That night... It had happened while the trio had been in Shell Cottage and Hermione had just been through... A lot. Fleur was no longer under the delusion that such a thing had not been a factor.
Whether Bill knew or not, Fleur was not sure, but she knew he would not blame her either. He never did, he always protected her, and that made things worse. That had always made things worse. That is yet another thing that had played a part in the mess she herself had caused.
When Fleur had first arrived to her new home in Shell Cottage, she had been thrilled. In her head, she pictured both a safe space and a war headquarters for the Order. She was now an adult, married to the most wonderful man, with a home of her own and still so much fight inside of her. The anger and frustration she often felt, and wrongly misdirected at people who aggravated her in the slightest, could finally be put to use: she could fight to win a war against discrimination, against the ignorant attitudes of wizards that for far too long had been allowed to reign under the guise of keeping peace.
Bill had other plans.
Bill knew she was part creature, a foreigner in many ways, and had sought the Cottage with the intention of keeping her safe. She hated that idea, but he kept begging, he kept telling her he could not bear to lose her, that Fleur would be called if her help was really needed, that the best thing she could do was be strategic and bide her time. Fleur acquiesced, because how could she not?
They got into a rhythm, some sort of stability that felt surreal to Fleur. They were in a bubble, asking each other about their days, tasting homemade meals, while their friends dropped as flies. The only indication that something was wrong were her hands. The same hands that Bill sometimes held a little too tightly and the slight discomfort made Fleur feel like herself for a few seconds, before it all became disconnected again and Fleur was practically forced to stare at her fingers like they held the only magic that could put it all back together again.
Then Ron had arrived, and although Bill had not been very vocal about it, his disapproval was obvious. Ron needing a break was seen as cowardice, but Bill keeping Fleur locked up in a golden cage was strategical somehow. And she was allowing it... What did that say about her?
It festered inside of her even after the younger redhead had left. She tried to discuss it with her husband, but he saw it all in a different light, one she, for once, could not respect.
When she looked at her hands afterwards, she could have sworn her ring finger had a purple hue to it. Without giving it much thought, she had taken her ring off and left it on the same table in which they had last argued, the one where she still sat.
The next morning, Bill had asked if that is really how she was leaving him. That had never been Fleur's intentions, but she could not talk herself into deciding it was a no. Her mouth stayed shut and Bill understood it as a yes.
He had always been too good at taking care of her, she guessed.
Not much changed, if she had to be honest. They were still in a bubble that could not be popped. He could not rock the boat, it was not in his nature, and Fleur just did not want to harm him, or herself, and so she pretended too. They pretended to be husband and wife except for everything that had to do with being husband and wife and not just best friends who happen to live together.
During that time, she still stared at her hands and, although the purple tint she had noticed that one time never returned, her own white skin only helped fuel the illusion that Fleur was no longer Fleur, but some kind of barely alive entity that retained her memories.
She humorlessly thought about the Lovegood's odd magazine and she wondered what they would write about someone like her, what imaginary creature could possibly be afflicting her. She snorted, aware anything they could come up with would probably pale in comparison to what she was doing to herself.
Bill might have been aware of some of it. He might have known, Fleur was not sure, but he would not have blamed her for that either. No matter how much she had messed up, he protected the bubble. He was good at it.
Although he was not a god, he could not control everything.
Actually, on second thought, he could not control much at all.
Dobby had been the first one to really poke the bubble. His arrival, everyone he brought with him... His death.
Fleur, for her part, took care of Hermione's wounds as best as she could. She was quite the accomplished healer, or at least more experienced than everyone else there. She had been the one to take care of Bill's wounds, after all.
It was... Better, somewhat. It made her feel useful, but there were times in which she felt so much guilt over it. It was shameful that, as Harry dug a grave for the elf, she sat by the window, watching him and thinking to herself that she should feel sadder than she did. She tried to offer her help, to ease her conscience, but he would not accept, and so Fleur went back to tending to Hermione.
Hermione mostly stayed in bed, staring almost vacantly at the room around her. Fleur knew she was thinking because her brows would sometimes rise up in surprise or furrow in concentration. However, what she was thinking about remained a mystery to everyone but the brunette herself.
"Can I take a look at your bandages?" Fleur had asked.
"You ask the same thing every day," Hermione replied, irritated.
"Several times a day, actually," the blonde had corrected her.
Hermione had not dignified it with a response, turning to look outside the window instead.
"You should eat," Fleur had tried.
"You should mind your own business."
"Maybe I should, but where is the fun in that?"
"I was not aware this was supposed to be fun for you," Hermione bit back, bitter.
It had struck a chord. Fleur had done what she had gone there to do, and left shortly after.
Later, when she was readying herself for checking on the other woman again, Fleur had sighed. She had been trying to tell herself that in the same way she was allowed to feel some sort of pleasure in being useful, Hermione was allowed to be angry she could not be at the moment. Hermione was allowed to be angry about all that had happened to her and, although Fleur was not especially looking forward to become anyone's punching bag, the veela in her understood being on edge and desperately trying to hold something back just for it to still leak through the cracks.
Hermione stayed mostly silent that time, at least at first. She flinched when the word mudblood came into view, something that did not go unnoticed by Fleur.
"It is healing nicely," Fleur noted. "It might always ache a bit, feel tender, but it will be fine."
Hermione did not turn to look back at her, but did answer, "how could it ever be fine again?"
"Why couldn't it?"
"Do you do that a lot? Answering a question with another?"
"Is there even any answer that would feel right?," Fleur challenged.
"I guess not," Hermione had then chewed on her lip, "how do you stop being scared?"
"You are the Gryffindor. You tell me that."
"You are so annoying even now."
Fleur had sighed, sitting on the edge of the bet, "what are you scared of?"
Hermione had glanced at her hidden arm. The blonde had nodded in response.
"It's not that I am scared it will happen again..." The younger girl had started.
"I would be," Fleur had admitted, "it hasn't even happened to me and I am scared."
The younger woman looked at her oddly, "why would you be? What can they brand you as that would be so terrible?"
"Surely you aren't naive enough to think part creatures don't get their share of slurs."
Hermione had become flustered, not used to her intelligence or knowledge being put into question.
"I am sure they do, it is just that... Well, everyone seems to be always tripping over themselves trying to get to you."
"Veelas do have that effect on people," Fleur acknowledged tentatively, "but that doesn't mean much. At the end of the day, a good portion of the men who are the most outwardly attracted to women also treat them unfairly. Sexual attraction is very different from respect."
The brunette stared at her bandaged forearm. It reminded the older woman of herself, in the weirdest way.
"Touché."
Fleur broke into a smile, "I'm glad you see things my way."
"Don't get used to it," Hermione half-heartedly joked.
"I wouldn't dare."
-
A couple of days had passed, the younger woman refusing to see anyone but the blonde, who managed to chit chat a bit with her here and there.
"It's almost healed," Fleur let her know one afternoon.
"It is scarring, isn't it?"
"It will fade in time."
Hermione nodded, "it sends me electrical shocks sometimes."
"Are they strong?"
"Not usually, but sometimes I want to scream from how intense they get."
Fleur nodded, sadly. "How is it to the touch?"
"The bandages sometimes feel like they are made of sandpaper and my arm is the wood."
"Give it time, it might disappear quite a bit in two or three months." It was Hermione's turn to nod. "You could always remove them. I don't think there's much chance of it getting infected anymore."
"I know," the younger woman replied, "but I don't want to."
Fleur stared at her, her hand was still in contact with Hermione's forearm. Her whole arm felt like her own, no pain. It was a gift that the brunette had no idea she was giving.
"In other languages, slurs work differently."
"How so?"
The blonde smiled at how eager to learn Hermione had sounded, the promise of knowledge keeping her alive in the same way caring made Fleur feel like herself.
"Many languages do not even have a word for slur, they are just insults, ways to offend someone based on discriminatory stuff. People do not say 'oh, don't say the m-word'," she had briefly pointed to Hermione's forearm then, "we say the actual word when we chasticise someone for it. It needs to sound crude, it feels insincere and lacking weight when we do not. Only children who do not want to get punished by their parents say things like 'm-word', and we want it to be real, full of weight. Something that can be discussed openly. We aren't scared of using the word if it’s done with care. And if a word can only be used in a hateful manner, as people change their minds about that being bad, it stops being used, it ends up becoming old-fashioned and dying without anyone caring much for it. Mostly, at least."
"That's... Interesting. But I don't think it would work for English speakers," the brunette answered, carefully.
"Maybe not," Fleur chuckled, "but you can choose what weight you give to the word on your skin. What does it mean to be a mudblood?" Fleur watched Hermione cringe at the use of the word, but continued nonetheless. "What makes you one?"
"I have muggle parents," the brunette answered, pausing as if coming to a realisation. "I have muggle parents."
"I bet they are great," the older woman smiled.
"They really we-are."
“If you want it to, that mark could be tying you to them. Nothing more, nothing less.” Hermione nodded, shaking. Tears welled in her eyes and Fleur took the cue to hug her. "Shhh, it's okay."
The younger woman held onto the blonde's shirt as if her life depended on it, and Fleur was happy to let her.
They fell asleep cuddling.
Bill's carefully designed bubble had been poked so much it threatened to burst. It only required one last push.
Hermione woke Fleur up from their shared nap. She was on top of the blonde staring at the blue eyes below her, her wild hair creating a curtain around them.
Fleur parter her lips in anticipation.
Hermione leaned in.
The bubble popped. Fleur was suddenly there. Herself, once again, no golden bars keeping the world away from her, only soft curls she could move away if she so desired.
But she didn't. Hermione was her lifeline, and she wasn't letting go.
-
Fleur had woken up alone the following morning, a small dull ache going from her chest to her throat before turning into a shy smile once she found the brunette sitting on the same table she had last left her ring on. As Hermione remained unaware of the blonde's presence just a few steps away, she briefly considered whether said table could hold the weight of two adults. It probably could not, but it was a sacrifice she was willing to make.
However, something she could not do was ignore Harry and Ron. When they turned to wish her a good morning, she gracefully answered. And when Hermione turned towards her, a small and soft smile on her admittedly cute features, Fleur used all her restrain to simply smile back and go back to preparing her own breakfast. She had even been supportive when Harry cheerfully announced that Gringotts' break-in could finally go ahead that same afternoon now that the trio had been reunited.
Later, just before all hell broke loose, in private, she fared Hermione goodbye with a kiss that she hoped conveyed a truth she could not deny: her heart was no longer her own.
She had gone looking for it during the Battle of Hogwarts, intuitively knowing where Hermione was. She had felt it shatter inside her chest when, not even two days after everything that had transpired between them, she had seen Ron and Hermione kissing in the middle of the war. Her silent tears were the only thing spoiling the romantic image, and so Fleur had quickly turned around and left it behind, cursing her own naivety, the battle cries too loud for her to hear anything but her own heavy breathing as she raised her wand against the first deatheater she had found. And, yet, she was still Hermione’s.
What seemed like an eternity later, Harry died. Ron held her love close to him, the brunette hugging the redhead without a second thought, screaming her lungs out. Selfish as always, Fleur hated herself for everything that went through her mind, and because she knew she deserved every bit of pain, she had held on tight to Bill when he offered his own arms to her, closing her eyes and focusing only on her breathing.
Neville had shouted. The blonde had opened her eyes in surprise, just a second before Hermione did. They found each other's gaze for a second, Fleur shooting Hermione a remorseful look, only for the other woman to stare at her with an unusual coldness in her eyes.
They had been avoiding each other since. Or maybe Fleur had, considering she had been the one to leave the second things calmed down after their victory. She guessed it ultimately doesn’t matter, the result is always the same: they hadn’t seen each other again. Not until now.
Now, Hermione stood in front of the veela's doorstep, waiting for the blonde to say something. Anything.
"What are you doing here?" Fleur answers, sounding much harsher than she intends to.
"You are a curse-breaker," the brunette affirms, in lieu of an answer.
"Ask Bill for whatever you want."
The older woman tries to close the door, only for Hermione to stop her before she can.
"Wait! No!"
"What do you want?" Fleur asks again, more tired than anything else.
"My parents... I obliviated them."
"You... You, what?"
"I obliviated them," Hermione reiterates.
The blonde comes out of her home, sitting on the porch's furniture, a shocked expression on her face.
"That's..." She swallows, "that makes sense."
"It does?"
"Oddly enough, yes."
The younger woman sits by her, a nervous expression on her face, "can you fix it?"
"There are way too many things to consider for me to be able to give you an answer without even seeing them," Fleur replies, truthfully. "Can't you fix it yourself?"
Hermione shakes her head, "I don't think that's a good idea."
The blonde understands, "what about Bill?"
"What about Bill?"
Fleur knows the question is the same, but they are asking for different explanations, "he hasn't been around in a while," she admits. "I thought you might see him more than I do."
"Why would I?" Hermione looks genuinely confused, which in turn confuses the older woman.
"He is your future brother-in-law?"
"He is your husband?"
"Not anymore?"
The brunette stares at Fleur and the blonde can almost hear the cogs turning inside her head, until it all clicks together. "You are not with Bill?"
She shakes her head, "not since Ron left Shell Cottage the first time."
Hermione smiles shakily, trying to pull Fleur in by the older woman's shirt, who resists.
"No, there's still Ron."
The brunette laughs, "I've never been with Ronald."
Fleur is surprised to hear so, to say the least, "I saw you two kissing! And then you were all lovey dovey when Harry died!"
Harry's death wipes the smile off Hermione's face, who holds the blonde's hand. Not too tight, not painfully, but it makes Fleur feel alive nonetheless.
"He was there for me. He is one of my best friends, that will never change," she pauses. "But we are taking a break from it at the moment. We did kiss during the battle and that wasn't okay."
"I don't understand."
The younger woman sighs, leaning back on her seat, "Ronald and I have always had something. It's not romantic, but it is not not romantic. It is... Knowing that you deeply care about someone, but you would never be able to get anywhere with it. That you can kiss, but the moment any of you would want to take it further, it would no longer be any good. You can date, but you cannot end up together without hating the path the other person is taking. And so growing up, and loving that person, ends up being letting them go, understanding you cannot be the one to love them right."
"So you love him?" Fleur asks, dejected.
"I love him," Hermione confirms, "but I am not in love with him. I tried to explain that to him, I tried to explain what I just said too, and he... He didn't take it well, he didn't feel the same way I did, but I know us both too much to entertain it." She pauses, regret evident in her features, "I should have never kissed him during the Battle, it gave the wrong impression, but all I could think about was how he was risking everything to save the elves just because I wanted them to be safe. And I thought I might never see him again so, I just... I kissed him. As thanks, as I love you, but not as how you think I kissed him."
It clicks then for Fleur, "and then you saw me with Bill and-"
"Yes, I thought you had cheated on him with me and had never told him, had never planned to tell him or leave him or I don't know, maybe you had an open relationship and I was just a distraction? I don't know, but it was hurtful."
Fleur kisses Hermione's forehead and then holds her chin, deep warm eyes meeting her cool blue ones, "I went looking for you. That is how I saw you kissing Ron. I felt this need to find you, but then I saw you and left."
"And you didn't think to talk to me about it before making assumptions?"
"It seemed pretty clear to me! Also, you didn't exactly come asking to talk either."
"Why do you think I came here today?"
"To ask for help."
Hermione rolled her eyes, "I could have asked anyone for help. I came here for you."
"I do like it when you come for me."
Fleur's hand immediately shoots to her own mouth, her eyes wide as she stares at the brunette, who is overcome with giggles.
"I made a good call then," Hermione teases.
"I didn't mean to say that. That was an inside thought," the older woman tries to apologise, but it is no use.
"Yes, a very deep inside thought," the lioness makes herself laugh again, "you are so cute when you are flustered."
"I am not flustered!" She prostests, covering her flushed face with her hands.
"Well, you will be."
"Oh my god."
"I have heard that one before."
"Stop."
"That's one I haven't heard."
Fleur takes a peak between her fingers: the sea acts as Hermione's background. The setting sun lights up her smile just right and Fleur can see the sky's pink and orange reflecting on her skin. Her eyes are closed as she laughs, the sound of it mixing with the waves and reaching the blonde like a velvet embrace.
There is warmth. There is a feeling of belonging, of connecting with everything around her. It's a beginning and an end.
And there is no fucking bubble.