As prompted on tumblr. A Christmas/New Year fic. Fluff and smut.

Mistletoe

Fleur kisses her under the mistletoe because—well—because they were under the mistletoe. It's later than she should be out, later than she could have an explanation for and when she turns the corner, Fleur is there, in her personal space, hair down and in a wild mess. She turns her nose up at Fleur, determined to step aside only to feel the familiar effects of a shielding charm keep her from doing so.

Color drains from her face, a cold chill washes down her back, her palms are suddenly wet. Hermione swallows, looking up and glaring at the enchanted mistletoe. Its past Christmas, past the winter holidays and Hermione keeps blinking, wishing the plant would just disappear. But it doesn't. It hovers idly two feet above Fleur's head, its three lipstick red berries gleaming down at her like a sneer.

Fleur seems to have noticed the plant's presence as well but doesn't seem to be bothered by it. Or if she was, she wasn't showing it. The blonde girl looks as she always does; perfect and aloof. Hermione wonders what she's doing out of bed but she doesn't have time to entertain that train of thought because the moment their eyes meet, Fleur is on her.

Hermione shouldn't remember the kiss as much as she does. And, oh, how she wishes, prays, hopes on hopes and gods and Merlin that she would forget the bloody kiss.

She doesn't.

When Viktor Krum kisses her three days after, at the Astronomy tower where they've been meeting nightly for the past couple weeks, all she can think of is Fleur. Fleur with her hands cupping her face and Fleur's lips pressing against her own and Fleur's tongue tracing her bottom lip; teasing and barely tasting before retracting back into Fleur's dangerously inviting mouth.

Viktor Krum kisses her and all Hermione can do is imagine its Fleur.

Christmas Card

The Christmas she spends in Grimauld place is a strange mix between confusion and dwindling holiday spirits. Molly hands out her usual Weasley sweaters, the twins are up their usual business of shenanigans but Harry has taken it upon himself to avoid as much conversation as possible with anyone besides Sirius. Hermione knows his scar is hurting again, she can see the weight of the world on his shoulders, the frustration of being ushered out of rooms so the Order could discuss something secretive again. He yearns to fight, to do something, to move beyond being a pawn on a chessboard.

She does too.

Fleur comes through the door with mud laden shoes that Christmas—a sight Hermione would never have thought to exist. Molly comes to her side and Hermione watches silently from the stairs. They exchange words in soft mumbles, Fleur catches her eye but those muted blues don't hold up. They instantly drop to the floor, tired and worn.

Hermione's noticed, not for the first time, that her eyes are a lonely shade of blue, isolated like a single isle in the vastness of the ocean. She'd watch her sometimes, that year during the Triwizard Tournament, and Hermione has come to realize that there's Fleur that everyone knows and there's a different, gentler more solitary Fleur that comes out when she thinks no one is watching.

Hermione watches as Fleur snapped her fingers and the whole of Beauxbaton within earshot stands, she watches as Fleur's singular presence command the attention of the Great Hall, she watches as Fleur smiles winsomely as she glides to a table. In those moments, Fleur is at her strongest, most guarded state.

But there are moments, moments where Hermione watches Fleur because she can't wipe the memory or taste of Fleur from her lips and she's surprised at the humanity behind those icy blue eyes. There's the ambivalence that she shows to most of the school, the adoration to she showers younger sister with, and then, this inconsolable, deep loneliness when she sits by herself in the library, rummaging through book after book.

Fleur's looking like that now; she's begun to look like that with increasing frequency as the Order has taken to trust her with more difficult tasks. Whereas Harry longs to do something, Fleur is doing it and it's wearing her down. Hermione still watches Fleur—it's become a habit now—and she sees the feathers that fall from her jacket, sometimes dark maroon, bloody red, sometimes black with flecks of gold. It makes her sick. She's glad Harry isn't involved.

Molly leads Fleur up the stairs. Hermione disappears inside her and Ginny's room, trying to wipe away the memory of the way Fleur's eyes are lonely and the aching in her chest. She lies down, hoping to sleep away the rest of the holiday but she's thinking about Fleur and their kiss again. Anticipation builds in the put of her stomach. On their own, her fingers slide down, touching the cotton of her knickers. Hermione flushes with guilt and shame, it's so wrong when Fleur is hurting.

The covers are thrown up with frustration. Hermione lets out a growl. The need to do something burns against her chest.

She nearly stomps her way to the small desk she shares with Ginny, rummaging through a drawer until she finds what she is looking for. It takes her three seconds to scribble down the only thought she has on her mind and a moment more to lick the envelope. Her frustration fuels her to the kitchen, she grabs a saucer, brews coffee and puts a biscuit on the side for decorative purposes.

Fleur's door is open. Hermione knocks with her spare hand, hoping her nervousness doesn't make the saucer and cut clink together too loudly. Fleur, sitting upright in bed, looks up from her book. Blue eyes regard her curiously and Hermione's gut twists three ways clockwise. She sets the coffee down on Fleur's nightstand before presenting her with the card, sick with anticipation.

They haven't spoken a word but Fleur's eyebrows are arched high into her forehead as she opens the envelope. Inside is a Christmas card, the cover featuring Santa Claus laughing out loud holding his portly belly; enchanted sparkles rise from the inside of the card as Fleur flips it open. In the silence, her mind assumes the worst.

Hermione thinks its dumb now that she's only written "Merry Christmas, Fleur" and signed her name at the bottom. She's starting to wonder why in the bloody hell she would have done such a stupid thing. Fleur probably gets holiday cards by the hundreds from the men she's met, declaring their undying love for her. How could three bloody words from a bookish girl Fleur barely knew change her sadness, wash away the look in Fleur's eyes that makes Hermione's heart ache? Hermione doesn't know. Maybe she's become a loon.

"I'll be going now," Hermione mumbles as Fleur tucks the card back into its envelope and places it—rather nonchalantly—on her nightstand. Briefly, as she is walking towards the door, Hermione wonders why Bill's stuff isn't in the room if they were supposed to be sharing one.

A Christmas card was the best she could do, Hermione thinks bitterly. It was the only thing that came to mind. This was her attempt at consoling Fleur. Hermione feels so utterly dumb, completely inept in social skills until a hand grabs at the sleeve of her shirt. Fleur pulls her into a hug and presses a kiss on her cheek. It's just one long kiss, deep and appreciative, full pouty lips against her cheek. Fleur's arms wrap around her and, for the first time, Hermione notices how thin and frail they seem to be.

Hermione isn't a tactile person but when Fleur buries her face into her shoulder and mumbles, "Joyeux Noël, 'ermione." her arms are folding around the blonde. She begins to wonder if anyone had even bothered to wish Fleur a Merry Christmas. Hermione wonders if anybody remembered to say anything to Fleur or if she, too, was just a pawn in Dumbledore's chessboard.

At least she has her family in England, at least she has Ron and Harry and the sound of Fred and George's laugh for Christmas. Fleur doesn't.

Anchor

The first Christmas she spends after the war, she spends it at Shell Cottage. Molly and Arthur have taken a much needed holiday to Greece, celebrating their anniversary. Harry, the Weasley children and herself had personally planned and paid for the trip. It was their thanks to Arthur's endless patience and Molly's endless care because they would have most surely lost the war had it not been for the Weasleys.

Hermione is ever so slightly jealous at Ron for having such parents.

Her parents don't really understand her anymore. She's nineteen now and they think it fitting that she's moving away from them. But she's been moving away from them, ever since she stepped onto Platform 9 ¾ . Distance has been growing between them and, now, it's as large as the Pacific Ocean. The thought makes her sad. She downs another fluke of champagne.

Everyone's sad. They drink away the pain, hoping that alcohol could numb the feeling of loss. No one says it but they all are lingering, wondering how they would continue life after the war. After the noise and festivities, faked smiles and overly eager laughs that end in solemn silence, they all retire into a corner of the cottage; willing back tears into fitful sleep. Hermione doesn't sleep much nowadays, not with her NEWTs coming up and the reoccurring nightmares.

She's sitting on the patio, wrapped in a fleece throw when Fleur finds her.

They've grown closer now, since the last time Hermione was at Shell Cottage. Fleur has seen her broken, naked and scarred as she bathed the dry blood and glass from her wounds. Fleur has heard her screaming in her nightmares, Fleur has held her hand and then her whole body as she sleeps. Now, when Hermione looks into Fleur's eyes, she wonders if the loneliness she sees is her own or Fleur's.

Fleur sits down and pulls Hermione into her lap, her chin perched on brown curly hair atop a small shoulder. There was once a time when Fleur asked permission, asked if the presence of another person would help heal the wounds they couldn't see. That time is long gone now. Fleur's learned her mannerisms faster than anyone else has, she's somehow learned to see when Hermione is hurting and rather than confront her, Fleur finds the perfect time and place to pull her into her lap.

They communicate like this, silently, Fleur's arms around her and holding her. Fleur's arms, strong and steady, solid as oak, saying I will catch you should you fall.

During the war, Hermione kept telling herselfafterwards, after the war, after the battle, after they finish their job. Those phrases were at the end of her every hope and dream. She'll reverse the memory spell, after the war. She'll find a job, start a regular wizarding life, after the war. She'll deal with her feelings for Fleur,after this bloody war. Except that time is now, the war is over, the battles fought and Hermione is physically, emotionally, mentally drained.

Hermione relaxes into Fleur's body, leaning back and letting herself be cradled.

"Do you remember, Fleur," Hermione asks, "do you remember how we said we'd talk about this after the war?"

"I do." A pause. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Hermione's fingers come to tangle themselves in Fleur's, "I don't."

"There are some things left better in the silence," Fleur observes. Hermione makes a noise of agreement, shivering when a particularly cold gust blows in their direction. Fleur's arms, always protective, warps tighter around Hermione as if they were afraid the wind would blow her away.

"This isn't one of them, is it?" Hermione asks, a wry smile stretching across her face. Fleur's warm breath falls against her cheeks, reminding her that Fleur's lips are just that close.

"I believe there is a time and place for everything," Fleur says as she drops a soft kiss on the skin of Hermione's neck.

"We promised each other. Here. After the war…" Hermione's breath catches, Fleur's pressed another kiss, this time higher on her neck. She's never done this before and Hermione is powerless to stop her. She doesn't want this to stop. "W—we're back here now. After the war. We'd talk about this. Whatever this is. So talk."

Merlin, she is so bossy.

Fleur doesn't seem to mind and plants another kiss on her jawline. "I simply do not know what to say, Hermione."

"I don't either," Hermione agrees.

She nudges Fleur to continue and Fleur does, kissing her here and there. A manicured hand comes to brush her hair to one side and Hermione responds by leaning over, offering more of herself. She doesn't have the strength to stop Fleur, she doesn't even have the strength to dislike what Fleur is doing. Hermione is tired and hurting and Fleur's kisses are easier to focus on than the chaos of the world.

"Do you still feel it?" Hermione asks, looking at the grey overcast. In the distance, seagulls are circling the ocean, their cries muted by the crashing of waves against the surf.

"This?" Fleur kisses her pulse point. Between a pair of lips, Fleur's tongue peaks out and swipes at the exposed skin. "The craving? Wanting?"

"Yes," Hermione does her best not to whimper.

"I still do," Fleur admits without shame, "every day."

"Me too," Hermione responds, bitter. Her hands squeeze Fleur's in anger. "I thought—I had hoped that this would go away. That whatever we had at Shell Cottage then would forever stay there and I could move on." She turns to Fleur, who has stopped kissing her neck and jaw. Their faces are so close together, foreheads almost touching.

"And—and instead of moving on, I left a part of me here. With you." Hermione wants to laugh at her foolishness but tears are building in her eyes, "Do you know, Fleur? Don't you understand? It's terribly stupid, really. I felt like a whole person at Shell Cottage, more myself than I had ever been and when I left, I thought that feeling would follow me."

A pause. Fleur's eyes are a hopeful shade of blue and she hasn't seen it shine that brightly in a very long time.

"But it didn't. I haven't felt right since I left and the only thing that I can think of, the only person I can blame is you. On top of it all, there's this wanting, this urge between us and—I just don't understand!"

"Do you want me to make you feel wholesome again?" Fleur asks in all seriousness. "Would you like for me to help you understand?"

Hermione's mind is spinning. If Fleur is suggesting what Hermione thinks she is…

"It's just a kiss, chérie." Fleur pauses, "Maybe a kiss is all you need to sate yourself so that you may go on your merry way."

Hermione opens her mouth to respond but her rebuttal is forgotten when Fleur slams her lips against Hermione's own. Her libido flares, wetness pools between her legs. Fleur's tongue is inside her mouth doing sinful things. Fleur moans, she forces Hermione to turn around. It takes a moment for Hermione to realize she's straddling Fleur's lap and she would have blushed at the crudeness of the positioning if Fleur wasn't kissing her again.

"Is—it—gone?" Fleur asks between kisses, running eager hands up and down her side. "Do you—want—to—stop?"

"No," Hermione all but groans when Fleur bites her pulse point. The fleece blanket is thrown over her back and heat is building between them. Fleur forces them apart for a brief second.

"Has it ever crossed your mind that I may be the reason for your feelings?" Hermione nods, lips swollen and wanting to kiss Fleur again. "Have you considered that these feelings between us are not abnormal?"

"I have," Hermione admits, "but it's so easy. Is it supposed to be this easy?"

She's used to fighting, working, studying for what she wants. For the first three years of her friendship with Ron and Harry, she felt like if she weren't useful to them, they wouldn't be her friends. So she did their homework, wrote their five feet long essays, hoping that they would value her. They're best friends now but she still wonders that day, wonders if she hadn't been as useful as she was, would they continue to be friends.

It contrasts so harshly against her friendship—if one was to call it that—with Fleur. Because she had nothing to offer Fleur, she was nothing more to Fleur than an acquaintance when she ended up at her and Bill's doorstep. And yet Fleur took her in, bathed her, healed her body and soul without asking for anything in return.

"It can be," Fleur answers. "This. I—we can try."

Hermione is trembling, her hands weaving into silvery blonde locks so that she can look directly into Fleur's iridescent blue eyes. "Can we try?"

Fleur cracks a smile and lifts a teasing eyebrow. Her tone is one of jesting when she says, "I think we are trying, Hermione."

"Fleur Delacour, I am not afraid to strike you." There was so much tenderness in her voice, Hermione almost startled herself.

Fleur silences her with a kiss.

The war's stopped but life goes on. The nightmare continues, the scars are still there, some nights Hermione wakes up coated in a thin layer of sweat. But between those times are Fleur's smile and Fleur' blue eyes that's lost their lonely shade of blue. Hermione finds that life isn't a test and she isn't supposed to get a perfect score. There's no "correct" way at going about finding herself a lover.

She and Fleur met unconventionally but it doesn't disqualify their feelings. She chooses to focus on Fleur and this happiness blooming in her chest rather than the fear that grips her in the dark. Hermione lets the warmth of Fleur guide her.

Hermione has been a ship lost at sea. She's found her bearings now, Fleur is her anchor and she'll find her way home. For the first time in a long time, in between kisses and breathy moans, Hermione feels hopeful.

Celebration

They celebrate, really celebrate New Year at Shell Cottage. Fleur's room is laced with all kinds of spells; defensive protection spells layered on with silencing charms on top of a room enlarging spell and, to top it all off, a deodorizing charm. Hermione and Fleur quickly find out the cottage doesn't have any spare sheets and it was looking especially suspicious for Fleur to be washing sheets on the daily.

Maybe she should look into stain resistant spells, Hermione thinks as she pours herself the morning cup of tea. The thought makes her smile. She's aching in all the right places. Fleur appears beside her, also smiling.

Hermione looks around before stealing a kiss. She reckons it's too early for the rest of the household to be awake. Whereas the Weasley clan sans their parents had appeared for the Christmas gathering, only George, Ron and Bill planned to stay for New Years. Luna and Neville stay for the second round of festivities as well. None of them are up.

Knowing this, Hermione lingers on Fleur's lips just a little longer.

"I'll be in the study room, studying." Hermione says, unable to wipe the grin from her face. She's tried to study in Fleur's room last night but studying with Fleur as company proved especially counterproductive. Fleur still follows her into the room, settling onto the only sitting chair as Hermione lays out several texts on the oak desk.

It takes only fourteen full minutes for Hermione to lose concentration. Fleur's there, only a few feet away, looking engaged in her book, wrapped in muggle sweats. Hermione shouldn't find them titillating but she is so so turned on by the sight of Fleur.

Twenty minutes in and Hermione has managed to spill her ink pot. Fleur looks up from the ruckus and begins to stand. Hermione immediately orders her to sit.

"I'll clean it myself," she insists, knowing that the close proximity would send her self-restraints to hell. She has NEWTs and homework and internships to apply for, things she wishes she could bring herself to care about but, frankly, she doesn't. Not when Fleur is sitting across from her.

At the thirty minute mark, Hermione begins shifting in her seat, crossing and then uncrossing her legs.

"Is there something wrong, chérie?" Fleur asks.

"No," Hermione swallows thickly, "Nothing."

"Do you need any help?" She can't tell if Fleur's tone is teasing or not, "Are you frustrated?"

"It's just—" Hermione drops her quill in defeat, "I can't concentrate."

She doesn't even see Fleur reach for her wand, Hermione blinks and Fleur's disappeared with a pop. She reappears almost instantly behind Hermione.

"I can help with that," Fleur whispers just over her shoulder. "Stand."

Hermione can't resist Fleur when she's like this, taking control and demanding. Fleur replaces her in the chair and then pats her lap, smiling wickedly. Hermione's mouth drops; so she was teasing with her earlier statement.

"Fleur! We're not going to—"

Hermione doesn't get to finish her statement. Fleur pulls her into her lap, her back to her lover's front. One arm traps her torso, locking her in place. Fingers are spayed below her navel, Fleur's thumb is playing with the helm of her pajama bottoms. Fleur keeps her quiet with a deep kiss.

"You are aroused, hm?" Fleur answers her own question by dipping her hands lower, cupping Hermione over two layers of clothing. There's wetness there, Hermione knows. "So aroused." Fleur grunts, canting her hips up and against Hermione's backside. It sends a jolt directly between her legs.

Fleur runs a finger along the seam of her pants, just barely pressing down. Hermione makes a sound of discontent but is quickly hushed. Fleur reminds her there is no silencing charm as she slips her hand into Hermione's knickers. Her fingers make quick work to find Hermione's engorged clit. Her touch is feather light, the pad of her middle finger barely touching and rubbing on the sensitive area.

"Please." Hermione has one arm bent back, hand tangled in blonde locks. The other one is trying to bat Fleur's hand away from between her legs and, at the same time, trying to force Fleur to fully engage her. "Fleur, please."

"Is this what you want?" Fleur presses two fingers into her entrance, "You want me to fuck you?"

Hermione sucks in a breath.

"Yes."

Fleur's fingers plunge into her. Hermione has to bite her wrist to keep from letting out the guttural moan that's been building in her throat. There is no introduction, not like their first time, no build up or breathy, anxious voices uttering encouragements. Fleur's moved beyond that point and takes Hermione, whole. She kisses her neck, licks the salty sweat that's pooled at the base of her neck while her fingers work Hermione to the edge.

It takes a change in angle, just a small change and Fleur's palm is rubbing against her clit with every thrust. And when Hermione is sure she can't take anymore, Fleur's fingers curl. She hits that spot within Hermione and she doesn't stop. Fleur fingers her again and again with hard, relentless thrusts as she whispers rough French into Hermione's ear.

The coil inside Hermione is tight now, so tight. She's about to burst and break, shatter into a million pieces when Fred's voice echoes into the room. He's wishing someone good morning and a happy new year but Hermione could not care any less. Fleur is telling her to come and come right now, her fingers that only stilled for a moment pick up speed, slamming into Hermione's core.

Her legs are spread wide apart as the pajama pants would let her, she's straining the seams but at that point, Hermione can only focus on the moving bulge of Fleur's hand inside her pants. Her brain connects it to the infinitely amazing feeling all around her and Hermione orgasms. Her body trembles, pitching back roughly against Fleur.

Fleur holds her still, working her expertly over the orgasm and drawing it out. When Hermione's breathing is regulated enough, she turns over and kisses Fleur.

"Happy New Year, Fleur." Hermione says, smiling lazily.

—-

Just a note, I borrowed the mostly accepted headcanon by most of the fleurmione fandom where Fleur and Bill are just beards. Hopefully that little fact fills in a few plot holes. Please let me know what you think. As always, my tumblr ask box is always up for prompts. Even for smut prompts. Especially for smut prompts. :D