a/n: a giant thank you to Creative Touch. a number of ideas in this chapter are from her.
Hermione crawled back under the covers and smiled down at Fred. His eyes were shut; his features relaxed in the peace of sleep, his chest rose and fell in even breaths. She licked her lips, swiping for traces of toothpaste, and then kissed him softly.
"Bonjour, Fred." His eyes blinked open as his smile spread slowly. "Joyeuse Saint-Valentin," she said.
His eyes narrowed playfully. "Well, that's not English," he noted.
"No," she agreed with a laugh. "Happy Valentine's Day."
He sat up with a grin. "Happy Valentine's Day." He kissed her, pulling away shortly. "You've already brushed your teeth," he said. "No fair."
She smiled. "Here." She pulled an envelope from under her pillow and handed it to him, his name neatly scripted across it.
Fred looked at her questioningly. "I thought you didn't care for Valentine's Day," he accused.
"I didn't say I don't care," she said, propping herself up with pillows and laying back, leaning into his shoulder. "I just think it's a little overrated. If I love you, I love all three hundred sixty-five days of the year," she explained. "And I do love you. I don't see why I should need a specific day to show you." She shook her head. "Anyway, I said no presents, but I did get you a card and write nice things in it." She smiled sweetly and he laughed, grabbing his wand and summoning his card for her.
"I love you, too, Hermione," he said. "And all of your nonsense." He handed her the envelope and she rolled her eyes, reading the front of it.
"'Darling Wife'," she said. "Is that my title?"
He grinned. "I was going to write 'Love'," he told her.
"Hermione just wouldn't suffice?" she teased.
He shrugged in response.
"I should have addressed yours 'Dear Husband'," she said. "I regret the simplicity now."
He chuckled, opening the card and grinning at the words written within. "Thank you," he said. "I always knew you were dazzled by my mere presence."
She looked at him with amused disbelief. "I didn't write that."
"Paraphrasing." He got out of bed and headed to the loo.
"Can I open this?" she called.
His response came around a mouthful of toothpaste. "Of course, it's addressed to you," he spat and the water ran, "isn't it?"
She opened the envelope carefully and then withdrew the card. She was murmuring the words just under her breath, her eyes following the lines of his script, when he returned. She looked up at him with a wide smile. "This is very, very, sweet of you," she said, holding up the card. It had a picture of quidditch players whizzing around on the front, coming to an abrupt halt to form a perfect heart suspended in air. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," he returned. "And thank you as well. Now, come on, we have to get going."
Her eyebrows drew together. "What's the hurry?" she asked. "We've done everything on our list. I thought we'd just relax today." Not that she wanted to spend their last full day in Paris cooped up in the hotel room. While they'd visited every landmark she'd hoped to see, she still intended to make the most of every moment they had in the beautiful city. However, she wouldn't object to spending the morning lazily in bed. Or not so lazily in bed, for that matter.
He shrugged cryptically. "No presents," he told her, "but I do have something planned for the day, so come on."
The plan began with breakfast at a little café that had been recommended by the concierge Fred had made friends with in the lobby, and then continued out to La Bibliothèque de nationale de France. Hermione read the sign aloud with an excited smile. "The National Library of France?" she asked. "You…can we go inside?" She stared up at the book-shaped buildings in awe. It was just the reaction he'd hoped for.
"No," he said sarcastically, watching her raptly. "I only brought you here to stare at it." It seemed his comment didn't even register with her. Her focus was elsewhere. "Of course we're going inside," he told her finally.
And in they went. He couldn't recall a time he'd ever seen more books in one place. Hermione looked taken by the scene, lost in the vast space of it. He observed her intently, curious as to what went through her mind as she wandered around the circle of each floor. He wondered if the collections even included English books. He'd yet to see any. Yet still it was near two hours later, when they continued on, first to a lovely lunch, then to a path of bookshops Fred had mapped out.
"How many are there?" she asked eagerly, sipping from her cup of hot chocolate as they walked along the Seine. She offered Fred a sip from her takeaway cup and he accepted it with a grin.
"Ten," he replied, passing the drink back to her. "But we don't have to make it to all of them if you don't feel up to it."
"They're bookshops," she said. "I'm dying to visit all of them."
He laughed, looking around at all of the families and couples scattered along the riverside. He looked at his watch. "Alright then," he announced. "'Shakespeare and Company' to start, but first the bridge."
Her head cocked to the right as she paused in confusion. "You don't mean the bridge with the locks, do you?" she asked.
Fred nodded, taking her hand and tugging her to walk with him. "Pont des Arts," he corrected. "And what other bridge is there?"
"We're in Paris," she reminded. "There's plenty. I just never took you for a…love-padlock-type."
"What? I can do romance," he insisted.
"Yes, and you do it quite well," she agreed. "This just seems kind of…over-the-top."
He fished onto his pocket and pulled out a lock and its key, handing it over to her with a sheepish grin. Their initials were neatly etched into the metal. "Come on," he said. "Let me have just this one over-the-top thing then."
She licked chocolate remnants from her lips. "Okay," she granted, "but can I just ask why?"
"Because I like the idea of it," he said simply.
She thought about this. They'd passed the bridge before. She'd seen all of the locks fastened onto the grates, couples names or initials engraved or written in thick marker on the surfaces of them, keys tossed to bottom of the Seine, promising everlasting love. She knew Fred could be very romantic, but it wasn't something she expected from him. "I feel like that's supposed to be my line," she said.
Fred shrugged. "It's…" He looked at a loss, his hand leaving hers as he searched for the intangible. "I don't know. A gesture. A permanent gesture," he decided.
"Unless the police remove it," she teased. "You know, I'm not entirely sure you're supposed to put locks on there."
He rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."
Her eyebrows drew together. "Fred, we're married," she said. "That's sort of the most permanent romantic gesture this world has."
"Yeah, but that's different. That wasn't roman—" he began.
"Oh," she said, realizing just what he meant.
"Look," he said, "it was just an idea. We don't have to—" He made to slip the lock back into his pocket but her hand on his wrist stopped him.
She stared up at him, scrutinizing his expression. "No," she said. "I didn't mean to make it sound like that. Let's do it. Come on."
They reached the bridge, Hermione pulling him along until they faced the river and stood side by side, hands on the railing. Fred wiggled the key in the lock until it turned. He opened it and held it up along with the key. "Would you like to lock or toss?" he asked.
"Lock," she said certainly. "We both know me tossing anything may not end well."
He didn't think that entirely true, but regardless, he pressed the metal into her palm with a grin. She traced the ridged metal of the railing contemplatively until she had carefully picked her spot. "Fred," she turned to him, "you know that I love you, right?"
"Yes, I love you, too," he told her slowly. He had to wonder where she was going with this.
"Good," she said. "But…you know that I'd love you even if the ministry hadn't thrown us together?" she questioned.
And now he understood. "Hermione," he started, "you don't have to say all of this."
"But I do," she pressed. "Maybe it would have taken longer. Maybe it would have been Ginny or George or…I don't know. Someone. Someone else who would have pointed it out to me, or pushed us together." She sighed. "Maybe I would have just fallen in love with you anyway, with no help at all. I'd marry you again in a heartbeat, Fred, with or without a law." Her eyes met his. "I know us getting married wasn't born of some grand romance," she said, "but everything after that has been. I'm yours."
He beamed at her. "And I'm yours," he vowed. "Hermione, I don't doubt for a second that we're meant to be together. Opening that envelope, finding your name, as shite as this whole thing started, it makes me think…" He rubbed a hand over his hair, gazing down at her. "It makes me think the universe likes me," he said.
Hermione smiled softly up at him, kissed him quickly, and then clicked the lock into place on the bridge. "How could it resist?" she quipped.
He shook his head at her, then captured her lips soundly, whipping the key into the river with little thought now. It didn't matter where it landed anymore. Buried in the snow or sitting at the bottom of the river, it was all the same. She landed next to him.
In four hours, they made their way through three bookshops, and only because the prospect of another drew Hermione away from each last.
Fred would peruse the books himself for a short while before he'd begin to trail behind Hermione along shelves, or pop out of the shops to see what else was around on the street. She kept asking if he was bored, if he was sure there wasn't something else he wanted to do, but he shook his head and followed after her, or led her along to the next shop.
And then in the fourth bookshop, he made a purchase of his own. Suddenly he was preoccupied himself.
"Abrielle."
"Mmm. I don't think so." Hermione shook her head.
"Adèle."
"Ah-del," she corrected, pausing in her browsing. "Are there only French names in there?"
"No, but I'm trying to work on my accent," Fred replied. He continued down the list as she continued down the shelves, emphasizing the French names in an accent that sounded much akin to Fleur's.
"Arabesque."
"That's a pose," Hermione told him. "Are you seriously still in 'A'?"
"There are a lot of names in here!" he exclaimed, waving the baby name book at her.
She looked at him incredulously.
"Okay," Fred said, "I'm getting the feeling it's a no on the French names." He smirked.
"Oui," she replied, unbuttoning her coat as she grew warm. "Unless, you've something better than Arabesque," she went on, "because that just brings back some bad memories of ballet class."
"You did ballet?" he asked curiously.
"I did," she confirmed. "When I was four and it was embarrassing beyond belief."
"Embarrassing?" he echoed. "Hermione? Tell me more."
She pulled a novel off of its shelf, read the back, and then shook her head. "The little girls were such snots," she said bitterly. "I begged my parents to let me take lessons, and all of the girls had already made friends. I stuck out like a sore thumb. I couldn't get my mess of hair into a perfect bun like the rest of them. I wore black in their sea of pink. And for the first week I fell on my bum at least twice every class." She shrugged with a short puff of air. "They were giggling idiots anyway," she said. "Half of them couldn't even read."
Fred laughed. "Hermione, they were four," he pointed out.
"No, they were mean," she retorted.
He laughed. "Alright. No more ballet poses," he resolved. "How about…Anna?"
She considered this. "Better," she told him. "But I had a bully called Anna in primary school."
He swiftly moved around her, facing her as she continued farther into the shop. "Are all names tainted to you?" he questioned.
"No," she replied. "But you aren't having much luck, are you?"
"Well, you know, we should really start thinking about this," Fred began. "We can't call her 'the baby' forever. Especially once she's been born," he joked.
"What about something Shakespearean?" Hermione suggested, absentmindedly skimming more titles.
"Like…Juliet?" Fred asked. She glanced back at his expression; it seemed anything but partial to the name.
"Well, yes, like Juliet," she told him, "but no, not Juliet." She pulled out the collection of plays she'd bought earlier, digging through the bag Fred insisted he carry for her. She flipped through it. "Cordelia," she listed, "Goneril…Miranda."
"Goneril?" he repeated. "That sounds…sickly." He frowned. "I don't think Shakespeare names are the way to go."
Her eyes widened at him. "My name is Shakespearean," she said.
His mouth opened, wordless for a half a second. "…And your name is lovely," he said quickly. "But I don't know about the others."
She raised an eyebrow, fixing him a half-hearted glare.
"Er, what else is in that book?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Plenty," she said. "But I'm busy. You go on with your…extensive list." Her fingertips danced along spines as she walked along and he momentarily closed his book.
"Be happy to," he replied. "But first, we have dinner reservations for six." He looked at his watch thoughtfully. "Okay, should I a) cancel or b) see if I can push it an hour or two?" he asked.
"We could c) make it for six," she told him.
"You ready to head back?" he said. "There's no rush. There are still a few shops."
She bit her lip, reaching for a book a little too high. He plucked it from its spot and handed it to her. "Maybe one more?" she asked hopefully. "We could probably still make it in time…if I don't change…"
"One more," he agreed with a chuckle, "and I'll call the restaurant."
It was like waking from a dream. Hermione unpacked her things, they made a trip to the Laundromat, and then they ordered takeaway and curled up on the couch. Reality was quite nice as well.
"Did I thank you for taking me to Paris?"
"Only a dozen times."
Hermione sighed. "It was wonderful," she breathed.
He chuckled, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and finishing the last of his food one-handed. "I'm glad you liked it," he said.
She set her container of chips on the coffee table and snuggled into him.
"George and Angie asked if we'd come over for dinner tomorrow night," he informed. "Do you think you'll be alright to go or do you think you'll be too tired?"
"No, that sounds nice," she replied. "Okay."
"Great."
Her hand came to rest on her abdomen, her fingertips drumming on the rounded bump. Closing her eyes, she could feel Miss Weasley squirming around in there. She focused on the movement.
"Restless?" Fred asked.
Hermione smiled at him, looking a little apologetic. "She's…fidgety," she admitted, knowing he wasn't referring to her. She was completely at ease. "Can't sit still sometimes," she continued. "Just like her father."
She could predict his slight smile before it appeared. "Yeah?" he said.
"Mhm," she hummed.
"May I?"
"Fred," she said seriously. "One, you don't have to ask, and two, I know you're waiting for a kick, but she hasn't quite…"
"I know, I know," he cut in. "I'm not going to feel anything. I have to be patient," he recited.
"Right."
"But until then…" he began, "maybe you could just describe it to me?" He set aside the empty containers and pulled her closer.
Her voice was soft. "Sure." She took his hand and placed it under her own, pressing gently. "It, um, it feels like a flutter," she told him. "Sort of flitting. She squirms a lot. Sometimes it feels like she's twisting. Wriggling." He shifted closer. "I don't notice it too much when I'm moving around," she explained, "but when I stop, she starts it seems." She sighed. "I'm sorry you can't feel it. It's amazing."
He kissed her cheek.
"It makes everything so much realer," she said. "Feeling her move…she's so…alive. And…growing in there." She said it and then realized how ridiculous she sounded.
He laughed. "No kidding, love."
"Don't make fun of me," she snapped, hitting his hand good-naturedly.
"I'm not making fun of you," he told her, and yet she could hear the smirk in his voice.
"You're just sad you can't feel the little one yet," she reproached. "Don't you worry, your time will come."
His lips pressed to her cheek once again. "And I can't wait."
Author's Note: Hello dear readers, thank you for reading. I hope you liked it. There are over 500 people who receive emails about this story, which is very exciting and over 500 times people have taken the time to tell me what they think of it. I'd love to hear from all of you. I shall reply to each and every one.
On a side note, links to my tumblr and the story's playlist are found on my profile (they may need to be copied and pasted) and if any of you have prompts (drabbles, one shots etc.) that you'd like to see me write, I'd be happy to hear them.
Do you any of you even read these?
Anyways,
Scarlett
