Hundreds of miles to the north, deep in the Scottish moors, stood an ancient stone castle. Unlike most of the ancient fortresses and keeps scattered across the Highlands, this castle, nestled in a lovely dale between a lake and a vast woodland, was actually lived in for ten months out of the year. Located near the railhead at Hogsmeade village, the only fully magical village in Britain, the castle of Hogwarts housed Britain's premier school of witchcraft and wizardry.
Normally a bustling place, the school was currently still and quiet. The students had left for the holidays over a month and a half ago, and almost the entire staff and left the castle weeks ago as well. At the moment only Rubeus Hagrid, the massive Care of Magical Creatures professor; Sybil Trelawny, the batty Divination professor; and Argus Filch, the ornery custodian, remained of the staff. Hagrid spent most of his time tending various animals behind his hut out by the Forbidden Forest, while Trelawny spent most of hers in a semi-drunken stupor high up in her flat in the Divination Tower. Filch spent most of his time mopping floors, dusting window ledges, and polishing suits of armour, all the while muttering about "damn kids" and wistfully daydreaming of introducing said children to the joys of medieval torture implements.
The castle's elves, of course, kept everything running smoothly behind the scenes, as they always did, without being seen by anyone – also as they always did.
Behind a certain gargoyle in a certain third floor corridor, a moving spiral staircase led up to a set of oaken double doors. Behind these doors lay a circular office filled with bookcases and shelves with all manner of ancient tomes and curious devices. A claw-foot desk covered with stacks of parchment dominated one side of the room. The curved wall in front of the desk was covered with portraits of witches and wizards, all wearing academic robes, and all appearing asleep. On a shelf behind the desk, just to the side of a single oaken door, rested a worn, decrepit-looking wizard's hat. A casual observer might have noticed what could be considered a face within the creases and folds of the hat, though if successful the observer would also agree that the face appeared to be asleep. An empty metal perch stood between the office's sole window and an intricately carved cabinet. Though the cabinet doors were closed, a strange silver light could be seen casting an eerie glow from within. Finally on several small tables scattered about the cluttered office small puddles of melted silver could be seen. Only one strange instrument was left on one of the tables, whirring and emitting occasional puffs of steam or white smoke. That one too, though, began to slow down before long, sending out one last gasping puff of smoke as it died and melted into a shapeless puddle of silver no different than the others. No alarm sounded, and no one witnessed the collapse of the final device, just as no one had noticed the collapse of the others earlier that day.
***FTR***
The goblins were most helpful in getting all of Harry's official documentation the next morning, and the teens were able to leave Diagon Alley without further incident, unlike the previous day. By noon the Grangers, along with Harry, were in a cab heading to Gatwick Airport near Crawley. Four tickets to Nice on the Côte d'Azur later, they boarded the plane and were on their way to the first legitimate holiday Harry could recall experiencing.
After landing, they went to buy appropriate holiday clothing for the teens, followed by a lovely dinner before checking in to the Westminster Hôtel and Spa. Harry discovered that his wallet was indeed linked to his account, plus provided bills in any currency he needed.
He soon discovered the cause of Hermione's mischievous comment from the evening before they'd disembarked. Having never gone to the sea or even the public swimming pool, he had no concept of the typical British standards regarding bathing costumes, let alone the more revealing and daring styles many of the French costumes boasted. Needless to say, his mouth fell open and his eyes damn near popped out of his head when Hermione stepped out of the loo wearing a tiny emerald-green bikini just barely appropriate for her age – which, to be honest, neither of them were certain about anymore.
Mentally, emotionally, they were seventeen and eighteen years old – at the very least. For all they knew in that regard they could be years older – time had no meaning in the afterlife. Physically was a little tricker. Going by their birth dates alone, they were fourteen years old – almost fifteen in Hermione's case. Their bodies though were no different from their seventeen- and eighteen-year-old bodies, except that after their physical training they were a lot stronger and more toned. As far as they were concerned, they were married and of age. Magic seemed to agree with that assessment by not only recognizing Harry as Lord Potter, but also by providing Hermione with the Lady's ring unbidden. More importantly, her parents agreed with them after the teens showed them the ring that morning, and neither objected when Hermione requested a separate room for Harry and herself. She didn't fail to notice a fleeting expression of sadness pass across her mother's face and resolved to talk with her about it later. It was a little late in the day to go down to the beach, but there was still plenty of time to enjoy the hotel pool!
Their plans to meet her parents by the pool were almost thwarted before they began when Harry saw her emerge in her bikini. When he regained his composure, he closed the gap between them in three long strides, crushing his lips to hers as he took her in his arms. "Goddamn, you look good enough to eat," he growled against her lips.
She giggled as she kissed him back. "I'm counting on it," she whispered in his ear, her voice sultry with promise. "Later, though. Meeting the parents, remember?" She pecked him once more on the lips and spun away, grabbing up a towel that was flung across the king-sized bed. "You coming?"
A thousand inappropriate responses flew through his head but he decided to hold his tongue. Instead, he gave her a loving smile and picked up his own towel. "Let's go," he said, taking her hand.
The pool area wasn't crowded, though there were about a dozen other people lounging around or swimming. Harry was distantly aware of the fact that most of the women there wore far more revealing bathing costumes than his soulmate, yet his eyes were inexorably drawn to Hermione's lithe figure. Even Emmett noticed that he paid no attention to the other women, and he silently nodded his approval.
The quartet spent the next hour or so relaxing and unwinding from the day, occasionally jumping in the pool for a bit. Harry found that he quite enjoyed holding his new wife close as they floated in the water together. As the shadows finally began to lengthen, they decided to retire to their rooms early, get a good night's sleep, and then tackle the next day at full speed.
As they returned to their rooms, Hermione indicated that Harry should continue while she fell back to talk with her mother. "Something's bothering you, Mum," she said. "What's wrong?"
Danica Granger was like an older version of Hermione, except with auburn hair and blue-grey eyes. As Hermione had entered her teens, Danica had often been mistaken for being her older sister rather than her mother. She had always been the very picture of class and elegance for as long as Hermione could remember. She was a bit biased, but she'd always thought that her parents had always made a most marvellous couple.
Her mother gave her a sad smile and pulled her daughter into a tight embrace. "Oh sweetie, don't pay any attention to me. I know circumstances have changed a lot of things for you, and while they are rather unorthodox and not what I had envisioned for you, I can tell you're happy."
"Is this about Harry?"
Danica reluctantly nodded. "It is," she said. "Like I said, I can tell you're happy and I'm pleased beyond measure that you're married to such a fine young man. He is assuredly a welcome part of our family." She sighed and pulled her daughter close again. "You're our miracle baby, you know," she continued softly. "It almost killed us both, and the doctor said that I'd never be able to carry another baby."
Hermione nodded. She knew the story well and knew that she was as close as she was with her parents because of it.
"Your father and I have looked forward to all these milestones in your life, sweetie. We've dreamed about watching you finish school and begin your career, and we've looked forward to watching you go out on your first date, be proposed to, and get married. We've looked forward to welcoming a young man into our family and getting to know him as he gets to know us, first as your boyfriend and finally as our son-in-law.
"We knew that things would be different when we learned you were a witch, but it seems to us that the magical world is taking so many of these celebrations away from us. And now you're actually married in the eyes of magic, years before we anticipated, and we missed it all." A tear slid down her cheek as she held her daughter close to her.
"Oh, Mum," Hermione sniffled as she returned her mother's embrace. "I didn't think about how stressful this would all be for you and Daddy."
"It's okay, sweetie. We know it's not deliberate on your part, and that helps more than you know."
"Still, it's not really fair for you two, is it?" she said. The prejudice and bigotry that ran rampant through the British magical world ensured that she herself would struggle far more than she should, but her parents would be completely marginalized. She still regretted the distance that had grown between her and her parents the previous timeline as she got more involved in the troubles overwhelming the magical world. She vowed to herself that this time through she would not abandon her roots, and she had to wonder just how much of that distance was due to the fucking potions she'd been doped up with.
"Listen, Mum," she said. "Officially Harry and I are just fourteen years old. Obviously the nonmagical world has no way to recognize soulmate couples, so in the eyes of Her Majesty's government Harry and I cannot be married yet. The four of us know better, of course, so we will be living as a married couple, but we can still have a nonmagical wedding as soon as we come of age in the eyes of British law. We can't do anything about being soulmates or being older than we should, but we can still have the church wedding, white dress, and Daddy walking me down the aisle. Will that be okay?" Her eyes were pleading as she looked up at her mother.
Danica gave her a watery smile. "That would really mean a lot to us both," she said. "Thank you, sweetie."
"We've four years to plan," she replied. "We'll sit down sometime soon and start talking about what we all want, okay? I promise, though, Harry and I both want you and Daddy to be an important part of our life together."
The two women smiled at each other before returning to their rooms, each confidant and reassured that they were in no danger of losing the family relationship.
***FTR***
The teens awoke early the next morning and decided to resume their physical training. Their bodies had been honed by their trainers to peak conditioning and they did not want to lose a bit of it. After a series of stretching exercises in their room, followed by several sets of press-ups and crunches, they went down to the narrow, curving beach. The water of the Mediterranean was a brilliant blue as gentle waves lapped up on the shore, and a cool breeze from off the sea accentuated the lovely morning. After looking around for a moment, they decided to run towards the Colline du Château, a beautiful wooded park and historical site atop a small hill at the eastern end of the beach about a mile away. The street running parallel to the beach curved out and around the base of the hill to the small port on the other side, but they planned to stay barefooted on the sand instead of running along the road.
The sun was still below the hilltop park as they enjoyed a leisurely pace along the sand, just cresting the top as they arrived. They immediately turned around and ran back the other way, this time with the sun at their backs.
As they did their cooldown exercises and stretches, Hermione had an idea. "Let's find an aikido dojo, Harry. We can get a pair of bokuto to practise our sword forms and to spar with."
He nodded his agreement and the two went back to their room. After a leisurely shower together, they got dressed and joined the Grangers for breakfast. The teens explained their plan over coffee, croissants, and assorted fresh fruit, letting the adults know that they'd join them on the beach in front of the hotel when they were done.
They decided that it might help to bring their katanas, given that they were not planning to sign up for lessons, just to show the sensei of whatever dojo they found that they were serious and not just a couple of kids on a lark. Harry went back up to the room to collect their blades, carefully rolling them up in a clean towel to avoid causing panic. While he did that, Hermione went to the concierge to inquire about dojos in Nice that offered aikido.
He met her on the sidewalk in front of the hotel where she stood waiting for the cab that the concierge ordered. The cab did not take long to arrive, and it dropped them off at the dojo the concierge had recommended less than a half-hour later.
The sensei, a middle-aged Japanese man, welcomed them politely and listened to their request. When he asked if they had any experience with the katana, Harry unwrapped the swords, allowing Hermione to taker hers up. She reverently drew the blade from the scabbard just far enough to reveal the Asian lion engraved above the guard.
The sensei's eyes widened in shock as he paled. "Mon dieu!" he whispered. "Never have I thought to see one of these with my own eyes." He reached out a hesitant hand, almost afraid to touch it. "With respect – may I?"
Without a word, Hermione smiled and angled the hilt towards him, allowing him to draw it. Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, the sensei drew forth the blade and held it before him, staring at the slender piece of steel in sheer wonder as tears slipped unheeded down his cheeks. He turned the hilt in his hands, allowing the light to play across the polished steel blade. At Hermione's gesture towards the tatami mats of the training area, the sensei moved the blade through the forms of a kata, each movement slow and incredibly precise. The exercise was beautiful, each form flowing into the next, the sword an extension of a master who savoured every movement that it made.
Careful to not touch the blade with his fingers, he balanced the end on his forearm, the sleeve of his kimono preventing it from touching his skin. With a gentle thrust, he slid the blade back into the scabbard Hermione still held, then bowed deeply to the teens. "Merci," he said. "You have given me a gift beyond measure. Never did I think I would ever be privileged to see a Hanzo blade, let alone to wield one, if but for a few minutes."
The Potters returned his bow just as deeply, and the sensei gestured for them to follow him. He led them to an equipment room filled with shelves of folded white uniforms and racks of short staves, katana-shaped wooden swords, and wooden knives. The sensei took them past the standard practice weapons to the rear of the room and took two wooden swords down from the racks. "These bokuto are some of the best I have," he said. "They are made by hand from Japanese red oak, while many of the others you see are mass-produced locally using various regional hardwoods. They are still excellent quality, but given the nature of your swords I suspect you will appreciate these in a way that the average student will not."
"Thank you very much indeed," Hermione said, accepting one of the bokuto. She was immediately echoed by her husband. "How much do we owe you?"
The sensei waved their question away. "This is my gift to you, as you honoured me by allowing me a few minutes with a masterpiece created by one of the greatest blademasters of all time."
The next few days passed by in a leisurely blur, and it was by far the best holiday Harry had ever experienced. The Potters awoke early each morning, exercised and ran, then spent an hour or so going through the sword forms they'd learned from Valkyrie, followed by another fifteen to twenty minutes of sparring, with and without their bokuto. When their exercises were finished, they'd return to their room, stow their gear, and get cleaned up. After joining the Grangers for breakfast, they would typically spend the rest of the morning visiting various museums and attractions around Nice, followed by a light lunch. From there they would return to the hotel, change into their bathing costumes, and go down to the beach where they would spend the rest of the afternoon. Evenings were often spent dancing at clubs that catered to younger people, or in going to a show before returning to the hotel for the night.
They also spent time reviewing their plans and discussing the Potter assets. One of their biggest long-term projects was the restoration of Potter Manor, the stately ancestral home of the Potter family about fifteen miles outside of Godric's Hollow in Wales. The manor house had sustained a good bit of damage from the Death Eater assault in 1978 that killed Harry's grandparents and convinced his parents that it would be better to go into hiding. Fortunately, though there was significant structural damage to the front of the house, the interior wards were never breached, which prevented anyone from coming in and looting. Even more importantly to Hermione, the wards protecting the family library were never breached either. That meant that there were thousands of new books for her to browse through as soon as they could access the manor.
They had been on holiday for a little over a week when their morning workout was interrupted. The teens were standing side by side, bakuto in hand, running through their kata when a musical feminine voice spoke up from behind them.
"Excuses-moi, s'il vous plaÎt," she said, her voice pitched so low that only the two could hear her, "but you are magiques, oui?"
They turned around and were stunned to see none other than a seventeen-year-old Fleur Delacour smiling at them. She had a more vibrant, care-free attitude about her than they recalled from the previous timeline, with none of the "stuck-up bitch" persona that she had worn like armour around the British pureblood arseholes. Her bathing costume, bright aqua blue and fluorescent pink in color, revealed far more than the silver one-piece Harry recalled from the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. The top was a bandeau-style with a twist in the middle and more daring than Hermione's emerald bikini top, and the bottom was not much more than a thong, covering very little of her derrière. Harry realised that if he had met her at this point on the old timeline he very likely would have suffered a heart attack, especially seeing her in such a tiny bathing suit. Fortunately, as gorgeous as she was, he was practically immune to seeing so much of her – partially due to the hundreds of sun-bathers he had seen this week wearing as little or even less, but by far mostly because of his beautiful Hermione.
"Oui," Hermione replied, feeling none of the intimidation the old Hermione would have felt. "How did you know?" Her inquiry was casual and matter-of-fact without being defensive.
"I have watched you two for the past three mornings," Fleur confessed without a hint of embarrassment. "When you practice, when you fight, it is like you dance, oui? The power that comes from you – it is like the sun."
The Potters exchanged worried glances with each other. "We're not violating the Statute of Secrecy, are we?" Harry asked, almost catching himself addressing her by name. It wouldn't do to reveal that they already knew her, not until they got to be close friends, anyway.
"Oh, non!" she said. Her laugh was like the sound of bells. "Non, I can sense these things. What is plain to me is invisible to almost everyone else, even other magiques. Of course," she said with a teasing smirk, "it helps too that you are lovers."
"You're veela, aren't you?" Hermione said, offering her a friendly smile. "That's how you can tell."
"Oui," Fleur answered, her smile melting into a more guarded expression. "Is this okay with you?"
"Of course!" Hermione answered, not entirely feigning surprise. "Why wouldn't it be?"
"Veela are just regular people with a few extra bonus powers," Harry added. "Kind of like magical to nonmagicals, come to think of it."
The relief on her face was obvious. "Merci," she said, holding out her hand. "I am Fleur Delacour. I am pleased to meet you."
Hermione shook her hand first. "Hermione Gra- excuse me, Hermione Potter." She flashed a quick smile at her husband. "I'm still not quite used to this, love!"
He smiled in agreement. "I know," he said. "Sometimes I still have to convince myself I'm not dreaming!" He too shook Fleur's hand. "Harry Potter, at your service," he said, giving her a slight bow.
Fleur's eyes widened in surprise. "Mon dieu!" she exclaimed. "You are – really?"
He sighed as he nodded. Apparently his fame had reached across the Channel and all the way down to the Mediterranean. "Yeah, it's not important though. I'm sure most of what you've heard was exaggerated if not completely made up. My mum should've gotten full credit for defeating the dark tosser from the beginning."
Fleur nodded and composed herself as she realised that he was not comfortable with his fame. "That does seem more likely," she agreed before gathering herself up. "Forgive me, s'il vous plaÎt," she said. "I did not mean to interrupt your exercise." She actually blushed a little at her next statement. "I said before that your power is like the sun, which is true, but it pales next to the love you have for each other. I can tell you are very special people, and I would like to be your friend, if you will have me."
Harry exchanged a quick glance with Hermione, who smiled back at him. "Of course," he said, turning back to the beautiful blonde girl. "Neither of us has so many genuine friends that we can afford to turn down a sincere offer."
Fleur nodded in understanding. "Oui," she said, her tone growing melancholy. "Let me guess, people either want you for your fame, or they love or hate you based on the expectations they have of you, but few have ever gotten to know the real Harry Potter, am I right?"
His eyebrows lifted in mild astonishment at this overwhelmingly simplified but accurate assessment, but after a moment's thought his countenance cleared as he nodded. "Quite," he said. "May I assume that you have similar troubles based on your veela heritage?"
Her smile was sad but still held genuine warmth. "Indeed you may, Harry," she replied. "I am grateful you understand."
He turned back to his wife, who was staring at him with a feral glint in her eye. He immediately recognised it as the unbridled lust she felt every time he used his head and said or did something profoundly logical. "Well, Fleur," he said, "we need to get cleaned up from our workout. Would you care to meet us for lunch in a couple of hours? We can exchange contact information then as well when we've got something to write with."
"Oui, that will be perfect."
"Good, we're staying at the Westminster there across the street. We can meet you by the front desk at noon, okay?"
"I am looking forward to it, my new friends!" she exclaimed.
They took their leave, exchanging kisses on both cheeks in the French custom, and the Potters watched the French girl saunter off.
As soon as Fleur was out of earshot, Hermione turned and pounced on her husband, wrapping her arms and legs around him as she practically shoved her tongue down his throat. Their bokuto fell to the sand as he grabbed her bum with both hands to keep their balance. "You are so getting jumped in the shower, Mister Potter," she growled.
She squealed in surprise as he playfully pinched her bum and licked her nose. Laughing at her mock outrage, he set her down before scooping up the bokuto and running back to their room, his wife in close pursuit.
***FTR***
They were almost late for their meeting with Fleur at the concierge's desk, but they stepped off the elevator into the lobby right at the stroke of noon. They saw their new friend standing by the desk wearing a flattering sky-blue sundress, white sandals, and carrying an aqua-blue and green striped tote bag over one shoulder.
After exchanging greetings and contact information, they walked to a nearby café where they enjoyed sandwiches and fizzy drinks on an outdoor patio while they got to know each other. It turned out that Fleur was not at all surprised to learn that they were soulmates. "That would explain the connection between you," she said. "I must tell you, those of us who can see these things find people like you to be soothing companions. Not just because of your auras themselves, but also that you are accepting of us." She shook her head in frustration. "Non, that is not quite right. Most women are jealous and insecure – I can say without boasting that physically I am flawless – my skin is perfect and my beauty is undeniable. But that is just because I am veela, nothing more, nothing less. Most women see themselves as imperfect when they begin to compare themselves with me and those like me, which they really shouldn't. They hate that they have to work hard to match my beauty, and they are afraid that I will try to steal their men from them, so they hate and shun me. Likewise, most men see me as nothing more than a whore or a sex object and want to possess me." Her tone was bitter at this point, so Hermione reached across the table and took her hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. Fleur smiled at her. "See, this is exactly what I am talking about. Instead of judging me or trying to possess me, you seek to comfort me. You are secure in your love for each other and do not see me as a threat, so you can accept me as a genuine friend." She squeezed Hermione's hand in return. "I have not had any close friends like this since I matured." She sighed, giving the Potters a rueful smile. "You may find that other veela, sirens, naiads, dryads, and nymphs will be drawn to you for the exact same reasons."
Hermione smirked at her husband. "Better than people trying to get close to you because of all the Boy-Who-Lived shit," she said.
He nodded in agreement. "Fucking Ron," he muttered.
"And little Gin-Gin as well. I swear, I've never seen such a rabid fan girl."
"I am sorry," Fleur said, "but who are these people?"
Harry shook his head. "Just some people we thought were friends but turned out to be trying to use us both."
She nodded in understanding. "You are going to Hogwarts, oui?" she asked.
"That's right," Hermione confirmed.
Fleur gave them a warm smile. "Then you must point them out to me when I meet you there this year so I know to avoid them.
"You're coming to Hogwarts?" Hermione asked, squeezing Harry's hand under the table.
"Oui, for the Triwizard Tournament."
"Then you must attend Beauxbatons," she replied.
"Oui."
"Well, good!" Hermione exclaimed. "We're certainly looking forward to spending more time with you, Fleur, and we do have some true friends we'd love to introduce you to."
"C'est bien! I look forward to meeting them!"
They spent the rest of the day with Fleur, and that evening the Potters, Grangers, and Delacour met for a lovely dinner at an upscale restaurant. After making plans to meet Fleur the next day, this time with her younger sister Gabrielle, they returned to their hotel.
***Author's Note***
There has been some pushback on Hermione finding her way into the afterlife and coming back with her memories as well. My response to this is to paraphrase Shepherd (and the original source material!):
"Did you see the line in the challenge that said Hermione was not allowed to come back with Harry? No? That's cause it ain't there!"
That is how the story wrote itself. If anyone has an issue with this, I invite them to drive over to Home Depot, pick up some 4x4s and 2x4s, a claw hammer, a bunch of 16 penny nails, then build a bridge and get over it. Seriously, if you're going to nitpick stupid stuff like that, go read something else. That is whinging, not constructive criticism.