Soft piano filters through the air from a thrifted record player. It was in relatively good shape when Hermione got it for Fleur. There’s a glass of wine on the counter. It’s a crisp white and the condensation is dripping on the outside of the glass.
Fleur’s swaying in the kitchen to the music with a spatula in her hand. The oil in the pan is snapping and crackling. Fleur stirs the contents—squash—and makes a satisfied hum. She turns and grabs her glass. She notices Hermione and starts. Wine sloshes over the glass and onto Fleur’s hand. It dot on Fleur’s—it used to be Hermione—oversized jumper.
“Hermione.” Fleur puts a hand on her chest with shock.
“Why is it that you always cook in my clothes?” Hermione grumbles.
Fleur stares at her for a moment before letting out a jarring laugh. “Because it irritates you.”
Hermione walks over to Fleur and kisses her. Fleur holds onto the sides of her face when she moves to pull away—lingering against Hermione’s lips. Fleur’s hand is damp and cold from the wine glass. “I missed you.”
Hermione closes her eyes and leans into Fleur. She feels so warm—or does Hermione feel cold?
“Wine?” Fleur asks and Hermione nods.
Hermione picks up Fleur’s and takes a sip. Fleur smacks at her with a loose sleeve. “I can get you a glass, you animal.”
“Snob.” Fleur stops and stares at her fondly again before shaking herself out of it.
Fleur reaches up to open the cabinet and raises on her toes to retrieve a glass. The jumper lifts up when she reaches up and reveals more of her thighs. Hermione wraps her arms around Fleur’s stomach and pulls her in. She kisses the side of Fleur’s neck and Fleur laughs. “Do not make me drop this glass, Hermione Granger.”
Hermione ignores the threat and hugs her tighter, rocking them side to side. “You aren’t wearing pants.”
“That’s your defense? How do you think that will hold up in court?”
“I think they’ll question the validity of a woman reporting her girlfriend for breaking a glass first.”
Fleur runs her hand along Hermione’s arm and covers her hands. “They’ll understand when said girlfriend reveals her wife didn’t listen to a clear warning.”
Fleur’s gold band gleams against the kitchen lights like a beacon.
Hermione’s momentarily confused until it passes. “The squash is burning.”
Fleur yelps and moves to stir it. “Breaking glasses and burning my food, why do I put up with you?”
“The prestige?” Hermione offers and takes the glass from Fleur. She pours herself a small glass and turns back to Fleur.
“That’s it.” Fleur snaps.
Hermione grins and looks around. Fleur must have reorganized while Hermione was at work. “How was your day?” Hermione asks.
“Better now.” Fleur says.
“What did you do?”
“Eagerly awaited the return of my beautiful wife?”
Hermione snorts. “Someone is trying to be smooth.”
Fleur reaches around Hermione to grab her wine. She leans against Hermione and kisses the corner of her mouth. “Is it trying if it comes naturally?”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Tell me about your day before I have to resort to desperate measures.”
“What do these desperate measures include?”
Hermione picks Fleur up and walks her to the opposing counter. She sets Fleur down and steps between her legs. Fleur wraps her legs around Hermione. “Keeping you trapped while dinner burns.”
“You are forming a case against yourself. Breaking glass, calling me your girlfriend, and now burning dinner? Maman was right, I should have married Roger.”
Hermione bites Fleur’s lip. “Take that back.”
“Never.”
“Then your dinner will burn.”
“Let it burn.” Fleur challenges.
Hermione eventually does let Fleur go when she starts eyeing the smoke.
She notices a new couch throw. The fruit bowl is put in a different spot. There’s a new abstract pairing with reds and golds. The painting seems angry, as if the artist threw paint at the canvas. There’s an ornate blue glass urn over the fireplace.
“Did you redecorate today?” Hermione asks Fleur.
“Non.” Fleur answers distractedly. She’s squinting at the temperature of the chicken. “How is this blasted thing still not at temperature?”
There’s a picture of Hermione on the fireplace. It seems odd and out of place. They’ve never been the kind of girlfriends—wives—to have pictures of themselves around.
"Why do you have a picture of me?" Hermione asks Fleur.
Fleur looks up from the squash. The oil keeps sizzling.
“It helps me remember.” Fleur pays Hermione all of her attention. She sets down the spatula and turns towards her.
“Remember?” Hermione questions.
Sorrow passes Fleur’s expression. “You’ve forgotten again.” She sounds hurt and small. She sounds wounded.
Hermione’s arm twitches with discomfort.
Fear clogs Hermione’s throat. It’s a horrifying sentence. “Forgotten what?” Forgetting is a terrifying concept. Hermione doesn’t know where to begin, what to remember.
Everything has a natural beginning, middle, and end—a cause and effect. She can usually figure those out through logic.
If she offends someone, she can think back to what she’s said or done recently to rectify it. There’s no helping forgetting.
She forgot Luna’s birthday, once. It was awful.
Luna, of course, did not care. She just patted Hermione on the head and said she knew she was busy.
Hermione still felt like a prat. There was nothing she could do to change what was done.
She’s hurt Fleur.
One particular time happened during several long weeks of barely seeing one another. Hermione worked a case for a species of sentient roots that wanted their forest to be protected. It was constant fourteen hour work days as she argued with everyone who had ears.
She told Fleur she would make their friday night date night but got wound up in arguing with the minister.
She did mean to send Fleur an owl but it slipped her mind.
Fleur has always made her displeasures known. She would shout Hermione’s ear off if she didn’t do the dishes quickly enough.
That night she just looked sad and hurt.
She didn’t even respond to Hermione when she came in for the night.
Hermione has offended a lot of people and generally pissed them off. She hasn’t hurt that many people.
Jinxes and curses aside.
There’s a particular pain to hurting someone she cares for. It’s the knowledge that her own decisions and her own insensitivity led to it. Hurt is this unchangable thing. It’s not like being kids and accidentally pushing someone too hard and rushing to apologize and being able to fix it before an adult notices.
It’s the inescapable fact that the hurt will always exist. It can be forgiven, it can be made up for, but it always happened.
Hermione will have always forgotten to send Fleur an owl. Hermione will have always walked into her bedroom to see Fleur curled up and faced away from the door.
She swore she would do anything not to hurt Fleur like that again. If she did, she’d do anything to make the hurt less.
Now, it’s the worst of both those things—the forgetting and the hurt.
Hermione’s breath catches.
“You’ll remember. You always do.” Fleur advises. She doesn’t sound happy about it. She steps away from the squash and towards Hermione. “Let’s just stay on this moment.”
Fleur kisses her hard and desperate. Her lips taste like sour wine and salty tears. She keeps brushing Hermione’s hair back—her hands are frenetic on Hermione’s face.
“Fleur, what’s wrong?” Hermione is terrified and Fleur shakes her head.
“Please. Please, let’s just stay in this moment. Just give me this moment.”
“Okay.” Hermione can’t take the hurt away but she can alleviate it. She can give Fleur something—anything.
She made a promise.
Hermione will remember, eventually.
“Okay?” Fleur asks.
Hermione nods and covers Fleur’s hands.
“Okay.”
Hermione made a promise and nothing in this life or the next can stop her from keeping it.