’t just her body—it’s everything. Her heart, her regrets, her love for Fleur laid out in the open. There is no hiding from it now. No pretending she didn’t ruin them before they had the chance to truly begin.

Fleur tilts her head slightly, gaze unreadable, searching. Hermione swallows hard, her pulse loud in her ears. She knows, in her bones, that Fleur feels the same—maybe even more so. But for different reasons.

The air between them is thick with something unspoken. Something that has lived between them for twelve long years, waiting.

Hermione reaches up then, trembling fingers brushing against Fleur’s jaw. “Fleur…” It’s barely a whisper, but it carries everything.

Fleur closes her eyes for a fraction of a second. When she opens them again, they are blazing with something Hermione has seen before—once, long ago, in the dim glow of a candlelit room.
The first time she had her. The first time she lost her.

And just like before, Fleur surges forward, capturing Hermione’s lips with hers.

But this time, Hermione refuses to run.

Chapter Text

The Day After

Cassis, France, 2010 – Late afternoon

Hermione woke slowly, the warmth of sleep still clinging to her. The first thing she registered was the quiet—the peaceful hum of the sea breeze slipping through the open window, the distant call of gulls. And then, Fleur.

She was still there, watching her.

Fleur lay across from her, comfortably in an oversized day-bed, gazing at Hermione with an expression so unreadable it sent a shiver down her spine. There was something about the way Fleur looked at her. Soft yet searching, as if she were trying to memorize every detail, as if she were still deciding whether this moment was real or some fragile illusion.

Hermione swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of everything. Remembering the feel of her back against the wall, Fleur pressing against her front. The tousled sheets, the warmth where their bodies had been tangled just hours before, the feel of Fleur’s lips and hands on her, the ghosts of last night still lingering in the air between them.

Then, in the perfect quiet of the moment, Hermione’s stomach gave a loud, insistent growl.

For a beat, neither of them moved. And then…

Laughter.

It started as a small, startled chuckle, then Fleur let out a bright, melodic laugh that made Hermione’s chest ache in the most wonderful way. Hermione, covering her face with her hands, groaned before dissolving into laughter herself. The tension that had hovered over them like a fragile thread snapped, leaving something looser, something almost easy.

Hermione sat up, brushing her fingers through her unruly curls. “How about I make us some dinner?” she offered hesitantly. Then, glancing at Fleur, she added, more softly, “And maybe, if you’re up for it… we could talk?”

Fleur’s laughter faded into something gentler. Her eyes searched Hermione’s, and after a long pause, she nodded, a small smile still on her beautiful face.

Hermione took a steadying breath before slipping out from under the throw placed over her somewhere in her slumber. In the kitchen, she set to work on a simple pasta dish while Fleur perched on a stool at the island, watching her.

The weight of Fleur’s gaze was tangible, warm, and unrelenting. It sent a thrill through Hermione, the intimacy of it making her fingers tremble slightly as she chopped garlic.

Last night had been incredible. It had felt like stepping into something inevitable, something they had both denied themselves for too long. But this. This quiet moment, this stolen peace, felt just as important.

Because despite everything, there were still things left unsaid.

They had made a beautiful mess of each other once before. If they had any hope of not doing it again, they would have to face what lay between them honestly and openly.

Fleur exhaled softly, as if coming to the same conclusion.

Yes, tonight, they would talk.

And whatever came next—whatever choices they made now would shape the rest of their lives.

Fleur turned her thoughts back to Hermione. Back to yesterday morning in the café.

Somehow, impossibly, she had become even more attractive, even more effortlessly charming. And it had made staying away from her that much harder.
When Fleur had bumped into Hermione in the café, it had felt like the world stood still.

She hadn’t even meant to be there. She had been on her way to meet Gabrielle, who was in town for the summer, when something, an inexplicable pull, had drawn her toward the small café on the corner. It wasn’t a place she usually frequented, but the urge had been undeniable, like an invisible thread tugging her inside.

And then, in an instant, she had been drenched in hot, sticky coffee.

Had she been paying more attention, she might have been furious. Instead, she had been too focused on the ruined silk of her blouse, too busy brushing at the stain to immediately acknowledge the flurry of apologies coming from the woman in front of her. The voice was familiar, achingly so, but the fluid French threw her off.

Until she looked up.

Until she met those honey-gold eyes.

Her breath caught.

For a single, heart-stopping moment, she forgot how to move, how to think, how to breathe.

She had dreamed of this face. This stubborn, intelligent, infuriatingly beautiful face. Thought about it every day for nearly twelve years. And yet, nothing had prepared her for the reality of it. For the way Hermione’s face was frozen in equal shock, for the way Fleur could feel her own heart pounding wildly, beating in time with Hermione’s.

Her conscience whispered that she was not blameless in how things had ended between them. But that didn’t change the fact that Hermione had left her, broken her. That Fleur had spent years wondering, mourning, trying to convince herself she had moved on.

And now, Hermione was standing in front of her.
As far as Hermione was concerned, Fleur didn’t know who she was.

So, she played along.

It should have been simple. A fleeting moment. A polite exchange before they went their separate ways. That was what she had told herself.

She should have known she didn’t stand a chance.

The alias had been an unexpected touch, but understandable. What had truly caught her off guard was the way French poured so effortlessly from Hermione’s lips.

Fleur had always been fiercely proud of her language, her culture, but hearing it from Hermione, spoken so beautifully, so fluently, sent a new kind of shiver through her.

And then Hermione had asked her to coffee.

Fleur hadn’t known what Hermione’s intentions were. And she had told herself she would say no. She should have said no.

But she didn’t.

Because despite everything, she hadn’t wanted to.

Sitting across from Hermione again, talking as if no time had passed, had felt so natural, so easy. For a brief, dangerous moment, she had let herself forget.

Then her phone had rung, Gabrielle’s voice breaking the spell as she asked where Fleur was.

And just like that, reality came crashing back in.

Fleur couldn’t deny it. She hadn’t felt this content in a very long time.

There was something about being near Hermione again, something that settled in her chest like warmth she had forgotten she could feel. Her heart ached with it, with longing, with something she wasn’t quite ready to name.

And she wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Not yet.

So, when Hermione had asked her to stay for dinner, she had barely needed to think about it. The answer had always been inevitable.

She had told herself she was strong enough to go along with the charade. That she could pretend, for just a little while longer, that this was nothing more than a chance meeting. A chance to say goodbye properly, in her own way.

But seeing this new Hermione, the one who moved around the kitchen with easy confidence, who had grown into herself in ways Fleur hadn’t been prepared for, made her heart skip in a way she couldn’t ignore.

She leaned against the counter, watching Hermione with a thoughtful smile.

"You have gotten really good at that," Fleur remarked, nodding toward the meal Hermione was preparing.

She vividly recalled the disaster that had unfolded the one time Hermione had insisted on helping her cook at Shell Cottage. The memory of flour-covered countertops, charred vegetables, and Hermione’s determined, if slightly panicked, expression brought a quiet laugh to her lips.

This Hermione was different.

More assured. More composed.

More everything.

A flicker of last night surfaced in her mind. Hermione’s lips against hers, the heat of her skin, the way she had felt, and before she could stop herself, she murmured,

“You’ve gotten really good at a lot of things.”

A slow, lopsided smile tugged at her lips.

Hermione, who had been focused on plating their food, froze for a fraction of a second. When she finally turned to Fleur, her face was crimson.

But she said nothing.

Instead, she placed a bowl in front of Fleur before settling beside her at the kitchen island.

They ate in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something else entirely, something weighted, charged.

Something that neither of them was quite ready to speak aloud.

Hermione was the first to break the silence.

"Fleur, I just wanted to say, about yesterday. I never meant for anything to happen except… seeing you again. I hoped that maybe, if we could be friends, I would have the chance to finally tell you the truth about everything. There were no ulterior motives, I swear.”

Fleur didn’t answer right away. Instead, she seemed to turn Hermione’s words over in her mind, considering them carefully.

Then, she said, “You seem different.”

Hermione let out a quiet breath. “I feel different. But then, sometimes… not at all. Like I keep making the same mistakes.”
Fleur placed her hand gently over Hermione’s, her touch warm, grounding. When she looked at Hermione, it was deep and searching, as if trying to see past the years between them.

"You’re not the only one who made mistakes, Hermione," Fleur admitted softly. "So many things could have been different if I had just been more open with you." She sighed, dropping her gaze for a moment. "I should have told you from the beginning that Bill and I were just friends.”

Hermione shook her head. "We were just friends too, Fleur. You didn’t owe me an explanation.”

Fleur’s lips quirked upward, a knowing smile playing at the corners. "You don’t really believe that do you?" she challenged, tilting her head. "Because I’m fairly certain I’ve never wanted to make out with any of my other friends."

Hermione felt her breath hitch, the teasing lilt in Fleur’s voice warming her from the inside out.

But then Fleur’s expression turned serious again. "We both know there was something between us when I left Hogwarts," she said quietly. "And I know what it must have looked like when you saw me and William together at the Burrow.”

Hermione swallowed hard. The memories of that time had never truly left her.

"It broke me, Fleur," she wanted to say. "Because I loved you. And I thought you had already chosen someone else."

But for now, she simply held Fleur’s gaze, waiting—hoping—that maybe this time, they would finally get it right.

Hermione looked thoughtful, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. “I was jealous when I saw you with him.”

Fleur exhaled softly. “We weren’t together, though. Not then at least”

“I released that…too late” Hermione admitted. “And I think that’s the whole point. I should have talked to you instead of assuming the worst.” She let out a slow, shaky breath, her remorse clear.

Fleur nodded, her gaze gentle but firm. “That’s true. But I wasn’t fair either. I wasn’t exactly subtle about my feelings for you that summer, and yet, I never did anything about them. Then you almost kissed me, and what did I do? I ran.”

Hermione flinched slightly at the memory.

“I gave you all these signs,” Fleur continued, “but the moment you responded to them, I dismissed you. I can only imagine what you must have been thinking.” She sighed. “I can’t blame you for leaving after than, Hermione. I know I hurt you. But I do blame you for not taking my letters.”

Hermione looked down, shame washing over her. “I blame myself too. I was so stubborn, so convinced.” Her voice cracked. “I’m so sorry, Fleur.”

Fleur swallowed hard. “I’m sorry too,” she murmured. “We were just children, Hermione. And we were expected to do extraordinary things. The kind of pressure we were under…” She let out a breath. “I’m not making excuses, but it shaped our choices. The things we did, the things we didn’t do.”

A shadow crossed her face as she hesitated. “I should never have started a relationship with William.” She wiped at a stray tear. “Honestly, I think a part of me wanted to prove that I could be happy without you. But it wasn’t fair—to him or to you. Deep down, I knew I wouldn’t be. And yet, I let it happen anyway.”
Her voice wavered, raw with regret. “Before I knew it, he asked me to marry him, and I said yes for all the wrong reasons. I told myself it was the right thing, but the truth? I was playing with people’s lives. It was selfish, and it was wrong.”

Hermione’s heart ached at the confession. She reached for Fleur’s hand instinctively.
“I suppose we’ve both made mistakes,” she said solemnly.

But then she swallowed hard, her own shame creeping back in. “But Fleur, what I did. It was unforgivable.” Tears welled in Hermione’s eyes, her voice breaking.
“I…” Her breath hitched. “I did the same thing to my parents, Fleur. Right before the wedding.”

The tears spilled over now, silent but unrelenting.

“I thought I was protecting them,” she whispered. “But I was no better than Voldemort. I took control of their lives without their consent. Just like I did with you.”

Fleur’s grip on her hand tightened, but she said nothing, letting Hermione continue.

“When I found them, it was hard. So much harder than I expected. They forgave me because I’m their daughter. Because they love me no matter what.” Hermione let out a choked sob. “And that only made it worse.”

She swiped at her tears, frustration laced in her voice. “They told me that if I had just talked to them, if I had explained what was happening, they would have gone into hiding willingly. They would have accepted whatever magical protections I could give them.”

She closed her eyes. “I realized then how wrong I was. What I did to them, what I did to you… but by then, it was too late.”

The weight of it hung between them, years of regret spilling into the quiet space. Fleur squeezed Hermione’s hand once, grounding her.
“It’s not too late,” she said softly.

Hermione blinked up at her, searching her face for the meaning behind those words.

Fleur held her gaze, steady and unflinching. “Not if we don’t want it to be.”

Fleur was silently crying too. She wiped at her cheeks, letting out a shaky breath. “You know, I should have confronted you.”

Her voice was gentle, but the weight of her words was undeniable. “It wouldn’t have changed what you did, but maybe… maybe it would have spared us both years of heartbreak.”

She shook her head, a soft, self-deprecating smile tugging at her lips. “I suppose I was just as stubborn. Stubborn and much too proud.”

The air between them felt heavy, thick with unspoken emotions. The food sat untouched, long forgotten.

Fleur exhaled, then quirked a brow. “So… Jeanne, huh?” She teased, the corners of her lips lifting bringing a little levity to the conversation.

Hermione let out a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “Yes. It’s my middle name, but I made it a bit…”

“French,”

Fleur finished for her, a full grin now gracing her face.

Hermione blushed, looking down. “Yes, quite.”

She took a deep breath before continuing, her voice quieter now. “After the war, I withdrew from the wizarding world for a while. At first, I told myself it was because I had too many bad memories tied to it. But the truth?” She hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “The truth is, I was hiding.”

Fleur didn’t interrupt, simply listening, her eyes searching Hermione’s face.

“That world—it wasn’t just pain. It held so many beautiful things too. So many special memories. But I couldn’t face them, Fleur.” Hermione swallowed hard.

“Because being in that world reminded me of all the terrible things I’d done. And instead of doing what I should have—finding you, making things right—I ran. I ran, like I always did”

She looked up then, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I can’t tell you how deeply sorry I am for that. For betraying you that way.”

Fleur opened her mouth to respond, but Hermione shook her head, pressing on.

“Even if I thought I was doing the right thing, the means don’t justify the actions. I should have spoken to you. I should have stayed. I should have done so many things differently.”

Her voice cracked slightly as she reached across the space between them, taking Fleur’s hand in hers.

“And now, the only thing I can do is ask for your forgiveness. I know it won’t come easily, and if you choose not to forgive me, I will understand. But no matter what, I want you to know this.”

She squeezed Fleur’s hand gently before lifting it to her lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to her knuckles.

“Whatever you choose… I will always be here. The way I should have been before.” She exhaled, her next words barely above a whisper. “I have always loved you. I will always love you.”
A tear slipped down Fleur’s cheek, but she made no move to pull her hand away. Instead, she tightened her grip, as if grounding herself in the moment.

And for the first time in a very long time, Hermione allowed herself to hope.

"Hermione," Fleur began, her voice thick with emotion. "I don’t know if I’m entirely ready to forgive you yet. And it will be difficult for me to trust you again."

Hermione nodded, her gaze dropping, prepared for the rejection she thought would follow.

"But…" Fleur hesitated, then exhaled softly. "I’m willing to try."

Hermione’s head snapped up, hope flickering in her eyes.

Fleur gave her a small, almost shy smile. "I think I’ve been in love with you since I was seventeen. I know I still am. But if we do this, it won’t be easy. We will have to work for it. We will have to be honest. But, Hermione—" she reached out, taking Hermione’s hand, squeezing it gently, "I want this. I want you. If you still want me too?"

Hermione looked into the azure eyes she had never stopped loving.

"I want you, Fleur. More than anything." Her voice trembled with the weight of her promise. "I will be better for you. I will be honest and open. I will respect you. I won’t pretend I’ll never make mistakes, but I will own up to them. I will fight for us. And above all else, I promise you this—" Hermione inhaled deeply, "I will never, ever leave you again."

She had never meant anything so sincerely in her life.

Fleur’s breath hitched, emotion brimming in her eyes.

Then—"Bon."

Before Hermione could react, Fleur grabbed onto the collar of her shirt, slowly pulling her forward. Their lips hovered inches apart, the tension between them crackling like fire.

"I should have done this that day in the broom shed," Fleur murmured before finally closing the distance between them.

The kiss was slow, deep, and searing years of longing poured into a single moment. Hermione’s hand slid along Fleur’s sharp jawline, drawing a sharp inhale from the other woman. Their lips moved in perfect sync, Fleur catching Hermione’s upper lip between her own, while Hermione tugged playfully at Fleur’s lower lip, nipping at it just enough to draw a soft, breathy moan from Fleur’s throat.

The sound sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine, igniting something deep and primal within her. She soothed the bite with a gentle stroke of her tongue, and Fleur immediately parted her lips, deepening the kiss. Their tongues met, slow at first, then more urgent, a sensual dance neither of them wanted to end.

Hermione’s body betrayed her—every inch of her craved Fleur. But she wanted to do this right.

With sheer willpower, she broke the kiss, resting her forehead against Fleur’s as they both struggled to catch their breath. Their hearts thundered against each other, the air between them charged and heavy.

"What do we do now?" Fleur whispered, her voice breathless.

A thought passed through Hermione’s mind, and she couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face.

"Now?" she murmured, brushing her nose against Fleur’s. "Now, I take you on a proper first date, mademoiselle—if you’ll let me?"
Fleur let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking her head affectionately. "You are such a romantic."

Hermione beamed. "Only for you."

Fleur cupped Hermione’s cheek, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips. "Then take me on this date, chérie."

The two spent their official first date at a romantic restaurant near the harbour at sunset. The sky was painted in hues of gold and crimson, the sun dipping lazily beyond the horizon as a soft breeze carried the scent of salt and lavender. It was the kind of evening that felt stolen from a storybook, the world narrowing to just the two of them as they sat at a secluded table on the terrace. The flickering candlelight cast warm shadows over their faces, making the moment feel timeless, as if they had stepped outside of reality for just a little while.

Fleur idly traced the rim of her wine glass, her gaze never straying far from Hermione, utterly captivated. She listened intently, her lips curled into a delighted smile as Hermione recounted a particularly embarrassing moment from her time at university, one that had her groaning and laughing all at once. Fleur’s laughter rang out in response, bright and musical, a sound Hermione had dearly missed. The warmth of it settled in her chest, soothing and exhilarating all at once.

The conversation ebbed and flowed effortlessly, as if the past twelve years had never separated them. There was an ease between them, an understanding that no lost time could erode. It wasn’t just rekindling something old. It was discovering something new, something deeper. Fleur reached across the table, her fingers brushing over Hermione’s hand, a soft but intentional touch. The simple contact sent a gentle shiver up Hermione’s spine, her heart stuttering before she instinctively curled her fingers around Fleur’s, squeezing lightly.
“This is nice,” Fleur murmured, tilting her head slightly, her eyes soft with quiet admiration.

“Yes, it is,” Hermione agreed, her heart swelling with something both familiar and thrillingly unknown. “It feels... right.”

After dinner, they wandered along the harbour, the town’s old, cobbled streets glistening under the glow of street lamps. The air hummed with the gentle strum of a musician’s guitar, the soft melodies blending seamlessly with the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the docks. Everything around them. The lights, the music, the scent of the sea seemed to exist only to enhance the magic of the moment.

Fleur nudged Hermione playfully, her fingers grazing along the inside of Hermione’s palm before interlacing them together. The touch was deliberate, grounding. Hermione smiled, unable to resist the pull, the magnetic force that had always existed between them, now stronger than ever.

“I missed this,” Hermione admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it any louder might break the spell of the night.

Fleur stopped walking, turning to face Hermione fully. The space between them was barely an inch, the heat of their bodies warding off the cool breeze rolling in from the water.

“I missed you,” Fleur corrected, her voice heavy with meaning, with certainty.

Hermione swallowed thickly, her thumb stroking over the back of Fleur’s hand. “You have me now.”

The intensity between them was palpable, the air charged with something unspoken but deeply understood. They simply stood there, gazing at each other, as though imprinting the moment into memory. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, Fleur leaned in, her lips pressing a delicate kiss to Hermione’s cheek. It was feather-light, reverent, and yet, Hermione felt the shift in her world, as though everything had finally aligned.

By the time they returned to Hermione’s holiday rental, Fleur’s touches had grown more lingering, her fingers tracing slow, teasing paths along Hermione’s waist, her lips brushing against her temple in soft, lingering caresses. The evening felt like something out of a dream, the kind of night where love wasn’t just a possibility. It was inevitable.

As Hermione pushed open the cottage door, the warmth of the space wrapped around them, the scent of aged wood and lavender drifting through the air. Fleur hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside, her fingers trailing down Hermione’s arm before twining their hands together again. The flickering firelight cast golden hues across Fleur’s face, highlighting the softness in her expression, the quiet yearning in her gaze.

Hermione closed the door behind them, leaning back against it for a second, drinking in the sight of Fleur standing there, in her space, as if she had always belonged there.

Fleur took a step closer, her hands settling lightly on Hermione’s hips, thumbs tracing slow circles over the fabric of her dress.

“Is this real?” Fleur murmured, almost as if she couldn’t quite believe it herself.

Hermione reached up, cupping Fleur’s face in her hands, her fingers brushing over smooth skin.

“It is,” she whispered, before pressing the softest of kisses to the corner of Fleur’s lips, a silent promise.

Fleur inhaled sharply, her eyes fluttering closed for just a moment before she pulled Hermione fully into her arms, holding her as if she was afraid to let go. And Hermione, melting into her embrace, knew she never wanted her to.

Chapter Text

Cassis, France, mid July 2010 – Present

They spent almost every day together for the following two weeks. The sharp edges between them had softened, their time filled with quiet conversations, lingering glances, and moments that felt like something fragile and precious—not yet quite whole, but healing.

On an uncharacteristically gloomy afternoon, they sat in the living room, each curled up with a book, the steady rhythm of rain tapping against the windowpane. Fleur was reading something poetic, as she always did. Hermione had buried herself in a thick novel, but she hadn’t turned a page in a while.

Fleur noticed.

She always noticed.

“You are thinking too much again, mon cœur,” Fleur murmured, not looking up from her book. “I can hear it.”

Hermione huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say.”

Fleur hummed in amusement but didn’t argue.

A long pause stretched between them, thick with something unspoken. Eventually, Hermione closed her book, her fingers tracing absent patterns against the worn leather cover.

“I think it’s time for me to go home, Fleur.”

Fleur’s eyes flickered to her, searching. “But you are leaving for Paris in a couple of days?”

“No, I mean home as in London.” Hermione exhaled slowly, like the words had been waiting for their moment.

“You’re not the only person I’ve been unfair to. I think it’s time I make up for my absence.”

Fleur didn’t answer right away. Instead, she set her book aside, shifting slightly so that she was facing Hermione more fully. The space between them wasn’t wide, but it felt significant, like a bridge waiting to be crossed.

“You know,” Fleur said finally, her voice carefully casual, “I was invited to Harry’s 30th birthday in two weeks.”

Hermione looked up, caught off guard by the shift. Fleur wasn’t pushing her, wasn’t pressing, just… offering.

“In the mood to crash a birthday party?” Hermione asked, her smile small but real.

Fleur returned it, but there was something quieter in her expression, something thoughtful.

“Will you be uncomfortable?” Hermione pressed. “I mean… it might be awkward with Bill and everything.”

Fleur hesitated, just for a moment, before she shook her head. “People will talk,” she said simply. “They will whisper and wonder and stare.”

Hermione swallowed. She had been thinking about that, too. What people would say when they saw them together—when they saw this

“What if they don’t understand?” she asked softly.

Fleur reached across the space between them, taking Hermione’s hand in hers.

“I do not care what they understand,” she said. “I care that I am with you.”

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She had spent so long believing she was alone in this—alone in the choices she had made, in the distance she had created. She hadn’t let herself consider that someone else might want to step into it with her.

She turned her hand in Fleur’s grasp, lacing their fingers together.

“Okay,” Hermione whispered.

Fleur squeezed her hand, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips. “Bon.”

And that was that.

London was waiting.

They would face it together.

The Burrow, 31 July 2010

The party was in full swing by the time Fleur arrived. It was not every day the Boy Who Lived turned thirty.

A grand marquis tent had been set up, not dissimilar to the one that had graced Fleur’s wedding. The Burrow looked as lively as ever, laughter and music spilling from its open windows, fairy lights twinkling overhead like stars brought down to celebrate the occasion. Fleur took a deep breath, steadying herself. The Burrow held so many memories for her, both good and bad.

Her divorce from Bill had left a chasm between her and the Weasleys, but time had softened the edges, and the wounds had healed, at least enough for them to coexist without bitterness. She and Bill were no longer close, but there was no animosity either. He had moved on, and now she had too. What Fleur hadn’t expected was the deep friendship that had blossomed between her and Ginny, as though fate had woven their lives together in a different way than expected. It was an odd twist, but one she was grateful for.

“Phleeeem!”

Fleur barely had time to react before Ginny barrelled into her, arms wrapping tightly around her shoulders. Fleur rolled her eyes at the nickname that refused to die, but she laughed as she returned the embrace.

“This damn name,” she muttered, shaking her head as she pulled back.

Ginny only grinned mischievously before stepping aside to make way for Ron, who wasted no time in pulling Fleur into a one-armed hug. “Good to see you,” he said gruffly, and despite their rocky history, Fleur knew it was genuine.

“Fleur, thanks for coming,” Harry greeted her next, smiling warmly as he embraced her. There was something about the way he said it, like he truly meant it, like her presence mattered. It warmed her in a way she hadn’t expected.

“It’s good to be with friends,” Fleur said softly, meaning every word.

“So…” she continued, mischief creeping into her tone, “I have a bit of a surprise for you. Call it my birthday present. I think you will like it a lot.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, intrigued but puzzled. He glanced at Ginny, who only shrugged. Fleur struggled to keep the large smile off her face as she made a show of adjusting the strap of her dress and shifting her weight. “But first,” she said, “I think we need a little space.”

Before Harry could question it, she gently guided him and the other two a few steps away from the main crowd, towards a quieter corner near the tent. The noise of the party dimmed just slightly, the fairy lights casting a warm glow over them. Then, with an almost theatrical pause, Fleur stepped to the side, revealing the figure who had been standing just behind the tall hedge near the entrance, obscured from view.

Hermione.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Hermione stepped forward hesitantly, her eyes glassy with unshed tears, a teary smile tugging at her lips. Harry’s breath hitched, his emerald eyes widening as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

They barely had time to take a step toward each other before a blur of red tackled Hermione to the ground.

“‘Mione!” Ginny and Ron shouted in unison, wrapping her in a crushing embrace. Hermione gasped out a laugh, her arms flailing for a second before she gripped them just as fiercely. She squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed, breathing in the familiarity of them, the scent of home, of everything she had been missing.

It felt like coming home.

She hadn’t realized how much she had ached for this, how much of a hole had been left inside her, empty and waiting, yearning to be filled. The laughter, the chaos, the sheer force of love that surrounded her now—it was everything. And suddenly, she wasn’t missing anything anymore.

By the time they pulled away, Hermione was blinking rapidly, trying to compose herself.

Ron helped her up and ruffled her curls with a grin, and Ginny clung to her hand like she was afraid she might disappear again.

“Alright, my turn,” Harry’s voice broke through, and the moment Hermione turned to him, everything else seemed to fade away.

They simply stared at each other, green eyes meeting brown, so many emotions passing between them without words. And then, without hesitation, Hermione stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him tightly. Harry returned the embrace just as fiercely, his grip unrelenting, as though he needed to assure himself, she was really there.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

Harry exhaled, his breath shaky. “Me too.”

They held on for a few moments longer before pulling away, and when they did, the conversation erupted around them. Hermione was bombarded with questions, laughter, and teary exclamations. She could hardly keep up, but she didn’t mind.
She was home. She was whole again.

Then, Ginny, with a sly grin, nudged Hermione with her elbow. “So, ‘Mione, you ever consider leaving the snooty French to come back to jolly old London?” she asked, sticking her tongue out at Fleur.

“Well, actually,” Hermione began, a little nervously, “I’ve spoken to the Ministry, and they’ve asked me to join them as a liaison between the Ministry and the UN. I think I’m going to take it. I’ll still be based in Paris, but I’ll be making trips to London every week. I miss you all. I miss this. I want to be part of your lives again. I’m so sorry, I have so much to make up for.”

Her voice wavered slightly, emotion thick in her throat. Ron put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

“That’s brilliant, ‘Mione, but why don’t you just move back here if it’s going to be the same?” Ron asked, ever blunt.

Hermione hesitated for only a moment before moving slightly out of Ron’s embrace. Instead, she stepped toward Fleur and, in one smooth motion, wrapped her arm around Fleur’s waist, leaving no questions as to the implication.

Hermione took a sip of her wine, then set her glass down with a small, knowing smile.
“Let’s just say, I have a new appreciation for French… techniques.”

Fleur’s responding smirk was both indulgent and deeply pleased, her fingers brushing briefly over Hermione’s in silent agreement.

Ron’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “No freaking way!” he blurted, looking between them as if he’d just uncovered some great cosmic truth.

“Oh, please, Hermione,” Ginny leaned in conspiratorially whispering into Hermione’s ear, “like you haven’t written an entire thesis on practical applications of French oral techniques”/em>

”Oh Ginny, if you only knew.” Hermione whispered back without being able to stop herself.

Fleur, whose sharp Veela senses picked up every word, smacked Hermione lightly on the arm. “Mon cœur, you are impossible,” she huffed, though the way her cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink rather ruined her attempt at chastisement.

Ginny, meanwhile, was laughing so hard she nearly choked on her drink, prompting Ron to clap her on the back, blissfully unaware of their exchange, still lost in disbelief.

“I just— I mean, I never— but also, yeah, that actually makes perfect sense,” he finally admitted.

Harry, shaking his head with an amused chuckle, raised his glass. “To Hermione and Fleur. Somehow, against all odds… this makes sense.”

As the laughter and cheers erupted around them, Hermione felt the warmth of Fleur’s fingers lacing with hers, grounding her. She had her friends. She had Fleur. She was home. She was whole again.

Later in the evening, as the warmth of the gathering buzzed around them, Hermione and Fleur found themselves standing to one side, comfortably tucked into their own little world. An idea sparked in Hermione’s mind, and she turned to Fleur with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Come with me?” she whispered, fingers lightly brushing against Fleur’s wrist.

Fleur arched a delicate brow but eagerly nodded, her curiosity piqued. Hermione led them to the back door, pausing just before stepping outside. She turned to Fleur with an impish smile.

“Close your eyes and give me a few minutes,” she instructed.

Fleur’s lips parted in protest, her impatience evident, but she obeyed with a soft sigh, letting Hermione’s touch linger a moment longer before she felt her absence. Left in the quiet darkness, Fleur could hear only the distant murmur of voices inside the and the gentle rustling of the night breeze.

Minutes later, Hermione returned, taking Fleur’s hands in her own. “Come and keep your eyes closed,” she murmured, voice filled with promise as she guided Fleur further into the night.

“Where are you taking me, mon amour?” Fleur asked, her curiosity now edged with impatience. The anticipation was intoxicating.

“We’re here,” Hermione finally said, a smile in her voice. “You can open your eyes.”

Fleur blinked them open—and gasped softly. Before her stood the Burrow’s old broom shed, now transformed. Strings of fairy lights wove through the wooden beams, casting a golden glow, while floating candles hovered in the air, their soft flickers dancing like fireflies. A cozy blanket was spread across the floor, adorned with plush cushions and a chilled bottle of wine.
Fleur turned to Hermione, her blue eyes shimmering in the candlelight. “Hermione…” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. Hermione bit her lip, suddenly nervous but undeniably pleased. “I know it’s not Paris,” she murmured, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “But I wanted to give you something magical tonight. Just us.”

Fleur exhaled a soft laugh, the sound tinged with something tender, something reverent. She reached out, cupping Hermione’s face with both hands, her thumbs brushing over warm cheeks.

“Mon amour,” Fleur murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “It is perfect.”

Hermione took a deep breath, steadying herself as she looked into Fleur’s eyes, her heart pounding with the weight of everything she was about to say. The fairy lights cast a soft, golden glow around them, but it was Fleur who truly illuminated the space, her beauty, her warmth, her very presence anchoring Hermione in this moment.

“I know this isn’t the beginning of our story,” Hermione began, her voice quiet but unwavering. “But this… this is where it became real to me.” She swallowed, her fingers tightening around Fleur’s. “So many things have happened since that day we almost kissed in here. So many moments I let slip away, so many times I hesitated when I should have leapt.”

Fleur’s hands cradled hers gently, her expression soft, patient—filled with the kind of love that made Hermione feel like she could do anything.

“I brought you here tonight because I wanted to make you a promise,” Hermione continued, her heart swelling. “I have never been more certain of anything in my life, Fleur. I am yours. I will always be yours—if you’ll have me.” She let out a small, nervous laugh, shaking her head at herself. “It’s far too early for a ring, but I want you know that I am committed to this - to the rest of our lives together.”

She lifted one of Fleur’s hands to her lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles, then held it firmly against her heart. “I spent so much time being afraid—of what this meant, of what I might lose if I let myself fall completely. But loving you was never the risk, Fleur. Running from you was.”

Fleur let out a shaky breath eyes cast downward, and Hermione could still feel the lingering hesitance in her fingers—the shadow of the past, of all the times Hermione had hesitated before. And so, Hermione gently reached for her chin, tilting her face up, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Look at me, Fleur.”

Fleur’s blue eyes flickered up, and Hermione held her gaze, unflinching, unwavering.
“I mean it,” she said, letting every ounce of love, devotion, and certainty shine through her. “I’m not going anywhere. I will never run from you again.”

Fleur exhaled something that sounded like relief, like acceptance, like love. Then, without hesitation, she reached up, cupping Hermione’s face with both hands, her touch reverent.

“Mon amour,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion, “you have always been mine. And my heart has always been yours.” She brushed her thumb over Hermione’s cheek, her blue eyes glistening. “Nothing could ever change that.”

And then, finally, finally, she kissed her.

It was not the kiss of uncertainty, not the kiss of stolen moments or restrained longing.
It was the kiss they should have had all those years ago. It was deep and slow, filled with every unspoken word, every missed opportunity, every second they had wasted apart. It was a kiss that rewrote their past, made up for lost time, and promised a future neither of them would ever let slip away again.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and smiling, Fleur rested her forehead against Hermione’s.

“So,” Fleur murmured, teasing, “if this is not the beginning of our story… what is it?”

Hermione smiled, tucking a loose strand of Fleur’s hair behind her ear. ”It’s the part where we finally get it right.”

Fleur’s lips curled into a smirk before she pulled Hermione close again, whispering against her lips—

“Then let’s make it a good one.”

Outside, the Burrow was still alive with laughter and warmth, but here, in the soft glow of their own little world, Hermione and Fleur stood at the edge of something new—something beautiful.

And this time, Hermione would never run from it again.

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So I played around with some AI to create images of notable scenes from each chapter. Surprisingly, I have received some backlash, whether that is due to the images themselves or the fact that they are derived from AI, who knows? I am certainly no artist, so I will not subject you to that.

Obviously, we all have an image of these characters in our minds, and these images are not meant to replace or restrict that. It was a small glimpse into my own mind of more or less what I was picturing when I wrote the scenes.

This is my first (and likely only) fic. So, although it is unusual, I don't really care. I like it. So if you do too, that makes my heart happy. If not, well, that's ok too.

If it is not your thing, you don't need to view the images to enjoy the story. 

The reunion

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Fleur and Hermione in the Library.

Why does it feel like Fleur is always pressing Hermione up against the nearest flat surface?

Also - please ignore the outfits - AI can only go so far, thank goodness.

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Fleur and Hermione in the broomshed.

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Told myself I would post one a day, but as always my patience = 0

Enjoy*

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Small warning - mildly NSFW - If that makes you uncomfortable, the first image is a little more neutral and the one thereafter a bit spicier, so you can pick your poison.

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Hermione's betrayal

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I giggled a bit at the silliness of this one, but hey, AI can only go so far.

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This is probably one of my faves.

Only 1 more to go.

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Added a slightly more tame pic to Chapter 5.1 - if you want to check that out. Fleur and Hermione on their first official date.

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Here we go - the last image for this series.

I hope you guys have enjoyed it.

Hopefully, more of their story will come soon.

A-ca Wiedersehen B*tches!