They left Honeydukes with a bag of sweets in hand, the paper rustling with every step as they threaded through the crowded street. The air was thick with the hum of chatter and the sweet, warm smell of caramel. Ahead, the sign of the Three Broomsticks swung gently in the wind, its painted broom bristles creaking like a sleepy clock.
Through the frosted windows Eira caught familiar faces. Harry sat at a corner table beside Hermione, their heads bent together in earnest conversation. Beside them, a dark-haired man lounged with the wary ease of someone who did not belong to the ordinary bustle; Sirius Black. For a heartbeat Eira slowed, taking them in, then felt Fleur's hand clamp around her sleeve and tug her firmly onward, chin tilted as if the world were a thing to be owned.
"Do not stare," Fleur muttered, voice low and sharp.
"I was not staring," Eira replied, teasingly innocent.
"You were looking," Fleur insisted, narrowing her eyes then, after a pause, adding in that small, pointed way she reserved for things that mattered, "That Hermione. She spends too much time with you. Always running at your side."
Eira blinked, then let a slow, mischievous smile spread. "Jealous?"
Fleur's toss of hair was defiant. "Perhaps."
Eira's smile widened in exactly the way that made Fleur's pulse quicken. She let her voice soften into affectionate mischief. "Hermione is my friend, yes. A very good friend. And you know what? She has changed. Remember those big front teeth you used to make me notice in every conversation about her? They have settled, they look perfect now. When she smiles—" Eira leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice as if delivering forbidden news "—when she smiles, she is beautiful. Truly beautiful. She glows, Fleur. It is quite… distracting."
A little, involuntary twitch at the corner of Fleur's mouth betrayed her. Her hand tightened on Eira's sleeve. "You are cruel," she said, but her voice had a tremor that made it sound almost tender. "You flatter her to make me suffer."
Eira feigned a look of horror. "Me? Flatter? Never. I only speak the truth. If anything, I warn you. Do not let her brightness steal my attention, mon amour."
Fleur's eyes flashed. A jealous heat colored her words, sharp but deliciously playful. "Brightness? She is only a bookworm with unladylike curiosity. She smells of library ink and old parchment. She has no sense of style. No—" She paused, searching, then shot the next line like a blade softened with honey, "—and those smiles are awkward, all teeth and earnestness. Not at all like yours."
Eira laughed, the sound warm and amused. "Awkward? Hermione? She is as earnest as the sunrise. If you annoy her, she will scold you with facts until you are too sensible to be jealous."
Fleur's mouth twisted into a half smile, half snarl. "Then I will simply make sure you have no time for facts. I will monopolize you."
"You are taking a terrible tone," Eira teased, slipping her arm around Fleur's waist so casually that Fleur's protest melted into heat. "You sound like a general."
"A general who does not like to share her spoils," Fleur said, voice softening into something dangerously possessive. "I do not like sharing my things with anyone."
Eira paused, eyes bright with humor and a pinch of mock affront. "So you think of me as a thing, then? An item on your list of spoils?"
Fleur closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, pressing so close Eira could feel the warm cadence of her breath. Her voice dropped to a whisper, urgent and almost frantic with love. "You are not a thing," she breathed into Eira's ear, so close the words trembled. "You are my thing. You are my woman, my girl, my everything. Whatever you are, you are mine. I do not like sharing what is mine."
The possessiveness was breathless, obsessive in its tenderness, and it washed over Eira like heat. Her cheeks warmed; a bright, involuntary blush spread beneath her skin. She caught Fleur's hand and held it as if anchoring herself, laughing softly so she would not betray how deep the quick of her chest had become.
"Mine," Eira echoed, softer than she meant it to be. The word felt like a promise and a key at once, and for a few steps they walked on, the bag of sweets forgotten, the crowded street passing by like a blur around the small, private gravity of the two of them.
Eventually, they made their way to Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. The bell chimed as they entered, and Fleur wrinkled her nose at once. The interior was overly warm, decorated with frilly lace curtains and tiny, heart-shaped ornaments dangling from the ceiling. Every table seemed occupied by couples leaning close together, whispering or kissing.
"Saccharine," Fleur muttered under her breath. But she allowed herself to be led to a small table by the window.
They settled into their seats, and Fleur leaned across the table, her chin resting on her hands as she gazed at Eira with shameless affection. "At least I have you here with me."
Eira shook her head, amused, as the waitress arrived. They ordered tea—mango, at Fleur's insistence—and a plate of delicate cakes drizzled with fruit syrup.
The tea came steaming hot, fragrant and sweet, and Fleur's eyes lit up at the first sip. "Enfin, something decent in this country."
Eira laughed softly, and as Fleur reached across the table to brush a crumb from her lips, the moment stretched. The noise of the shop faded around them, the warmth of the fire and the soft golden light enclosing them in their own little world.
Fleur leaned in, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving Eira's. "Mon amour," she whispered, and then their lips met. The kiss was tender at first, almost shy, but Fleur pressed closer, her hand brushing against Eira's cheek. Eira allowed herself to melt into it, savoring the sweetness of the moment, the warmth that blossomed in her chest.
When they finally pulled apart, Fleur's smile was radiant. "Worth every minute of sucking those beautiful lips," she murmured.
They lingered over their tea, the cozy, rose-lit air of Madam Puddifoot's wrapping around them like a soft quilt. Heart-shaped confetti charmed to drift lazily above the tables occasionally landed in Eira's hair, which Fleur took secret delight in brushing away with delicate fingers. The little round table between them was crowded now, not just with the pastel china cups but with plates of food they had ordered for lunch.
Eira had chosen a warm beef and onion pie, the crust golden and flaky, with a side of roasted carrots sweetened with honey. Fleur, ever particular, ordered a light salad tossed with candied walnuts and pear, but let herself be tempted by a plate of little strawberry tarts that she insisted on sharing with Eira. They both sipped steaming mugs of spiced tea, the cinnamon and clove rising in fragrant curls.
They ate slowly, savoring the food as much as the chance to be tucked away from the noise of the High Street. Conversation wound itself easily between them, meandering like a lazy stream. Fleur teased Eira about the way she always dissected her pie crust first, while Eira made a game of stealing forkfuls from Fleur's plate, grinning each time Fleur gasped in mock offense.
When the food dwindled, they lingered still, hands brushing over the table. Their talk drifted from classes and professors to the tension of the Triwizard Tournament.
At last, Eira rose, her expression carrying that familiar touch of mystery that always seemed to soften Fleur's heart. Extending her hand, she smiled, her voice quiet but laced with warmth.
"Come," she said softly. "I want to show you something. A surprise."
Fleur's eyes lit with curiosity. "A surprise? Tell me."
"No," Eira replied, shaking her head. "You will see soon enough."
Fleur pouted but allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, her fingers entwined with Eira's as they stepped back out into the crisp November air.