Title: Love is bitter, like a cigarette | Chapter: Three | Pairing: Hermione Granger & Fleur Delacour

Summary: Fleur fell in love with her best friend, who was in every definition of the word: a woman. A woman marrying a man. Tomorrow, and not today. So she has tonight. She has tonight to prepare her heart for being broken. A cigarette seemed like a good idea; but running away seemed a better one. Would she?

A/N: I... have no excuses (also, I'm not dead, yay), but I am so, so glad that you guys haven't given up on me on this one. This goes for all the people who faved/followed and especially the ones who reviewed. I wish none of you were guests so I could reply to your wonderful encouragements, you guys are the reason why I'm still writing this. It's rather short, but I quite like how it turned out. It's a lil' bit of a filler chapter but it's a preparation for the ending parts of the fic- which is kind of necessary. But there you go. Hope you enjoy the read!

PS. For the dude/dudette who had been reading this before their exam I REALLY do hope you passed, this one's for you buddy, even though it is one year late! LOL

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Fleur heaved a deep sigh as she placed her mobile phone back inside her purse, pausing to close her eyes for a moment and pinching the bridge of her nose. She felt like she was going to get a headache. She looked up the sky and calculated how many minutes it would take her to walk back to her apartment without getting cold. Snorting at the idea, it probably wouldn't hurt to get a cold now. It would certainly be a viable excuse for her absence if she gets terribly ill tonight. So she took her time as she finally stepped onto the streets of London.

It took her 20 minutes to get back to her apartment. At this point, she was debating her ability to make sound decisions because she was chilled to her bones. Who the bloody hell walks for 20 minutes to get back to their apartment while the rain pours, listening to depressing music, especially at this time of the year? She is. My life is a freaking romantic comedy cliché, the kind you insult incredulously inside your head. Fleur thought as she shook her head, fumbling with her apartment key and stripping her already soaked clothes as she strode through the door way.

In every heart there is a room,

A sanctuary safe and strong.

To heal the wounds from lovers' past,

Until a new one comes along.

Fleur pulled a(nother) deep breath, all the way down to her lungs, filling her body with air and expelling it in a shuddering breath; practically collapsing onto her couch. She just made another stupid decision, antagonizing herself further by promising Hermione that she'd be up and early, bringing breakfast which was a very common occurrence for them. It's as though it was simply another day in their lives.

It wasn't.

She could run, she mused. She checked her wristwatch and thought about running. If she drove to the airport now, she could book a red-eye. She knew. She had been checking the airline website for the past month.

She could run away and she could take Hermione with her.

Merde. Her brain supplied after the unconscious thought bubbled up. She ran a hand through her hair haphazardly, pressing her palms against her face, biting her lip and forcing her eyes and thoughts shut. No, no. She's not going to break down and cry. She's given her word. She's so much stronger than this.

But if my silence made you leave,

Then that would be my worst mistake.

So I will share this room with you,

And you can have this heart to break.

She pulled out the ear buds harshly from her ear, throwing down the seemingly offending item down the floor. It's not helping that she's playing depressing songs, definitely not depressing songs covered by one of Hermione's favorite bands.

Fleur sighed once again, leaning back on the couch, their couch—the one they bought together and had countless movie marathons and reruns of FRIENDS—she thanked her brain sarcastically for reminding her of this particular bit of information. She stared at the ceiling, for how long she didn't exactly know, or care for that matter. She needs a quiet place, but her definition for the word quiet sometimes vary depending on her mood. Perhaps it's a writer thing, she thought wryly. Right now, she needs a place quiet enough as to not irritate her, but it has to have enough noise, music, voices—whatever in the background to keep her distracted; or at the very least, to mute all the barraging thoughts of her swirling inside her head.

Nope, she can't stay here. It's stifling to be in this room where every single floor space reminds Fleur of Hermione. Goddamn it, she's too far gone that even thinking about her name inside the safe confines of her head makes Fleur ache.

She stood up, walking towards her closet with a purpose. She defiantly ignored the dress she was supposed to wear at her best friend's (love of her life's) wedding lying on her bed. Taking the first few items of clothing her hand could reach– because honestly at this point she couldn't care less of what she looks like. After drying her hair and changing her clothes, she took her keys, purse and left, thanking her deities for being able to hail the first cab that passed by. Fleur gave the address as soon as she was sat on the passenger's seat.

She flipped her wrist to check the time– fleetingly remembering Hermione's amusement about the fact that she wears her wrist watch with the clock face nestled against her wrist instead of above it.

She shook her head, again. I really need to get her out of my mind.

Before her thoughts could delve deeper, she arrived at the location she specified and stepped out onto the curb with hurried steps.

She shook her umbrella under the awning of the entrance, a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth as she admired the intricate woodwork on the sign hanging against the wall of the brick building. The patterns engraved and embossed against each letter, most of the varnish already chipped away by old age on the wooden iron-framed door, some of those bricks with moss hanging onto their edges, some half broken and had already fallen off; it felt familiar and comfortable.

Rosie's was the first bar she stumbled to. As a young girl, her parents' work had them moving from one place to another. And when they have decided to settle down, she had decided to move away. Although she had always loved learning about a new culture, listening to a different language, watching different interactions and immersing herself in strangers and in new worlds, she had always felt like desolate soul in a foreign land. Sounds dramatic? You should try being inside her head. But nevertheless, that's what she felt.

She craved home, the smell of the sea and the blinding sunlight, the mossy brick walls and intricate carvings brandished by olden furniture sitting in her room. Rosie's was much like the same, and it was also the first place where she truly started making friends.

She pushed the door open, a quiet bell ringing over the soft murmur of people littered against leather couches and coffee tables, the smell of the sea prickling her nose; although she found it extremely weird that it was so, she loved the fact that inside a bustling city with blinding lights and non-stop rainfall, a place existed with woodcraft laden with everything that reminds her of the sea– Anchors of different sizes embedded on tables, steering wheels hung above the light lamps; it was all so out of place, yet oddly fitting at the same time.

"Well, well, look who the cat dragged in!" A voice to her left exclaimed in French, and she saw Rosie herself walking towards her. They kissed on both cheeks as she greeted her.

For Fleur, Rosie was a small piece opposite of France personified: she was loud, flamboyant but gentle and had kind eyes. Her hair a roaring red almost rivaling that of Ginevra's.

"Cherie, it's been so long, why do you not come anymore?" The redhead prompted her as she moved Fleur towards her usual table, "And ah, table for two is it, and where is your lovely English brunette? She always arrives before you." The redhead teased (Fleur's brain inwardly cringed with the implication that Hermione is hers. She never was).

Fleur's smile faltered a little before she rallied, turning to guide them instead towards the bar. "I am fashionably late, one must always make a remarkable entrance, no?" she lifted her chin in mock grandeur, "And non, I am afraid it is only me for tonight, however, I would not mind the company of the finest wine from your repertoire." She murmured (hoped she did so) casually.

Rosie only smiled back—although Fleur noted it did not reach her eyes. The woman simply gestured a sign to the bar tender as Fleur pulled up herself on the bar seat adjoined by the window. Fleur stared out onto the streets for a moment. This was okay, she was okay. The establishment was not too noisy, and the soft jazz music encasing the whole room served well to drown out any conversation into a dull roar. She can get through this night—checking her watch she noted it was past midnight—day, whatever.

Her musings were cut short when a glass of whiskey was slid smoothly in front of her. She looked up to Rosie wearing a wry smile. Fleur simply raised an eyebrow.

"You looked like you needed something stronger hon, it's my best Laphroaig. I can still get you a glass of wine if you prefer it." She murmured patiently, moving to take the glass back but Fleur already had her hand on the drink, lifting it up to her lips and finished the glass as though it was a shot of tequila.

The redhead's brows climbed high as Fleur set the glass down rather noisily, feeling the burn in her lungs and fighting the urge to cough, she cleared her throat subtly and motioned at the bar tender from her peripheral.

"I'll have another one of these, please." She wriggled the glass gently before pushing it over to the other side of the counter and resumed her gaze towards the window. She knew the other woman would pry, friends always do, and she's never one to be rude. But she was heartbroken and she felt like she deserved to be petulant so she kept her gaze aimed towards the streets, to the last stragglers of the night making their way home and lovers cozying up against each other to share a single umbrella. She grit her teeth for a moment, cursing the fact that she's so bitter and rummaged inside her purse to pull out her lighter and the last few sticks in her pack.

"I'm surprised she hasn't made you stop yet."

Fleur took a deep drag of the cigarette, she knew she was pushing it to the point that she felt she would gag, cough and choke. The corners of her mouth quirked upwards without humor because that does not even begin to describe what her insides feels like. As though something were clawing underneath her skin. Never giving her respite from the pain.

"Non, she only found out today." Fleur answered, eyes still glued to the smoke wafting up the ceiling.

Rosie's eyebrow shot up with the admission and made an 'hmm' sound, not even hiding the fact that she was observing Fleur. The other woman sighed audibly, which in turn made her face the woman, holding two glasses full of whiskey and handing her the other.

"To broken hearts," Rosie raised her glass as to cheer. Fleur's eyebrow only shot in response but she did raise her glass and took a healthy swig.

As soon as she put her glass down, the woman spoke five words that would surely have Fleur spitting out her drink in true comedic fashion if she were still sipping on it.

"You're in love with her."

Her heart thudded painfully loud in her chest.

"What? No." Denial was quick in her lips, she was not even thinking. Stupid. Stupid.

It was Rosie's turn to smirk, amusement clear in her eyes. But only for a moment—they have, after all, only had toasted to their broken hearts. Both having complete different reasons.

"I did not mention a name." Rosie rebutted teasingly.

Fleur had to sigh, again. She knew she has to stop sighing, but she had no energy to stop doing so. A deeper one bubbled up her lungs after that thought- as though her body is forcefully trying to exhale all her pain away. She rubbed her palm against her face in a true defeated fashion, slumping on her chair—an extreme opposite to how people usually perceive her natural demeanor: grace, elegance.

But now…

"How?" She muttered, voice muffled due to her face still buried against her hand. She looked up at Rosie pleadingly, tiredness audible in her voice.

"Was I really that obvious?"

"Perhaps to someone who has been in a similar position before, but perhaps I simply have a good eye, non?" The woman replied.

Fleur knew Rosie was trying to make light of such a heavy discussion, but she was, nonetheless, relieved. The last thing she would want is for Hermione to know. Specially now. No. She can't do that to her best friend. Before she fell in love with the lovely brunette, they were truly the best of friends. Hermione had gone through so much, and Fleur knew she was scared, but she was also strong. And she could never have been more proud because her best friend is now about to start her own family. Something she has lost a very long time ago.

"….found it a few months ago, left on your table while I was cleaning up, I hadn't the heart to throw it away, not really." Fleur heard as she tuned into the conversation once again, Rosie had moved to stoop down her counter to rummage along the drawers, she heard a triumphant 'Aha!' as the woman found what she was looking for.

"I had my suspicions, really, how could I not with the way you look at her? But after seeing this? Cherie, I would have loved to return it to you, but well…" The woman straightened up, returning with a small piece of what seemed to be a crumpled table napkin with ink stains, neatly folded into a perfect square. The redhead moved it gently over to her side of the counter.

A fuzzy memory kept Fleur's heartrate afloat, she could not place where… she shook her head and instead dismantled the napkin gently. And although stained with wine and some such other drink that caused the ink to smudge, even with a shaky drunken scrawl, she could identify her handwriting staring back at her.

It was a poem, a love poem to be exact—she was, of course French. She half remembered writing these words in a desperate attempt… attempt to what, she wondered? Truly, in her inebriated state, what had she been thinking? She felt lightheaded, as though air simply refused to enter her lungs.

Her eyes ran across the letters, roughly translating her words in English.

The space between your neck and your shoulder is where I found my home. It is the sound of your heartbeat and gentle hands against rustling sheets in early morning light.

It is aching for something I will always have. But never in the ways have I desperately wanted.

It is the way I have learned to hold you so much closer, but only enough so I can always let you go.

It is the way my fingers always tremble as I wipe away your tears; when all I want to do is taste and kiss all the bitterness you have to suffer away from your quivering lips.

And as you breathe in the light of dawn; as though you expand the galaxy with every rise and fall of your chest, I will stand guard beside you.

It is here, beneath my ribcage, the only secret I could never tell.

Inhale. I love you.

Exhale. I love you.

It finished with a post script: "I hope you'll never have to fall in love with your best friend". A single tear strayed down her cheek, noticing the wetness she quickly wiped it away with one hand. Pushing the piece of napkin back towards her friend.

Rosie only nodded once before taking it, gently folding it back and returning it to the drawer where she had kept it and smiled sadly at Fleur. She understood, Fleur did not want to keep a piece of a night she had desperately wanted to forget.

"You haven't told her." It was a statement, not a question.

Fleur simply nodded, staring at the cigarette docked into the ashtray, the last of its embers glowing in the dim light of the bar.

It took a stretch of silence before she found her voice again. Overwhelmed by the memories flooding her from that night not so long ago.

"How could I? She is my best friend… I—I could not have… She was engaged, Rosie." Her heart broke all over again after the statement. A finality, the end of something she never had the chance to begin. She took another healthy swig of her drink, momentarily forgotten, finally gaining enough courage to look into the eyes of her companion.

"It was too late, before I realized. Falling in love with her. It was horrifically addictive and decidedly dangerous, perhaps even deranged, non? And what a cliché, that is, to fall in love with your very best friend. I had read a thousand books, seen hundreds of movies… but then I didn't understand how painful…"

Fleur closed her eyes for a moment, voice cracking with the height of her emotions.

"…I couldn't stop. I didn't want to. If anything it made sense, it truly does. It couldn't be anyone else unless it was her. I should have known that from the beginning. I now know I should have."

Fleur saw her friend's heart breaking for her. And she knew then, perhaps, that Rosie might have had the displeasure of a similar experience. She felt her more than she saw the movement, but the redhead reached across the space between their hands and squeezed her arm comfortingly.

She could only smile sadly in return. Fleur raised her glass to Rosie.

"To broken hearts," she muttered quietly. Their glasses clinked, echoing softly against the unbearable cold of London's winter chill.

She only had one thought: to broken hearts indeed.