Part 7

Fleur POV

She thought it would be easy to return to her old life. The one where she was a wife, a mother, a housekeeper. The routine seemed simple: get up in the morning, make breakfast, kiss Bill before he left for work, clean, cook, care for Victoire, and maybe, if she had time, teach her a few words in French so the little girl wouldn't forget her roots. It was a life that many would envy—steady, peaceful, and normal.

But it wasn't normal for Fleur. Not anymore. She hadn't realized just how much her time with Hermione had changed her until she was back in her own house, with Bill, with the family, and the mundane tasks that came with it.

Fleur felt empty. She felt like she was floating between two worlds—neither truly belonging to her. With Hermione, she had felt alive, inspired. Their conversations, the way Hermione understood her even when she didn't say anything, it had all been a kind of quiet excitement, something that made her feel seen, wanted, and most of all—important.

But back home? Back with Bill?

Her heart was hollow. She had been born into luxury, raised to lead, to manage, to represent. She had been prepared for a life of responsibility, a life where she mattered on a grand scale. But she had chosen this. She had chosen Bill, a family, the quiet life in the UK. She had chosen to stay. And now, this was her life.

But it wasn't fulfilling. Not in the way she had hoped. Not in the way Hermione had made her feel.

"Glad to have you home, love," Bill's voice was full of the same enthusiasm he always had.

She smiled stiffly at him, her gaze distant.

"And you see?" he continued, obviously proud of himself, "It's a good thing I gave up Vic's place in kindergarten. She'll be raised by her mother, as it should be."

Fleur nodded, forcing a smile. "Yes, of course."

Bill didn't expect much more from her. He never did. He was happy with the way things were, happy with the routine, happy with her cooking. He loved that everything was "normal" again.

"You cook great, love," Bill said as he sat down at the table, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "A little more and I'll stop buttoning my trousers."

Fleur smiled, but didn't reply. She couldn't bring herself to tell him how much it grated on her. She had been raised to lead, to hold court, not to be the quiet wife serving in the kitchen. But she said nothing. She wasn't sure what the point of saying anything would be. She had made her choice, after all.

The days dragged on in this same routine. But now, as National Wizarding Day approached, Fleur felt the weight of everything pulling at her. She could barely muster the enthusiasm to attend the event, to go back to the Burrow and see everyone. The noise, the chaos, the children running wild—it wasn't for her. She wasn't sure it ever had been.

But she had agreed to go. For Bill. For Victoire. She put on a smile and pretended everything was fine, but deep inside, she was suffocating. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to be the dutiful wife, the dutiful mother, following the same tired path as before. She had chosen this life, yes. But sometimes, she wished she hadn't.

The worst part was, she knew what she was missing.

It was Hermione. It was their long talks. The way Hermione had made her feel like she was more than just a wife or a mother—she had made Fleur feel alive. She had made Fleur feel like a person, not just a role to be played.

And now? Now she was stuck in this life, watching Bill's small, happy comments pile up like a mountain she couldn't climb. And she wondered, if she hadn't met Hermione again, would she be able to ignore the aching emptiness inside her? Would she have been content with her choices? Or had meeting Hermione ruined everything?

The familiar chaos of the Burrow hit her the moment she stepped inside. Children screaming, laughter echoing through the halls, and the ever-present smell of food filling the air. Fleur immediately felt her stomach twist. This was not her world.

But she smiled, plastering on the same expression she always wore for these occasions. She was here for Bill, here for Victoire. She was here because she had to be.

"Fleur!" Molly Weasley greeted her warmly, pulling her into a hug. "It's so good to see you! You're not looking well, dear. How's everything?"

Fleur nodded. "It's good. Everything's... good."

But it wasn't. It wasn't good at all.

Bill, as usual, was chatting with Harry and Ron, oblivious to how much Fleur was struggling. She found herself retreating to the edge of the room, sitting down in a quiet corner, trying to avoid the endless noise. In addition, she was constantly tormented by nausea. Every morning she vomited and suspected what the cause was, but she stubbornly pushed the thought away.

Then, she heard it.

"Can you believe it? Hermione's with Astoria now. What a match," Ron's voice rang out, followed by George's snicker.

Fleur felt her chest tighten. She knew the news had spread, but hearing it like this—so casually—felt like a punch to the gut.

"Honestly, I didn't think Hermione would go for someone like her," Ron continued, oblivious to the pain his words caused. "I mean, golden girl with Veela's princess... quite the pair, huh?"

Fleur could feel the heat rise in her face, her fists clenching involuntarily.

Bill laughed along with the others. "Well, maybe she's just found someone who's as driven as she is. Good for them."

But Fleur couldn't take it anymore. She stood up abruptly, excusing herself, and made her way to the stairs.

Bill glanced at her, confused. "Where are you going?"

"To bed," Fleur said, her voice tight.

But as she reached the stairs, she could feel the weight of the conversation following her. And she knew, deep down, that this was all part of the life she had chosen.

Fleur found herself in their room, with Victoire sleeping soundly by her side, staring at the ceiling. The noise from downstairs still echoed in her ears, and she couldn't stop hearing Ron's words, Bill's indifference, and the constant reminder of Hermione and Astoria.

Her hand absently touched her stomach.

The next few weeks would be harder than ever. And she wasn't sure if she could bear it.

HERMIONE POV

When Fleur disappeared from her life again, Hermione tried to convince herself it was for the best. She told herself that what they had shared—those long, easy conversations, those lingering glances, the unspoken understanding—had been a beautiful but temporary thing. A partnership built for a project, not for a lifetime.

And yet...

The ache remained.

She felt Fleur's absence like a missing piece, like a dull, persistent ache just beneath her ribs. It was hard to focus on work, harder still to enjoy the quiet evenings at home that once had been her refuge. Her flat felt cavernous, every ticking second of silence reminding her that Fleur was no longer just a fireplace away.

But there was Astoria.

Astoria, with her mischievous smiles and quick wit, her persistent, unwavering attention. She had not allowed Hermione to withdraw completely into herself. No—Astoria had knocked on her door, sent her flowers with daring, teasing notes, invited her to art exhibits, to wine tastings, to long walks through old magical districts in London and Paris.

And Hermione had said yes.

She wanted to say yes. She wanted to move forward. She deserved to move forward. It wasn't like she could count on anything from Fleur... at most, friendship, and even that was now clearly beyond her reach. But... god... Fleur was at every turn and in almost every thought... she had to get out of this somehow... So the logical part of her agreed that she had to aim for what was achievable.

And Astoria was... wonderful.

Beautiful, with her soft waves of hair and aristocratic bearing, but also lively, quick to laugh, and brimming with a fierce kind of intelligence. Astoria had grand ambitions—not just for herself, but for her people. She spoke passionately about the future of the Veela clans, about unity and progress. Hermione found herself impressed by her vision, by her refusal to be treated like some decorative relic of an old pureblood tradition.

"You will make an incredible Head of the Delacour Clan," Hermione told her once, over coffee in a quiet corner café in Diagon Alley.

Astoria had smiled then, warm and pleased, reaching across the table to squeeze Hermione's hand. "I suppose and I hope to have a beautiful and brilliant woman by my side one day."

It made Hermione blush—really, properly blush.

They kissed sometimes. Soft, lingering kisses that made Hermione's stomach flutter, that made her cheeks heat up and her hands tremble slightly against Astoria's waist.

Astoria kissed like she had all the time in the world, like she was claiming Hermione gently, piece by piece.

And Hermione... liked it. She liked how Astoria made her feel desirable, like she was something precious and rare. She liked discovering that yes, she was drawn to women, and yes, it felt right, more right than anything had ever felt with Ron.

But the truth she couldn't say aloud—the secret she swallowed like a bitter pill—was that it still wasn't the same.

It wasn't the crackle of magic she had felt just sitting across from Fleur, the safety and the thrill all at once, the way Fleur could look at her and make her feel utterly, achingly understood without a single word spoken.

Astoria was brilliant. Astoria was stubborn and brave and beautiful.Astoria wasn't Fleur.

And sometimes, that knowledge sat heavy in Hermione's chest.

A few days later, Hermione found herself walking through the gates of a hidden, enchanted garden, tucked away behind a discreet iron archway off one of Paris's oldest streets.

It was breathtaking. The air shimmered with lingering magic; vines heavy with blossoms climbed ancient stone walls, and a narrow stream wound its way through patches of violet and silver flowers, their petals glowing faintly under the twilight sky. Tiny enchanted fireflies floated overhead, lighting the cobblestone paths with soft golden light.

Astoria was radiant, wearing a silk blouse that caught the low sun, her hand warm in Hermione's as she led her through the garden.

"It's utterly private," Astoria said, smiling as she watched Hermione's awed expression. "One of my family's holdings. Normally closed to the public, but I thought..." She shrugged in that casually elegant way that only someone raised among aristocrats could. "Why not pull a few strings? For you."

Hermione turned to her, laughing softly. "Astoria, it's beautiful."

Astoria looked pleased with herself. "Of course it is. I have excellent taste. Besides," she added, with a wink, "you deserve a little luxury. Merlin knows you've earned it."

They wandered slowly through the garden, Astoria pointing out rare magical species, telling stories of her childhood summers here. For a moment, Hermione let herself relax into it—the warm air, the perfume of night-blooming flowers, the low murmur of Astoria's voice.

It was easy. It was lovely.

Until Astoria's tone shifted, just slightly.

"Sometimes I think you take life far too seriously," she said lightly, looping her arm through Hermione's again. "There are things worth fighting for, yes, but there are also things simply worth enjoying."

Hermione smiled a little stiffly, looking down at the path. "I know that."

"Do you?" Astoria teased, tugging her closer. "Or are you still trying to save the world, even when it's not yours to save anymore?"

Hermione hesitated, pulling her arm free gently. A familiar pang flared in her chest—defensiveness, frustration, loneliness.

"Some things are worth the effort," she said, her voice tighter than she intended. "Even if they're hard."

Astoria only smiled, serene and unfazed. "That's why I like you," she said warmly. "Even when you're impossible."

They walked a little further in silence, but Hermione couldn't fully shake the discomfort.

Astoria's casual mention of her "family holdings," the easy way she spoke of wealth and privilege—it reminded Hermione, uncomfortably, of Ron after the war. How he'd flashed their victory gold around, how he'd wanted to impress people with expensive dinners and new brooms... how it had felt like he was trying to prove something, and how Hermione had quietly recoiled from it.

Astoria wasn't trying to impress out of insecurity—no, with her it was second nature—but the effect was strangely similar.

It left Hermione feeling... small. Unanchored.

And worst of all, it reminded her of Fleur.Of how Fleur listened instead of performing.

Hermione shook the thought away quickly, forcing a smile as Astoria tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and leaned in, whispering something flirtatious.

She smiled back. She laughed at the right moments.The sun cast a golden hue over the blossoms, and the air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers.​ They sat in the middle, by the small table.

Hermione sipped her tea thoughtfully, then turned to Astoria. "Astoria, may I ask you something personal?"

Astoria arched an eyebrow, a playful smile on her lips. "You may ask, though I reserve the right to be evasive."

Hermione chuckled softly. "Fair enough. I've been reading about Veela lore, and the concept of 'mates' is intriguing. It's said that Veela have a destined partner, chosen by their inner magic. Is that... accurate?"

Astoria's expression softened, and she looked away, gazing at the pond where koi fish swam lazily. "Ah, the mate bond. It's a topic wrapped in both truth and romanticism. Canonically, Veela possess an allure that can captivate, but the idea of a singular, predestined mate is more prevalent in fan interpretations."​

Hermione nodded, intrigued. "So, do you believe in it? Have you found your mate?"

Astoria sighed, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. "If such a person exists for me, they are either yet to be born or have already passed from this world. I don't intend to waste my youth searching for a phantom. Instead, I focus on the tangible, the present."

She turned to Hermione, her gaze intense. "And right now, I have you—a brilliant, passionate woman who challenges and excites me. Isn't that enough?"

Hermione felt a warmth rise to her cheeks. "It's flattering, Astoria. Truly. But doesn't the idea of a destined connection appeal to you? That there's someone out there who complements you perfectly?"

Astoria leaned in, her voice a whisper. "Perhaps. But perfection is a myth. We create our own happiness, our own connections. Waiting for destiny is a luxury I can't afford."

Hermione considered her words, the weight of them settling in her mind. "I suppose there's truth in that. But sometimes, I wonder if there's more to it—if there's someone who just... fits."

Astoria reached out, taking Hermione's hand in hers. "Then let's not dwell on maybes. Let's focus on what we have, here and now."

Hermione smiled, squeezing her hand gently. "Agreed."

The pond shimmered softly under the evening sky, and Hermione found herself relaxing in the quiet. Yet a thought lingered in her mind, stubborn and persistent.

She laughed quietly, a low, self-conscious sound. "You know," she said, swirling her tea, "sometimes I think... maybe Ron was wrong about me."

Astoria tilted her head, curious. "Wrong in what way?"

Hermione smiled, a little embarrassed. "He used to say I was probably asexual, because I never seemed hungry for anything, not like he was. I thought maybe he was right, for a long time." She looked down at the water, her voice softening. "But hearing about mates... the idea of having someone who's just meant for you, someone who just fits—" she shook her head, laughing at herself, "—it's far too romantic for my own good. But maybe it's not that I'm broken. Maybe I just never found my... mate."

Astoria watched her carefully, something flickering in her eyes—pity, perhaps, or unease—but she masked it quickly behind a gentle smile.

"You don't need a fairy tale to be happy, Hermione," she said, squeezing her hand. "You need someone who chooses you. Over and over, every day. And I do."

Hermione smiled back, but a small part of her, buried deep, ached.