Chapter Text
“We are really very close to breaking through the barrier. Who knows what we’ll find...under the tomb...” Fleur’s voice falls away. She shifts her weight to see around the Minister’s broad shoulders. Hermione is across the room, chatting merrily with the one and only Narcissa Malfoy, now Black. They are looking down at Hermione’s dress, Narcissa’s pointed finger hovering over the flourish of feathers stitched discretely along the side. It is Fleur’s favorite part of the dress, and she imagines Hermione is saying as much as she throws her head back with laughter and swats Narcissa’s shoulder playfully.
“Would you...would you excuse me, Minister. I must–” She doesn’t bother finishing her sentence before she steps around him, fisting the fabric of her dress and hiking the hem out of the way of her hurried steps.
She stomps over, trying her best to control her anger. Fleur can feel the flush of heat moving up her neck to pink her cheeks. She hates how easily her skin betrays her.
Narcissa touches Hermione’s arm and nods past her. Her thin lips barely move–a whisper. Hermione turns, but Fleur is quick to speak, eager to draw first blood, “I’m sorry, am I interrupting?”
Hermione smiles and reaches out for her but Fleur is too busy glaring at the hint of a smirk Narcissa is aiming at her over Hermione’s shoulder to reciprocate the greeting.
“Hello, Fleur.” There’s a warning edge to Hermione’s voice telling Fleur to behave. It only serves to infuriate her further. “Narcissa was just telling me about–”
“What a wonderful job Hermione has been doing,” Narcissa interjects. Fleur watches, eyes narrowing, as Narcissa squeezes Hermione’s arm.
“It’s my job,” Hermione says evenly, taking a step closer to Fleur. She reaches up and touches the small of Fleur’s back in a calming gesture—it doesn’t work. “But I’m glad you’re so enthusiastic about the project. It would’ve been impossible with your support.”
Naricissa gives a bashful smile. “Always glad to help. After all my family has done…”
Hermione puts a reassuring hand on Narcissa’s elbow. “You are not your husband. You do not owe anyone anything for his actions.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Hermione. Really, I-” A conflicted look crosses Narcissa’s face. “If it wasn’t for you and your support, I don’t know if I-”
“Don’t mention it. Seriously.”
The more Hermione softens, the tighter the muscles at the back of Fleur’s neck get until she’s seeing stars, jaw and fists clenched.
Narcissa glances at Fleur warily, but still manages to give Hermione her full attention and a winning smile. “You’re too kind, but I won’t take anymore of your time. Thank you again for all of the work you’ve put into tonight.” She leans down and leaves a kiss on both of Hermione’s cheeks before nodding politely at Fleur. “Good evening, Miss Delacour.”
As soon as Narcissa turns her back, the smile drops from Hermione’s face and she whips around to pin Fleur with a glare.
“Don’t. Start.”
Fleur frowns, incredulous, and shrugs. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You don’t have to, it’s written all over your face.” Hermione’s eyes roll, “There’s nothing going on between me and Narcissa. She’s just a benefactor--an important one. Not to mention,” she steps closer to be heard over the din of the party, hissing close to Fleur’s ear as she moves past her, “she’s my mother’s age!”
Fleur turns to keep Hermione in her sights, throwing out her arms and whispering aggressively, “That didn’t stop your crush on Lockhart.”
“I was a kid!” Hermione stops in her tracks, wounded. It’s a low blow and Fleur knows it, but she’s too angry to give in to the guilt sinking down into the pit of her stomach. Hermione shakes her head sadly. “Are you really going to crucify me for something I did as a child? That’s not what this is really about…”
They both force a smile as a co-worker passes by with a cheery comment about the success of the night’s event.
“How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t have feelings for her,” Hermione hisses, digging right back into the argument. “I will never cheat on you, Fleur, I love you. Why can’t you just trust me?”
“You are not the one I have a problem trusting, my love,” exhaustion seeps into Fleur’s voice, “Narcissa has been flirting with you for a year now. She thinks I haven’t noticed, but it’s getting ridiculous at this point. Please, just...stay away from her.”
Fleur knows Hermione’s response before the words leave her in a heavy sigh–they have had this argument time and time again. It’s an old script. For some reason, Fleur keeps hoping for a new ending.
“I can’t, you know that.” Hermione deflates but Fleur’s the one that feels defeated. “Can we not do this here?”
“Then where?” Fleur follows close as Hermione tries to walk away, she is grasping at straws, desperate for Hermione to turn around, “You never want to talk. There is never a right time with you.”
And Hermione does turn around, and she takes Fleur’s hands in her own. “Okay, okay…” she says absently, looking at Fleur with a warmth she hasn’t in some time. She squeezes Fleur’s fingers. “Why don’t we just go home and watch some television – have our usual date night? I know it’s been a while since we’ve done that. Just the two of us.”
Hermione’s eyes are sincere, but Fleur’s distrust flares–is she deflecting again? Fleur is too weak, too tired to fight against it. She wonders if Hermione is too. Maybe a date is exactly what they need to sort things out. Fleur never brought it up to Hermione, but she has missed their date nights. “What about the fundraiser? You’ve been planning it for months-” Fleur looks around at the dozens of tables with their neatly laid namecards and cloth napkins.
“I know, I just-” Hermione follows her gaze weakly and exhales. “Let’s go home?”
It feels like an olive branch. Fleur nods.
They hurry through their goodbyes, but the tension doesn’t leave them once they’re out of the warzone of the public eye, in the safety and security of the home they’d worked so hard for.
In the half-darkness of their room, Hermione taps Fleur’s hip until she turns, they manage each other’s hard to reach zippers, but there are no teasing lips the way there once would have been. By the time they’re pulling their legs under them on the couch, they’ve barely said a dozen words between them.
Fleur looks down at her knee– inches away from Hermione’s–they sit close, but not touching. She wonders when she’d stopped pulling Hermione against her, stopped wrapping arms around her, when they’d taken to sitting on separate cushions instead of watching television tangled up in each other’s arms.
“What do you want to watch?” Hermione asks, harmlessly, as if they haven’t been miles apart. The channels scroll by but Fleur’s eyes blur with tears.
Hermione is right here, on their couch, in their home. She’s here, sitting next to Fleur and not Narcissa. Still, Fleur’s throat tightens. She thinks of the ring she has hidden in her drawer. A month ago, Fleur had never been more sure of anything in her life. Now? Now, she doesn’t know.
“Fleur?”
Fleur’s head jerks at the sound of her name and the precariously balanced tears spill down her cheeks. She hurriedly wipes them away. “I don’t think I want to watch TV anymore.”
Hermione looks over, frowning. “What do you mean?”
Fleur catches the uncomfortable way Hermione stops herself from reaching out. It’s so absurd that she laughs; it gurgles up like a watery hiccup.
Hermione’s frown only deepens, her brows coming together, “Fleur...you–you love television.”
And she does...or she had. Fleur had never even seen a television before she started dating Hermione. It had brought them closer. Hermione had loved sharing all of her favorite shows with Fleur, and Fleur had loved watching them. Now, it feels like a perversion–turning something that meant so much to them into nothing more than a plaster to cover an ugly wound.
It reignites the ember of anger in Fleur’s chest. She juts out her chin defiantly, “You said you didn’t want to talk at the party, what about now?”
“Not this again,” Hermione groans, sinking bonelessly into the cushions.
Fleur watches Hermione carefully, the light from the tv playing out over face. Hermione’s jaw tenses, the cords in her neck flex as she swallows. A part of Fleur wonders how far she can push this, what she has to say or do to draw some depth of emotion out of Hermione.
She takes a deep breath. “I just–I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” Fleur confesses.
Hermione goes frigid. Fleur can see the fear in her eyes and it feels good to know Hermione is afraid of losing this. The satisfaction that rushes through her only makes Fleur feel more nauseous. When had she become this person, so thrilled by the thought of wounding?
“What are you-what do you mean?”
Fleur doesn’t have the words to explain what’s on her mind. It’s been weighing on her for a while now, ever since Hermione got the job promotion, ever since she started hanging around that woman. But every time she’s brought it up, Hermione has never taken it seriously.
“Fleur,” Hermione scoots closer. “If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I can’t help you fix it.”
And that, that infuriates her.
“I have told you,” she hisses. “I’ve told you a hundred times. But you never listen.”
“That’s not fair!” Hermione’s hand comes down between them, remote clenched tightly in her fist.
“Not fair?” Fleur scoffs, she’s had enough, she grabs the end of the remote and tugs. “What is not fair is that I have to sit by while that sympathizer –”
Hermione snaps and jerks hard on the remote, “Narcissa is not a sympathizer , her ex husband–”
“Oh, quick to her defense, aren’t you?” Fleur jabs again.
“I feel for her situation, not for her. Why must we always fight about her? She’s not even in this relationship.”
“Isn’t she? She might as well be, with the way she’s been flirting with you.”
They’ve both got a hold on the remote now and yank it back and forth between them, both petty and angry, neither giving up ground. The television begins to flicker wildly, static crashing loudly. Fleur and Hermione jump apart, covering their ears and wincing against the sudden noise. They look up at the screen; channels fly by, one image after another–a beach with piles and piles of freshly turned sand, a cartoon woman in a purple dress singing through the static, men in suits sitting around a table, a cheering crowd with faces painted red, white, and blue.
They slowly turn to look at each other, mouths gaping, but the pull is sharp and sudden and has them lurching. Fleur feels the hors d’oeuvres from the fundraiser threatening at the back of her throat. She reaches up to cover her mouth, but her eyes roll back and Hermione crashes into her and they are moving, suddenly and violently towards the television.