Full summary: The traumas of war left her emotionally distant. Hoping to recover, Hermione returns to Hogwarts almost two years later to finish her final year. However, things become complicated as she realizes that the skeletons she had buried so deep in her closet begin to resurface in the form of a young, blooming Frenchwoman.
Note: Most events are kept canon, except for Fleur's involvement post GoF.
Note 1.5: I won't use the French dialect that JK Rowling uses for Fleur because I feel like its a kind of marker that Fleur was egotistical and arrogant, an outsider.
Note 2: I am from America. I speak the Americanese. However, I have done substantial amounts of research on how the English-English speak and I hopefully do not make anyone across the pond facepalm. Wouldn't mind it a bloody bit if anyone calls me out if i used the wrong speech pattern/syntax.
Dedicated to my dearly beloved Haylee and all the readers out there taking the time to read this.
Please enjoy. :)
Chapter 1: Saturdays
Saturday. January 15th, 1996
It was a particularly cold evening when she stumbled upon Fleur near the Black Lake.
She saw Fleur first, bent over the calm icy water, wand in hand. Concentrating, Fleur whispered a spell while flicking her wrist. At first, Hermione thought that whatever spell the woman had cast did not work, which filled her with a budding amount of glee. If only the boys could see their beloved Fleur, one of the heralded champions in this year's Triwizard Tournament, fail at spellcasting. The thought made her smirk.
Only, the smirk dwindled as she heard the water hiss, congeal and then freeze. Fleur's spell worked, she thought begrudgingly.
"Mademoiselle Granger," spoke Fleur. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
Hermione swallowed her surprise and responded, "I was on my way back to the castle when I noticed you." Inwardly, she wondered how Fleur knew her name.
Fleur's eyebrow lifted slightly as she stood up, wand still pointing at the lake's freezing surface, "You are curious, oui?"
"No." It came out rushed, defensive, "I'll be on my way back to the castle now."
"Non, Mademoiselle Granger, you are welcome to stay and watch." A triumphant smile spread across Fleur's face, "I could use some company."
Hermione's foot, the one that had just moved to put distance between her and the Frenchwoman stilled then set firmly back onto the ground. She wasn't sure why, perhaps it was because the golden egg, retrieved by each champion from the First Task, sat a few feet away from Fleur. It wouldn't hurt to talk to Fleur about it, as Harry had yet to understand its screaming.
Perhaps, she was curious.
She couldn't pinpoint why she stayed. Later, on the long walk back to Hogwarts, she would blame it on the batting eyelashes. And much later, she would admit that she stayed because she wanted to.
"I do not," Fleur paused, thinking. "How do you English say it...I will not maul you if you come closer."
Hermione stifled a laugh. She could not laugh with Fleur. Not with someone she voiced so loudly and negatively about in the Gryffindor commons.
"Bite. I do not bite," she corrected.
"Oui, oui, I do not bite," Fleur chastised, waving at Hermione. "Come closer."
She cautiously approached, wary of Fleur's sudden warmth. She was different than the woman that had laughed during Dumbledore's speech in the Great Hall. Different than the woman that deemed Harry "a boy" too young for the tournament. Where was the bravado, she wondered as she stopped an arm's length away from Fleur.
"Why are you freezing the water?" Hermione asked bluntly.
"So I can walk on it." Her answer was simple."In Beauxbaton, we do not have a lake or any large bodies of water. It does not get as cold there, so it would take several witches to freeze any fountain so we may play on it. Besides, we are not allowed to do such barbaric things."
At that, Fleur stepped onto the ice. Hermione held her breath, wondering if the ice would break. Naturally, her hand moved into her pocket to grasp her wand.
"Have you ever walked on ice, Mademoiselle Granger?"
"Hermione. Please call me Hermione."
Fleur nodded and did a small curtsy on the ice, "I am Fleur Delacour. It is a pleasure to meet you Hermione Granger."
"How did you know my name?" Hermione asked. It bothered her; people seemed to recognize Harry Potter but she had always, from the start, been Harry Potter's muggle born friend.
"You grew quite famous after Krum had chosen you as a date, non?" Fleur spoke slowly, her words muddled beneath her accent, her syllables paced and thoughtful. "My fellow souers grew quite jealous."
Hermione stared down at the ground, averting her gaze from Fleur, suddenly ashamed. She had heard the rumors. "I did not...seduce him."
Fleur smiled, or smirked at least, as she turned and began to slide against the ice. "Je sais," she whispered-almost as if she were talking to herself. Hermione did not know if Fleur realized she had slipped into French, but did not protest; her extensive studies in Latin helped her understand.
"How did you know?"
Fleur twirled with grace on the ice, her scarf following every precise revolution. In the setting sun, the blonde's hair gleamed, her blue eyes alight. She did not speak again until she stopped spinning, her gaze fixed on Hermione. "Vous et moi ne sommes pas differentes."
Saturday, November 10th, 2000
Bony hands reached for her wand, unsheathing it from her pocket and pointing it at the ice. "Duratus" Hermione spoke in a voice that she did not recognize. It formed the words she wished but this voice was hoarse and broken, pitched as if it were dragged from her vocal cords.
At her command,the water started to solidify.
As the latticework of ice formed, Hermione took slow yet deliberate steps towards the middle of the Black Lake. Once far enough from the shore, she stopped. Closing her eyes, she stretched her arms out wide as if they were wings, ready to take flight.
There was so much struggle. It was constant. With Harry, with Ron, with the dead and those left behind, scars and nightmares. But it was easy not to struggle, easy to be at peace and forget, when the water was a quiet and cold embrace.
Hermione's mind drifted to her first year at Hogwarts, filled with so much awe and curiosity. She remembered the moving staircases and ever-changing ceiling of the dining hall. Her thoughts veered to Ron's smile and Harry's laugh and the raucous cheering when Gryffindor won House Cup. She remembered the smell of her mother's cookies and old book pages. Distantly, she recalled, long ago, that a strange French girl took her ice skating-ice gliding-on the waters above her.
Fleur. Her name was Fleur. She wondered if Fleur had been a figment of her imagination; too attractive, too perfect even with her blotchy English, French accent and large blue eyes.
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
When the icy water consumed her body, she did not wince. There was no pain, no struggle. Hermione was at peace.
Saturday. January 15th, 1996
"Vous et moi ne sommes pas differentes."
"What does that mean?"
"You and I are not so different," Fleur replied nonchalantly. As they spoke, she continued to move on the improvised, partially frozen lake.
"We are not?"
"Indeed, Hermione." Her name, spoken with Fleur's tongue, seemed different. The first syllable was less pronounced. "Would you care to join me?"
"No," Hermione answered quickly, still stuck on the previous subject. "How are we similar then?"
She looked at Fleur who possessed beauty without need for potions, glamours or charms; even in her plain blue uniform and coordinating scarf, she looked ready for photographs. Fleur was the embodiment of grace and style with her veela blood. She was older, developed, admired. Hermione was, and always would be, books and brains, wand waving and hand raising with hair that could double as a bird's nest.
"We are..." Fleur paused again, thinking. "We are to please the people around us."
"You, Harry and red hair boy, Ralph, was his name? They often look to you for answers, oui? For homework at least? My sisters tell me you are very intelligent."
For other things as well, like writing essays and studying and so much else, but Hermione did not want to say such things to someone she did not know. She simply nodded.
"And your classmates, they pressure you to answer the questions? To get the points for your house-game, correct?" Another nod, "Your ultimate fear is failing them, your friends and teachers and parents too?"
Hermione's eyebrows furrowed, how did Fleur know so much?
"You walk with the burden of responsibility," Fleur observed, "I do the same."
Hermione was impressed; impressed that someone would figure her out so easily.
"I come from a veela family, you see. They expect me to be married within the next year. My school, my sisters, my headmistress, they are all rooting for me to win this Triwizard Cup, this tournament about honor and pride for the school...for the Delacours. To hold the image of perfection, to master knowledge and be a role model all the time..." Fleur stopped on the ice, "It is frustrating."
"Yet no one understands the fear of dragons, of not figuring out what this stupid yellow egg," Fleur gestured towards the golden egg next to Hermione. "Non, non. Vois et mois..."
Hermione could not understand the rest as Fleur broke into full on French. She caught familiar words here and there, about family and attractiveness and veelas. However, she understood the pressure, the fear of failing, the eminent day when Snape would ask a question and she would not know the answer.
Hesitantly, Hermione stepped on the ice. This drew Fleur's attention and stopped her mid-ramble.
"I apologize." Fleur offered an embarrassed crooked smile."I am known to talk often when I am frustrated."
Hermione shrugged, "It's alright. You seem to need someone to talk to."
Fleur looked away, even more embarrassed. "A lady should not have outbursts, especially in a language that her company does not know. It is barbaric," she scolded.
"At your school, do they say it often? The word 'barbaric'."
"Oui," Fleur scoffed. "My professors use that word for anything a French woman should not do."
"Like walking on ice?"
"Oui."
"But, I, not being French, may play on ice and it is not barbaric?" Hermione teased, skidding closer to Fleur.
"Non, Mademoiselle! It is not ladylike to do such childish things!" Fleur spoke in a higher, shriller voice imitating her professors.
Fleur giggled, breaking the tension. Hermione was partly amused. Between watching the last of the sun dance on Fleur's pale yellow locks and trying not to slip, it occurred to her that Fleur Delacour was not as bad as she seemed. Beyond the vocal and preposterous exterior, she was, at the very least, bearable.
As Fleur gracefully skidded across the ice, Hermione stumbled. They spoke of small topics, family, friends. Hermione even explained that in the muggle world, this was called ice skating and was done on shoes with fitted blades.
"That sounds absolutely dangerous," Fleur declared, "How does one even balance on it?"
Later, when they had tired from sliding and slipping, having fallen too many times on their arses, they sat down on the frosty grass. Silence filled the space between them until Fleur broke it.
"Do I come off as rough?" Her voice sounded small, guarded. Hermione realized it was a touchy subject. However, not knowing what else to say, she responded with the truth.
"I thought you were the biggest, bloodiest bigot," Hermione exhaled, using her matter of factly tone."You spoke so loudly of how much you hated Hogwarts and the decorations, the food and weather."
"I do not blame you," Fleur admitted. "Our school has had a longstanding rivalry; my peers expected, fueled me even, to vocalize my distaste for Hogwarts. And while your foods, so heavy and full of bread, are not delightful…it is not as bad as I made it seem."
"Excuse moi, Fleur. I did not know you were under so much pressure."
Fleur laughed, "I'm impressed. You know French?"
"Merci. My family spent a summer in Marseille when I was younger. But the bit I have spoken is all I know," Hermione realized her error; mentioning her muggle family. Hastily, she recovered and redirected the conversation. "What of this rivalry?"
"At Beauxbaton, we heard daily of Hogwarts; of Harry Potter attending and how the finest of witches and wizards often graduated there," Fleur began to explain, nonchalantly laying down on the wet grass. Hermione did the same, out of politeness, and listened as Fleur recalled her school's history.
According to her, Beauxbaton had an unrequited rivalry with Hogwarts that was rooted in a descendant of Rowena Ravenclaw. The young girl, raised in France, grew to despise Hogwarts. She saw the school as too easy on its students, filled with unrestrained pride and barbarics. After graduating, she went on to build the foundations for what would become Beauxbaton, a school for witches that taught discipline, manners and elegance in all things magic.
Feeling betrayed, the portrait of Rowena gave permission to her house to infiltrate and vandalise the school during a Triwizard Tournament set at the all girls school that year. Hogwarts had lost, coming in last place after Durmstrang and, for the first time, Beauxbaton won the tournament. Feeling scorned, Durmstrang helped the Ravenclaw students sneak off with the golden harp that played in the school's center garden.
"We see The Lady everyday," Fleur said, referring to the statue that held the golden harp. "Because of a charm, she moves-like your paintings-and everyday she weeps for her harp. Everyday, my sisters and I are reminded of the great travesty Hogwarts had caused so many years ago."
"So, no one has found the harp?"
Fleur shook her head, "No...The tournament ended a few years after the incident and, with it's death, Beauxbaton students were not able to step on your school's ground until now."
Hermione looked shocked. "Are you looking for it?"
Fleur laughed, showcasing a row of perfect teeth. "Non, non, mon ami. I am already busy enough trying to figure out what this screeching egg wants and worrying to myself that at I will accidentally consume a love potion. The harp is far from my mind."
"I could help you look." Hermione started, feeling guilty that her school would do such a thing. "I am here the entire year, after all."
Fleur smiled, genuinely smiled, at Hermione as they laid there, exhausted in the wet, cold grass. "Merci beaucoup but I am sure you are just as busy."
Saturday. November 10th, 2000
I never did find the harp, Hermione thought. But that was not her job and Fleur, wherever she was, would have long forgotten it by now.
It was getting uncomfortable, having lost all the oxygen from her lungs. Still, Hermione was peaceful. The icy cold water, like the frosty grass that day with Fleur, numbed her to the bone. The scar on her arm, the one that spelled MUDBLOOD, did not burn as it usually did.
Saturday. January 15th, 1996
The fire of the Gryffindor common room helped to warm them up after; Hermione had insisted they go to her quarters because it was closer.
Truthfully, though she'd deny any such allegation, Hermione actually enjoyed Fleur's company. Fleur did not judge her for her heritage, explaining that her veela bloodline often received the same criticism. Fleur, highly intelligent and being years older, was able to speak intellectually about magical topics; they even debated over the properties of Alchemy.
"Merci Hermione," Fleur thanked, pulling Hermione from her thoughts, "I may finally feel my fingers and toes again."
Hermione hummed in response, tired and sleepy.
They sat, for a long time, in comfortable silence facing the hearth. Hermione stared into the crackling fire, its flames flickering with life as she mulled over her own thoughts. It seemed strange to be in the company of another female. Harry and Ron had been her best friends since the fateful day when a troll attacked her in the loo. The girls of Gryffindor did not share her common interests; Hermione often felt like she was a fixture, always with a book in her bed, a quill and parchment at the ready, a reserved table in the library.
Not many noticed her-not until the Yule Ball. And even after that uproar, things returned to normal. Similar to the moving paintings, passersby regarded her with politeness and often left her alone after a brief greeting. In all honesty, Hermione did not know how to make friends.
She turned to Fleur, wanting to invite her to their Quidditch game next week. Instead, she found Fleur's eyes already on her.
"Do I have something on my face?" Hermione asked, insecure.
Fleur shook her head, "Non, I was simply admiring you."
Hermione felt a blush creep up on her cheeks, wondering if Fleur purposefully chose the word or if it were a translation error.
"There isn't much to admire, I'm afraid."
"C'est ridicule." Fleur sounded almost appalled. "You garnered plentiful stares at the ball."
"Rubbish. All rubbish and hair potions and glitter," Hermione shrugged. People paid attention when she donned a pretty dress and displayed eye-catching accessories, when she put on perfume and dabbled in makeup. In her current state, smelling of grass, dirt and sweat, hair matted in some areas and enlarged in others, she was not attractive.
"Even I, myself, would not be attracted to me right now." Hermione declared, chest puffed.
Fleur looked like she was about to say something but then refused. There was a pregnant pause that made Hermione uncomfortable. Fleur did not respond, so Hermione continued. "I'm not like you Fleur, I do not have the natural appeal that you do."
"Veela charms," Fleur replied curtly, cheeks blooming red.
"Even the girls find you pretty," Hermione rebutted. "I'm sure that veela charms only work on the opposite gender."
"In general, yes. However, veela charm will work on anyone provided that the other person is not in love and there is physical contact." Not knowing how to respond, Hermione nodded for Fleur to continue. "It requires intense concentration, my being only a quarter veela, to perform the act, but I am capable should I wish."
According to Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Hermione remembered that there was a short chapter dedicated to veelas, but the excerpts were short and generalizing. She didn't know they had such powers. The book only explained that they were a female race of siren-like humans, enchanting men in their had an affinity to nature and often resided in small, secluded communities. As such, not much was known about them to the wizarding world. Besides extreme beauty, they were known to turn into ferocious birds under extreme stress.
Fleur spoke as Hermione was lost in her thoughts, trying to recall what she had read. "Would you like to experience it?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"The veela charm. To understand why Ronald Weasley abruptly asked me to the ball." Fleur added, "It does not hurt."
At the time, she would blame it on her growing crush on a certain Weasley, on trying to figure out a way to his heart. Later she would blame it on the tiredness that wore at her self restraints to contain her curiosity. And later, much later, she would admit that she could not resist the way Fleur looked at her with blue eyes brighter than the fire, soft pink lips slightly puckered as the tip of her tongue peeked out.
Swallowing thickly, Hermione cursed her curiosity and nodded.
Saturday. November 10th, 2000
Touch. Hermione longed touch.
Touch that did not burn, did not hurt. Touch that drew down her walls.
Saturday. January 15th, 1996
Fleur's hand came up to tuck strands of dark, stray hair behind a petite ear. Her palm found the curve of Hermione's left cheek. They shifted, almost automatically, facing each other with knees brushing.
"Close your eyes," Fleur whispered.
Hermione complied.
When she opened them, Fleur was leaning closer, gorgeous blue eyes staring back. Then she felt it: a warmth radiating from Fleur's hand on her face. She felt out of balance, light headed with tunnel vision, Fleur was the only thing she could focus on.
Her eyes, which had flicked to look at the fireplace again, suddenly moved to stare at Fleur's. Hermione felt, with great intensity, the need to touch the other girl. Her mouth and throat dried, her conscience suddenly drowned in over-stimulation. She wanted, in the same moment, to draw away yet surge closer.
Her chest flamed, aching with the need for contact. Hermione couldn't think straight, her fingertips suddenly needing to trace the contours of Fleur's face. Without knowing, Hermione licked her own lips, feeling ashamed that they were chapped because she was about to kiss-
-No, she wasn't.
Everything about Fleur stayed the same, her features did not morph in Hermione's eyes as she expected them to. However, Hermione found that she was more aware of Fleur's flawless skin, oh, how smooth it was. What would she not give to trace the other girl's jawline with her lips, to map a trail down her neck and, perhaps, even further than that.
Hermione leaned closer. A kiss. A kiss, her minded repeated; a kiss would not hurt. A kiss with supple pink lips and more, more contact. Her hands screamed as they moved to Fleur's knees and then higher, to Fleur's thighs.
She wanted nothing more than to kiss Fleur and, at that very moment, she believed with her whole being that kissing Fleur would cause all her problems to disappear.
A kiss, her mind sang.
Then Fleur's hand ripped (to Hermione, the sensation was very much like ripping, tearing away what was supposed to be a part of her soul, leaving cold emptiness) from cupping her cheek. Suddenly, the veela was across the sofa.
Hermione shook, truly frightened at her thoughts. Fleur looked equally surprised. Not knowing what else to say, she resorted to logic.
"It-it, your skills, would be very useful in interrogations," Hermione sputtered.
Fleur nodded, face contorting into a mixture of fear, surprise and confusion, eyes roaming everywhere around the room except at Hermione. She coughed then stood up abruptly, hands shaking.
"Are you alright?"
"I just noticed the time," Fleur said quickly, gathering her materials, coat and scarf. "I have to return or else my headmistress will not be pleased."
Hermione saw her to the door.
"It was a true pleasure to be in your presence," Fleur was suddenly much more formal. "Surely I will see you around Hogwarts, hm?"
"Yes," Hermione squeaked, opening the door for her. "Goodnight, Fleur."
Fleur once again looked conflicted, leaning forward and then repealing just as quick.
"Bonne soir."
Saturday. November 15th, 2000
Hermione closed her eyes.
It was nighttime for her. Her vision blurred, darkening, waiting to descend into sleep.
Coming from her last class, Fleur turned towards the Black Lake. It was now as familiar a sight to her as her own cottage, which itself was a short walk from Hogwarts and overlooked the rippling shores.
At first, she thought it was a trick of the sun; certainly there wasn't a person walking on the lake's waters. Upon closer examination she determined it was, indeed, a lithe figure, making their way to the lake's center. How strange, she thought, walking on ice. She had not done so in many years.
Few people appreciated the silliness of it.
Fleur then watched, in confusion, as the figure dropped her wand, spread her arms and suddenly disappeared into the water. It was not a swimmer's jump; there was no practice to their descent. It seemed as if they were walking off a ledge. Horrified, Fleur broke into a jog, hoping that the figure would reappear.
They didn't.
Fleur panicked.
She drew her wand as her feet hit the ice. Crack. The water, no matter how cold, was still too warm to keep the ice frozen. Still, she ran as fast as the frictionless ice would let her. The water was too black to search for the presumably drowning stranger, so upon reaching the end of the ice bridge, she dove in.
Wand in hand, she summoned an orb of light. Not seeing the person, she swam deeper.
It was so cold. Frigid. Worse than the January months that left Hogwarts blanketed in gleaming snow. Despite the ache in her bones and the sharp contraction of her chest, Fleur concentrated on her task. She was about to stop and cast the bubble head charm when she noticed, barely, a mass of hair. Realizing that the girl, the stranger was indeed a girl, was not even struggling, she dove faster until she gripped the girl's shirt.
Pulling herself closer, she wrapped her arm around the girl's waist. A low, deep howl came from underneath her. Realizing that it was the sound of grindylows, Fleur panicked, remembering her failure in the Triwizard Tournament because of them. If she listened closely, she heard their movements; low clicks like laughs echoing in the water.
Even if the girl had been awake, there was no way for them to outswim grindylows. Fleur, burdened with another body, would be unsuccessful in any attempt to defend herself from them. Realizing she was out of options, she clung tighter to the lifeless body and thought of home, praying that it worked.
Home, her kitchen, her cottage, a nice warm fire, Fleur thought, conjuring the images until she felt the telltale nausea that came with apparating. They dropped like dead weight on her tiled floor.
The relief that flooded her was swiftly replaced with anger.
"Fool!" she spouted, sitting up quickly and brushing the hair out of the girl's face. "What in Merlin's name were you—"
Fleur froze as she brushed the final piece of hair away from the girl's face.
"Hermione?"
Thank you for reading. As usual, I encourage my readers to review or message me about their thoughts. You can PM me or visit me at .com. I'll be delighted to answer any questions. If the formatting is bothering you, please let me know as well so I can fix it. :)