A Meal Worth Defending
As the meal unfolded, the warmth in the dining room enveloped everyone present. The lively atmosphere was filled with hearty laughter and the exchange of cherished stories. It was a scene of family intimacy, where bonds were strengthened over shared moments. Fleur, who had initially been mortified by her burnt attempt at dinner, now sat glowing. Her earlier embarrassment had been soothed by Hermione's steadfast and quiet support, and the unwavering pride in her wife’s eyes filled her with a happiness that was hard to put into words.
Hermione, for her part, ate her meal with a calm demeanor. Her expression remained stoic as she savored each bite, her composure a steady anchor for everyone present. Yet, for anyone paying attention, the softness in her eyes whenever she glanced at Fleur betrayed the depth of her emotions. It was clear to all that her outward calm was but a veil over the immense tenderness she felt for her wife.
The evening seemed set to conclude on a high note when, just as the plates were nearly empty, the grand doors to the dining room creaked open. The sudden noise drew all eyes to the entrance. One of Hermione’s personal guards stepped inside, his posture rigid and his steps hesitant, as if aware of the audacity of interrupting the Empress at such a personal moment. A heavy hush fell over the room, the lively chatter instantly silenced as the guard cleared his throat nervously.
“Your Majesty,” he began, bowing deeply. His voice, though respectful, carried an edge of unease. “I apologize for the interruption, but a Duchess has arrived unannounced. She requests an immediate audience with you.”
The announcement was met with a tense silence that seemed to stretch endlessly. Everyone in the room knew Hermione’s disdain for uninvited interruptions, especially when she was enjoying a rare moment of private time with her family. Hermione’s expression didn’t immediately change, but there was an almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw that sent an icy ripple through the room. Fleur, ever attuned to her wife’s moods, placed a gentle hand on Hermione’s arm. It was a subtle, grounding touch, meant to remind her that she wasn’t alone in her irritation.
But Hermione didn’t react immediately. Instead, she allowed the silence to linger, her face hardening into the frosty mask she was known for in the political arena. When she finally spoke, her voice was like tempered steel—cold, sharp, and uncompromising. “Tell the Duchess to wait,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I am eating my wife’s cooking.”
The guard blinked, clearly unprepared for the bluntness of her response. He hesitated, his discomfort evident as his gaze flickered uncertainly between Hermione and the others in the room. Gathering his courage, he tried again. “Your Majesty, she insists the matter is urgent and—”
Hermione raised a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. The gesture was deliberate, her authority palpable as she turned her icy gaze on him. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, quieter, yet brimming with a restrained fury that sent a chill down everyone’s spine. “I said,” she repeated, each word enunciated with chilling precision, “I am eating my wife’s cooking. The Duchess arrived uninvited. She will wait until I am ready to see her. I will not tolerate such insolence.”
The weight of her words pressed down on the room. Even Fleur, who had witnessed Hermione’s fierce protectiveness many times, couldn’t help but feel a shiver at the intensity in her voice. The guard’s face turned pale, his confidence crumbling as he bowed his head deeply in submission. “Y-Yes, Your Majesty,” he stammered. “I will inform her at once.”
“Good,” Hermione replied curtly, her tone brooking no further discussion. “Now go.”
The guard didn’t need to be told twice. He retreated quickly, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to escape the room. As the heavy doors closed behind him, the tension lingered for a moment before Apolline, Fleur’s mother, broke the silence with a melodic chuckle.
“Well,” she said lightly, her eyes sparkling with amusement, “I dare say that Duchess will think twice before interrupting your meals again, Hermione.”
The remark prompted a ripple of laughter around the table, breaking the lingering tension. Fleur smiled shyly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she glanced at Hermione, whose expression had already softened. Monica, Hermione’s mother, chimed in, her tone both approving and affectionate.
“You’ve always known how to prioritize what matters, Hermione,” Monica said with a proud smile. “And it’s clear that Fleur is at the top of that list.”
At this, Hermione’s hardened demeanor melted entirely. She turned to Fleur, her eyes warm and filled with an unmistakable devotion. Beneath the table, she reached for Fleur’s hand, gently intertwining their fingers. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and meant only for Fleur’s ears.
“No one disrespects what we have,” Hermione said, her tone protective yet tender. “Not even a Duchess.”
Fleur’s heart swelled with emotion. She leaned in slightly, her gaze full of gratitude and love. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible but brimming with feeling. “For always standing up for us.”
Hermione’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile. Her thumb brushed over the back of Fleur’s hand in a soothing gesture. “Always,” she promised.
The rest of the evening resumed with a renewed sense of camaraderie. The laughter returned, the conversation flowed, and the family basked in the warmth of each other’s company. Yet, an unspoken understanding had taken root. Hermione’s actions had left no doubt in anyone’s mind: no matter how powerful or demanding the world outside might be, nothing and no one would ever come before her love for Fleur.