Part 15

FLEUR POV

Fleur noticed it in the smallest of things.

Hermione still made her tea in the morning — just the way she liked it, with that strange almond honey Fleur had grown to love. She still left notes reminding her to take vitamins, and her scarf still appeared in her hands before she even had the chance to ask for it. But her smile... her smile no longer lingered the way it used to. Her gaze, when it met Fleur's, felt filtered. Like she was looking through a pane of glass that hadn't been there before.

And Fleur knew exactly when it had started.

She shouldn't have let Bill go with her to the check-up. She'd thought she was doing the right thing — giving him a window into the life of the child they had created together. But she'd seen the flicker in Hermione's eyes that evening, that brief, subtle falter. It haunted her.

Bill had been on his best behavior. Polite. Cordial. Distant, in that calculated way that told her he was trying. And lately, he'd been showing up more — dropping by with little gifts for Victoire, offering to pick her up from school, mentioning baby names in passing.

And yet...

"You have to stop telling her we might get back together," Fleur said firmly one evening as she walked him to the door.

Bill exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm not telling her that. I'm just... not ruling things out. What's the harm in letting her believe things might work out?"

"Because they won't," she said softly. "You know that, Bill."

He looked at her, his expression unreadable. "People change. Life changes. And it's not a lie — we don't know what the future holds."

Fleur pressed her lips together. There was no malice in his voice, only that weary kind of hope she'd once clung to herself. But that made it worse somehow. Because Victoire deserved truth. And so did Hermione.

Especially Hermione.

She noticed the way Hermione had pulled back — gently, respectfully, but undeniably. She no longer reached across the back of the couch to brush a hand over Fleur's shoulders during movie nights. Her fingers didn't graze Fleur's in passing like they used to. Her laughter was softer, less frequent, and when Victoire left the room, she often followed quickly behind.

Fleur missed her.

She missed them, whatever they were slowly becoming — or had almost become.

Because Hermione saw her. In ways no one else ever had. And Fleur had started to wonder if maybe — just maybe — they could build something lasting. Something real.

But now...

Now, with the holidays approaching, everything felt tangled.

Victoire's eyes lit up one morning as she clutched her plush dragon at breakfast. "Can we do Christmas at Shell Cottage this year? Like always? With Maman and Papa and the fireplace and the big tree?"

Fleur blinked, taken off guard. "Darling—"

"Papa said maybe we could." Victoire beamed. "We're still a family, right?"

Fleur forced a smile and reached to brush a curl out of her daughter's face. "We'll see, ma chérie."

Later that day, Apolline's owl arrived with a scented envelope and a lavish invitation: Come to France for Noël. We'll host everyone. Bring Victoire, the baby needs fresh mountain air, and we miss you.

And Hermione? Hermione said nothing.

She nodded when Fleur told her about Victoire's wish. She smiled faintly when Fleur mentioned her mother's invitation. But she offered no alternative. No stay with me. No let's do something together.

She simply folded Victoire's scarf with careful hands, packed her a snack for the walk, and left the room.

Fleur stood in the kitchen alone, one hand resting absently on her belly. She could hear Hermione in the next room, reading a book in that calm, steady voice that always soothed Victoire.

She was still there, still present. Still trying. But Fleur could feel the slow withdrawal — like the tide pulling back from her toes, gentle but inevitable.

The space between them was filling with unsaid things.

Fleur didn't know what to do.

Go to Shell Cottage and risk giving Bill and Victoire the wrong idea?

Go to France and leave Hermione — the woman who had cared for her when she couldn't stand on her own — behind, alone?

Stay — and risk disappointing everyone?

Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the kettle. It was too much. She hadn't even had the baby yet, and already everything felt like it was shifting under her feet.

She wanted Hermione to fight. To say something. To look at her like she used to — like there was still a chance.

But maybe that wasn't fair. Maybe Hermione was hurting, too.

And Fleur... Fleur was just as much to blame.

She whispered, "Je suis perdue..." to the empty room. "I'm lost."

***

Only one day until Christmas.

Snow had begun to fall over London the previous evening—light, quiet, as if it didn't want to disturb anyone. It settled on windowsills, on bus roofs, melted on hot pavements. From inside Hermione's flat, everything seemed calm, but inside Fleur there was an uneasy tension, as if the holidays were going to reveal more than she was prepared to accept.

She had given up on going to France.

Apolline was obviously unhappy. "You can't spend Christmas alone with a baby on the way and unspoken feelings in the air!" she said through the fireplace with a dramatic tone worthy of a stage. But Fleur knew it was the right decision.

"Apparating in my condition is not recommended, Maman," she said patiently. "And flying at that time... Muggles are literally fighting over tickets. It would be a nightmare."

"You're right, ma chérie, but that doesn't mean I like it," her mother murmured, softening only when Victoire slipped into the room and waved at her with a smile.

Fleur knew, though, that it wasn't just about comfort or safety.

She stayed because she couldn't leave Hermione alone.

Though Hermione hadn't said a word about the holidays, hadn't suggested plans, hadn't asked what Fleur was up to, she felt that her presence was needed. That perhaps, in that quiet silence, there was more than she cared to admit.

And... her second option...

The flat was warm, lit with the quiet gold of late afternoon, and Fleur stood in the living room, folding Victoire's favorite cardigan into a small overnight bag.

She'd said no, at first.

When Bill had come by earlier with his carefully measured smile and a red-wrapped gift for Victoire, Fleur had kept her guard up. He was being civil—too civil—and it made her stomach twist with unease. Victoire, meanwhile, had squealed with delight and thrown her arms around his waist.

"She wants the three of us together for Christmas," Bill said later, when Victoire was in the other room watching cartoons. His voice was low, almost gentle, laced with the suggestion of something reasonable. "Just one night, Fleur. Like old times. Peaceful, like it used to be."

Fleur crossed her arms. "It's not like it used to be, Bill."

"No," he agreed, looking down. "But it could be again. Maybe not today, not tomorrow... but we don't have to throw everything away. We were happy once, weren't we?"

She stared at him, lips pressed in a tight line. "You said yourself this wasn't going to work. We established that it's over."

"I said I didn't see a future back then," he said, stepping closer. "But I've been thinking. Things change. People change. Especially when they have something—someone—to fight for."

She flinched.

"You can't say no to her," he added quietly, tilting his head toward the hallway. "She's just a child. She doesn't understand why things have to be this way. All she wants for Christmas is to have her family together."

It wasn't fair.

And it worked.

By the time Victoire returned, wide-eyed and hopeful, her small hand tugging at Fleur's sleeve, saying, "Please, Maman? Just this once?", Fleur's resolve had already cracked.

"All right," she whispered, forcing a smile. "Just this once."

Victoire squealed and hugged her waist. Bill beamed like he'd won something.

Fleur felt sick.

She had hoped to wait for Hermione to come home before they left. She wanted to say goodbye properly, to explain. But Hermione had sent an owl earlier saying she'd be working late at the office, and Bill was already pacing in the hallway, checking the snow outside, muttering about traffic and weather forecasts.

"If we don't leave soon, we'll be stuck in bloody holiday jams. And the snow's supposed to pick up again in an hour," he said. "We'll miss dinner."

He wasn't asking. He was hurrying her along like always.

So Fleur scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment and left it on the table.

Hermione,I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye.Victoire wants to spend Christmas at Shell Cottage with her father. I didn't want to disappoint her.I hope you have a peaceful night. You deserve one. Joyeux Noël. —Fleur

She stared at the message for a long moment, then folded it and set it gently beside Hermione's favorite mug.

With a heavy heart, she slipped on her coat, hoisted the bag over her shoulder, and took Victoire's hand.

Bill was already at the door, car keys in hand.

"Ready?" he asked, looking between them.

Fleur gave the flat one last glance. The lights were still glowing. The warmth still lingered. Hermione's scarf was hanging on the coat hook, like it always did. Fleur reached out and brushed it lightly, then turned away.

"Yes," she lied. "Let's go."

The Shell Cottage was beautiful, as always.

Snow had piled on the slanted rooftop and crusted the windowsills in icy lace. Inside, everything smelled of pine and cinnamon and old memories. The fireplace crackled, casting golden light over the worn wooden beams and the soft couch where Victoire now lay asleep under a patchwork quilt, a half-eaten cookie still in her hand.

Fleur sat stiffly in the armchair, hands curled around a mug of lukewarm tea. Her gaze drifted to the window, the sea beyond blanketed in white, restless and frozen.

Everything here felt preserved — like time hadn't moved since she left. Bill had even hung the same garlands she used to charm to glow faintly in red and gold. The tree sparkled in the corner, but Fleur felt none of its magic.

Bill brought her a plate of leftover roast and potatoes. "You should eat more," he said gently. "For the baby."

She nodded, grateful for the distraction more than the food.

They'd kept things polite all evening. The three of them had opened presents together — Victoire unwrapped a new enchanted storybook from Fleur, and a model Hippogriff from Bill. They had played board games. Laughed, even. For Victoire's sake.

Now the house had gone quiet. Just the fire and the wind outside.

"She really missed this," Bill said softly, sitting on the couch beside their sleeping daughter. "Us. This."

Fleur didn't answer. She couldn't.

He looked at her. "You remember our first Christmas here?"

She gave a faint, noncommittal smile.

"You wore that ridiculous silver crown all day."

"And you kept calling me your queen," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Bill chuckled. "Because you were. You still are."

She looked up, startled by the warmth in his voice. His gaze lingered, and she knew it before he even moved.

There was mistletoe above the mantle — she had seen it earlier and ignored it. But now he stood, crossed the room slowly, and reached for her hand.

"Come on," he said, tugging gently. "One kiss. Just... like before. For luck."

"Bill—" she whispered.

"Just a tradition," he added quickly. "We owe her a good Christmas."

Victoire, fast asleep, didn't move. The fire crackled. The weight of old habits, old love, pressed down on Fleur's chest.

She let him pull her to her feet. Just a second, she told herself. Just to keep things calm.

He leaned in, his hands at her waist, and before she could react—

His lips were on hers.

It wasn't tender. It wasn't soft.

It was possessive.

A memory of old hunger. Something that didn't ask. That didn't pause.

Fleur's body froze. Her hands stayed limp between them. When he finally pulled away, there was a flicker of something triumphant in his eyes.

"Merry Christmas," he said.

She stepped back like she'd been burned.

"I need to lie down," she said hoarsely, already turning away.

She walked quickly down the hallway and into the guest room, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click. Her hands trembled as she pressed her back to the wood. Her lips still tingled, but not from any trace of warmth — from violation.

The tears came then — hot, silent, unstoppable.

She buried her face in her hands and sank onto the bed, the baby turning gently in her belly, as if sensing her unrest.

Why had she come?

Why had she let him pretend?

Outside, the sea howled quietly.

Inside, Fleur lay curled on the edge of the bed, whispering Hermione's name in the dark, wondering if she'd ever feel safe again.