Cabine Royale, Gour de Tazenat, Puy-de-Dôme, Massif Central

"Hé! There you are, my dear. Come, come. You're just in time. Apolline is extremely excited to unveil her masterpiece!"

The jovial call woke Hermione from her daydreaming, visions of dark eyes, tanned skin, and a shy boyish smile disappearing with a firm shake of her head.

Her feet had unconsciously led her to a quaint yet whimsical brick and stone retreat, with multiple half-moon windows added on in later years of its creation. Monsieur Delacour was waving widely from a small balcony, beckoning her merrily like a Father Christmas in front of a shopping centre.

Hermione smiled. She remembered meeting the wonderfully warm wizard a week ago, when they arrived at an inn in Place Cachée. She had been thoroughly amazed to discover he was more…ordinary-looking than she would have thought he'd be, a great contrast to the little witch walking next to her, still looking sweetly fairy-like even in borrowed clothes. But it all made better sense when they caught a glimpse of his wife's splendor as she glided quickly to her daughter. The blonde witch was, for lack of a better word, radiantly beautiful; skin glowing against simple yet elegant robes, hair a lustrous white-gold, and face sparkling with happiness as she expressed deep relief of Gabrielle's safe return.

But when the older woman turned to them and approached with intent, her dad hid instinctively behind mother, suddenly wary with the change in the air around them. Nearby male patrons were giving them mixed looks of jealousy and longing, especially when the madame gave them all swift cheek kisses in gratitude, with intense glares aimed specifically at dad. He looked especially sheepish when he peeked at his wife, as if in apology, but her mother quickly assured him with a soft pat on the cheek and a comforting touch on his arm.

They realized immediately the gravity of the situation, understanding better why Gabrielle had been reluctant to tell them about her heritage on her second night with them in Dijon.

At that time, Gabrielle had been tampering on a few of the stitches and buttons of her borrowed jumper. "Can I improve this?" she stated, more than asked, ignoring Hermione's raised brows. "A little sparkle here, maybe turning some areas silk – oh! What do you think about charmeuse, 'Ermione? Or would you like jacquard better? I can take a look at your other...'garments'…as well. It will be fun!"

Exercising a bit of her growing patience, Hermione had politely, yet vehemently, opposed any magical alterations, citing they were still in the non-magique side of France. They didn't want her to risk using underage magic and get them in all sorts of trouble with whatever magical authority there was in the country.

A small part of Hermione that wasn't quite as sensible as the rest of her thought otherwise. If they let the younger girl do a bit of magic, ideally somewhere remote, it might make things easier for them to locate officials working in the French Ministry. No doubt they'd track the magic and hopefully assist them.

As if reading into her musings, Gabrielle shattered the notion with a succinct head shake, just as her parents came into their shared room bringing dinner. If she did any underage magic intentionally, Gabrielle clarified, in front of them – the Granger couple is not only non-magique but foreign as well – she would have a record of negligence in their Ministry, which might send her to a supervised re-education facility for correction.

Re-education…? Correction…?

"It's not as bad as it sounds," Gabrielle amended, flinching after seeing their horrified expressions, "I heard it's a good program. It prevents witches my age and big sister's age from being sent to a prison with adult criminals instead. They say it tries to educate us to do better – or so they say. It is different from what was done in the past. Before, there were many tests to determine if we're 'well-balanced' enough to be 'let out' of the camp to 'function properly as good citizens'," she punctuated each air quote with a lazy eye roll, before turning her attention to the food. She spotted her requested dish with a delighted hum.

Hermione and her parents just stared, wide eyed; disbelieving that an eight year old would know this much of their country's judicial system.

And a camp? A summer camp-camp or… world war camp-camp…?

After taking a satisfied mouthful of her bouillabaisse, Gabrielle looked up at the feel of their baffled gazes. She huffed daintily. "I have to know these things," she said defensively, acting as if this is a debate she commonly fought about. "Although we are not non-magique, it does not mean we do not get discriminated. Grandmother would always say, 'knowledge is power'. And in order to survive in this world, we must know how it works, and then, work around it."

Hermione recalled her mother's face scrunching up in worry at the mature words, approaching the little blonde quickly and knelt down in front of her, smoothing back her silky hair, like how you would appease the fur of a prickly kitten. "Your family brought you up very well for you to know these things. You're so very smart, little one. We're not judging you for that.

But…do I need to be worried? Sweetheart, are you telling us that we should be concerned about something?"

Her mother spoke softly, delicately, but the 'concerned about you' was implied strongly enough that Gabrielle's face turned pale. The little witch embraced the older woman, crying out to Hermione at the same time. "No! I owe you my life. My family will know this. They will defend and protect you, as honor dictates. You need never have to worry. Never from me. Never from us…!"

"…but," she added after a long beat, slumping her shoulders, moving back slowly. Her head was down, and fingers tightening on the arms still wrapped around her small form. "I am – I am not entirely…human. Witch, yes but…"

Gabrielle took a deep breath. "What I am saying is…you have the right to know. You should know. What I am. Why I was chased. Why the Drudgers would hunt me like – like you saw." Her voice pitched high, cracking at the end, like a gramophone's stylus skipping the groves of a record. Her mother continued to patiently regard the little blonde, soothing the younger girl's back while using her other hand to wipe at her smooth cheeks. Hermione on the other hand remained quiet, stilling the various conclusions whirling in her head, and sat herself down on a bed. She took the cup of tea her dad prepared, and snuggled close to his side as he sat next to her.

"I am Veela," Gabrielle confessed, eyes down, and voice low. She waited as if anticipating the arms around her to pull away. She waited as if dreading the distinct sounds of dismay; of disgust. She waited, as if they'd turn her away...

Just like the rest.

But what the Grangers did was simply stare blankly, unsure how to react to such a grave-sounding answer. "Uhh…is that a type of magical nationality we know not of?" asked her dad after a beat, scratching at his head and looking terribly lost. Hermione did her best to restrain from elbowing his side, a conditioned knee-jerk reaction to any shenanigans since last year. Whenever a question went over her best friends' heads, it's likely they're not paying attention. So she'll get their attention this way to guide them back to earth.

For now, she settled for an exasperated glare instead. Her dad completely ignored this and rewarded her with a pat on the head.

"You do not know?" Gabrielle verified, looking bewildered. "You do not study this?" She turned surprised eyes at her. Hermione shook her head, wild locks entangling on the arm wrapped around her in the process. "Not familiar. Not read in books. Not talked in class."

Comprehension dawned on the little witch's face, relaxing completely in the arms wrapped around her and thoughtfully eyeing their curious faces. "Veelas are magical beings. They're like those…I think you call them mermaids in your legends. But unlike the sea ladies, veelas do not sing when they attract humans – they dance. They have legs, not fins. Veelas like to be in lakes and rivers, not the great seas. Grandmother lives near her favorite lake."

"That sounds lovely. Is your grandmother a pure veela? You look pretty to be one yourself." commented her mother, squeezing her shoulders affectionately.

Gabrielle smiled wide. If she had feathers, she'd puff them up at the praise. "Yes. Grandmother is the most beautiful of all. In her time, at least," she ended with a giggle.

"I don't understand, Dia. What does being something a little extra have anything to do with the people after her?" asked her dad in English, trying to articulate his thoughts better.

Apparently that has everything to do with it. According to Gabrielle, the white golden hair from a pure veela's head can be used as a core in wand crafting – despite the magic being very temperamental if not taken care of properly, like putting good polish on the wood that houses it – and the scales from their wings that burst from their bodies when enraged can be used in rare and powerful potions. One such mixture induces powerful hallucinations that could last for years, often tempting the drinker to end their life as they seek to be with their loved ones that have previously passed away.

"On n'aime que ce qu'on ne possède pas tout entier," said Gabrielle solemnly, shaking her head.

"What does that mean?" Her dad asked in a whisper, vaguely aware the quote sounded familiar.

"'We love what we do not wholly possess.' Proust. French author. He had a compelling work," she murmured back, understanding the quote in a new light.

Although those traits have been diluted with the introduction of human genes, some crafty wizards in the black market have formulated a way to extract some use to their hair and blood, making weaker hallucinogenic potions that will last for a few days instead – that is, if they got ahold of many bodies to extract from.

Gabrielle couldn't say any more than that – to the relief of the Grangers – since her own mother refused to describe what happened to the other part-veelas in abroad who were at the wrong place and at the worst time, saying it's too graphic to be explained to someone as young as her, no matter the lady witch's wish for Gabrielle to remain alert of her surroundings by being made aware.

Hermione was roused from her memory by the various smells of cooked cheeses, pastries, and baked vegetables wafting through the glassless windows of the 'cabin'. Spurred on by her grumbling stomach, and Monsieur Delacour's excitement over his wife's latest cooking creation, she ran the rest of the way, up to where he was waiting for her in front of the entrance. He welcomed her with an arm around her shoulder as he escorted her inside.

"My little Ella has been pouting inside like a babe that lost its blankie. You gave her quite the slip you know," He chuckled.

Hermione frowned guiltily, turning worried eyes up to kind ones. "I not mean to run from her, Monsieur. I was just exploring grounds after she made me wear…all of this." She said, gesturing to herself. "I not think I was out there long," she added with a hint of a blush, batting away the tingling from her hand behind her basket.

He laughed outright. "Escaped being one of her models, have you? That's all right, my dear. You're one of the few she's chosen to be friends with – or rather that's you that chose her, no? Instead of asking for the life debt?" He clasped her shoulder affectionately. "Have I told you that I'm very grateful you did? She's entirely too young to swear herself to anyone. And call me Lucien, you keep forgetting. And you do not scorn her for being not entirely human; such good souls you all are. But! It's good that little Elle gets denied of what she wants every now and then. It build s character."

"My parents say something the same. I do not know if I will say it right: 'you do not get what you…wish for? You get what you work for.'"

"Well said, well said. That's very good. You'll be speaking just like a local, just you wait!"

"That's very kind, Monsieur D – Lucien." Hermione corrected, with a smile. The older wizard beamed.

As they entered the space of the dining area, light filtered in pleasantly through the leaves of the ivy crawling freely over the greenhouse-like frame of the room – with splashes of Iris and lpurple Lilies among the refreshing greens. They were welcomed by the enchanting sight of Madame Delacour levitating a big plate of salade niçoise at the center of an already abundant table, with her parents innocently seated facing the tarte aux fraises, tarte aux abricots, and cherry clafoutis, which are displayed decadently in silverware, and elegantly smattered with powdered sugar on top.

For dentists, they have such a big sweet tooth, Hermione mused with a hidden smile. The Nutcracker is certainly one ballet production that she grew up appreciating with them.

"How was your walk, 'Ermione~? Seen anything…special~?" asked a light voice from the other side of the table. "I assured Ella you will be just fine in our property but she has been very worried."

The speaker was none other than Fleur Isabelle, with features that are almost an exact replica of her younger sister's, with the charm and grace of their mother. But unlike the direct and assertive Gabrielle, the eldest daughter was slyer than a fox in a hen house – if the mischievous, knowing twinkle in her eyes was anything to go by.

Hermione narrowed her gaze in suspicion.

What does she know?

Being around the Weasley twins for the past two years made her develop a sixth sense for mischief makers and trouble magnets. Being female, Fleur is more subtle in her dealings, no matter how much goodness she meant to do – if goodness was actually her aim.

Better beat her to it before she gets misunderstood again, Hermione considered with a small frown. She remembered the time when a male classmate of Fleur's was given the wrong impression that Hermione liked him as quick as a lightning strike – if she remembers her idiom correctly.

After the Delacours insisted her family join them at their summer cabin, Fleur volunteered to show Hermione around Place Cachée to shop for souvenirs. They won't be able to come back to the French wizarding street again since the Grangers planned to go home after the European Championship. The owl carrying her school list managed to find them and they're eager to collect her things as soon as possible so she'll have time to have her lessons with Mrs. Lebedeva before the start of her third year.

Hermione was eager for the shopping this time since she planned to add to her growing collection of references at home, and cross reference them with Mrs. Lebedeva in case they might lack a competent teacher again in the coming year – best be prepared for any mishaps, she concluded, foreign or otherwise.

As Fleur bumped into one of her schoolmates from Beauxbatons during their walk and started a merry chat, Hermione engrossed herself on reading the plaque about the large, bioluminescent moths in a nearby menagerie, wanting to give them time to catch up – as old friends would tend to do. She turned her attention back to the conversation after hearing a distinct clearing of a throat. The smarmy chap began chatting it up with her, misunderstanding her stilted French with nervousness at being given attention by an admirer. It didn't help that Fleur seem to be encouraging the exchange, fluttering in the background with a deceptively demure smile – and that same twinkle in her eyes. After almost twenty minutes straight of shallow babbling, Hermione finally put her foot down, and soundly negated his great opinion of himself, suppressing the urge to say his similarities to a recently amnestic professor.

"Actually, now that you mention it," said Hermione nonchalantly, making a point to address her parents directly. "I met someone hiding up in the tree I was reading under. Strange fellow. But…nice, I guess. He gave me a good scare at first since he's so quiet and I noticed he's using some sort of spell to camouflage himself among the leaves. I must've scared him back since he's surprised I found him.

I helped him past the time chatting while he's hiding from some fangirls of his – I never really thought an athlete wouldn't like that kind of attention. You learn something new every day," she finished succinctly, stuffing her mouth with leafy greens with as much grace as possible, hoping her parents would get the point to leave the topic be.

"Another rescue? All in a day's work in the life of a Granger," piped in her dad after taking a gracious spoonful from his soup, and pulling at her ponytail. "But did I hear right? You met a bloke?" he said with raised brows.

"Ooh~ Is he cute too?" inquired her mother with a big smile, thanking Fleur for an offered bread.

"Muuum." Hermione rolled her eyes heavenward, forgetting her mother was present at the French boy debacle.

"What's his name? And did you mean he's athletic-looking or an actual athlete? How did you know he is one?"

Now Hermione understands where she got her curiosity from.

"Well… he's…tall. With a built similar to those rugger players dad is in love with on the telly –

"Buttercup, you're misinformed. I admire their strategic – "

" – you sound like you are more in love with them than me on winning nights, Will," chirped her mother in good humor while addling some soup for herself and Hermione.

" – but he seems as old as maybe Percy or the twins, judging from his face and voice. He claims he's an athlete that's going to play in the match this coming – "

" – Ho! A quidditch player?! What a treat! Was it Lacroix? Mallard? I think they're going to become part of the nationals this year," interjected Monsieur Delacour with a satisfied sip from his goblet, addressing his last statement to a fairly intrigued Mr. Granger.

"What is going on? Why are they talking in English?" huffed Gabrielle, taking the portions of salad she preferred from Fleur's offered plate.

"And that is why it is important you learn it too, no? The Grangers can express themselves better in their language. Like how we are with ours. But you're not missing much; your new friend is sharing an interesting tidbit of news. I will tell later," tittered Madame Delacour while comforting her youngest with a kiss to her temple.

"He's not French, Monsieur Lucien. He said he's Bulgarian. His accent sounds similar to Mr. Lebedev's whenever he's talking with his associates over the phone." Hermione said, taking a big gulp of water to wash away the heat that's rising up her neck. Her mother hummed melodically, strangely looking at her with an intrigued gaze.

"With a what? Fown? What's that? Ah yes, the Eastern Europeans have that rolling 'r' of theirs. Quite intimidating. The Snipes are here already? Quite the underdogs but they've been pulling through. It'll be a sight to see, definitely!" Monsieur Lucien cheered in rapid succession, enthusiastically cutting into the leaves of his salad.

"Er…it's a non-magique…fast mail? But using his voice?" Hermione swears she's going to propose some sort of integration program for magical and non-magical relations someday. Even language learning is becoming easier with more accessible references. So knowledge about muggles – especially the sciences and technology bits – should be more available to the wizarding public. "And I guess? He didn't say the name of his team but I guess that's who is opposing the... er, home team in two weeks?"

"Fascinating! What is the bird this Monsieur Lebedev is usi – "

"My light, you're digressing," interrupted Madame Delacour gently, shaking her head at her husband. "So we have established that's he's part of the visiting team and young, correct? Darling, what is the name of this young man? He has told you, has he not~? More bread~?"

Thinking quickly, she's going to claim ignorance. "Thank you. He said his name was Viktor Kroo something."

Very smooth, Hermione. Very smooth.

"Viktor Krumov?!" cried Monsieur Lucien, apologizing afterwards for the involuntary water spatter. "Of course, of course. Young man and probably still studying yes?" Hermione did a pause before nodding. "He's considered a prodigy Seeker, that one. Such skill in the sky has never been seen for such a long time. A genius sportsman in the making!"

"Darling, this is what I meant about being comfortable in your own language. Look, your papa is reverting back."

"Yes, mama," muttered Gabrielle, getting a big slice of a nearby tart. Are they talking about a bird now? She pouted.

"Well, he didn't imply how popular he is. Just said he's running away from fans. A seeker is – they're the ones that end the game when they catch the…the yellow ball, right?"

"The Golden Snitch~" corrected Fleur. "In a way, it is the most glamorous and most dangerous position in the team. They get the most fouls because the other team's players do their best to take them down. If the Seeker is able to catch the winning Snitch, they are celebrated the most, and get all the attention from the crowd," She finished with a flourish of her arm for effect, levitating a piece of tart to her plate in the process.

"Why are we talking about Quidditch now?! Don't we hear enough from papa? Sorry, papa!" Gabrielle added quickly.

"That's alright, ma bichette," Monsieur Lucien chuckled before giving her a flying kiss.

"He didn't seem to like that kind of attention, else he wouldn't have resorted to hiding. I did see some girls literally sniffing him out at the perimeter of the forest. He apologized by the way about trespassing, he didn't know."

"It's an honor! He can hide away anytime."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate the offer. "

Hermione widened her eyes, realizing her mistake.

"Ohh~ Are you meeting again~? Why don't you invite him here~? Maybe he won't mind~" Fleur suggested, fluttering her eyelashes, seeming to hide a smile by drinking from her goblet.

"He?! Who is he? 'Ermione, are you hiding a boyfriend? Why didn't you tell me?" piped Gabrielle with wide eyes. "We could have bought you more outfits!"

"No! I mean no. I have no …whatever you just said, ok? And please no more dresses. Anyway, that's not the point. I mean, I'm sure he'll appreciate your sentiment in case he drops by again. But that won't be likely since I'm sure he'll be practicing his broom thing – "

"Broom thing? I don't like where this is going, buttercup. Should we be having 'the talk' this earl – "

"Dad, no!"

(Disillusioned) Gour de Tazenat, Puy-de-Dôme, Massif Central

Looking around, Viktor subtly casted protective enchantments around the general area of what he now thinks as 'the special space', muttering continuously under his breath until he felt the light of the sun, and the light of his magic merge and hold everything in place.

He felt a little drained after his team's practice before dawn, with eyes strained by the pre-dawn light, and his mild headache. But he shrugged it off, doing his best to maintain a steady demeanor during his performance analysis, paying attention to the minutest detail of techniques, weaknesses, and strengths that Trainer Valkov painstakingly noted and taking it all in.

But the moment the team finally hit the showers, Viktor was so thankful of his younger self to have had the foresight to choose the farthest stall as his usual so it wouldn't be all too obvious with the other players how quickly he finished washing and drying, putting on a deep red, quarter-sleeved shirt with lines of Bulgarian embroidery in the front, and a brown furred coat on top to hide it. He called out a tired 'see you later' to the team – still sticking to his usual behavior – before cloaking himself in the mirage spell as he went out the door, with his hastily stuffed sports bag over his shoulder and his heart hammering with anticipation, hope, and anxiety.

He has to be here again. He has to convince himself he didn't imagine the girl with wary but intelligent eyes. That he hadn't imagined a Hermione Jean Granger – Mugul Greek mythology may have fascinated him but he's not that creative – that he didn't let his adrenaline-filled, and panicked mind conjure up a beautiful daydream that he could escape to from the stress of getting mobbed, and the pressure from the upcoming match.

He had to know. He just had to know it was all real. He had to know there could actually be someone he could call mine.

That last thought made him stop and pondered deeply last night, delaying sending the letters that were ready to be sent to his family about his good news.

Is it good news?

After he came back to the reality that the pretty witch was out of sight and no longer unknowingly protected his peace of mind, it sunk in that everything within him was going too fast and too strong. Learning from past years, he has come to expect to feel the type of emotion similar to boiled potatoes – the moment you look inside them, they're raw. Immature. Not at all ready to be consumed. Not at all the way his heart yearned to shout goosh!

Until now.

He grew up believing his source of true happiness will be from the one person in the world he is meant for. But, nothing in the mountain of books and delicate scriptures has ever mentioned how strongly he'd feel towards his custodia at first sight, only the implications of the effect they have to the tragicus as they bond.

Or not bond.

No wonder it meant 'a tragic poet', for he can feel the impending heartbreak he'll get if things don't work out. What if his custodia decided for him that he shouldn't continue a career in Quidditch? She seems like the sensible type, so maybe she'll want him to be in the Ministry, or maybe the Academe…or a scribe perhaps.

Who knows? He'll have to work on his cursive Latin alphabet, just in case.

But he does know already that he won't have the heart to deny her anything, if she turned those wide eyes on him.

But that's where Viktor's unease kicks in. As much as he wants to please Hermione, he's undecided if he'll just give up months of effort that not only he, but also his friends, his team, Trainer Valkov, and his parents has worked hard for; pushing his body and mind, testing his limits constantly until he falls and breaks – which is literally meant when he doesn't pay as much attention as he should during practice. And that one time he collapsed at the Institute. Very embarassing.

Every time there's always someone that would help him up, or push him up every time he falls. He's eager to have Hermione be one of them…maybe? If she chooses him –

– an office job might not be so bad, right?

Before he'd have time to spiral again, he walked briskly towards what he feels is the right direction, looking over every tree root he passed for the sight of a curly high ponytail or another fetching dress.

What greeted him eventually as he arrived at the familiar clearing is a sight he'd pay a good weight of Galleons to be painted.

Surrounded by a variety of open books was the young witch he's been thinking of all night, which is partly responsible for almost making him late to training. What made this more special to him was the more relaxed clothing she has on, with her hair freely tousled by the light breeze, making his hand itch to run through every thick strand of it.

To top it all off, she had the most peaceful sleeping face he's ever seen on a girl – then again, the only females he has safely slept near is Mira – but that's usually with Georgi. And he's more preoccupied with trying to control his friend from pouring water over her face on their last Wilderness and Wasteland class outing – and his female relatives. But they don't look as attractive to him as the girl currently using one of the tree's roots like a Greek goddess lounging on a chaise. One of her arms even supported her head while she reclined on her side, a book precariously balanced on her hip with her hand rested on it.

Viktor smiled as he can feel the sensation of…nothing at all from the female, only his own feelings while thinking back on the kindness and patience she has shown him despite his foolishness.

He looked up critically at 'their tree' before carefully climbing up as quietly as he can, determined to wait on his custodia to catch up on some needed sleep, noting the puffy skin under her eyes.

Maybe he'll do the same.

Author's Note: Finally posted this! I was close to posting it on time a few days ago but then, duty calls. Broke my personal record but, when life gives you lemons, squeeze it out, add some honey, and make a refreshing juice for everyone to enjoy~

I've always wondered about the family dynamics of the Delacours. As a person who's a quarter something, and a quarter something, and half something myself, the impression of people can be positive or negative. I just treat everything as a compliment and watch how they react to it. You'd get varying results each time. xD

EDITED 11/14/2020 with requested Translations / Explanations:

Bouillabaisse - is a traditional Provençal fish stew originating from the port city of Marseille. It's main ingredients are fish, shellfish, potatoes, garlic, onions, tomatoes, olive oil. There are also spices added on to it.

Iris is the French national flower. It represents pureness, brightness, solemnity and freedom.

Purple lilies represent royalty, privilege, passion.

'to have been struck by lightning' (Avoir un coup de foudre) - French idiom that means 'love at first sight'.

non-magique - French version of 'muggle'

ma bichette (masculine form) - French endearment that mean something like 'my little doe'

Mugul (Мъгъл) - Bulgarian version of 'muggle'

'Love, love, it's like a boiled potato. But if you cut it, you see it's raw' - I can't find the exact Bulgarian pun/rhyme, but from what I understand, this means it's a type of infatuation, or maybe an incomplete love, full of misunderstandings or selfishness. I think.

Goosh! (Гуш!) - Bulgarian exclamation that means 'hug'. Like, when something amazes you, you say 'wow!'. If you want someone to be quiet, you say 'shh!'. So when you want to hug or be hugged, you say this.

As you can see, Bulgarian's use Cyrillic alphabet, not the Latin one that we're using here.

Onwards!

Reine