A/N: And I'm back on this fic.
I was thinking a lot about this series while I was working on those fleurmione week fics, and came to the conclusion that while I still think you can read Ballads in whatever order you wish (chronological, etc), my personal recommendation is to read it in the order I've written them. I just think readers can get more out of this story if they know what happens later. Just my opinion, though. I've added a note in the first chapter reflecting this recommendation.
Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter. Only one more chapter left to go after this one!
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MissFoxJSV and wkgreen: thank you for your continued support!
Chapter 6
Make-up application is usually a quick affair in the mornings as Fleur prepares for work, and even though she took too long in the shower, she slows down and takes her time now. Carefully layering herself with creams and powders, waving her wand to make sure everything is water and smudge-proof. Once she's done, she removes her robe and leisurely gets dressed in the outfit she laid out on the bed, following it up with redoing the bun of her hair.
Her sister would say she's stalling but she needs this deliberateness. Especially today.
A spritz of perfume finishes her armor and she stands in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of her room. She looks older than her twenty-two years. And definitely over-dressed for the party. More mature and more knowing than the demur young housewife Bill wants her to be, but she doesn't care. Perhaps it'll help him understand, she thinks.
Drawing her wand again, Fleur summons a medium-sized brown leather duffel from inside her wardrobe and places it on the bed. It's her travel bag for work and has an undetectable extension charm on it. Inside are spare clothes, travel toiletries, files for her newest assignment, and related research. She packed it the day before. Opening it, she turns to the piles she made in her room after Bill left.
A couple of stacks of books which include the personal photo album she went through earlier. A haphazard pile of papers topped with a tied bundle of letters. Next to those are a couple of framed photos and a few other bibelots from downstairs. The orderly piles of folded clothes on the bed. The pairs of shoes lined up in front of the wardrobe.
They've been waiting for her. To make the decision she's been putting off.
Clearing her throat, she drops her gaze and flicks her wrist, and all the various piles begin to pack themselves into the duffel. She watches and waits for a few seconds, waiting for a feeling of rightness, but it doesn't come.
Fleur does another sweep of the upstairs guest rooms before going back down to the second floor. She tenses as she enters Hermione's old room. Taking in the freshly-made bed, the sunlight shining through the windows, the books on the shelves that the girl would read.
Her throat closes up again but she purses her lips and walks out.
There's nothing there she wants.
She takes another look through the wardrobe in her room, flipping through the hanging neutral-tone skirts and cardigans, her wedding dress, and closes it. Going to her small vanity, Fleur sends her make-up pouches, jewelry box, and perfume bottles to the duffel. Her eye catches on what looks like a lavender pebble stuck under the back edge of the lace doily the jewelry box sat on. It's the small cowrie shell Hermione gave her for her birthday last year. A shaky hand reaches for it, cradling it in her palm.
The shell used to have pride of place out on her dresser but after seeing Bill pick it up and play with it last summer, she moved it to its own little partition inside her jewelry box. There it stayed until recently when in a fit of rate, she threw it against the vanity mirror and apparated to work, not bothering to look for it when she got home.
It's such a small thing. Insignificant compared to the many like it outside her door. And yet at one time it meant so much to Fleur to see it every day. To remember the smile and nervousness on Hermione's face as she gave it to her. To remember how it made her feel to know the witch had been thinking of her as she picked it up off the beach.
Tempted to let it fall to the floor, Fleur closes her fingers over it instead and walks over to her duffel, throwing it inside with a huff. As if the small violence against the thing could cover up keeping yet another memento she shouldn't.
Closing the bag, she picks it up and walks out into the hall and down the stairs.
Fleur sets the bag beside the small fireplace in the living room where it'll be waiting for her when she gets back after she's done at the party. Turning around, she resists moving her gaze towards the front door and forces her attention on the room as a whole.
Very little is different even with her bag packed. Her imprints on this place have been infinitesimal compared to the indelible marks it's left on her. The sounds. The smells. The echoes of those few weeks she was here. All of it carved into her. Her soul a tapestry of gouges, cracks, and delicately chiseled images of ache, love, and regret.
Three chimes on the clock break her reverie.
C'est bien, Fleur tells herself, resigned to being late despite her earlier efforts to be timely. It isn't as if her presence at the Burrow is necessary. Certain persons will be annoyed no matter what time she arrives.
And she still has the garden to take care of.
::
Hermione appears strangely preoccupied during dinner, and Fleur worries that she's shared too much about potential mates in that conversation earlier in the day.
Her drifting attention hears Dean ask what everyone's plans are after the war.
The assumption that they're alive and on the winning side goes unsaid.
Harry is subdued as he says, "I think I still want to be an auror. I don't exactly meet the requirements, though."
"There's no way they won't take us," Ron responds enthusiastically. Fleur takes a bite of her salad to stop herself from pointing out his seemingly unrealistic view of what auror training entails. The trio needs all the hope they can muster.
"I might work for my dad at the Quibbler for a while," says Luna. "And you, Hermione?"
The bookworm hesitates, and Fleur gives her an encouraging nod.
"I suppose," Hermione starts slowly, "I want to keep fighting for the rights of those that have been disadvantaged by outrageous wizarding laws. Which probably means working for the Ministry, but I don't know. What about you, Fleur?"
Fleur smirks and twirls her fork. "Definitely back to curse-breaking. I was part-time before but I want a full-time position. And if Gringotts won't give it to me, there are other companies."
"That's great, Fleur, I hope things work out," Hermione replies sincerely, smiling.
Fleur returns the smile then her eyes dart to Bill. He doesn't look happy.
"Of course," Bill says, "things might change when we start our family."
"William–" Fleur starts.
"And why's that?" Hermione asks pointedly. "Plenty of women have careers as well as children, if that's even what Fleur wants."
"Hang on," Ron drawls, missing how Hermione is trying to control her temper. "What's wrong with wanting someone to stay home with the kids? Our mum did it. Always said it's the best job she ever had."
"But not all women want that, Ron. I want a career. I want to change things, important things that will help a lot of people. I don't even know if I want children."
"What's wrong with children?" argues Bill. His hands grip his fork and knife so tightly, Fleur can see the whites of his knuckles.
"Nothing. All I'm saying is that parenthood is not for everyone," Hermione states, her gaze firm and unyielding as she stares Bill down. "And if it is for Fleur, great. But she doesn't have to give up her other ambitions to make that happen. She was a Triwizard champion, the best her school had to offer. If the tournament had been fair at the start, with truly impartial judging and no cheating to get Harry in, she had just as much chance at winning as Viktor and Cedric. She's exceptional. Brilliant. I can't wait to see her run circles around you and the others at the bank."
Griphook grunts, and it almost sounds like a laugh. Bill, red-faced, stabs at his bloody steak and doesn't say anything further.
"Magizoology is also an interesting career," says Luna dreamily, breaking the awkward silence. "I could go look for the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. It's supposed to live in Sweden."
Having provided the distraction everyone needs, the dinner conversation moves on.
Meanwhile, Fleur notices Ron doesn't really participate. He keeps glancing at Hermione. There's something else in his expression. Something like worry and insecurity.
Later that night, when the others have gone up to bed, Fleur sits in the living room and waits. As what's happened the previous nights, Hermione comes down the stairs and joins her, sitting next to her with a loud exhale.
"Sorry for earlier," the brunette murmurs.
"Non, please don't apologize. I rather liked you putting William in his place. He was angry at first, obviously, but I think it's good for him to hear these opinions from someone other than myself."
"I suppose," says Hermione uncertainly. "I do believe those things, and it's true I'm not sure about kids. I used to want them when I was younger but now… considering what I've done to my parents, I doubt that means I'd make a good mother."
"You're wrong. From everything I've learned about you, from how much you love your parents and friends, if you wanted it someday, I think you'd make a wonderful mother."
The other woman smiles and whispers, "I think you'd make a wonderful mother, too, Fleur."
::
Fleur goes outside and without missing a beat, she walks through the garden gate, waves her wand at a pot, and pulls out the dead French lavender. Levitating it over the hedge, she leaves it on a cleared away spot of sand.
She is methodical as she does the same to the other plants. Her face like stone. Her eyes steely in the sunlight. The sea breeze soft against her stiffness. Refusing to let the memories come. Discarding them in the same way she's disposing of this garden.
Her ancestral clan was known for their expertise in horticulture. Growing up, her mother and grandmother Zelia often took Fleur out to help in their gardens, and did the same with Gabrielle when she was old enough. The four of them with their garden hats would spend hours outside together. Zelia said all Desjardins Veela have a connection to the soil. To bring out the beauty of the earth, as well as the sustenance and materials needed by the creatures living on it.
Unfortunately, that connection to the soil isn't the only reason why breathing becomes difficult and her stomach churns. Or why her eyes sting and her wand movements falter.
Still, Fleur pushes on, telling herself to let everything go.
But each plant she pulls feels like a blow against the heart which swelled every day her love for Hermione grew.
::
Fleur looks out the window of her bedroom and sets aside her book. The clouds loom dark and ominous. The light rain is going to get worse. Bill is out getting supplies and she hopes he'll get back soon.
Rising from her chair, she heads downstairs. Perhaps Hermione will want to help her.
Things have been different with the younger witch over the last couple of days after that dinner. Not in any significant way that the others would likely be able to discern, but enough for her to feel Hermione pull away.
She already knew Hermione didn't want to duel anymore, but she didn't expect their walks after checking on the garden to shorten, or that the girl would stop coming down to the living room after everyone's gone to bed. Their conversations outside are still comfortable, but less flirtatious and less eager, like Hermione is reining herself in. And since they now get back to the cottage before lunch, the witch does other things without her until then. During meals, Hermione's attention is more spread out, still willing to engage in their usual debates but doing more to include the others.
Fleur also observed how Hermione has spent more time with Ron. Talking together in the living room. Short walks outside after lunch.
It's always been hard to resist scowling whenever she's passed the boy in the cottage, but now it's near impossible.
She understands, of course she does. Whatever answers Hermione needed about mates have been given, and the previously blurred boundaries of their friendship have sharpened into focus. Hermione is only doing now what Fleur should've done at the start; adjusting their interactions to a more appropriate level of friendship.
It isn't Hermione's fault that it's only put her on edge. Missing their closeness. Missing her.
The fear at the trio's approaching departure also doesn't help. Hermione hasn't said when, but Fleur knows it'll be any day now.
Walking by the dining room, Fleur finds Hermione sitting at the table with Ron. His hand is over hers.
The pink of the brunette's cheeks says their conversation is personal and the softness of her smile says she doesn't mind.
Seeing Fleur, Hermione tenses, and even appears a little guilty as she pulls her hand away.
"I'm sorry for interrupting," says Fleur, breathing through the pang in her chest and looking directly at Hermione. "The storm is getting worse and I thought you might want to help shield the garden. But if you're too busy right now, I can do it myself."
Hermione opens her mouth but before she can answer, Ron speaks.
"Oh, I was just leaving," he says, standing up. "I'm sure Hermione will be happy to help, though."
He heads to the living room where Harry and Dean are playing wizard's chess, a self-satisfied expression on his face as he passes. To Fleur it reeks of smugness, the kind men feel when they're getting what they want.
Hermione stands up and smiles. "Well, let's go."
Donning raincoats and boots in the boot room, Fleur and Hermione head out. She says they need to cast protective charms over the more fragile plants, demonstrating the spell by casting one on the dittany. It's a modified shield charm which allows the rain and wind to go through, only much more gently.
The rain pours over the two young women as they smile and make jokes, and the discomfort Fleur felt earlier at seeing her with Ron fades.
They're just about done when a strong gust of wind nearly knocks them off balance. Hermione looks at her in alarm and runs out the gate.
Fleur yells, "Hermione, wait!"
The brunette stops, her wand ready to cast, but she lowers it as the blonde hurries out the gate to join her.
"It's newly planted, Fleur, shouldn't we protect it, too?" Hermione asks.
Fleur shakes her head and chuckles, then looks down at the rosa rugosa bush.
"Non, the beach roses don't require shielding. It's why I went with this variety in the first place. Eventually I'll take cuttings and propagate it around the garden, replacing the crimson spire with this as the hedge. I wanted something strong to protect everything else, something that doesn't need magic, something resilient and beautiful…" Fleur pauses and turns to Hermione. "Like you."
Fleur didn't mean to add the flirty remark, knowing Hermione hasn't been as responsive to it recently. But then the witch smiles and tries to hide her flushed face by turning, and Fleur feels like she's said the right thing after all.
"And like you, Fleur," Hermione says shyly.
Fleur beams and it's like the last two days of distance between them have melted away.
Thunder rumbles. She grabs the witch's hand, says an urgent 'come on', and together they run back to the cottage.
They squeal and laugh in the boot room as they remove their raincoats and boots, and wring out the water from their hair.
The laughter fades into breathy panting, and she looks over at Hermione, water dripping down both their faces. She chuckles at the sight and raises her hand to wipe a wet strand of hair on Hermione's forehead off to the side and behind her ear. They're close. Like during their dance. Hermione's eyes widen slightly but she doesn't step away. And Fleur sees the flecks of amber in those honey-brown eyes that have haunted her dreams since the wedding. Her fingers lightly trail down Hermione's cheek before pulling away. Her hand falls to her side, a weight settling heavy in her heart, locking into place like it's meant to be there.
It's happened.
As much as she's tried to prevent it, as much as she's tried to deny it, Fleur finally recognizes what her heart has been trying to tell her.
She's fallen in love. For the first time in her life, she's in love, and it's so much bigger and more beautiful than she ever imagined.
The want Fleur feels is incandescent, burning and brightening everything inside of her. Her heart beats fast but it's steady. Like a song. Their song. And she can see it. Feel it. The rhythm in her veins. The melody dancing in her mate's eyes, smile, and laugh. Playing out their lives together just as her mother said. What they could have. What they could be. The quiet beauty of building a life and sharing a true love. The anthemic highs. The devoted steadfastness through good times and bad.
In this moment, she wants it. Her soul wants to sing it forever and ever.
And the look in her mate's eyes makes her wonder if Hermione can feel their song, too.
Fleur is jolted back to reality by the laughter coming from the living room. Hermione steps away, looking pensive and conflicted. Battling the increasing cacophony of her thoughts and yearnings, Fleur does the only thing she can.
"I should get started with dinner," Fleur says, turning away and going into the kitchen. "Thank you for helping with the garden."
"Of course. Erm, do you need help with dinner?" Hermione follows from behind.
"Non," Fleur says curtly, then adds more politely, "Non, merci. You should go join the others. It sounds like they're having fun."
Hermione is reluctant, Fleur can tell, but the witch eventually leaves the kitchen.
Reaching for the pots and pans, she roughly settles them on the stove and begins her preparations.
She should've seen the signs sooner.
The way her pulse picks up at the sound of Hermione's voice or when she can get those eyes to sparkle. The mysteries in her various expressions that Fleur could spend hours thinking about. Every shared glance, every touch is electrifying, and at the same time the resulting warmth that spreads through her body makes her feel more solid, more present. It is the closest she's ever felt to another person. She wants to kiss her. To taste those lips. To make her gasp against her mouth. To feel her move against her with desire, wanting Fleur's hands on her.
Taking a bowl of potatoes to the sink, she starts scrubbing them furiously under the water. All the while telling herself to stop. She can't act on this. She promised to turn away from a mate bond when she married Bill. She's made her choice and Hermione has to make her own, too. Whether that's Ron, or someone more deserving, it's not going to be her. Fleur can only be a friend, nothing more.
Her grandmother's voice from a long-ago lesson reminds her she shouldn't even be that. A Veela who's set their heart on a potential mate and can't be with them needs to cut off all contact if the Veela has any hope of getting the love to fade.
The thought of ending their friendship altogether causes Fleur to drop a potato in the basin, and she grips the edge of the counter, staring out the window.
The downpour and thunder outside continue. She tries to soothe herself with the drip on the sill, thankful she told Bill not to seal the gutter just yet. She stares at it. Focuses on the rhythmic tapping sounds, the splashing against the windowpanes. Breathes evenly until her heartrate slows.
But calming her thoughts doesn't stop the guilt or shame.
She only realizes Hermione's come back in when a hand covers her own, the fingers lightly brushing over her knuckles, and Fleur's shoulders slump. Her chin drops to her chest. Hermione knows the signs of her turmoil too well.
"What is it?" Hermione asks in concern.
"It's nothing," Fleur murmurs, taking comfort from the witch's touch despite knowing she shouldn't.
"Tell me, please."
Fleur shakes her head, staring down at their hands. Jealousy spikes as she recalls Ron's hand covering Hermione's at the dining table.
She can't. She shouldn't. Especially now that she knows how she feels.
A Veela mustn't pressure a potential mate, even if they're not going to court them.
But she's also Hermione's friend. Cannot a friend objectively point out the inappropriateness of another friend's suitor? It's not pressure if she's not going to offer herself up as an alternative.
"You deserve more. How can you forgive him after he abandoned you and Harry like that?"
Hermione lets out a small gasp. The hand over Fleur's drops away.
"You weren't there, you don't know what we went through. You didn't see how hurt he was–how I hurt–"
"I saw him when he was here, Hermione!" Fleur's heart pounds and her voice is rising. Doing it like this is all wrong but her indignation on her mate's behalf spurs her on. "You already told me about the splinching, how the guilt ate at you. But I also overheard him talking to William about you and Harry. I know some of the things he said to you."
As the blonde speaks, Hermione looks towards the doorway leading to the dining room and living room, takes out her wand, and casts a muffliato charm.
"He wasn't himself when he left, Fleur. Not completely. You don't understand–"
"Then help me understand!"
"I–I wish I could tell you–what it felt like to wear–"
The brunette stops herself. It's frustrating that Hermione still won't share the details of their mission.
"And how he treated you at the Yule Ball, so many of us heard. How many other moments like that have there been? Where he hasn't respected you. Where he hasn't shown that he understands and trusts you."
"We were kids then. He was just jealous."
"Jealousy is not an excuse to belittle you!" Fleur hisses. "But that isn't everything, even though it's more than enough."
Hermione lifts up her chin, her gaze hardening. "What else then?"
"You hide yourself when you're with him. You make yourself less."
"Maybe I'm just considerate of his feelings. Not everyone needs to be as blunt as you are with their opinions."
Fleur hears the defensiveness, sees the anger in her eyes, and yet she still can't stop herself.
"You should have someone who shares your interests. Who doesn't yawn and ignore you when a discussion veers into the intellectual or some other topic that interests you and not him. You glow when you talk about something you care about. I see it. It fills my chest with so much pride in you. But does he appreciate that? Does he light a fire inside of you?"
"Fleur," Hermione warns.
"Non! You cannot tell me you can be yourself with him."
"You mean the way you can be yourself with your husband? What makes you think you're any better? You didn't choose a true love. Someone who lights a fire inside of you. After you lost someone you could've truly loved, you settled!"
Fleur gasps, the words puncturing her fury and indignance, hurting exactly as the witch intended.
Guilt flashes in Hermione's expression but it doesn't stop her from spinning around and storming away, leaving Fleur to curse at the bowl of potatoes.
::
Her eyes are wet by the time she's done, but she blinks it away.
The garden beds and pots are empty. Only the few sea thrifts and crimson spire hedge remain. She was originally going to pull the crimson spire, too, but since the hedge was here before she moved in she decides to leave it.
Walking out of the garden, her wand still in her hand, she glances at the pile of plants on the sand before facing the beach roses.
The bush is finally starting to bloom. If left alone, it would bloom all summer, and the rose hips would start appearing in the autumn.
Fleur clenches her jaw and slowly raises her wand.
::
Standing on a dune, Fleur looks out at the ocean with her arms folded, her hair whipping about her face in the wind. It's late in the afternoon, but she doesn't really know how long she's been out here. She probably should get dinner started soon. She also should've worn more than just this thin cardigan.
They're leaving tomorrow and she and Hermione haven't spoken alone since the day before yesterday when they argued in the kitchen. The only interactions they've had have been with others around, such as when Fleur gave Hermione a garment from her wardrobe earlier today. It was clear what they needed it for, and Fleur was frightened for them. At least Bill warned them about deals with Griphook.
She can hear someone approaching, their footsteps trudging through the sand.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Hermione stop a few steps away.
After a prolonged silence, Fleur says, "I'm sorry for the other day. I spoke out of turn."
"I'm sorry, too," Hermione says quietly. "For questioning your choices like that. I shouldn't have said what I did about you and Bill. You had your reasons, as long as you're happy with him– you are, aren't you, Fleur?"
Fleur turns slightly away, heart thundering in her chest. She thought she was happy enough. But now, between being at odds with Bill and her love for Hermione screaming at her to confess it… she's uncertain about her next steps. Her marriage still means something to her. Guilt has been tearing up her insides for two days and she has no concrete answer on what to do.
Dumping all of this on Hermione would only make things harder for her, though. They're leaving tomorrow, off to fight in a war that never should've been theirs. And Hermione has to keep her head clear for what's ahead.
Forcing down the bile that the lie brings up, Fleur gives a slow nod.
Hermione steps closer to her and says almost accusingly, "But you can't talk about being true to myself when there are things you aren't being forthcoming about, too."
Fleur didn't expect the girl to see right through her. At the reference to being mates, she wants to protest that she's only been following Hermione's lead. That the witch preferred to talk around it, just as she's talking around it now. Fleur was also afraid the truth would change things. Change how Hermione talked with her, relied on her. Talking about it might have also increased the risk of developing feelings.
But those feelings developed anyway. And she can't say 'despite her best efforts' because she knows the choices she made.
She should've been honest with Bill about loving him less than how he loved her.
She shouldn't have gotten so close to Hermione.
She shouldn't love her.
Fleur bows her head, waiting and hoping for more admonishments. The other witch blows out a long breath, and then steps close enough for their shoulders to almost touch, the two of them facing the ocean.
"But neither have I," murmurs Hermione. "So I can't really be angry at you about that."
Her stomach flips over at the acknowledgement of Hermione's complicity in leaving things unsaid.
"Fleur, I just can't really think about the future right now," Hermione admits softly. "Not yet. Not when this war isn't over and any one of us can die in it. I'll tell Ron this, too. Afterwards, after I get my parents back, and I have a chance to really think about what comes next. I… I just want that time."
"And you would deserve it," Fleur replies, taking the brunette's hand in hers. "You've been through so much. Whenever this war ends, you deserve time to rest and think about the path you deserve."
Hermione squeezes her hand and she squeezes back. They look at each other, all the unspoken things thick and uncrossable between them. There's something in her face that makes Fleur think she's waiting for her to say more.
But there's still confusion and guilt clouding her thoughts, and she turns back to the ocean with a slight frown.
Hermione pulls her hand away and sighs.
"You weren't entirely wrong either. The truth is I am still angry at him for leaving us, but I don't want to be." Hermione's tone is cautious, pleading. A plea for Fleur to understand. "He's an idiot but he's also warm and funny and I've known him for so long. We've been through a lot together. With him, I can see it all, and I like that I can, Fleur. After everything, I like the knowing. And it would be okay to choose it, wouldn't it? To settle down with that familiarity and security, that belonging. It's nice, it–it could be nice, and what I need. Does that make sense?"
Fleur can feel the witch's gaze, piercing and expectant.
Without looking at her, she whispers 'yes'. Hadn't she married Bill for similar reasons? Hadn't she found a steadiness in him that she needed after the loss of Cedric?
Understanding Hermione's choice doesn't stop her heart from sinking, however. Because she also understands what comes after choosing steadiness.
Being with Ron, loving him only because Hermione needs him for the familiarity and security he can give her won't lead to a mature, soul-satisfying love.
What happens when the wounds heal and the nightmares fade? When familiarity and security aren't enough?
When she realizes she no longer needs him for those reasons, what will be the basis for her love then?
A dependent love weakens when the foundation it lives on crumbles to nothing.
Fleur thinks back to their dance. Hermione's reaction to a mate's first touch wouldn't have been so strong if she truly loved the Weasley boy. But perhaps whatever feelings she had for him back then strengthened over the months on the run together, which allowed Hermione to do what Fleur has failed to do over these last weeks. Keep her attraction in check. Protect her heart from falling.
And yet, if that were really true, why did Hermione encourage Fleur's flirtations? Why did she seek to maximize their time together as much as Fleur did? If she felt any sort of romantic love for Ron, why not spend that time with him?
Which leads her back to Hermione choosing him for the wrong reasons.
Except Fleur won't say any of these things.
This is the witch's choice. And despite her misgivings, it helps the Veela decide on the path forward. Stay silent about her love and salvage her relationship with her husband.
So, Fleur says nothing more and tries to enjoy these moments together by the sea.
After a while, the brunette says she should finish making sure they have enough provisions before tomorrow.
Watching her walk away, Fleur feels a pang. An echo of something missed sounding over the crashing waves.
What if she can't move on from this set heart? What if…?
But she can't think that way. She has to try. For everyone's sake, she has to try.
::
That night, waking up to the call of her name, Fleur lies next to a sleeping Bill, unsure if she should respond or let Luna handle it as she's done ever since the Ravenclaw moved into the room.
Those nights when she went to Hermione's room to lay with her and comfort her never made her feel guilty before. But she feels it now given how much she longs to go to her mate. To hold her one last time while she still can.
After her name is said again with a muffled cry, Fleur is unable to resist. When she opens her door, the opposite door opens as well. It's Luna.
The two witches step into the hallway, closing the doors behind them.
Fleur asks quietly, "Is she all right? Do you need anything?"
"No, but I think I'll go downstairs for a short while and make some tea." Luna walks away without saying anything more.
Biting her lip, Fleur enters the guest room which is lit by a candle at Hermione's bedside. The bookworm relaxes at the sight of her.
Knowing she's made the right choice, Fleur pads towards the bed and climbs in.
Hermione turns her back to her and pulls Fleur's arm over her. She curls around the tired witch, pressing her nose into her hair, twisting her fingers in it, breathing in the smell of the shampoo she's been letting Luna and Hermione use, and the other scent underneath. The one that's earthy and enticing, and makes Fleur's heart flutter.
They don't say anything, but Fleur prays and argues to whatever deities that are listening that they will protect this girl. Nothing else matters. Not her desire. Not her love.
It isn't until Hermione turns around that Fleur realizes she's crying and she feels arms bring her down to the brunette's chest, a chin resting on top of her head. Fleur clutches at her as her cries turn to sobs, humbled and shamed by how kind and selfless her mate is. Even after a nightmare that had her calling out into the night, Hermione finds it in herself to look after her.
Fleur can't lose her. Not another potential mate. Not one she loves. She won't survive it. She won't want to survive it.
"Come back," she whimpers in gasping breaths. "Whatever you have to do, just come back."
Hermione whispers soothing sounds until Fleur calms and brings her head up to stare into the other girl's eyes. They lay like that for a while, enjoying each other's presence during these last peaceful minutes, until drowsiness slowly overcomes Hermione.
Although Fleur hears Luna enter the room and get into her own bed, she doesn't let go of Hermione until she's sure the witch has fallen asleep. And even then she stays and memorizes the sounds of her breathing, the warmth of her in her arms.
Finally, Fleur pulls away, blows out the candle, and returns to her bedroom.
Just before dawn, she hears Hermione and the others as they prepare to leave. She doesn't get up. They didn't want any prolonged goodbyes and Fleur doesn't think she could stand seeing them off anyway.
::
Those interactions in the kitchen and on the dunes torment Fleur more than anything else. No matter what she's doing, no matter what temporary peace she thinks she's achieved, those conversations are always at the back of her mind.
At the time, she was too consumed by guilt, and too focused on doing the right thing, that Fleur never realized that those were the moments where Hermione might've been wanting her to say more about that path she deserved, and who would join her on it. She didn't know then how much she would come to regret not recognizing those chances and not saying all the things she should've said when Hermione looked at her with those expectant eyes.
If she could do those moments over…
But it's too late.
Fleur continues to point her wand at the beach roses, the beautiful rosa rugosa that she and Hermione planted, and inwardly yells at herself to make the final cut. To accept what's happened and close the book on this once and for all.
With a muffled cry through tight lips, she makes a slashing motion, and a jet of purple light diagonally cuts through the middle of the bush, the top falling to the sand. She slices through it again, right down to the roots. And then again. Each time she does, her cries grow until she can't blink her tears away anymore, and they stream down her face. Again and again until the plant is unrecognizable. Until her anguish bleeds out in mournful wails.
After she's cried herself hoarse, Fleur manages to wave both hands, levitating every blurry piece she sees, including the decimated trunk and roots, over to the pile of plants.
Concentrating her magic, she conjures a fireball in her right hand. It's yellow at first and then she flexes her fingers around it until it's a blinding white. There's no hesitation as she throws it onto the pile, a tearful gasp drowned out by the crackling flames.
The fire from her magic is hot, so it won't take long for everything to burn. She stares into it, giving herself these minutes to let the last of her tears fall. Searching within herself, again there's no feeling of rightness. But perhaps it isn't meant to feel that way for her. Not after all she's done. There is only moving forward.
When the pile is nothing but ash, Fleur uses her wand to wipe and dry her face, then conjures a small whirlwind. She moves it over the ashes, which spins them until they are cool enough to disperse into the sea winds.
Lowering her wand, Fleur watches after them as they blow across the dunes into nothingness, willing her heart to do the same.
