Chapter Text
Fleur knew the moment she saw Hermione Granger.
Her breath had escaped her lungs: a silent, involuntary exhale.
But she’s just a child.
Fleur could hardly believe it. She’d been indignant. Petulant. Annoyed. Huffy.
A child! The nerve!
Never mind that Fleur herself was also just a child, when it happened. She’d hardly felt like a child: seventeen. An adult, by wizarding standards. With the weight of prestige on her shoulders, the pressure of the atmosphere of expectation. Seventeen, flirting with the future but still so far from understanding all it would be.
She could have had no idea all that awaited her, and so, in her limited perspective, she had thought of herself as an adult. And this mating bond, in that moment, was simply...not ideal. Burdensome. How could she tell a child, that said child had a mate? That destiny had chosen them to be together, regardless of their own wants or needs? That their own hearts could never find their own path, that eventually, they would be together, even if neither necessarily wished it?
Sure, they could fight it. Fleur could move on, Hermione could, in theory, be none the wiser her entire life.
Or she might have some inkling, maybe. She might feel a yearning she could never fully comprehend. Fleur would feel it, too. Insatiable, an emptiness yawning within.
Fleur didn’t want that. For either of them, but especially (at the time), for herself. Veela took their mates very seriously: if fate had decided it was to be Hermione, then Fleur wanted it to be Hermione. Fleur wanted to know her. To get to know her. To love her, one day.
But not that day.
Despite hindsight, seventeen was closer to being grown than the then-fourteen (soon to be fifteen) year old Hermione Granger. Seventeen was closer to fully mature: closer to fully an adult, fully rational, than the small witch with cheeks still ripe with the follies of youth, unburdened as Fleur felt a child was and should be.
And Fleur knew in that moment: she wasn’t going to be the one to tell Hermione.
Not then, at least. Not at that moment. There was no need to burden not just the girl, but Fleur herself, already burdened as she was in her final year at Beauxbatons. Fleur’d steeled herself, her resolve, and had asked for the bouillabaisse, and then left without another word. Without paying much mind to the curious stares and the slight frown on Hermione’s face.
Fleur tucked it away for later, ignoring the gentle beat that her heart skipped.
She focused on her annoyance. It wasn’t fair, to either of them, that they had such a bond so early on.
Not that Fleur hated the idea of them as, perhaps someday, embracing the mating bond. But Fleur was young. Fleur knew of the bond before Hermione did. Fleur didn’t necessarily not want it, but she didn’t want it then, in that moment. She was young! Attractive! French!
Knowing of her mate already was inconvenient, and a pain, and Fleur chose to only think of that, choosing to ignore the pique of curiosity when she gleaned snippets of conversations that mentioned Hermione’s name in the hall.
She learned more than she needed to just through that, as it were. Hermione was close to Harry Potter. Friends, it seemed. And while that did make her mate all the more intriguing, Fleur didn’t care much for celebrity. However, the school seemed to. Words spread like wildfire and Fleur let the flames quietly lick at the hem of her robes. After all, while being friends with Harry Potter was a notable thing about Hermione, it was hardly the most interesting thing about Hermione, and Fleur knew that inherently.
She knew little else, but, that was neither here nor there. She hadn’t wanted to know, so she took the snippets she heard and refused to do more research than that.
It made her bitter. Made the castle feel that much colder (and it was indeed quite cold already), and Fleur – mature witch she thought she was – was quick to point out to everyone, every flaw she could find.
It clearly upset Hermione, which was…good? Bad? It made Fleur feel good to know she had put some distance between them: she wouldn’t be tempted by the bond, by the intrigue she tried to hide. But, well. It didn’t exactly feel great to know she was actively isolating someone she would, eventually, come to care very deeply about.
She opted to ignore her feelings – all except that annoyance – and that had worked well. In many months – from the Goblet, to the First Task, and well on her way to the Second – Fleur had learned very little about Hermione, and had actively seemed to repel the girl
And she wasn’t necessarily upset about that.
They had time.
---
Of course, fate, sadist that she may be, nearly drowned Fleur’s resolve (along with Fleur herself, as it were). Her heart had nearly stopped, seeing Hermione in the inky blackness of the depths of the Black Lake.
No…
No, it was…it was impossible. Fleur herself had only just had the flame ignited not months before, carrying it around close to her heart, small as it was and much as she tried to ignore it.
She didn’t know the girl. She didn’t know this witch, her mate. She barely let herself think about her, only allowing her mind to wander under the unfeeling, watchful eye of the cosmos, in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep.
There was no way they could have known. There was no way anyone could have known! Fleur herself barely knew!
It was the first time she truly felt the depth – not even the full depth, just the beginnings – of her feelings. Of her love, stirred into action by the threat of danger to the one she was destined for.
In her damned hesitation and shock, the grindelows had come. Had clawed, and yanked, and pulled, and in her panic she had stupidly succumbed.
Oh, she’d hated Hermione, then. She’d hated her mate for causing that distraction, for making her hesitate, looking between Gabrielle and Hermione and wondering which one she was supposed to even rescue!
Stupid. It was fucking stupid, Hermione was fucking stupid, and Fleur was fucking stupid.
Obviously no one fucking knew. Obviously, she loved her baby sister with her entire heart. She had yet to start to know her love for Hermione.
At least someone had had the self-control to rescue Gabrielle in her stead, and Fleur was at least genuinely grateful for that. She ignored the fact that it was Harry Potter: ignored the way her kisses to Hermione’s friends made the girl flush bright red (almost as red as the red-haired boy).
She was genuinely relieved her sister was okay.
She only realized after her panic dissipated, how fucking angry she was, too.
It was easy to be annoyed with Hermione, after that. She focused on the rage.
The rest was a breeze.
She barely spoke to Hermione during her entire time at Hogwarts. And when she did, she managed to almost always seem to annoy the girl.
Again, that was…good? At the time, Fleur had thought so. She’d felt vindictive.
Hurt.
But she would never admit that. Fully-grown, totally mature witch that she was, at the time.
She ignored the slight pang in her chest when she realized, leaving Hogwarts, that it meant she was leaving her mate behind. Her mate, who – maybe, perhaps – hated her a little. Leaving her behind, with no guarantee of when, or if, they would meet again.
(Fleur already knew).
---
She didn’t see her again until Bill.
Bill wasn’t supposed to be anything serious. Fleur knew who her mate was. Fleur knew it wasn’t Bill.
That didn’t stop her from loving him. It wasn’t the same kind of love she could (would) have with Hermione, but it was love all the same.
Veela took their mates very seriously, it was true, but mates were only one form of love. And Veela were capable of all types. Bill’s love was cool, and sturdy: a walk on sea-compacted sand, the waves threatening to envelope toes. Tantalizing, fun, pleasant. Fleur liked it.
It wasn’t like other relationships, not like previous relationships. It felt different. More mature.
More adult. Bill was older than her, after all. But he was sweet. Unaffected by her thrall. He believed in her, more than she felt many people ever had, and he supported her in ways that she was sure he didn’t even know about. There was something about him – perhaps, in another lifetime, another universe – they would have been destined for each other.
That wasn’t the case, but his love felt familiar in a way that was comforting, almost nostalgic.
She’d been up front, with Bill. That she had a mate. That she knew who it was, but it wasn’t their time. That she wanted to be with him in the interim. She’d been shy, talking about it. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but at nineteen, she had grown – shocking, since at seventeen, she had been so mature – and had realized it would be unfair, upon his proposal, to keep letting him think he ever had a chance at a lifetime with her.
He didn’t, and she had steeled herself, ready for him to leave her right then and there for not having told him sooner.
But, Bill, wonderful man that he was, had simply nodded. “Well, for what it’s worth, there’s a solid chance I don’t make it out of this war alive.” He had tried to joke, ring sat beside them on the table – not forgotten, but put to the side in light of their important conversation.
“That’s not funny, Bill.” Fleur knew he was joking, but that didn’t stop the squeeze in her chest.
“No, but it would mean I would have had a lifetime with you.” He offered with a small smile.
Despite herself, she’d laughed. “Fine, then. I accept. But know that if you do survive the war, we will need to get a divorce.”
He’d shrugged “Works for me!”
But, ah, even at nineteen, she had still been so naïve.
Bill Weasley, Ron Weasley: brothers. Hermione Granger: good friend.
Perhaps it had been a misstep, to have said yes to Bill. To seem like she truly wanted to spend eternity bound to him.
Still, Fleur couldn’t quite bring herself to regret, or reneg, her decision. She hardly wanted Bill to die, but there was something terribly romantic about him saying it would have meant a lifetime with her. And, well. Perhaps it would be a hindrance, in the future. But Fleur also had faith it wouldn’t.
It simply wasn’t their time. Hermione barely spoke to her. Only knew of goings on in Fleur’s life because of the Weasleys. And the Weasleys only started warming up to Fleur when she still insisted on marrying Bill after the bloody fight with Greyback.
She almost felt bad, knowing she had won them over when she knew she would be leaving their son, but…
Well, Hermione did know of her, now. More of her. They were entwined, however tangentially, and in that moment, that was enough.
She saw Hermione, at her own wedding, and they’d exchanged pleasantries, and little else.
She couldn’t tell Hermione, then. How could she? Even though Hermione was certainly less of a child – her childhood stolen from her as the heavy weight of war settled on her shoulders – it was Fleur’s wedding! That would have certainly taken all of her brownie points from the Weasleys, to say nothing about what Hermione would think of her (or how many years of progress – little as it may have been – that could set them back). It wasn’t worth the risk: it simply wasn’t the time.
But she hadn’t been able to dwell on it: there had been festivities and then death eaters, and while Hermione had given Fleur more attention in those months than she had ever given her before, Fleur still barely knew the girl.
She did know more, though. Living with the Weasleys had given her perspective, and appreciation, for Hermione. Small things: snippets of stories of the trio’s antics. Shocked whispers about some magic or other that Hermione had managed that was far above her year.
Brilliant. Her mate was brilliant. The brightest witch of her age.
Fleur’d almost wanted to say something, at the wedding. To walk over to Hermione and engage her, to ask her about herself, ask her questions, pick her brain.
She never did get that chance.
Perhaps that was for the best, even though her heart grew heavy as the realities of war – and Hermione’s role in it – truly started to take shape.
---
Fleur didn’t see Hermione again until Fleur’s gut had twisted painfully, forcing her to double over in pain, gripping the counter at Shell Cottage to keep herself upright.
She didn’t know how she knew (she did), but she knew: her mate was in trouble, and close, and she was out of Shell Cottage in a shot, Bill not far behind her.
It had taken everything she was to not cry in anguish. To not hold her mate in her arms and curse the very heavens for what cruel intentions they seemed to have.
Seeing her mate in pain, bleeding, tossing and turning even while under the influence of several sleep and dreamless potions, Fleur knew: Hermione was not a child, anymore.
It made her heart ache. So young, now marred by scars she would never be fully rid of. Mental, physical, it didn’t matter. They would last, and they had stolen what few scraps of childhood had remained. Hermione was a fighter, and she had fought hard.
She still had to fight, and Fleur tended to her, night and day. She tried to play it off as being concerned for all of them, rotating between all the injured, but it was hard to pull herself from Hermione’s side. She could manage it in the moments when Hermione slept soundly, or was awake and asked for news on her friends, but otherwise, she was reluctant to be anywhere that wasn’t Hermione’s room, or her bedside.
She supposed it wasn’t very subtle. At least, not to those who were healthy enough to pay attention.
As they bid their guests goodbye, Fleur’s heart hammering so hard in her chest at saying goodbye to her mate – at sending her to an uncertain fate, still none the wiser of Fleur’s growing love for her – Bill had simply said it, plain as day. Nice and easy, as though it wasn’t the biggest secret she had: as though that same flame she had harbored for years, hadn’t roared to life at seeing her direly injured mate, and wasn’t threatening to immolate her at a moment’s notice.
“So. Hermione, huh?” he asked, no judgement in his eyes.
Fleur had only worried her lip, knowing she didn’t need to confirm all the questions that swam in his gaze.
He already knew the answers.
---
Fate had been cruel, indeed. Fleur’s “later” never really did come. There had been no good time to tell Hermione.
And that weighed on her.
The war had ended. Fleur received her metals and her divorce papers (Bill, wonderful man that he was, had signed the papers with a soft smile, a strong hug, and a quiet “Best of luck with her, Fleur. She’s a stubborn one, but I bet she’ll be well worth it”), and had returned to France.
Not that she hadn’t tried to find Hermione, after the Battle of Hogwarts. She’d known she was okay – that same feeling of despair and pain had not returned since Shell Cottage. She had caught glimpses of her, between press conferences, Daily Prophet articles, and other things, but the more she fought to reach the woman she was destined to love, the harder it seemed to get to her.
Until Hermione had just…disappeared. Gone, into the ether.
Fleur knew that Harry knew where she was, but Fleur hardly wanted to ask. “Hey, Harry, you remember Hermione? She’s kind of my mate, any ideas where she may be?”
She had floated the idea of sending Hermione an owl, with a long letter spilling her guts: telling Hermione any and everything, trying to satiate that incredible mind that Fleur knew she had. She had considered sending gifts: books, mostly, about Veela. Rare books indeed. Fleur knew that Hermione would love that.
But it didn’t feel…right. Didn’t seem appropriate to send her mate impersonal packages and long, lilting letters waxing poetic when they had barely spoken over the years. Felt hollow. Cheap.
It deserved to be said in person, but with each month, each year, that passed without sign of her, Fleur had resigned herself to her fate.
And so, she had decided to return to France. France was quiet. Her family was there. Her life had been there, before the war, and it had called her back after. And Fleur had missed her family. Her old friends. Her culture.
And that was how she had found herself in the small coffee shop outside of which she sat, a macchiato tradicionale on the small table before her. It was sunny – the first warm day in a long while. Winters had seemed to be getting longer, and while Fleur would never pretend to hate winter, well: her feelings on the cold were quite well known. The first sunny, warm day of spring saw everyone outside, and she was no exception as she sat, people watching on the main street in La Combe de Lancey.
She sighed to herself.
Years, she had been musing on her mate. Years, she had not seen her. Years, that flame had grown, hot with yearning, fueled by a need that her seventeen year old self would have balked at. Now, in her thirties, and with the gift of hindsight finally starting to surface, Fleur had seen where she had gone wrong. Or, not wrong, but…also, not right.
There had been no good time to tell Hermione. They had come of age in tumultuous times.
But she could have perhaps put a bit more effort into getting to know her mate.
Fleur shifted her attention from the passersby to her drink, taking a small sip. She closed her eyes after placing the demitasse down, letting her head loll back, simultaneously annoyed and amused. There was nothing that could be done about it now, of course. It wasn’t ideal, but it was what it was.
And she knew it wouldn’t serve her to not get lost in her musings: to try to ignore her feelings like she had all those years ago. They helped her cope. Gave her a laugh. Made her groan. Made her ache. Sweet, sweet torture.
Her stomach clenched, the feeling persistent but not unpleasant.
Fleur righted herself, opening her eyes and blinking. She knew what she was looking for before she even spotted it, her stomach flipping, heart picking up.
It couldn’t be…
The word was out before she could stop herself, her surprise and mirth lilting in equal measures in the musical word.
“Hermione?”
Speak of the devil.
She hadn’t heard Fleur. She was a good distance away, yet.
Still, her name seemed to drift through the air, the whispers of it on the wind prompting Hermione to look up from her reading. Because, of course she was reading.
Fleur could have laughed. She could feel it bubbling within her throat, but she kept it down, opting instead to tilt her head to the side.
And, gods. Before her, looking at her, stood a beautiful woman. Unruly hair tugged back into an unruly bun. Simple muggle clothes that highlighted and accentuated soft curves. Small wrinkles – stress, pain, laughter. A frame weighed down by the burden of all that had come to pass, but reinforced with the quiet confidence of knowing she had the strength to bear such a weight. Strong, soft. Sweet.
Aged, like a fine wine.
“Fleur?” Hermione’s voice was like music, and Fleur felt her heart rate spike, her mouth go dry, and her palms start to sweat. She could feel it: the flames of that fire, yearning no more. They engulfed her entirely, in that moment, heat spreading throughout her whole body, and she welcomed the scorching desire as it hit her like a freight train.
Heady, in its desperation. In its need.
She hadn’t allowed herself that need, and now: it was there as the fire burned around her, curling into her flesh and burning her sweetly. Greedily devouring her as she had known it one day would.
Wordlessly, Fleur motioned to the empty seat at her table, sat across from her, suddenly looking too vacant when such sweet company stood only a few paces away.
Hermione closed her book, lowering her arm and strolling forward, graciously sitting without a word.
Invitation accepted.
Fleur’s heart was in her throat, as it so often seemed to be.
The silence stretched between them as they stared at each other, Fleur all too aware of her roving eyes, drinking Hermione in.
And yes, it was true, fate could be very cruel indeed. But, well, what was the saying? Good things came to those who wait.
And what a good thing, indeed.
“I-” Hermione started, before shaking her head. She let out a sigh that seemed to relax her whole body, pursing her lips before looking back to Fleur. “Wow, I, well. I honestly…hadn’t thought I’d see you here? Hadn’t thought I’d see anyone I know. When did you move back to France?” she tilted her head curiously. “Or have you? Are you just visiting?”
Fleur didn’t know how to answer. Bon, yes, she knew how to answer, but she couldn’t stop drinking in the visage of Hermione: her honey eyes, highlighted especially by the bright sunlight streaming down on them. The extra creases along her brow from how often she furrowed it, much like she was starting to in that moment…
Fleur cleared her throat. “Non, no, I am not visiting. I moved back a few years ago. After my divorce, and the end of the war, there was little keeping me in England. I missed my family.” She shrugged.
And you were no longer there, either.
She chose not to say the words, instead busying herself not with staring at her mate and drinking in every detail: rather she reached forward and fidgeted with the demitasse before her. “And you? What has brought you to France, Hermione? If I may ask, of course.” Fleur hastened. She didn’t need to actually know the answer: it was trivial compared to the fact that Hermione was, indeed, in France.
And not just in France, but right there before her. So close that Fleur could touch her.
The proverbial flames grew hotter, scalding her and making her skin buzz in anticipation. Fleur bit her bottom lip.
“I don’t know, honestly.” Hermione said quietly. Contemplatively.
Fleur nodded, heart thudding in her chest.
Hermione didn’t know. But Fleur did.
And gods, did she ache to say it.
But no. Not quite yet.
Hermione leaned back in her chair, placing her book on the table finally and gently tapping the cover with her index finger.
The book was in French, Fleur noted, and her stomach flipped. She couldn’t quite see the title, but she didn’t care: Hermione was learning French. Or knew it already.
Of course she would. Of course she did. The brightest witch of her age, indeed.
“I mean, I’m sure Harry told you that I left England a while ago?” she tried finally, shooting Fleur an unsure look.
Fleur nodded. “He did. As did Bill. But neither of them had to, Molly voiced her displeasure at your absence many times.”
That got a slight quirk of her lip from Hermione, and Fleur found the look so endearing that she tried to commit it to memory on the spot.
When she failed, she resolved to try and say something just slightly amusing again, so as to have Hermione do it once more.
“Sounds like her.” Hermione said with a wistful, nostalgic sigh. “You’d think I never wrote her.” She joked.
Fleur shrugged. “She loves you.”
And so do I. Fleur didn’t say it, biting her tongue as Hermione made a face.
“I love the Weasleys, too. Dearly. But, I needed to leave. England didn’t feel like my home anymore.” Hermione drummed her fingers harder.
Fleur didn’t bring it up. She wouldn’t. No need to open old wounds. They hadn’t been able to bring back Hermione’s parents’ memories. Even Fleur had tried her hand at any remedy, and had come up empty.
And she had plumbed the depths of any and all books pertaining to Veela remedies, Veela magic, and even magic only available to mates.
She had exhausted herself trying to find a way to alleviate Hermione’s pain, even if it was only from the sidelines, largely unseen.
Fleur instead nodded curtly. “This is why I left, too.”
Hermione seemed to relax just a little, knowing that the sore subject would not be brought up, and Fleur felt warmth beneath the flames that continued to quietly consume her: she had done well by her mate. She had understood her needs, and had tended to them.
She felt…proud. Elated. Excited.
She tried not to show how much that truly affected her.
“Yes, well. I just ended up traveling, really. I visited Viktor, in Bulgaria. He and his wife let me stay in their home for a little while. I also went to Egypt to visit Charlie -” Fleur made a mental note to speak to Bill about him not having mentioned that Hermione had visited his brother “- and I just…I needed an escape, I suppose. So I did. Just…traveled.”
“And your travels have finally brought you to France.” Fleur surmised.
To her surprise, though, Hermione sighed.
“Well, yes. And…no. I don’t know what brought me here. I used to come to France on holiday, you know. Back with my-” Hermione caught herself, swallowing hard.
Fleur kept her features as neutral as possible, hiding the pang in her chest at seeing Hermione’s discomfort.
“-well, with my parents. I actually avoided France for a long time, because of that.”
Fleur nodded. It made sense. She would hardly be in a rush to return to somewhere that meant so much to a family she had destroyed. However justified the destruction, the guilt would always be there. She couldn’t quite blame Hermione for it, and she was nowhere near wanting to. Ghosts may not haunt all of France, but enough of them lay there that Fleur understood how stepping foot on French soil could awaken them, no matter where in the country Hermione was.
“But, I…” Hermione shrugged, looking sheepish. Looking almost…confused. “I just…I felt I had to, I suppose? I know it sounds stupid.” Hermione muttered, even though Fleur had made no indication that it sounded as such. “But I felt compelled. I’m still trying to figure out why.”
Fleur felt the corner of her mouth twitch.
“Fate, perhaps.” Fleur dared to say. Quietly.
Hermione pursed her lips. “Yes, well. I’m hardly a diviner. I don’t necessarily believe in fate.”
Ah, but Fleur knew better than to believe in fate. Indeed, she had no need for belief, when she knew whole-heartedly of its existence. It sat right before her.
Fleur shrugged. “Call it coincidence, then.”
Those contemplative lines on Hermione’s forehead deepened, drawing into herself, mulling over Fleur’s words.
Call it fate. Call me yours.
Call it whatever you like, if it means we have met again.
“Are you staying here, in La Colme?”
“I – yes, actually.” Hermione shook herself from her thoughts. “I only just arrived a few days ago. Does your family live nearby?”
“They are further south, I come here from time to time to unwind. Few people, but wonderful ambiance. I am sure you agree.”
“It has a certain allure to it, it must be said.” Hermione agreed, and Fleur’s heart pounded in her chest.
“I have heard that said, about France.” She said, though her throat had gone dry.
She had heard it about mates. A certain…pull, when they were ready. When all the stars had aligned, and the bond, acknowledged.
But, well. Not quite acknowledged, in this case.
Unless…?
But, no. Fleur shook her head. She could not quite lose herself to hope: not yet.
As if Hermione could understand her very thoughts and desires, she quickly shifted topics.
“So, you divorced Bill?” she tried.
Fleur raised an eyebrow. “Yes, years ago, now. I am sure both Ron and Harry informed you.”
Hermione flushed, and Fleur almost felt faint.
Gods, what a beautiful sight. What a color to behold on Hermione’s skin!
She sucked in a breath, though she tried to be subtle about it.
“And Ginny…” Hermione admitted sheepishly, quietly, and just like that, Fleur felt the tension melt.
She threw her head back and laughed. “Yes, and her too.” She said, feeling the amusement spark in her eyes as she returned her gaze to Hermione, who had a small smile of her own.
It dropped momentarily, though, Hermione’s gaze suddenly turning serious. “Fleur I – I don’t know what happened. I don’t care, either, it’s none of my business. After you and Bill…after you both helped us, at Shell Cottage. I never did get to thank you, but…I wish you nothing but happiness, in your life. Be that with Bill, or not.” She looked flustered, then. “I mean, clearly not, since you got divorced, but-”
Fleur laughed, still fiddling with her demitasse. “You do not need to thank me, Hermione. I couldn’t not help you.” Fleur tried not to think how truly heavy the words were: she would have died, had Hermione passed before Fleur could know the sound of her moans and the taste of her lips.
Perhaps not physically died, no. But her heart would have shriveled with the love of her life cut down: her mate, dead before Fleur could even tell her how desperately she loved her, in whatever form that love had taken. Never quite able to be romantic, but always being as profound as Fleur’s own soul, entwined with Hermione’s in ways that even magic could not fully describe.
“But I appreciate your wishes for my happiness. And, as for Bill, it is simple. He was never my mate.” And perhaps she shouldn’t have said it, but Fleur couldn’t bring herself to care. It was the truth, and she no longer cared if others knew it.
Fleur shrugged. “He and I both knew when we entered the marriage, that it would end down the line. I love him, very much. He remains my best friend, even if his family does not approve.
“But, I told him, before we ever signed the papers, that should we survive the war, eventually, we would need to divorce. But, that doesn’t mean I didn’t love him, in my own way.” Fleur said gently, knowing full well that Hermione considered the Weasleys her family. “Were it not for my mate, perhaps we could have made it work.”
Her lips quirked up at the corners, and Hermione eyed her curiously.
“But Bill was not your mate, then?”
Fleur shook her head. “No.”
“But you know who your mate is? Have you met them, since Bill?”
Fleur sucked in a breath.
It’s you.
She was dizzy with the thought of saying it. She couldn’t.
It wasn’t the time.
But oh, soon. Soon, it would be. Fleur could feel it in the air, heavy with curiosity, leaden with expectation and saturated with possibility. Crackling between them: a charge, subtle but distinct.
“I knew who it was before Bill.” Fleur admitted quietly, tracing the rim of her demitasse. The coffee inside was long cold, but Fleur no longer cared about the coffee.
“Really?” Hermione sounded genuinely surprised, and Fleur nodded, not quite daring to look up and look her mate in the eye.
“Yes.”
“And you married Bill, regardless?”
Fleur shrugged. “Wizard marriage rights, to a Veela, do not quite carry the same weight. I was young. Bill was wonderful. We didn’t know if he would survive the war. He and I had a bit of a joke about it. Both of us knew better than to take it seriously.”
“Does Bill know who your mate is?”
Fleur smiled wryly. “Bill is a smart man. He figured it out eventually.”
“And so, are you with your mate now?”
Fleur’s gaze snapped up, shocked. The words rang loud, so loud, echoing within her as she tried to grasp at what little sense she had left through the shock. With? Now??
She stared at Hermione.
Oh. The look on Hermione’s face was not one of flirting. Not one of understanding. Not one of comprehension.
Right. She meant…was Fleur currently in a relationship. Was she currently dating, or married to, or otherwise involved in a known relationship, with her mate.
Fleur let out a shaky breath, which she knew she did not mask well.
“In a…manner of speaking, I suppose one could say I am with her, yes. But, well. No, I am not.” She managed to answer, the words cryptic. “Not yet, anyway.”
Hermione arched an eyebrow, and Fleur could almost hear her mind working.
However, she didn’t push for clarification, simply nodding.
“It must be nice, I suppose. To know the one you love is out there, just waiting for you.”
“It is sweet torture, yes.” Fleur couldn’t help but admit. “It has been, ever since I saw her.”
“So she doesn’t know?”
Fleur shook her head. “I don’t think so, no.”
If it bothered Hermione at all that Fleur was to forever love another woman, she did not show it at all, instead seeming to be far too curious. Fleur could see the questions swimming in Hermione’s gaze, could hear the presses firing inside her head, forming sentences punctuated with question marks and interrobangs.
“Why not tell her?”
“There has never been a good time.”
Hermione nodded, but pursed her lips: the answer had been accepted, but only for the moment.
“Ron and I almost got together. I mean. We were. Together.” Hermione looked away, then. She looked down at her book, and Fleur felt the sharp pang of jealousy all over again.
She had known that her mate had been seeing another. Bill had asked her if she was going to hex Ron next time she saw him, to which the answer had been a resounding “yes”, and Bill had very smartly made sure that they never did see each other at family get-togethers.
She had tried then, as she tried now, to keep her jealousy in check.
She was unsure, on both counts, if she was ever successful.
She had known it wouldn’t last, but that didn’t mean a vice hadn’t opened in her chest, when news had reached her that Hermione and Ron had broken up.
“But he proposed, and…I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right. It never had. I love Ron, dearly. Like a brother. But, well. I can’t exactly have romantic feelings for my brother, now can I?”
Fleur knew it was a rhetorical question, but she answered nonetheless, deadpan: “Nor should you.”
She meant it as a joke, but she only realized a moment later that the words were true. Hermione shouldn’t have romantic interest in anyone else.
On this, Fleur felt her petulance was warranted, and she had to fight back the self-satisfied smile.
Hermione laughed. “Yes, nor should I.” She agreed.
A moment, a pause, in which Fleur could feel her own question on the tip of her tongue: a question she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to, as it were.
But she had to know. Had fate simply delivered her mate to her, or would it twist the knife it had been slowly pressing into her back for years?
“So, is there anyone you are seeing now?” Fleur gently inquired, heart suddenly hammering in her chest.
Hermione furrowed her brow as if she had never even considered the possibility. “No. I mean. There have been…other people, I have seen. Nothing serious, just company on cold nights.”
Fleur nodded, jealousy absent in her chest. She understood what it was to be lonely. To seek comfort in another, even if that other never quite fit properly beside her or in her arms. She would not begrudge her mate the luxuries she herself had enjoyed.
“And, um. Women, I suppose.” Hermione didn’t look at her, but that didn’t stop the small smile that Fleur felt on her lips.
“We already know that I appreciate the company of women, Hermione, no need to be shy about your own enjoyment.” Fleur teased lightly, though her heart was hammering hard in her chest.
This was good! This was…this was good. Hermione would not be as resistant, when finally the time came to tell her. When finally fate stopped its infernal game of keepaway.
Hermione flushed and again, Fleur was struck by how beautiful a color it was.
“Yes, well, I…I mean, I hardly know, it was only a couple women, I just…it never felt right, with Ron. And I never really…tried it with any men again…” Hermione glared at her book, as though it were compelling her to babble about women.
Fleur couldn’t help but laugh at how flustered Hermione looked. “Hermione, it is fine. It is good, no? To be ourselves is to be free.”
“I…suppose so, yes.”
“You don’t particularly look like you agree.” Fleur cocked her head to the side, and Hermione let out a frustrated sigh.
“It’s nothing, it’s just that…well, I mean, I certainly liked the women more. But they also never felt completely right, if that makes sense?”
Fleur nodded. “It does. To which, I say, perhaps you have simply not found the right woman.”
It was Hermione’s turn to cock her head, her gaze curious but slightly guarded: suspicious.
“And who might that be?”
It was too easy. Too obvious of an invitation. Too much.
No, they had just started.
It was not quite the time.
“You’re smart, Hermione.” Fleur leaned back in her chair, feeling the most relaxed she had in years. In possibly her entire life. “You’ll figure it out.”