Hermione’s eyes sprang open and she sat up in bed. She was sticky with sweat, her breathing heavy as though she had a nightmare. She couldn’t remember anything. Her room was deadly quiet. Her eyes were adjusting to the lack of light, but she could tell it was sometime in the early morning hours. She heard a movement in the corner, and even amongst the greyscale, she knew who it was. The bright blonde hair was like a beacon, and it was moving towards her.
“Fleur,” she said, “How…? What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice raspy with sleep.
She was so close now. Hermione hadn’t seen her in five years. This couldn’t be real. She looked the same, somehow. Just as she remembered her. The blonde reached forward, and she felt the soft pad of her fingertips trace over her jaw.
“I missed you, ‘Ermione,” her voice was low, angelic.
“How long can you stay?” she asked, shifting to her knees to get closer. She didn’t want to think about her leaving now. Not again. She needed her to stay.
“I don’t know,” she replied sadly, her finger now ghosting over Hermione’s bottom lip.
“Please. Please stay,” the brunette whispered, begging, and she pulled her into bed.
The veela fit against her so perfectly, she always had. They moved and swayed. Hermione pulled off her clothes reverently, watching in awe as her skin glowed in the dark room. She put her tongue to her, tasting her again. She kissed her neck and bit on that spot that she always used to like. Fleur’s hands twisted in her hair and she brought Hermione’s mouth to hers.
She sighed against her tongue and held her breath and hurried hands pulled and pushed against her flesh. The blonde was impatient now. She pushed her backwards and her head hit the pillows as Fleur reclaimed her, biting and marking her as she made her way down her body.
This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. Hermione felt a familiar tongue against her though and she could remember everything again. Every kiss they shared. Every laugh. Every time they made love. Years later, and nothing had changed. She would always know her. She would always have her.
Fleur circled her with a light tongue as two fingers slid inside of her, filling her again. She didn’t realise how empty she really had been. Her hand reached for her hair, revelling in its softness. Fingers moved inside of her and played her body like it was meant for her. You are meant for me. Her heart was pounding as fire built in her abdomen, but she didn’t want that yet. She didn’t want it to be over. It was too quick.
“No,” she cried, but it was too late, and Fleur flicked her tongue against her one more time before her back arched and her body shuddered, and she unwound for her with a drawn-out moan, stars igniting like fireworks on the back of her eyelids.
“I love you, ‘Ermione,” she heard softly in the dark before the pressure was gone.
When she opened her eyes, she was alone again. Hermione couldn’t cry. She had already cried so much, but this time it felt so real. She tried to move, but even that was hard. The minutes meant nothing. The light streamed in slowly as morning crept in, and she wished she were anywhere else. She wished she was with her, wherever that might be. She wished she’d asked where that was now. She should have said more. Should have told her she loved her too. The brunette looked over to the photo of them dancing at their wedding together by her bedside table, and the award of valour next to it addressed to her late wife.
She couldn’t do this again. It wasn’t real.