Part 18

FLEUR POV

Fleur stood in the kitchen, chopping herbs with practiced ease while Victoire babbled happily in her high chair. Cecile had just left after dropping off some fresh bread and muttering about how Hermione had "looked like a ghost" when she arrived back from Beauxbatons. Fleur's grip tightened on the knife. She hadn't missed the tension in Cecile's voice or the fleeting glance toward Aurelie's cottage.

Something was wrong.

Hermione had been distant since her return, her smiles forced and her excuses flimsy. Every day, she disappeared for hours, claiming she had "errands" to run or "research" to complete. And every day, Fleur found herself watching the path to Aurelie's house, her thoughts spiraling into uneasy speculation.

She trusted Hermione—of course she did—but trust didn't quiet the knot in her stomach. Aurelie's name carried an undertone now, something Fleur couldn't quite define. A sharpness, a weight.

Victoire squealed, flinging her spoon to the floor, and Fleur bent to pick it up, brushing a kiss against her daughter's rosy cheek. She was being foolish. Paranoid.

But the look in Hermione's eyes last night, when Fleur had reached to tuck a curl behind her ear—there had been guilt there, raw and undisguised. Or when Fleur wanted to walk to the bathroom and Hermione barricaded the door.

"Dinner is almost ready, mon trésor," she said softly, as much to herself as to Victoire.

A sharp knock at the door startled her. Wiping her hands on a towel, she moved to answer it. Cecile stood there again, a basket of herbs in her arms and a knowing look on her face.

"She is with Aurelie," Cecile said without preamble, stepping inside.

Fleur's eyes narrowed. "And what of it?"

Cecile tilted her head, setting the basket down on the table. "You do not see it, Fleur? Your Hermione, she hides something. Something heavy. And she does not wish to burden you."

Fleur's heart gave a painful twist. "Why would she not come to me?"

Cecile shrugged, her expression softening. "Perhaps she thinks you already carry enough. Or perhaps," she added with a wry smile, "she is stubborn, like you."

Fleur laughed despite herself, though the sound was brittle. "She is impossible."

Cecile's gaze turned serious. "Aurelie is helping her with something. But you should be the one by her side, Fleur. Whatever it is, it is yours to share."

The words sank in, heavy and unavoidable. Fleur glanced out the window, toward Aurelie's cottage, and made up her mind.

"I will bring her home," she said firmly, already untying her apron.

Cecile only nodded, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Good."

As Fleur strode down the path, her steps quick and purposeful, she pushed away the rising swirl of doubt and hurt. Whatever Hermione was hiding, Fleur would uncover it. Not out of anger or suspicion, but because she loved her. And she refused to let Hermione carry the weight of whatever burden this was alone.

The cottage door was slightly ajar when Fleur arrived, and she could hear murmured voices inside. Pausing for only a moment, she pushed it open and stepped in, her eyes immediately finding Hermione.

Her wife sat slumped in a chair, her face pale, her arm wrapped in fresh bandages. Aurelie stood beside her, holding a vial of something that glowed faintly. Both women froze as Fleur entered.

"Hermione," Fleur said softly, her voice trembling only slightly. "What is this?"

Hermione's eyes widened, her lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came. Aurelie glanced between them, then set the vial down with deliberate care.

"I'll leave you two to talk," Aurelie murmured, brushing past Fleur as she exited the cottage.

The silence stretched as Fleur moved closer, her gaze fixed on Hermione's bandaged arm. Her heart ached at the sight. "Why did you not tell me?"

Hermione swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't want to worry you."

This was her fault.

Fleur listened in horror to the attack on Hermione in Beauxbaton, cursing Celeste and how she had once again become a threat to her wife. Her past still haunted her. 'It's my fault. If it weren't for Liene, if I hadn't left her like that, you wouldn't have been hurt.' Fleur mumbled, feeling dread seeping through her veins, the urge to run, the urge to save Hermione from her sins. She was torn from her reverie by the brunette's gentle touch, who stroked her cheek.

Her breath hitched at the memory of Liene's pale, stricken face. The angry words they'd hurled at one another. The way Fleur had brushed off her feelings, too caught up in her own ambitions and insecurities to notice how deeply Liene was struggling. She had never forgiven herself, not fully. And now, years later, the ghosts of her past had come back to haunt them.

"I should leave," she whispered, barely aware she had spoken aloud.

Hermione stiffened in her arms, pulling back just enough to look at her, her tear-streaked face filled with confusion. "What?"

"I should leave," Fleur repeated, her voice trembling. "This...this is my fault, Hermione. If it weren't for me, for my past, you wouldn't have been hurt. You would have been safe. I've brought nothing but danger to you."

Hermione's brow furrowed, and despite her obvious exhaustion, a spark of determination lit in her eyes. "Don't you dare," she said, her voice low and steady.

Fleur blinked, taken aback.

"Don't you dare blame yourself for what happened," Hermione continued, her grip on Fleur's arms tightening. "You think this is your fault? Fleur, those students—Celeste—they made their choices. Just like Liene did. And just like I did when I married you."

"But—"

"No," Hermione cut her off, her tone firm. "You don't get to run away from this, from me. Not now."

Fleur looked away, ashamed, her hands trembling in her lap. "I don't deserve you."

Hermione sighed, reaching up to gently tuck a strand of Fleur's hair behind her ear. "You do," she said softly. "You always have. The problem is – you think you don't."

The silence between them stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Fleur finally met Hermione's gaze, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Fleur changed Hermione's dressings over the next few days, not allowing the brunette to spend as much time with Aurelie. After all, she was her wife, not Aurelie's. Comfort and peace settled between them, more and more things were said, and for the first time in years, Fleur began to feel at home in the reserve. One evening, they sat gently cuddled by the fireplace.

Hermione tilted her head, studying Fleur as the firelight danced over her features. "You don't usually sit so quietly," she said lightly, testing the waters.

Fleur's gaze flickered to her, the corner of her mouth lifting in a shadow of her usual smirk. "Perhaps I have nothing worth saying."

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "That would be a first."

Fleur huffed softly, shaking her head. "You are so kind with your words, mon amour."

Hermione leaned back against the couch, her tone teasing. "I try."

The silence between them returned, but this time it felt more intentional, like Fleur was carefully pulling her words into place. Finally, she spoke. "Do you remember when we first met?"

"Of course," Hermione replied, leaning forward slightly. "How could I forget? You were... overwhelming."

Fleur glanced at her sharply, a flicker of indignation crossing her face. "Overwhelming?"

Hermione grinned. "You walked into the Great Hall like you owned it. Your hair caught the sunlight from the enchanted ceiling, and every single person turned to look at you. Including me. You made an impression, Fleur."

"Impression?" Fleur repeated, narrowing her eyes. "You hated me."

"I didn't hate you," Hermione corrected. "I didn't know what to make of you. You were... so confident. So sure of yourself."

Fleur scoffed, shaking her head. "Confident. Ha. I was a mess."

Hermione blinked, surprised by the admission. "You didn't look like a mess."

"Appearances are deceiving," Fleur said, her tone sharp but not unkind. She ran her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit Hermione rarely saw. "I thought if I walked like I knew where I belonged, no one would notice I was lost."

Hermione's expression softened. "You never seemed lost to me. Arrogant, yes. But not lost."

Fleur laughed, though it lacked her usual warmth. "I was good at pretending. Even back then. Beauxbatons was worse."

Hermione frowned, leaning forward. "What do you mean?"

Fleur hesitated, her gaze dropping to her lap. "I told you I rejected the Veela part of myself. But I didn't just reject it—I despised it. I wanted to be better. Stronger. Human. So, I surrounded myself with those who I thought were perfect. Purebloods, with their flawless airs and sharp words. I mimicked them, thinking it would fix me."

Hermione tilted her head. "Did it?"

Fleur barked a short, humorless laugh. "No. It made me cruel. I looked down on people like Aurelie, people who could have taught me to love myself. I mocked them to fit in. And for what? A place in a world that would never fully accept me."

Hermione reached out, covering Fleur's hand with her own. "But you did find your place. You grew into someone who doesn't need their approval."

Fleur smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "And yet, here we are, with you suffering for my mistakes."

Hermione frowned, her grip tightening. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" Fleur asked, her voice low.

"Blame yourself for something you can't control," Hermione said firmly. "I'm not lying in bed wounded because of you, Fleur. I'm here because some people can't let go of hate. That's on them, not you."

Fleur looked at her, searching her face for something unspoken. "I wonder sometimes," she said softly. "If you truly know the woman you married."

'I think I know you better with each passing day, Fleur.' Hermione replied warmly. 'Maybe everything is exactly as it was meant to be? Maybe if I had known you earlier, if you had stayed with me back then, after the Tournament, maybe we would never have really met, you know? Now I know part of your history, I know life here, your family, how society treats your kind... It's easier for me to understand your motives.' The brunette spoke slowly, looking into the fire in the fireplace. Fleur watched her profile. 'Can I ask you something?' 'Sure.' Veela replied, reaching for the cup of tea on the table. 'Was it because of the history with your aunt that made you decide to leave me back then?' Fleur barely swallowed a sip. She put the cup down with shaking hands. 'That story still haunts me sometimes...' She mumbled. 'My aunt, Terese, was a staunch opponent of the Ministry's policies and wasn't afraid to speak out. In the end, she managed to convince the other Veelas to protest, to take to the streets. As you know, wizards have no respect for our blood, considering us more animals than humans, so they had no problem shedding blood on the streets. Terese died, and Aurelie was raised by our grandmother Cecile.' Fleur shrugged. 'Yes, her story was one of the reasons why I left you. I didn't want you to be associated with my kind. I saw the potential in you, Hermione. A relationship with me seemed to me then only to hinder you. I wanted to spare you that fate.' Fleur looked straight into the brunette's brown eyes. 'Seeing your commitment to freeing the house elves, I suspected that you could end up like Terese, wanting to fight for Veelas also. You are a lioness after all.' 'Why did you kiss me then, Fleur?' Hermione asked quietly, moving closer.

'How could I not kiss you when you were everything I wanted? When my whole body wanted you?' Fleur whispered. Their lips were only an inch away from each other. 'Am I still that irresistible?' 'Even more so...' The blonde mumbled and kissed the brunette with a passion she hadn't kissed her with in months. Maybe even the last time those few years ago during the Tournament? 'Victoire is sleeping...' Hermione whispered into Fleur's ear, her fingers wading over the outline of her breasts. Fleur felt a wave of lust washing over her. Her eyes turned black. She wasn't holding back her Veela anymore, letting her enjoy the attention of her mate. 'I think we should move to the bedroom then.' It was as it should have been the first time. Unhurried movements, tender gestures and glances. They looked at each other's bodies as if they were making love for the first time. And Fleur felt that this was truly the first time. There was no anger, no coercion, no rage, no pity. There was no obligation, just a joyful reunion of two lovers who had wandered in the fog to finally find each other. And Fleur couldn't have been happier. Her Veela had cried in triumph as she lay fulfilled in the sweaty, crumpled sheets that night, holding Hermione naked against her body.