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And smile.
Smile.
Smile now.
Fleur’s face remained cold and impassive, even as everyone around her started cheering.
“A smile, Delacour!” Hermione couldn’t help but yell as she jumped out of her director’s chair.
“Non!” Those eyes flashed from across the set of the Great Hall, rubble and debris artisanally positioned between them while extras, playing dead, littered the floor. “Belle would not smile. She’d be furious!”
They hadn’t had a blowout since filming the Shell Cottage scene. They’d been excessively polite since then, although everyone seemed to hold their breath whenever they spoke to each other. Like everyone was holding their breath now.
Hermione’s firm grip on rationality slipped at the sight of Fleur’s smirk. She stalked closer, refusing to yell. “You think Belle would be furious that her mate didn’t die, that she saved the wizarding world from a homicidal, bigoted megalomaniac and avenged the death of her parents?”
Forgetting all the people looking on, Fleur narrowed the distance between them, gesticulating as she walked and talked. “Her mate lied to her and put herself in extreme danger multiple times. A Veela protects her mate, fiercely. Instead of allowing Belle to help, she had to wait, powerless. She even thought Priya had died. When she sees Priya at the end, she’d be feeling many things: fear, happiness, relief, and, yes, anger.”
Hermione glared at Fleur, willing the other woman to blink first. The argument was valid, but Hermione mulishly didn’t want to give in. “You already know what you want to do instead?”
Fleur rolled her eyes at the question. “Ouais.”
Clenched jaw held back a scoff, and Hermione waved at Fleur. “Go on, show me.” Eying the distance between them, she took several steps back. “I’m Priya. I just entered the Great Hall after killing Voldemort.”
Fleur gave herself a shake, then dropped into character. Her gaze roamed the Hall until it found Hermione. A grim look of determination settled on her face as she strode to Hermione, who almost took a step backwards before remembering Priya was supposed to be ecstatic. Arms pulled Hermione into a tight embrace, warmth and a crisp scent engulfing her, before those arms pushed her away to see a very angry Fleur. Pain blossomed on her cheek, as she registered the slap a blink too late.
“What?” she cried, hand raising to hold her cheek.
Before Hermione could comfort herself, Fleur’s hands slid across her cheeks, cradling them. Hermione stared helplessly into those tearing eyes as they drew near. Her brain stopped completely as Fleur’s ever so soft lips pressed urgently against hers. A beat passed—two, three—before Fleur pulled away, a triumphant smile on her face.
A hush had fallen on the set. Hermione blinked, coughed, then said, “You have five minutes to walk through it with your co-star, and one shot to get it right.”
Hermione turned to walk back to her chair, trying to look unaffected, and failing miserably, as a murmured “Merci” caused her to stumble.