On Teenagers & Love

a story by anamatics

part three - the fog

"Will you run or will you share your light
Tell a story or live in strife
See it when we're given hope
That we know that we can grow"

The Kids

Fleur takes three newspapers every morning. Hermione has taken over paying for the Prophet because they both read it and the other two are, regrettably, in French. She walks round to the corner shop just outside the protective barrier of the magical neighborhood where Fleur lives once a week to pick up a copy of the The Guardian and tries not to think of the disapproving look her father would give her for reading such a liberal newspaper. Her father's a bit of a Tory in is views, all things considered.

She can't help herself, really. Hermione hasn't ever taken a muggle civics class, but she does have a rudimentary understanding of how the government of the UK works. There've been rumors and the leader of the Liberal Party is definitely putting forward a new agenda that Hermione thinks might actually stand a chance to oust the Conservatives and John Major from power for what will be the first time in Hermione's life. It's truly an exciting concept, even if Hermione is far more preoccupied with what is going on in the wizarding world to give interesting political change in the muggle world the care and attention it deserves.

Still, Hermione has taken it upon herself to keep her mother and her Labor leanings informed in her letters that are, regrettably, sent the muggle way. Hermione is not going to make an owl fly across the Atlantic – it's simply barbaric.

She writes about the potential change in the muggle government because the news that's coming out of the iProphet/i is frankly alarming and Hermione's not quite sure how to tell her parents about it. The Brockdale Bridge had been destroyed not long after Cornelius Fudge announced publicly that even if Voldemort had returned, he would not step down as Minister for Magic. Dozens of muggles were killed that day, and Hermione cannot push aside the growing uneasiness that gnaws at the pit of her stomach when she thinks of her parents returning to England after having been away.

Fleur thinks that Hermione should urge her parents to stay away longer, if they can at all arrange it. Over muggle Chinese take away, Hermione voices her fears. "I don't want them here," she says as she sets down the discarded copy of The Sun that she's picked up from where it was abandoned at a table in the restaurant. They're waiting for their order, and Fleur is very discretely trying to tuck the menu into her pocket as Hermione scowls down at the wrinkled creases of the as they wait for their order. There's a report across the front page of a terrible amount of destruction in Somerset. The story is accompanied with pictures of damaged homes that look not as though, as the reporter leads the reader to believe, there was a hurricane; but rather like a giant has taken its fist and put it through the side of a building. "Too much is happening, they won't be safe.

"Zen tell zem," Fleur replies, fiddling with the cup of free tea that they've been offered while they wait. "Zey will not know unless you do so," she turns icy blue eyes to Hermione and gives her a small, sad smile. Hermione knows that Fleur desperately misses her family. They talk to each other over the floo almost daily, but there is no chance for a visit now, what with the murder of Amelia Bones and Emmeline Vance. Both were at least nominally connected to the Order, and Madam Bones, the rumors say, had been killed by Voldemort himself. "'ermione it is not so much, really. Zey will understand." Fleur heaves a rueful sigh. "Mes parents? When I told zem what might 'appen, should zey come, zey told me to forget everyzing and return 'ome. I cannot do zat, I sworn an oaf."

Hermione sets the paper in the recycling bin by the exit, ignoring the glare that the restaurant worker gives her as she tucks it amidst the discarded soda cans and beer bottles. She's half-smiling because Fleur's pronunciation is getting better, yes, but the word 'oath' still so completely foreign to her that it almost sounds like she's saying the French word for egg instead. Hermione's starting to pick up on French slowly. Fleur tries not to use it too much around her, and Hermione can't find the words to say that she really doesn't mind. She likes learning new things, after all.

"I know," she says and sighs. Her fingers move to run through her hair, but she remembers at the last possible second that she's managed to tame it down into a braid today and the unwelcome intrusion of fingers might actually be too much for it. She doesn't want to have to deal with any tangles. "They're coming back in two weeks' time, anyway. I think when I do go back to see them, I'll try and explain what's happening and ask them what they want to do."

"Bon," Fleur says with a sense of finality as she takes the brown-paper bag of Chinese food that's handed to her by the clerk behind the counter and they head outside into the unnatural chill.

It's been cold ever since she arrived in London, unseasonably so for the dead of summer. Misty. Hermione's got a jumper on despite the fact that it's July and even in England that seems a bit excessive. Fleur has said that the Order suspects that it's because there are dementors on the loose and they're probably breeding. Hermione finds the idea of dementors breeding positively revolting, but at the same time she wonders about the logistics of it. Do they lay eggs? Birth live young? Are they like seahorses and have a transsexual sort of a mating process, or are they maybe asexual? She resolves to look it up the next chance she gets.

As they make their way back to Catterlily Place, Hermione chews on her lip, full of nervous energy and anticipation. Once they step past the protective barrier of the muggle-repelling wall, Hermione feels the tension in her shoulders start to dissipate. She cannot help herself, and she cannot help the pang of guilt that fills her as she finds herself breathing easier around wizards. Muggles are what she knows, they are her people, and yet Hermione is starting to find that she prefers the danger and darkness of the magical world to the technicolored lights and technology of the muggle one.

Back at Fleur's flat, they unpack their dinner (Fleur isn't much of a cook as most of the recipes that she knows require far more preparation time than Fleur has to devote to them) and Hermione takes down plates and glasses with the practiced ease of one who has been doing this for years, rather than a little over a week and a half.

"Zey sacked ze minister for magic today," Fleur comments as she passes Hermione a set of chopsticks. "Tonks et Kingsley..." Fleur shakes her head and sits up a little straighter. "Zey zink zat it will be ze 'ead of zeir département."

"Of Magical Law Enforcement?" Hermione ponders this. She doesn't know anything about many of the ministers that are part of Fudge's government. "Wouldn't they all be sacked as well if the government dissolves?"

Fleur shrugs. "Ce n'e-" she stops and swallows, her cheeks coloring a little bit. Her hair falls into her face and she seems to shrink down within herself. Hermione hates that this is a vision of Fleur that she's become accustomed to, because the Fleur that she'd first met at Hogwarts had been nothing but confidence and bravado. A year of working closely with strict and intolerant goblins had been enough to force embarrassment over the fact that English was not her native language onto Fleur. "Desole, 'ermione," she says quietly. "You are starting to understand so much zat I forget..."

Hermione reaches out and tangles her fingers around Fleur's around the take away cartons and discarded fortune cookies, carefully set aside to be eaten later. "I understand," she says as earnestly as she can. She smiles what she hoped is a reassuring sort of a smile and adds, "It isn't as if I can offer you the same consideration."

She's greeted with a thin-lipped smile and the ever-present reminder that Fleur is spreading herself far too thin with all that she is attempting to cram into increasingly longer days. She seems almost blurry around the edges, her skin paler than ever before, and dark circles under her eyes that don't seem to get better even when Hermione makes a conscious effort to go to sleep on time so that Fleur can get a full night's rest. She's read about this in the books her father's given her about the Great War and World War Two, the wasting sickness that seems to come with war. It's a morose sort of melancholy, the kind with no cure besides the inevitable end in death or victory.

Hermione hates that she seems to be the only one who's noticed how Fleur (and Bill, and Mr. Weasley the one time she saw him in passing a few days ago) seems weary before the day has really even gotten started. It's only going to get worse, she knows. And soon it will be written across all their faces, yet another testament to the truly monumental cost of this war fought entirely in the shadows.

The next morning the wizarding and muggle papers alike carry a story about the supposed breakdown of a Junior Minister in the muggle government named Herbert Chorley. The Prophet goes into it more, indicating that the poor official has been sent to St. Mungo's Hospital due to a particularly bad reaction to a poorly cast Imperius curse. Apparently he'd become convinced he was a duck.

Hermione reads the story as she watches Fleur avoid eating the toast that Hermione had made her. Hermione doesn't comment on Fleur's lack of morning appetite, noting that the circles under her eyes have grown darker and she seems almost as though she's trying to will herself away.

"I'm going to make you coffee," Hermione announces. Standing up, her chair scrapes loudly against the floor of Fleur's sunny kitchen. "I wish you'd sleep," she adds as Fleur rests her elbow on the table and cradles her chin in her palm, propping herself up sleepily as she watches Hermione bustle about in the kitchen.

"Kingsley is going to be taking a position in ze muggle government," Fleur says quietly, picking at the crust on the piece of toast Hermione's made her. "I know, I know, you are not of age, I should not be telling you zese zings. Ze Order, zey are very..." Fleur waves a hand tiredly at the toast and Hermione nods her agreement.

She'll be of age in two months anyway and Fleur knows as well as Hermione herself does that her friendship with Harry will place her on the front lines of this war.

Hermione puts the kettle on the stove with the quiet sound of metal hitting metal and reaches for the matches to light the stove. She turns the gas on and waits for it to click into life, holding the lit match to catch on the gas. Hermione can see Fleur watching her with a fond, if tired, smile on her face. Her eyes are half closed and her hair is falling across her forehead in such a way that Hermione's breath catches. It is the moments like these when Hermione remembers that Fleur is still so young. Her face, while matured successfully out of puberty, still has a child-like glow in some lights.

"I know zat I should sleep more," Fleur confesses, scratching her fingers up along her scalp and pulling her bangs from her eyes. She blinks in the morning light and Hermione gets the coffee down. "Ze same could be said to you, 'ermione."

Hermione has spent the time that she's been here so far reading and researching. It's very strange for her to be able to go down and sit in a cafe all day, buried in her books. Over earlier summer holidays, her mother's garden was the furthest outside that she could go with her arithmancy or charms textbooks. Now, staying in a wizarding neighborhood, no one bothers to look at her twice as she does problem sets or practices wand motions with her spoon out in the open.

The increasingly drawn and worried faces of the residents of Fleur's building and the neighborhood at large only further serve to drive home the point that they're both all-too-aware of. War is coming and the idyllic peace that they've achieved now, in this moment of tranquil domesticity is soon going to vanish like a flame snuffed between two fingertips.

Chewing on her lip, Hermione readies the press and scoops the kettle off of the stove just as it starts to hiss. She pours herself a cup for tea and the rest into the press for Fleur's coffee. "I know," she confesses. "I just - I have a lot on my mind." She looks sheepishly up at Fleur and shakes her head. "I just keep thinking about what I'm going to tell my parents. I want them to be safe and away from here."

"Zey are sure to understand-" Fleur starts.

"They're my parents, Fleur," Hermione says shortly, cutting her off. "They have every personality quirk that I have, only with a good thirty years on me to perfect them."

"So you are saying zat zey are brilliant but stubborn as oxen?" Fleur chuckles and Hermione tries her absolute best to glare at her. The Sorting Hat had said she'd had the mind for Ravenclaw, but her best traits were Gryffindor's through and through. Hermione supposes that such behaviors are learned by those around you as a child, and her parents' rows are quite epic. Both of them refuse to back down from even the smallest of challenges. It makes for some fantastic dentistry, together with their business partner, but Hermione's mother is constantly trying to take on more NHS patients, where her father wants to stay more in the private sector.

This is the problem in a nutshell. Her parents are proud people with very different opinions about a great number of topics. They don't understand, they cannot possibly understand the danger that they are in. She's well known, thanks to Rita Skeeter during the Triwizard Tournament, as a close friend of Harry's. Anyone with even a fraction of a brain would be able to ascertain that fact with just a simple perusal of the papers over the past two years. And if Hermione is certain of anything, it's that Voldemort will want to be as up to date on current events as he can possibly be. She wouldn't be remotely surprised if he's following the muggle political situation as well.

"Exactly," Hermione agrees with a rueful smile. "I don't believe that they'll listen to me when I tell them about Voldemort - about what happened at the Ministry and the breakouts from Azkaban." She sighs then, long and suffering, because there is no solution. "They're still convinced that magic is just some sort of parlor trick. They don't..." She pushes the press down with slow and practiced ease and shakes her head.

"Zey are not understanding zat magic can kill, non?" Fleur asks as Hermione finally pours the coffee into a cup and brings it and the bottle of milk over to the table. She hands Fleur her cup of coffee and settles herself back into her chair, ignoring the discarded plate of toast in front of Fleur.

"I'm still trying to explain to them that you're not just exceptionally pretty," Hermione mutters, fishing the teabag out of her cup with a spoon and setting it aside.

The flush that blossoms across Fleur's cheeks as she sips her coffee is enough to brighten Hermione's day considerably.


an: this section is about half-way done. Unlike last time, I'm going to finish my Once fic (about another two weeks) and then go back to working on this one. I wanted to give you guys a preview. :)