Chapter 1: The Bathhouse Incident
The first thing Fleur noticed, even before she’d fully descended the grand staircase, was the smell. It wasn’t unpleasant, not exactly. It was thick, sweet, and musky, cutting through the usual scents of polished wood and enchanted hearth-fire. It was the smell of sex, of spent magic, of her. It clung to the heavy air of the living room like a persistent fog.
Her bare feet made no sound on the cold marble floor as she paused in the arched doorway. The scene before her was, by now, disconcertingly familiar. Yet a fresh wave of something—embarrassment, irritation, a sharp, unnameable ache—tightened in her chest.
The great room was a study in opulent disarray. Empty wine glasses sat precariously on the edge of a mahogany table. A silk shawl was draped over the head of a marble bust. And in the center of it all, on a sumptuous rug the color of old blood, lay the core of her current domestic chaos.
Hermione Granger was sprawled on her back, one arm flung wide, her bushy hair a wild corona around her head. She was deeply asleep, her lips slightly parted. And there, resting heavily against her own thigh, was the reason for everything. Fleur’s eyes couldn’t help but trace its length, from the base nestled in a patch of curls, down the thick, veined shaft, to where the flushed tip nearly touched her own knee. Even soft and spent, it was… formidable.
Curled into Hermione’s left side, like a contented cat, was her mother, Apolline. At forty-three, with her Veela grace, she could have passed for Fleur’s older sister. Her long silver hair was fanned across Hermione’s stomach, strands of it glued together with sticky, pearlescent streaks. One elegant hand rested possessively on Hermione’s hip. Her naked body was lush, serene, and her stomach, Fleur noted with a clinical detachment she didn’t feel, was distinctly rounded, taut with a profound fullness.
On Hermione’s right was Gabrielle, her younger sister. At eighteen, she looked even more childlike in sleep, her blonde hair messy, a smile touching her lips. She had one leg thrown over Hermione’s, her own abdomen showing a softer but similar bloating. More of the evidence shimmered in her hair, on her chin.
Fleur leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. She’d lost count of how many times she’d found some variation of this tableau over the past few weeks. It had started as a holiday visit, a thank-you for war-time kindnesses. Then her mother, with that predatory, appreciative glint in her eye, had discovered Hermione’s… unique trait. One conversation over too much elf-made wine had led to another, and then Gabrielle, with her boundless, curious energy, had walked in on something she shouldn’t have. Instead of being scandalized, she’d been fascinated.
A log shifted in the fireplace with a soft crump, sending a shower of sparks upward. Hermione stirred, a low groan escaping her. Her brow furrowed, and her eyes fluttered open. They, still clouded with sleep, landed on Fleur. Instant panic cleared the haze.
“Fleur!” Hermione croaked, trying to sit up. The movement jostled Apolline, who murmured and tightened her grip, and caused Hermione’s own considerable flesh to bob awkwardly against her leg. Hermione flushed a deep, mortified crimson and fell back against the rug, throwing an arm over her eyes. “Oh, god.”
“Bonjour,” Fleur said, her voice flat.
“It’s not… This isn’t…” Hermione stammered, arm still over her face.
“It rather is,” Fleur interrupted, pushing off from the doorframe and walking into the room. She picked up an empty glass from the table, sniffed it. “Mother’s best claret. I see you were celebrating.”
“She kept pouring,” Hermione mumbled from behind her arm. “And Gabrielle… she has questions. So many questions.”
“I imagine she does.” Fleur’s gaze swept over her sister’s blissful face. “She is a quick study, no?”
Hermione peeked out from under her elbow. Her expression was a pitiable mix of hangover dread and social horror. “Fleur, I am so sorry. I never meant for… This is your family.”
“Do not apologize to me,” Fleur said, not unkindly. She knelt, avoiding a damp patch on the rug, and found Hermione’s discarded shirt. She tossed it onto her chest. “Apologize to yourself. You look like you were tackled by a Romanian Longhorn.”
A low, throaty laugh came from Apolline. She stretched, a slow, sinuous movement that emphasized every curve, and opened her silver-flecked eyes. They found Fleur immediately, gleaming with amused defiance. “Do not scold her, ma chérie. She was magnificent.” Apolline turned her head, nuzzling Hermione’s side and placing a soft kiss on her skin. “Were you not, ma belle?”
Hermanie whimpered, pulling the shirt over her face.
“Mother,” Fleur sighed. “Must you?”
“Must I what?” Apolline propped herself up on one elbow, completely unselfconscious. “Enjoy the company of a brilliant, powerful, and exceptionally gifted young witch?” Her eyes drifted down Hermione’s body with frank appreciation. “The Weasley boy was a fool. Such a waste.”
Gabrielle stirred then, blinking sleepily. Her eyes focused on Hermione, and a sunny, utterly guileless smile spread across her face. “You’re still here,” she mumbled, her voice husky with sleep. She wriggled closer, her hand sliding down to curl around Hermione’s thick thigh, just inches from the root of her cock. “I dreamed you’d left.”
Fleur watched, a strange tightness in her throat, as Hermione slowly lowered the shirt from her face. She looked at Gabrielle’s trusting, adoring expression, then at Apolline’s smoldering pride, then finally at Fleur’s resigned stance. The panic in her eyes softened into a bewildered, overwhelmed acceptance.
“I’m… I’m still here,” Hermione said softly, her voice rough.
Gabrielle’s smile widened. She shifted, pushing herself up to whisper something in Hermione’s ear, her eyes darting quickly to the heavy, soft weight lying against Hermione’s leg. Her question was audible only as a breath, but Fleur saw the shudder it sent through Hermione, saw the way her body tensed and then relaxed, yielding.
Apolline saw it too, and her smile turned victorious. She caught Fleur’s eye over the tangled bodies of her daughter and their guest, and she gave a slow, knowing wink. The message was clear: this was the new order of things.
Fleur stood, feeling suddenly like a ghost in her own home. The fire popped. Gabrielle giggled softly, her hand moving in a small, exploratory stroke. Hermione closed her eyes, a muscle ticking in her jaw.
Without another word, Fleur turned and walked back toward the staircase. The thick, sweet air of the room seemed to cling to her robes. Behind her, she heard her mother’s low, encouraging murmur, and the beginning of a soft, familiar wet sound.
She climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. The trouble wasn’t that it was happening. The trouble, she realized with a sinking clarity, was the part of her that was starting to wish she hadn’t walked away.