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The first person to approach her was Lady Parkinson, which was deeply unfair in at least eight different ways that Hermione didn’t have time to analyze. Instead, she was busy recategorizing herself from ‘war hero at a Ministry gala’ to ‘well-dressed exhibit at a zoo.’
She wondered if Ron would understand the metaphor, and needed several seconds to remember that she didn’t care.
“How many days has it been now?” Lady Parkinson asked, with the air of someone who already knew the answer and just wanted to rub salt in the wound.
“Twelve.”
Pansy Parkinson’s mother shook her head sadly, like she actually cared about the lives of a Muggleborn and a blood traitor. “Breakups can be so difficult. How are you holding up, dear?”
Hermione counted to ten very slowly. “It’s been an adjustment.”
Auror Jenson told her he was sorry because “The two of you were so happy for so long,” and Hermione almost reminded him that he hadn’t asked about her happiness.
Lady Malfoy spoke about ‘future prospects’ with a gleam in her eye that suggested she would dig up a body two days after the funeral to steal a shiny necklace. Hermione felt a sudden, unwelcome surge of pity for the boy who’d bullied her for seven years.
She took a glass of champagne off a tray, and received a dozen glares from people who believed that if they didn’t stare directly at the exhibit, the nicely dressed animal would forget it was being watched. A dozen others judged her without the glare, because it was wrong to drink something celebratory when she was supposed to be mourning.
The rest of the nation certainly was.
It didn’t stop any of them from drinking champagne.
“It’s such a shame,” Zaccharias Smith’s mother lamented, seeming genuinely distraught. “Everyone thought you were so perfect, and I know he was going to propose soon.”
“We hadn’t discussed it,” Hermione said through gritted teeth, and silently mourned her champagne.
“Of course he was. My sister’s best friend’s brother-in-law is a jeweler, you know. Discreet, of course, but I heard your beau was looking at rings last month.”
Hermione was tempted to ask if she knew the definition of discreet. Instead, she pretended to be a politician and said, “Unfortunately, we weren’t meant to be.”
“And why is that, dear girl?” Mrs. Smith asked with slightly less subtlety than a Hippogriff in the Hall of Prophecy, and Hermione resolved to hex the next person who called her dear, dear girl, or dearie.
“We just wanted different things.”
Hannah Abott had real tears in her eyes when she told her, “I really thought you were made for each other.”
Lady Travers leaned towards her with a familiarity she hadn’t earned, and said, “You know how men are. We have to forgive them sometimes. We cannot just up and leave when they make a mistake.” She looked Hermione up and down in a way that conveyed pity, sympathy, and a deep disdain for her very existence. “Especially a young woman of your background, Miss Granger.”
Hermione’s wand was in its disillusioned holster, and in less than a second, it could be in her hand, and Lady Travers could be silenced, or stunned, or forcibly removed from the room.
“Hermione!”
She spun away from Lady Travers, which was probably beneficial for both their health, and Fleur Delacour was standing just two feet away.
Fleur, who had smiled at her exactly zero times in the last seven years, greeted her with a quick kiss on each cheek. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Madame…?”
“Lady Travers,” Hermione supplied.
“Lovely to meet you,” Fleur said, without even the pretense of sincerity. “I need to borrow Hermione.”
“Of course,” Lady Travers agreed, sounding like she had just bitten into a lemon and was shocked to learn that it was sour.
Fleur set a hand on her back and guided her through the crowd with the confidence of someone who knew the room would shape itself around her.
“Thank you.”
Fleur laughed like she’d said something charming, hand still resting on her back. “You looked like you were going to hex her. Deserved, I’m sure.”
“The next time someone asks how I’m feeling, I’m going to tell them that I bought a cake and three new books to celebrate, and burned his favorite shirt when he refused to pick it up.”
“Then I will be the first to say félicitations.”
“Second. Ginny beat you to it.”
“Perhaps I underestimated her. What type of cake?”
“Funfetti.”
“Please tell me that is a joke.”
“It’s a perfectly respectable type of cake.”
“Of course.”
“I can’t tell if you’re mocking me.” Fleur’s smile gave away nothing. “It reminds me of my parents. My mum couldn’t bake anything that didn’t come from a box.”
“And your father?”
“Washed the dishes and tried to eat the batter.”
Fleur laughed again, and Hermione looked at her for the first time. Fleur’s dress was sleeveless and black and sparkly, and the straps of her shoes wove up around her ankles, and matching silver stars hung from her ears and around her neck.
Fleur Delacour had always been beautiful, but tonight, she was radiant.
“Would you like to dance?” Fleur asked.
Hermione looked at the couples on the dance floor. At the reporters hovering around the edges of the room. At Fleur, with her bright blue eyes and dark red lips and her hand still pressed against Hermione’s spine.
And Hermione had been single for exactly twelve days, and she was wearing the most beautiful blue dress she’d ever owned, and she’d spent her entire night counting to ten and reminding herself that murder was still illegal.
She looked at the reporters one last time. “Sure. Let’s dance.”
Ron was a terrible dancer. He stepped on her toes even when they weren’t moving, but he did it so earnestly that she could only smile and laugh and cast numbing charms on her feet.
Fleur didn’t step on her toes. She led the dance easily, confidently, in a way that was unfairly, inarguably attractive.
“Do you want to talk about him?” Fleur asked quietly, fingers curled around her hip.
“I had fun burning the shirt.”
“Good. You should always burn things that hurt you,” she declared, like she’d never been taught a healthy way to handle problems and didn’t care to learn, and Hermione smiled.
“Would you burn him if I asked?” she asked, and Fleur laughed softly and pulled her closer. “He wanted our kids to grow up like he did. Molly spent all her time with them, and he wanted that. He wanted a wife who would take care of the house and cook and knit and raise the kids, and he didn’t understand what I would lose. Or maybe he did, and he didn’t think it mattered.” After a beat, she added, “And he threw out my funfetti cake because his mum could make ‘real cake’ if we wanted it.”
“You deserve better.”
“Yes, I know, I broke up with him.” And then she made the most reckless decision since the day she’d freed a dragon. “I still have cake at home. It’s under a stasis charm.”
Fleur tilted her head. She was so pretty. “Are you inviting me for cake, or for something else?”
“If you want cake, we can have cake. If you want something else…” She shrugged.
“Why?”
“I trust you.”
Hermione saw the precise moment when Fleur decided to kiss her, and the precise moment when she stopped herself.
“You know, I think I saw Ron snogging Lavender.”
Fleur kissed her.
Ron cornered them near the bar, and Fleur’s smile didn’t falter. She ordered fresh drinks for them and nothing for Ron, and Hermione thought very hard about kissing her again.
But she’d spent five years — twelve years, really, because Hogwarts absolutely counted — watching Ron get angry, and his shoulders were thrown back and his neck was already red, and if she kissed Fleur, he would flush all the way to the tips of his ears, and his mouth would go flat, and this was supposed to be a party.
Supposedly.
She almost kissed Fleur anyway.
“Bonjour, Ronald.”
The flush crept up his neck like a disease. “What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed at Hermione.
“I’m enjoying the gala. Are you?”
“You kissed Fleur!”
“Yes, I know. I was there. I intend to do it again.” Fleur’s smugness was practically palpable, and Hermione wanted to kiss her and kick her and possibly yell very, very loudly. Instead, she said, “You kissed Lavender.”
“Oh, so you’re trying to get back at me?”
Hermione looked at Ron. Then she looked at Fleur, with her bright eyes and her insane smile, and she’d dated Ron for five years and hadn’t once felt the way she had on the dance floor tonight. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“What’s so great about Fleur anyway?”
Fleur turned to Hermione. “Has he looked above my chest today?”
“No, I don’t think he has.” Hermione looked at Ron, and his entire face had turned the same shade as his hair, and his mouth was a flat line, and Hermione wanted to know what would happen if she laughed. “Fleur is funny. She’s annoyingly smart. She knows more about runes than I do, which is both offensive and incredibly attractive. She listened to me talk about my parents.”
He scoffed. “And would your parents want you running around with a—”
“Ronald Weasley.” Anyone with common sense would have run from that tone, but Ron had never been the sharpest knife in the potions kit. “I know it was convenient for you to pretend I only like men, but we both know it was never true. You do not get to yell at Fleur because she rejected you. You do not get to yell at me because I broke up with you. Women are not obligated to like you because you look good without a shirt on. And frankly, Fleur’s body is the least interesting thing about her, and it’s still ten times more interesting than anything about you.”
She ignored the people who’d just discovered that zoo animals could jump through hoops, and held out her hand to Fleur. “Can I interest you in another dance?”
Fleur laughed, eyes sparkling, and stepped past Ron like he was worth less than the stool she’d sat on. “Of course.” Then her voice turned quiet, and it sent a bolt of electricity down Hermione’s spine. “That was very attractive, so we will stay for one dance, and you will take me home for cake. Non, do not argue, I will seduce you with my knowledge of ancient runes.”
And Hermione could only laugh. “Okay. One more dance.”
When Hermione woke up, Fleur was on the other side of the bed, legs crossed under her, reading the book from her nightstand.
“You’re awake.”
“Yes.”
“You’re wearing my robe.” Fleur hummed and turned the page. “You’re reading my book.”
“It’s a good book. Next time, I will bring my own.”
“It’s too early to be awake.”
“In that case, I will make coffee.” She kissed Hermione’s forehead before leaving, presumably in search of the kitchen. Hermione rolled over and went back to sleep.
When she woke up the second time, the bed was empty, because Fleur was still a little bit of an asshole. Which was concerning because Hermione liked her anyway, in a way that was probably detrimental to her health.
She found Fleur reading her book at the kitchen table, two still-steaming cups of coffee in front of her. Hermione tried to convince herself that she wasn’t impressed by the spellwork. She was only partially successful.
“I should be offended,” she teased. “You like my book more than you like me.”
“It is much more engaging.”
“Not what you said last night.”
Fleur looked up from the book and smiled. Hermione’s heart did something complicated and not entirely welcome at the sight of Fleur in her robe, drinking her coffee, reading her book, sitting at her kitchen table and smiling like she’d already decided to stay. “Non, you were very engaging last night. You are less engaging when you’re asleep.”
“Most people are.” She looked at the charmed mugs on her kitchen table. “Do I own coffee?”
“You have more coffee than spices, and more spices than vegetables. Do you survive on tea?”
“Tea and stress.”
“Hm. I will be fixing that,” she declared, like Hermione was an arithmantic equation that could be restructured without permission. “Does your mail normally try to escape?”
Hermione glanced at her magical mail slot. “Occasionally. That one is excessively dramatic.” She summoned the copy of the Daily Prophet that was fluttering by her window, read the first page, and recategorized it as appropriately dramatic.
“Well, the Prophet already decided we’re dating. They can’t decide if you’re an evil harpy who seduced me away from Ron or I’m a heartless bitch who broke his heart and took twelve days to move on.” Fleur wrapped her arms around her waist, peering over her shoulder at the paper. “Strangely, no mention of Ron and Lavender.”
“You are not heartless.”
“And you’re not a harpy.”
Fleur kissed the back of her neck, and Hermione practically melted in her arms. “I know. I’m much too pretty to be a harpy.” Hermione laughed helplessly. “You promised me cake.”
“You have to let go of me for that.”
“Hmm.” Fleur turned her and pressed her lightly against the table. “I do not want to let go of you.”
Hermione laughed again, head tilted back, face warm. Fleur pressed a kiss against the pulse in her throat, looking much too pleased with herself, and Hermione attempted to remember the structure of a sentence.
“Okay, no, cake. I promised cake. Good cake. Cake under a stasis charm,” she rambled. “And I want cake,” she added after precisely three seconds, pretending to recover her dignity.
Fleur kissed her slowly, and confidently destroyed any dignity that she’d retrieved. “Okay, chérie. We can have cake.”
Hermione turned away to get the cake, and pretended it wasn’t a tactical retreat. Fleur, who had somehow learned the entire layout of her kitchen in an hour, brought out plates and cutlery.
“How did you find my plates?”
“Would you like me to put them back? We can feed it to each other.”
“Fleur!”
“Yes?” she asked innocently.
Hermione was unreasonably grateful to the person who chose that moment to bang on her door. Then she remembered that there was exactly one person who knocked like that, and she didn’t want them near her kitchen this morning.
She waved it open anyway, and Ginny burst into the room. Her friend looked slowly between Fleur in her robe and her in nothing but a loose t-shirt, hair pulled messily out of her face, and she grinned.
“This is incredible.” She took a sip of Hermione’s coffee. “Oh, cake for breakfast? Brilliant.”
“That’s not for you.”
“Do I need to sleep with you too? Because if the cake is good, I’ll do it. Fleur doesn’t even need to leave.” Ginny helped herself to a slice, and Hermione wondered if it was too late to exit the conversation. Or her life. “Good morning, Fleur. Considering that Hermione seems very relaxed, I’m going to assume you’re better in bed than my brother.”
“Yes, she said that last night. Several times, in fact.”
“Stop sounding smug.”
“Non. I like how you sound when you beg.” Hermione’s entire face flushed bright red, and Ginny threw her head back and laughed. “Especially because you did not beg for him.”
“Oh Merlin, this is incredible. Can I invite George over?”
“You can get out of my house, because I’m half naked, and I’m pretty sure Fleur is going to drag me back to bed for round two, and I don’t want you here for that.”
“It is slightly more than two, and we can stay in the kitchen if you want. I’m not picky.” She glanced speculatively at the table, and Hermione blushed.
Ginny laughed again, gaze travelling blatantly over Hermione’s bare legs. Hermione wanted to smack her. “Right, dinner, tomorrow night. You, me, Harry, George, and if you’re dating blondie over there, bring her too.”
Ginny walked out before she could answer, a slice of cake floating in the air behind her. Hermione needed better friends. Preferably ones with boundaries.
Hermione picked up her coffee, remembered Ginny claiming it, and put it back down. “We should probably talk.”
“It is too early to put a label on this.”
“Yeah.”
“But I would like to see where it goes.”
Hermione looked at Fleur in her home, with her book, wearing her clothes, and knew exactly where she wanted it to go.
“I don’t date multiple people. Even when it’s casual.”
“Good. Veela don’t share.” Fleur kissed her again, fierce and possessive, and they didn’t make it back to the bedroom.
Hermione wanted to meet in a Muggle pub. Unfortunately, Ginny was a menace, so they went to the Leaky Cauldron instead, her and Fleur on one side of a booth, and three of her friends crammed into the other.
Fleur was wearing one of her shirts, and a pair of jeans that she’d charmed to reach her ankles. They looked so good that Hermione wanted her to keep them.
(She accidentally said that part out loud, and Fleur told her they would look better on the floor than on either of them, then kissed her very thoroughly and apparated to Diagon Alley before Hermione could remember how to speak.)
Ginny, of course, noticed immediately. “That’s a nice shirt, Fleur. I think Hermione owns one just like it.”
“Ah, oui, this is hers,” Fleur said without any shame. “The jeans as well.”
Hermione wanted to die.
And then Fleur turned to her and asked, “Will you order for me, chérie?”
Harry choked on his water.
“I—” Fleur gave her a charming smile, eyes sparkling. “Yeah. Sure. I can do that.” She had no idea what Fleur would order.
Fleur planted a kiss on her cheek. “Merci.”
“You,” Harry said, one finger pointed approximately at her nose, “are in so much trouble.”
Hermione sighed. “You have no idea.”
The conversation was pretending to be something close to sane — as sane as it could be with Fleur’s thumb tracing circles on her wrist and Ginny following the motion like Crookshanks with a laser pointer — when George decided to ruin it, because that was the entire point of George in any room.
“So. Fleur.” He leaned across the table, grinning like the conversation had already lost its dignity. “Have you gone home yet?”
“Non.”
“Excellent.”
“When I go home, my family will ask about the article, and they will be…”
“Insufferable?” Hermione offered. “It must run in the family.” Fleur’s thumb paused on her wrist for just long enough for the nail to dig into her skin. Ginny looked delighted.
“Over-involved.”
“Not to be too direct—” Ginny started.
“You love being too direct,” Hermione countered.
“—but what is going on here?”
“We’re seeing where it goes,” Hermione answered. “We might break up. We might get married.” Fleur laughed and kissed her temple.
“Ma mère will be planning a wedding within six weeks.”
George clasped his hands together and looked at them pleadingly. “Can I be the flower girl?”
“No fair!” Ginny shouted, drawing attention from half the pub. “I want to be the flower girl.”
“That’s going to be in the Prophet tomorrow,” Hermione muttered.
“Probably,” Fleur agreed.
“That wasn’t helpful.”
“It was not supposed to be.”
“Remind me why I like you?”
“I did not throw out your cake, and I’m very good with—” Fleur glanced at Ginny, who wasn’t even pretending not to listen, and sighed. “Your friends are very irritating. You should find new ones.”
Hermione didn’t mention that Fleur was talking about sex in the middle of a pub. Partially because Fleur was very good with whatever she’d almost said and had every right to be smug wherever she wanted, and partially because Ginny had walked into her house, tasted her coffee, eaten her cake, and stared at her legs specifically to make Fleur jealous.
“I know, they’re the worst. Unfortunately, I think I’m stuck with them.”
“In that case, I will tell Maman that she should not plan a wedding. She will be disappointed.”
“Will you be disappointed?”
“Non. I will be relieved.” Hermione smiled, and watched Fleur’s lips curl into the same shape. And kept watching, even when they were done. “We’re in public.”
“I really don’t give a fuck.”
“Oh no,” George whispered dramatically.
“You are playing a dangerous game, chérie.”
“Yeah, she’s fucked,” Harry said under his breath. Ginny grinned like this was the best entertainment she’d had since Lockhart.
“Fleur, I have fought a troll, been petrified by a basilisk, dealt with Harry and Viktor’s hate mail, babysat a Horcrux, handled Harry during NEWTs—”
(Harry shouted, “Oi!”, which drew at least fifteen sets of eyes to the ongoing disaster. Ginny nudged him with her shoulder and said, “She’s got a point.” Hermione ignored them both.)
“—and survived a Ministry gala twelve days after breaking up with Ron. This is the least dangerous thing I’ve done.”
“That is a very convincing argument.”
So Hermione leaned forward and kissed her.