Ch. 29. From Bed.

Fleur laid back in bed, eyes half opened as she lazily observed Hermione adjusting her tie in the mirror. Satisfied that it was straight and the knot was tight enough, the brunette turned around. Now Fleur had never enjoyed the Gryffindor colors. As a rule she just didn't think they worked. And it was so very English to her. However on Hermione, Fleur had to admit, the colors worked rather well. Or maybe she was simply biased.

"Planning on getting out of bed anytime soon, sleepyhead?" Hermione teased warmly.

"Mmm," Fleur stretched grinning. "Pondering it. I am having such an enjoyable morning watching you."

"You're going to be late," Hermione chided, hiding the blushing on her face.

Fleur pouted, but reluctantly pulled herself out of bed nonetheless. Instantly feeling the chill of the cold air, she pulled her bathrobe over her body. Her eyes fell to the coffee stain from the day before and frowned. She would have to wash that, but part of her secretly feared that this stain was permanent. And what then? Live with it or get a new bathrobe? But that was getting ahead of herself. Perhaps the stain could be removed after all. Perhaps.

Making her way to the closet, Fleur brushed her hand across the small of Hermione's back as she passed. Sifting through her collection of dresses, she tried to devise the perfect Wednesday outfit. From the corner of her eye, she watched Hermione pull her jumper over her head. She paused, leaning up against the doorway, once again unabashedly watching her girlfriend.

"You are so incredibly beautiful," Fleur half-whispered, as watching Hermione get ready in the morning was breathtaking. And it was.

"And what is the difference between lying in bed and getting out of bed if all you are planning to do this morning is watch me?" Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, taking a few steps closer towards Fleur.

"Well, the bed was warmer for one," Fleur smirked, enwrapping her lover in her arms. "However, you were no longer in it."

Hermione smiled softly. "You are going to be late either way."

"So are you," Fleur shrugged, leaning in to kiss Hermione softly on the forehead.

"Only if you distract me," Hermione sighed, moving closer in to Fleur momentarily giving into her lover's charms.

"Which I fully intend on doing," Fleur felt no qualms about this. And, as if to prove it, she leaned in and captured Hermione's lips. It was a few minutes before Fleur finally allowed Hermione to continue getting ready. "Besides, the portkey gives us more time."

"Gives me more time. You still have to walk to the castle," Hermione corrected as she moved out of Fleur's arms. "You know with the portkey maybe sometime you could come and spend the night in Gryffindor."

As Hermione spoke, she placed a few books into her bag—when she arrived back in her room, all she had to do was unlock the door and walk to class. Her voice sounded casual, but Fleur could tell that it was something Hermione had given some thought to.

"I… Shall we talk about that later?" Fleur, adjusting the ribbon on her dress, held back the temptation to turn around and look at Hermione, not quite sure how to respond.

Part of her, all of her was dying to see what the Gryffindor tower looked like, more importantly what Hermione's room looked like. Were there books piled everywhere, was it impeccably neat, cluttered with clothes? How were the walls decorated, if at all?

However, there had to be a line where they became too reckless. With the portkey they were straddling that line. But somehow the idea of Fleur spending the night in the student dormitory felt like that would be the tipping point. It would be like they were asking, begging, demanding to be caught. Demanding trouble.

Now it was Hermione's turn to pout.

"You are going to be late," Fleur reminded her lover.

"That is partly your fault, if I recall correctly." Hermione gave in, but Fleur could tell that it was only for the time being.

"That is utter nonsense. Now go before I kiss you and never let you leave."

Hermione nodded, taking Fleur's threat seriously. "Meet you after classes?"

Fleur smiled. "Already counting down the minutes. Have a wonderful day."

After a quick (but not quite chaste) goodbye kiss, Hermione picked up the worn copy of Hogwarts, A History sitting on the bed stand and was almost instantly gone from the room. The room felt instantly emptier, lonelier, and even a bit colder. Fleur let out a sigh and continued getting ready. She still had to trudge across the grounds and steal some food from the Hogwarts kitchen for breakfast (a habit she had yet to tell Hermione about).


Now with the portkey, the tension and the anxiety that had become interwoven in the everyday workings of their relationship lessened. True Hermione still locked the door behind her when she met Fleur in her office after classes and their embraces there were still desperate and consumed with the fear (the thrill, no, the fear) of being caught. They still walked to the Hospital Wing a safe distance apart discussing "safe" topics—Defense Against the Dark Arts, the weather (many topics quickly turned to flirting had to be avoided). Throughout the day they still communicated through Hermione's enchanted parchment. They were still a secret. A secret that one edge was amusing to play with, imagining being caught but whose sharp edge was the total fear of actually being found out.

But now this secret was now all done with the understanding that in the night they would find (brief, momentary) reprieve. Sanctuary. They would be alone, Fleur's home the untouchable world at the edge of the school grounds. Their furtive and frustratingly agonizing existence during the day became just that: during the day. At night they could breath. They could be themselves. There was no need to hide or sneak around (once Hermione arrived). It was if the outside world, within those night hours, did not exist.

But it did exist.

And Fleur had to prepare.

Normally Fleur avoided the hallways during the busier times of the day—in between classes, the bookends of mealtimes. And even if she was not with Hermione she tended to choose less popular routes—but students tended to discover these routes. She was constantly changing how she got to places. As a result, by the second term she was still getting lost (while also knowing the castle better than most second or third year students, and arguably some fourth years as well). But these choices, she knew, were the best for everyone involved (she still remembered Ron Weasley asking her to Yule Ball, yelling more like it—something she was careful to never bring up).

But on that Friday, she braved the sea of students ebbing its way towards the Great Hall for lunch. They parted, allowing her to pass, as she moved against the tide. She ignored the stares and politely smiled and nodded, agreeing to help a few students if they needed help on one of their assignments and reminding them that no, she did not accept extra credit unless there were outstanding circumstances.

As she reached her destination, the few remaining students were still trickling out of the classroom door. Fleur stepped aside, waiting for the last to leave. She knocked softly on the side of threshold before entering. Her eyes wandered briefly around the room. It was one she had never been in before. The walls were covered in posters whose images surprisingly did not move and strange artifacts that Fleur had only read about or heard Hermione explain cluttered the surfaces. A telephone, a toaster, thumbtacks.

In the front of the classroom, Professor Charity Burbage stood before her desk sorting through papers and placing them methodically in the bag in front of her. The older woman looked up, a hint of surprise on her features. Fleur smiled congenially, winningly. She had been hoping that the Professor of Muggle Studies would be available.

"Professor Burbage, good afternoon," Fleur greeted the older woman warmly as she closed the door behind her.

Burbage nodded, a bit stiffly and formally at her colleague. "And good afternoon to you as well Professor Delacour. To what do I owe this… visit?"

Fleur and Burbage had barely every spoken, if one could even call their exchanges speaking. Normally it was nods, polite acknowledgements of each other's existence. This was nothing exceptional in itself—Fleur rarely spoke, if ever, to most of her colleagues. Defense Against the Dark Arts professors never lasted more than a year and it was well known that she hardly had any intention of changing this tradition. Teaching merely happened to be something that she was good at, something she was doing to briefly pass the time. They knew her real passions and interests lay elsewhere, that teaching was a means to an end. An end that most did not approve of or feel comfortable with. So most treated her with polite indifference—a hello on those rare occasions their paths would cross. And that was how it had been with Professor Burbage. Neither woman ever feeling moved to seek each other out let alone exchange anything beyond mere (required) pleasantries.

Her relationship with her colleagues was nothing new to Fleur by any means. Those with veela blood rarely made friends easily outside of the insular veela community. And she had not expected anything different in England. (She had hoped, foolishly, at one point, but no matter.)

"I have a few questions for you. I…" Fleur exhaled nervously. She had been thinking for months about visiting this woman and had finally worked up the courage. But now, would the words come and would they come out right? "I am in need of your help."

Burbage perked an eyebrow up as she placed a book into her bag. Fleur continued, trying to find the strength. She felt suddenly more exhausted—and couldn't remember if she had taken her potion this morning. She had, hadn't she? Surely she did.

"I know that we are not fully acquainted and this might seem rather, well, rash and rude I imagine. However my situation—"

"I hope you know that I do not fully approve of your situation," Burbage crossed her arms, raising her eyes slightly as she said situation. "She is a child, Fleur."

"As am I least we not forget," Fleur countered. She never thought that it would be easy, but she had never guessed it would have to be this hard either. At every turn she had to fight, to defend, to prove. And in her condition, it was becoming increasingly exhausting. And frustrating.

"But you are in a position of authority, Fleur. It goes beyond mere age differences."

"Yes. I would agree with that. But I implore you to realize the intricacies in my situation."

"Are you really going to fall back on your being part veela as an excuse for your inappropriate behavior?"

"Yes, I am. That and my love for her," Fleur crossed her arms. She was, like always, poised and ready to fight for her love. "All I am requesting is your understanding in my circumstances. I propose a deal, an exchange of understanding if you will."

"An exchange of understanding?" Burbage's tone indicated that she was not especially interested. In fact, her entire body language seemed to shout it at Fleur.

"An exchange of understanding," Fleur repeated, pressing on and refusing to be so easily deterred. "I am not deluding myself into believing that someday we will be friends. However you are in a position to be of great help to me and I take you to be a good person. I understand that I cannot force you to do anything nor do I desire for you to compromise your morals. I only request that you allow me to lend you a few books, two actually. They are both rather short reads, and naturally it is entirely up to you if you decide to actually read them. They are written by Veelas and their mates, an insider's prospective, if you will, to my situation. And, after reading, should you feel a change of heart then perhaps you could recommend some reading on Muggles in exchange. A harmless enough trade, yes? Two people aiding each other in the quest for knowledge and understanding."

While in school, Fleur had never excelled in or put much effort into Muggle Studies. In fact she had dropped the course at her soonest opportunity, a decision she now fully regretted. And while she doubted she would be meeting the Grangers anytime soon, she did not want to make a fool of herself when she did. She had been researching for months in the library preparing for a distant moment she had no grip on. But, despite her efforts, she felt as if she was getting nowhere. She did not know how to discern what was important from what was not, what was useful and what was just merely interesting (or boring).

"I see where this would benefit you immensely." Burbage continued to pack up her bag.

Fleur sighed. "One rarely proposes something that would not benefit them and they are all the wiser if it benefits them immensely, Professor. However I would hope that you see that perhaps this would be useful to you as well, or at least interesting."

"Oh?" The older woman stopped packing, but otherwise gave no sign in thinking that Fleur could persuade her otherwise.

"Perhaps they would be of interest to you to learn something new, or at least be an intellectually captivating read. Something to read before falling asleep or while you waited for the water to boil. Or they merely could be quality paperweights for a few weeks or something to help you draw a right angle with. Again, I am not requesting that you read them unless you desire to. You are probably a rather busy woman, yes? My only intent is for you to borrow them." Fleur walked across the room and opened her bag, pulling forth the two books. They were both fairly thin books—no more than a hundred pages each, each bound in leather. They had been read but not by that many people. Veelas had always been secretive with information about themselves. And even books 'approved' for wider audiences, such as these, were hard to come by. "And then, after a while and at your own leisure, I hope that you return them as they are books from my family's personal collection."

"I see you won't take no for an answer," Burbage observed, still distant in tone and facial expression.

"I am essentially asking you for your trust and understanding, Professor. This is not something that I can force. However, I would like, if you allow me, to make the first step towards earning it. I hope that you take my coming to you in itself as evidence that I am not with Hermione out of some twisted pretense. I truly wish to understand the world that she comes from, that her parents live in. I am doing my own research yes, but you are an expert in the field."

"As is Hermione."

"She explains aspects to me, yes, but it is hard for a fish to describe the water they swim in." She laid the books gently down on the desk front of Burbage. "I do need your help and I would like to think that I am worthy of it. However that is for you to decide." Fleur then took a step away from the desk. "Now I understand that I have interrupted your lunch hour, so I will not consume any more of your time. I only request that you think about what I have said. Good day to you Professor Burbage." And with that, Fleur turned to leave.

"Are you really ill, as they all say you are?" The older woman asked when Fleur was halfway across the room.

Fleur froze in her steps, and turned around, a weak smile on her face. "Old gossips all of you."

"What I mean, Delacour, is we all know on some level that you are not well physically." Burbage shook her head. "The students, the professors, the ghosts. Illness is not a secret that is easily hidden for long especially a disease as seemingly scandalous as yours."

"Yes. I am quite ill." Fleur sighed. No need to define exactly how much she meant by quite. She wasn't willing to define it to her self.

"And Hermione is somehow connected to your illness?" Burbage continued.

"In a way, yes. More specifically, my feelings towards her are. I love her more than I even know how to begin to describe. I always have, from the moment I saw her three years ago. And I always will."

And when Burbage did not say anything else, Fleur continued to walk away. She knew when to press and when to be patient. Perhaps the woman's curiosity was wetted enough that she might actually read one of the books. Perhaps not. Fleur was disappointed, yes, but she did not feel like it was an entirely wasted effort.

"Madeleine Murry," Burbage called out again when Fleur reached the door.

Fleur turned around, her hand still on the doorknob. "Excuse me?"

"Madeleine Murry," Burbage repeated, "is who I would suggest. She not only is an expert on the inner workings of the Muggle world, but also on the experience of living both in the Muggle and in the Wizarding world, something she had personal experience in and has great insight in explaining. I base the backbone of most of my curriculum on her writings. Hers and my own texts of course. So I would suggest her, as a start. But, Fleur, the best way to understand a different culture is to experience it."

Fleur ducked her head and smiled in gratitude. "Thank you Professor Burbage."

"Please, call me Charity."

"Thank you Charity. It truly means a lot to me." Fleur smiled again and then closed the door behind her.


It seemed to have become the unspoken tradition that Hermione's friends would visit on Saturday afternoons under the pretense of doing work. Work however was rarely touched for long, if at all. Over time Fleur felt increasingly more comfortable and at ease with Hermione's friends. She even felt that some—Parvati in particular—were becoming her friends in their own right. Or rather, on the path, a start.

However, Fleur had never been with all of them before at the same time. And she found it nerve-wracking and overwhelming to have not just Parvati and Lavender but also Ron, Harry and Ginny sitting in her parlor. Harry and Ginny had helped Fleur move the large couch from the study to the parlor so that everyone would have a place to sit. Harry and Ginny now shared that couch with Ron, who was wedged between Harry and the arm of the couch. He looked rather uncomfortable to Fleur, but somehow she figured it was more due to the situation than how he was unnecessarily pressing himself up against her furniture. Parvati, herself, seemed determined to look anywhere but at Ron, her hand lying possessively on her girlfriend's knee, who pretended to be oblivious to it all. As did the rest of the group.

It was Ginny's first time there and her eyes explored the house with a guarded curiosity.

"When was your family portrait done?" Ginny asked, referring to the portrait where Gabrielle was currently slumped against the frame, bored and rolling her eyes.

"In the summer prior to my final year at Beauxbatons," Fleur smiled.

"That was right before the tournament, wasn't it?" Ron inquired innocently.

"I suppose so, yes," Fleur shrugged distantly. Hermione squeezed her lover's hand for support. "It was years ago, nonetheless, a souvenir from a distant land and time. I am of the belief, however, that the tournament is not the happiest nor best suited of conversation topics for a rainy Sunday afternoon in February."

Harry nodded silently in agreement. The two of them had never spoken about the tournament and, unless she was mistaken, neither seemed to feel that it was necessary. She was sure that yes, the conversation was bound to come up. Eventually. In time. But now there was a mutual desire to move on with their lives. Sometimes she wondered how Harry must feel—he had not entered under his volition, like Fleur. His participation was all a complicated maneuver to bring about the second rise of Lord Voldemort, to kill Harry. And as a result, he had been a laughing stock for almost an entire year.

"It cannot have been all that bad, can it? I mean, that is where you met Hermione," Ginny pressed, probably trying to save her brother while not putting her boyfriend (or Fleur) in too much discomfort.

Fleur smiled at this, exchanging a warm glance with Hermione. "In every tragedy, a silver lining I suppose. My parents met during the war, but my mother is loath to discuss that time. And why should she? Many terrible, inexcusable events occurred—on both sides. I suppose I am the same with the tournament. Wonderful things happen in the darkest times, but the setting is still the darkness. Some of us are not always willing to revisit them for that reason, I suppose."

"But your father loves that story Fleur," Hermione interjected.

"Then perhaps I am luckier than my mother as you do not seem to enjoy discussing the tournament," Fleur smiled softly. "However, our story does not become romantic until years later and I would not mind hearing that recounted. My parents, no matter how romantic… I am afraid my father will never be able to recount it anywhere near my mother. Besides, his favorite story is not how they met but how my mother saved him."

Hermione frowned. "You're right, she always interrupted. Even if she wasn't around, suddenly she'd be there to change the subject…"

"My mother, she has a second sense about my father," Fleur shrugged innocently, hoping that someday she too would have that with Hermione.

"Well, can we hear it now?" Parvati piped up, placing her teacup down on the table. "I mean, if you would like to. It would be nice to hear a romantic story after all these essays on Goblin Rebellions and healing potions. My mind is reeling with all these dates."

"There is not much to tell really. They met during the war in the French Resistance. My mother fell instantly in love, as we with veela blood do," she motioned with her teacup towards the portrait of her parents shortly after the war. Tristan held Apolline tenderly in his arms and kissed her softly on the neck. "However he was engaged to another woman at the time, a woman he had known since his first year of school, which posed some great difficulty to my mother as you can imagine. While we Delacours do not always play exactly by the rules, we also do not steal away other people's lovers. It is a matter of pride and principles." Fleur returned her teacup to its saucer, which was poised gracefully on her crossed leg.

"So, what happened? I mean, obviously…" Pavarti leaned in.

"The other woman, Isabelle, was…" Fleur picked her teacup back up, trying to discern the best way to put it. "Well she died. Tragically. In the war, I would imagine. It is not actually spoken about in any direct manner."

"Isabelle…" Hermione nearly whispered, looking at Fleur strangely, her eyes darting over her parents. Fleur smiled, shifting slightly, never quite sure how to react when people learned the truth behind her middle name.

"So your mother comforted your father and then…?" Lavender nodded, smiling.

"No. They were friends yes, however she gave him his space and time to heal. There was a war, after all, and he was recovering from the death of the woman he loved. She wanted to be respectful of that, I imagine."

"But I mean, eventually…?" Lavender pressed.

"Of course, eventually." Fleur leaned back, as if to say the story was completed. She took a sip of her tea and showed no intention of continuing.

"You honestly don't think you can stop the story there," Ginny pressed. "There is obviously more to tell or else your father wouldn't love to tell the story. As you leave it, it doesn't seem like a story he would like to tell so much."

"No," Fleur agreed. "I told you the part he normally does not include."

"So what does your Father usually tell?" Harry, who seemed to share Ginny's interest, asked. Or perhaps he, like Fleur, simply wanted to keep the topic away from the tournament.

For a moment, Fleur blew over the top of tea, a look of quiet contemplation crossing her face before deciding to continue the story. "Towards the end of the war, he was captured and was being tortured near to the point of death or insanity for information. My mother went rogue and, going against all orders and common sense, saved him in a foolish, near-kamikaze one-woman rescue attempt. Really, it is miraculous both of them survived and that she was able to find a job in the Ministry afterwards. However, it was also apparently extremely romantic."

Looking up from her tea, the Frenchwoman was met with everyone looking at her curiously. Their eyes wide, expectant. The strangeness of this was enough to snap Fleur out of her reverie. And so she shrugged playfully. "Oh, do you desire a recount of the entire rescue?" she asked innocently.

"Obviously," Lavender looked nearly to the point of death.

"Well," Fleur took a long drink of her tea. "It was in April, I believe, years before the Dark Lord was first defeated by you Harry. My father, you see, is an expert in ancient magical artifacts, more of a scholar and an idealist than a warrior. He was captured partly for this knowledge and partly for his activity in the resistance. His relationship with my mother was just in its beginning stages. However when my mother found out about his capture, she nearly went crazy. They ordered for her to wait for more information to be uncovered about where they took him and how many were holding him. Of course my mother could not just wait, she has never been the best with following directions. It is a tendency that runs in the Delacour family. The minute she discovered where he was… well perhaps it is not hard to imagine."

Fleur continued the story with everyone, Ron included, sitting at the edge of their seats. It was a wonderful feeling, the realization that the rapt attention was earned through her story and not her veela charms. A rarity in non-veela circles.


Alone in Fleur's bedroom, that night Fleur and Hermione told their own love story on each other's bodies. Mouths on skin, hands slowly becoming bolder. Fleur was aware that they had never gone this far before, and kept her eyes carefully on her girlfriend to make sure that she was comfortable with where they were, with where they were headed. But perhaps it was the Frenchwoman's own insecurities as it seemed as if Hermione was (once again) the one leading the charge.

Carefully, with smiling concentration, Hermione unbuttoned the top of Fleur's nightshirt revealing the skin underneath. Her fingers slowly traced down the garment before pushing it aside. The cold night air surrounded Fleur, hugging her body. But this was all distant; her awareness was far too focused to notice the night air.

For a moment, the brunette merely took in the sight of Fleur before moving forward to take a breast in her mouth grazing it slightly with her teeth. She whispered, wondering if this was okay.

And all Fleur could do was nod, biting her lip in pleasure, gasping for breath. Her own hands fumbling at Hermione's nightshirt. Finally pulling the shirt over the brunette's head there was another moment where they just existed before each other topless. In all their nights together, they had never gotten this far. Baby steps. Forward.

But when their bodies finally came back together, Fleur wondered how they could have waited this long. The sensation of skin against skin was enough to drive both crazy. It was unlike any other thing Fleur had ever before experienced. Soft and yet torturous. She wanted more. It felt as if Hermione could never be close enough. And Fleur wanted to spend the rest of her life trying to get that close.

But if they did not stop soon, Fleur was not sure if she would be able to stop. She could feel every aspect of restraint drain out of her and slip past her fingers as she moved upwards to Hermione's naked breast.

And she felt it almost as if it was a physical object slowly, quickly starting to slip away. The walls, her restraint beginning to crumble.

Hesitantly, going against every urge screaming from inside her and seeping out from every pore, she pulled her hand away, braced herself against the bed frame. She bit her lip trying to find that extra ounce of control. Hermione, unaware of the change in her girlfriend, delicately led Fleur down onto her back, a trail of kisses down her stomach.

With all the strength left in Fleur, her hand shakily reached out and touched Hermione's face. Please stop. We need to stop.

Hermione looked up tenderly.

"I… we should not have sex tonight." Fleur's words were barely a ragged whisper. "I am not… we are not… I am not ready."

"No one said anything about sex tonight," Hermione straightened up, her face confused.

"No. But I am afraid that if we continue, I am not going to be able to control myself for much longer," Fleur tried to smile weakly, forcing the words out.

"Hm," Hermione nodded. "I am simply too irresistible for you, am I?"

"Now you are teasing me," Fleur grinned, somewhat pained. It was true. And as she spoke ever fiber of her being screamed out to pounce, to gain that release, that relief. That connection.

"Well, how about this?" Hermione shifted her position so she was still lying on top of Fleur but in a more platonic position. Or, at as platonic as one could be when they were both topless. "Can we do this?"

Fleur nodded slowly, smiling softly. For the moment, she focused in on her breathing to calm and center her.

The night was silent, calm. The full moon shined in through the window casting a glow on the dark room. Hermione lay on top of Fleur, propped up on her elbows, their legs tangled underneath the sheet. Both breathed deeply, chests heaving up against each other. Fleur concentrated, as she often when trying to calm herself down, on trying to synchronize her breathing with Hermione's. Shifting slightly Hermione ran a finger down Fleur's bare chest.

"How about this?"

Again, Fleur nodded silently.

And so Hermione's finger explored lazily, looping and curving around. Her finger paused right below Fleur's neck.

"Fleur, your neck."

"My neck?" Fleur, who had been contently watching her lover silently, now scrunched her face in confusion. She reached her hand up to her neck to inspect. "What about my neck?"

"I'm really, truly sorry Fleur," Hermione tried to hold in a laughter, as Fleur kept inspecting her neck with the touch of her hand.

"Sorry for what?" Fleur clasped her neck, not quite sure what the joke was or if she truly wanted to know. "What is so amusing about my neck?"

"When did your skin become so sensitive?" Hermione grinned teasingly, her finger tracing a small shape on the side of Fleur's neck.

"Sensitive?" Fleur blinked, the realization slowly coming from her. "You do not mean… you do mean…"

"At least in this moonlight, it looks like I gave you a hickey. Was I really… that hard?"

"What?" Fleur's fingers were now rubbing the area below Hermione's fingers with an almost nervous energy. Her senses slow to come to reality.

"Ssssh," Hermione smiled, dropping her hand slightly to still Fleur's hands, intertwining their fingers. "That's only going to make it worse."

"A hickey? On my neck?"

"You know, broken blood vessels in the skin forming a somewhat semi-circular, mouth-like shape." Hermione broke out laughing. "Really, Fleur. It's a hickey. Just wear a scarf for a few days. It can't last long, can it?"

Fleur arched an eyebrow up and sighed. "And what were you doing, marking your territory?"

"I didn't realize I had to," Hermione pouted playfully. "But yes, since you ask, if it's in my mouth, it's mine."

Fleur propped herself up just enough to softly kiss Hermione. "You are right, there is no need. And your logic is… astounding."

"Astoundingly hormonal, you mean."

"If it's in your mouth…"

"It's mine," Hermione smiled playfully as she placed Fleur's fingers in her mouth and sucked then gently for a second. "See, mine." And then Hermione moved further south, finding Fleur's nipple to further illustrate her point.

And there was simply no arguing logic like that.


Fleur's awoke abruptly to a loud, pounding, rhythmic noise. She propped herself up slightly to listen to it better, drawing the blanket around her to cover her still bare chest from the cold night air.

"What is it?" Hermione whispered, also straining past the darkness and the thin fog of sleep to hear, to recognize the noise.

There was a moment of pause, of silent reprieve before the noise repeated itself, louder and more insistent. Urgent. Insistent.

"Someone's knocking," Fleur observed, stating the obvious for lack of a better statement to make.

"What time is it?" Hermione squinted out the window as if the stars would whisper the time.

"Late," Fleur supplied, sluggish in her own waking up process.

"I know that," Hermione grumbled.

"Close your eyes, I am going to turn on the light," Fleur reached for the light switch. For a second, they were both blinded by the sudden brightness. In that time, the knocking came again. Louder still. Urgent.

"Merlin, it's four in the morning." Fleur groaned.

"Who is it?"

Fleur arched her eyebrow up.

"Right," Hermione bit her lip. "Guess we should answer it."

"You stay here," Fleur reluctantly pulled herself out of her warm bed, out of her lover's arms. She reached for her bathrobe to fight off the immediate coldness of her room. Part of her knew that she shouldn't answer the door in just her underwear and bathrobe, but the only real awake part of her couldn't seem to care. Besides the bathrobe covered everything. (Mostly everything. Enough of everything.)

"No, I'm coming with you," Hermione protested. Out of bed, she pulled a shirt over her body—the one Fleur had been wearing earlier that evening—buttoning it hastily before tugging on pair of pajama pants—also Fleur's—and the blanket around her shivering body. Fleur watched her lover dress, as she always did, but this time to the soundtrack of the thudding knocks.

The knocking, now approaching the description of thunderous, pulled any protest that was forming on Fleur's lips. "Fine. But stay back. Just in case."

Just in case. Just in case of what? Just in case Hermione needed to slip upstairs and use the portkey to get back to her room. Nothing good came from such a late, unexpected visit.

Hermione nodded slightly. The knocking was too loud for any protests, thudding against their skulls knocking out logical thoughts and full sentences.

"Coming!" Fleur called out as they made their way down the stairs, stumbling slightly in the dark.

At the front door, as promised, Hermione stayed back, giving Fleur's hand a quick squeeze before settling into the shadows of the hallway. Fleur looked at her lover one last time before she opened the door.

There before in the darkness of four in the morning stood three familiar faces, Professor McGonagall and the two other she recognized instantly from photographs. Her breath was knocked out of her. She was suddenly very aware of how she was standing, half naked under a thin, stained silk bathrobe, her coldness poking obviously through the garment. And behind her, Hermione wrapped in a blanket clearly wearing her clothes. Fleur's hand shot up to her neck in an attempt to cover the hickey.

"Please, do come in," her voice shook as she tried to smile courteously, fearing she probably fell short of that.

She opened the door and stepped aside to let the three adults into the hallway. Turning, she braved to look at Hermione, whose features looked as shocked and as pale as Fleur knew hers to be.

The blanket dropped to the floor, pooling Hermione's feet revealing Fleur's monogrammed initials on the poorly buttoned nightshirt.

"Mother. Father. What are you doing here?"