Chapter 1
Prologue
The nursery was bathed in soft, golden light, the kind that made everything seem a little more magical. Hermione Granger stood at the edge of the cribs, her arms wrapped around Fleur Delacour's waist as they gazed down at their sleeping twins. The babies, bundled snugly in laid utterly peaceful, their tiny chests rising and falling in unison. Fleur leaned her head against Hermione's shoulder, and for a moment, the only sound was the gentle hum of the enchanted mobile spinning overhead.
Hermione's heart swelled as she tightened her embrace, her gaze flickering between the twins and the woman she loved. It had been a journey—an unpredictable, hilarious, and sometimes maddening journey—that had brought them here. How had it all begun? Hermione smiled to herself, the memories unfolding like a favorite storybook….
1
The London townhouse stood on a narrow cobbled street, tucked between a florist whose roses refused to wilt and a bakery that seemed to perpetually waft the aroma of fresh croissants. Inside, the air was filled with the clash of personalities as distinct as the clink of Fleur Delacour's meticulously arranged dinnerware and the rustle of Hermione Granger's cluttered stacks of parchment.
"It's inedible," Fleur announced dramatically, pushing the offending plate of shepherd's pie across the table as though it might attack her. She rose, her sleek silver-blonde hair cascading like moonlight down her back, and swept into the kitchen. "This is not food; it is an insult. How do you people survive on such things?"
Hermione, still in her work robes and exuding the frazzled air of someone who'd wrangled the entire Department for the Regulation and Care of Magical Creatures that day, leaned back in her chair with a small, amused smile. "It's a perfectly fine pie, Fleur. Not everything can be confit de canard."
From the kitchen came a melodramatic gasp. "Ah, but it could be so much more better then this!" Fleur reappeared, clutching a tray of glossy, butter-drenched escargot that she must have conjured while Hermione's back was turned. "Do you know how many ways there are to elevate potatoes, chérie? Yet here they are, mashed into oblivion."
"Yes, but then we wouldn't get to enjoy moments like this." Hermione gestured to Fleur's performance with a lazy wave of her hand. Her dry tone held a thread of affection that always seemed to soften Fleur's dramatic edges.
With a flick of her wand, Fleur sent the tray floating to the table and sat down with a theatrical sigh. "If I must endure, I will endure in style." She speared an escargot, delicately biting into it. Her eyes fluttered shut as she savored the bite, though the effect was slightly ruined by Hermione's poorly stifled laugh.
Their evenings often unfolded like this in the sanctuary of their home. The townhouse itself mirrored their contrasts: the ground floor was Fleur's domain, an elegant space of cream and gold, while the upstairs brimmed with Hermione's overstuffed bookshelves and mismatched cushions. Yet the duality was oddly harmonious, like the two of them.
"Oh, by the way," Hermione said as she cleared her plate, "Luna sent an owl this afternoon. She's invited us to her gallery opening next weekend."
"Quirky art and cucumber sandwiches?" Fleur's lips quirked into a faint smile. "How can I resist?"
"You say that, but last time you spent twenty minutes debating whether Luna's sculpture of the nargle was avant-garde or just enchanted driftwood."
"It was driftwood," Fleur replied primly, rising to gather the plates and flicking her wand to start them washing themselves. "But one must indulge our friends' creative… tendencies."
Hermione smirked, then paused, her gaze shifting to Fleur's face. "You've been yawning all day. Are you all right?"
"Fatigué," Fleur admitted with an elegant shrug. "Gringotts has been a tyrant this week. Three new tombs to assess, and not one with decent traps. Mon dieu, how am I to sharpen my skills if all the curses are from amateurs?"
"You're spoiled," Hermione teased, though her brow furrowed slightly. "Maybe take it easy for a few days?"
"And leave the goblins to their barbaric solutions?" Fleur sniffed. "Non, I could not live with myself."
Hermione's lips twitched as she resisted pointing out the irony of Fleur's perfectionism about tomb raiding. She reached across the table to squeeze Fleur's hand, her touch grounding despite the levity of their banter.
As the evening wore on, the laughter and teasing gave way to companionable silence. Hermione sat curled on the sofa with a book, while Fleur lingered at the kitchen counter, absently flipping through an old scrapbook filled with Beauxbatons memories and pictures that she'd unearthed during her last trip to France.
Yet even in the quiet, Hermione's keen observation didn't falter. Fleur had been uncharacteristically tired for days. She'd waved it off as overwork, but Hermione filed the concern away, resolving to keep an eye on her. Fleur glanced up from her yearbook, catching Hermione watching her. A smile tugged at her lips—subtle but genuine.
"Quoi?" she asked softly.
"Nothing." Hermione's gaze softened. "Just… happy."
"Bien," Fleur replied, a touch of her dramatic flair returning as she preened under the attention. "As you should be." Hermione laughed quietly and returned to her book, leaving Fleur to shake her head with an affectionate sigh. For all her wit and brilliance, Hermione's sentimentality had a way of catching her off guard.
Later, as they climbed the stairs to bed, Fleur's voice floated down the hallway. "Tomorrow, chérie, we try my new recipe for duck confit. I will save you from British cuisine yet."Hermione grinned to herself, knowing she wouldn't have it any other way.