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It just happened. It was supposed to be temporary, but the companionship and comfort of the new rhythm of their daily life just felt right. She was living in one of her family’s houses in France. It served her transition from socialite to recluse well and dutifully. But being so isolated was not in her nature. Even though she wanted it, yearned to shut out as much of the world as she could, her blood made that difficult. Her damned Veela heritage was at war with her heart and mind; it urged her to connect with others, a flock, a lover. But she would never take another lover, that she was certain of.
A letter from Headmistress Minerva McGonagall is what had started it all. Hermione Granger had divorced from Ronald Weasely a little over a year prior. Fleur had heard about that, but it happened after Bill died and after Fleur had cut herself off from the redheaded family. She felt guilty about ignoring Molly’s many attempts at staying connected, but not enough to change her mind. McGonagall had sent a letter regretfully informing Fleur that Hermione was looking to take a new teaching position outside of Hogwarts, and would Fleur consider recommending Hermione to Beauxbatons and getting her acquainted with France and the language, please? Fleur had sensed there was something more to it than that and tried to read between the lines. She wanted to say that of course she would recommend the skilled and brilliant witch, but that now was not a good time to host. She could recommend a colleague.
But then there was her heritage pushing her to take the Gryffindor under her wing. Beyond companionship, her protective nature was kicking in. Ever since what had happened at Shell Cottage, even if they didn’t much stay in touch, Fleur kept her eyes and ears open for news regarding the goings on and wellbeing of the smart witch. The idea of having Hermione stay with her a while, being able to check up on her and support her before the brunette moved on to the next phase in her life, was something her instincts could not resist. Fleur wrote back and said, yes, of course Hermione can stay a while, please let her know a room will be ready by the first of the following month.
Hermione was the perfect guest. Polite, considerate, and helpful. Fleur was, at first, a reserved but model host. Over time though she couldn’t help but begin to dote more on the brunette and feel herself become more alive the more familiar they became with each other. Veelas, even quarter Veelas, were not meant to be alone. And the Gryffindor was such good company. She had her walls up, as did Fleur, but they could still hold stimulating conversation and debate, still connect and balance the space, and respect each other’s boundaries. Fleur took her to Beauxbatons to meet the staff and tour the academy. She took Hermione to historical and cultural sites in France to help her learn the country and the people. And while they were at it, Fleur reasoned, they should also visit restaurants, the opera, cafes and parks. At some point Fleur went from invested caretaker to friend of the younger witch, and it delighted her so.
And so their rhythm began. They would wake up promptly at six and take a stroll together through the woods behind the home. When they got back Fleur would tend to the garden while Hermione made breakfast. They would eat together in comfortable silence, their first words of the day always in French when they began Hermione’s daily lesson. The bright witch was a quick learner, and lessons became more about connecting and learning each other. Fleur learned what had happened with Ron, and Hermione learned that Fleur was constantly at odds and sometimes resentful of her heritage. Fleur had never told anyone about that before. Then they would go their separate ways to read. Fleur would indulge in the classics, and Hermione would dive deeply into academic subjects, preparing a curriculum for the coming year. On occasion Fleur found herself meandering into the library where Hermione worked, and settling into the room to read there. It was just nice to be close to someone after being alone for so long. And then there were the times when Hermione would carry her scrolls, quills and literature into the sun room where Fleur was reading, and set up a small work area for the day. Fleur liked that too and set up a desk for the brunette. Eventually they began to conclude French lessons with deciding which space they should spend the rest of their morning together. It was nice.
They took turns making dinner, and would sometimes visit a restaurant in the nearby village. They concluded their day with glasses of only the finest French wines, at Fleur’s insistence. Sometimes they sipped and debated, or played card games or wizard’s chess. Then Hermione convinced Fleur to get a muggle movie box, and Hermione would introduce Fleur to essential muggle cinema. That always ended in thrilling critique and discussion. And then there were the times when they just sat together in comfort. It was always pleasant.
“Have you dated since the divorce?” Fleur boldly asked one evening.
She had wanted to know for some time, but was too polite to pry before then. She tried but then stopped, the brunette replied. It turned out she just didn’t see herself ever being able to have a successful relationship. Why was that, Fleur had inquired. Touch and physical intimacy, replied the brunette. She just couldn’t bear it sometimes. It always seemed as if people wanted more than she could give. It wasn’t as if she didn’t like touch, she attempted to explain, it was just that she did not seem to have the fire and desire that other people had when it came to sex, which is where they usually wanted things to lead to when they touched. Hermione liked to touch sometimes, in some ways, and liked to kiss in certain circumstances, but she didn’t often want more. This was a major factor in the demise of her marriage with Ron, and an obstacle in dating others. Fleur hummed in understanding.
“And you, Fleur? Have you dated, or...? I don’t mean to be intrusive, but I thought Veela were quite physical.” Hermione’s voice was even, but her blush betrayed her embarrassment at asking such a personal question.
Fleur wondered if she knew, from Ron and Bill talking, or perhaps from researching, about Veela and how unbearable the intensity of their need could be. If she knew about the frequency and ferocity of her sex with Bill.
With others, the quarter Veela might have lost her temper, shut them down, turned iced cold. But this was Hermione, and their newfound closeness and companionship allowed for her to open up about this topic for the first time. Fleur had the fire and desire, she explained. It was actually a strong need for her kind. It was just that she hated it. It felt out of her control and made her feel at the mercy of her nature. Why do you fight your nature on this, Hermione dared to ask. Fleur finished her glass and then topped it off before continuing. She was so in love with Bill. From the beginning to the end. It was a passionate romance filled with passionate feelings and passionate fighting and passionate love making. It was exhilarating. Fleur never knew what would happen next, what the future held, and that kept her on her toes and engaged with life. She always felt alive. But then Bill died and she didn’t want the passion anymore. She didn’t want it with anyone else, and in the end it was a tiring and unsustainable way of living, wasn’t it? Not that she had been feeling much alive since he passed.
“I just want a solitary and quiet life now, which is what I have created for myself. It is enough, almost.”
“But your heritage.”
“My heritage, oui. Mon sang. It hungers for something I no longer have the will nor longing to embrace.”
“I understand, but,” Hermione polished off a bottle of red. “You must be so touch-starved.”
Those words had struck a chord somewhere deep within the Veela. Her heart, her chest, her throat, tightened. Her eyes stung. She felt too exposed. It was something she never really thought about, and perhaps was a contributing factor to the heaviness she often found burdening her body throughout the day. If she couldn’t be passionate, did it mean she had to be empty? It felt like the necessary trade off, but it took its toll on her, certainly; the intensity and the unbearableness of it all sometimes. She said none of this to the Gryffindor, who at this point was starting to slump over with drooping eyelids. She watched the witch fall asleep before summoning a blanket and covering her. She almost stood to walk away and retire for the night to her own bed, but her body refused. It wanted to stay, so she stayed. Resentful that her nature was overriding her will once again, but content to be near, as always, to her housemate, she decided to stay. She watched, she felt fatigued, she felt touch-starved, she wondered if it would be alright to just lay a hand on Hermione, to connect. She stayed.
She awoke the next morning with her head on Hermione’s lap and Hermione’s hand idly running through her hair. It was past six, it was past breakfast time. Their routine was thrown for the day, but Fleur couldn’t bring herself to care. She stifled down the rumble in her chest when fingernails dragged gently across her scalp. She sat up, ready to apologize, but Hermione just smiled and shook her head. Hermione smiled and Fleur smiled and Hermione reached for Fleur’s hand and squeezed. They went for a stroll. It was peaceful.
Things progressed from there. It started with small touches. Fleur felt a bit like she was taking advantage, taking something that wasn’t hers to take. Hermione never complained though, and never pulled away. When they took their morning walk they began to move close enough that their hands would brush on occasion. When they got back, Fleur would come in from gardening and offer to help with breakfast. Sometimes she’d let her hand touch Hermione’s arm or the small of her back when she passed by, to let her know she was there. During their French lessons gesticulations would sometimes lead to a squeeze on the knee, or a hand on the shoulder, briefly to emphasize something of note. After dinner was Fleur’s favorite. They would share the couch, watch a movie. Touches, hands grasping, an arm rub, or even legs grazing, during scenes that elicited such responses. Fleur really came to enjoy this muggle pastime of movie watching, though when the movies ended she was often left feeling saddened when they parted to separate rooms.
Then the letter came from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Hermione already received an offer, but Fleur did not know that the Hogwarts Alumna hadn’t officially accepted. Fleur wanted to ask why, but she also did not. The following morning, with no words to ask or explain, because it was before their daily French conversation, Hermione took Fleur by the hand at the beginning of their daily stroll. Fleur’s heart swelled and she did her best to stop a wide goofy smile from taking over her face. She had to look away at first to compose herself, and when she looked back to the brunette she saw that she was smiling too. So they began to hold hands during walks and let touches linger during the day. The evening was still Fleur’s favorite part. As the weeks progressed the space between them on the couch became smaller and smaller until it was gone. Fleur would rest her head on Hermione’s shoulder, or at times Hermione might lay her head on Fleur’s lap. When there was a particularly sad scene, one of loss, or one of love not being triumphant, fingers would caress and they would be content and soothed by each other. Sometimes they fell asleep in the comfort offered by the other. Fleur didn’t feel so heavy when she walked anymore, and she noticed Hermione’s shoulders were less stiff when Fleur was near.
“I wonder if any professors commute,” Hermione said aloud one morning during their walk.
Fleur was at first taken aback by Hermione speaking before it was time, and then by the question itself. She squeezed the younger witch’s hand, composed herself and chose to remain silent until after breakfast.
“Tu peux rester ici si tu veux. Ceci pourrais être ton chez soi,“ she started their conversation.
She hoped Hermione would say yes. She felt like it was already Hermione’s home, and hoped the Gryffindor felt the same. And if Hermione left to stay at the academy, Fleur feared what her house would become. Cold, empty, unbalanced, and no longer a home. Was Hermione her home now?
“Oui. J'aimerais bien," came the reply with a wide toothy grin and pink cheeks.
Fleur’s mother, her flock, would be pleased. She was not alone anymore. They would of course urge for more, as the quarter Veela’s blood sometimes did, but she was content with the way things were. She sometimes wondered what Hermione’s blood pushed her to do. How did wizards and witches work? That night she dared to inquire.
“That’s not what you’re really asking,” Hermione answered.
Fleur couldn’t read the witch, and she refused to look up at her. Hermione was laying on her back, propped against the arm of the couch. Fleur was cozied on top of her, head resting on stomach, her favorite place to be. She hoped Hermione didn’t think she was asking for more than Hermione could give. What they had was everything to her, and it was more than enough. Almost. The Gryffindor spoke again:
“I want this too. And sometimes more. But also this is often exactly what I need. But I don’t know what that means. Please look at me.”
Fleur looked at her.
“It gets harder every night to get up from this couch, to walk up those stairs and then go in different directions. Sometimes I just don’t want to. Sometimes I want to follow you.”
“Then follow me.”
“Sometimes I want to kiss you.”
“Then kiss me.”
“What if I can’t give you more?”
“You’ve already given me everything. It’s not unbearable anymore.”
They turned the television off. Fleur got up and took Hermione by her hands. It was another night of getting off the couch together, walking up the stairs together, but now everything had changed. Hermione followed Fleur and they paused only for a moment at the bedroom door before they entered. In bed they laid facing one another.
“Chéri, will you touch me? Can I touch you?”
And they let hands caress cheeks, shoulders, arms, back, hair, neck, collarbones. Fleur finally let the rumble in her chest go and she purred at the affection. Hermione seemed to like that, as she leant forward in response and gently pressed her lips to Fleur’s. Fleur’s nature was singing. She kissed back. Lips moved to chaste kisses on jaw, nose, forehead. A kiss from Hermione to Fleur’s forehead was her favorite. Arms wrapped around each other and the Gryffindor rested her head against Fleur’s chest. She was soon soothed to sleep by the vibrations and low and gentle sound of the Veela’s purs.
The following day they moved Hermione’s things into Fleur’s room. Their room. The first time they made love Fleur cried, and Hermione held her close, and it was everything they both needed. Most nights were like the first, where no one was swept away by fiery passion or stormy desire. Instead they were embraced by the arms of the woman they loved, with reassuring and heart filling touches and kisses, and it was everything they both needed. No longer touch starved, Fleur felt safe. Fleur felt loved. Fleur felt at home.