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“I wish I were a bird,” Fleur says, her gaze following the gulls as they dive into the sea, their cries drowned out by the crashing of waves.
“Can a Veela become an animagus?” Hermione asks. Her hands—still prone to shaking with the aftereffects of the Unforgiveable curse—are busy shredding dune grass into long, thin strips.
An answering shrug tells Hermione she asked the wrong question.
In a lull between waves, she tries again. “Why a bird?”
“I could watch over you then and you wouldn’t be able to stop me.”
“I could apparate,” Hermione challenges. Despite loving intellectual discussions with Fleur, this one feels forced.
“I am a magical creature, so I’d be a magical bird. I’d follow.” Fleur says with such finality that Hermione wonders if such birds already exist.
“What if I just stayed here?” Hermione whispers, voice barely heard over the waves though Fleur sits close enough that their thighs nearly touch.
They gaze at each other, longing and hope stretched taut between them.
Fleur’s tongue darts across her bottom lip as she opens her mouth to speak then closes it. A beat passes before she manages to ask, “Would you?”
Glancing away, Hermione takes in the ruin of shredded grass in her lap, feeling something break inside. “I want to.”
Silence falls as the world holds its breath, waiting for more to be said. Nothing comes.
Eyes back on the gulls, Fleur says again, “I wish I were a bird.”