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The rhythm of Fleur undressing was as familiar to Tonks as her own heartbeat: the clink of earrings on the vanity, dabbing of makeup remover, silky rustling as Fleur removed her stilettos.
“Want a foot rub, love? Those bloody things always give you blisters. I’ve no idea why you subject yourself to it,” Tonks said. She’d already completed her own evening routine: changing, cleaning her teeth, and flopping into bed.
“You know how Gringotts galas are; I wanted to look my best. Not even part-veela can change our appearance with no effort whatsoever, unlike some people.” Fleur tutted archly and turned so her wife could unfasten her gown, a slinky emerald number with a slit.
“My gift is wasted on me,” Tonks agreed, fumbling with the corsetry. Her fingers lingered over the scars criss-crossing Fleur’s back, curse-wounds from the Battle of Hogwarts. She kissed the nape of Fleur’s neck. Fleur whimpered.
“That massage offer still stands, y’know, and not just for your feet.” Tonks slipped one hand beneath the silk and stroked Fleur’s thigh. Her other hand was trapped in the tangle she’d made of the ribbons.
“Oh, sod it.” Fleur giggled and jumped onto the bed, dress and all.