Chapter Text
Champagne, Ice Sculptures, and Other Hazards
The Pyrenees were not forgiving in December, but Beauxbatons Academy of Magic did not ask for forgiveness; it demanded awe—and preferably admiration expressed in hushed, reverent tones.
Fleur Delacour stood near the edge of the Palais de Glace ballroom, a flute of champagne resting loosely in her fingers. The air was crisp, smelling of pine needles, expensive perfume, and the distinct scent of preservation charms. The alumni Christmas Gala was an affair of aggressive elegance—ice sculptures that moved with fluid grace, silk robes in every shade of blue and silver, and polite conversation that masked sharp assessments of status, career, and whether one had aged gracefully enough to justify one’s salary.
Fleur adjusted the cuff of her heavy velvet robes, watching the room with a detached, cynical eye. She watched a charmed ice sculpture of Nicholas Flamel slowly melt into a tray of shrimp puffs. It was a fitting metaphor for the evening: expensive, cold, and slowly ruining the appetizers.
She took a sip of champagne. It was too sweet. The French Ministry always bought the cheap stuff for the ‘International Cooperation’ budget and saved the vintage bottles for ‘Internal Affairs,’ which felt both on-brand and deeply insulting.
She was thirty-three… yet stepping back into these halls made her feel seventeen again—judged, watched, categorized, and apparently still capable of being emotionally destabilized by chandeliers.
'Don’t look at the Veela. Look at me.'
She scanned the crowd over the rim of the glass. She saw familiar faces—classmates who had married well, rivals who were now bureaucrats—but she ignored them. She was looking for the anomaly, the real reason she could not miss this reunion.
And then, she saw her.
Hermione Granger was standing near the large ice sculpture of an Abraxan, speaking to Headmistress Maxime. She looked... different. The frizzy hair from the Triwizard Tournament was now tamed into a heavy, intricate knot at the base of her neck, though a few rebellious curls escaped to frame her face. She wore dress robes of a deep, serious maroon—distinctly British, distinctly practical, yet tailored well enough to hint at the woman beneath the intellect.
Fleur felt a sudden, sharp pull in her chest, a gravity she hadn’t anticipated and deeply resented for its poor timing.
She knew Hermione, of course. Everyone knew Hermione Granger. The Brain of the Golden Trio. The mind behind the new laws. Fleur had read every single article Hermione had published in Transfiguration Today and the International Journal of Magical Rights. She had devoured Hermione’s treatise on the ethical sourcing of potion ingredients like a starving woman. She admired the ferocity of Hermione’s mind from a distance, a safe, intellectual crush she kept hidden behind her own aloof exterior. It was, she had always told herself, a perfectly safe crush.
It had clearly lied.
Hermione laughed at something Madame Maxime said—a warm, genuine sound that cut through the polite, crystalline tinkering of the room.
Fleur stepped back into the shadow of a pillar, because apparently she was still the sort of woman who hid from her feelings behind architectural features. ‘She will remember you,’ Fleur told herself bitterly. ‘To her, you were just the girl who couldn't get past the Grindylows. The pretty distraction that failed at the Tournament.’
She turned away, pretending to study the enchanted snow falling from the ceiling, her heart hammering an irritating, traitorous rhythm against her ribs.
An hour later, the ballroom had been transformed into an amphitheater.
Fleur took a seat in the third row, close enough to see the determination in Hermione’s eyes but far enough back to feel safe. The room was hushed. Hermione stood at the podium, no notes in front of her, her hands gripping the wood with white-knuckled intensity.
"We define a 'Being' by their ability to understand our laws," Hermione’s voice rang out, clear and authoritative, devoid of the nervous tremor Fleur remembered from their youth. "We say: if you can speak, if you can reason, you are one of us. But what of the creatures who understand our laws perfectly, and simply choose to reject them because our laws are cruel?"
She paused, looking out over the sea of French witches and wizards.
"Tonight, I want to talk about the uncomfortable truth of Integration. We push for Centaurs to have offices in the Ministry. We push for Werewolves to register so they can 'work.' But we never ask if our version of civilization is something they actually want to join. We offer them assimilation and call it freedom."
Fleur felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. Hermione was dissecting the very foundation of magical society, and she was doing it with a scalpel.
A wizard in the front row, a conservative member of the French Beast Division, cleared his throat loudly.
"Mademoiselle Granger," he interrupted, his tone patronizing. "While your idealism is charming, you ignore the biological reality. Some creatures—Vampires, Hags, Veela—have biological imperatives that are inherently volatile. Surely you aren't suggesting we allow dangerous instincts to go unchecked in the name of 'sovereignty'?"
Fleur stiffened. It was the old argument. Volatile. Dangerous. Beautiful monsters.
Hermione didn't flinch. She leaned into the podium. "I am suggesting, Monsieur, that what you call 'volatility' is often just a defense mechanism against a society that hunts them. If we stopped policing their biology and started protecting their habitats, perhaps they wouldn't need to be 'volatile' to survive."
It was a good answer. A perfect, logical, compassionate answer. The crowd murmured in polite agreement. Someone in the back applauded uncertainly, then stopped when no one joined in.
But Fleur frowned. ‘It is too idealistic,’ she thought. ‘She thinks we want to be protected. She thinks we want to be safe in the way humans are safe. But that safety comes with exposure.’
Fleur’s heart began to race. ‘Don’t do it,’ she warned herself. ‘Don’t call attention to yourself. Let the Golden Girl have her moment.’
But the words were rising in her throat, burning and necessary. Before her anxiety could shackle her—or her common sense could file an injunction—Fleur stood up.
The movement rippled through the room. Heads turned. The silver-blonde hair was a beacon in the dim light. Fleur felt the weight of a hundred stares—the judgment, the hunger—but she fixed her blue eyes solely on Hermione.
Hermione stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes narrowed slightly. She recognized the interruption before she recognized the woman.
'Great,' Hermione thought, her grip tightening on the podium. 'The prettier the heckler, the stupider the question usually is. Let’s hear it.'
"Mademoiselle Delacour," Hermione said aloud, her voice dropping an octave, softening as the recognition finally hit.
"Miss Granger," Fleur said. Her voice was steady, cool, and melodic, carrying effortlessly across the silence. "Your defense is noble. But it is also... human."
A gasp went through the room. Hermione tilted her head, intrigued. "Go on."
"You speak of protecting habitats and stopping the policing of biology," Fleur continued, her hands trembling slightly inside her sleeves, though her posture was steel. "But you assume that creatures want to be integrated into your framework of safety. Integration requires visibility. For many of us—for Veela, for Centaurs—survival has always depended on secrecy. On the Clan. On keeping the magic closed."
Fleur took a step forward, her confidence building as she saw Hermione listening—truly listening.
"You offer us a seat at the table," Fleur challenged, "but is it a seat, or is it a display case? How do you propose to integrate us without turning us into novelties for the wizarding world to stare at? Perhaps the silence you fight against is not oppression, but a choice of privacy."
Hermione stared at her. For a second, Fleur feared she had gone too far, that she sounded ungrateful or arrogant.
Then, a slow, brilliant smile spread across Hermione’s face glad to be proven wrong ‘Well. That theory lasted all of thirty seconds.’
It wasn't the polite smile of a politician; it was the hungry, excited grin of an intellectual who had finally found a sparring partner. ‘
"A display case," Hermione repeated, savoring the metaphor. "You argue that visibility equals vulnerability. That by bringing the 'Other' into the light, we expose them to consumption rather than acceptance."
"Precisely," Fleur replied, breathless.
"But if you stay in the dark," Hermione countered, her eyes locked on Fleur’s, igniting a current of electricity that leaped across the rows of seats, "who ensures that the darkness doesn't consume you? Isolation protects the culture, yes, but it also allows the Ministry to ignore your suffering. How do we balance the right to secrets with the right to resources?"
"We don't need your resources," Fleur shot back, the words tumbling out, raw and honest. "We need your respect for our boundaries. We need you to understand that our magic does not exist to supplement yours."
The room was deadly silent. They were watching a tennis match of high philosophy, played out between two of the most striking witches of their generation.
Hermione looked at Fleur, and for the first time, Fleur didn't feel like a creature or a pretty distraction. She felt seen.
Hermione checked the floating clock. Her time was up. The moderator was stepping forward, wearing the strained smile of a man who had just lost control of his own event.
Hermione raised a hand, stopping the moderator without looking at him. The gesture was abrupt, almost rude, but her focus was entirely consumed by the woman in the third row. The hundreds of witches and wizards around them seemed to blur into a watercolor background of blue and silver; the only sharp thing in the room was Fleur.
"That," Hermione said, her voice husky with adrenaline. She leaned forward, resting her weight on her elbows and effectively abandoning the formal distance of the lecturer. "That is the best point anyone, including myself, has made all evening.” Her eyes never left Fleur’s.
"Mademoiselle Delacour," Hermione called out, not minding the full room, her tone shifting from lecturer to something more intimate, more inviting. “If you are not rushing off—” Hermione paused, then seemed to decide something. “—perhaps we could continue this debate over a drink? I find my arguments are suddenly in desperate need of refinement."
Fleur felt the flush rise from her neck to her cheeks, but she didn't look away. She smiled, a small, genuine curve of her lips.
"I am not rushing anywhere, Miss Granger."
Fleur saw Hermione exhale, a release of tension that seemed to deflate her formidable posture just an inch. The air between them, previously charged with the friction of debate, shifted into something warmer, closer—a gravity that pulled them toward the exit and away from the noise.
Fresh or Flushed
They didn't go straight to the bar. The adrenaline of the debate was too high, a hum in the blood that needed the cold night air to settle.
They walked out of the Palais de Glace and into the sprawling, moonlit gardens of Beauxbatons. It was a landscape of blue shadows and silver frost.
The gravel crunched rhythmically beneath their boots, a steady metronome to the sudden, expansive silence between them. It wasn't an awkward silence; it was the heavy, charged quiet of two people realizing the map they had been using to read each other was entirely wrong.
Without discussing a direction, Fleur veered left and Hermione stepped right.
They collided — not hard enough to hurt, but close enough that Hermione felt the warmth of Fleur through her robes.
“Oh—sorry,” Hermione laughed, too quickly. “Silly me. You clearly know the way.”
Her heart gave an unhelpful lurch.
For a split second, Fleur faltered.
Hermione’s stomach dropped. Had she misjudged it? Pushed too fast?
A dusting of enchanted snow shook loose from a branch above them as they collided. Snow spilled down between them, catching briefly in Fleur’s hair and along Hermione’s collar. Then Fleur smiled — small, amused — and turned left.
They fell into step together, their strides aligning naturally as they headed toward the deeper gardens, the gravel crunching in steady rhythm beneath their boots.
"It is freezing," Hermione noted, seeing the faint tremor in Fleur’s hand despite the French witch's perfect posture.
"I am fine," Fleur dismissed automatically, the reflex of a hostess kicking in.
"Logic and simple observation suggests otherwise," Hermione murmured. She didn't ask for permission; she simply stopped and raised her wand. With a complex, fluid movement of her wrist, she cast a heavy-duty Warming Charm—not on herself, but on Fleur.
Fleur felt the heat settle over her shoulders like a heated blanket, smelling faintly of parchment. She blinked, surprised by the sudden comfort.
"And for you?" Fleur asked, looking at Hermione’s lighter robes.
"I run hot," Hermione claimed, though she cast a quick, lighter, secondary charm on herself a second later.
Fleur watched the flush high on Hermione’s cheekbones, remembering the fire in her voice back at the podium. ‘That you do,’ Fleur thought, a sudden heat curling in her own stomach that had nothing to do with the charm.
“Better?” Hermione asked.
Fleur smiled, a genuine, unguarded curve of her lips. “Much better. You are very gallant, for a logician.”
She glanced at Hermione’s wand, then back at her, eyes gleaming.
“Although,” Fleur added lightly, “that was a Level Seven Atmospheric Charm. To warm a human Veela. Without consent.”
Hermione froze.
“Oh— Merlin— I didn’t—” She ran a hand through her hair, already spiraling. “You’re right. I was thinking entirely from a human framework, I should have—”
Fleur laughed, soft and quick, cutting her off. “Relax, chérie. I am teasing.”
She leaned in just enough for the warmth of the charm to linger between them. “I like it.”
Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, a nervous chuckle escaping her. “Right. Good. Teasing. Excellent.”
She tucked her wand back into her sleeve, regaining her footing. “I don’t do ‘simple.’ I once cast a waterproof charm on a book so strong the pages refused to absorb ink. The text just… slid off.”
Fleur blinked. Then laughed. “You are a menace.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Hermione agreed cheerfully. “I color-code my socks.”
“Of course you do,” Fleur said fondly.
They walked on, close enough now that their sleeves brushed. Fleur watched Hermione from the corner of her eye, the smile still tugging at her mouth.
“You debate like you are dueling,” Fleur said softly. “You aim for the throat, but you apologize with your eyes.”
She watched Hermione, fascinated.
Hermione Granger was exhilaratingly direct — every word precise, every sentence built to land exactly where it was intended.
Until she got nervous.
The hesitation, the overcorrection, the way she second-guessed herself — it was disarming. Tempting.
For the first time in years, Fleur felt the dizzying relief of not having to soften herself, not having to slow down to be understood.
And, unexpectedly, she wanted to see how far she could push her.
'Just a little.'
Hermione let out a short, breathless laugh, looking down at her boots. "I’ve been told I can be... intense. I usually forget to be polite when I’m trying to be right… which is often, so yeah, I’m intense…”
‘There it was.’ Fleur felt the victorious pull at the corners of her mouth.
Hermione stole a glance at Fleur. For years, she had categorized the French witch as 'Decorative.' A stunning object to be admired from a distance. But now, as they walked side by side, Hermione realized she had been completely wrong.
The woman beside her wasn’t just beautiful; she was whole. The way Fleur had dismantled Hermione’s argument back in the hall, pulling apart the flaws in integration with effortless precision—it was intoxicating. Hermione felt something shift in her chest, a connection that had no name.
It wasn’t just attraction. It was the way a key feels when it finds its lock—sharp, sudden, and unfamiliar.
And Hermione hated that it felt a little too destiny for her liking.
"Politeness is a shield," Fleur countered, tilting her head back to study the enchanted icicles hanging from the trees. "I have spent my life perfecting it. It is exhausting. Watching you up there... discarding the shield... it was enviable."
Hermione stopped, her breath catching. She turned to face Fleur, the crisp air catching between them.
"You weren't hiding tonight," Hermione said quietly. "You weren't the Champion, and you weren't the Veela. You were angry. And you were brilliant."
Fleur felt the flush creep up her neck. She met Hermione’s gaze, suddenly vulnerable.
But when she looked into those amber eyes, she didn’t see the usual hunger or envy.
She saw curiosity.
Hermione wasn’t looking at her to possess her. She was studying her, trying to understand the physics of how Fleur burned.
Fleur felt exposed in the most exhilarating way. Usually, when people looked at her, they stopped at the skin. They saw the light, but never the filament burning inside. But Hermione was looking for the mechanism. 'She wants to know how I work,' Fleur realized with a jolt. 'She isn't afraid of the fire; she wants to analyze the fuel.'
"I am rarely called brilliant," Fleur admitted, her voice tight. "Beautiful, yes. Difficult, often. But brilliant... that is usually reserved for you."
"That's just a label," Hermione dismissed, waving a hand as they began walking again, their shoulders brushing lightly.
"People call me 'brilliant' so they don't have to deal with the fact that I'm actually just terrified of not knowing the answer. If I stop reading, I stop being useful. And if I stop being useful..." She trailed off.
Hermione bit her lip.
'Why am I telling her this?'
She didn’t tell anyone this. She didn’t even think it this clearly to herself.
Fleur hadn’t moved. She was listening — not politely, not patiently, but with a kind of focused stillness that made Hermione feel… seen. Catalogued. Understood.
The realization should have made her stop.
Instead, it made her keep going.
"Then you are just a girl standing in the snow," Fleur finished for her.
Hermione looked up, startled by the accuracy of it. "Yes."
"I know that feeling," Fleur murmured. "If I stop being beautiful, I stop being visible. We are both trapped by the things we are best at, I think."
They walked in silence for a moment, passing a fountain where water flowed upward, defying gravity. The conversation drifted, fluid and easy. They argued playfully about the merits of French Gothic architecture versus British brutalism.
"You cannot honestly defend British Brutalism," Fleur laughed, gesturing at the delicate, floating spires of the Academy visible through the trees. "It is concrete with an ego, Hermione. It screams at you."
"It doesn't scream, it states," Hermione argued, grinning as she kicked a pebble across the path. "It’s honest! It doesn't hide its structural function behind gargoyles and lace. British magic is practical. We value efficiency."
"Efficiency?" Fleur raised an elegant eyebrow. "Hermione, your Ministry entrance is a toilet. You flush yourselves to get to work."
Hermione opened her mouth, paused, and then closed it. A flush of pink rose on her cheeks. "It is a... secure transport netwo-"
"It is a toilet," Fleur interrupted, her eyes dancing with mirth. "In France, we walk through a fountain of eternal youth to enter the Ministry. We arrive refreshed. You arrive... flushed."
Hermione let out a startled, unladylike snort of laughter. "Okay, fine. You win the entrance debate. But I stand by our architecture. At least our buildings don't look like wedding cakes that exploded."
"Better a wedding cake than a bunker," Fleur parried.
Hermione defended the structural integrity; Fleur defended the soul. But as they sparred, Hermione found herself getting high on the velocity of it. She didn't have to explain the references. She didn't have to wait for Fleur to catch up. Their minds were moving at the same speed, snapping together like magnets. It was an intellectual aphrodisiac so potent it made her knees weak.
They finally reached the edge of the village, finding a small, warm establishment called L'Alchimiste Ivre.
Crossing the threshold felt like stepping into a different world. They left the sharp, blue-silver clarity of the moonlit garden and entered a space of soft, amber warmth. The air here smelled of woodsmoke, roasted grapes, and a faint, sweet scent of something illegal being smoked in the corner.
In the garden, they had looked like statues—pale and perfect in the frost—but here, in the flickering candlelight, they looked softer. Tangible.
They found a small booth in the back. Fleur slid in, and with a casual flick of her wrist, cast a Muffliato so potent Hermione felt her ears pop.
Hermione tracked the movement of the wand with hungry, analytical eyes. "Non-verbal. Wandless stabilization. And you anchored it to the salt shaker so the charm doesn't drift."
Fleur smiled, amused. "You are doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Grading me," Fleur teased, picking up the menu. "I feel as if I should submit a bibliography with my drink order."
Hermione flushed, burying her nose in her own menu to hide her smile. "I’m not grading. I’m... peer-reviewing."
"Order something irresponsible, Hermione," Fleur commanded gently. "No tea. No water."
Hermione scanned the parchment. "They have a Philosopher's Stone' cocktail. That seems presumptuous. It claims to grant eternal life, but the ingredients list says it’s mostly... peach schnapps."
"It is a metaphor, not a potion," Fleur laughed, signaling the waiter. She ordered them a heavy Bordeaux, ignoring Hermione’s muttered commentary about the incorrect viscosity of the floating garnish in the picture.
When the wine arrived, the atmosphere shifted. The banter settled into a comfortable, low-frequency hum. Hermione took a sip, looking at Fleur across the candlelight. The wine was rich, dark, and serious—much like the turn Hermione’s thoughts had taken.
Hermione took another sip, slower this time. The Bordeaux left a pleasant heat in its wake, blooming low in her chest.
“This is dangerous,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the glass. “You’ve skipped straight past social lubricant and gone directly to poor decision-making."
Fleur’s smile curved, lazy and pleased. “You say that as if it is not the point.”
Hermione huffed a laugh, then startled slightly as Fleur’s knee brushed hers beneath the table. It might have been accidental. It might not have been. Hermione chose, very deliberately, not to move away.
“So,” Hermione said, too casually. “Do you always cast soundproofing charms in public places?”
“Only when the conversation is likely to be… educational,” Fleur replied.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Educational for whom?”
Fleur considered her over the rim of her glass. “That depends,” she said lightly. “Are you planning to continue peer-reviewing my magic?”
Hermione flushed again. “I can stop.”
“I would be disappointed if you did.”
That earned her a startled look. Hermione blinked, then smiled — small, crooked, genuine. “You’re enjoying this.”
Fleur leaned back into the booth, candlelight gilding the sharp lines of her cheekbones. “Very much.”
The warmth of the room pressed in around them: low laughter from other tables, the clink of glass, the slow crackle of the hearth. Hermione became acutely aware of the intimacy of the space — how close Fleur was, how little room there was to retreat without making it obvious.
She cleared her throat. “You know, back there — in the lecture hall — you didn’t have to stand up.”
Fleur’s gaze sharpened, curious rather than defensive. “But I wanted to.”
“Yes,” Hermione said. “I noticed.”
Their eyes held. The hum between them shifted again, deepening — not louder, but heavier, like a held breath.
Hermione broke it first, glancing down at her wine. “I don’t usually get… interrupted like that.”
“And yet,” Fleur said gently, “you invited me for a drink.”
Hermione smiled to herself. “I have a weakness for good arguments.”
“And for women who challenge you publicly?” Fleur teased.
Hermione looked up, met Fleur’s eyes — and didn’t look away this time.
“…Apparently.”
"You know," Hermione started, tracing the wood grain of the table. "Back in the lecture hall... you said something about creatures not wanting to be in a display case. Were you talking about the Tournament?"
Fleur’s smile faltered. That was perceptive. "I was."
"I realized tonight what it must have been like," Hermione said, her voice gentle but insistent. "The papers... they were cruel. They painted you as... well, you know."
"Weak," Fleur supplied, her voice flat. "They called me a decorative object that broke under pressure. A souffle that collapsed."
"I don't believe that. Rita Skeeter is a menace with a quill," Hermione said firmly. She leaned forward, invading Fleur’s space with an intensity that made Fleur’s breath hitch. "I saw you tonight. I saw your mind. You aren't weak. So, something else happened. Something the cameras didn't see… Something I didn’t see… The data doesn't fit the conclusion."
Fleur looked into those earnest, amber eyes. She saw a mind that refused to accept bad data. Hermione Granger didn't care about the gossip; she cared about the anomaly. She saw the discrepancy in the logic, and she wanted to correct the equation. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her.
"You asked in your lecture why we don't integrate," Fleur said softly, deciding to give Hermione the missing variable. "The Triwizard Tournament is a good reason why."
"The Second Task," Hermione realized. "The Lake."
"Do you know what cold water does to a Veela core, Hermione?" Fleur asked, her voice low. "We are creatures of fire and air. Our magic is thermal. To submerge us in freezing water... it is like asking a bird to fly with lead weights on its wings. It induces a state called Hydro-Magical Damping."
Hermione’s eyes widened, the gears turning visibly behind them. "Thermal regulation. Elemental conflict. Of course." She looked horrified. "It suppresses your magical output? Like a thermal shock?"
"Worse. It turns my magic inward to keep my heart beating. I wasn't just fighting Grindylows down there. I was fighting my own body shutting down." Fleur took a sip of wine, her expression hard. "But I couldn't say that. If I had complained, they would have said, 'See? The creature is too weak to compete.' So I tried to be a 'good witch.' I used the Bubble-Head Charm. I suppressed my nature to play by human rules."
She looked up at Hermione, her blue eyes piercing.
"And I failed. Not because I was weak, but because I tried to be what they wanted me to be. I nearly let my sister die because I was too afraid to be a Veela."
Hermione stared at her, analyzing the strategy. "But you knew the task was underwater beforehand. What would have happened if you didn't suppress the Veela side? If you had fought the cold with your full nature?"
Fleur looked down at her wine, shame coloring her cheeks.
"I would have transformed," Fleur whispered. "If I had called on the fire, I would have taken my other form. The Harpy. The creature. I would have boiled the water around me… enough for me to pass right through it… The creatures wouldn’t have been able to even come close to me… I would have likely won"
She looked up, her blue eyes filled with a decade-old regret.
"But I made a choice before I entered the water. I told myself: 'I will not let the cameras see the monster. I will win as a witch, using charms, or I will not win at all.' I was young and arrogant. I thought I could make it either way."
Fleur’s voice cracked. "I prioritized my image over my sister. And when I finally realized human magic wasn't enough to fight the cold... it was too late. I was too weak to turn. I almost let Gabrielle die because I was ashamed of what I am."
Hermione sat back, stunned. The tragedy of it—the sheer, crushing weight of that choice—settled over the table. It completely explained Fleur’s desperation at the end of the task. But beneath the sympathy, Hermione felt a surge of awe. Fleur had walked into a task that was physically killing her, armed only with a stick of wood and her pride, just to prove a point.
"That isn't arrogance, Fleur," Hermione said quietly. "That's conditioning. You were a teenager trying to survive a media circus." Hermione paused, a small, dark smile touching her lips. "If it helps... I punched a Grindylow in the face."
Fleur blinked, the heavy tension breaking for a split second. "Pardon?"
"Third year," Hermione admitted. "Lupin’s exam. I panicked. I forgot the spell and just... punched it. Right in the snout. It was very undignified."
Fleur let out a startled laugh. "You punched a magical creature?"
"It was looking at me funny," Hermione defended herself. "My point is... we were children. We were fighting wars we didn't understand." Hermione reached across the table, her voice fierce. "You aren't just brilliant, Fleur. You're fearless."
Fleur shook her head, a small, incredulous smile touching her lips. "I was terrified, Hermione. Fearless is... generous."
"Fearless doesn't mean you aren't afraid," Hermione corrected, her voice taking on that lecturing tone she used when she was on solid ground. "It means you do the necessary thing anyway.”
“Like punching a Grindylow?" Fleur asked amused.
Hermione hesitated, twirling the stem of her wine glass. She looked at Fleur, gauging the mood.
"And... more than a Grindylow, I can confess another of my teenage crimes… this one is against the very media, that lied about us that year" Hermione added, her eyes flashing with a sudden, dark mischief, "I didn't just punch a creature. I also kidnapped Rita Skeeter."
Fleur blinked, her wine glass pausing halfway to her mouth. "Pardon? You... sued her?"
"No," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "I kidnapped her. In Fourth Year. After the Third Task."
Fleur stared at her. The Golden Girl. The Prefect. The woman who wrote laws on cauldron thickness.
"She was an unregistered Animagus," Hermione explained, as if discussing the weather. "A beetle. That’s how she was getting her scoops. She was buzzing around the hospital wing, listening to private conversations. So... I caught her."
Hermione leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"I cast an Unbreakable Charm on a jam jar. I put her inside. And I kept her in my pocket for a week."
Fleur’s jaw actually dropped. A laugh bubbled up in her throat—shocked and delighted. "You put a woman in a jar?"
"I put a menace in a jar," Hermione corrected, looking unapologetic. "I threw in some twigs and leaves so she wouldn't starve. I’m not a monster. But I told her that if she wrote one more nasty lie about Harry, or me, or you... I would squash her. Or worse, I would take her to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and expose her status. Azkaban isn't kind to unregistered Animagi."
Fleur looked at Hermione. She really looked at her.
She had always pictured Hermione as the moral compass of the trio—the one who nagged Harry about rules and homework. But looking at her now, with that glint of ruthless pragmatism in her amber eyes, Fleur realized she had miscalculated. Hermione wasn't just smart; she was dangerous. She was willing to break the rules, bend the law, and imprison a journalist in glassware to protect the people she loved.
It was, quite possibly, the most attractive thing Fleur had ever heard.
"You blackmailed the press," Fleur whispered, a thrill running down her spine. "You trapped her in glass and threatened her."
"It was effective," Hermione shrugged, taking a sip of her wine. "She didn't write a bad word about us for a year. Logic dictates that when the legal system fails to protect you, you must implement your own sanctions."
Fleur threw her head back and laughed—a loud, uninhibited sound that drew stares from the other tables. She didn't care.
"Oh, mon dieu," Fleur gasped, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye. "I have spent years thinking you were a rule-follower. But you... you are a terrifying little menace. You kept her in a jar!"
"With air holes!" Hermione defended, though she was grinning now, buoyed by Fleur’s reaction.
"Ruthless," Fleur murmured, leaning her chin on her hand, her eyes dark with fascination. "Absolutely ruthless. Remind me never to cross you, Miss Granger. I do not think I would fit in a jar."
"You wouldn't," Hermione said softly, her gaze dropping to Fleur’s lips for a fraction of a second. "And I would never want to contain you."
Fleur swirled her wine, a mischievous glint entering her blue eyes.
"I am not innocent either," Fleur confessed, leaning in. "In my sixth year, a girl—Eloise—made fun of Gabrielle’s teeth. She called her a 'snaggle-toothed half-breed'."
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"
"I didn't kidnap her," Fleur said with a shrug. "That is too much effort. I simply transfigured her favorite Yule Ball dress robes. I keyed the charm to her vanity. Every time she looked in a mirror to admire herself, the dress shrank one inch."
Hermione gasped, a laugh escaping her. "Oh no."
"By the time the first dance started, she was wearing a belt," Fleur smirked. "She had to flee the ballroom in shame. No one insults my sister."
Hermione grinned, clinking her glass against Fleur’s. "Justice."
"Precisely," Fleur agreed. "So we are a pair of villains, then?"
"Oh, I have one more," Hermione added casually, unable to resist the escalation. "Fifth year. Marietta Edgecombe. She betrayed our secret defense group to Umbridge."
Fleur raised an eyebrow. "Another jar?"
“No,” Hermione said brightly. “I placed a jinx on the signup sheet. When she snitched, the word ‘SNEAK’ erupted across her face in purple pustules.”
Fleur’s eyes widened. “Pustules? That fade in a few hours?”
Hermione took a sip of wine. “No. And I believe… yes, I believe the scars are still visible today. She has to wear heavy bangs.”
Fleur stared at her for a long moment. She wasn't horrified. She looked like she had just watched a firework display.
"You branded a traitor?" Fleur whispered, awestruck. "Permanently?"
"It was in the fine print," Hermione defended. "She should have read the contract."
Fleur laughed again, breathless with disbelief.
Fleur shook her head slowly, a smile tugging at her mouth — awed, delighted.
"You kidnap reporters and brand traitors.”
"I value loyalty," Hermione said simply.
Fleur leaned in, lowering her voice.
“I think what fascinates me most,” she said, “is how calm you are about all of this.”
The laughter faded, replaced by a sudden, heavy charge in the air. Fleur looked at the sensible, rule-abiding witch across from her and realized she was entirely wrong. Hermione wasn't just a rigid bureaucrat; she was a vigilante with a filing system. And Fleur was absolutely captivated.
Hermione took a breath.
Then another.
She set her glass down carefully, like it might explode.
“I should probably—” she began, already sounding unconvinced. “I mean, what I just told you is… objectively alarming.”
Fleur lifted an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“I kidnapped a journalist,” Hermione pressed. “And permanently disfigured a classmate.”
“Mm.”
“And I’m… enjoying how unfazed you are by this.”
Fleur’s mouth curved. “That is your concern?”
Hermione exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “I am very aware that this is usually the point where people decide I am too much.”
There it was.
Fleur leaned in, resting her chin on her hand. “And is this the point where you decide to flee preemptively?”
Hermione hesitated.
“…Possibly.”
A beat.
Then Fleur smiled — not indulgent, not pitying. Sharp. Interested.
“Do you often leave in the middle of good conversations to spare other people the effort?”
Hermione blinked. “I—well—yes?”
“Tragic,” Fleur said lightly. “Because I was enjoying this one.”
Hermione laughed despite herself. “You shouldn’t be.”
“And yet,” Fleur said, reaching for her glass, “here I am. Still seated.”
Hermione stared at her.
Then, helplessly: “You’re not going to run?”
Fleur tilted her head. “I don’t run from dragons. I face them. I think I can survive a brilliant woman with a flexible relationship to the law.”
Hermione groaned, covering her face. “Oh Merlin.”
Tangible Desire
The silence that followed was different. It wasn't the silence of two minds racing to catch up; it was the silence of a foundation settling. The heavy Bordeaux was nearly gone, leaving a dark, rich stain at the bottom of their glasses.
"I think we were wrong earlier," Hermione said, her voice barely above a whisper. She swirled the dregs of her wine. "About us being trapped by our strengths."
Fleur tilted her head. "Oh? Have you revised your hypothesis?"
"I don't think your beauty is a shield," Hermione confessed, the words tumbling out before she could check them for safety. "I think it’s a camouflage. It’s so bright, so overwhelming... It blinds people. It blinded me."
She looked up, her amber eyes wide and unguarded.
"If you weren't so beautiful, you wouldn’t be invisible… quite the contrary.”Hermione said, her voice trembling slightly. "They would have to look at what you did, not what you are. They would see your brilliance... I would have seen your brilliance sooner."
Hermione felt the heat rush up her neck, scorching her cheeks. She let out a nervous, self-deprecating laugh. "I'm sorry. That was forward. I wish we were drinking heavily; perhaps I could blame it on the peach schnapps."
Fleur didn't smile. She didn't deflect. Instead, she leaned across the small wooden table, the movement fluid and predatory in the candlelight. She rested her chin in her hand, her eyes locking onto Hermione’s with a devastating intensity.
‘She sees me,’ Fleur thought, a shiver running down her spine. ‘She actually regrets not seeing my mind sooner. Most people regret not touching my skin sooner.’
"I think you are right," Fleur murmured, her voice dropping to a register that vibrated in Hermione’s chest. "It works both ways, non?"
"What do you mean?"
Fleur reached out. Her hand—cool, elegant, steady—covered Hermione’s ink-stained fingers on the table. The contact was electric.
"If you weren't so brilliant," Fleur said, holding Hermione’s gaze captive, "more people would realize how gorgeous you truly are."
Hermione’s breath hitched. Her heart hammered a stampede against her ribs, loud enough that she feared Fleur could hear it. She pulled her hand back slightly, a reflex of pure disbelief.
"I'm..." Hermione stammered, looking around the empty bar as if searching for a citation to disprove this claim. "I'm not gorgeous, Fleur. I’m 'bookish.' I’m 'plain.' I am the woman you ask for help with policy, not the one you ask to dance. I have a very efficient face, but it’s hardly—"
"Stop," Fleur commanded softly.
Hermione looked up, startled by the authority in the tone.
"Do not insult my taste," Fleur whispered. "I am a creature of aesthetics, Hermione. I know beauty when I see it. And you are looking at yourself through a mirror made of ink and parchment."
Fleur moved her hand again, but this time she didn't touch Hermione’s hand. She reached up, her fingertips grazing the wild curl falling over Hermione’s temple, tucking it gently behind her ear. The touch was feather-light, but it burned.
Fleur tilted her head, catching the way the candle flame reflected in Hermione’s gaze.
"You have eyes like cognac," Fleur listed, her voice a low hum. "Rich. Intoxicating. You have a mouth that is firm when you are thinking and soft when you are listening. You have a kinetic energy that makes the air around you feel alive."
"You are structural beauty, Hermione. You are not the decorative gargoyle; you are the cathedral itself. You are the storm that tests the stone.”
Fleur leaned in closer, until Hermione could smell the vanilla and spices of her skin.
"Do not tell me you are not gorgeous," Fleur breathed. "Because I have been unable to look away from you since you walked onto that stage."
Hermione was paralyzed. Her brain, usually so efficient and fast, was offline. All she could feel was the ghost of Fleur’s touch on her ear and the overwhelming, terrifying reality of being desired by the most beautiful woman in the room.
'She isn’t analyzing me,' Hermione realized, dizzy. 'She wants to solve me — without tools'
"You..." Hermione swallowed, her voice failing her. "You are very persuasive."
Fleur smiled then—a slow, dangerous curve of her lips that had nothing to do with politeness and everything to do with intent.
"I am brilliant," Fleur corrected, echoing Hermione's earlier praise. "And I am right."
She pulled back just an inch, leaving Hermione in the vacuum of her space.
"The gala is over," Fleur said. She glanced at the clock on the wall, though Hermione suspected she didn't actually register the numbers. It was a dismissal of the outside world, not a measurement of it. "But the night is not. I have a house in the village. It has a beautiful library I would like you to see. And wine that is better than this."
She stood up, extending a hand to Hermione. It was the precipice. It was the moment the intellectual game ended and the real risk began.
"Would you like to come and tell me more about why I am brilliant?" Fleur asked.
Hermione looked at the hand. She looked at Fleur’s expectant face.
"That is unfair," Hermione murmured, though she was already reaching out. "You know I cannot resist a library. It is a tactical low blow."
"I play to win, Miss Granger."
Hermione took her hand. "Yes," she whispered. "I suppose you do."
The Spark
They stepped out of L'Alchimiste Ivre, and the cold was a physical shock, the previous charms Hermione had cast dissolved. Instantly snapping the tether of the conversation but tightening the tether between their bodies.
The walk to the villa was not far, but in the silence of the sleeping village, every step felt magnified. The cobblestones were slick with frost, reflecting the moon in fractured shards of white. They walked close enough that their sleeves brushed with a rhythmic, electric friction, but neither moved to bridge the final inch.
"It’s strange," Hermione murmured, her breath clouding in the air before her. She was looking up at the slate-grey roofs of the village, trying to keep her mind from calculating the exact velocity of her own heart rate. "Inside, we couldn't stop talking. We were dissecting philosophy and magical theory at a mile a minute. And now..."
"Now the theory is finished," Fleur said softly. She wasn't looking at the roofs; she was watching Hermione. "We have established the hypothesis, non? You think I am brilliant. I think you are gorgeous. The debate is settled."
Hermione laughed, a nervous, breathless sound that was swallowed by the winter air. "You make it sound like a math problem we’ve solved."
"Isn't it?" Fleur asked. "You are the one who likes logic. The variables are aligned."
"Logic usually involves less..." Hermione gestured vaguely between them, her hand trembling slightly in the cold. "Less of this feeling like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. It scares me."
Fleur stopped walking.
The sudden cessation of movement was jarring, forcing Hermione to halt a few steps ahead and turn back.
"It is terrifying," Fleur agreed, her voice carrying across the frozen distance between them. "But do not mistake it for fear, Hermione. That is potential energy. The adrenaline of the fall.”
They turned a corner, leaving the main street for a narrower, quieter lane lined with dormant sycamore trees. The shadows here were deeper, painted in shades of midnight and navy, making the world feel small and intimate.
Hermione felt the silence pressing in. It wasn't the empty silence of a library; it was the heavy, pressurized silence of a storm about to break. Every glance Fleur threw her way felt like a physical touch. Hermione’s mind, usually so adept at cataloging risks and outcomes, was failing her. She couldn't plan for this. There was no book for the way Fleur Delacour walked through the snow—predatory and elegant, like she owned the winter itself.
‘She isn't just walking me home,’ Hermione realized, her stomach flipping. ‘She is leading me.’
They stopped just beyond the edge of an old, wrought-iron streetlamp near the end of the lane. The light was a sudden, warm island in the sea of blue shadows. It cast a circle of amber gold onto the snow, cutting through the dark with a dreamlike clarity. It caught the silver in Fleur’s hair, turning it into a halo, and illuminated the flush high on Hermione’s cheeks.
Hermione stopped walking. She couldn't take another step. The sheer, overwhelming reality of the woman standing near the light paralyzed her.
Fleur stopped too, turning slowly to face her. She stood just on the farthest edge of the circle, half in shadow, half in gold. She didn't speak. She simply waited, her blue eyes dark and unreadable, her stillness a command.
Hermione looked at her. She saw the intelligence that had dissected the Tournament. She saw the vulnerability of the girl who had nearly drowned. And she saw the desire of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted. Hermione’s logic shattered. There were no more arguments to make.
"I..." Hermione started, her voice barely a whisper, cracking under the weight of the moment. She took a half-step forward, entering the circle where the light shone the brightest, her hands clenching at her sides to stop them from reaching out. "I want to kiss you, Fleur. Would that be ok?"
The question hung in the freezing air—polite, terrified, and incredibly brave. Fleur didn't answer with words. She didn't break the spell with a witty retort or a reassurance. Instead, she moved.
She closed the distance in a single, fluid motion, stepping fully into the golden light. She reached out, her hands cupping Hermione’s cold face, her thumbs brushing against the heated skin of her cheeks. She looked at Hermione for one second—a gaze of absolute, possessive intensity—before she tilted her head.
Fleur kissed her.
It wasn't tentative. It wasn't a question. It was the answer.
Fleur’s lips were soft and cool from the wine, but her mouth was hot. She kissed Hermione with a deliberate, slow confidence that stole the air from Hermione’s lungs. It was a kiss that tasted of Bordeaux and inevitability.
Hermione let out a small, broken sound against Fleur’s mouth and melted. Her hands, finally given permission, flew up to grip the lapels of Fleur’s coat, pulling her closer, anchoring herself to the only solid thing in the spinning world.
The logic was indeed gone. The debate was clearly over. There was only the gold light, the cold night, and the devastating heat of Fleur Delacour.