Fleur looked down, away, avoiding Hermione's gaze, her attention immediately turned towards the baby in her lap. The two blonde girls playing on the floor oblivious to the scene transpiring just above them.
"No, you gots the daddy, he's gots to go to work!" The older of the two, a clone of her mother, said loudly, shoving the naked Ken doll in her sister's hand away.
"But I don't wanna!" louder yet, came the reply from the smaller, differing from her mother and sister only in that her hair was not as long. A red bow hung loosely, a weak attempt at a ponytail, her dress was ruffled, bunched at her knees.
"Girls! Quiet!" came a loud whisper, the stern voice of their mother dominating the space. The two looked ashamed, ducking their heads fiercely, resuming their argument quietly, as it turned to whose fault it was they had been yelled at.
Hermione could feel her heart breaking, three kids, her mate had three kids with someone else. Was Fleur even her mate here? She couldn't be sure, she had no way of knowing as she didn't feel the bond as strongly as Fleur had. It would, of course, grow stronger with time, but she had not felt it at first, or rather had not realized what it was, simply feeling comfortable in the presence of the other woman. A desire to be close, some sort of contact, or a sign of belonging.
Were there yet other differences here? Hermione returned her daughter to the crib, placing her down gently, a soft smile on her face, she could feel her heart swell at the image of Rose sleeping soundly, a tiny fist scrunched up by her face, turned as though it would block the light. She leaned in and kissed her softly on her forehead. A pause, a moment, she waited, committing the picture to memory, something she may never have if she returned, knowing that if she did, at best, her children would look like the two on the floor, almost perfect clones of their mother, the Veela blood still strong enough in them. If they had a son, he could have some of her traits, but not a daughter, they would, without fail, carry their mother's genes.
She turned, slowly making her way to the door, avoiding Fleur's cold gaze. What had happened between them? Why was she so distant? Her heart ached, longing for what she had lost, her own Fleur, probably left alone, wondering where she went. A tear threatened to fall, she choked back a sob. No, she wouldn't show weakness now, not in front of her, not because of her.
The cool metal grounded her, pulling her back to the present, she wrapped long, nimble fingers around it, squeezing it tighter, forcing her emotions out, the inanimate object would suffer for her. She turned it, and stepped back out into the hallway, Ron's voice echoing down the hall, still talking about quidditch.
She made her way to the kitchen, padding along silently, her shoes ruffling the ungodly shag as she went. She walked along, unnoticed by the others, to engrossed in their own lives, the silent suffering of the young witch hidden. This was still not her world, she was just passing through, an interloper in their lives. She fingered the cool brass of the kitchen cabinets, pulling each one open, searching, there had to be a stash of potions somewhere, each cabinet she slowly closed, trying to soften the crash of wood as much as possible.
So focused on her actions, she didn't notice that she was no longer alone, a quiet voice speaking, soft and dangerous, firm and unwavering. "Who are you?"
Hermione froze, fingers still wrapped around the curved brass of the cabinet handle. She was caught, her mind racing, she tried to formulate a plan, she turned slowly, eyes downturned, not daring to meet the angry face of Fleur. She put her hands up in surrender, a white wand pointed straight towards her. She couldn't fight back, not against her mate.. not her mate her mind corrected, still, she couldn't, not without making a sound, causing a commotion, alerting the others, she was outnumbered.
Again, more forceful, betraying the anger of the witch who spoke, "Who are you?" her accent missing.
"Hermione," it was soft, sounding foreign on her lips.
She did not expect the pure vitriol from the other witch, "Bullshit," she spat, stepping closer, her wand still between them, "you may fool the others, but you will not fool me." She was sure in her words, each sound spoke carefully, anger dripping through, off of each syllable, wrapped carefully around her tongue, spoken in defiance.
Hermione kept her hands up, surrendering herself, hoping she knew the woman in front of her as well as she thought she did, hoping she did not differ too much from the one she had married. She said a silent prayer, not believing in any God, but suddenly, finding if she was going to die, she would rather cover her bases, just in case.
"I am, test me." It was low, above a growl, but barely, she mentally cursed herself for letting her guard down.
Their standoff was broken by the raucous laughter of the two men from the other room. As if Fleur realized the danger they were all in, an unknown stranger in the kitchen, and her entire family in the small house, she paused, eyes narrowing, "I think I will do that. Come, with me." Her accent had not yet returned, her guard not yet dropped. She was careful to not give away any extra information.
The blonde woman practically shoved Hermione through the kitchen door, her wand pressed into the smaller woman's back, another arm holding onto her bicep. They paused momentarily, Hermione unexpectedly jerking to a stop, Fleur spoke, a smile upon her delicate features, her accent back, "'Ermione and I are going out to 'ave a drink." She told the boys, not waiting for a reply, nudging her captive towards the door.
Hermione heard Bill call out after them, "Alright! Don't have too much fun without us." The door shut behind them, and the friendly Fleur was once again replaced with the ice queen of their school days. The Fleur that she could remember hating, despising really, for no apparent reason. Remembering whispering behind her with Ginny, their childish nickname for her swimming to the surface.
She was once again jerked to a stop, they were alone, outside of her house, a good distance away, down the dirt path that had led to it. They had a small country cottage, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Muggles would have hated the distance from everything, but they could apparate. Hermione dared to turn back towards Fleur, shooting her a questioning glance.
"I do not know who you are, but I do not want to hurt you without reason," space between their bodies, Hermione had not noticed the distance that had grown between them, Fleur's wand still jabbed unceremoniously into her lower back, but they were no longer joined at the hip.
"Alright," she nodded slightly, still not turning to face her guard fully. She felt a tugging, just behind her navel, a pulling and swirling, her body resisting the contortions it was being forced into, taking forms it was never meant to. The familiar sickness of apparition washing over her body.
Her feet hit hard ground, refusing to give under her weight, the sickness ebbing away as quickly as it had appeared, she felt a loss, her skin now cold, as contact with her captor disappeared. She collapsed to her knees, elbows digging into the grass beneath her, she gasped for breath, her head spinning. Fleur stood over her, wand still trained on her, Hermione didn't care, her body shuddering, she coughed violently.
Fleur's icy blue eyes were trained on their prey, she felt no pity for the weak form before her eyes. It merely looked like Hermione, she could not, would not allow herself, to feel anything for the stranger inhabiting her friend's body.
After what felt like an eternity, Hermione sat back on her haunches, brushing her bushy locks out of her face, she stayed silent, eyes unfocused, staring straight ahead, her hands rested on her thighs. Fleur stood over her, just behind her, slightly to her left, casting a long shadow over Hermione.
It was evening, the dimming light fading, plunging the area into darkness. She looked around, slowly, taking in her surroundings, a field of some sort, Atop a hill, a lone tree ahead of her. There was little cover, if she ran, Fleur would have the advantage. She could only stay and fight, but getting to her wand, the wand tucked into her boot, a second one, hidden, unregistered, she'd gotten after the Ministry had fallen, that would be nearly impossible to do without being caught.
Every nerve in her body screaming to do something, she resisted, her fingers curling, digging painfully into her palms. "Tell me, who you are." Firm, commanding, cold and distant.
"I did." Her voice was hard, uncooperative, an unspoken challenge, defiance.
"You lied."
She laughed, bursting forth, unbidden, disbelief at her situation, "Then I'll prove it."
"You cannot prove to be someone you are not."
"Ask me anything."
"Knowledge will not prove anything, her life is constantly monitored by the press, appearing in the papers every time she moves."
"Then I suppose we are at a stalemate, if you will not believe my word, and will not trust any proof I can offer," Hermione stated, feigning interest in her fingers, picking at the dirt beneath them, her tone trying to sound as disinterested as possible. Her goal to lower the blonde's suspicion, for her wand to fall just long enough she could cast a stunning spell.
She should have known Fleur would be on to her, her own uneasily fooled. She had berated herself for her idiotic response earlier, the reason she was now in this situation. She could only hope that their lives had not differed too much despite their different worlds, she probably would fail a knowledge based test at knowing herself if she were honest.
Fleur's eyes never removed themselves from her, she was secretly pleased, knowing that her lover's gaze was on her so, hoping she could elicit the same reaction. A thought suddenly struck her, a devilish smile crossing her features, she thought it her only chance.
Turning to face the blonde, her head hung low, she put her hands up in surrender again, still close to the ground, she spoke quietly.
"You're right. I'm not Hermione," she paused, sensing the blonde tense, proud she had caught an impostor, but unsure just who the impostor was. "Well, I am, I'm just not the Hermione you know, but I am still her."
She raised her eyes, meeting the questioning gaze of the blonde enchantress. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, trying to collect her confidence, to steady herself, her nerves tingling, growing restless, she spoke slowly, never looking away from her mate. Knowing that this, right here, this moment, would either save her, or she would never live to see another day.
The words on her tongue tasting unfamiliar, foreign and heavy, it was not a language she used often, but one that held significance. It was the language of the Veela, she knew this Fleur would know it, would know the weight of it, the meaning of her words.
"I'm yours."
Fleur's blue eyes were wide, tinged with flecks of gold, shock written plainly on her fingers, her wand fell from her grip, she crashed to her knees. Hermione surged forward, wrapping her arms around the petite blonde, pulling her limp form close, keeping her from hitting the ground. She supported the blonde, burying her nose in her hair, savoring their proximity, she inhaled, the familiar scent of her mate comforting her in ways she had not expected.
The language of the Veela was only known by Veelas and their mates once they had bonded completely, it was sensual, tapping into the beast within, speaking directly to their core. Hermione had expected a strong reaction from it, but had not expected what she got.
A growl, low and dangerous from deep within the older woman, possessive, taking without concern, "Mine," the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, alert, tingling with excitement. The body in her arms now tensing, strong arms moving beneath her, "Always," Hermione spoke, a whisper, carried on the gentle breeze, she released her mate, the quarter Veela no longer needing the support she had provided.
Gold eyes stared into caramel ones, decidedly avian in their appearance, Fleur reached back out, needing contact between them. Her hand cupped Hermione's cheek, lightly, tenderly, feeling the younger witch nuzzle into her hand, a new feeling coursing through her, like electricity, her joints burned, her chest was warm, bursting with happiness.
"Fleur-"
"Shhh," she spoke, "Do not ruin ze moment," soft and tender, quiet, barely above a whisper. They stayed there, silent, eyes searching, the earlier animosity gone, replaced with a new tension, neither daring to make a move and bring it all crashing down.
Fleur's eyes began to change, the gold slowly disappearing with each blink, her pupils shifting from narrow slits, black still blown wide. Her logical mind regaining control, questions flooding, bursting forth unbidden, "Mates? How? Are we- we have to be- when?"
"I can't answer that, I don't know how. But, I've been yours for long enough. Since you healed me," she spoke carefully, unsure of what she could say, how much she could say, this wasn't her Fleur, wasn't the one she knew, had bonded with, merely a lookalike, but the bond had worked well enough. She'd never spoken the language to anyone else though, so maybe, she supposed, the language was permanent, could be spoken to anyone as long as a bond was intact.
Fleur's response had been unexpected though, she had recognized the changes, the beginning of a shift into her Veela form, she'd only witnessed it when emotions ran high, her Fleur had impressive control over the creature within.
"What was that?" Fleur asked, nervously, shifting closer to Hermione, needing to close the distance, an overwhelming need to touch the small woman in front of her, the contact of their hands no longer enough.
Hermione accepted the contact without question, welcoming her into her arms, pulling her into a tight embrace, her head resting on Fleur's shoulder, finding just as much comfort in it as her companion. "Hmm? What was what?"
"That, just before, you spoke and it was like something came to life, I just, I had to be near you, something demanded it, I had to," she paused, taking a deep breath, slowly releasing it, "possess you."
At that, Hermione pulled away slightly, regarding Fleur carefully, seriously, her eyes drank in every detail, the shining blue eyes now dulled and fatigued, a rosy tint coloring her cheeks, her ragged breathing and a sheen of sweat. "Fleur," she spoke, a pause, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth, worrying at it, she continued on, "Was your Veela awake?"
She knew the answer already, dreading hearing the words, needing them confirmed just the same, her eyes closed, squeezed shut as dread filled her, snaking out from the pit of her stomach. Another change. She cursed herself again, she'd made another mistake, this one couldn't be covered up, shoved into the corner and ignored.
"No," there it was, her head fell as the confirmation reached her ears. Her fingers curled, driving half moons into her palm, she slowly nodded, unable to raise her gaze to meet her mate's.
"I'm sorry."
It was all she could say. It was violent, painful, the first time could be fatal if not guided through it, a slow process, the body adjusting as it came alive was preferred. She'd just shocked it into existence, and it very much wanted to be known. Fleur was fighting it, sweat dripping down her lithe body, she'd forced it back, into hiding, into the recesses of her mind.
"You need to let it go, relax and let it happen," she urged, determined to help the blonde through her first time, hoping she would survive, coaching her through a process she could never experience, she hoped she was good enough.
The Veela, the physical embodiment of love, laid dormant in its host, sleeping until it was needed. The first time, Hermione had witnessed a slow, gradual transformation, one Fleur had been prepared for, each new step coming as their love progressed. But this time, this time it was sudden, without warning, without preparation, it would be as rough and painful as their relationship, a visual representation of them.
Bones cracked, limbs twisting and contorting, taking up new shapes, new positions, Fleur cried out, a strangled scream ripping from her lungs. Her fingers lengthened, her nails becoming claws. Her spine twisted, bending as it reshaped, wings bursting forth, tearing her shirt as they appeared. Her eyes glowed gold, the shade of the sunset sky, flecks of blue swimming in their pools. Her feet became taloned, curving and splitting to those of a bird, breaking free of their prison. Hermione bore witness to the transformation, her heart breaking with every painful sound. She had not meant to force this upon her love, tears pricking at her eyes, she held herself tightly, waiting for the moment it would be complete. She had seen her mate in this form before, but it was rare, and always left her in awe at the power contained within. The Veela were masters at provoking strong reactions from others, known as sirens of the skies, they demanded respect in their presence.
Finally, with one last painful scream, her head turned towards the sky, the last flickers of light fading, giving way to navy, her transformation was complete. Fleur raised a clawed hand, holding it in front of her face, slowly wiggling her figers, observing the movement before taking in the rest of her new form.
She fell forward, her body going limp, drained from the exertion. Hermione was ready, catching her and guiding her to the ground. She sat there, Fleur's head resting heavily in her lap, gingerly brushing her golden hair out of her face, twisting and twirling her fingers through it, the motion soothing to them both.
Hermione gazed down at her sleeping mate, tender eyes watching for any sign of distress. She would stay here and wait for her to return to her human form, hopefully that transformation less painful than this. Her mind wandering to the first time she had witnessed this same transformation, fear spiking, coursing through her veins, breathing hard, begging for Fleur to return to her.
A slight chuckle at how foolish she'd been, her mind stuck in a panic, war clinging to their lives like a needy child, she'd thought they'd been found, a curse had hit Fleur, she'd nearly lost her mind. It was ridiculous now of course, looking back, but she'd seen the same fear in Fleur's eyes, their positions switched. She'd seen the small changes, eyes, hands, but she had not been prepared for the feet or the wings, watching Fleur crumple in front of her like discarded paper.
The night was cool, still, only the chirping of insects and the occasional flash of a firefly's light as they walked home, hand in hand, silence between the pair. So many questions unspoken, unanswered, left for another time, too much had already passed this night. They longed to be closer, pulled together by an invisible string, puppets of their own lives, their master urging them to reach out, but held back by something. They walked, the soft dirt crunching under their shoes, melting away, cracking and breaking, their route illuminated by the stars.
Words were inadequate, and so they walked. Eyes gazed up at the night sky, a deep royal blue, observing the stars, universes looking down upon them, feeling inconsequential, Fleur stopped in her tracks. Unwilling to relinquish her grasp, she pulled Hermione back to her, staring intently at the shorter witch.
"What will 'appen when we go back?"
"I suppose I hadn't really thought of that," Hermione answered, a slight shrug of her shoulders. She looked down at their joined hands.
"We can't very well go around acting like we're togezzer, we're both married."
"Hmm," Hermione agreed, "Then, that leaves us with very few options, I suppose we'll just have to pretend now won't we?" Her voice had fallen to take the know-it-all tone she had sported in her youth, a defense mechanism, she'd learned as she grew. It still reared its ugly head on occasion.
"Don't be like zat," a soft voice scolded her, hurt just barely masked, Fleur's hand reached up, tenderly resting upon Hermione's cheek, her thumb stroking the soft skin below.
Hermione wanted to take Fleur into her arms, to pull her close and kiss her, to chase her through the fields, falling, laughing, rolling in the grass, not a single care in the world touching them. She wanted to experience the freedom she'd been cut off from for so long, to experience the joys of loving openly, of not having to hide, retreat away and shun the world outside.
She knew if she did that now, she'd never go back, she'd never finish what she set out to accomplish, she'd never free her Fleur. Her Fleur, her mind echoed, reminding her that the look-a-like in front of her was not her Fleur, was not the one she'd made so many happy memories with, was not the one she'd confessed her love to on the beaches outside of Shell Cottage, the one who had nursed her back to health. She knew almost nothing about the woman who stood in front of her, despite the electricity that surged through them when they touched, she was merely a clone of her love.
They would have much to discuss, but now, now was hardly the time. They would be expected back soon, and already her self control was waning. This Fleur is married to another, that annoying inner voice reminded her, and so she broke from the touch, her heart screaming at her to return, Fleur's hand still hanging in the open, hurt evident in her eyes, hurt that Hermione did not, could not see, as she looked away.
"I'm sorry," she said again, apologizing too many times for the young night, more than she'd ever intended to, chastising herself for messing up again.
Fleur stood there silently, her hand returning to her side, unwilling to lose her grip on Hermione's hand, she squeezed it tighter. "Don't be, I understand."
Hermione turned to look back at her, her eyes shining with moisture. "I need to explain," she did not deserve such an angel, not after all she had done, her greed, always taking for herself and still wanting more. The weight on her shoulders would surely crush her beneath it soon.
Fleur nodded, her eyes pleading, urging her to go on, still unsure of who this woman was, this woman who was not Hermione but bore her image.
Hermione breathed in deeply, stilling her nerves, a sigh, she waved her hand, transfiguring a patch of grass into a bench, old wood splitting and splintering, worn with years of use, neglect, its wood greying, much like the park benches she'd remembered from her childhood. Her mom had sat on one, a book open on her lap as she read silently, Hermione running to and fro, playing with the other local children in their neighborhood park, screaming for her mother to watch her perform some (not so) impressive trick, memories of happier, simpler times.
She led Fleur to the bench, sitting on it, their knees touching lightly, her hands folded in her lap, she looked down, memorizing the dirt clumps beneath them as though her life depended on it, but really, she wouldn't have been able to place a single one.
Another deep breath, hope that it would work better than the last, she started, "I, erm, this morning, it's not-" she wasn't sure how to start, nothing sounded right. A hand placed on top of hers, stopping her nervous fidgeting, she looked up into reassuring blue eyes, "'ow about you start from ze beginning?"
She nodded, guessing the easiest place was back home. "So, where I come from, You-know-who won the war, eight years ago. I'm not sure what else is different, but that's the most important difference, or... maybe not the most important, but the biggest. I thought I'd figured out time travel, and when I cast the spell, it brought me here, where ever here is. So, I suppose you're right, I'm not Hermione, your Hermione that is, but I am a Hermione."
Fleur looked at her intently, eyes searching, looking for any hint of a lie, finally she spoke, "Is zat why you know ze Veela language?"
"Yes, I'm your mate, at least, there I am, was? I don't even know if I can get back."
"If zat is what you want, I will 'elp you," she spoke quietly, her words firm, sure in her intent, but her inner Veela was already screaming at her, thrashing about inside, the bond between the two women weak, new, but already trying to bridge the gap between them. She pulled Hermione to her feet with a smile, bright, wide, eyes shining with laughter.
Never breaking the connection between them, they made their way back to Hermione's, laughing, the weight of the world gone for now, cast out from their tiny paradise.
Fleur awoke, a cold sweat dripping from her brow, breathing hard, pulse racing, she sat up, her face in her hands, new emotions brewing just under the surface. The blankets atop her body constricting, heavy, trapping her, she had to go. Something was wrong, very, very wrong. She slipped out of bed, taking care to not wake Bill, tiptoeing her way to the kitchen downstairs.
She needed to speak to her mother urgently, she was unfamiliar with many aspects of her Veela heritage, her blood being too diluted. Her transformation earlier should not have happened, but Hermione, she'd known what was happening, recognized it before Fleur had, she must have seen it before.
Fleur leaned against the counter, her arms spread wide, palms resting on the cool metal of the sink, she felt weak, the walk down to the kitchen draining her. She leaned forward, turning on the tap, unceremoniously drinking straight from the faucet, so unrefined and inelegant, her mother would have a fit if she saw her now. The cold water only barely sated her thirst, her body still wanting something else. A craving clinging to her mind, making its presence known but still a mystery as to what it was, a phantom taste on her lips.
Finally she turned, and kneeling before the fire, tossed a pinch of gray powder into the flames, looking like a glittery ash, it had mismatched clumps. The flames turned purple tinged with red, she spoke clearly, "Delacour manor," and somewhere in France, her head appeared in the dying light of a fire.
It took only a moment for a woman to appear, an older, more elegant, refined version of herself. Her hair was pulled back into a braid, a silk nightgown hidden under a soft, pink robe, hastily tied around her waist.
"Je suis desole, Maman," she spoke hurriedly, panic tugging at the edges of her words, "I met my mate," the words burst forth, eager to escape their prison.
"I know Fleur, this is nothing new, I was at your wedding years ago, remember?" Her eyes rolled as she spoke, but a playful smile upon her lips, she could not help but tease her eldest daughter as she spoke. The call was late, it was nearing 4 A.M. but, she was always happy to hear from her child.
"Maman, that is not what I mean, I have met my mate, she spoke in the Veela language to me."
"Fleur," she spoke, a stern warning disguised in her voice, "do not lie to me about such things."
"Maman, I am not lying, I don't know what's happening now, I need your help." Her voice was soft, pleading, her eyes cast towards the ground, looking at the cobblestone base of the fireplace, the rock cutting into her knees as she kneeled.
"You know a mate has never been found to exist for less than a half blood Veela, it is how you were able to marry Bill. Your Veela wouldn't have allowed it otherwise."
"I know, Maman, but tonight, my Veela awoke, I took its form earlier though I did not hold it for long."
"My Fleur," she spoke, her voice weak, hands covering her mouth, tears pricking at her eyes, "I never thought you would experience such a thing, I am sorry I did not prepare you for it, your Veela will not be happy until the bond is complete. Who is it, your mate?"
It was time for tears to well in Fleur's eyes, so full of emotion, of the difficult situation she had been placed in, knowing the challenges that would face her, choked out around a sob, "It is 'ermione," barely above a whisper. She had hoped her mother would not hear, would not comment on such a thing, the horrible fate dealt to her.
"'Ermione? But how? Isn't she married to Ronald?"
Fleur nodded, unable to speak the words aloud, her Veela seething at the mention of his name.
"Fleur, I am so sorry," she spoke, the unfamiliar words of the English language causing Fleur to look up, her cheeks shining, wet with tears, her face flushed.