Chapter Text
One thing Hermione had never considered about war was how many funerals would follow after the final battle. She went to more funerals following the war than she had ever been to in her entire life.
Over and over again— Memorials, funerals, remembrances…
Hermione had stood alongside her best friends, Harry and Ron, farewelling their fallen classmates, friends, friends of friends, family of friends. Friends of family of friends.
It began to become a predictable routine for the brunette. The same cluster of songs people loved to choose; the overcompensation of bright and cheery flowers; the polite comments about how nice the service was.
The politeness was what got to Hermione. Sitting through a service that skirted around how the individual had died was painful. “Gone too soon,” or the likes. It wasn’t like anybody needed to voice it out loud. They had all been through the same war, listening on the wireless to the bleak list of names each day.
They knew that the person had died in unspeakable pain. Or been hit with a curse they never saw coming. Fallen in mud and quickly forgotten on the battlefield as Death Eaters marched on and over them.
The constant reminders of the horrors of war chipped away at Hermione, leaving her with an empty kind of numbness at each service she dutifully attended.
By the time the once muddy battlefields had dried up and summer had returned, the funerals seemed to finally taper off. The community had finished farewelling the lost and truly begun the rebuild after the war. Hermione felt a guilty kind of relief when the endless funerals had stopped. She had been eager from the very beginning to stuff all the war memories into a tiny little box in the back of her mind and press on.
And from that hot, dry summer onwards, Hermione did just that.
She finished her schooling, progressed to university, and put it all behind her. Hermione wore long sleeves to cover the scarred reminders from Bellatrix. Even on the most boiling hot days. She kept conversations with Harry and Ron light. She buried herself in study.
If she pressed on like everything was the way it was… Surely that would make things feel a bit more normal.
It seemed to work. Kind of.
Years passed in a type of mindless routine. Seasons came and went. Hermione graduated. She got her first job at the Ministry. Harry and Ron became Aurors. Ginny began to play Quidditch professionally.
Hermione just kept moving. Never going out of her way to catch up with anyone or do anything, just burying herself in work and attending whatever Harry, Ron or Ginny directly invited her to.
She was going through life on autopilot. And if that protected her from the painful memories that haunted her? All the better.
One autumn day, Hermione was making her way home to her one bedroom flat in the rain. The downpour flattened her usually wild curls, slicking them uncomfortably to her head and neck. Fat beads of cold rain crawled stubbornly past her rain jacket to roll down her face and neck. There was already a chill in the air and Hermione’s boots kept slipping on the stamped down leaves along the footpaths.
She hadn’t wanted to move into Grimmauld Place with Harry and Ron after schooling. Aside from the screaming bigoted portraits Harry still hadn’t been able to remove, the large manor simply held too many reminders of wartime.
Instead, as soon as possible, Hermione had taken on a part time job bussing tables at a restaurant. This allowed her to cobble together enough money to lease a poky flat a few blocks away from Diagon Alley. It was small, damp and cold. But once Hermione graduated with her degree and got her first post-uni job working for the Ministry of Magic, she had started a fairly promising savings fund that would eventually help her move into a nicer abode.
Hermione sighed as the door stuck in the doorframe — Whenever there was wet weather, the wood of the door expanded through the flaked paint, jamming it in place. The rain continued to patter heavily on the shoulders of her jacket.
Grunting as she shoved her shoulder against the door, Hermione burst it open impatiently and entered her flat.
Tap, tap, tap.
Pigwidgeon was patiently waiting at the draughty window above her small table. The tiny owl was ducked just out of the rain, in the tiny stripe of dry that the overhanging roof allowed.
The apartment was so small it simply had a bedroom that could only fit a double bed and a tiny set of drawers; a ‘living’ room only big enough for a table, two chairs, and a squashed kitchenette; and a bathroom with a dingy shower.
It was fine for Hermione’s purposes. She’d always liked to work late, and any socialising she did was mainly over at Harry and Ron’s place, anyway.
She really only came to her flat to sleep and shower.
If Hermione kept busy… Well, she never had to think about things that she really didn’t want to think about. Things that belonged firmly inside the box at the back of her mind.
Hermione sighed, putting down her heavy satchel, shucking off her wet coat, and snatching an apple to munch on as she sidled through the small living space to let Pig in.
The tiny owl hopped in and onto the table, cooing softly.
“Hey, buddy,” Hermione greeted with a soft smile. She stroked Pig’s feathers before snatching the small jar of owl treats from the window ledge.
Pig gratefully chomped some treats and held out a tiny leg for Hermione to retrieve the letter.
Hermione put her half eaten apple down for a moment, letting Pig out the window again as she turned her attention to the letter.
It was written by Harry— Which wasn’t in itself unusual, he had never got around to getting another owl after Hedwig had died during the war. Though, it was unusual that Harry’s messy handwriting had scrawled ‘URGENT’ in block letters on the outside of the letter.
Hermione ripped it open instantly.
That letter was how Hermione found out about Bill’s untimely death. It led to a rallying of their friends around Ron and, that weekend, the first funeral that Hermione had had to attend in years.
She hated it.
Not the news about Bill — That was undoubtedly sad, but Hermione had built a kind of numb barrier to sad events since the war. The awful part was the way that being crammed into a funeral with all the same familiar faces brought Hermione right back in time. Years had passed, but in that moment, Hermione felt like they had only just left the war again.
Hermione shuffled in her seat next to Harry, looking ahead of them at the sea of red hair in the front seats. Luna sat on her other side.
Hermione felt uncomfortable in her itchy wool pants. After the flurry of funerals directly after the war ended, Hermione had pointedly thrown out all of her funeral attire. She’d had to rush out and get some formal pants, a shirt and a blazer for Bill’s service.
They were inside a large wooden church, though Hermione was fairly sure Bill hadn’t been a religious man at all. The high ceilings made the sobbing of the vast Weasley family bounce around the room like cruel echoes.
Hermione’s arm twinged. She pulled at her blazer sleeve restlessly.
Some nights she could still hear Bellatrix Lestrange’s demented laughing.
“Terrible, isn’t it?” Luna commented softly beside Hermione.
Hermione jumped, pulled roughly out of her thoughts by the blonde.
“I suppose they never thought they would be here again after losing Fred,” Hermione murmured back, shaking her head in agreement.
It was a grey autumn day, but it somehow felt far too hot in the church. Hermione almost felt like the impossibly tall walls were closing in on her.
“I meant for Fleur,” Luna replied, nodding at the solitary figure sitting slightly apart from the Weasleys.
Hermione hadn’t noticed Fleur at first, sitting with Apolline Delacour, a small child on one side and a toddler in her arms. Louis and Hugo, Hermione recalled vaguely.
Hermione hadn’t had much to do with Fleur since…
Hermione’s arm stung painfully, as if protesting any attempt to remember what Bellatrix had done to her. What state she had been in when Fleur had painstakingly nursed her back to health.
Fleur’s back was ramrod straight. She had always had an icy air about her, as if she was extremely concerned with her appearance and hiding all emotion. Fleur and her mother seemed to be the only members of the family section that were not crying.
Hermione had barely been paying attention to the service. She’d been too lost in her thoughts.
“We would like to invite Bill’s wife up to share her memories of him…” intoned the celebrant, drawing Hermione’s attention back to the service.
Fleur handed her toddler to her mother. He was all white blonde curls and smiles— the boy was blissfully unaware of the nature of the service he was sitting through.
Probably for the best, Hermione grimly thought to herself. She tried to focus on Fleur, push her thoughts firmly away from wartime memories.
Fleur’s heels clacked loudly, echoing around the church as she slowly made her way up to the small wooden lecture. She was dressed in an elegant black dress that made her look radiant in her grief. Her face was set, but the sadness was evident in her eyes.
“I have known Bill for all my adult life,” Fleur began.
Hermione almost jumped at the sound of the Frenchwoman’s voice after so many years. Soft, melodic. Her accent had lessened a little more, but still coloured every word beautifully. Hermione’s stomach flipped uncomfortably.
“I was seventeen at the Triwizard Tournament when Bill came to assist his brother Charlie and spectate. After one of the Tasks, Bill approached me and asked if we could write to each other.”
Hermione frowned, the tendrils of her focus beginning to wrap around Fleur and her words.
She’d never actually heard how Bill and Fleur had met. She’d assumed at Gringotts.
“Not many people know this about Bill, but he was very gifted with words — especially in his writing. We sent hundreds of letters to each other following the Tournament. Bill was actually the one who convinced me to defer my university education and travel to England for a gap year, working at Gringotts.”
The dim sun was shining through the tall stained glass windows, illuminating the silver of Fleur’s hair in the afternoon light. Hermione shifted her thoughts aggressively off the war and onto Fleur’s surprising story about meeting Bill.
“Wait… So she was seventeen when he first started pursuing her… And he would have been…?” Hermione muttered to Luna and Harry.
“Not the point right now,” Harry cut her off, putting a hand on her knee and squeezing. A wordless ‘This isn’t the time or place.’
“Bill and I grew closer over that year as he taught me English and how to be a curse breaker,” Fleur continued, “And I taught him how to cook.”
There were renewed sobs from the front rows of pews.
Hermione was unaffected, her mind continuing to snag on the details of Fleur’s speech. It was as if all the anxious energy she had felt around Bellatrix was being redirected to the slightly alarming details of how Bill had pursued Fleur.
“I never did return to France for university,” Fleur chuckled humourlessly, “Instead we tried to build a life together despite all the horrors around us. We married in the midst of Death Eater attacks, we celebrated Bill’s 33rd birthday in the days before we travelled to fight at the battle at Hogwarts…”
“Thirty-three?!” Hermione whispered, outraged, “I knew there was a big age gap… But that would have made him 29 or 30 when he was approaching a teenager in school…”
“Hermione,” Harry warned under his breath.
“Bill always struggled with the injuries inflicted on him during wartimes. He always struggled with the loss of family and friends to the atrocities of the war.” Fleur continued. Shadows and light danced on her high cheekbones, her sharp jawline. Her hair was loose and framed her face as she continued to speak, features tight and forcibly devoid of emotion.
“He convinced her not to go on to higher education—“ Hermione hissed quietly to Harry, “Made her get a job working under him… The power imbalance—“
“Leave it,” Harry shushed her again, pointedly. Her lively whispering had begun to attract some glances and turned heads from the seats around them. Hermione couldn’t stop. Blood was thumping in her ears. Adrenaline was rushing through her bloodstream.
“Bill had always wanted a big family like the one he had grown up in,” Fleur continued, oblivious to Hermione’s reaction in the audience of mourners, “I had never planned on having children so young, but there is nothing on this Earth I would have denied my William. He was my other half, my guiding light—“
“He bloody groomed her!” Hermione snapped unexpectedly.
Too loud.
Jesus Christ. Hermione winced as a heavy, stunned silence fell over the whole church.
Harry was staring back at Hermione, open mouthed, shaking his head slightly.
Hermione chanced a look around the room, only to see hundreds of judgmental eyes staring back. The Weasleys looked positively livid.
Yep, they had definitely heard her that time.
“Erm… Carry on… I was… Uh… Talking about something else,” Hermione called out lamely. She looked back up at the lectern, feeling the air whoosh from her lungs as her eyes connected with icy blue.
Fleur’s gaze was unreadable, but wild.
But then, with a frown, Fleur swept her gaze away from Hermione before continuing her speech as if there had been no interruption at all.
Hermione slunk down a little in her seat, wishing that the church hadn’t had quite such good acoustics in that moment.
It felt even more boiling hot in the church than before.
“I bloody told you to leave it,” Harry whispered to her after a safe amount of time had passed.
Hermione shot him a sidelong glance. She stood by her words, her mind still whirring in overdrive, but she was absolutely regretting uttering them in the middle of the service.
“How bad do you think it’s going to be?” Hermione whispered back through a dry mouth. Perhaps this was just another thing she could simply box up in the back of her mind and never think about again.
Harry didn’t reply, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. In perhaps the most unsettling response, Luna placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Gods, if Luna Lovegood had managed to pick up on a social error, it was definitely not looking good.
—————————————————
To say the reception was uncomfortable would have been a gross understatement.
The level of awkwardness was akin to Neville Longbottom’s level of forgetfulness— absolutely dire and more than a little concerning. Unfortunately, there was no remembrall for offending a cathedral crammed with people.
Several long tables had been set out in the hall next door, positively groaning with food. People stood around politely with cups of tea and pumpkin juice, sharing memories of Bill. Even more people watched Hermione curiously, whispering in hushed tones.
Hermione stood alone by the end of one of the tables, stuck in a never ending loop of cringing.
Everyone was giving her a wide berth— as if merely standing in her proximity would implicate them in insulting the deceased, also.
Hermione hadn’t felt this shunned since her first year at Hogwarts. Or maybe back at Muggle schools.
Harry was off talking to Ron, no doubt trying to attempt some damage control judging by the redness of Ron’s face and how vigorously Harry was gesturing.
Hermione was on the receiving end of some truly filthy glares from Molly Weasley on the other side of the room. The matriarch was flitting between sobbing loudly and frantically gossiping with people around the room, eyes flitting frequently to Hermione.
Ginny breezed past, a pumpkin cake in hand.
“Gin, wait,” Hermione called out, a little desperately, her hand wrapping around Ginny’s slender wrist to stop the younger woman from slipping away.
With an audible sigh, Ginny turned to Hermione, pulling her wrist out of the brunette’s grasp.
“‘Mione,” Ginny said heavily. Her voice was tired, pulled down with grief. Her usually cheerful features were dull and reddened from excessive crying. “I love you, but I honestly can’t look at you right now.”
“Ginny—“ Hermione began. Ginny held up a hand.
“Hermione,” Ginny interrupted her. Her voice was hoarse and raw with emotion, “I can’t do this right now. Just give me some space, yeah?”
She spun on her heel and marched away.
Hermione’s shoulders sagged.
What next? She supposed could always go piss on Dumbledore’s grave next. That would be about the only thing that could top her actions right now.
Groaning, Hermione turned around, only to come face to face with Ron. Harry was at his elbow, shooting Hermione a frantic, non-verbal look of warning.
But any look from Harry was far too late.
“How bloody dare you?!” Ron bellowed. Hermione cringed at his words. Not at the fact he was yelling at her— they had been in many a heated argument throughout their friendship. It was the pain in his voice that got to Hermione.
“Ron— I—“ Hermione began.
“No, don’t even try to pull the ‘it was about something else’ bullshit!” Ron shouted over her, “It was right after Fleur had said the thing about having the kids younger than planned!”
“Ron— I’m sorry—“ Hermione tried to get in. But Ron was mid-flight. There was no stopping this train now.
“You’re supposed to be my best mate!” Ron shouted, “My brother just got mauled to death!”
“Ron—“
The old Hermione would be crying by now. Not numb inside and feeling nothing but guilt. Deep burning guilt that reminded her she was still alive and others…
“Hermione,” Fleur’s sweet, accented voice interrupted. Though she spoke softly, her demanding tone silenced Ron in an instant as she came to stand beside him. His mouth clamped shut but his freckled face remained bright red with rage.
Hermione’s mouth went dry. She tried desperately to swallow the heavy lump in her throat. Hermione hadn’t been prepared to see Fleur this close. She looked heartbreakingly beautiful.
And furious.
“Fleur…”
Thwack!
Fleur’s hand stung Hermione’s cheek sharply. Hermione had barely processed it by the time Fleur had turned and walked away in a flurry of long silky hair.
“I… I should go…” Hermione managed hoarsely, bringing a hand to rest on her warming cheek.
“I think that’s a good idea,” Ron told Hermione. He still sounded angry, but at least he wasn’t shouting anymore. Fleur’s slap seemed to have appeased him for the moment.
Hermione ran a finger through the condensation fogging the window.
She was sitting in a squashy cafe with Harry, taking a rare break during her work day to catch up with the only person currently returning her messages.
It had been a lonely fortnight since Bill’s funeral. She’d been uninvited from a dinner at The Burrow. Ginny and Ron were pointedly avoiding her. Mutual friends were frosty, at best.
It seemed to be an accepted fact that Hermione had been entirely out of line by suggesting a man was a predator at his own funeral.
Which, when Hermione considered it, did seem a bit fair. There was a time and a place, after all. No matter how suspect the man’s behaviour had been.
So she accepted her status as a social leper.
“I don’t know what to do, Harry,” Hermione sighed.
Harry shot her a sympathetic look over the top of his mug of tea.
“Any other time, any other person, any other gathering, it would have been a fairly standard Hermione comment on power imbalance and fairness…” Harry gave a half-hearted shrug, “But… Bill’s funeral? When he’d just died in a horrible and violent way? Jesus, Hermione.”
Hermione exhaled heavily through her nose. She was well aware. Harry had filled her in on the grisly details prior to the funeral while Ron had been out of the room. Bill, who had been struggling with his werewolf-inflicted injuries, had ventured out late one full moon. He wasn’t able to transform into a werewolf, but was affected by it. A liking for very rare meat, a shorter fuse, and apparently a draw to the moon.
Fleur hadn’t been able to leave the children alone to go look for him until the morning, when she was able to summon Apolline. When she searched the nearby woods, she found a great deal of blood, signs of a struggle, and — wizard forensics later confirmed— two of Bill’s fingers. It was all that was left of him after clashing with actual, fully transformed, werewolves.
“Yeah, I know,” Hermione said finally, “I just… Funerals make me go a little crazy, I guess. I wasn’t entirely thinking clearly.”
At that admission, Harry smiled properly for the first time, reaching across the table to put a large hand on top of Hermione’s.
“I know what you mean,” Harry said, his green eyes solemn and haunted, “Honestly? Don’t laugh, but… I seriously had to talk myself out of shaving my head the night before the funeral. I dunno why the whole thing threw me off. I guess… I hadn’t really thought about having to go to a funeral again since…”
“Since the war ended,” Hermione agreed emptily.
A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the sound of a waiter clearing cutlery at the next table over.
Harry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, blinking hard and clearing his throat. He turned his gaze to the fogged up windows.
“I think it’ll all blow over,” Harry said finally, “People are mad, but they know you. They know you’d never be malicious. Plus, we’re hardly the only people to feel a bit… unstable… around funerals since the war.”
“You really think?” Hermione asked Harry, a glimmer of hope slipping through into her voice.
She missed the Weasleys. They were her only family these days. Her life didn’t quite feel complete without Ron or Ginny in it.
Besides, without her (admittedly paltry) social life, Hermione was finding herself with an alarming amount of time alone to think. Hermione was just about prepared to do anything to avoid having to be left with her own thoughts.
“For the Weasleys, yeah,” Harry shrugged, “You know what they’re like. They have big reactions, but once their tempers have had a good amount of time to settle, they see sense. Everyone else? They’ll move on to better gossip soon enough. Besides, it wasn’t like it was an observation entirely lacking in fact, was it? Just… poorly worded and poorly timed.”
Hermione’s shoulders sagged a little in relief. What Harry was saying made sense. She just had to wait out the storm of her consequences for a little while longer.
It was fine. Probably. She could always work even longer hours, she supposed.
“Not sure about Fleur, though,” Harry added, “Nobody has really seen her since the funeral. She seems to have had a falling out with the Weasleys. Nobody is really openly talking about it, but my impression is that Molly seems to blame Fleur for Bill’s death.”
“That’s unfair,” Hermione replied sharply, the injustice distracting her for a moment from her own anxieties. But then she remembered how angry Fleur had looked at the funeral and she felt a heavy pit sink in her stomach.
Harry hummed in vague agreement, long fingers fiddling with the teaspoon on his saucer.
“I should apologise to her,” Hermione sighed, guilt wracking through her once more. It was like grief, coming in waves when she least expected it.
At least grief didn’t make her feel like she had to do something to fix it.
But she wasn’t thinking about grief. No.
“Do you think she’ll want to see you?” Harry asked, cocking his head to one side, “I’m not trying to be mean… Just… It might just make things worse.”
Hermione frowned, drumming the table top with her fingers.
Harry had a point. Hermione just needed to give everyone space and let things blow over naturally.
Hermione knocked on Fleur’s door nervously.
She shifted her weight on her feet, anxiety twinging at her stomach.
She hadn’t been to Bill and Fleur’s house before. She’d only ever stayed with them at Shell Cottage when…
Hermione shut her eyes, taking a deep breath and trying not to think about All Of That.
She was in a sleepy wizarding suburb. The house was very ordinary— a plush green lawn, pleasant garden of flowers, a neat brick house.
Hermione opened her eyes again, rocking back on her heels.
She weighed up whether she should knock again, or simply walk away and pretend she had never come here. The latter option was definitely more appealing…
After all, she had gone directly against her own rational mind by going there. She had waited all of two days after her discussion with Harry before she had got so stir crazy she had ended up downing a glass of wine and catching a bus to Fleur’s house.
Now she had a moment to reflect, Hermione considered how ill-thought out her actions were. She hadn’t even brought anything. Not that she was sure what to bring in the circumstances. A normal “sorry you’ve lost your husband” situation? Sure, a lasagna or casserole or the likes.
A “sorry I effectively called your dead husband a pedo at his recent funeral” situation? There was no gift that really felt appropriate.
Hermione had made a horrible mistake in coming. She felt a sharp flare of panic at the clear realisation.
But before Hermione could turn around and flee as fast as she humanly could, the door swung open.
Fleur’s face registered shock and surprise before settling into a sharp look of icy frustration. She had her toddler in her arms and there was loud wailing emanating from deeper in the house. Her usually impeccable silky hair was askew, escaping a topknot on her head. She seemed unedited, tired.
“What do you think you…” Fleur began.
“MAMAN!” A child’s voice screamed out from the other room.
Fleur pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling tiredly.
“Here, take,” Fleur said suddenly, pushing her little boy into Hermione’s arms before turning and disappearing into the house.
“I… Erm…” Hermione stumbled, staring dumbly at the open doorway as the small toddler looked up at her.
She held him outstretched, hands under his armpits and his small feet dangling. She’d never held a child before. Was there a wrong way to hold them?
“Dada?” He questioned her.
“Erm, no. Definitely not.” Hermione corrected him, before realising, to her supreme discomfort, that she would have to follow Fleur inside.
Hermione stepped in, kicking the door closed behind her. She trudged along thick cream carpet through the house, following the sound of the child crying. It felt like a disturbingly homely walk to the gallows.
She came to a small kitchen-dining room, where Fleur and Bill’s oldest boy was sitting on a chair, crying loudly. Fleur was on her knees in front of him, cooing soothing French words as she rubbed a balm on a nasty looking injury on the boy’s knee.
Hermione drew closer, still holding the toddler awkwardly in front of herself.
“Maman!” The toddler exclaimed happily, wriggling precariously in Hermione’s grip.
“Just a second, Hugo,” Fleur responded instantly, her eyes not leaving the older boy’s knee as she quickly dressed it with a bandage.
She dropped a soft kiss to the knee before standing regally, turning to Hermione. She frowned, as if unimpressed by Hermione’s very presence in the house.
“Can you take the boys into the living room to play for a moment?” Fleur asked in a too-tight voice, “I need to clean up… Louis had an accident.”
The pretty blonde gestured vaguely at an open cupboard above a counter. There were several dusty vials inside and a great deal of shattered glass on the floor below. It seemed like the boy had climbed up and got into the cupboard, only to break some kind of vial and get its contents on his poor knee.
Hermione couldn’t help but notice the mess of dirty dishes, pots and pans strewn around the small kitchen.
“Er… Sure,” Hermione replied dumbly.
Fleur smiled softly at Louis, nodding at him to lead the way.
Hermione swallowed thickly, turning away from Fleur as the blonde withdrew her wand to clean up.
Louis led Hermione one door over to a cosy living room. It was littered with children’s toys and precarious stacks of books.
Hermione stepped inside, still holding Hugo. She was unsure of what to do.
“You can put him down,” Louis told her, sitting down and pulling over a large dinosaur toy, “He can crawl really well and walk kind of well.”
Hermione nodded, silently lowering the toddler to the ground. Sure enough, Hugo giggled and crawled over to some blocks beside Louis.
“Who are you?” Louis asked with all the bluntness of a young child, “How do you know Maman?”
“I…” Hermione sat down on the edge of an armchair, her body screaming at her that it wasn’t too late to simply flee the building. It would be awkward, sure. But could anything be more awkward than the current situation?
“I’m an old friend,” Hermione settled on finally.
“That’s one way to put it,” Fleur said in a clipped tone, entering the room and taking a seat in the armchair across from Hermione. Hermione could practically feel the temperature drop as Fleur’s eyes settled on her.
Something about the pure deep azure of those eyes had always done something to Hermione’s insides. Made her stomach twist and flutter.
Hermione had always known she was attracted to women. She just hadn’t thought she was one of the ones susceptible to Fleur’s alluring looks. It was so… Inelegant. It made her think of a drooling and dumbstruck Ron during their Fourth Year. That was not what she wanted to be.
Hermione bit her lip and looked away, guilt rising like bile in her throat.
“I wanted to apologise,” Hermione said without preamble, blurting the words out as clumsily as she felt, “About the funeral.”
She could hear the sharp intake of breath from across the room.
Fleur crossed her legs. She was wearing comfortable leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. Hermione wasn’t sure she had ever seen Fleur look so casual before. Not even during the war.
Despite the unkempt house and casual attire, Fleur still looked disturbingly put together, all sharp jawline and dark eyelashes. The glare descending over her features just served to make her look more attractive.
Hermione took another deep breath— firmly shoving away all thoughts of war and Fleur’s attractiveness. That wasn’t why she was there.
The boys were happily playing on the floor between them.
The living room floor may as well have been an ocean between Hermione and Fleur. The blonde had her walls up, seeming more distant than she had ever been.
Not that Fleur had ever particularly been a warm and inviting character to begin with.
When the blonde finally spoke again, her voice was cold and soft.
“What you did was unforgivable,” Fleur said matter-of-factly, “You undermined my entire relationship with my husband. In front of our family. In front of our children.”
Hermione winced. Fleur’s words felt like another hard slap to the face.
“I know… It wasn’t okay,” Hermione said, grimacing and looking behind Fleur’s head to the window overlooking the back yard. The trees were brown and bare, dead in the autumn air. The sky was an ominous dark grey, threatening to open up and pelt the earth with rain.
Maybe she could throw herself out the window. Surely it couldn’t be more painful than the conversation.
“What did she do, Maman?” Louis asked, looking up from his dinosaur.
In a split second, Fleur’s hard features softened. She smiled sweetly and her eyes squinted with adoration as she looked at her blonde boys. For a split second, Hermione’s chest ached.
“Nothing, my darlings,” Fleur said softly, “It does not matter. Hermione was just leaving.”
Fleur stood abruptly, her demeanour darkening once more as she returned her gaze to Hermione. Hermione bit her lip, reluctantly getting to her feet.
“Er—“
“Let me walk you to the door,” Fleur said in a clipped tone.
She breezed out of the room, padding elegantly through the house. Hermione followed, inhaling a pleasant scent of flowers and honey in Fleur’s wake.
Fleur wrenched open the front door, glaring at Hermione expectantly.
“Fleur— I— What I did was inexcusable… I just… It sounds so silly but… I kind of struggle with funerals since…” Hermione trailed off helplessly. She was wilting in the wake of Fleur’s angry gaze, “Well, you know. I just wasn’t thinking.”
Fleur sighed, her posture relaxing ever so slightly. At least that was something.
“He didn’t groom me,” Fleur said finally, narrowing her eyes, “I made every choice in my life myself. Bill never forced me to do anything.”
Hermione put her hands up in surrender.
“I’m so sorry,” Hermione said earnestly, “I wish I could take it back.”
Fleur huffed— a mix between a laugh and a sigh. A look of grim resignation flitted across her features.
“Well, you can’t, Hermione,” Fleur retorted, “Some things in life are just… Permanent.”
Hermione’s arm twinged under her woollen sleeve.
“I know…” Hermione agreed with a solemn nod, “But… Just let me know if you need any help, okay? It can’t be easy being a twenty-four year old widow with two young kids.”
This time Fleur openly scoffed.
“Unbelievable, Hermione,” Fleur shook her head, drawing her shoulders back once more, “Is your hero complex so bad that you just have to invent reasons that people need to be saved? Bill didn’t groom me and I do not need help. I’m doing just fine. Now if you wouldn’t mind, I would appreciate if you could leave me alone.”
Fleur’s words dripped with an acidic fury Hermione had not heard from the blonde, not even at the peak of her disapproval at Hogwarts.
Hermione ducked her head, not trusting herself to say anything more without making things even worse. She simply nodded and let herself be ushered out the door, politely ignoring the slam of the door and the soft sound of crying behind it.
Hermione arrived early, as usual, to the Ministry of Magic. She shifted her brown leather satchel on her shoulder, secure against her thick jacket.
Her shoes slapped the marble floor as she made her way past the large statue in the middle of the atrium.
She couldn’t believe the Ministry had rebuilt it. A number of magical creatures simpering on their knees in front of wizards. Hermione rolled her eyes. It was like they had learned nothing from the war against the Death Eaters.
The crowds at this time were usually scant, as Hermione was only among a few workers that preferred to start so early.
Making her way towards the lifts, Hermione instinctively brightened as she saw Arthur Weasley stepping into an elevator.
Hermione smiled, raising a hand in greeting.
As Arthur looked up, his features hardened into a frown. He looked away quickly and stabbed a button inside the lift, causing the doors to shut quickly.
Hermione let her hand fall limply to her side.
She understood why the Weasleys were upset, but it didn’t make it hurt any less when they rejected her. Since losing her parents to irreversible memory charms, Hermione had become quite reliant on the Weasleys as a kind of adoptive family.
Now she just felt alone.
Swallowing against the heavy feeling in her heart, Hermione caught the next lift instead, making her way on autopilot to her office.
It had been a week since her disastrous trip to Fleur’s house. She wondered if word had got to the Weasleys about her visit. It would no doubt incense them even more, drawing out how long it would take them to forgive her.
If they ever forgave her, a small voice whispered inside Hermione.
Hermione frowned, hanging up her satchel and taking off her jacket and scarf carefully.
A small post it was stuck to the centre of her desk: See me in my office — L.
‘L’ was presumably her boss, Lazarus Bodkin. He was a fairly matter-of-fact type— not one for small talk or trivialities. That suited Hermione fine, as long as he kept the work coming.
Anything to keep her mind busy.
Hermione peeled the post-it off her desk, slowly making her way to Bodkin’s office. He was one of the rare early starters, too. They probably had a lot in common, Hermione expected. If Bodkin was ever willing to discuss anything even slightly unrelated to work.
“Morning, Granger,” Bodkin greeted, without looking up from a stack of parchment on his desk.
“Morning, sir,” Hermione greeted cautiously, “You wanted to see me?”
“Oh, right,” Bodkin looked up at her, eyes widening momentarily as he pulled himself away from his work and remembered the post-it, “I’ve been talking to my superiors about you, Granger.”
Hermione raised her eyebrows. She had an argument on the tip of her tongue. She couldn’t be in trouble. She worked easily twice the hours of anyone else in her office. She got far more work done than any of them.
Bodkin cleared his throat, straightening his brown tie. He was a squat, podgy man. He had a horseshoe of brownish, greying hair, thick glasses, and a truly appalling goatee. But his eyes were kind and he was always hyper focussed. Hermione liked working with him.
“About your hours and the standard of work you’ve been producing,” Bodkin explained with a dismissive wave of his ham hock hand, “Anyway, to cut a long story short, the business are in agreement that despite your short tenure, you are very much the best candidate for that new senior role that just opened up.”
“A promotion?” Hermione asked dumbly. She felt slack jawed with shock. She hadn’t been there that long! With everything else in her life turning to shit, she had been expecting the worst.
“Right,” Bodkin replied shortly, never one for small talk, “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t be blindsided by the paperwork heading your way later in the week. Keep up the good work.”
“Er, thanks, sir,” Hermione thanked her boss. But she needn’t have bothered, as the portly man had already turned back to the work in front of him.
Hermione walked back to her desk in a state of stunned surprise.
Amazing news. A promotion would be sure to bolster her savings. She could definitely move into a slightly bigger place without worrying. Hermione felt her mood brighten for the first time in weeks.
She pulled out a scrap of parchment, penning a letter to Harry to let him know her good news. As she finished and absently reached for another parchment, she halted, remembering that Harry was the only close friend that was talking to her these days.
Tears prickled at the corner of Hermione’s eyes, hot and taunting.
Hermione felt entirely, horribly, alone.
Hermione was just leaving Gringotts with a replenished purse of coins when she stopped into the bathrooms.
She didn’t appreciate the way the goblins kept such a close eye on her following the events of the war. It wasn’t like it was her fault the bank had been so heavily damaged.
Well. Not entirely her fault. It was a group effort.
She supposed she should just be grateful they allowed her to keep an account with them, instead of outright banning her.
Still, she wouldn’t be surprised if one of the surly folk pelted her with a well aimed coin one day when her back was turned.
Hermione left the toilet stall and jumped, finding a familiar blonde standing at the mirrors by the basins, cursing under her breath.
“Merde,” Fleur growled, poking a stain on her shirt with her wand.
Hermione wondered if it would be worse to make her presence known or for Fleur to see her attempting to sneak out of the bathroom without washing her hands.
Unable to even hypothetically entertain the idea of not washing her hands, Hermione resigned herself to the backlash and quietly stepped up to the basin beside Fleur, turning on the tap.
Fleur continued to fruitlessly attempt to fix the stain on her shirt.
Hermione took advantage of the blonde’s distraction to allow herself the luxury of observing Fleur out of the corner of her eye.
Fleur was far more tidy and edited than when Hermione had last seen her. Her long, white blonde hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail that trailed down her back. She was wearing a blue blouse and a tight charcoal business skirt. She was leaning closely to the mirror to get the best look at the stain, teetering on impossibly tall heels. She looked much more like the Fleur Hermione remembered.
Hermione realised she’d been letting the tap run aimlessly. She hurriedly pumped soap onto her hands and lathered them.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you in my workplace after I specifically asked you to leave me alone,” Fleur commented suddenly, causing Hermione to jump and splash water over the front of her woollen sweater.
Rinsing her hands and moving to grab a paper towel, Hermione tried desperately to regain her composure.
“Oh… Ah… Well, despite the goblins’ best efforts, I still bank here,” Hermione explained.
“Right,” Fleur replied in an unreadable tone.
“I’m—“ Hermione began, but Fleur quickly turned to face her.
“Don’t you dare try and start with the sorry speech again,” Fleur threatened Hermione.
Hermione snapped her mouth shut instantly, wincing. She finished drying her hands as Fleur turned back to the mirror, trying a rudimentary cleaning spell before swearing again.
Hermione tossed the balled up paper towel in a bin before slowly, cautiously approaching the blonde.
“Let me?” Hermione asked.
Fleur glared at her out of the corner of her eye, but reluctantly turned to face Hermione.
With slightly trembling hands, Hermione withdrew her wand and put a hand on Fleur’s shoulder.
With her heels on, the petite blonde was now the same height as the tall brunette.
Hermione uttered the words of the spell hoarsely, stepping back instantly as it efficiently remedied the stain on the blouse.
“Thanks,” Fleur said in a clipped tone, turning back to the mirror to observe the result.
Hermione furrowed her brow. It was a pretty rudimentary spell. Hermione knew firsthand that Fleur was an exceptionally gifted witch— with her complex spell work at the Triwizard Tournament. Not to mention the careful spell work she used to help heal…
Hermione bit her lip. She began to turn away again, only to take a deep breath and turn back to Fleur.
“You don’t seem yourself,” Hermione stated bluntly.
Fleur turned to stare at Hermione, arching an eyebrow dangerously.
“I mean, you — I don’t mean this the wrong way… But… You seem like you’re struggling a little?” Hermione stammered out, trying not to shrivel under the part-Veela’s severe gaze.
“I wonder why,” Fleur replied drily.
Hermione grimaced. She seemed destined to stick her foot in her mouth when it came to Fleur.
The bathrooms suddenly felt too hot and stifling. Hermione scratched the back of her neck anxiously and cleared her throat.
“Ah… I’m sorry, I keep saying the wrong thing,” Hermione frowned, “I meant… Are you okay?”
“As fine as I can be,” Fleur shot back without missing a beat. She smoothed down her hair in the mirror, seeming satisfied with her appearance now that the stain had been removed.
Hermione felt an odd kind of urgency fall over her at the prospect of Fleur leaving the bathroom.
“Let me buy you a coffee?” Hermione almost shouted at Fleur, before recovering herself, “As a peace offering. I promise I never meant to hurt you or your family. Especially after what you did for me… Let me just buy you a coffee, yeah?”
Hermione was practically wincing as she babbled uncontrollably. She was drawing her own unflattering comparisons to the time Ron practically bellowed at Fleur to go to the Yule Ball with him.
Hermione wasn’t sure if it was Fleur simply taking pity on her, or wanting to stop Hermione’s idiotic attempts to make things right, but the blonde relaxed her features slightly. She seemed to consider Hermione’s words before sighing heavily and inclining her head.
“Half an hour,” Fleur conceded, “I choose the café. Brits cannot be trusted when it comes to good coffee.”
“I forgot your notoriously impossible standards,” Hermione grinned, mostly with relief.
Whether it was a trick of the eye or a split second reaction, Hermione could’ve sworn she saw Fleur briefly smile with amusement.
————————————————————-
Hermione relaxed into her chair, still in disbelief that Fleur had agreed to coffee with her.
The stunning blonde woman sat stiffly across from her, legs crossed and eying her black coffee with an approving half-smile. When she looked up at Hermione, the smile disappeared.
The brunette wondered fleetingly if Fleur was capable of maiming her with the small tea spoon she was toying with in her hands.
Hermione swallowed nervously, tugging at a sleeve.
“How has it healed?” Fleur asked, nodding at the offending sleeve. Hermione felt a phantom sting in the hidden scars.
“Oh, you know…” Hermione said, in a too-high voice as she tried to seem casual, “Not a bit more since Shell Cottage.”
Fleur sucked in a breath, her eyes suddenly full of that passionate energy that always left Hermione speechless.
“I am sorry,” Fleur said softly, her accent lilting beautifully in her words.
Hermione shook her head, a little too hard. Her wayward curls bounced into her vision.
“Not your fault,” Hermione protested, “You didn’t cause them. You helped lessen them… Ah… That’s not why we’re here.”
“No?” Fleur asked cryptically, raising an eyebrow. Hermione felt naked under Fleur’s gaze. She simultaneously knew Hermione far too well and not at all.
“Erm, no,” Hermione cleared her throat. She felt a vague panic at the prospect of Fleur pinning the conversation firmly on the topic.
“It is why I am here,” Fleur explained with a shrug, as if Hermione’s brutal maiming during the war was a simple teenage memory between them, “I was furious after you came to our home. But, when I think back to what we went through… I suppose I should hear you out.”
Hermione bit her lip, a little thrown by Fleur’s unexpected openness. And more than a little hollowed out by such a stark reminder of the war.
Hermione tugged her sleeves robotically, shaking her head and looking out the nearby window. Grey clouds swirled above the city, a London cliché.
Wetting her lips nervously, Hermione chanced a look back at Fleur. It was unfair how someone could look so elegant and carefree simply sipping a black coffee. As if all the weight of the grief wasn’t on Fleur’s shoulders. What Hermione wouldn’t give for the ability to conceal how heavily things weighed on her own mind…
“Are you okay, Hermione?” Fleur asked gently. She placed her ceramic cup down gently into its saucer.
Hermione let out a quiet scoff of a laugh.
“I should be asking you that,” Hermione pointed out, tucking trembling fingers deep into her pockets and out of sight. “I’m fine… I just… I don’t like talking about back… then…”
Fleur nodded, but didn’t say any more. She always had the most curious way about her. It had captivated Hermione from the beginning. Her face could be so perfectly schooled into neutrality, but her eyes were so passionate and unruly, you could often find yourself reading whatever you wanted from Fleur’s expressions. Whether that’s how she actually felt, however, was an entirely unknown matter.
“Sorry, I’m stuffing this up,” Hermione chuckled stiffly, “Again. I’ve never been terribly great at—“
Hermione waved her hands meaninglessly at Fleur, as if doing so might pluck the right words out of thin air. Warm words, comforting words. Hermione had the largest vocabulary out of anyone she knew, but when it came to stringing those words together in a tactful way? She was often lost.
“—Saying the right thing,” Hermione finished lamely.
Fleur’s eyes flashed with unreadable meaning before she licked her lips quickly and leaned forward.
But whatever she was going to say was swiftly interrupted by the arrival of a bright patronus at their table. It was a jackrabbit — Hermione instantly recognised this as belonging to Tonks.
It shouldn’t have surprised Hermione as much as it did. She had never seen Tonks and Fleur interact outside of the Order back during the war. But it made sense now— both had lost their husbands and been left with children. Remus Lupin had died way back at the Battle of Hogwarts, leaving Tonks to raise Teddy largely alone.
Harry, an touchingly active godfather, had once told Hermione he wasn’t sure how Tonks would manage if she didn’t have her mother, Andromeda, to help her so much.
Hermione was tugged out of her surprise by Tonks’ voice addressing Fleur from the patronus.
“Fleur— you know I wouldn’t interrupt you back at work, but— The kids are sick. Nasty gastro bug. Mum’s caught it too, so she’s not managing all three of them exploding out both ends. You’ll need to pick the boys up, sorry. I’m on my way to collect Teddy, too.”
“Merde,” Fleur swore, a look of despair flitting across her face, “I would have to take a job with minimum sick leave. The goblins hardly care about matters involving family…”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Fleur,” Hermione said, unable to even imagine how difficult Fleur’s balancing act must be.
To Hermione’s alarm, Fleur appeared to blink back tears, glaring at the foggy window of the café.
“It is so unfair,” Fleur suddenly lamented. “To suddenly be responsible for the mortgage and childcare and bills all on my own… If I got this promotion, it would all be so much easier. But how am I supposed to get promoted when I keep having to miss the most important meetings like this afternoon?!”
Hermione opened her mouth and shut it again. Her mind was still lagging, snagging on the mention of her injuries from Bellatrix earlier in the conversation. Sticking on the brief flash of tears that Fleur had hastily blinked back.
“I can watch them,” Hermione found herself volunteering, “I mean— if you’ve got nobody else. Just so you can make your afternoon meetings, of course. It would be no problem for me to take the afternoon off.”
Hermione had worked such excruciatingly long hours, she half expected her boss would take the request as a joke. But she didn’t voice that out loud to Fleur.
Fleur’s carefully crafted control over her emotions betrayed her for a moment, wide eyes and slightly open mouth showing her surprise at the offer.
“Tonks might be able to—“
“Sounds like Tonks has her hands full with Teddy,” Hermione interrupted, more sure of herself now.
“But do you know how to look after children?” Fleur quizzed, narrowing her eyes at Hermione. Hermione knew Fleur wouldn’t have bothered asking the question if she wasn’t seriously considering Hermione’s offer.
“I’ve done my first aid course— covering children,” Hermione replied hesitantly. She’d never had much to do with kids.
“But can you change a nappy? Give a child a bottle?” Fleur needled.
Hermione gave an uneasy smile.
“I… know the theory of it,” Hermione said awkwardly, “And I’m very good at following instructions.”
A ghost of a smile crossed Fleur’s lips for a moment as she looked down, considering.
“They do say you are a quick study,” Fleur replied, “and I suppose we have a little time now for me to write down some rudimentary instructions.”
Hermione must have shown a brightness on her face, as Fleur quickly shot her an icy look.
“This is only until I finish my meeting this afternoon, and only because it is last minute and I am desperate,” Fleur informed her tersely.
Hermione, hastily remembering that she was still very much in Fleur’s bad books, nodded violently.
“Of course, Fleur,” Hermione insisted, “I know this isn’t going to fix things before us, and I don’t expect it to. I’m just helping you out in a time of need.”
Perhaps referencing The Incident, even indirectly, was a mistake. Fleur narrowed her eyes at her.
“I trust you can refrain from any further character assassination of the children’s father for a few hours?” Fleur said in a low and dangerous voice.
Hermione swallowed, nodding. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Chances were, she would just end up with her foot in her mouth yet again.
With a heavy sigh indicating that Fleur was, in fact, only conceding to the arrangement out of pure desperation, the blonde witch pulled out her handbag. She fished out a quill and parchment, quickly beginning to scrawl elegant instructions upon the paper.
It didn’t take long for Hermione to make her way back to the Ministry, instructions in hand.
As expected, her office responded to her request for the afternoon off as if she had announced she was moving to Mars.
But once the disbelief had passed, it was quickly approved and Hermione was headed to the Ministry floos, satchel shouldered.
She diligently announced the address for Andromeda Tonks that Fleur had given her, stepping into the fireplace without a second thought.
It was only when her shoes firmly hit the hearth rug at the Tonks residence that she really comprehended what she had got herself into.
Nymphadora Tonks was in the living room the fireplace was in, cuddling a pale and dozing Teddy. At Hermione’s arrival, Tonks shot her a look of irritation and disbelief.
It was strange being on the receiving end of irritation from the pink haired Auror. She was so notoriously laid back and cheerful, even in the wake of Remus’ death.
“Erm, I’m guessing Fleur didn’t send a patronus ahead explaining…” Hermione said awkwardly, “I’m going to take Hugo and Louis home and watch them just until Fleur is done with an important meeting.”
“Right,” Tonks said in a clipped tone that seemed entirely out of character for her. She turned to the door and called out “Mum! Can you bring Louis and Hugo down? Someone is here to pick them up.”
Hermione inwardly winced. She had thought she was getting used to the public cold shoulder of Bill’s friends and family, but apparently not.
Tonks and Hermione stood in a tense silence, the pink haired auror pointedly looking anywhere but at Hermione.
Hermione vaguely observed that Tonks still looked the same— combat boots, Weird Sisters tee, leather jacket. Only her face seemed to have aged— more tense than before the war and now with a few fine lines.
The silence only extended for a mere minute before Tonks huffed and looked at Hermione.
“No— you know what? I’m going to say it,” Tonks said suddenly.
Hermione jumped in surprise.
“Er, say what?” Hermione said nervously. She was already bracing herself for the usual ‘a funeral is not the place to be making unkind observations’ speech she had heard a few times now.
“Did you say the same thing at Remus’ funeral?” Tonks demanded. Her eyes shone with a fiery anger Hermione had never expected to see in the woman.
“What— No, of course not!” Hermione stammered, shocked. She had always respected Lupin. She still did, even after his death.
Tonks shook her head in disbelief.
“The age gap between Remus and I is far bigger than the one between Bill and Fleur,” Tonks pointed out accusingly, “Were you assessing how appropriate he was in the pews at his funeral? Commenting to Harry and Ron that he was old enough to be my father?”
“No, Tonks, I wasn’t!” Hermione insisted, raising her hands up, “I was just… I suppose I was caught off guard finding out that Fleur and Bill first connected romantically when she was just a teenager at school. That he shaped so much of how her life turned out before she had even had a chance to live it and work out what she wanted.”
“Bill was a good man,” Tonks replied, frowning at Hermione, “Fleur wasn’t some small child.”
“But she was a teenage school girl,” Hermione half explained, before sighing, “I suppose that’s not the point. I know I was so out of line saying that during the service of all places. It was just an exclamation of surprise after hearing how early he’d entered her life when he was a fully grown man and she was still so young.”
Tonks’ lips thinned into a line. She seemed to be considering Hermione’s words.
“When Fleur joined the Order, she was so sure of herself and unafraid,” Tonks commented, her voice calmer and slower than before, “She carried herself so carefully I don’t think anyone considered her age. Not to mention how young other people involved in the war were…”
Hermione momentarily squeezed her eyes shut, inwardly trying to banish memories of Malfoy Manor before they even appeared. When she opened her eyes again, Tonks was observing her closely.
“So many people had to grow up so fast,” Tonks uttered just above a whisper, “I forget how young so many of you were at the beginning.”
Hermione felt her arm twinge. She tugged at her sleeve, distantly hearing the cackling of Tonks’ late aunty ringing in her memory.
Go away. Not now. Hermione desperately begged. The last thing she wanted was to have a panic attack in front of Tonks.
Any further ruminating by Tonks was interrupted by Andromeda entering with Fleur’s two boys.
“Oh!” Andromeda remarked with surprise, “Hermione Granger! I wasn’t expecting you!”
“I know you! ‘Mione!” Louis announced, his boisterousness tempered by nausea. He looked terribly pale. Andromeda was holding Hugo.
“Now, I’ve given the boys a potion to control the… er, vomiting and so forth,” Andromeda said with an air of haste, “But you will want to get them home promptly. It doesn’t last long, unfortunately.”
“Ah, right,” Hermione replied nervously, drawn back to the task at hand.
“Lots of rest and fluid, dear,” Andromeda informed Hermione, seeming to sense her uncertainty, “That is the best thing for the poor mites right now.”
“Of course,” Hermione replied, nodding a little robotically.
Andromeda smiled kindly at her. Hermione could have cried. Apart from Harry, it was the first genuine warmth she had received from the Order and Hogwarts social circles since Bill’s funeral.
“If you need help, you can always floo me,” Andromeda offered, “I’ll respond if I’m… available.”
Hermione noticed the elder witch’s own pale pallor, remembering that Tonks’ patronus had explained that Andromeda had also caught the bug.
“Er, thanks,” Hermione replied. She felt uncomfortable but was genuinely grateful. She could feel Tonks’ eyes still on her.
With a little extra encouragement from Andromeda, Hermione took Hugo in her arms, shouldered a hefty nappy bag that Andromeda had stocked with extra potions for the boys if needed, and taken Louis’ hand.
Wanting to make a quick exit before the gastro potions wore off the kids and before Tonks could discuss the war any further, Hermione made a hasty goodbye and rushed for the floo.
It was strange arriving in Fleur’s house without the blonde present. Hermione had only been there the one time, and it felt very much like she was an intruder being there again.
Setting down her bags, Hermione furrowed her brows and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. Hugo was still dozing in her arms.
“Well, how do you feel about cuddling up in some blankets on the couch while I read you some stories?” Hermione asked Louis.
Nodding tiredly, Louis followed Hermione, helping her locate some blankets and children’s books.
Hermione had been beyond stressed about looking after the two small kids, but in reality, it turned out to be far easier than she had thought. She had only read two short books before Louis fell asleep on the couch.
Both boys dozed on and off all afternoon. She mercifully managed to get a bit of water and plain toast into Louis and half a bottle into Hugo in between their naps. But mostly, it seemed like whatever bug they had caught had wiped them out.
Fleur arrived home at 5.05pm on the dot. She must have gathered her things and left work the second her meeting had finished.
“Louis? Hugo?” Fleur called as her heels clicked through the house. Her voice was worried.
“In here,” Hermione replied, voice gentle so as not to wake the boys.
“Oh thank God,” Fleur breathed out in relief, “Have they been okay?”
“Yeah, lots of rest and fluids,” Hermione reported back, “Andromeda gave them a potion to help and I think it must have… neither one of them has thrown up. Though Hugo did have a couple of absolute disasters in his nappies.”
Fleur nodded gravely as she digested the information. She crossed the room and placed a hand on Louis’ forehead, biting her bottom lip with concern.
“I feel so bad working this afternoon when they needed me,” Fleur confessed, shaking her head slightly.
She was impeccable, standing elegantly in her high heels with her silky hair falling down her back. But her face betrayed her vulnerability.
As if remembering Hermione was there, and what Hermione had done, Fleur instantly schooled her expression to one of neutrality. She straightened her back and turned to Hermione, opening her arms in a silent request for little Hugo.
Hermione stood carefully, transferring the slumbering boy to his mother’s arms. Fleur swayed gently, running her delicate fingers through Hugo’s blonde curls.
“You shouldn’t feel bad,” Hermione told Fleur, “If Bill was here, he would have wanted you to go to the meeting.”
Almost as soon as the words left her mouth, she knew she had drastically overstepped.
Fleur took a step back from her, glowering. Her shoulders straightened and her chin inclined. She might have been shorter than Hermione, but her intimidating presence made it feel like she was towering over her.
“Don’t you dare say his name to me,” Fleur spoke softly, but her words were full of anger.
Hermione raised her hands in surrender, taking a step back, herself.
“I’m so sorry, I always seem to put my foot in my mouth around you,” Hermione backtracked, apologetic, “I just meant that you shouldn’t feel bad… anyone who knows you and supports you would back the decision you made today.”
There was a stony silence. Louis shuffled on the couch. Hermione debated simply apparating abruptly out of the room to end the awkwardness.
But then the fight seemed to melt out of Fleur and she simply shook her head.
“It is fine,” Fleur sighed, “Well, it isn’t… But it will be.”
Hermione couldn’t help but grasp at that small glimmer of hope.
“Does that mean… we’ll be fine?” Hermione dared to ask.
Fleur sighed again, heavier, more exhausted than ever.
“I appreciate what you did for me today,” Fleur said neutrally, “And I truly do believe you have a good heart. I just… I miss Bill so much.”
Hermione didn’t know what to say, so she simply remained silent.
“It sounds selfish to say,” Fleur continued after a beat, “But I miss just having someone else here to help me with all this. Not that Andromeda and Tonks aren’t amazing. Or my mother when she gets some rare time off to come and visit. I just miss not having all of this on my shoulders alone.”
Hermione stood mute, again, fearful of saying the wrong thing and upsetting Fleur further. But Fleur was upset anyway, and silent tears began to stream down her pretty face.
“I know that sounds awful,” Fleur shook her head, “I love my boys. I love nothing more in the world than my boys. It’s just hard doing this on my own.”
“I can’t even imagine,” Hermione said softly. She longed to move forward and put an arm around Fleur to comfort her. But the fragile mending of their friendship was still too up in the air. Hermione didn’t want to risk pushing Fleur away further.
At that moment, Louis called out for his mother.
“Mamaaaaan, I feel sick,” Louis groaned, sitting up blearily.
“I should go,” Hermione said hastily, wary of overstaying her welcome, “But you can call on me to help you any time— day or night. You’re not alone in all this.”
“Thank you, Hermione,” Fleur said, and actually sounded genuine.
As Hermione turned to leave the room, not wanting her apparation to wake the baby, she heard Fleur mutter half to herself.
“And you’re wrong, Bill never would have supported me going for that promotion.”
Hermione, not sure if Fleur had even wanted to hear that, or was simply still venting, didn’t respond. She walked to the hallway and apparated home.
Hermione worked through lunch.
There wasn’t much point breaking for it, anyway. Harry was out of town for work. Ginny and Ron were still keeping a frosty distance.
Luna, socially oblivious as she was, had begun to reach out and offer the odd coffee catch up as she “hadn’t seen Hermione at anything in a while.”
But on the whole, Hermione was still leading a life of relative solitude.
It had been a couple of weeks since she had helped Fleur with her kids and she hadn't heard from the blonde witch again. Not that she had expected to. Yet, a part of her had held out hope.
It wasn’t that she felt sorry for the Frenchwoman. She liked Fleur, despite all of her frostiness. Besides, she knew that Fleur had far more depth than her cold exterior.
Hermione’s arm twinged.
Hermione sighed, rubbing her arm over her sleeve and checking the clock. She might be lonely, but she was beating all of her deadlines at work.
There was a short knock at the door as Marcus, the kindly mail wizard, entered with his trolley. He spent the day in the Ministry owlery, receiving owls and sorting the mail for the recipients.
“Couple owls for you today,” Marcus remarked cheerily, striding over and placing some letters on Hermione’s desk.
“Thanks, Marcus,” Hermione smiled, “How are the kids?”
“They’d be a whole lot better if they slept a bit more,” Marcus chuckled, “But they’re little sweethearts. Enjoy your day, Ms Granger.”
After bidding him farewell, Hermione checked her mail. It was becoming delusional, but a small part of her still hoped for a letter from Fleur.
Yeah, because who doesn’t want to be pen pals with the woman who insulted your late husband during his funeral?
Hermione sighed, opening a letter from Harry. She missed him dreadfully, but she was proud of him for being assigned on his most serious piece of work yet. He had joined the team of aurors investigating a series of murders. All of witches in their early twenties. It sent a shudder down Hermione’s spine. From what Harry had been allowed to disclose, they were particularly grisly scenes.
“It looked almost like someone had torn them apart,” Harry had commented incredulously, the first day he had been allowed to review the case files and photographs.
The latest one was discovered at the edge of a forest by a man walking his dog. Harry had been invited out with one of the seniors to take evidence and interview the man. Very exciting for an up and coming auror.
Hermione wondered distantly if Ron was jealous he hadn’t been picked to assist on the case. He’d always struggled with his jealousy of Harry.
Hermione shook her head, not wanting to dwell on how much she wished things were right again between her and the younger Weasleys.
Deciding to write Harry back later, Hermione dove back into her work— determined not to think about how much she missed her friends.
It was late when Hermione finally finished work for the day. She tried not to let her heart feel too heavy as she shouldered her satchel and exited the Ministry, destined for another meal for one at her depressing apartment.
She walked through the streets, trying not to feel further depressed by the smiling faces of people sitting outside restaurants, socialising with friends and family.
“Hermione!”
Hermione almost jumped out of her skin at hearing her name called out. She’d been a social pariah for a good couple of months, now.
Bracing herself for a potentially irate relative of the Weasleys, Hermione turned to see Andromeda Tonks waving her down from an outdoor table. She was at the end of a table occupied by Fleur, Tonks, Teddy, Louis, and Hugo.
Hermione smiled stiffly, her eyes quickly darting to Tonks and Fleur to see if she was truly welcome. They both waved politely, so Hermione— perhaps strangely desperate for social time— followed Andromeda’s beckoning and approached the table.
“Erm, hello,” Hermione greeted, shuffling awkwardly before the table.
“Wotcher,” Tonks said simply, kicking a chair out across the table from her so Hermione could sit. Hermione felt a weight leave her shoulders as she sat down, glancing nervously at Fleur.
Fleur’s face was unreadable, as if often was. She simply cocked her head to one side before remarking, “Are you only just finishing work now?”
Hermione glanced at her wristwatch. Six forty-five. Not that late by her standards.
“Ah, yeah,” Hermione replied, setting her satchel down. Andromeda poured her a drink of water, kindly placing it in front of her.
“Guessing you don’t have much of a social life after your comment at Bill’s funeral,” Tonks remarked, finishing the final fry from her plate. Fleur tensed beside her.
“Nymphadora Tonks!” Andromeda admonished, causing Tonks to uncharacteristically cower in the wake of her mother. Her bright bubblegum pink hair faded to a mousy brown.
“Er, sorry, all,” Tonks muttered sheepishly.
“Hi, Miney!” Louis greeted Hermione, thankfully breaking the tension at the table.
“Hey, Louis,” Hermione replied, relieved for friendlier topics, “Feeling better?”
“Yeah,” Louis grinned happily, “Maman says you did a good job looking after us for someone who wouldn’t know a child from a textbook.”
Fleur choked on her water, a light pink dusting her high cheekbones. Tonks stifled a giggle.
“It was very good of you to help out, dear,” Andromeda smiled politely at Hermione.
“Er, thanks,” Hermione replied awkwardly. It was uncomfortable, this aftermath of her faux pas still lingering over her interactions with Fleur and Tonks. She reached for her satchel. “I suppose I’d better get on my way.”
“Ah, non,” Fleur said suddenly, surprising all at the table- including Hermione, “Stay for dessert with us. I owe you that much.”
“Oh— Ah, okay,” Hermione replied, dropping her satchel again, “Only if you’re sure.”
“So, what do you do for a job, now, Hermione?” Andromeda asked her, smiling warmly.
“Work in the Department of Magical Creatures,” Hermione replied, “Doing this and that, really. But it’s interesting work. I get to build on my knowledge of different creatures as well as put forward better policy for creature rights.”
“Heard from Ron or Ginny lately?” Tonks asked, before being shot a horrified look by Andromeda, “What?! They’re her friends, I’m just asking!”
“Ah, no…” Hermione trailed off guiltily, glancing quickly at Fleur, “Not since… The funeral…”
“Let’s not dwell on that,” Fleur intervened, “It is hard enough to move on without everyone always wanting to discuss his funeral.”
“Well put, sweetheart. I’m sure you get more than enough of that.” Andromeda replied, before smiling encouragingly at Hermione, “Harry told Tonks and I that he’s off on an exciting project with the aurors, I assume he’s told you about it?”
Hermione nodded, relieved to avoid another landmine of a conversation topic.
“Well, as much as he can tell,” Hermione reasoned, “Given his job. But it sounds absolutely ghastly.”
The rest of the meal went by in relative uneventfulness. They ordered desserts, Hermione inquiring after the children. Hermione had a turn holding little Hugo, which she felt far more confident doing after the afternoon watching him.
Tonks and Andromeda dominated much of the conversation, occasionally bickering, but mostly talking about this and that. Andromeda made sure to keep the socially clumsy Tonks off any topic that might be too controversial or painful, and Hermione was very grateful for that.
Fleur spoke only a little, but her eyes lit up with genuine enjoyment watching the Tonks women talk to each other. It warmed Hermione’s heart to see after how lonely and sad Fleur had been when she had last seen her. When she did partake in conversation, it was mostly to speak of her boys and how proud she was. Or to ask politely about Hermione or the others.
Hermione couldn’t have been more relieved. She knew, logically, they weren’t about to become best friends after what she had said about Bill. But it was amazing to just have a level of cordiality and friendliness. It was more than what she could have hoped for.
By the time they all stood up and said their goodbyes, Hermione was feeling considerably lighter.
“See ya, Hermione,” Tonks smiled, leaning in to give Hermione a half hug. Teddy hugged Hermione’s leg, echoing his mum’s words.
“Bye bye, darling. So lovely to see you,” Andromeda smiled, quickly hugging Hermione before hurrying after her daughter and grandson.
That left Hermione with Fleur and her sons. Fleur was fussing with Louis, trying to fix his mis-buttoned jacket as Hugo wailed to be released from his high chair. Hermione took him out for Fleur, bouncing Hugo on her hip to calm him. Once released from his chair, Hugo was much happier, chubby hands reaching to tug at Hermione’s curls.
Fleur straightened, smiling genuinely at Hermione as she saw her youngest safely tucked in her arms.
“Merci,” Fleur thanked Hermione, taking Hugo from her arms, “It was good to see you.”
She held a hand out for Louis to take. Before she could turn away, Hermione couldn’t stop herself.
“Was it?” Hermione asked, “Was it okay seeing me, I mean. I can stay away from you if it’s easier. I just want you to be happy, Fleur.”
Fleur looked back at her, her eyes betraying a slight surprise at the outburst before she set her face to an expression of warm neutrality.
“You are fine, Hermione,” Fleur said, shaking her head with a small smile, “You are tactless, but so are some of the best people in my life.”
She nodded in the direction of Tonks, who was almost at the end of the block now, holding hands with Teddy.
Hermione exhaled, her shoulders relaxing.
“Well—“ Hermione began, but was swiftly interrupted by Fleur leaning in and pecking a kiss to her cheek.
“Non, no more talking and explaining, Hermione, please,” Fleur said with a dry smile, “It is my children’s bedtime. I must get them home and bathed. Au revoir.”
“Erm, bye!” Hermione waved, trying to fight the blush that crossed her cheeks. Louis waved at her as Fleur steered him away, walking off down the street.
Hermione was at work a week later when there was a knock at the door.
“Mail already, Marcus?” Hermione chirped, looking up. Her breath caught in her throat.
Standing in the door of her dim wooden office, was Fleur Delacour herself. She was dressed impeccably, probably on a break from her job at Gringotts. She wore a simple navy dress but somehow made it look high fashion, as it accentuated her figure and brought out the blue of her eyes.
“May I interrupt?” Fleur asked politely.
Hermione stood up behind her desk, not quite knowing where to put her hands or what to do.
“Yes — I mean of course— Erm, go ahead!” Hermione all but shouted at Fleur, inwardly wincing at her lack of social skills. She gestured at the chair on the other side of her desk.
With a smirk that wasn’t quite contained, Fleur nodded and shut the door behind her, sauntering over to sit across from Hermione. She flipped her smooth silky hair over her shoulder and crossed her legs, showing off another pair of truly intimidating heels. Hermione had no idea how she worked on some of the vaults deep in Gringotts. Perhaps she had another, far less glamorous, outfit for that?
“Hermione?” Fleur asked, frowning slightly. Hermione had zoned out.
“Oh!” Hermione replied guiltily, her face reddening a little, “Yes, how can I help?”
“You are an expert on Magical Creatures regulations, oui?” Fleur asked Hermione, regarding her with an intensity that made Hermione want to squirm in her chair.
“Well… I work here,” Hermione replied lamely, gesturing around the room. It was filled of tomes, containing the vast amount of regulations on creatures as well as textbooks on different species.
“I was wondering if you could help me with a question, if you had some spare time,” Fleur asked carefully, leaning back in her chair.
Hermione’s eyes tracked the way Fleur’s dress slid up her leg slightly as she spoke, before she guiltily returned her gaze to the widow.
“Sure! I mean, yes, anything for you,” Hermione replied, “I mean, obviously not… Anything… But… I have time. Ah, what’s the question?”
Hermione suddenly felt like an absolute moron in front of the beautiful part Veela. Fleur, who had no good reason to forgive Hermione for the dreadful allegations against her late husband, and yet had graciously seemed to have forgiven her anyway. Fleur, who had nursed her back to health after…
Hermione’s arm twinged painfully and she winced.
“Are you okay, Hermione?” Fleur asked, leaning forward, a look of genuine concern on her face, “You look quite pale.”
“Ah, I’m fine,” Hermione waved off, briefly shutting her eyes to bid away the unwelcome memories, “Just didn’t sleep too well and it’s catching up to me. What do you need my help with?”
“Right,” Fleur didn’t sound convinced, but proceeded anyway, “As you probably know, I am unfortunately classed as a ‘creature’ under this country’s regulations despite only having a quarter of creature blood in my heritage.”
“Yes,” Hermione replied with displeasure, “I’m working on that, by the way. The blood quotient rules are absolutely outdated and awful.”
Fleur smiled at her, briefly.
“Yes, well, I am not here about myself,” Fleur responded, “I wanted to know how my boys will be classed by the regulations here.”
“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed, sitting forward and grabbing a quill, “Of course. Well, you know—“
“—The Ministry calculates whether you are classes as a creature by your blood heritage,” Fleur finished for her, “I’m aware of that. By mine alone, they would merely be an eighth and not subject to the additional requirements.”
Hermione frowned, thinking of the giant register down the hall that kept tabs on all residents classed as creatures. They faced harsher sentences for crimes, more stringent requirements for licenses or visas. It was even harder for them to become certain professions, such as a mediwizard.
“You’re worried about Bill’s status as a werewolf,” Hermione surmised. Fleur nodded before Hermione continued. “Ordinarily, there is an awfully outdated rule where a werewolf’s child is assumed to be of creature blood — something from the twelfth century where it was assumed a werewolf would never be able to resist biting their own children.”
“That’s what I’m concerned about,” Fleur nodded ruefully, “I don’t want my sons categorised as creatures if they don’t have to be.”
“Mhmm,” Hermione nodded. She stood and walked straight over to one of the bookshelves, plucking a large volume from it. She leafed through it as she sat back at the desk. “Well, I’m sure I remember reading a footnote in a revision from the seventeenth century…”
Hermione was so engrossed in the text in front of her, she failed to see the look of admiration Fleur was giving her.
“Yes, there it is,” Hermione exclaimed with a bright smile, “An exemption if the werewolf has only been partially transformed. Tell me, did Bill ever manage to do a complete shift at the full moon?”
“Non,” Fleur nodded with a smile, “Never.”
“Well, that’s it sorted then,” Hermione grinned, shutting the textbook, “Hugo and Louis won’t need to go on that awful register. Which, I’m also working on fixing — By the way. I can’t imagine how dreadful it is.”
“By complete shift,” Fleur said suddenly, returning to the issue, “You just mean… Physically, oui?”
Hermione furrowed her brow.
“Ah, yes, as in transforms into a hairy, snarling werewolf.” Hermione replied. She had only seen a transformation the one time, when she, Harry and Ron had come across Lupin all those years ago at Hogwarts. It was a terrifying image. “Why, were there other changes?”
Fleur stood suddenly, fidgeting with her hands. Fidgeting was not something Hermione associated with Fleur. She was usually so regal and put together. The blonde twisted her wedding band around her finger.
“Personality,” Fleur said finally, “Not always linked to the lunar cycle.”
Hermione frowned, confused as to what Fleur could possibly mean by that.
“What do you—“
“I should go,” Fleur said abruptly, “I have been away from work for too long. Thank you for your assistance.”
“Yeah, uh, any time, Fleur,” Hermione replied, walking around her desk to lead Fleur to the door.
As she opened the door to politely usher Fleur out, the blonde leaned in and once again kissed her- this time on both cheeks.
“Look after yourself, Hermione,” Fleur said with a slight smile, before disappearing down the hallway.
Hermione swallowed hard.