She hadn't meant to fall in love. She hadn't even meant to look at the younger woman with the silvery white hair. Vernon had left her and she'd taken a holiday in France to get over it.
Here, anything seemed to go, so when the woman smiled at her, making her entire body tingle, Petunia did something she'd never planned, never thought of doing.
She spent a night in her hotel room, kissing the first person she'd felt anything for, felt a connection with.
Vernon had been safe. He had been a muggle, beefy, the kind of man she'd always thought a girl was supposed to love.
This woman, her pale skin, paler hair, her laugh of silvery moonlight. She was everything Petunia had ever dreamed of. Her name, Fleur, French for flower and Petunia knew it was only fitting, that maybe this was fate, or at least, the cure for her broken heart.