Chapter Text
Côte-Lumineuse always glowed at night.
Even in late July, when the air was warm and heavy with salt, the wizarding town shimmered as though the Mediterranean itself had spilled light across its stones. Lanterns floated lazily above narrow streets, charmed to drift like fireflies. The sea whispered against the cliffs below, casting soft mist that carried the scent of citrus and something faintly magical — a sweetness Hermione Black had always associated with freedom.
And with her seventeenth summer, freedom tasted better than ever.
She leaned on the railing of the small balcony outside her bedroom in the Blacks’ rented villa, watching the coastline glitter. The wind tugged gently at her curls — controlled curls, thanks to a charm her mother taught her; Sirius still complained they weren’t wild enough — and she breathed in deeply.
She loved this place.
“’Mione!” Harry called from inside the villa, voice muffled. “Ginny wants to go down to the market. Are you coming?”
“In a minute!”
She smiled to herself. Of course Ginny wanted to go. The night market at Côte-Lumineuse was famous — magical stalls, enchanted musicians, fireworks woven into the sky by local artists. They came every year, but tonight the festival was larger. Brighter. Louder. The kind of place Sirius would inevitably cause trouble in.
Hermione turned to grab her sandals when voices drifted from downstairs.
“…just saying, she’s finally seventeen,” Sirius was saying, “and I’m supposed to act calm? No. Absolutely not. I will hex any French boy who—”
“Sirius.” Marlene’s voice was amused but firm. “She’s allowed to meet people. That’s part of growing up.”
“Not when I’m around.”
Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. Her father could take down half a platoon of Aurors and still pout like a child when it came to her dating prospects.
“I heard that!” Sirius shouted.
“You were meant to,” Hermione called back sweetly.
Harry’s laughter echoed up the stairs.
Hermione slipped out of her room and headed down. The entryway was warm with candlelight, the villa cozy in a way only magical homes could be — full of mismatched chairs, open windows, and stacks of books Marlene always packed “just in case.”
Ginny was waiting by the door, already sun-kissed from two days in France, hair braided loosely, expression full of excitement.
“Finally,” she groaned. “The festival’s starting. If we don’t get there soon, all the good pastries will be gone.”
“You’re thinking of pastries?” Harry said, incredulous. “At a magical festival?”
“I’m thinking of priorities.”
They stepped into the warm evening, laughter floating between them, Sirius trailing behind with exaggerated sighs about “kids growing up too fast” while Marlene simply tucked her arm through his, patient as ever.
Hermione walked ahead with Ginny, letting the chatter behind her blur into background warmth.
The town unfurled below them — cobbled streets, the distant melody of violins, bursts of enchanted fireworks spilling star-shaped sparks over the rooftops.
Hermione felt alive.
And yet — something tugged at her attention. A memory from earlier that afternoon, fleeting but persistent.
A girl.
A girl with silver-blonde hair braided over one shoulder, standing at the water’s edge as Hermione walked past with Harry. She’d only seen her for a moment — long enough to catch the sunlight turning her hair into molten gold, long enough for the stranger to look her way with cool blue eyes sharp enough to hold.
Hermione had looked away first.
She rarely did that.
She’d pretended she hadn’t felt the faint spark low in her stomach.
It’s nothing, she told herself now. Just a pretty girl on holiday. You’ll probably never see her again.
She had no idea how wrong she was.
⸻
-The Night Market-
Côte-Lumineuse was alive.
Lanterns floated above stalls selling pastries dusted with star sugar, shimmering silk scarves that danced on their own, and little glass bottles containing captured moonlight. Music twined through the streets — violins, flutes, and the occasional rogue trumpet.
Ginny dragged Harry off to find food. Sirius immediately began challenging locals to drinking competitions (“French wizards don’t stand a chance, Marls!”), and Marlene sighed the sigh of a woman resigned to retrieving her husband from trouble within the hour.
Hermione wandered.
She didn’t need company — she liked feeling the pulse of the town, letting the world breathe around her. Her sandals clicked against warm stone, and she let her fingers brush tapestries, trinkets, and charm-infused souvenirs.
Then she saw her again.
Across the square, bathed in lanternlight.
The blonde girl from the afternoon.
She stood beside a stall selling enchanted seashells, speaking French softly to the elderly witch running it. She was wearing a pale blue sundress, simple but elegant, exposing her shoulders and the long line of her neck. Her hair glowed like starlight braided with silk.
Hermione froze.
The girl turned — as though feeling the weight of Hermione’s gaze — and their eyes met again.
Blue and grey.
Sharp and steady.
Hermione’s stomach flipped in a way she absolutely refused to admit aloud.
The girl’s lips curved. Slightly. Almost imperceptibly. But unmistakably.
Okay, Hermione thought, pulse quickening. Breathe.
The girl thanked the stall owner and began to walk — not away.
Toward her.
Hermione swallowed.
Her heart, normally composed and steady, misbehaved entirely.
The girl stopped a few feet in front of her.
“Bonsoir,” she said softly, voice low and melodic. Her accent was unmistakably French. “I was hoping I might see you again.”
Hermione’s breath hitched.
She was hoping—
“You… were?” Hermione managed, proud she sounded mostly steady.
“Yes.” The girl’s blue eyes flickered with a small spark of amusement. “You were at the beach earlier, non? I thought perhaps I imagined your staring.”
Hermione felt heat crawl up her neck.
“I wasn’t staring. Not really.”
“Mm,” the girl murmured, unconvinced. “Then you looked very intensely at the horizon behind me.”
Hermione almost choked on a laugh.
Bold. Very bold.
“I’m Hermione,” she said, lifting her chin.
The girl’s expression softened — something like recognition stirring behind her eyes.
“I am Fleur,” she replied. “Fleur Delacour.”
The name was familiar — Delacour, as in one of the old French families. Hermione realized quickly that made sense: the presence, the poise, the effortless grace. Fleur radiated confidence in a way that felt almost tangible.
“It’s nice to meet you, Fleur,” Hermione said, her voice warmer than she intended.
Fleur stepped a fraction closer.
And Hermione felt it — the unmistakable pull of mutual curiosity. Mutual attraction.
“I thought perhaps you were local,” Fleur said. “You walk through this town as though you belong here.”
Hermione blinked, surprised. “Do I?”
“Yes.” Fleur’s gaze traveled — respectfully, slowly — over Hermione’s face, curls, shoulders. “You shine here.”
The compliment landed low and warm in Hermione’s chest.
“Well,” Hermione murmured, “you’re not exactly difficult to notice.”
Fleur’s lips twitched. “I prefer to be noticed only by those worth noticing.”
Hermione raised a brow, pleased. “And am I?”
“Oui.”
Simple. Certain.
Hermione’s pulse fluttered.
A burst of enchanted fireworks lit the sky overhead, washing Fleur’s face in pale gold. For a moment, she looked almost unreal. Hermione had never been so aware of someone’s presence.
“Would you like to walk with me?” Fleur asked.
Hermione didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
⸻
They wandered through the glowing market, the night warm around them. Hermione found herself speaking French easily, slipping into the language the way she always did here — fluid and precise.
Fleur raised a brow the first time Hermione responded to her in flawless French.
“You speak beautifully.”
Hermione flushed. “We vacation here every year.”
“Still,” Fleur said, smiling. “Your accent is elegant. Not many English witches sound as you do.”
“Thank you.”
Around them, music swelled — a slow, lilting melody. The kind that made the air feel heavier.
Fleur walked close enough that their arms brushed occasionally. Each touch sparked something traitorous under Hermione’s skin.
“So,” Fleur said lightly, “are you here with friends? A boyfriend?”
Hermione snorted. “No. Actually no on all counts.”
“No boyfriend?” Fleur tilted her head. “Dommage.”
The word slipped like silk.
Hermione’s breath caught.
Fleur noticed — of course she did — and smiled like she enjoyed the reaction.
“And you?” Hermione countered. “Are you here with someone?”
Fleur’s expression softened. “Non. Just family. Though I think they would rather I stay home and embroider than come to festivals.”
“I’d like to see you embroider,” Hermione teased.
Fleur laughed — a warm, musical sound Hermione instantly wanted to hear again.
“You would be disappointed,” Fleur said. “I am terrible at it. I prefer… other activities.”
“And what are those?”
Fleur’s eyes gleamed.
“Dancing.”
She reached for Hermione’s hand.
Hermione let her.
The contact was gentle — just fingers slipping around fingers — but Hermione felt it bloom through her like warmth spreading under skin.
Fleur led her toward a small square where couples danced beneath hovering lanterns. The air glittered faintly, charmed to sparkle with each step.
“I don’t dance,” Hermione warned breathlessly.
“You will,” Fleur said simply.
She tugged Hermione close — not quite indecently, but close enough that Hermione could smell her perfume: something floral, warm, and faintly magical.
Hermione’s pulse thudded.
Fleur began to guide them through soft, measured steps. Hermione followed — surprisingly easily. Fleur moved like she wasn’t touching the ground, and Hermione found herself falling into rhythm, leaning into Fleur’s warmth.
“See?” Fleur whispered. “You dance beautifully.”
“I’m not sure this counts as dancing,” Hermione murmured.
“What does it count as, then?”
Hermione refused to look away.
She refused to lose the moment.
“Something else.”
Fleur’s breath hitched this time.
The music slowed. Lanterns drifted lower, close enough to halo Fleur’s hair in warm gold. Hermione felt suspended — caught between breath and heartbeat.
Fleur brushed a curl away from Hermione’s cheek.
“Hermione,” she whispered, “may I…?”
Hermione’s answer was soft. Certain.
“Yes.”
Their lips met in a kiss that was everything Hermione expected — soft, warm, slow — but deeper too. Fleur kissed like she meant to memorize Hermione, like she’d wanted to since the beach, like time had narrowed to this single point of contact.
Hermione kissed back, sinking into Fleur’s hands as they cupped her jaw gently. The world went quiet except for music and the faint hum in Hermione’s chest.
When they finally parted, Hermione’s breath trembled.
Fleur smiled, thumb brushing her cheek.
“Très bien,” she whispered. “I had hoped…”
Hermione steadied herself. “Me too.”
But as they walked back through the glowing streets, fingers linked, something tugged at Hermione’s heart — a quiet ache she tried to ignore.
Because Fleur had not said if she was staying the whole summer.
And Hermione had not asked.
Not yet.
For now, she wanted the moment.
She wanted the warmth of Fleur’s hand in hers.
She wanted the lingering softness of the kiss.
If all she had was this summer — she would take it.
And she would not forget the way Fleur made the entire coast glow brighter.