Work Text:
The morning after the Anniversary, Fleur makes the bread.
The oven is ablaze even before the sun peaks at the horizon. The heat fills up the kitchen, and she blinks the sweat out of her eyes as she sits in front of the oven. Her grand-mère's recipe requires that the bread be removed at the first crack of the dough, and so she summons a chair and waits and waits and waits. Her shirt sticks to her back, but the fire is a beautiful thing, crackling, licking the wood until it turns white. The shadow of the pan dances against the bricks.
And still Fleur waits in the heat, basking like a cat in the sun as the bread slowly rises. Her body remembers the cold all too well.
Outside the window, the sky turns pink. A new set of footsteps echo in the hall, light, stuttering taps against the floorboards. A slow walk. Weak, dragging feet. Fleur's heart stutters, but she keeps herself still. The sound changes as she enters the kitchen and she walks on marble instead.
Hermione.
Still, Fleur's eyes do not waver from the bread. "Grand-mère used to light the oven with her fire," she says instead. It is her grand-mère's hair in her wand. She likes to think they make the same flames.
Behind her, the water runs. More footsteps, this time drawing closer to her. The bread has risen in full. Blindly, she reaches out, and the bony hand of her wife twines itself around her own. Blue veins pop against the wan skin, and idly Fleur wondered if they would bruise in the shape of her fingers if she were to press just a little harder. She keeps her touch light, kisses the hand instead and leaves the mark of her lips in bright red.
A damp towel is rested upon her forehead and another is placed against her back. Fleur can't help the smile tugging on her lips. A cooling charm would have been easier, but they were missing old homes today.
A chair is dragged across the floor and settled beside hers. Hermione sits down heavily and breathes an exhausted sigh of relief. Against her better judgment, Fleur squeezes the hand in hers harder. It does not bruise, but the regret lingers.
When the bread cracks, Fleur shuts off the fire, and when she summons the bread, Hermione cools the pan. As one, they turn to each other for a kiss, and a single tear slides down Fleur's cheeks.
The heat lingers in the kitchen, and the towels are damp against her skin. It is the morning after, and they were coming home today.