Chapter 1
The grand halls of the Imperial Palace echoed with the soft clink of crystal, the murmur of nobles, and the occasional flare of haughty laughter. It was the epitome of regal opulence, gilded in gold and silver, and filled with dignitaries from every corner of the wizarding world. Yet, at the heart of this glittering empire stood two women, their fates intertwined by bloodlines and duty.
Hermione Granger, Empress of the Wizarding World, had always been an enigma. She was older than her years suggested, her sharp, calculating mind as cold and unyielding as the ice that cloaked the northern mountains of her empire. Known for her brilliance, ruthlessness in matters of state, and her unflinching control, she was feared and respected by all. But there was one exception—Fleur Delacour.
The young duchess, a full-blooded Veela, stood at the opposite end of the room, a vision of beauty in flowing white robes that shimmered under the candlelight. She was every bit the embodiment of grace and elegance, her ethereal features turning heads wherever she went. Her pale blonde hair cascaded down her back, and her delicate features seemed carved from moonlight itself. Yet, Fleur felt an ache, an unspoken tension that coiled tight in her chest.
She had been betrothed to the Empress for months now, their wedding only weeks away. The union was strategic, a merging of powerful magical bloodlines that would solidify alliances across the wizarding world. But there was more to it—something far deeper, more primal. Fleur was a Veela, and she could feel it in her bones: Hermione Granger was her mate.
And yet… Hermione was distant. Cold, even. The Empress never smiled, her face always a mask of regal detachment. She spoke in clipped, formal tones, treating their engagement like another political arrangement. Fleur feared, more than anything, that Hermione despised her. That the Empress saw her as nothing more than a tool for power.
As the evening wore on, Fleur found herself standing alone at the edge of the gathering, feeling the weight of her own insecurities. The other princesses and noblewomen had tried to whisper behind their fans, shooting disdainful glances her way. After all, despite her noble title, Fleur was "just" a Veela—something that many of the pureblood elites still looked down upon.
One of the princesses, a haughty witch from a distant kingdom, sauntered up to Fleur with a smirk. "It’s strange, isn’t it? That someone like you could ever marry the Empress. Surely, she deserves better," she sneered.
Fleur’s heart tightened, but before she could respond, the air in the room dropped several degrees. A chilling, imperious voice cut through the hum of conversation.
"Is there a problem here?"
The princess paled as Hermione strode forward, her presence commanding every eye in the room. She was dressed in her usual impeccably tailored suit, the dark fabric sharply contrasting with her pale skin. The Empress never wore dresses, her suits a symbol of her defiance of tradition, her strength, her unwavering control.
The princess took a step back, but Hermione’s cold gaze pinned her in place. "No one speaks to my wife in such a manner," Hermione said, her voice low but lethal. "If you ever dare to insult the Duchess again, you will find yourself removed from every royal court across the continent."
Fleur’s breath caught in her throat. My wife.
The princess stammered an apology before scurrying away, leaving the two women standing alone. Hermione turned her gaze to Fleur, the ice in her eyes thawing for just a moment, replaced by something warmer. Softer.
"Are you alright?" Hermione asked quietly, her voice losing its edge. There was no mistaking the protectiveness in her tone, the way her eyes lingered on Fleur as if ensuring she had not been harmed in any way.
Fleur blinked, taken aback by the tenderness hidden beneath Hermione’s stoic exterior. "I—I am fine," she whispered, though her heart fluttered at the attention. "Thank you."
Hermione nodded, her gaze never leaving Fleur’s face. "They don’t know you," she said after a moment, her voice almost gentle. "They don’t understand your strength, your grace. But I do."
Fleur’s heart stuttered. She had spent so long convinced that Hermione disliked her, that this union was nothing more than a duty the Empress resented. But now, standing under the weight of Hermione’s protective gaze, something shifted between them.
"Do you really think that?" Fleur asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The vulnerability in her question was palpable, and for the first time, Hermione’s expression softened completely.
"Of course I do," Hermione replied, her voice steady, certain. "I may not be good at showing it, but I have never hated you, Fleur. Quite the opposite." She took a step closer, her hand hovering near Fleur’s, but not quite touching. "You are my mate. I have always known that, even if I didn’t say it aloud."
Fleur’s breath hitched. "Then why… why do you keep your distance?"
Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Because if I let myself get too close… I’m afraid I would lose control. You make me feel things—intense things. Things I’m not used to." Her dark eyes flickered with a rare vulnerability. "But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you, Fleur. I do. More than you know."
Fleur’s heart raced at the confession. She had spent months in uncertainty, believing that Hermione was cold and unfeeling. But now, in this quiet moment, she saw the truth. Hermione was not distant because she didn’t care—she was distant because she cared too much.
Before Fleur could respond, Hermione’s hand finally closed the distance, her fingers brushing lightly against Fleur’s. The touch was electric, sending a spark of heat through both women.
"From now on," Hermione said softly, "I will not hide my feelings for you. You are mine, and I will protect you from anyone who dares to think otherwise."
Fleur’s heart swelled with emotion. She squeezed Hermione’s hand, her own Veela instincts roaring to life, recognizing the strength and love in her mate. "I am yours," she whispered, her voice filled with promise. "And I will stand by your side, always."
The rest of the evening passed in a blur, but Fleur no longer felt the weight of the court’s scrutiny. She stood tall, knowing that Hermione—her mate, her Empress—would always be there for her, protecting her with a fierce, unwavering love. And together, they would rule.