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It was a warm late spring morning, and the breeze rolling in off the ocean did just enough to put a spring in one’s step. In the greenstone house with the red door, sitting atop a hill like a sentry over the landscape, the silence of the week’s end reigned. The deluge of activity that normally roiled the waters of the cozy little home had stilled, and the ladies of the house were enjoy a well-deserved lie-in.
They’d been out late the night before at some Ministry event, schmoozing with sycophantic Undersecretaries and politely nodding along to the same questions about the war from the sorts of people who strutted about like peacocks. There’d been talk for years about Hermione Granger running for Minister of Magic one day, and equal rumors across the channel about her mate doing the same in the Ministère de la Magie. Every self-respecting suck-up and flatter in the Wizarding world wanted a chance to ingratiate themselves with them, and no party was complete without dozens of questions about their future plans and ill-concealed innuendo about their life together.
If they’d been properly informed, they’d have laughed at the idea of either of the two of them seeking high office. A Veela’s duty was to her flock above all else, bar her mate and her children. It would be improper and impractical for either of them to lead the Ministries of their respective countries. Any dispute involving the Delacour Flock would be settled in one direction, any advantage that could be found would find its way into the hands of their elders. Veela mated for life, and family was everything for them.
A soft knock on the door broke the spell of silence over their bedroom, eliciting from a groan from the two women who’d draped themselves over each other in a nocturnal embrace. Fleur’s hands always seemed to wander over her mate’s lithe form while she slept, and Hermione woke to slender fingers cupping her breast and resting between her thighs. Not a bad way to start a morning, she thought with a smile, even if it was far too early to be waking on such a perfect Saturday.
“Your daughter is asking for you, love,” she whispered softly in Fleur’s ear, breath rustling the blonde hair around it.
“Before sunrise, she’s your daughter,” Fleur mumbled, eyes shut fast against the predawn glow that filtered in through the blinds. Hermione smiled to herself, pleased that Fleur had been paying attention to that ‘infantile American Muggle picture’ her parents had put on for the kids during their last trip to London. ‘The only lion I need is the one I hold in my arms’, she’d declared haughtily, raining kisses down Hermione’s neck. The memory made her cheeks grow hot, and she pushed her hips backwards into the firmness of Fleur’s stomach, eliciting a groan from the Veela.
Another knock came at the door, slightly firmer than the one that had come before. Someone was impatient, it seemed. “Maman, Mère, we’re hungry,” a small voice said. “It’s breakfast time.”
Hermione groaned, wishing for the hundredth time that the girls’ primary school didn’t begin at 8 o’clock sharp in the morning. It worked well for her and Fleur’s working hours during the week, but they were always such early risers on the weekend.
“Just a minute, darling,” Hermione called out, extricating herself from Fleur’s warm embrace. Her mate clung to her gently as she pulled herself from those sculpted arms, pouting sleepily as Hermione left the warmth of their bed. Fleur was impossibly greedy when it came to her beloved: she’d push her out of bed to take care of their children, then refuse to let her go. The Veela was as impossibly endearing as she’d been from the day they met, even after all this time.
Hermione stepped into some underwear and tied her burgundy robe tightly around her midsection, relishing the feeling of the soft silk against her skin. It’d been a gift from Fleur’s grandmère on their first anniversary, and Hermione delighted in the acceptance it signified. The gold trim around the lapels was rather garish, but Gryffindor colors had always suited her. She’d earned a few creature comforts after her service in the war, and besides, no one outside of the family got to see her in it.
She’d barely opened the door of their bedroom before a tiny blonde creature blurred through the space between them, attaching itself to her leg with short arms. Hermione chuckled as she reached out a hand to card gently through her youngest’s blonde curls. Rose was still in her clingy phase, and as a mother she adored it. Before long she’d learn that it wasn’t cool for children to show affection to their parents, just as Victoire had.
“Good morning, little flower,” she said brightly, “can you let me go so I can make breakfast?”
“You can make breakfast and carry me!” Rose said in her high-pitched voice, burrowing her face into her mother’s leg.
“You’re too heavy to carry, Rose,” Victoire teased, prodding her little sister’s baby fat. “You’re not a baby anymore, silly.”
Hermione shook her head reproachfully. “Now Victoire, what have I said about being mean to your sister?”
Victoire looked sullen, seven year-old brain contemplating the risks of defying her Maman. Deciding not to risk her wrath, she looked down in adorable defeat. “If I’m mean to Rose, I don’t get any chocolate in my crêpes.”
“And what do we say when we’re mean?” Hermione prodded.
Victoire pouted further, bright blue eyes scrunched beneath the sculpted eyebrows she’d inherited from Fleur. While both of her daughters took after Fleur in hair and eye color, Rose had Hermione’s untamable curls and button nose, while Victoire had the sharp features and silky locks that had been the envy of Hogwarts in Hermione’s fourth year. Everyone in the castle had lusted over the beautiful Veela, she thought smugly, but only Hermione had gotten her. Fleur was hers, now and forever.
“I’m sorry, Rose,” Victoire grumbled. “You aren’t too heavy for Maman.”
“Do you accept her apology, Rose?” Hermione asked her little bundle of cuddles.
“Yes, Maman. Thank you, Victoire.” Rose answered, releasing her hold on Hermione’s legs and raising her arms towards her mother. “Up!”
Fleur would’ve corrected her daughter, reminding her to say please after she asked for things, but Hermione had never been able to deny her spring Rose anything. Tittering softly under her breath, she scooped Rose up around the midsection, holding her under her right arm and planting a kiss on her forehead. Victoire was right— Rose was getting too big for this— but Hermione wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Not when crêpes awaited them.
The kitchen was brightly-lit and exceedingly cozy, with vaulted ceilings supported by cedar beams and an open concept that allowed unobstructed views of the living and dining rooms. When they had dinner parties all three rooms merged into one homogenous entertaining area, allowing their loved ones to congregate across the entirety of the space without separating themselves from the other guests. Fleur had designed the space herself, insisting that her French heritage gave her superior knowledge of the culinary arts, and Hermione wasn’t complaining. The kitchen was her favorite place in the house outside of the library.
“What kind of crêpes are we wanting today, dear ones?” Hermione asked, performing her part of a tradition that they’d begun when Victoire was first learning how to speak. “Shall we have them with goat cheese and tarragon from the garden?”
“Chocolate!” Rose responded, little voice rising in excitement.
“Shall we have them with bacon and gruyere?” Hermione questioned, placing a meditative hand on her chin.
“Chocolate!” Rose whined, a heart-melting pout gracing her lips. Victoire snickered from her seat at the marble counter, enjoying the spectacle now that she wasn’t the one on the other side of it.
“Oh I know!” Hermione said dramatically, eyes brightening with a new idea. “We’ll have them with strawberries and whipped cream!”
“CHOCOLATE!” Rose yelled, beating her little fists against Hermione’s chest. Victoire cackled with laughter as her younger sister rained down blows at any part of their Maman she could reach, pudgy hands unable to do more than tickle her.
Hermione put on a quizzical expression, looking over at Victoire as she ignored Rose’s rebellious display entirely. “Hmm, what do you think, my star?”
Victoire grinned. “I’d like mine with chocolate, Maman.”
“Chocolate! Of course.” Hermione said dramatically, slapping her forehead. “We’ll make them with chocolate! What a wonderful idea!”
Rose howled in exasperation as Hermione placed a pan to warm on the stove, casting a wordless, wandless Ignis to get it heating as she went to the ice chest for milk and eggs. She’d never have thought she’d be using such advanced magic to cook breakfast for her children when she was fighting for the future of the Wizarding World, but she was thoroughly glad for it. In the four walls of their home she wasn’t Hermione Granger, Golden Girl and Brightest Witch of her Age, Savior of the Wizarding World, Defeater of Dark Wizards. She was only Maman, darling, and ma lionne when Fleur was feeling adventurous, which was fairly often. Not a bad life, when it came down to it. Not a bad life at all.
Hermione mixed the batter for the crêpes while Victoire dutifully cut the chocolate into sheer slivers with her paring knife and Rose played with her Maman’s hair. The scene was shockingly domestic, in a soul-affirming sort of way. As soon as Fleur roused herself from her weekend slumber they’d be a picturesque little family in the kitchen, enjoying a lazy Saturday in each other’s company. Fleur took her crêpes with ham and spinach, a rather odd combination in Hermione’s view but one that she’d coming to grudgingly appreciate over the years they’d spent together. She’d insist on making her own breakfast as well as Hermione’s lemon and sugar ones. Apparently even eight years spent living in the country wasn’t sufficient to make ‘proper French food’.
Speaking of the devil, the whine of the kettle coming up to a boil was sufficient to rouse Hermione’s restful mate, who came padding down the stairs like a waking goddess. Fleur had an infuriating habit of looking perfectly composed after she got out of bed in the morning, blonde hair somehow tousled into perfect waves by its time spent on her pillow. Her powder blue robe was in Beauxbatons colors, just as Hermione’s were in Gryffindor’s, and they did wonders to set off the subtle peach undertones in her porcelain skin. Fleur was a vision at all times and places, but nowhere did she look better than when she first smiled at Hermione in the morning.
“Mère!” Rose called, struggling to be free of Hermione’s arms. Hermione let her go with a smile, heart bursting at the seams as Rose hurried over to receive a hug from her other mother. Laughter like little bells filled the air as Fleur picked her up and spun her around, placing little kisses on her head as she twirled their daughter with a ballerina’s grace. Even Victoire smiled at the display of affection, though she tried to hide it underneath her hand. Seven was far too old to be happy to see your mother, or at least to show it.
“Good morning, my sweet. How are we feeling today?” Fleur cooed.
“Maman is making crêpes!” Rose said enthusiastically, clapping her hands in delight. “And our aunties and uncles are coming over later!”
Fleur chuckled, raising an eyebrow as she glanced over at her mate. “Oh are they now?”
Hermione shrugged bashfully, taking care not to let the crêpes burn as she dusted the batter with a layer of shaved milk chocolate. “Dora and Ginny mentioned that they wanted to have dinner tonight, and I may have mentioned that they could bring Harry and Draco if they wanted.”
“And I assume you forgot that Gabi was coming over later with Adèle as well? We were meant to take the girls with them and Lise to… that place.” Fleur responded, careful not to mention the ‘z-o-o’ word in front of the girls. Even Victoire’s newfound composure would vanish in a heartbeat at the idea of going to see the animals with Aunt Gabi and their little cousin, and keeping the trip a surprise from their little brood was a mission of paramount importance.
“They can join us for dinner,” Hermione said, “it’d be good for Lise to meet Lily and Teddy.”
“Are you sure you want Adèle and Ginny in the same room, my love?” Fleur asked teasingly. “They are like oil and water, those two.”
“It’s been ten years!” Hermione exclaimed. “Surely they can agree to bury the hatchet by now.”
“You’re right, my lioness. Perhaps I’ll ask if Evangeline wants to join us tonight, in the interest of clearing the air.”
A growl escaped Hermione’s lips at the mention of Fleur’s first girlfriend, jealousy flaring in her gut at the idea of sharing a room with the vapid woman. Evangeline was vain and haughty and arrogant and not Fleur’s. She was Fleur’s. Fleur was her mate. Nothing would ever come between them, and she’d duel anyone who tried to interrupt their bond.
Fleur laughed at the display, walking over to plant a gentle kiss at the corner of Hermione’s lips. “Don’t fret, little dove. I have eyes for no one but you.”
“You’d better not,” Hermione said testily, pouting further when Fleur gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Godric, nothing made her more envious than hearing about Evangeline. Maybe Adèle was onto something with her anger at Ginny.
They ate their breakfast in comfortable camaraderie. Rose ended up with chocolate smeared over the entirety of her face, then fidgeted as Fleur moved to clean it up with a damp washcloth. Victoire engaged Hermione in her nigh-constant questions about magic and spells, eyes delighting at the idea that she’d be off to Beauxbatons in just a few short years. Both of their daughters were fiercely intelligent and remarkably gifted, even if it was difficult to tell with a child as young as Rose was. Hermione had every confidence that they’d be at the top of their classes no matter which school she attended, though she held out hope that at least one of them would go to Hogwarts. The school still held a special place in her heart, even after everything that had happened in her later years as a student there. She’d never have met Fleur if she hadn’t attended the Scottish school’s hallowed halls, nor Harry, Ginny, or any of the other friends who her children called aunts and uncles. Victoire was Beauxbatons bound she was sure, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world if Rose took a different path. Their Floo was on the international network by special concession of the Ministry, and it’d only take a few seconds for them to visit England if they so chose.
Yes, Hermione thought happily as she watched Rose attempt to flee from her mother’s scrubbing of her cheeks. One at Hogwarts would be lovely.
The bell rang high and bright, and Rose immediately quieted. The bell meant guests, and no one visited the cottage this early in the morning unless they’d been invited. Victoire looked over at her mothers in childish annoyance, head zipping between them faster than a hummingbird’s wings. There’d been a sinister plot, clearly. A Machiavellian scheme to surprise them on a balmy Saturday morning.
“Who’s here?” Victoire demanded, crossing her arms in front of her purple jumper.
Hermione put on her best confused expression. “I don’t know, darling, you’d have to ask your Mère.”
Victoire huffed, turning to Fleur. “What is the meaning of this?” She puffed up her shoulders and lifted her jaw, trying to match the same imperious intensity than she’d seen work so well for Aunt Andy and Aunt Cissa. The infamous Black scowl was rather less effective on a seven year-old, though Hermione imagined that Narcissa was intimidating before she was out of diapers. Victoire just didn’t have the brows for it.
Before Fleur could stop laughing enough to respond, the front door burst open, revealing a beaming Gabrielle, her mate and daughter in tow. Victoire was running towards her before the door settled, arms held out as she screamed out an unintelligible greeting. Gabrielle let out an equally indistinct warble in answer, bending down and opening her arms to greet her niece. They met in a chatter of excited voices, speaking French so quickly that even Hermione’s years of fluency had difficulty deciphering. A look over at Fleur’s pleasant incomprehension indicated that it wasn’t just her. Gabi and Victoire had a language all their own.
Adèle walked in behind her mate, chuckling softly at the animated display taking place in front of her. The Veela held three-year old Lise, who looked down at the scene unfolding in front of her with youthful consternation. The little blonde was even shier than Rose by nature; it’d taken close to two years before she’d let her Hermione hold her instead of her mother. Next to Hermione, Rose was in a similar state of reluctance, desire to greet Tante Gabi warring with her the wall of her sister’s bubbly affect. Hermione met Fleur’s amused gaze, sipping her tea as they waited for Gabi and Victoire to tucker themselves out. There wasn’t anything more to do, really. Once they started talking, it’d take an act of God to separate the two of them.
“Hello Adèle,” Hermione called from across the room, smiling warmly. “Hello Lise. Did you have a nice trip here?”
Lise nodded, looking up to her mother for support. “We took the Floo to the village center, and then we walked here. Mum carried me most of the way. She says that Maman gets too excited when she gets to see Victoire.”
“Hey!” Gabrielle said indignantly, standing up and dusting off her black pants. “There’s nothing wrong with being excited to see my niece!”
Fleur scoffed, something of the Ice Queen of her school years coming through in the sound. “You haven’t even said hello to me yet, Gabi. What are we, second best to Victoire?”
“Absolutely!” Gabi replied without missing a beat, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Only Rose can be saved from your boring little family.”
“Hey!” Fleur shouted in annoyance, but Victoire just giggled along at Tante Gabi’s antics. They were kindred spirits, Hermione thought with a warm smile. Two peas in a pod, paddlers in the same canoe. They’d begun to go on little adventures as Victoire got older, and it wouldn’t be long before the two of them were traveling the world together after Victoire’s graduation, breaking curses and uncovering lost magics of the ancient world. Nothing but the absolute best for her girl.
Hermione decided to throw some oil on the fire of Victoire’s hyperactive nature. Sighing in an exaggerated fashion, she looked over at Fleur and Rose with regret. “I guess we’ll just have to go do boring things with Adele and Lise.”
Fleur grinned wickedly, giving Hermione a quick peck on the cheek. It still warmed her heart and sent butterflies fluttering through her stomach, just as it had the very first time. “You’re right, little dove. I’m sure we can find something suitably low-energy to do at the zoo.”
Saying the ‘Z-word’ aloud in the Delacour household was like mentioning treats in front of a poorly behaved puppy. Instantly, Victoire and Rose perked up, eyes flashing to their mère in approbative confusion. Like a pair of bloodhounds who’d caught the scent of their quarry, the fixed keen stares on Fleur’s mirthful eyes, weighing the possibility that it was all some cruel trick to punish them for forgotten misbehavior. It wasn’t— Hermione would never have stood for punishing her darling girls in such a way— but the trepidation remained. The zoo was too magical not to hold jealously to your heart.
After a few moments of hushed consideration, Rose broke first, clapping her little hands as fast as she could manage: “Zoo! Zoo! I want to see the unicorns!” She wasn’t a particularly coordinated girl, having inherited more of Hermione’s physical prowess than Fleur’s Triwizard Champion genes, and her hands failed to connect on every clap as she babbled in delight. The display was utterly heart-melting.
“You were keeping secrets from us! I knew it!” Victoire declared, determined to get one more bout of still-far-from-teenage angst out before she surrendered to childhood euphoria.
“Yes, petal, but it’s a good surprise, no?” Fleur asked chidingly, her eyes swimming with mirth.
Victoire huffed, crossing her arms in front of her. “One day I’ll trick you, and we’ll see how you like it.”
Fleur snorted involuntarily, struggling to contain her laughter. “I’d like to see you try.”
“I’m sure I can do it if Tante Gabi helps me!” Hermione burst into a fit of giggles herself at the impetuous display. Her daughter was proud and more than a touch fiery, and Hermione loved her for it. But then, what child of Hermione Granger and Fleur Delacour wouldn’t be bold?
The zoo was crowded by the time they managed to get the children dressed and outfitted for a day out. Fleur assembled the ubiquitous day pack while Hermione lathered a layer of Muggle sunscreen onto her protesting girls’ faces. There were charms to resist the sun’s effects, but they were for beautification more than protection, and did a poor job of protecting against UV rays. Wizarding knowledge of science was still woefully inadequate, and it was a miracle that St. Mungo’s wasn’t packed to the gills with skin cancer patients at all hours of the day.
Gabi took Victoire and Rose while Adele held little Lise by the hand, racing through the crowds at speeds that only an aunt and her nieces could achieve. The zoo was more of a nature preserve than a proper Muggle zoo like the ones she’d loved as a child, and the magically expanded habitats that the preserve’s magical creatures resided in required a fair bit more physical activity to peruse than the cramped glass enclosures that she’d once pressed her face against in wonder.
The unicorn herd was Rose’s favorite by far, composed of a few individuals whose constant care requirements left them unable to live in the wild. Over time, the captive group had grown to eight members, and there was talk of allowing guided tours of children to meet the majestic creatures face to face. Rose would demand to attend such tours weekly if they happened, but Hermione couldn’t find it in herself to complain. Who was she to stand in the face of childhood curiosity?
Victoire preferred the wyvern exhibit, excitedly telling anyone who would listen that her mère had once defeated a full grown dragon. She was beginning to learn more about her Veela heritage from grandmère and great grandmère, and the thought of communing with the flying beasts appealed to her deep-seated avian heritage. It would be another eight to ten years before she developed Veela traits herself, but it didn’t stop her trying to dazzle Teddy at any opportunity, crowing about her ‘powerful Veela thrall’. Hermione snorted at the memory. She was going to be incorrigible when she got older.
Fleur held her hand as they walked without hurry along the stone paths of the preserve, content in each other’s company as hordes of excited children flowed past them. Hermione sighed in contentment as she leaned against Fleur’s shoulders, letting her eyes flicker closed as the midday sun softly kissed her skin. Between their girls and their busy careers, they rarely got time for themselves these days. Hermione wouldn’t have traded the life they’d built together for the world, and she had no desire to go back to the chaos and uncertainty of their first years together during the War, but she missed getting to spend lazy weekends together in the sun.
It’d get easier once Rose was off at school— whichever one she ending up deciding on— but that was still eight years away, to say nothing of the babysitting they were sure to be saddled with whenever their friends decided to have another little one. Gin and Tonks had been dancing around the issue for a year or two as Teddy went off to primary school, and Luna and Daphne were talking about finally settling down themselves. Harry and Draco seemed content with Lily, but she’d been asking for a little brother for years, and neither of them could ever deny the spoiled little monster anything. And then there were the people at the farther ends of their social circle: Josephine and Melanie, Neville and Susan, Ron and Lavender, George and Angelina, and Pansy and Celeste. They didn’t drop in every weekend like their closest friends did, but they were around every month or so, and Hermione just knew that they’d call her and Fleur up for their babysitting. Word had spread that they were ‘fantastic parents’ who ‘loved watching their nieces and nephews’, and it had firmly taken root amongst their friends. Hermione wasn’t quite sure if it was Andy or Cissa who’d started the rumor initially, but it had to have been one of them. They’d deftly sidestepped the burden of being everyone’s childless older relatives, and she couldn’t help but admire the Slythering ruthlessness of it.
Even if it left her cooking breaded chicken for tiny herds of children every Thursday.
After ten years of bonding, Fleur could sense her moods, and she gently chuckled in Hermione’s left ear. “Do you remember the first time we met?”
Hermione smirked. “You asked about the bouillabaisse, as I recall.”
“Not that time,” Fleur said playfully, gently nudging Hermione’s shoulder. “The first time we properly met, without a tableful of English people complaining about French cuisine between us.”
“You promised me an adventure,” Hermione whispered, falling ever deeper into the radiant warmth of Fleur. Bergamot and lavender filled her nose, safety and warmth wrapped up in a single scent, and tears formed at the corners of her eyes.
“It’s been quite an adventure, has it not? Before, and with our little miscreants.”
Hermione grinned broadly. “Between the two of them, I almost prefer dodging Death Eaters. At least in battle I stood some chance of keeping my shirts unstained.”
“You really must stop wearing nice clothes around toddlers, little dove.” Fleur teased.
“Easy for you to say, Miss I-Can-Fight-A-Dragon-in-Heels. Have you ever been dirty?”
Fleur leaned in to whisper into Hermione’s hair, obscuring her mouth in the chestnut curls so no passers-by could overhear her. “I’m afraid you leave me positively filthy, darling.”
Hermione went red as a tomato, stammering out a feeble admonishment as Fleur cackled loudly. A few passing families gave them odd looks, but her mate seemed not to care. Years of unwanted attention for her beauty had given the Veela skin thick enough to make a Hungarian Horntail nod in acknowledgment, and their stares meant nothing to her. She was young and gorgeous and alive, with her pretty little mate on her shoulder and their children bouncing along happily somewhere ahead of them. The world was a perfect place.
When Fleur finally quieted down and Hermione’s face returned to its natural shade of olive, she managed to steer the conversation towards something more productive and less likely to leave her gasping in embarrassment. “What shall we make for dinner tonight, my love? We’ll have twelve when our friends get here, four of them kids.”
Fleur shrugged noncommittally, looking radiant in her blue jumpsuit and floppy sun hat. “I was thinking of throwing a quick stew together, to use up some of the wine that my cousin gave us. Something with beef and onion, and some fresh bread for dipping.”
Hermione’s stomach growled at the idea: Fleur’s cooking was sublime, matched only by her grandmère Edith’s food amongst the extended Delacour clan. From an early age she’d learned to cook and bake, and Hermione had spent many happy afternoons sitting at the kitchen counter and watching her mate pull beauty from simple ingredients. House elves weren’t traditionally employed in Veela households, which left most of the cooking to the two of them. Victoire helped where she could, and as soon as Rose was old enough to be trusted with simple kitchen tasks they’d cook together as a family, just as Fleur and Gabi once did with their parents.
“I thought your cousin’s wine was swill?” Hermione asked.
“Most of it is, but there are a few salvageable bottles. Besides, the braising will take the body out of it anyway, so there’s no sense using a good bottle.”
Hermione couldn’t argue there. Among the many things she loved about living in Provence was the abundance of cheap, spectacular wine. “Perfect. I’ll send a Patronus to Gin and let her know to come by around six or so?”
Fleur gasped dramatically, holding a hand over her heart. “Six? That’s only a few hours away, do you take me for a miracle worker?”
“I take you as someone who has enough magic in their little finger to cook the entire meal in half an hour, if she didn’t insist on giving the flavors time to meld,” Hermione shot back.
“Mmm. How else do you take me?”
“Fleur!”
They eventually extricated themselves from the nature preserve in the early afternoon, bringing Gabi and her family back with them through the Floo as they did. Rose was sporting an utterly adorable iridescent wooden unicorn horn atop her head, and Victoire had talked Adèle into buying her a smorgasbord of sweets and candies. With only minor admonishment from Hermione about saving room for dinner, she sent them off with Gabi to look for something to do in the garden. Lise had grown accustomed to Rose during their time at the zoo, and the two of them toddled off through the gardens behind the older Delcaours, engaged in a whispered conversation about unicorns and whether they might get to pet them on their next trip. The little pair looked back at their parents conspiratorially every now and then, as if they were being careful not to reveal their secrets. Unicorns were important business, it seemed, and not to be trifled with by outsiders.
Hermione and Adèle were catching up over a glass of wine— it’d been too long since they’d talked, and her work with the Ministère on centaur migration rights in the twenty first century was fascinating stuff— when a Patronus came bouncing in from the open window above Fleur’s kitchen workstation. Hermione would’ve recognized Ginny’s ethereal hare anywhere, but the beleaguered voice that issued from the little creature when it opened its mouth left no doubt.
“Wotcher, Hermione, hope you’re well. Looking forward to seeing you and Fleur tonight. Ow, would you stop that?” Hermione chuckled as the hare diligently played back its caster’s voice, down to the last frustrated grunt. “Anyhoo, meant to tell you earlier, but we ran into Luna and Daphne down the shops today, and we might’ve mentioned that we were going to dinner at your place tonight. They promised to bring a bottle of wine and an appetizer, and it’s been too long since we— Oi! Theodore Arthur Tonks! Quit poking me, for Godric’s sake, or I’ll have Dora Metamorph you into a piglet and keep you there.”
A series of oinks and snuffling snorts came through the Patronus, and Hermione looked up at Fleur with an amused expression on her face. Teddy was more of a terror than Victoire was, and he delighted in twisting his mother’s arm.
“I’ll have to double the recipe,” Fleur muttered under her breath, blonde hair tied back into an elegant bun. She wore the apron that Rose and Victoire had painted for her as a birthday present the year before. It read ‘#1 Mère’ in a child’s crude scrawl.
The hare began to speak again, having apparently recorded half a minute of Teddy’s antics. “Right, where was I. Oh yeah! Dora was having tea with her Mom and her aunt Cissa earlier, and she may’ve mentioned that you were having a dinner party as well. Andy’s bringing a dessert, and Cissa promises not to offer to redecorate your dining room again. Also, I may have been chatting with George earlier, and I accidentally let slip that we—”
“Better triple the recipe, love,” Hermione jibed at an exasperated looking Fleur, who stood behind the wooden counter and shook her head.
“Honestly, what is it with you English and inviting yourselves over to my house for dinner? I should start charging for a tasting menu at this rate.” Fleur said, pouting adorably as her wand directed another heavy-bottomed pot onto the stove.
Hermione blew her mate a kiss and shot her a wink. “All those years ago you complained that no one at Hogwarts appreciated French cooking. Guess you finally got your wish!”
Fleur grumbled something about ‘shit timing’ and how the English ‘never knew a good thing when they had it’ as she summoned forth another pot’s worth of ingredients from their enchanted ice box. Marbled beef was cubed and seared in the enameled iron pot, then onions, celery, garlic, and bacon were added to provide an aromatic base for the stew. Red wine to deglaze, thyme and rosemary from the garden for depth of flavor, and a few cloves to give it all a little punch. Fleur’s wand moved like a conductor’s baton, simultaneously directing four different tasks for two different pots of stew while a pair of ethereal hands kneaded out the dough for the bread. Her mate was a phenom in the kitchen, just as she’d been in battle, and not one hair fell out of place as she feverishly set about composing the meal.
Hermione was always grateful for magic, but never was she more grateful than when they had to organize a dinner party for nineteen people with a few scant hours’ notice. Fleur’s epicurean enchantments allowed the bread to rise inordinately quickly as the beef quickly took on a richness and subtlety that the best Muggle chefs would have spent untold hours striving for. For her part, she set about the task of enlarging the dining room, stretching out their long wooden table and the glass-walled room around it to add seating for seven uninvited guests. Geminio charms duplicated pitchers, plates, and serving bowls, and she conjured up a few floating lanterns to give the place a homey late-spring air. It wouldn’t get dark for a few hours, which left plenty of time for weekend drinking and idle conversation on the back patio or the garden. Hermione briefly considering extending out the living room to offer more seating before thinking better of it. It wasn’t fair to the house to ask it to stretch unnecessarily: the old girl was too dignified to stretch her bones when she didn’t need to.
She’d just finished putting some final touches on the dining room décor when their fireplace flashed green, startling Adèle as she sat by the counter. A moment later, a head of scruffy brown hair stuck through the flames, glasses eternally askew. “Hi Hermione, Fleur, mind if we come through? I know it’s a bit early but—”
“Come on in, ‘Arry,” Fleur called from her perch by the stove, her English still remarkably accented after all these years. In her defense, they only spoke the language around Hermione’s parents and her school friends, and to give Rose and Victoire a solid grounding in the language for the future. Hermione had long since switched entirely over to French herself.
“Brilliant,” Harry replied with a rambunctious grin, stepping through into their living room and dusting himself off. He gave Adèle a polite nod as he noticed her, inquiring about her work and how Lise was doing, before the Floo flashed green again.
Draco had radically changed since their youth, and so much for the better. The slight blonde seemed to have a smile behind his trademark sullen features, and his suit jacket was a scuffed-looking tweed number with threads hanging off the sleeves. Hermione wouldn’t have taken him for a Hogwarts professor just a few years ago, but he’d settled into Snape’s old role in Potions like a duck rediscovering water.
Six-year old Lily came with him, clinging to his pants as they traveled before quickly disengaging herself once the fright of it all was out of the way. She had Harry’s brown hair and green eyes with Draco’s aquiline features, and an utterly coddled sort of brilliance that must’ve come from both of her grandmothers, if they’d lived in happier times. “Where’s Victoire?” She said breathlessly as she dusted her pink shirt and Muggle jeans off.
“Back garden, with her Tante Gabi,” Hermione replied, shooting Draco a teasing look. The little brunette went off like a rocket towards the back door, yelling about how Victoire still owed her a pack of licorice whips as a result of some childish bet they’d made.
“Apologies for her not greeting you, Hermione,” Draco said sheepishly. “She’s been moaning on about that wager of theirs since last week.”
Hermione waved a hand in forgiveness. “Don’t worry about it Draco. I know being a right prat as a kid runs in the family.”
“That it does,” Harry teased, elbowing his husband gamely in the ribs.
“Oh, before I forget, your mother and your aunt are coming for dinner. Ginny went and invited them, as well as Luna, Daph, George, and Angie.” Hermione rooted through the cabinets, looking for sparkling wine glasses for an aperitif.
Draco’s face went white. “We’ve not visited in a while. She’s going to bloody murder me.”
Fleur pointed a spoon at him menacingly. “If she’s going to kill you, make sure it’s not on my carpet. Just ‘ad it cleaned.”
A round of chuckles went around the room as the Floo lit up once more. The spitting image of Victoire trundled out of it, rambling excitedly about getting to see his friends. Hermione didn’t even have time to direct him before Teddy shot off towards the back porch, face melding into the pink Mohawk he’d started miming after seeing one of Dora’s old school photos.
Gin and Dora stepped through a moment later, ceviche and prosecco in hand as mollifying gifts for the tiger whose den they’d invited seven other people into. Fleur summoned them without a word, giving Ginny a steely glare that promised a thorough reprimand after she’d finished with dinner. Hugs were exchanged as they greeted their friends, even a rather awkward one between Ginny and Adèle. Their continued attempts at civility never ceased to amuse her.
In a matter of minutes, their living room was soon full of people as their other guests arrived in rapid succession. Andy and Cissa went after their respective children, browbeating them about lack of visits and fussing over their grandchildren. Teddy and Lily were both terrors in their respective ways, and they took after their grandmothers to an alarming extent when you squinted. Teddy had Andy’s free spirit, Lily had Cissa’s Machiavellian cunning. The kids made a game of hiding from their grandmothers’ affections with Victoire whenever they were at the Delacour house, an activity that Gabi never failed to aid and abet.
Luna and Daphne brought ‘wine’ which was actually shimmering fairywine of dubious provenance and a handle of firewhiskey. Hermione would never have expected friendship and eventual love to blossom between the two of them, but Daphne’s vanity and self-aggrandizement somehow never clouded Luna’s whimsical nature, and Luna’s eccentricity never bothered Daphne as it did nearly everyone else. They’d been back in England for a few months after years of travelling across the world— Luna searching for new creatures as a magizoologist, Daphne reporting on events throughout the Wizarding World for the Prophet and a dozen other better-regarded newspapers— and it seemed like they might stay put. Hermione hoped they would; Daphne was the only person in the world besides Cissa who could match Fleur for self-promotion.
George and Angelina were less frequent attendees at their Saturday suppers than the others, but they settled into things seamlessly as soon as they arrived. Angie loved to talk Quidditch with Gin and Harry: she’d played with Gin for the Harpies for a few years before a nasty bludger accident sent her to St. Mungo’s for a few months, and she lived vicariously through the star Hollyhead chaser.
George stayed in the house just long enough to say hello to everyone and reintroduce Hermione to four-year old Bianca before he ran off in search of Gabi, his ‘only partner in mischief amongst these insufferable adults’, leaving Bianca with Hermione. The poor girl seemed rather overwhelmed by it all, hiding her untamable nest of red hair behind Hermione as a dozen strangers she didn’t know well talked around her about things she was too young to understand or care about.
Hermione was doing her best to put the girl at ease when Rose and Lise trundled up to them, having apparently decided that it was too loud outside for talk of unicorns, and that the playroom was a much better place for such important discussions. Spying Bianca with Hermione, Rose approached the older girl with a serious expression on her scrunched-up little face, blue eyes appraising her solemnly.
“What’s your name?” Rose asked. Bianca looked at her in confusion— her parents hadn’t gotten around to teaching her French.
“Can you try English, little flower?” Hermione asked gently.
Rose looked aggrieved, but she made an effort at it nonetheless. “’Ello, my name is Rose. What is your name?”
“Bianca,” said the other girl, not quite sure what to make of Rose’s serious manner.
Rose nodded in acknowledgment, cheeks wobbling slightly. “Do you like unicorns?”
“Yes, I like unicorns,” Bianca replied.
Rose offered the girl her free hand, smiling brightly before quickly remembering that she was meant to be serious. “Lise and I are going to go talk about unicorns if you want to come too.”
Bianca took the extended hand, smiling bashfully at Rose as she was led away towards the playroom, trying her best to understand Rose’s accented English. Victoire was a natural, but Rose still struggled with learning the finer points of pronunciation. She’d have to work at it if Hogwarts was in her future.
Soon enough Fleur called out that dinner was ready, prompting a rush of people to the long table in the dining room. Fresh baked bread and braising meat filled the air with tantalizing aromas, and wine flowed like rainwater as they fell back into their usual conversations. It was always nice to get everyone together, even if it was rather stressful. Hermione wouldn’t have changed the smiling faces and easy laughter she’d surrounded herself with for anything in the world.
A few hours later they stood outside in the garden watching some fireworks that George had brought through the floo, Fleur’s arms wrapped around Hermione’s waist as the night sky bloomed with pink unicorns and roaring blue dragons. The children had assembled into a single gaggle, following Victoire like some sort of diminutive general as she led them in catching the animated sparks that fluttered through the cool evening air. An impromptu game of Quidditch had been organized for the following day, with Ginny and Angelina captaining a motley crew of their friends and loved ones. Even Fleur had agreed to play, despite her snooty assertion that Beauxbatons’ team would have wiped the floor with any of the Hogwarts Houses. Hermione didn’t doubt it. She’d seen Fleur fly, and it was nothing less than awe-inspiring.
Fleur’s head rested on her shoulder, warm breath gliding across Hermione’s cheek. Her hands had found a comfortable resting point just far enough from Hermione’s breasts to be child-appropriate, and their breathing synchronized as they watched the world go by.
“It’s not such a bad life, is it?” Fleur asked quietly, chuckling as the gang of children ran towards the garden shed to grab buckets and rakes for their spark collecting efforts.
“Not a bad life at all,” Hermione agreed, smiling widely, “you did promise me an adventure, after all.”
“That I did,” Fleur said, squeezing Hermione tightly around her waist. “Could you stand to go on another adventure or two with me, before we’re old and grey?”
“I may go grey, but you’ll be blonde in your grave, my swan,” Hermione chided teasingly. “But yes, I’ll always agree to another adventure with you. I hope they never end.”
Fleur hummed, nuzzling Hermione’s neck as a spectral griffin split the umber sky. “They never will, my dove. I promise.”
They stood in velvet contemplation for a few minutes, listening to the rustle of the breeze through the willow trees and the laughter of children in the air. The stew had been devoured, as had the bread, and there was washing up to do, even if it was still by magic. Their friends would corral their rambunctious children soon enough, luring them towards bedtime with the promise that they’d see their friends tomorrow for Quidditch and a late lunch. All was right with the world, and all would be right with the world to come. They’d reached the summit of the mountain, and nothing remained but to look back at the path of their ascent and marvel at their accomplishment.
Fleur’s voice broke the peaceful contemplation. “We should have another, don’t you think? Now that Rose is old enough to take care of herself.”
Hermione turned her head to look into Fleur’s eyes, falling into those baby blue depths all over again. Ten years, two children, a war. Fights and makeups, long walks by the lake and romantic dinners by the seaside. Friends who’d become family, family who’d become dear friends. She’d never have dreamed of anything more when she sat at her place at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, wondering why none of her friends would try the bouillabaisse.
“For you, my darling, I’d go another little adventure.”