Chapter 3
The Weasley family Christmas was, as always, a raucous, boisterous affair. The Burrow seemed to swell with life as the extended family arrived in waves, laden with brightly wrapped gifts, platters of steaming food, and an infectious energy that echoed through every room. Fleur Delacour stood near the kitchen, her elegance undiminished despite the chaos, observing the spectacle with a bemused expression. Beside her, Hermione Granger was valiantly attempting to stop a pair of mischievous Weasley grandchildren from toppling the Christmas tree in their pursuit of a very disgruntled Crookshanks.
It had been a few weeks since the memorable game night at their townhouse, and while the laughter of that evening lingered in Hermione's memory, something else had become more noticeable since. Fleur's figure, which Hermione adored in every shape and form, now carried a slight but undeniable softness, especially around her belly. It wasn't dramatic, but it was there, and Hermione had noticed, though she wisely kept those thoughts to herself as Fleur was already extremely self-conscious with the overall subject.
"Fleur, a little help here?" Hermione called, dodging a precariously balanced ornament as Crookshanks leapt to safety atop a high shelf.
Fleur turned, raising a perfectly arched brow. "I'm occupied, mon amour," she replied, gesturing to the simmering pots Molly had entrusted to her care. "I'm preventing Molly from turning the tarte Tatin into a cinnamon disaster."
"Of course," Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes even as she smiled. "Priorities."
The Floo roared to life, momentarily silencing the cacophony, and out stepped Hagrid, brushing soot off his enormous coat. "Merry Christmas, everyone!" he boomed, his voice filling the room.
"Hagrid!" Molly called warmly, bustling over to greet him. "Come in, come in! You must be freezing."
Hagrid grinned, his cheeks rosy from the cold, and handed Molly a bundle wrapped in what appeared to be burlap. "Brought some roasted flobberworm fritters. Thought it'd make a nice snack."
"Er… lovely," Molly said, her smile faltering slightly before she directed him toward the rest of the family. "Go on, make yourself at home." She patted his arm affectionately, then returned to overseeing the spread on the dining table, humming softly as she worked.
Hagrid made his rounds, exchanging hearty greetings with Bill and Charlie, laughing loudly at one of George's jokes, and admiring Percy's meticulously trimmed bowtie. The room hummed with laughter and conversation, and for a while, Fleur and Hermione blended into the background, enjoying the festive atmosphere.
But then, Hagrid's booming voice rang out again as he approached Fleur, his face lighting up with an enormous grin. "Well, I'll be! Congratulations, Fleur!"
Fleur blinked, startled by the sudden attention. "Congratulations? For what?"
Hagrid's grin widened as he gestured toward her midsection. "For the little one, o' course! Yer belly's startin' to show, ain't it?"
The room fell silent, the festive chatter evaporating as everyone froze. Fleur's expression shifted from confusion to indignation, her eyes narrowing dangerously and her face turning the darkest shade of pink. "Excuse me?" she said, her voice low and icy. "I am not pregnant."
A muffled snort escaped from Ginny, quickly followed by George biting his lip to keep from laughing. Even Percy's lips twitched before he turned away. Hermione, standing a few feet away, was torn between horror and amusement, her mind racing as she saw the tension rise in Fleur's shoulders.
Hagrid's ruddy complexion deepened. "Oh… oh, I'm sorry, Fleur! Didn't mean ter offend. Just thought, with Veela magic and all you and Hermione had…"
Fleur's arms crossed tightly, her jaw set. Hermione could practically see the hexes forming in her partner's mind. Deciding to intervene before Fleur acted on any of those thoughts, Hermione stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Fleur's arm.
"It's fine, Hagrid," Hermione said quickly, her voice soothing but firm. "No harm done. Fleur's just had… a bit of holiday indulgence, haven't you, love?"
Fleur turned her glare on Hermione, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson. "Holiday indulgence?" she repeated, her voice dangerously calm.
Hermione cleared her throat, deciding it was best to keep talking before Fleur could respond. "And besides, Veela magic doesn't work like that. We're all perfectly fine, Hagrid. Thank you for… your concern."
Hagrid nodded, looking relieved but still sheepish. "Right, right. Didn't mean nothin' by it. Merry Christmas, Fleur, Hermione." He shuffled off toward the kitchen, muttering something about flobberworm recipes.
The room remained tense for a moment longer before George let out a loud guffaw, quickly followed by Ginny's snickering. Even Bill was struggling to keep a straight face.
"Oh, shut up," Fleur snapped, her eyes darting around the room. "All of you!"
Hermione squeezed Fleur's hand, leaning closer to murmur in her ear. "Don't hex anyone. Please."
Fleur sighed dramatically, smoothing the front of her dress with a huff. "Fine. But if anyone else mentions my weight, I'm not responsible for what happens."
Hermione stepped in front of her, her gaze softening as she cupped Fleur's cheeks gently. "Fleur, listen to me," she said quietly. "You are absolutely perfect, and if anyone says otherwise, they're wrong. Including you. Got it?"
Fleur's expression faltered, the irritation in her eyes giving way to something softer, almost vulnerable. "You really mean that?"
"I do," Hermione replied, her voice unwavering. "I love every single part of you. Always have, always will."
A small, reluctant smile tugged at Fleur's lips. "Merci, chérie," she murmured, leaning into Hermione's touch. "But next time, you deal with Hagrid."
Hermione chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to Fleur's forehead. "Fair."
Molly's voice cut through the lingering awkwardness, calling everyone to the table for dinner. "Come along now, everyone! Everything's ready," she said, her voice warm and inviting. As she ushered them toward the dining room, she leaned in close to Fleur and Hermione, her tone dropping to a private murmur. "I only wish it were possible," she said softly, glancing between them with a kind smile. "You'd have the most beautiful babies."
Fleur blinked, momentarily taken aback, while Hermione felt a warm flush creep up her cheeks. They exchanged a glance, and a small, shared smile passed between them before Molly continued bustling toward the table. "Don't mind Hagrid, dear. You look lovely as always."
The room gradually returned to its usual cheer, though Hermione noticed Fleur's occasional sidelong glances at the offending part of her dress. She couldn't resist sneaking reassuring touches or whispered compliments throughout the meal, each one earning her a small, grudging smile from Fleur.
Later that night, as they prepared to leave, Fleur turned to Hermione with a dramatic sigh. "If Molly tries to give us leftovers, you are eating them all."
Hermione laughed, wrapping an arm around Fleur's waist as they stepped into the Floo. "Anything for you," she said sincerely, leaving behind the warmth and chaos of the Weasley Christmas for the cozy sanctuary of their home.
A few days had passed after Christmas party, and Hermione skimmed through some books. The library in their townhouse had always been Hermione's sanctuary, but tonight, it felt like both a battleground and a puzzle box. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm light across stacks of open books, parchment scrawled with notes, and several diagrams of Veela physiology that she'd unearthed from the ministry, Hagrid and even Rolf Scamander's collection. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, and her brows knit in concentration as she flipped through yet another text. Her hand absently reached for her tea, only to find it cold.
It had started innocently enough, Hermione's curiosity piqued by Hagrid's comment at the Weasley's. She'd been amused at first, recalling Fleur's mortified reaction, the fiery indignation in her face. But as the laughter of that evening faded, the memory of Hagrid's innocent observation lingered.
It wasn't that Hermione believed it—it was absurd. However, she prided herself on her knowledge, especially of magical creatures, and while Fleur's Veela heritage was an undeniable part of her, Hermione had never delved deeply into its implications beyond a cursory understanding.
That oversight, she decided, was unacceptable.
So, she'd begun to research,. It started with a polite inquiry to Hagrid, who had gladly provided her with a weathered tome titled A Study of Veela Magic and Biology. Then, a Floo call to Rolf Scamander had brought her an entire crate of books, some so ancient that their pages seemed to whisper as they turned.
She read for days. The reading, at first, was fascinating. Hermione's academic curiosity flourished as she uncovered details about Veela magic that she'd never known: their connection to elemental forces, their heightened sensitivities to emotions and environments. She even chuckled as she read passages describing Veela's fondness for warm, sunlit spaces—it explained why Fleur practically melted into bliss on their summer holidays in Provence.
Other tidbits were more amusing than useful: a section detailing Veela's notorious culinary precision had Hermione shaking her head with a wry smile. Fleur's disdain for British food suddenly felt like a cosmic inevitability.
But the more she read, the more unsettling the pieces became. A footnote in a dusty volume caught her eye one evening, the text cramped and faded but clear enough:
Veela magic, when combined with other veelas or human witches of strong magical aptitude, has been known to produce unique magical phenomena, including…
She paused, squinting, then reread the line:
Including rare cases of spontaneous conception.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She pushed the book aside and reached for another, frantically flipping through its index. She found the section she needed and scanned the paragraphs, her fingers trembling slightly as she traced the words. The explanation was more detailed here, though the language was archaic and convoluted:
Instances of magical conception between Veela and witches are exceedingly rare but documented. The phenomenon requires a convergence of emotional and magical compatibility, often catalyzed by sustained proximity and deep affection. These cases are most frequently observed in bonds where one or both partners possess…
Hermione sat back, her mind racing. She didn't need to read further to feel the weight of what she'd uncovered. The coincidences were too glaring to ignore. Fleur's subtle changes over the past weeks—her fatigue, her shifting appetite, the soft curve of her stomach that even Hermione had to admit was becoming more noticeable each passing week—all began to slot into place like pieces of a puzzle.
She started to take some notes, cataloguing everything: Fleur's sudden distaste for bouillabaisse, her growing preference for warmer rooms, the flashes of irritability that were so unlike her usual poised demeanor. At the time, Hermione had chalked it all up to stress or indulgence. Now, though, the pattern was undeniable.
"This can't be real," Hermione murmured to herself, her voice barely above a whisper.
And yet, she couldn't ignore it. Her logical mind, the part of her that demanded evidence and reason, warred with the part of her that had seen magic accomplish the impossible time and time again. If what she'd read was true… Hermione's chest tightened. She closed the book in front of her and leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.