Five More Minutes
The meeting with the Duchess had stretched far beyond necessity, prolonged by the woman’s ceaseless nonsense. It was late into the night by the time Hermione carried Fleur to bed, cradling her wife in her arms with a gentleness reserved for Fleur alone. Exhausted, Hermione had fallen into bed alongside her, but the morning sun was not as merciful. Its light streamed through the vast windows of her office, golden rays casting a soft glow on the room’s polished wooden floors and high, arched ceilings.
Hermione was already awake, seated on the large, cushioned couch that she had dragged closer to the central table. A sea of papers lay scattered before her—reports, trade agreements, letters from regional governors, and other documents demanding the Empress’s sharp eye. She worked with a quiet intensity, her legs stretched out, and her brow furrowed in concentration. She was still dressed in a loose white shirt and fitted trousers, her jacket tossed aside in favor of comfort. The serene morning was a rare reprieve in her otherwise relentless life.
Across the room, Fleur had claimed Hermione’s grand mahogany desk as her own. The sight was striking—elegant yet oddly out of place in this bastion of imperial power. Dressed in a flowing silk gown that shimmered faintly in the sunlight, Fleur lounged casually in Hermione’s high-backed chair, her presence as radiant as ever. A steaming cup of coffee rested in her hand, the cup itself one Hermione favored. Its simple yet refined design—a white porcelain surface edged with gold—marked it as one of Hermione’s prized possessions. Yet, Fleur sipped from it with a blissful lack of concern, entirely at ease in her borrowed dominion.
Hermione’s eyes lifted from her papers to observe her wife. Fleur sat back, one leg crossed over the other, flipping idly through a fashion magazine she had discovered on the desk. Her golden hair caught the light, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. Hermione watched her for a moment, a small smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.
“You’ve made yourself comfortable,” Hermione remarked, her voice low and calm, though there was a teasing note hidden beneath her formality.
Fleur didn’t glance up from her magazine, her own lips curving into a faint smile. She took another unhurried sip from the cup before replying, her French accent turning the words into something melodic. “I have, yes. Your office is quite comfortable, my love.”
Hermione’s smirk deepened, her eyes narrowing playfully. “And my coffee?” she asked, setting aside the parchment she had been reading. “I see you’ve made yourself at home with that as well.”
Finally, Fleur looked up, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. She raised the cup slightly, a silent toast to her audacity. “Delicious, as always,” she said lightly. “It tastes even better because it’s yours, ma chérie. Perhaps I shall keep this cup for myself.”
Hermione’s laugh was quiet, a rare sound that softened the sharp lines of her expression. “Is that so?” she mused, her tone warm but laced with mock seriousness. “And here I thought my wife was above stealing.”
Fleur set the cup down on the desk with deliberate grace, leaning forward slightly as her smile grew. “What’s yours is mine, non?” she countered, her voice playful but with an air of challenge.
“Indeed,” Hermione conceded with a small chuckle. “But that rule goes both ways, my darling.”
Fleur laughed softly, clearly enjoying their banter. She gestured toward the documents spread across the desk, her delicate fingers tracing the edge of one page. “Though I must say, I don’t envy you. All this paperwork—being Empress seems dreadfully dull at times.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow, her smirk lingering. “Dull, perhaps not. Demanding, certainly. Someone must ensure the empire doesn’t crumble.”
“And you do it brilliantly,” Fleur replied, her voice filled with genuine admiration. She stood gracefully, her gown swaying with the motion, and approached Hermione. “But even brilliant Empresses need to rest.”
Hermione looked up at her wife, her dark eyes softening. Fleur had an uncanny ability to pierce through her walls, to remind her of the humanity buried beneath the weight of her crown. “You worry too much,” Hermione murmured, though her voice lacked its usual edge. She reached up to take Fleur’s hand, her fingers brushing over Fleur’s delicate skin. “I’m fine.”
Fleur’s gaze was steady, her affection unyielding. “You might be fine now,” she said softly, “but even you can’t carry everything alone. Let me take care of you, even if just for a moment.”
Hermione sighed quietly, but her hand tightened around Fleur’s, a silent acknowledgment of her words. Rising to her feet, she pulled Fleur closer, wrapping her arms around her wife’s waist. Their foreheads rested together, the quiet intimacy of the moment pushing aside the burdens of Hermione’s title.
“I don’t carry it alone,” Hermione whispered, her voice tender. “Because I have you.”
Fleur smiled, her fingers brushing against Hermione’s cheek. “Always,” she replied, her voice like a promise etched in gold.
For a while, they stood there, entwined, the world beyond the walls of the office fading away. Hermione, often cold and unyielding in the eyes of others, found in Fleur a warmth that grounded her, a reminder of why she fought so hard. Moments like these, though fleeting, were treasures she guarded fiercely.
When Hermione finally pulled back, her lips brushed softly against Fleur’s forehead. “I should get back to work,” she murmured, though the reluctance in her tone was clear.
“Five more minutes,” Fleur whispered, leaning into her again.
Hermione chuckled, surrendering without a fight. “Five more minutes,” she agreed, holding her wife tighter, savoring the fragile peace they shared. For now, that was enough.