So. Not much to say before this really. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it. I feel like I rushed it just so I could get it out there. But I also feel that way about everything I write. And nothing I ever do lives up to my own unreasonably high expectations anyways. So I hope you guys like it. And if you don't…be gentle. Am baby.

Disclaimers:

Harry Potter is not mine and I do not profit from it.

The Veela method of reproduction actually belongs to Bioware and the Asari. The way in which Veela canonically pass along their genetic material has never made any sense to me. Especially if they are an all female species. Like. If they only reproduced with men, then the Veela as a species would die out after so many generations. And depending on when they had originated, it might not even make sense for Fleur's grandmother to be full blooded Veela. For them to exist, there has to be some better explanation for how they were able to pass along their genes and still remain an independent species. And being the autistic mess that I am, I clearly obsessed over this one little tiny insignificant plot point until it drove me to near insanity and then over-shared about it in my fanfiction. So I hope you all enjoy that. Anyways, I took these mating concepts from the Mass Effect series because I thought it was the best way to explain how an all female species could reproduce and not immediately die out.

Mr. Spooky the owl is my own creation. But he was named after the translated/but-not-so-precisely-translated Spanish version of Voldemort's name that became a twitter meme all those years ago, even though it wasn't really the correct translation (For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, just google Mr. Spooky Voldemort. It's a whole thing). Please do not judge me. I just needed to name the owl and I thought it would be cute. And I was right. It is.

I apologize in advance for any poor attempts at French. The language is beautiful. I love it. I do not intend to butcher it. And I do not mind any polite feedback or corrections you might have to offer.

Chapter 14

Her heart roared on. Currently on its way to a passion that could cultivate life. The ultimate destination a most welcomed little death.

On the way, it passed by a sign. "Diagon Alley" was spelled out in white paint across a worn piece of wood. It was carved precariously into the shape of an arrow that pointed northward down an old cobblestone street. A strong gust of wind blew in from the east stirring up the dust between the stones that settled gently like a blanket across the various wood and brick structures as they took another slow and steady breath. Among those structures was a shop, worn by bitter years of rain and cold. Its windows so unsteady in the wind tunnel created by the neighboring buildings, that they were fixed in a perpetual rattle. Frost engraved a swathe of translucent pine needles into the vibrant glass obscuring the outside world's view. All except for the light from the floating lanterns that reflected off the panes in a dim golden halo. Its warmth hot enough to heat the small space near the shop entrance.

There was a dark brown chair visible in the dim light of the room. With lush industrious leather for the sake of English propriety and strategic placement behind the register for employee respite. It almost always seemed to serve its purpose proudly, subserviently, and with little complaint. Now however, it groaned uncomfortably under an oppressive weight.

And there they both were — the virtuosos of this symphony. The body of this scenery. Two invariably different women, both prodigiously longing and unapologetically gluttonous. It hadn't taken them very long to make themselves feel at home in their little corner of Flourish and Blotts.

Only, this wasn't the real Flourish and Blotts.

The real Flourish and Blotts would be bustled with students looking for books on their Hogwart's required reading list. Or dallied with passerbys pretending to be interested in the current best seller.

At the real Flourish and Blott's, Hermione would be too heavily absorbed in her perusal of every aisle, handing each book of interest to a bumbling bookstore employee who would struggle to keep up with the appropriate spell to package them all at the register.

Which was not in any way similar to this scene. The evidence was in the emptiness, obvious in the transfigured atmosphere of a store that was permanently predisposed to staying busy at regular intervals. Well, that and the way Hermione's hand had been working studiously beneath the skirt of Fleur's dress.

No, this wasn't the real Flourish and Blott's at all. But there was a familiarity there that bred that same form of creature comforts all the same.

And this was it. They'd done this before. The movements recorded in their hips, the methodology in their wandering hands. This shop. This scene in which they had been metaphysically painted. This was the fabric of Hermione Granger's mind. The one place they could be irrevocably unfettered, shamelessly unrestrained. And from the moment they had arrived, they had gone wild in that freedom.

The groaning of the leather began to sync in time with the ever-increasing staccato of Fleur's hips. In a white and blue sundress, the matriarch of florescence sat above Hermione. Staring down through hooded eyes. Something about her features were preternaturally flawless. As if almost intentional. As if she were always meant to be seen from the angle in which Hermione — and Hermione alone — had attained. From it she looked like the Veela's young mother. The perfect mother. Agonizingly beautiful. As if her face and stomach and arms and legs were all carved from fresh cut marble. An homage built by the goddesses themselves. A shrine worthy of nothing less than worship and blind devotion.

In that moment, Hermione would have fought off every war in the annals of history a thousand times over for that woman. Mesmerized by the blue hydrangeas as they danced across the wrinkles of bunched up fabric belonging to the dress she had pushed up under in her haste to feel the other woman's skin against her own fingertips. She had picked this. Selectively. Intentionally. As if the contrast between purity and the debauchery that she had planned to occur beneath were as much of a turn on as the woman wearing it.

She hadn't removed the dress. Oh, no she hadn't dared to even think about removing the soft flower-patterned fabric even as it begged her for release. Though not for lack of want, but because she thrived on the image of the pristine blonde writhing above her desperately, mouth open, dress bunched up messily around her waist as she rode her fingers to victory. Like she was a queen on her ride to glory. In the battle between pure artistry and transcendence. And Hermione was the great white steed that would carry her all the way there. Because Fleur Delacour possessed a beauty that Hermione wished to defile. A perfection she badly wished to sully. So that it might reach all new heights of beauty in which not even she was worthy of basking. Her forehead dropped to her lover's cheek. The weight of her wildest fantasies heavy on her neck and shoulders.

"Fuck," The words exploded like a blasting curse from Hermione's mouth. She didn't swear often.

"Fleur. You are so wet," The whimpered words were helpless as they escaped the dark cavern of her mouth, having been forged by the sharp tingle of lust that tickled at her spine. And really, how could it be any other way? The liquid velvet heat of arousal felt luxurious under her touch. That delicate swollen clit so very familiar against her palm. The woman possessed a beauty like the glowing tongue of a dragon as it's about to breathe fire and yet Hermione still felt blessed to touch it.

She was a witch — a very powerful one at that — she knew. But there was a whole different kind of power in knowing that, like a lever on a train, she alone controlled the speed of those hips. She alone controlled the incantation of the leather chair's groan. As if it were a spell flowing like a river of honey from her own lips. And it drew the line between her own desire and the metaphysical manifestation of Fleur's pleasure. It was addictive. Instinctive. And she reveled in it.

"For you, ma chérie. Only for you," The French woman groaned as her fists clenched tighter in a mess of dark curls.

Hermione believed her. Because this was Hermione's head. Where Fleur was not the same person. Where she was not allowed to be the same person as she was in the waking world. Here she wasn't an unknown. Here she was solid rocks and tree roots. A place Hermione could plant herself firmly and spread her seed. And they could grow. In the same direction. Together. Leaving behind layer after layer of memories in the sediments of each and every interaction.

It was a dance. Where the same song had been playing on repeat for what felt like hours. Deft fingers would close around Fleur's swollen nub, gently rubbing it between them. Hips would buck and writhe in retaliation with the yearning to be filled. Two fingers would slip easily down into a greedy hole that would suck them up with an impatience that challenged even the weakest of wills. Insides squeezed and contracted around the digits with the intent to never let them go. But then without warning, those same hips would stutter to a slow deep grind. As if they were more hesitant to chase release so freely. More set on overindulging in the feeling – prolonging it to the very edge of her breaking point for as long as she could stand it. A feat that suggested boundlessness.

Hermione had never needed to tease. Fleur was her own tease. Perfectly content to do so, in fact. And each and every time she would stop herself from falling off that edge, she would exhale a groan that was all rich sunset gold and candy apple red, like freshly painted nails scratching lightly against skin, but mixed with the balm of an African daisy pressed to her chest. It contrasted with the surrounding bleakness, echoing strident against towers of books like the center of a large cavern, every sound captured and reflected back. It was the most enticing song Hermione would ever have the pleasure of hearing. As she straddled that line of both understanding and being completely unaware of what it meant to be captivated by a siren.

Except this wasn't a song being sung. This was a dance. One that required two witting participants to move in either tandem or relation to one another. And it wasn't their first. Even more laughable to assume it had been their second. For several months now they had been meeting up almost every night in Hermione's head to do this exact thing. Sometimes it would be a different location or position. Most often it was either here or the Hogwart's Library — much like their first interchange. But the intention and outcome had always been the same. And neither one of them were blind to the reasons why. Hermione's mind was a safe place. A place where they could release that building tension without any risk or damage.

The only place where Fleur could walk into Flourish and Blott's in a quaint little sundress and have Hermione greet her from behind the counter.

The only place where Fleur could slowly stalk up and ask in her buttery smooth French lilt, "do you 'ave Gilderoy Lock'art's latest work? 'Who Am I?'"

And Hermione would respond with, "Did you honestly come here for something written by that washed up piece of garbage?" before pulling the other woman to her roughly by the hips.

At the harsh treatment, Fleur would release that feather-light chuckle of hers that always had anyone with any sensibility buckling at the knees as she pushes Hermione back into the old leather chair that had been sitting — almost as if it had been waiting with an unrefined eagerness — behind her. And that trademark mischievous grin, that is unmercifully Veela in nature, would darken her face as she straddles the younger woman's hips, "'Onestly? I wanted to see 'ow much it took to get a rise out of you. I love it when you are flustered."

But there would be no pheromones. No thrall. No Veela. No witches or wizardry. Only them. Stripped bare. All they were. And all the things they wanted to do to one another. It was hard to explain how real and unreal it felt at the same time. Unreal in the sense that it occurred in Hermione's mind. Real in the sense that it was still that same desire dominating all of their senses, puppeteering the actions they both willingly took part in and would remember the next morning.

The air was suddenly too thick and heavy with the smell of vanilla oils, sex, and other by-products of an intangible sex fantasy. Though more opaque in a strangely chaotic way. Hermione could almost taste it.

And then, as if right on cue, a low hum creeped up Fleur's spine. It was a song inside her — not in her throat, not in the room. But a great resonant howl in the cellar of her body. Slowly it built, until the air around her started to vibrate. And before she could take another breath, some small hard thing let go in her stomach. A scream, pure bliss, and a long heavy orgasm swelling over every last inch of her form.

Her hips were a rising and falling tide on Hermione's own. Washing over her fingers and drenching them in such a fine molten slick. That all she could think about in that moment was the agonizing need to taste the woman on her tongue. But a sharp gasp cut through her ability to do so as she tried to remove her fingers from inside the other woman.

"Non, non. S'il te plaît. Keep them there. It feels…so good," The blonde whined against Hermione's temple, emphasizing each sentence with the slow grind of her hips. Her inner walls still pulsed rhythmically — hungrily. As if they couldn't stand even the mere suggestion of letting her fingers go.

"Gods, Fleur. Are you still…" That Gryffindor boldness wavering in the light of her own crippling arousal and her lover's orgasmic glow.

"Oui. I am — I 'ave never — this 'as never 'appened like this before." Suddenly her voice was no more than a breath on Hermione's ear. "Mon dieu. What 'ave you done to me Docteur?"

And then, like a deftly cast seize and pull charm, consciousness dragged her out of the deep dark recesses of her own mind and into its bright grasp. The first thing she saw were the bright yellow rays reflected in Fleur's blue eyes. A solar luminosity that could dry up oceans if it wanted to. Where the camera of Hermione's mind could skim the surface of the slowly evaporating water. Each snapshot creating beautiful, violent flashes of light that cut through a bleak and solitary darkness. The future, she thought. If she ever got to see it. All at once, something warm woke in the pit of her stomach with a large prolific yawn. Desire.

She became almost uncomfortably aware of her sleep bottoms that were wrapped awkwardly around her waist and tightly between her thighs. She shifted to ease the discomfort to no avail.

Fleur's face was still, but her eyes hunted her lover's, fiery and perceptive. She placed a hand on the center of the other woman's chest, as if in explanation. And only Hermione's deep subconscious recognized this gesture. It was the seat of the human mind. A philosophical reminder of the similarities between the emotional core that binds the different species together as equals. A connection between two indescribably different beings. From a time long before wizards and witches and creatures had learned to communicate and had attempted to coexist in this world. But Hermione couldn't feel the hand on her chest. In fact, she could no longer meaningfully interact with her surroundings at all. A thick cloud of thrall engulfed the entire room explaining away the reasons why.

As it did, a fog covered the mirror of Hermione's thoughts. And when she looked inside, she realized that she no longer felt like herself. But just a vague impression of a woman. Strangely, it felt good. It was safe. Warm. And if she were being completely honest with herself, it felt like the only good thing about her right now.

The feeling spread until everything around them had a shallow wetland of insignificance on it. The path they were headed searing down the middle like the hot tar of a paved road on a mid-summers day. Fleur's lips parted, as if to speak. But no words. Not even a breath escaped from the darkness just past them. They were chapped. And a shade of pink so delicate and inviting unlike any lipstick Hermione had ever seen. Gods, but did she want to smear her sopping wet heat all over those lips. Fleur leaned back a little and watched the other woman with a solemn, allusive gaze. Letting her imagine just how agreeable she might be to that.

By that point, Hermione had practically melted into the bed with white hot need. She had to prop herself up with a lot of Gryffindor confidence just to keep it together. It was as if the very iron in her blood was drawn to the other woman not unlike a single sheet of iron to a magnet. And just like that, their lips snapped together as if it would take some indeterminable amount of force for them to ever part again.

Desire driving her actions, Hermione flipped them over and pressed her body roughly on top of her lover's. Like a rat in a trap, all of her senses were stuck in it. The necked and bodied instrument of seduction and poorly timed inebriation was boiling over again. It wanted to walk the mouth of a live volcano. Burning. Choking. Dancing to a siren's song.

"Wait. 'Ermione. Ma chérie. Attends, attends, attends," Fleur gasped, tearing herself away from the ravenous brunette. Whose lips had quickly lost focus and made their way down the defined column of her neck.

In her mind and heart she knew they should stop. The thought was a soft buzzing between her ears, a spring landscape dominated by busy little bees. And it conflicted dangerously with her traitorous body. Her grip on Hermione's shoulders so tight and warm. Like bare aluminum over a fire. But there was still a hesitancy there. If she wanted, she could sink her nails deep into Hermione's skin. Tear them down her back until the red angry marks started to bleed. Her skin flushed into a beach sand dusted pink by the late autumn sunrise. Her head, in attempt to disassociate itself with the rest of her body, shook back and forth fervently. Determined to dislodge those primal thoughts that had become webbed throughout her mind, threatening to take over and ruin everything.

"'Ermione, please. We must stop," The words on her lips formed a strange yet undeniably beautiful contrast to the resistant whine of her tone. She fought every last bit of her Veela nature to rein in her thrall. That when it finally lifted, it did so slowly like an old Hungarian curse. And in the aftermath, Hermione found she had no memory at all of the inhibitions that had previously stopped them. There, underneath the comforting fog.

She was unfaltering. With a perseverance that had gone untouched by the thrall. And like a shoe to the floor after a stickfast hex, her consciousness clung to it.

"I don't want to," She protested, her mouth all teeth and tongue on the other woman's neck.

"But you must. Please," Fleur recited. An etiquette borne of stress and unease. Her will weakening as what was left of her focus went towards keeping her thrall from releasing once again.

"I want you, Fleur. All of you. As you are. With – without the thrall. I don't care. I know I want you. And it's ME. Not your thrall. But my own heart. My own desire."

And, as if on impulse, her eyes did seem uninhibited. Too robust to possibly contain the undue influence of an all-consuming thrall. Fleur cradled Hermione's face up in both hands. The flush on her cheeks warming them. If this were any other universe, any other situation other than the one they were in, she might've believed her. But alas, the stars had already aligned. And they formed a cosmic frown. Her fate had been decided the very moment she was born. And it wouldn't be ignored.

"I know. I want you too. But we cannot do this. Not in this lifetime. Not in this world." Frail and breakable, the words felt foreign to her. Extrinsic somehow. Distinctly so when the feel of Hermione's warm cheek against her palm grounded her.

"I know the risks, Fleur. I know them and I know how dangerous this is. But I don't care. I'd rather die knowing I got to show you how much I love you than live not knowing how it feels to be loved by you."

She was talking about the thrall. The deterioration it breeds in its victim. The inevitable death of anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in its web. She was saying that she didn't care. It didn't matter. That her feelings outweighed the dourness of her situation. But that's not what Fleur was talking about. She had already thrown her heart to the wind months ago, completely altering her understanding of what mattered and what didn't. What Hermione didn't know in that moment was that this was already bigger than her. Than the two of them. But some things are too complex to put into words. And Fleur didn't know how to tell her.

"It is not that, ma chérie. I would. Fuck," Her jaw clenched. Pearly white teeth shining between her lips, as she stared heatedly at Hermione's, "I would eat you up in a 'eartbeat. Would give you everything and anything you ever asked of me. Like the consequences never mattered."

It's not exactly poetry. Not how she'd meant to express it. There are just some parts of her Veela nature that cannot be contained. The way in which she communicates being one of them. The heat of their mutual arousal was still so palpable between them. She almost didn't notice that she was pulling the other woman's face to her own. And as hard as it would be to do so, she had to stop herself. Had to stop them. Because Hermione clearly wouldn't. And they really couldn't do this. Couldn't go any further than they already had. Before their lips could meet once more, she turned her head so that their cheeks brushed against one another instead. And in doing so, a terrible ache flowed through her. A hellish and boundless flood. The part of her that was a creature. The part of her that needed to mate. To be mated. But she continued on in spite of it.

"I mean, do not misunderstand me. I care very much for your 'ealth and livelihood. But I do not worry about bringing you 'arm. I believe it's possible to find a way to better contain my thrall. And I 'ave a stronger will than most. I would do anything and everything in my power to make sure that I never 'urt you."

There was a lull. And then the smallest of smiles as Hermione tangled her fingers into long blonde locks of hair.

"Then what is it, my sweet?"

"Well, I 'ave mentioned before that when it is that time for us, we are very," She stopped speaking for a moment — as if looking into herself for certainty. For strength. Then, in the softest voice, she said, "fertile."

Hermione nodded her head in acknowledgement, vaguely remembering the conversation. But not really understanding the relevance of it now. She didn't have to voice her confusion though. Fleur could almost feel the bewilderment written across her lover's face. And when she pulled herself away, she could see it clear as day in the deep brown of the woman's eyes.

"It is that time for me again and I just don't know if you – if we – are ready for the consequences of that," She added, hoping to convey her meaning without having to directly state it.

"Oh," Hermione replied. And then again as more realization began to dawn on her, "OH. You are talking about mating. I — erm – well – could you – could you maybe explain to me how that works, actually?"

Unfortunately for Fleur, she would not be able to get through this without having to directly talk about it. But she supposed she did owe the other woman some kind of explanation. It wouldn't do either of them any good to allow themselves to get caught up in all these feelings without fully understanding the impact of acting upon them. Hermione deserved to know how quickly her life could change just by merely associating with her. She felt like the woman she loved deserved to know anything she wanted to know, really. And Fleur would tell her. Anything. Everything.

"We do not trade cellular material directly, as 'umans do. I guess the best way to describe it would be that we link our nervous system with a mate's and use an old Veela magic to copy their electrical pattern that then provides the template for the other 'alf of the DNA for a child. It is 'ow we 'ave remained a viable species. But 'as also provided a way for us to diversify our genetic data enough for our species to evolve and survive for many generations."

"Hm. So sort of like a form of parthenogenesis?"

"I am not sure of this word. Parthen…"

"Parthenogenesis," Hermione supplied brightening, always happy to spread new knowledge especially when medical in nature, "It's when an egg develops into an embryo without being fertilized by sperm. A form of asexual reproduction. Or for humans, most would refer to it as 'cloning.'"

"Oui. I suppose it is somewhat like that. Though our children are most definitely not identical clones."

An involuntary chuckle slipped past Hermione's lips, breathy and congenial. In her experience so far, most Veela she had met so far had appeared to be clones of their mothers. Everyone looking almost exactly like the other. Blond hair, blue eyes, long legs. Sometimes almost impossible to tell apart. With varying clan discrepancies, of course. But certainly still a closer family resemblance than that of second or third cousins. Fleur seemed to pick up on the direction her thoughts had taken, because she interjected with a determination of her own.

"Maman says that my disregard for the clan and the dedication to 'elp everyone outside of it were traits that came from my other parent. And while she does not talk about them often, she enjoys making it abundantly clear that she regrets ever 'aving admired that trait enough to pass it along to me."

Hermione wasn't entirely sure why the blonde felt the need to point that out. It might've been meant to highlight the differences between herself and the many blonde-haired blue-eyed faces of her clanmates. It might've been meant as a way to reveal her connection to humanity. Either way, Hermione easily understood her own role in this. When a person who is not prone to sharing decides to share something personal, they're usually in need of silent support and a listening ear. And that was exactly what she would give her.

She took one of Fleur's hands in her own and stroked the smooth lines of her palm delicately with the tips of her fingers. A great sigh pushing from her chest. The sound an abrupt reminder of a different kind of sigh entirely. The kind that had happened in her mind not to long ago as they slept. The kind that destabilized her breathing and made her agonizingly aware of the wet patch of unanswered need growing in her underwear. Her hand jerked back of its own volition. As if she'd been burned. And she dug her fingers into the meat of her thighs to keep them from wandering again. Little half moons began to form on the skin beneath her fingernails. The very evidence of how hard she was trying to be respectful. Because Fleur had drawn a boundary. An admittedly sensible one. One that Hermione would not allow herself to neglect. There was only one place they were allowed to be that free with each other. And nowhere else. Not without accepting the consequences. Which brought about a different question in Hermione's mind.

"So then…what we have been doing in my head would not…" She wasn't sure exactly how to ask. The words coming out in the form of an unfinished statement as if they were far too loaded in that moment to ever be able to come out in any other way.

"Non. Or at least, I 'ave never 'eard of that being possible. From what I understand, the Veela magic requires actual real life body to body contact between two partners."

"Oh." Hermione said a little more softly. A little more desolately. Though she wasn't sure why. Fleur was absolutely right. Now was not the time for this. Now was not even the time to mourn the inevitability of it.

"But you understand now, oui? Why we cannot?" The blonde asked with the hopes that they were both finally on the same page, "I can control the thrall – to a point. But this. This is an instinct I – I'm not sure if I would be able to. The desire to mate – when it is that time – It is 'ard to explain. And I know it sounds selfish and animalistic, but I – all I wish is for you to leave 'ere, free and un'armed. And if we were to – well…'aving a child would complicate things far more than they already are in so many ways. I do not want to take that risk and ruin –"

Hermione silenced her with a finger to her lips. She could tell the woman was downplaying it – it was a verifiable truth that if given the opportunity to mate, she would not be able to control herself. Wouldn't be able to control anything. It was in the wild blackness of her eyes, in her heaving breast. An all but debilitated self constraint.

"I understand. But you needn't be so hard on yourself about this, love. I trust you. I trust this," She countered placing a hand over the Veela's heart. The seat of the human mind. And a sweet bashful little smile shared between them.

"I do 'ave a confession to make…" Fleur began, no longer able to look into the eyes of the woman she loved.

"Yes?" Hermione shifted ever closer. Offering what little support she could. Letting the other woman know that she would be there for her, no matter the severity of what she was about to admit to.

"When I challenged my Matriarch for 'er title a few days ago, I did not do it only to save the clans. And I 'ave been struggling to tell you because I know that doing so will mean that you have to leave. And such a 'uge part of me does not want to let you go…"

Hermione placed her hand on her lover's. A complement to the love and support and encouragement that had already been radiating out from her.

"I also did it for you. Because I could not find any other way to release you in a way that would keep you safe. And now that I am the Matriarch, I can. Because now you will always 'ave my protection and the protection of the clan. I did it because you deserve freedom. You deserve a full long 'appy life with someone who can love you with the same fierceness that you do them. You deserve far better than anything I can give you. All I 'ave for you is misery and impending death."

With a finger to her chin, Hermione lifted the other woman's face so that her eyes met her own.

"What would you say if I wished to stay?"

The French woman blinked back at her dumbly.

"I would tell you that tu es folle. And I would make you leave. Because you 'ave to. It is not safe for you 'ere. With me."

She could feel the tears forming in her eyes. But she was too proud to ever let them fall. A few unruly blonde strands of hair falling to her face into those same eyes that refused to cry instead. Hermione pushed the stray hairs back behind her ears.

"Fleur. Darling. After the war I went on about my life. I went back and finished school. And then I went off to medical school because that was what was expected of me. And ever since I have felt like a shell of a person going about my life one mundane day at a time. It was like, even though we'd won the war…I didn't feel any different. There were so many things I'd seen that I can't unsee. So many deaths I'm still – to this day – trying to come to terms with. That I have to live with. I just," Her voice was as calm as ever – a testament to the violence and death she had experienced from the other side of her wand, "I thought that after we'd won things would be better and I could move on. To finally live a normal boring life for once. And then I met you and I realized…absolutely nothing about me is normal or boring. I'm not meant to lead that kind of life. And I don't know if it's the thrall that's starting to affect my head or what, but as of now, there is nowhere I would rather be than by your side. I like to believe those are my genuine feelings – they certainly feel as much. And it's a vastly different feeling from when I'm under your thrall – but I really care about you, Fleur. And it runs deeper than I can describe. I don't want to leave you just as much as you don't want me to go. And I won't."

"Come 'ere, ma chérie," Fleur said warmly. Her arms opening in an invitation as warm and comforting as her words. Hermione shuffled closer happy to be fully ensconced in them once again.

"Is there any way I can get you to even consider it?" The blonde asked, running the tips of her fingers down the outline of Hermione's spine in a way that certainly hinted at a form of suggestion.

"No," She responded resolutely, even as she shivered under the other woman's touch. A mimic of the same sweetness in her own tone.

Something in Fleur's demeanor changed then. She was tired. Consigned to her fate — of being here with Hermione and what's to come. Behind her the window had been cracked open. She could feel the damp chill of the wind howling through the small opening. As well as some form of doubt in the other woman's tensed shoulders.

"Tu es folle, ma belle," She sighed in defeat. Though there was a small twitch on the corner of her lips.

It was then Hermione realized that not even the memory charm would be powerful enough to ever wipe that sad smile from her mind. Seeing as it was marked so fully upon her brain like a deep indelible scar. It would survive anything because from the very moment her eyes had caught sight of it, it had haunted her. And it would continue to haunt her forever. As it likely did anyone who had had the misfortunate of ever having seen it.

Years later, if you were to ask, Hermione would tell you that that was the exact moment she had fallen in love with Fleur Delacour. Head over heels. Even before she'd ever said it out loud. If you were to ask her in that moment, she would have sighed tiredly, her beauty seeming to be waning faster than it should at her age, and she would swear with a staunch determination as brittle as the breading on an apple and red currant tart that she wasn't crazy.

With all the grace of the dark lord himself, a shapeless shadow appeared in the window. They watched as it pecked and pushed at the pane of the glass until it opened enough for it to fit through. And if there were ever such a thing as an ugly owl, then this was it. An ugliness so concentrated into one individual creature it could almost be considered charming. Like a pukwudgie. Its eyes were large like two black holes and its beak twittered frantically as if it were trying to break free from the empire of its own body.

"Monsieur Effrayant! Que fais-tu ici!?"

The long, lanky owl responded with a high-pitched yip-yip, as he landed on the wooden headboard above them. His long ear tufts pointing straight up as if they were the exclamation marks to whatever it was he had just said.

"You named your owl, Mr. Spooky?"

Upon hearing his name, his large round eyes honed in on Hermione.

"Non. 'E is not my owl. 'E is the family owl. And Gabrielle named 'im when she was une petite fille," Fleur answered offhandedly. She was more interested in something else that had caught her attention, "I was not aware that you spoke French."

"I don't. But everyone here does and I didn't want to be excluded from conversation," Hermione explained, still watching the dark tawny-colored bird, "Back when I was in school we had many different events that required us to interact with students from foreign schools. We all struggled to communicate, so a friend of mine – Luna Lovegood –and I worked to create a spell that would translate certain languages. It doesn't work for everything and sometimes the translations are less than perfect – mostly because we never had the time to work out all the kinks. But it seemed to do the trick well enough."

Fleur watched the woman with almost reverie. Always finding it more and more difficult not to be absolutely infatuated with the talented English witch.

"You really are a clever girl," She professed softly. The sharp glimmer in her eye almost making Hermione's heart skip a beat.

As if an intentional interruption to whatever was happening between them, something fell from the owl's mouth like an unwanted meal, sizzling. It was the sizzle of far too much anger that had been cloaked lovingly by the pristine red wrapping. As Fleur's fingers touched the cardstock it almost felt as if the envelope wanted to deliver a message of vitriol trough her fingertips. She inspected the square red paper, the deep blue stones of her eyes still and stinging. Nervously, apprehensively, as if trying to set the entire thing on fire with her mind. It was covered in thousands of little glowing letters, an enchantment only made visible by her shadow that loomed over it like a bad omen. She should have known she would receive a howler. Should have expected it really.

"You're going to want to open that soon. It will explode if left alone for too long," Hermione pointed out, eyeing the envelope from beside her. Mr. Spooky released his own screech of agreement before fluttering to perch on the dresser instead. He had heard his owner when she was writing the letter. And he was in no mood to be as close this time once it was finally opened. His large sensitive ears could only handle so much.

Knowing it was now or never, Fleur took a deep breath and cautiously pealed back the opening. And the moment she did the letter inside came to life before them. Her mother's voice erupting from it in a blast of outrage, quick like a gunshot in reverse.

FLEUR ISABELLE DELACOUR!

HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND!? I GET HELD UP IN BELGIUM AND FAIL TO ATTEND ONE BALL AND FOR WHATEVER REASON YOU GO AND CHALLENGE OUR MATRIARCH!? WHO RAISED YOU, CHILD? BECAUSE IT SURE AS HELL WASN'T ME WHO INSTILLED SUCH POOR VALUES IN YOU! WHAT ON EARTH WOULD POSSESS YOU TO DO SUCH A THING? I DON'T CARE IF YOU ARE THE NEW MATRIARCH OR THE MINISTER OF MAGIC, WHEN I GET HOME I AM GOING TO BEND YOU OVER MY KNEE AND HELP YOU FIND YOUR COMMON SENSE!

In the second half of the letter, the howler stopped yelling, but its tone still remained undeniably cross. It's meaning meant to be taken just as harshly and seriously as the first half.

Oh, and 'Ermione. Fleur better be [an enclosing wall] by the time I get home or so 'elp me I will sit in the room and imperio you until she is. It is imperative, now more than ever, that you two stop this little goose goose duck song and dance. She is now an authority figure and it is your responsibility as her mate to show the clan how strong and valuable she is.

After the last word had been spoken, the air around them became very quite. Even the howling wind outside sounded embarrassed. Fleur stood completely still. Proud, rigid, and alone like a cracking marble statue. It was hard for her to find the reassurance inside herself. And from the look on Hermione's face, she knew the other woman needed it then just as much if not more than she did. Afterall, her mother had just threatened each of them with activities (the spanking and the cruciatus curse) that would be considered illegal in the muggle and wizarding worlds respectively. She placed a comforting hand to the other woman's knee.

"Do not worry, mon ange. It is all nothing more than idle threats. She would never actually do any of that," She encouraged. But it didn't seem to have the desired effect. Hermione's whole face remained just as scrunched up as before.

"No, it's not that. It's just – I'm trying to figure out what she meant by 'better be an enclosing wall by the time I get home.' It doesn't make any sense," She explained, her eyes flickering with confusion and that little hint of something else that was uniquely Hermione Granger and her boundless quest for knowledge.

"She meant pregnant, 'Ermione. With child. It's literally the only thing she 'as been going on about since I brought you 'ome." Recoiling a bit from her own words, she squeezed the knee in her hand. She was aggravated. And rightfully so, given how much her mother had intruded into her personal life. But she hadn't meant to take it out on the other woman. Who surprisingly didn't seem all too bothered by the tone.

In fact, she appeared to be as equally displeased. Her mother's constant reminders to mate had always been quite the annoyance to Fleur. She could only imagine how bothered the English woman would be by it. Especially not having had any grounding in a culture that all but lived by it.

"Ah. Yes. Well, I told you I hadn't entirely worked out all the kinks in the translation spell yet," Hermione returned with a small smile. One that hinted at playfulness, but erred on the side of caution. She was giving Fleur an out. A way to turn the tides of conversation so they could spend just one more moment not dealing with the inevitable. She was clearly more of a master in the art of avoidance than Fleur had initially given her credit for, "And goose goose duck?"

"That one…" The blonde thought for a moment, sliding her body on top of Hermione's. So relieved for yet another diversion, "I am not sure – "

But she is interrupted by a loud figure bursting through her bedroom door.

"FLEUR! Or should I call you Matriarch now?" Adriana called out boisterously as she entered the room.

But this was not the kind of diversion Fleur had been hoping for.

Translations:

Non, non. S'il te plaît – No, no. Please

Attends, attends, attends – Wait, wait, wait

tu es folle – You are crazy

Monsieur Effrayant! Que fais-tu ici!? – Mr. Spooky! What are you doing here?