Chapter Text
“Fuck.”
The word slipped through clenched teeth, muffled by the echo of celebrations coming from outside. Fleur Delacour was leaning over the sink in the Quidditch stadium’s bathroom, her arms firmly resting on the cold marble. Her forehead pressed to the damp surface, eyes closed as if that could make the world outside disappear. She felt droplets trickling down her feet, but didn’t care. Let the floor be wet. Let her be wet. Nothing seemed to matter.
The game was at its peak. England had just scored. Ginny Weasley, in all her fiery-haired glory, flew like lightning through the hoops. The stands shook with screams. But there, in that stuffy, isolated bathroom, time had stopped.
The door burst open suddenly, bringing another wave of euphoric noise. The magical commentator’s voice boomed:
“Ginny Weasley, folks! Goal for England! Will Harry Potter have quite a night?”
“JORDAN!” — a female voice scolded in the background, but it was too late. Ginny’s name was already being chanted in unison by thousands of wizards.
And behind the noise, came her.
Hermione.
Fleur didn’t need to look up. She knew. She felt. The magic that had become familiar, almost comforting, burned on her skin like embers. The other woman’s presence was like a whirlwind, pulling everything around — thoughts, breath, dignity.
“So…?” — Hermione asked. Her voice was calm, but there was a hint of curiosity — and hurt. And that was enough to awaken the Veela within Fleur, restless.
The silence was so thick that the stadium's noise seemed to come from another world.
Hermione scoffed. A flick of her wand and a Quietus spell silenced everything around. The noise turned into a distant hum.
“Delacour.”
Fleur loved hearing her surname on Hermione’s lips. Just not like this. Not now.
“Shame on you. Have the courage to tell me exactly how long you’ve known we’re soulmates. And when, exactly, you planned to tell me.” — Hermione fired off all at once and then, as if that wasn’t enough, she pulled Fleur by the ear. Literally. Like a tired mother dealing with a stubborn child.
Fleur looked at her, eyes shining, tears clinging to the edges. Hermione sighed, exhausted.
“When you find the courage to talk, come find me.” — She undid the Quietus, and the sound of the real world came back like an explosion. — “I’m leaving. Tell the others I’m gone.”
“What do I tell them?” — Fleur asked, almost in a sob.
“You’re good at lying. Make something up. I know you’ll manage.”
And then Hermione turned and left. She didn’t look back. Didn’t hesitate.
The phrase hit like a blow. The Veela inside Fleur roared, demanding she run after her, beg her, that she… but she didn’t move.
She just sat on the wet floor, leaned against the wall, and let out a short, bitter laugh at the pathetic cliché she had become. Then, she cried.
The scent of fresh parchment and chamomile tea lingered in the air of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Fleur felt the ancient magic of the room vibrate beneath her boots as she walked confidently through the halls. Just another pre–Quidditch World Cup security meeting. She’d attended dozens before. None were supposed to be special.
But then Hermione arrived.
With a poorly pinned-up bun, a few rebellious strands escaping across her forehead, and a stack of documents clutched to her chest. When she sat beside Fleur, the Frenchwoman’s heart skipped a beat. The Veela within her stirred subtly, like someone sensing the scent of rain before it falls.
Fleur took a deep breath.
During the meeting, they discussed international barrier runes and climate reinforcement spells. Hermione leaned over a chart and, while pointing out an error, accidentally touched Fleur’s arm.
It was just a second.
But for Fleur, it felt like intense heat ran from her neck to her ankles. She blinked, subtly pulling away, trying to hide the tremble in her fingers.
Hermione noticed.
“Are you okay?” — she asked, eyebrow arched, tone gentle but probing.
Fleur nodded too quickly. — “Oui. Of course. I’m fine.”
Lie.
Later that night, at Shell Cottage – the Delacour sisters’ magical home
Gabrielle lay on the couch, reading a book when Fleur walked in. She threw her bag onto the armchair, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed beside her sister, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“You’re a mess,” Gabrielle commented, not looking up from her book. “Worse than when you faced that blind basilisk in the Egypt expedition.”
Fleur didn’t reply.
Gabrielle closed the book. — “It was her, wasn’t it?”
Fleur simply covered her face with her hands. Gabrielle sighed and sat up.
“How long have you known?”
“Since the Triwizard Tournament.”
“Merlin…”
“I was just a girl. She was too. Everything was falling apart… Voldemort returning, the magical world in chaos… I thought it would be selfish to throw that on her.” — Fleur’s voice cracked.
Gabrielle said nothing for a moment.
“And now? Still planning to hide it?”
“She doesn’t know.”
Gabrielle raised an eyebrow. — “Do you really think that? Fleur, she’s the smartest witch of our generation. If you feel it, she feels it too.”
Fleur went silent.
Later that night, she sat before the fireplace with a blank parchment. She tried to write something. Explain. Confess. Say it all.
“Hermione, I’ve known for years. I know you are my soulmate. And I’ve spent every day since trying not to love you more than I already do…”
But before she finished, she tossed the quill aside and angrily tore the parchment.
The Veela within her growled softly, wounded.
The day before the match began with a hectic magical journey.
Hermione appeared at the apparation point with the Weasleys — wearing a burgundy coat over her organizer uniform, her hair tied back practically and brows slightly furrowed. Fleur arrived minutes later with Gabrielle, wearing a navy blue coat and sunglasses that hid her restless eyes all too well.
No one commented on the tension.
The group was large. Arthur and Molly were excited. Harry cracked jokes with Ron. Ginny explained the English league’s scoring system to Luna. Everything seemed so normal it hurt.
Hermione avoided looking at Fleur for too long. And Fleur, in turn, avoided standing too close. But their eyes met. Always met.
At the stadium – VIP Suite before the game
The Weasley family’s box was spacious and charming, decorated with floating flags and magically refilling snack plates. The pre-game dinner was a tradition.
Fleur sat beside Gabrielle, with Bill on the other side. Hermione was next to Ron — not by choice, but by habit — and the two chatted casually about the event’s magical security. Fleur watched with impassive eyes, pretending it didn’t bother her.
But the Veela inside was restless. Very restless.
Molly Weasley, never known for her subtlety, commented with the most maternal smile in the world:
“I always knew you and Ron would end up together, Hermione. Such a lovely pair. You just needed time to admit it!”
Hermione froze, fork halfway to her mouth. Ron widened his eyes and already opened his mouth to deny it, as he always did. But he didn’t get the chance.
Before anyone could say a word, Fleur spoke.
“Of course, Molly. So in love they’ve lived in different countries for five years and exchange letters once a month.”
Silence fell over the table like a death shroud.
Everyone stopped. Molly turned red. Arthur seemed to choke on his pumpkin juice. Even Harry raised his eyebrows. Ron cleared his throat awkwardly.
Hermione simply stood, calmly pulled out her wand, and charmed her wine glass to empty itself without drinking it.
Fleur lowered her eyes.
The Veela was in control at that moment. And the magic around them reacted. The candlelight flickered.
Later, in the corridor near the box, Fleur leaned against the wall, trying to breathe. Bill approached.
“You let the Veela out,” he said, without judgment.
“She provoked me.”
“It wasn’t Hermione who spoke.” He shrugged. “You know that.”
Fleur didn’t reply. Bill waited.
“Are you still going to hide it?”
She looked at him with wet eyes.
“I don’t know how to say it. What if she… what if she hates me for it?”
Bill chuckled, a bit sadly.
“She’s Hermione Granger. She’s faced a basilisk, a Death Eater army, and survived three years as the moral compass of Hogwarts’ most chaotic trio. You think this is going to scare her?”
“She might feel I’ve hidden this for years.”
“She already feels it,” he said. “But she loves you anyway. It’s written all over her eyes.”
Fleur closed her eyes. The magic of her soul screamed, stretched like a drawn bowstring.
“How long have you known?” — she asked, barely a whisper.
“Since our wedding. I saw how you looked at her. And how she looked at you. Even if no one else noticed, I knew.” He gently squeezed her shoulder. “You’re my best friend. I want you to be happy. So go. Talk to her. Before it’s too late.”
The wall behind her was cold, but Fleur’s body burned from the inside out.
The bathroom still echoed with muffled sounds. The crowd outside seemed to celebrate the peak of the Cup, and in there, Fleur Delacour’s world was silently falling apart.
The Veela inside her cried. Screamed. Clawed. It was as if something vital had been torn from her chest and taken away with Hermione’s determined steps.
She felt it. Felt everything.
The necklace around her neck — a small moonstone set in a silver enchanted chain, a gift from Gabrielle when Fleur confessed about the soul bond — began to glow softly.
Red.
Red.
She gasped. That only happened when the soulmate distanced themselves emotionally in a dangerous way. The bond still existed, still pulsed, but it was wounded. Fragile.
Hermione knew. Always knew. And still stayed. Still trusted her. Still waited.
And now, because of pride, because of fear… had Fleur lost her?
She raised her hands, trying to hold back tears, but it was useless. They fell freely, silently. Down her chin, brushing her lips.
Outside, someone shouted Ginny’s name again.
But none of it mattered.
Because Fleur Delacour, for the first time in years, didn’t know how to stand.
She had survived the war. Prejudice. The pain of a marriage that never should have happened. She had rebuilt her life, her strength, her name. But none of it prepared her for the emptiness of watching Hermione turn and walk away.
And still, part of her… understood.
After all, Hermione Granger was everything she had always admired: courage, loyalty, clarity. And now, that woman had shown something Fleur had let slip away — the ability to speak the truth, even when it hurts.
She placed a hand on her chest, where the necklace still burned.
The soulmate was alive.
But wounded.
And if she wanted Hermione back — not just as a friend, but as everything her soul desired — she would have to fight. She would have to speak. She would have to let go of fear.
The stone pulsed again.
Red.
Warm.
Fleur closed her eyes.
Took a deep breath.
And finally, allowed herself to collapse completely to the floor. Her whole body resting on the cold stones of the bathroom.
Because before she could stand again, she needed to fall.
She needed to accept that she was broken.
Only then, could she begin to rebuild.