On Teenagers & Love

a story by anamatics

part three - the fog

Chapter Eight - On Ill-Conceived Letters


All of the professors expect non-verbal spell casting now. Hermione finds herself drained at the end of most days, sitting in her room and going through first and second year spells, making sure that she's got the incantation down. It's something to do that does not involve prefect patrols with Pansy Parkinson (they've been paired together again much to their mutual disdain) or watching Harry and Ron waste away their days and not revise or study at all.

Fleur's writing her what feels like daily. She's engaged the services of a little owl much like Pigwidgeon, only her notes assure Hermione that her owl is actually a native of France and has been sent over by an overprotective father to ensure that Fleur keeps in better communication with all of her loved-ones. Professor Grubly-Plank had taught them that little owls were not native to Britain originally in preparation for their Care of Magical Creatures O.W.L. during Hagrid's absence at the beginning of the year last year.

Fleur's letters to Hermione are full of the sorts of words that Hermione finds herself wanting to hear as she becomes increasingly buried in the vast amount of work that is expected of N.E.W.T. students. Hermione has found herself debating, on more than one occasion, dropping a subject to give herself a reasonable level of work, but she can't decide which one to drop and ends up shouldering the work anyway.

The morning of her birthday dawns dark and stormy, and rain lashes at the windows of Gryffindor Tower as Hermione sets the two packages that her parents gave her at the train station on her bed and opens them while Parvati and Lavender go about getting ready for their days.

"Oh wow," Lavender comments as Hermione finds herself staring in the face of wizarding record player. How her parents had ever known she'll have no idea, but there's moving type on the instructions and a note from her parents.

Dearest Hermione,

When I was young, we didn't have much. Britain was still trying to put itself back together after many years of long and devastating war. The one thing that we did have was music, on the wireless and records.

You told us after your first year that non-magical things like electronics did not work at your school, so we wrote to the Weasleys and got a recommendation of a magical player that would also play normal records.

I've included some of your favorites from when you were young.

Never forget that music is its own form of magic,
Mum (& Dad)

The second package is a collection of ten records. Her mum was right, these are her favorites. She traces over the still faces John Lennon the rest of the Beatles, and flips to see that her mother has added a copy of Spice and had affixed a note to it with spellotape. You were singing along when we were out shopping this summer, I thought you - and your friends - might appreciate some more modern music as well.

"Muggle music?" Lavender asks and Hermione is almost tempted to roll her eyes at her, because she's a bit of a ninny and Hermione has started to find the fact that she giggles incessantly whenever Ron says something even remotely funny rather grating. "Will it even work here?"

"It's a wizarding player," Hermione explains as Parvati flips through the records with interest. "I dunno how mum and dad knew."

"They're your parents," Lavender replies with a grin. "They're supposed to know you better than anyone else."

Hermione bites her lip, because there have been a lot of times recently when she's thought that they really don't know her at all. They've grown apart, and Hermione's become more and more drawn into the magical world as they remain wholly grounded in the muggle one. "I suppose you're right," she says.

Parvati's inspecting the back cover of Jazz with interest. "Do you mind if we give them a listen, maybe tonight, after the quidditch trials?" She glances at Lavender and then adds, "I know that Padma's got some of the Weird Sisters' albums because Ravenclaw common room has a gramophone. I could ask her to bring them."

"Sure," Hermione says brightly. They'd been planning on going to visit Hagrid that evening, but it was a Saturday night. They'd be up late regardless.

She's of age now. An adult in the wizarding world. The realization weighs heavily on her as she follows Lavender and Parvati down to the common room. Ginny's waiting for her at the door and engulfs her in a tight hug and a fierce whisper of birthday well-wishes. Hermione hugs Ginny back just as tight and thanks her earnestly.

Harry and Ron come down a few minutes later, Harry with a quiet inquiry as to what it was that her parents had given her before they'd gotten on the train and Ron with more birthday back thumps and hugs than Hermione is prepared to handle. Hermione tells Harry excitedly about how her parents have gotten her the record player and how it's a wizarding one. "Parvati and Lavender want to have a listen tonight," she explains, glancing towards the window and hoping that the rain will let up before Harry's quidditch trials after lunch. "I thought... after Hagrid's..."

Harry grins at her and nods his agreement, while Ron scratches at his unshaved chin and scowls at the rain outside. "Hope it lets up," he mutters. "I hate being wet."

At breakfast Hermione finds two letters waiting at her usual place at the table and Fleur's little owl nowhere in sight. The Great Hall is dark with the rain outside and Hermione scowls up at it for a moment before opening the first letter. She has half a mind to cast lumos to read it more clearly, and squints in the dim light from the enchanted ceiling above.

Mlle. Granger, the looping script does not belong to Fleur, or anyone Hermione knows. Hermione feels her stomach start to turn as she reads the next few lines of the letter. Her heart thuds in her chest. She hadn't considered that they might not approve...

My daughter has written us to inform us of her intent and promise to you, and your returning of both towards her. While I do believe that salutations may be deserved, you are both very young and there is trouble brewing in your country that Fleur should have no part in. As her parents, we believe that it is your presence and relationship with her that are causing her uncharacteristic lapses in judgment.

The problem is that I know my daughter. I know that if she is as in love with you as her letters state then there is no changing her mind, but surely you must know that she is in more and more danger with every passing moment that she spends in your country. So I write this to you as a plea from one who loves her to another: tell Fleur to come home. It is safe here, for the time being. She would be able to work for one of the banks in Paris and she would be able to continue her education, I have assurances in regards to this.

Fleur's mother has signed the letter and enclosed her address. Hermione reaches for her tea and stares down at the letter in her hand. She has absolutely no idea what she's supposed to do with such a plea. She knows that Fleur will never leave England, not until the war is over. She's as stubborn as Hermione and when she's set her mind to something, she sees it through. A fond smile creeps over Hermione's face as she thinks about Fleur and her not-so-subtle claims over Hermione's free time during Fourth Year.

"Birthday letter?" Ginny asks, sliding down to sit next to Hermione and reaching for some toast.

Hermione shakes her head and sets down her tea. "It's from Fleur's mum, actually."

Ginny, toast half-way to her mouth, freezes. Her eyes narrow and she glances at the letter. "What's it about then?"

"She wants Fleur to go back to France," Hermione sighs. "And I understand why, really I do. It makes more sense than it doesn't, which is what gets me."

"You know you're not going to be able to tell Fleur what to do, right?" Ginny points out, and Ron, who has been listening in from Hermione's other side (and probably read the letter over her shoulder) grunts his agreement.

"Stubborn one, that."

"Thank you, Ronald," Hermione says testily as he stuffs a sausage into his mouth. "I'm going to respond to it," she announces, mind made up. "Fleur's mother should know that I have absolutely no intention of stopping Fleur from fighting in this war if that's what she wants."

Ron thumps her on the back. "Good on you," he says loudly, and Hermione winces. Ron is sixteen and his back thumps hurt more and more with every passing year. She nudges him with her elbow and he backs away hurriedly, "Sorry," he adds.

Hermione smiles, though, because the other letter is from Fleur, with plans for the first Hogsmeade weekend and birthday wishes. She can worry about writing Fleur's mum back later.