Between the two of them, most people would say that Fleur is the more assertive of the two. But that's just because the majority of people they associate with are swayed by her Veela charms. They can't help it, she knows, but it becomes old nevertheless.
Fleur knows the truth, though: She knows that Hermione can amass an army. She knows that Hermione is more knowledgeable than she will ever truly understand. (And they've been together for over a year now), She knows that Hermione has been keeping "The Boy Who Lived" alive for almost a decade. She knows that Hermione loves her almost as fiercely as she loves her. She knows that Hermione does not know the power that she wields over her.
Fleur knows that she would never abuse that power, even if she did.
She doesn't have to because Fleur is already at Hermione's complete disposal.
Which is why she sits cross legged on top of their bed, gazing at a crown of long, unruly curls.
As she stares, she wonders at how people used to tell her that she was made from the sunlight: She understands, of course, with her hair colored like a corona and her eyes the color of the sky on the sunniest of days. Looking at her amour right now, she knows that they misunderstood.
Fleur may be made from sunlight, but Hermione was made for it.
The sheets wrap around Hermione's bare body so tightly that Fleur has to quell an irrational sense of jealousy inside of her chest. They don't hold her closely enough because her cream skin is lain bare to the slats of light passing between the blinds. The sun caresses her in a way that Fleur wishes she could. Its soft embrace is reverent and flattering, and Fleur can't resist sliding her own fingers along the knobs of Hermione's spine.
Her fingers catch in those famous curls. Fleur loves them. They're different every day that she sees them; and, if she had her way, she would study each one until she knew them all. While Hermione sleeps, she allows herself this privilege, tossing each over her love's shoulder .
Sooner than she expects, the sun's affections wake her sleeping lion and Hermione is mumbling into the pillow.
"Fleur, what're you doing up?" Hermione rolls over, her hand falling to Fleur's bare thigh and squeezing while she rubs her eyes with the other. Eying the gift of Hermione's bare chest, Fleur shrugs, replying in her accented English, "Watching you, 'ermione."
The English witch snorts and looks up at Fleur with a small smile. "You have to get bored of looking at me, eventually." Turning her face, Hermione kisses Fleur's kneecap and slides her hand up and down her thigh.
"I will never get bored of you." Her voice is so fierce that Fleur surprises herself. The Veela appears when she least expects it. Which reminds Fleur… "That is the beauty of being mated. I will never tire of you and you will never tire of me."
Suddenly, Hermione's eyes narrow as her hand slips higher along Fleur's body. Her gaze smolders the Veela, and soon a familiar heat burns like a heavy coal in the pit of Fleur's belly.
Grabbing Fleur's right hand, Hermione presses it between her breasts where Fleur can feel her heartbeat thrumming. With her brown eyes holding Fleur's own, Hermione murmurs, "As a lover of knowledge, I propose that we test that theory."
Fleur fails to stop her fingers from twitching on Hermione's skin. She glances up, and her heart aches at how she looks in the morning sun. "I wonder, how long until you tire of my attentions, mon amour."
"We'll never know until you start, love."
Bringing her face down, Fleur catches Hermione's lips with her own and she's vaguely aware of the sun warm on her back. She can only focus on the one beneath her. The one that has shone through even the darkest of times.