Part 18

FLEUR POV

The air smelled of antiseptic and lavender potions, the low humming of magical monitors nearly drowned by Fleur's own heartbeat. Her fingers curled around Hermione's hand, nails digging in with each wave of pain. The contractions were coming faster now. Hermione didn't flinch. She only whispered steady encouragements in her ear, calm and grounded — the anchor Fleur didn't know she would need this much.

They had rehearsed this moment so many times in their heads. Who would Floo Apolline if needed, what potions were packed, which healer they trusted most. There had been month of planning, of preparing. Apolline stayed with a sleeping Victoire in the apartment when Fleur felt the first contractions. Everything was in order.

Except the past.

Fleur barely registered the soft chime of the ward door opening. She thought it was another nurse — perhaps someone coming to check dilation again. But Hermione's body tensed beside her. The way her hand stopped stroking Fleur's hair told her something was wrong before she opened her eyes.

And then she saw him.

Bill stood in the doorway, his jaw clenched, his eyes on Fleur.

"Bill?" Fleur gasped, barely able to sit upright. Her breath hitched in pain, but the surge of adrenaline nearly wiped it away.

"You didn't tell me," he said, stepping into the room. "You didn't think I had a right to be here when my child is being born?"

Hermione stood instantly, blocking his path. Her voice was quiet but cold. "You're not on the approved list. Leave. Now."

"I'm the father, Hermione. You can't just keep me out of this," he snapped, his gaze burning through her. "You've already stolen Fleur, now what — my daughter? My family?"

"You lost that the day you put your hands on her," Hermione said flatly, her wand already at her side.

Fleur whimpered as another contraction hit. The nurse appeared behind Bill, clearly startled. "Sir, you're not authorized to be in this ward. You'll need to leave—"

"I'm not leaving," he barked. "She needs me!"

"I don't," Fleur managed to choke out. Her voice shook, but she met his gaze. "Not anymore."

There was a silence so heavy it seemed to choke the air out of the room. Then Bill's face twisted, red with fury.

"You'll regret this! Both of you!" he shouted. "You're making a mistake, Fleur. I won't stand by!"

Security arrived, two tall mediwizards flanking the nurse now. Hermione had already placed a soft golden barrier charm between Bill and Fleur, her stance protective.

"Leave, or you'll be escorted," the nurse warned.

Bill looked at Fleur one last time — not with love, but something sour and possessive — and spat, "I'll fight for my child. You won't erase me."

He stormed out, the ward doors clanging shut behind him.

Fleur let out a shaky breath, barely noticing the sweat on her brow or the pressure in her abdomen. All she could feel was the sting of tears, and Hermione's hand returning to her cheek.

"It's over," Hermione murmured, voice low and reassuring. "He's gone. And you're not alone."

Fleur pressed her forehead to Hermione's and breathed in her scent — lavender and ink and safety.

"No," she whispered. "I never was. Not since you."

A little later, tired and sleepy, Fleur held her newborn daughter, Angélique, in her arms. Hermione stood next to her, still holding Fleur's hand, looking at her family, feeling a true connection for the first time.

Their bond hummed softly, full of magic.

HERMIONE POV

They had barely been home a few days.

The flat still smelled faintly of jasmine tea and baby lotion, the gentle laughter of Victoire echoing down the hall as she helped Apolline fold impossibly tiny onesies. Fleur had fallen asleep on the sofa, their newborn curled on her chest, her hair tousled, her face peaceful — and Hermione had stood in the doorway, her heart bursting with something terrifying and warm and precious.

It was almost too good to be real.

And then it broke.

The Daily Prophet headline hit the stands like a curse: "Golden Girl or Homewrecker? Hermione Granger Accused of Destroying the Oldest Weasley Marriage"

Beneath it, an image of Ron, tight-lipped and grim, arms crossed, speaking earnestly to a crowd of reporters outside the Ministry.She hadn't even known he was in town.

The article was vicious — claiming Hermione had used her political influence to push through the Veela Citizenship Reform Act while engaging in a romantic relationship with one, that her judgement had been compromised, that she had lured Fleur from her "fragile post-divorce state" and "weaponized legislation for personal gain."

By noon, her office was under review.

By nightfall, she was summoned to Kingsley's office.

The Minister looked tired — older than she remembered. His shoulders drooped beneath his robes, and he gestured for her to sit without his usual warm smile.

"Hermione..." he began, tone soft but heavy. "You know I've always respected you. What you've done for magical creatures, for education, for diplomacy — I'll never forget that."

"I understand," she whispered, before he could finish. Her throat was tight.

He winced. "There's pressure from every department. The press is having a field day. I tried to argue for a temporary leave, but... the board insists. They want you gone. Or at least demoted and removed from the legislative team."

Hermione swallowed hard. "I'll resign."

"Hermione—"

"I won't give them a spectacle. Just..." she looked up, tears threatening. "Please don't gut the bill. Fleur and I... we worked for months on that act. It's not about us. It's about freedom. Safety. Fairness. Don't let that be collateral."

Kingsley nodded slowly, visibly moved. "I'll do what I can. I promise."

When she stepped out of his office, she found Jake waiting by her desk — his eyes already red.

"I heard," he said quietly. "And I'm not staying without you."

Hermione shook her head, touched and heartbroken. "Jake, you don't have to—"

"I want to. You gave me a chance when no one else did. You taught me everything I know. You listened. You cared. And what they're doing to you — it's shameful."

She hugged him tightly, the first tears spilling free. "Thank you," she whispered. "For being a brilliant assistant. And an even better friend."

She turned the corner onto their street and froze.

Flashbulbs. Raised voices. Notebooks hovering mid-air. A sea of magical microphones like restless snakes. The pavement in front of their apartment was crawling with reporters.

Hermione's stomach dropped.

Someone had leaked their address.

Her first thought was Victoire. Was she inside? Safe? Had she seen this circus?

Then a new wave of nausea rose in her throat: it had to be Bill. Or Ron. Merlin, maybe both. Ron had always known how to twist the knife when he felt wronged, and Bill... he was desperate enough now to lash out in ways she never would've thought possible.

She pulled her hood lower and forced her way through the crowd, wand clutched tightly in her sleeve. Cameras whirred and questions rang out like hexes.

"Miss Granger, are you dating your colleague Fleur Delacour?" "Did you falsify documents to push the Veela Citizenship Reform?" "Is it true you seduced Fleur while she was still married?"

Hermione didn't speak. Didn't flinch. She just walked. Her lungs ached by the time she slammed the front door shut behind her and activated every ward she knew.

Silence.

The soft hum of magic sealed the flat in a protective hush, as though she'd submerged herself underwater.

She sagged against the door.

It was over. Everything she'd worked toward — the policies, the coalitions, the long nights drafting legal frameworks — it had vanished with one article, one bitter man's vendetta.

She had no plan now.

No direction.

For years, this work had been everything. It had given her purpose. Identity. She didn't even know what else she could do. Who else she even was.

And yet... it wasn't just about her anymore. Not now.

There was Fleur. And Victoire. And a baby who would arrive any day now.

At least she didn't have to worry about rent — she had savings, solid ones. Enough to live quietly for a year or two if needed. But quiet wasn't what this home was anymore. Not with the press pounding at the windows and her face plastered across every magical newspaper in Britain.

Fleur appeared in the hallway, holding a mug of tea with both hands. She took one look at Hermione — at her pale face, at the slump in her shoulders — and set the mug down on the table without a word.

"You were fired," she said softly.

Hermione's eyes welled up instantly. "Yes."

Fleur crossed the room and pulled her into her arms.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "This is... all my fault."

Hermione shook her head, but the protest got caught in her throat. Fleur's touch was warm, familiar. Steady. It should have soothed her — and it did, a little — but the ache was too deep.

"I loved that job," Hermione whispered hoarsely. "I believed in it. I believed we could change things."

"You did," Fleur murmured. "And they'll try to undo it, but that doesn't erase what you've already done."

"But now..." Hermione blinked fast. "Now I don't know what comes next."

Fleur's hands moved to cup her face, thumbs brushing away tears.

The flat felt smaller now.

Not because of the space — they had just renovated it, painted and turned the guest room into Victoire's miniature kingdom — but because they didn't leave it. Couldn't.

Since the explosion in the press, Hermione and Fleur had barely stepped outside. The blinds stayed drawn. Victoire didn't go back to preschool. Apolline, though gracious and careful in her presence, had grown restless, clearly wanting to return to France, to deliver the news in person to the rest of the Delacours. She was leaving in two days.

And Hermione... Hermione floated.

She tried to stay present. Helped Fleur with the baby. Read books aloud to Victoire. Brewed tea with shaking hands when the baby wouldn't stop crying at 3 a.m. She did everything one does when life keeps moving, even when yours has been paused.

Still, it weighed on her.

She sat now on the sofa, legs curled beneath her, watching as Fleur soothed the baby to sleep in the nursery. The warm, soft hush of their home didn't reach the corners of Hermione's thoughts.

"I keep thinking," Hermione said when Fleur returned, sitting beside her. "That I must have done something wrong. Somewhere along the line. Maybe I should've hidden it better. Us."

Fleur frowned. "You shouldn't have to hide something beautiful."

Hermione gave a quiet, bitter laugh. "Try telling that to Kingsley. Or Ron. Or the press." She rubbed her eyes. "I just... I don't know what to do now. What I'm supposed to do."

"You'll find something," Fleur said gently.

Hermione tilted her head back against the cushions. "I don't even know where to start. It's not just that I lost my job — I lost my place. I don't want to be pitied or forgotten or turned into a cautionary tale."

Fleur reached for her hand, and Hermione squeezed it tightly, grateful for the grounding warmth.

Later that evening, she floo-called Luna. Her friend's face appeared, framed by the slightly tilted fireplace of the Quibbler's editorial office.

"They're losing interest," Luna reported calmly. "Another scandal's brewing. Something about a cursed portrait found in the Department of Mysteries. That'll buy you peace soon."

Hermione nodded slowly. "I hope so. It's been... suffocating."

Luna gave her a sympathetic look. "You don't have to wait here for everything to blow over, you know. You and Fleur could go somewhere. Just for a little while. Somewhere quiet, warm. Somewhere people don't care about Ron's broken ego."

Hermione blinked. "You really think it would help?"

"I think," Luna said, "that healing sometimes needs distance. You've always been good at standing your ground, Hermione. But maybe right now, you need somewhere softer to land."

She ended the call with a small wave, and Hermione sat in the firelight for a long time after that, Fleur dozing lightly with the baby in her arms nearby.

Maybe Luna was right.

Maybe it was time to stop waiting for the world to calm down — and go find the calm for themselves.