Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger was many things: intelligent, curious, passionate, and stubborn, but it seemed that everyone else glazed over all of these traits in favor of focusing on what, if you asked her, was her least interesting characteristic, one which had become her defining feature. By the time an old lady in a pointy hat knocked on her door and told her she was a witch, Hermione had long since come to terms with it, even if it was an annoyance.

Her first thought to this most unexpected of revelations was that maybe she wouldn’t be considered different in the wizarding world. She couldn’t help it. In her 11 years on the planet she had been shunned for one thing that was completely and utterly out of her control: her lack of hearing. Years later when she looked back on these early years, she would describe herself as naive and blame the thought on youthful ignorance.

When she was two, her parents had frantically brought her to a specialist, worried as they were about her lack of development. They were told two things: that she was quite intelligent, and that she was deaf. Her parents only registered the later.

To Hermione, it wasn’t exactly lonely being alone. She wasn’t particularly fond of children her age, as they were unable to communicate with her, and even if they were, they would never manage to hold a conversation that she would consider up to snuff. Her first true interactions with classmates occurred when she first entered Madam Pendleton’s School for the Impaired, a school which featured a great number of children with a great number of impairments. Even to a child that had little to no experience with others, she found herself begrudgingly fascinated with her newfound ability to communicate the thoughts that raced around her brain. It seemed that she, at the age of 5, had finally found a place for people like her. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. As it turns out, children with impairments were very similar to children without impairments, in that they didn’t like “know-it-alls.” And Hermione was most certainly a “know-it-all.”

As one might imagine, her accidental magic outbursts didn’t exactly endear her classmates to her. Her company, once hoped to be others, became books; but what good friends they were.

She would drag her mom by the hand, eager to get to the library before it closed, unaware of the unintentional sounds escaping her mouth that caused strangers around her to stare. Hermione’s parents quickly came to the conclusion that their daughter must learn how to talk. How else could she survive the normal world? Signing at that special school was all well and good, but in the real world there wouldn’t be a guarantee of anyone being able to understand her. Madam Pendleton’s did not teach speech until year 8, and so the Grangers hired a tutor to fill this unacceptable gap in education.

To convince her, they bribed Hermione with books. It worked. Hermione spent years in speech therapy learning mouth movements and inflections, aware of the fact that she would never hear the fruits of her labor. But as her dad told her, learning is learning. Hermione was not one to half-ass her studies, and so she learn she did.

Still unsatisfied with her progress, her father devised a game out of reading lips. They would sit at the train station and watch strangers complain about their job, their commute, or both. For every correct sentence she read, her dad would reward her with a piece of candy (sugar free, of course).

By the time Hermione was 11, the Grangers could almost pretend they had a hearing daughter. Almost. So it would be considered unsurprising that when a bona fide witch announced in their sitting room that their daughter’s odd outbursts were actually magic, they were excited. Surely this woman who could turn their teapot into a vase and back could easily fix their daughter? Connect a wire that was disconnected with a snap of her fingers? When they posed this question to the stern looking woman, she gave them a disapproving glare. Hermione immediately liked her.

After she informed them that it was not “as simple as a flick of her wrist,” she agreed to schedule an appointment with the magical hospital to try and fix Hermione’s hearing. Unlike the Grangers, McGonagall saw Hermione shift uncomfortably in her chair.

The appointment brought disappointment for Mr. and Mrs. Granger and relief for Hermione. The healers had informed them that witches took certain potions while pregnant to prevent deformities in the first place, and they hadn’t had a child become deaf in nearly 100 years. Hermione’s parents elected to tune out the story of one Janis Jixen who had lost her hearing after a baby flobberworm had been accidentally banished into her inner ear. They resolved to look into that “cochlear implant” thing they had been hearing rumors about when they got home.

A few months later, Hermione was darting around Diagon Alley trying to soak in all the unusual sights and smells, all the while signing rapidly to her trailing parents. She let her parents take care of almost all the purchasing as she still wasn’t quite comfortable speaking with strangers: in her experience they often gave her weird looks and spoke slowly and dumbly. The only place Hermione interacted with the shopkeep was at Ollivanders.

Mr. Ollivander hadn’t even blinked an eye, although as Hermione thought back on it, she didn’t think he blinked at all, when she had signed to her parents. Surprising everyone, he started signing right back to her as he talked about how the different woods and cores interact with one another (she had been exceptionally curious).

Hermione walked out of the store one wand heavier, and as privately thought to herself, one friend richer.

Hermione hadn’t liked Hogwarts the first two months. She loved it. Sure, she was bullied and made fun of constantly by those outside of her house, whether it be for her muggle parents, her quest for flawless grades, or her “impairment,” but man oh man did she learn. The sorting hat had first suggested Ravenclaw, and who was she to argue with an omnipotent hat? She sure wasn’t cunning, nor particularly just, and she certainly didn’t feel brave. If she had been she would have done something about the bullies at her old school. No, it was best to let the brave do their thing and let her sit back and watch.

Her housemates were more or less indifferent towards her. They weren’t outwardly malicious, but Hermione knew they didn’t necessarily like her. She figured it probably was because she had a tendency to stop talking with them in a middle of a conversation. It wasn’t her fault they spoke too fast for her to read.

The other houses were a different story. Slowly, as it became more and more evident that she was firmly at the top of all the first years, her classmates began to make fun of her with increasingly derisive comments. Just as slowly Hermione began to feel lonely for the very first time.

The company of books could no longer offer the same comfort they once had. She was desperate to share her wonderment of entering the wizarding world with someone, anyone. She came up empty-handed. The rest of the year passed slowly. A particularly pugnacious boy in the Slytherin house had taken a certain liking to her and was quick to make a snide comment or several before a professor could hear and put a stop to it. Luckily for Hermione, she had long ago learnt to simply look away when she was being made fun of. She wasn’t often thankful for her uniqueness, but for this she undoubtably was. The only drawback was that she was unable to see her bully’s frustrated face when she didn’t react.

Second year went much, much better for Hermione. She made a friend. Well, a friend that was younger than 40. It was almost odd to her to have someone to talk to when something funny happened, like when Professor Lockhart released a cage of Cornish Pixies on her DADA class. Luna Lovegood was perhaps the oddest person Hermione had ever met, but she was nice, treated Hermione like she was normal, and always had a book to recommend.

The blonde first year had sat next to Hermione, who had been somewhat shunned to the end of the table by the other Ravenclaws, that first night. Hermione still wasn’t sure how Luna had known, but she had immediately started signing to Hermione, talking about something called a Blibbering Humdinger. Hermione learned to just roll with it. Luna quickly earned the title of “Hermione’s best friend,” a title that had no competition, but one that she took great pride in.

Her friendship with Luna brought, dare she say it, another friend: Ginny Weasley. By virtue of their families’ close proximity Luna and Ginny had been friends since they could walk.

The next two years were much easier than the previous one, due in no small part to her newfound friendships. They were a pack, the three of them. Ginny was keen to learn BSL when she realized she could use it to talk in class without the professors knowing, and spent weekends getting coached by the other two girls on it, these extracurricular studies culminating in learning how to call Professor Snape a sad, slimy, git. Once Ginny had obtained this most coveted of knowledge, she was quick to put it to use. After all, her mother had taught her not to waste. She even taught Harry a few basic sentences that he used to say hello to Hermione, admittedly in a fumbling manner, when they passed in the hall or had class together. She appreciated the effort.

Perhaps it was her friends, or perhaps it was purely coincidental, but Hermione was mocked and ridiculed far less as time went on. People simply ignored her. It was fine by her.

Ginny had tried to get Hermione to go to the Quidditch World Cup, but after being subjected to a 10 minute impassioned rant on the stupidity of the scoring system, let it go. She relayed the drama of the night in a frustratingly (for Hermione) sparse letter.

Luna had wanted to stand at the back, but Hermione had succumbed to her curiosity and demanded they watch closer to the front. They ended up somewhere in the middle, unable to get around any more of the upperclassmen, and not allowed to stand in front of the younger-years. Ginny was standing with the other Gryffindors who were busy elbowing each other for a better view under the disapproving glare of Professor McGonagall.

Hermione didn’t hear the others students call out, but she certainly saw them point. There in the sky flew a massive carriage. If it was massive flying hundreds of yards away, it was nothing to the actual size of the vessel when it touched down on the grounds.

Hermione felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Beauxbatons or Durmstrang?” Luna asked. She of course already knew the answer, having heard it announced from the Headmaster himself, but she was terribly curious to know what the other girl would guess.

“My money’s on Beauxbatons”

The entire Hogwarts student body held their breath until the front door was flung open, revealing the largest woman any of them had ever seen. Hermione decided she must be part giant, and turned her attention to those who followed her.

The Beauxbatons delegation followed suit and walked- rather, glided- their way up to the entrance hall. Hermione watched as the group huddled together for warmth as they were wearing thin, blue satin uniforms that had no business being worn in Scotland any time of year, never mind in the middle of autumn. The students largely had forlorn expressions on their faces: nothing like the one of wonderment that had adorned Hermione’s face three years ago. She wondered what Beauxbatons must be like for Hogwarts to not spark any appeal.

As Hermione looked she suddenly felt a warmth pass through her, as though she were covered in a heated blanket on a cold winter’s night. She shivered reflexively despite the unexpected warmth. The students around her must have provided a shield from the breeze, she concluded to herself with a nod before turning her attention back to the carriage, or more accurately, the large horses that had pulled it.

“What kind of animal is that?” She asked Luna.

“An Abraxan. Daddy says they are a natural repellent of Nargles.”

She nodded again, and by the time she turned her attention back to the foreign students, they had disappeared within the castle.

Fleur sat stiff backed against the largest armchair in the common room. She was nervous: a fact she would vehemently deny if anyone dared asked. To distract herself she taught, or at least tried to teach, her sister Gabrielle popular English sentences; but all the while her leg bounced.

“Excuse me, where is the bathroom?” Fleur said slowly and carefully.

“Fleur, can we please wait until tomorrow? We’re almost there!”

“Non! I said English only.”

Gabrielle was about to respond when the Headmistress announced in her booming voice that they were descending. The carriage was charmed to prevent the passengers from feeling anything at all that would indicate that it was a thousand meters in the air, and so Fleur felt nothing at all when the carriage began its decent. The others ran to the large windows to try and spot the castle. Fleur stayed seated. It was ironic, really, that she feel uncomfortable in the air when she herself was descended from those who claimed the skies as their own. She would rather sit through 3 hours of flying lessons than admit that. No, if anyone questioned why she didn’t also flock to the windows and press her face against the glass she would simply say she had no need to fight to see something so unimpressive.

This was how she became the very last student to exit the carriage once it finally, mercifully, landed. She climbed down the stairs into the cold air and looked up at the castle. Hogwarts was the exact opposite of unimpressive, but if her ruse was to be believed she had to will herself to think of it as no more than a decrepit relic of a time long ago, and thus turned up her nose. 

She couldn’t help the shiver that ran down her spine as they walked towards the main entrance. She pulled her shawl closer. It worked better than she was expecting. The chill left her bones and she was left feeling the same as she had over the summer in the comfortable Cannes air.

Fleur hadn’t planned to look at the Hogwarts students. It wouldn’t do for her to come across as anything other than a cold, disinterested bitch to those who had never been in the presence of a teenaged Veela. But despite her determination, her resolve quickly crumbled and she cast a cursory glance over the assembled student body. They were uninteresting. And English.

The Beauxbatons students stopped at the doors. Fleur could hear the Headmistress say something to the Hogwarts Headmaster, but she paid them no mind, instead continuing her so-far unimpressive once over of the strangers that would soon become her classmates. Just as they started walking again, her gaze fell on a girl with untamed hair whose own gaze focused on the carriage they had just came from. She was moving her hands in strange motions to another girl next to her. The other girl responded in kind, completing some kind of ritual that Fleur was woefully ignorant of. As Fleur looked she could feel her pupils cut to slits. Her fingernails began to grow and sharpen. She tucked them underneath her arm pits and made a show of shivering in case anyone was looking. She could feel the change in her soul. A whisper in her head, quiet but firm, spoke to her: “Mine.”

She knew what this was: Fleur Delacour had just found her mate. Shit.

Chapter Text

By the time the Hermione and Luna entered the Great Hall, delayed as they were by the sea of students who had jostled one another in their eagerness to get the banquet, nearly everyone was seated, including the Beauxbatons delegation who were settled in at the very center of the Ravenclaw table looking very forlorn indeed as they took in their surroundings. Hermione hardly glanced their way as she and Luna walked by them and took up their usual position in front of the head table.

Dumbledore began to talk not shortly thereafter. Hermione stopped looking when the other Headmasters were introduced as they were standing too far away for her to see their lips. Instead, she looked across the room to the Gryffindor table where Ginny was desperately trying to catch her eye.

Ginny didn’t try to contain her smile as she signed across the room, “Krum! Did you see him?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. She had heard more about Krum in the last month than she ever cared to. She decided to have a little fun. “Who is that again? The headmaster?”

Ginny gave her a disbelieving look. “You know exactly who he is! He’s a lot more attractive in person. Do you think he remembers me from the world cup?”

“No. Shouldn’t you be listening?”

“Shouldn’t you be watching?”

Hermione showed her disapproval by flashing her the one sign that everyone knew. She did, however, turn back to the head table, where she was embarrassed to find a disapproving McGonagall looking down at her. She gave her a sheepish smile.

People were clapping around her, apparently the speeches had drawn to a close, and so Hermione joined in as well.

The food arrived and she filled her plate with every new dish she could find, eager to try something that differed from the English fare they were usually served. She signed with Luna between bites about her charms project. Hermione felt incredibly comfortable in this moment, and relished in the feeling of safety that was surrounding her. Hogwarts really was an extraordinary place.

“I have the theory down, but I’m confused how to apply it to the practical.”

Hermione was confused when Luna stopped signing and seemed to be looking over Hermione’s shoulder. She gave Luna a questioning look as the other girl said, “Yes, we are.”

“What are you talking about?” She signed.

Luna just nodded and looked over Hermione’s shoulder again. Hermione scrunched up her face and turned around.

Standing behind her was one of the Beauxbatons girls. She was tall and slender, and had an air of confidence around her that Hermione couldn’t help but be enviable of. Her blonde hair was contained to a pony tail that sat low on her neck and snaked over her shoulder. She looked confused.

The other students around them stared at the blonde as she talked to Hermione.

“You don’t mind if I take it?”

“Take what?” Hermione said slowly. Her voice came out even raspier than normal.

“The bouillabaisse.” The girl said, now properly sporting a confused expression and gesturing to the bowl that was placed in front of Hermione’s plate.

“Oh, no go ahead.”

The girl was staring at her. Hermione shifted in her seat under the attention. The blonde snapped out of whatever stupor she was in and leaned over to grab the dish. She bent down close to Hermione, much closer than was strictly necessary Hermione thought, and lifted the plate off the table.

Hermione was assaulted by the smell of lilacs and new parchment. She wondered what kind of perfume the older girl used.

The blonde straightened. “I am Fleur Delacour.” She spoke with her nose slightly upturned. Hermione wasn’t quite sure if she found it pompous or dignified. She decided to reserve her judgement.

“Hermione Granger.”

“It is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance. ”

The girl had spoken quickly. Hermione’s face returned to the state of confusion it was in when the conversation had started. There was something odd about the way the girl spoke, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. As she often did, she chose to nod her agreement and hope that that she hadn’t just been asked a question. It seemed lady luck was on her side. The blonde turned away without saying anything else and returned to her spot on the bench surrounded by other blue clad students. Hermione watched her go. A small girl who looked very similar to the blonde sat directly to her right and instantly began talking rapidly in her ear the second she sat down.

Hermione turned back towards Luna.

“Anyway, I think I’ll head to the library after dinner.”

Fleur forced herself to walk through the entrance and into the castle. Her inner Veela was telling her to turn right around, head directly towards the younger girl, and whisk her off to somewhere private. She was determined to fight it. The girl, her mate, looked so young and innocent. And beautiful, her mind supplied.

She tried to convince herself that she had plenty of time to talk to the girl. She was here for 9 months after all! She didn’t need to talk to her now. But oh, how she wanted to.

Fleur was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she only noticed they had just entered a large room when she heard the gasps of her classmates. She followed their gaze upwards towards the ceiling, which she was shocked to notice was charmed to look like the sky outside. It was impressive magic. But it was no Beauxbatons.

Gabrielle talked to her in a stream of consciousness, lamenting on how she swore she had seen a bloodied ghost just a moment ago, and Fleur began to tune her out, nodding along and occasionally offering an “oh really?”. Once again, her thoughts had returned to the bushy haired girl. Could she feel it too? The instant connection? Fleur knew from her father, a wizard without a drop of Veela blood, that the Veela’s mate felt comfort when in the proximity of their chosen, but the extent differed person to person.

Fleur wasn’t sure how to approach her. Coming right out and announcing that she was hers certainly wouldn’t do, as much as the Veela in her longed to do so, but she didn’t want to wait around. She had gone 17 years without her mate! Why wait another day? The girl was hers! A small voice in the back of her head reminded her what happened when a Veela’s mate rejected them. It was a sobering thought. The overwhelming desire to claim faded to a manageable level. No, she would play this safe. Fleur Delacour would woo the girl.

She had just made this determination when the Hogwarts and Durmstrang students began to file in. Fleur stared at the Durmstrang students first. They all looked the same: strong jaws, wide shoulders, and a brooding expression plastered across their face. Gabrielle whispered excitedly that one of the boys, nay men, was Victor Krum, the internationally renowned Quidditch star that Fleur wouldn’t have been able to, and didn’t, pick out out of a lineup.

She was not searching for the celebrity. She was searching for the bushy haired girl. Students flowed into the Great Hall as Fleur kept a keen eye on entrance, eager to see her mate again. She started to worry when the crowd began to thin. Eventually, mercifully, the girl and her blonde friend walked in. They strode past Fleur without so much as a glance in her direction. Fleur tried not to feel insulted. It seemed the rest of the student body, Durmstrang’s and Hogwarts’ alike, felt no such indifference towards her and stared at her unabashedly with glazed expressions adorning their faces. She hated it.

Fortunately, the Hogwarts headmaster began his speech and the students turned their attention towards the head table. Fleur looked at the girl instead, who seemed to be tuning out the Headmaster. She wondered why the girl didn’t pay attention. Did she not respect her teachers? As Fleur looked closer, she noticed her mate staring at the table across the room. She followed her gaze and saw a red haired girl who was moving her hands in a similar way to the blonde on the grounds. It almost seemed as though they were conversing, a theory that was bolstered when her mate made a lewd gesture to the girl across the room, who just laughed silently in response.

“I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!” Dumbledore had completed his speech that Fleur had not registered to the excited applause of the rest of the hall.

She blinked when the food suddenly appeared. Try as she might, she could not hold a conversation with her friend Nadine about the horrid uniforms the Durmstrang students were sporting, a detail that Nadine was quick to pick up on.

“What’s with you?”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve been all silent. It’s very unlike you.”

“Yes! Normally you will not shut up!” Gabrielle helpfully chimed in.

“Shush you terror. I am just tired, is all.”

Nadine didn’t seem completely convinced, but let the subject drop, turning instead to the raven haired girl that was seated next to her and asking her opinion on the “‘orrible” hats of the Durmstrang uniform.

Fleur tried to focus on the conversation. It seemed as though she could only register a few words at a time before her attention slid down the table to the girl, who was now moving her hands in-between bites. Before Fleur could comprehend what her body was doing, she stood up and began walking towards the girl. She ignored the questioning calls from her friend and sister.

Halfway to her destination, Fleur began to panic. She didn’t know what to say to the girl, to her mate. For the first time in her life, Fleur Delacour was properly terrified of talking to someone.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She repeated to herself. It wouldn’t do now to turn around- she was too proud for that. Instead, she turned up her head and confidently walked the remainder of the way, internally terrified all the while.

She said the first thing that came to mind.

“Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?”

What. The. Fuck. Her first words spoken to her mate and that is what she went with? She tried to prevent the panic from showing on her face.

The blonde friend that sat across from Hermione looked up with a dazed expression.

“Yes, we are.”

Her mate still hadn’t turned around. She was making those gestures again to the blonde, who nodded in response to whatever it was she had conveyed. Fleur was confused. Was she purposefully being ignored? It was an innocent question, wasn’t it?

Finally the girl turned around. Her eyes widened suddenly as she looked at Fleur. Fleur could feel the warmth return to her chest, which since the grounds had dulled, and her Veela’s contentment. She wondered if the other girl could feel the same thing.

Fleur could feel the attention of the other students on her as she stood there dumbly. She ignored them.

“You don’t mind if I take it?”

“Take what?” Her voice was raspy, as though she hadn’t used it for several days. Fleur couldn’t help but feel endeared.

“The bouillabaisse.” She repeated, a little unsure as to why it was necessary to do so in the first place.

“Oh, no go ahead.”

What a stupid conversation starter. There was nothing left for Fleur to say. She wracked her brain trying to think of something, anything, to prolong the conversation but came up empty. She leaned over, a bit closer than she normally would have, as she found herself unable to deny herself this simple comfort of being close to her other half. She picked up the bouillabaisse and stood up.

“I am Fleur Delacour.” She all but blurted out.

“Hermione Granger.” What a beautiful name, Fleur thought. Hermione. Hermione and Fleur. Fleur and Hermione.

She fell back on the manners her mother had drilled into her to avoid anymore embarrassment.

“It iz a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.” She was rather proud of how confident her voice came out. It betrayed none of her insecurities or reservations.

The girl, Hermione, said nothing in response. Fleur began to wonder if panicking was her new default. Hermione gave a nod. Fleur didn’t know what to say to that. Instead, she turned and walked back to her seat, a blush fighting to stay on her face all the while.

Nadine was the first to speak when she returned.

“What was that?”

“What was what? I was just getting some bouillabaisse.”

Nadine stared at her. Then stared at the very full of pot of bouillabaisse that was already situated directly in-front of Fleur. Oh.

“I did not want to take it all.” She looked at the Ravenclaw Nadine had been talking to, “You wanted to try, yes?”

“Oh, um, sure.”

Fleur handed her the pot she had taken from Hermione’s section of the table.

Gabrielle leaned into her side.

“But Fleur, you don’t even like bouillabaisse.”

Chapter Text

Fleur woke up the next day earlier than usual. Much earlier. The sun was poking through the thick curtains, much to her chagrin. She stretched lazily, reaching her hands overhead and extending her legs until she heard a satisfying crack in her back. The previous night she had spent tossing and turning in bed, trying to think up ways to strike up a conversation with her mate, Hermione. She had rolled the girl’s name over in her mouth, quietly repeating it until even she, love struck as she was, grew sick of the exercise. Once she had tired of that, she moved on to deliberating between sending her maman a letter describing the finer aspects of her mate (of which, despite her very limited interaction was a rather exhaustive list) and simply keeping the matter to herself. It was a difficult argument to have with oneself, both sides of her psyche presenting, in her biased opinion, excellent points. She had fallen asleep around 2 in the morning right as pro-letter Fleur was insisting that their maman would offer superb advice to anti-letter Fleur. 

Her plan was to wake up early. But time is relative, and so Fleur, despite waking up earlier than usual, had far overshot her goal. A hazy 8:00 from the tempus she had just cast floated in the air next to her. She bolted upright in realization. Merde. She had meant to set an alarm, but the riveting argument she had been having with herself the night prior had caused the task to slip her mind entirely.

In her haste, she was unable to properly untangle herself from the web of blanket and limbs she had spun the prior night, and found herself lying prone on the ground not a few seconds later. She moaned in pain. With a final kick of her legs, she escaped the covers and ran to her overflowing closet. Gabrielle had teased her mercilessly for the sheer volume of clothes she had decided to bring along to Hogwarts. 

“Fleur, you’ll be in your uniform almost the entire time!”

She rolled her eyes at the memory, grabbed the powder blue uniform, and pulled it on. She looked at herself in the mirror with unmasked horror. Oh gods no, this won’t do! Her hair was puffed up slightly more on one side than the other. For a normal girl, it would have been a problem that could be solved with a quick run through of her fingers, but for a girl like Fleur, it was going to take both work and time. The latter of which she had very little of. She cast another tempus, 8:04, and decided on wearing the ridiculous hat her uniform provided to conceal the imperfection. 

A precious ten minutes were spent in the bathroom before she was ready to take her chances with the general public. She cast a fleeting look at the mirror over her bureau as she rushed to the door and flung it open.

She was thankful that most of her classmates were similarly inclined to treat themselves to a lay in on weekends, making the corridor mercifully empty. A small group of them gathered around the entrance of the carriage. Fleur joined them. Her classmates and her had a strained relationship. Through the years, it had improved, but they were still adolescents and Fleur was still so obviously different. Jealousy had run rampant amongst the girls, while the boys experienced an uncomfortable amount of embarrassment of their own making. Thankfully, now in their 7th year, her classmates had grown used to the thrall that wrapped around Fleur, and for part, Fleur had gotten much, much better at controlling it. But what Fleur lacked in numbers, she made up in quality. Nadine pushed her way through the group to link arms with Fleur and drag her towards the castle. 

“It’s not even 8:30 and you are up! What has gotten into you?”

“I can wake up early.” Fleur said, her nose slightly upturned and her tone somewhat haughty. 

Nadine snorted. “You can, that’s true, but you don’t.”

Fleur leaned in closer to Nadine and lowered her voice. “I’m just nervous about the selection.”

Nadine seemed satisfied at the answer. “Well it’s out of our control isn’t it? Nothing we can do about it now.”

Fleur hummed, and changed the subject. They talked about trivial things for the remainder of the journey up to the castle. By the time they got to the Great Hall it was already nearly full. She felt the greedy eyes of the Hogwarts population staring at her as he followed her classmates to sit once again at the center of the Ravenclaw’s table. As she walked, she tried, with some excitement, to find Hermione in the crowd. She was therefore disappointed to come to the truly tragic realization that Hermione had either already left the Great Hall, or had yet to show. She hoped it was the latter. 

She swept down the aisle between the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables, falling with grace into the open spot in the middle of the Ravenclaw table next to Nadine and across from Gabrielle. 

“Fleur you’re up early!” Gabrielle said, her mouth still filled with half eaten toast. 

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, Gabrielle.”

The young girl gave a dramatic swallow, before asking Fleur again, “Why are you up early?”

“It’s not that early!”

“For you it is.”

“I was just excited is all.” Her eyes were darting between the entrance and Gabrielle. She tried to keep the glances a minimum to avoid the inevitable teasing that would befall her if her sister discovered what she was doing, and why. 

“Are you excited for your specialized tutoring Gabby?” Nadine asked. Fleur could almost kiss her, she was so grateful.

She ignored the two as they talked, instead electing to pick at the small amount of fruit in front of her and cast wanting glances at the door. Not too long after, Madame Maxime strode through the entrance with the remainder of the Beauxbatons contingent, all of whom had slept in. Instantly, Fleur and those who had come to breakfast earlier stood up, prompting laughter to sound around them from the Hogwarts and Durmstrang students. Madame Maxime made eye contact with Fleur, her normally passive face expressing surprise, and relief, at seeing the blonde witch already at breakfast. 

“Bet you anything Maxime thought you had slept through.” Nadine laughed next to her. 

Fleur elbowed her. The headmistress stopped halfway down the aisle, and waited for all of the Beauxbatons students, with the exception of little Gabrielle, to line up in a neat, single file line behind those who had come in with her, before she began to walk towards the head table and the Goblet of Fire. Fleur clutched the piece of parchment she had hastily scratched her name on that morning, flicking the edges in a nervous tic as the Beauxbatons delegation one by one entered their names.

Nadine, who had fallen in place directly ahead of Fleur, strode forward, dropped her own piece of parchment into the Goblet, and turned back around to give Fleur an encouraging smile. Fleur took a deep breath. She straightened her already rigid back and moved quickly with a false confidence that was buoyed by her training as Delacour heiress. Confidence was practically lesson number one. She didn’t falter when she crossed the line. She felt a great sense of relief submitting her name as Nadine’s words bounced around in her head; it was out of her control now. 

“Do you think you’ll be selected?” Gabrielle said the moment Fleur and Nadine returned to their seats.

“Of course not. Fleur will be.” Nadine said, with absolute certainty. 

Fleur had just begun to retort, when a slightly disheveled Hermione stalked through the entrance. 

No one but she paid the witch any mind as she hurried to the end of the table, grabbed several pieces of toast without sitting down, turned on her heel, and walked straight back out the way she came, a piece of her toast already half eaten. 

Fleur stood abruptly. 

“I have to go.” 

“Where could you possibly be going?”

“I need to ask a professor a question.”

“We haven’t even started yet! And it’s a Saturday.”

“I read ahead.” Fleur made up. It wasn’t a lie. She usually did. She just hadn't done so this particular time, but she felt no need to explain that to Nadine and Gabrielle.

She all but chased after Hermione, as she reminded herself to slow down lest she bring further unwanted attention to herself. 

Fleur passed through the doors and looked around. She could just make out a lock of unkempt brown hair as it disappeared behind a corner to her right. 

She followed Hermione for a few minutes until she found herself standing in front of the library. The librarian, who had given Hermione a warm smile, now glared at Fleur for no apparent reason. 

Fleur offered up a “Hello, madam,” in greeting as she passed, but judging by the severe look the other woman gave, she wasn’t convinced it had helped.

Hermione had crept to the back of the library, and so, Fleur did too. She wasn’t quite sure what her plan was to interact with the Ravenclaw, but she felt a pull to be around her. It hadn’t been long since her Veela had realized what Hermione was to her, but ever since then, Fleur has felt a strain in her chest that only began to alleviate when Hermione had entered the Great Hall this morning. Her mémère had told her such a thing was common when finding one’s mate, but as it wasn’t common to meet so early in life, Fleur had allowed the lessons to go in one ear and out the other. All she remembered was that distance from her mate wasn’t comfortable. But she had no idea what constituted “distance,” and she wasn’t keen on testing it.

Hermione had stopped, and was now examining the shelf in front of her. Fleur dipped into an adjacent row. She took several deep breaths. She could do this. It was easy! Talk to her. They were meant to be. If anything, it should be easier for her to talk to Hermione than anyone else. With one last calming breath, Fleur stepped into the same row as Hermione, confidence fully in place. The other girl was couched down: intently looking through the lower rows as she quietly muttered to herself, evidently annoyed she had not yet found what she was looking for.

Fleur cleared her throat loudly to alert the girl of her presence. No response. Hermione didn’t even flinch. Perhaps she had been too quiet. She tried again. Nothing. Now slightly miffed, Fleur decided to take a more direct approach.

“Pardon me?”

Again, nothing. Fleur couldn’t believe the audacity of her mate. Surely she hadn’t done anything to warrant such a blatant dismissal? Sure, her introduction last night hadn’t been ideal, but it hardly justified such behavior. She tapped her foot. Suddenly, finally, Hermione stood up, book in hand. 

Much to Fleur’s chagrin, she instantly turned away from Fleur without so much as a glance in her direction. The brown haired girl walked to a nearby table, sat down, and started reading. Fleur huffed. Fine! If her mate didn’t want to acknowledge her, well then, two could play at this game! 

She stomped away, annoyed, and most frustratingly, hurt.

Like clockwork, Hermione woke up at 6am on Saturday. She was eager to get a bit of studying in before the excitement of the rest of the day. As usual, she was the first person awake in her dorm. For as studious as her house mates were, they certainly treated themselves to sleeping in on weekends, and this day proved to be no different. She dressed quietly, putting on her uniform despite not having classes. She liked it. She also liked the fact that people didn’t tease her for her muggle clothes when she was wearing it. In acknowledgment of the weekend, she allowed herself to forgo the tie. Relaxation at its finest.

She left the dorm without so much as a look in the mirror. It wasn’t that she didn’t care for her appearance, she did. She was a teenage girl, after all, but she didn’t understand the need to put that much time into it. Time that could be spent studying. There were a few of the more ambitious members of her house mulling around the common room. She got on rather well with these classmates, and waved to them in greeting as she passed. They shot her smiles, and waved back.

Hermione was well known for her rather, shall we say, aggressive walking pace, but on Saturday mornings she liked to indulge in a slow, at least for her, walk to her secret studying spot. The library didn’t open until 8 on Saturdays. Ridiculous. Since her first year, lonely she was, she had spent her Saturday mornings tucked away in a hidden classroom inside the Astronomy tower. The Weasley twins, who had taken a liking to her during her very first week, had told her about it after finding her sitting on the ground outside the library waiting for it to open. They had been sneaking back into the Gryffindor common room after doing Merlin-knows-what for the night, and had decided to take pity on the young Ravenclaw. 

Occasionally, they stopped by to say hello, but this morning was no such day. She set up shop in the large armchair the twins had smuggled up for her. Hermione had no idea where they got it from, and decided it was best not to pry. 

As she was several weeks ahead on her school work, she decided to do some extracurricular work in advanced charms. Professor Flitwick had a soft spot for her, and encouraged her to study beyond his course curriculum by giving her unfettered access to the restricted section, and pointing her in the direction of particularly interesting spells and concepts the other students would not yet be able to grasp. She was almost done with her most recent book, a strikingly dense tome on theoretical charm theory, and was eager to finish it before breakfast. 

Unfortunately, her stomach was feeling upset. It had since the night before, but she had been convinced a good night’s sleep would solve the issue. So far, she was wrong. It was just distracting enough that it took her longer than it should have to finish. With a satisfied sigh, she finally closed the book she had just finished. She cast tempus, jumping up when she realized it was already nearly 9. Breakfast was ending soon. Besides, she had hoped to watch at least some of the idiots drop their names in the goblet. 

She rushed down the hall, down the stairs, back up the stairs as they had moved halfway down, down another corridor, around a few corners, and finally through the entrance hall. Her stomach settled. It seemed all she needed was a bit of exercise. 

The Great Hall was almost completely full. Apparently she had missed the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students entering their names, as the entirety of both schools’ delegations sat at the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables, respectively. Luna was nowhere to be found. This wasn’t unusual, as the blonde witch tended to wander about the grounds in her free time. Hermione had joined her once or twice, but the lack of direction had gotten to her, and she had ended up more frustrated than relaxed. Today, Hermione elected to grab a bit of toast and call it a day. 

Now, Hermione might be deaf, but no one could accuse her of being stupid. Or unobservant.. Indeed, it was particularly because, or perhaps despite, her deafness that she had an above average perceptiveness. Thus, she was acutely aware of the attention of the attractive blonde Beauxbatons student, Fleur, was it? She chose to ignore the attention. She wasn’t eager to be made fun of, so she kept her head down and booked it right back out of the Great Hall. 

Her thoughts settled back on the charm book she had just finished. There was an especially difficult passage that she still didn’t have a full grasp on, and so decided to find a supplemental reading on the topic the instant she reached the library. Madam Pince was, as usual, manning the front desk. Hermione waved hello. The librarian favored the Ravenclaw as she hardly ever talked at all. Hermione didn’t know it yet, but Madam Pince was almost ready to give Hermione special after-hours access to the library. 

She went to the charms section, scouring the shelves for several minutes before she finally found her book. She was reaching for it, her hand extended outward, when she caught a faint scent of lilacs. It was familiar. She just couldn’t put her finger on it. Perhaps it was a book. Satisfied with her conclusion, she stood up, book in hand, and plunked herself down at her favorite table and dove in. She could have sworn she had seen a flash of silver out of the corner of her eye, but shrugged it off as a trick of the light. 

Hermione stayed in the library for several more hours, until her stomach once again twisted uncomfortably. She decided to head back down for lunch. She could just barely smell the faint trace of lilacs as she passed through the same aisle she had found her book. Weird.

Chapter Text

That evening was the night of the selection of the champions. Publicly, Fleur was the very picture of confidence and composure, but internally was concentrated neuroticism. But Fleur was grateful for this discomfort, as the alternative was to focus solely on how she had been so completely shut down by the one who was supposed to be the other half of her heart. She had grown up hearing her Grand-mère’s excessively impassioned sermons on the wonderfulness of it all. It seemed to her Grand-mère that clichés were acceptable descriptors, as Fleur was certain she had heard about how a simple brush of hands could ignite a warmth in a Veela’s heart on at least 5 separate occasions. As she aged, she began to resent these monologues, but as a child she adored them. She savoured the experience of seeing her normally dignified and aloof Grand-mère melt away into an adoring and soft woman as she talked about her soulmate. And what enticing words they were. Especially to a young girl. 

It should come as no surprise then, that Fleur had found herself more than enamoured with the very idea of a mate. To her, sex or gender was of little concern. In her dreams, a Prince dressed in a crisply pressed suit would beg her for dance just as often as a blushing woman in a flowing gown bowed her head at something Fleur had whispered in her ear. Through them all, there was one constant: instant and unconditional love. From the very first moment she saw her mate she would be in love with them, and they with her. Of this, she was certain.

Unfortunately, these sermons did bugger all to prepare her for a frustratingly oblivious mate. Truly, how was Fleur supposed to woo the girl when Hermione wouldn’t so much as look in her direction? It was maddening. So no, Fleur was not put off by the nerves of the impending selection. She was grateful. 

She sat at the Ravenclaw table and allowed herself to melt into an uncomfortable conversation with the other Beauxbatons students about who was to be selected from each school. One of the boys, Jerome, had started a betting pool and was eagerly shoving a parchment and quill into the face of whomever had made the grave misjudgment of discussing such matters in his vicinity. It was only the glare, that could only be described as vicious, from Fleur that deterred him from approaching her.

When Dumbledore finally stood up, Fleur became so engrossed with his speech she didn’t notice the attention of a particular Ravenclaw. The attention that never wavered throughout the entirety of the speech. It was only noticed when “Fleur Delacour” was called and the witch found herself looking immediately for the Ravenclaw in an unconscious attempt to gain validation and admiration. Seeing that Hermione was already looking at her had caused her to gain an extra pep in her step as she glided down the aisle towards the head table, eyes firmly on her Headmistress to maintain her composure. Still, she was helpless to stop the wide grin from spreading across her features. Perhaps her mate was not as oblivious as she had thought.

The next week Fleur had been too terrified to approach Hermione again. She spent her time shooting longing glances at the younger girl with what she had assumed was surreptitious discretion. Unbeknownst to Fleur, Hermione had indeed noticed.

“Is she looking at me again?” Hermione signed one morning as she and Ginny weaved through lingering students on their way towards Hermione’s charms class.

“Yeah, I can’t tell if she’s trying to kill you or eat you. Maybe both.” Ginny said.

“I don’t understand what her problem is.”

Ginny just shrugged and continued onwards. Their shadow followed them. As they arrived at the door of the Charms classroom, Hermione felt a sense of relief wash over her. Fleur would not be able to follow her here. She said a hurried goodbye to Ginny, went inside to claim her usual seat, and begrudgingly allowed her thoughts to wander to the French student.

Despite her limitations, or perhaps because of them, Hermione was an exceptionally perceptive girl. She was all too aware of classmates who spat nasty words, sent hexes at her, and most insultingly, looked at her with pity. For the latter, she had neither time nor patience. Had she been more cunning, she could have schemed to use it to her advantage. Alas, she was far too proud. Maybe too proud. It was precisely this questionable shortcoming that caused Hermione to presume that the attention of the French witch was malicious, or at the very least petty. The girl was just another bully to deal with, and Hermione Granger had been dealing with bullies her entire life. 

Though, it was odd how quickly Fleur had focused on her. Surely their one interaction was not enough to warrant such behaviour? She thought back on that first night in the Great Hall. The older girl had just asked Hermione if she was done with the bouillabaisse. And then introduced herself. And then- Oh Merlin what if she had asked Hermione a question? What if it was an important one, and Hermione had just dumbly nodded along? Fleur probably thought her an idiot. 

Hermione wasn’t quite sure why this bothered her. It wasn’t as though she put much stock into what others thought of her; if she did, she likely would have been consumed by insecurities and nervousness long ago, and that would be simply unacceptable. She did care rather a lot about the opinions of those who she respected, but that list was especially small and could be counted on one hand. Unfortunately for the French girl, Fleur did not fall on said list. It was, therefore, most confusing that Hermione found herself caring a great deal about Fleur’s opinion of her. The other witch had done absolutely nothing to earn Hermione’s tightly guarded respect. So why did she care? And why in Merlin’s name was she thinking about it in the middle of a charms class that normally held attention better than any other subject?

She realized with a start that the rest of the class was looking at her expectedly. The small cube, no larger than a fist, that sat on the front of her desk was glowing red in much the same fashion as a Remembrall. This device, however, told her when Professor Flitwick asked her a question. She blushed. Her attention shifted to the parchment in front of her, that was enchanted to transcribe the lecture exactly.

What is the summoning spell?

She looked at Professor Flitwick. “Accio.”

Hermione didn’t much like speaking. She tended to avoid it if at all possible. Her words always came out clumsy, the volume was never quite right, and the looks she received from those around her were oftentimes downright insulting. So she kept her mouth firmly shut. Unless a professor, as good-intentioned as they may be, asked her a question. 

These tended to put her in an uncomfortable and frequently embarrassing situation. Her verbal communication was, to say the least, succinct. Where she was known while signing to ramble and lecture, regularly forcing her friends to tell her to shut up , in spoken words she was a quintessential example of brevity and conciseness. One word answers were not only usual but expected. Her professors had long since learned to not press her to elaborate, at least in front of her peers, and had come to accept the accurate, albeit brief, answers she gave. Flitwick was no different and simply nodded, gave her 2 points, and continued with his lecture. 

Hermione sighed. It came out as more of a grunt, but her classmates were used to it and paid her no mind. She looked down again, reading the new words that Flitwick spoke, but absorbing very little of it. It was frustrating for her, someone who was more than adept at reading quickly, to slow down a speaking speed. She would instead pause for several minutes to allow a backlog of notes to accrue, before reading them rapidly at a much more reasonable pace. As such, she was often left with an abundance of time that most students would have used to daydream, but which Hermione used to study ahead. Today, however, there was no additional learning. 

Her attention was already shifting back to the blonde. It quickly became apparent that she would not be able to focus on the lecture, and resigned to revise the lecture notes that night. The pain in her abdomen, which had been fluttering in and out, had gotten worse during the class. She decided to head straight to lunch after, as the pain always seemed to subside at meals. Perhaps she was in the midst of a growth spurt.

Fleur was sitting, as usual, at the Ravenclaw table at 11:30 am exactly. It was an impressive feat, really, as her transfiguration class ended at 11:25 am in the northwest tower and it normally took roughly 15 minutes to walk down the many, many stairwells. Although she felt slightly miffed at the other girl’s dismissiveness, Fleur was not about to risk seeing Hermione, even if it was for only a few minutes at a time. So there she sat. And waited. And waited. Until eventually the girl would swoop in with her nose in a book or her friend at her side, grab a quick bite, and march straight back out without so much as a glance in Fleur’s direction. Since the champions’ selection, Fleur had not caught Hermione looking at her, although sometimes she thought, or perhaps hoped, that the younger girl was shooting covert looks.

“ Fleur, would you stop staring at the deaf girl !” Gabrielle said, exasperatedly. 

“ I’m not staring! I’m just looking. ”

“ You’re staring .”

“ Am not! ”

“ Are too! ”

Fleur looked ready to retort in kind when Gabrielle’s words finally sunk in.

“ Sorry, did you say deaf?” 

“ Yes? ” Gabrielle said; her face scrunched up in confusion to match her tone.

“Hermione is deaf?”

“Obviously. Why do you think she never talks and is always moving her hands?”

Fleur’s mind was a whirlwind as she tried to think back to each time she had watched Hermione. She had thought the other girl shy, but what if Gabby was right, and she simply did not talk? Or could not talk. But that can’t be right, she spoke to Fleur that first night! Mind, it was short, and not at all a true conversation, but the girl clearly could talk.

“I thought she was just quiet and… gesticulating…”

Gabrielle just stared at her. “I don’t know what that means, but you’re an idiot.”

Fleur narrowed her eyes at her little sister but didn’t retort. After all, she did feel rather moronic. This development certainly added an additional layer of difficulty to Fleur’s plans of wooing the Ravenclaw. She had to admit that she had never imagined her mate would be, well, disabled. It was a world she had never considered. All the people she knew both in the wizarding and Veela worlds were as healthy and able as could be, except for a third cousin thrice removed who had a nasty bout of dragon pox, but even that had been fixed with a few potions and a week of bed rest. The very idea of an issue not being solvable was so far fetched and alien to her, that she had a difficult time even conceptualizing what the problem was. Could she not hear at all? Or was it just slightly muffled? Or was one ear weaker than the other? 

Perhaps there was something she could do to fix the problem? Surely some potions could remedy Hermione’s issues? Maybe the British witch hadn’t been able to afford such treatment and that was why her hearing hadn’t yet been sorted? Whatever the reason, Fleur was set on solving it.

These questions rolled around her head in a mad jumble that did nothing multiply into more and more questions. Frustratingly, she couldn’t even begin to think of a place to find answers. She was highly doubtful that Hogwarts’ library would hold any in its outdated tomes. No, she would have to figure out another path. She decided it was time to pen a letter to her Grand-mère’s and ask for advice. 

Later that night, after the letter was penned, sealed, and sent, Fleur decided to relax in the common room of the carriage. She was just starting to get into the latest chapter of the novel she was reading when Nadine plopped down in the seat next to her with a dramatic huff. Her head rested on the back of the seat. She rolled it to the side to speak to Fleur.

“ Fleur, what’s with you lately?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why the fuck have you been acting so strangely?”

“I have not been acting strangely.”

“Yes you have”

“No, I really haven’t.”

“Fleur, I’ve known you longer than any of the idiots here, and I know there is something wrong.”

Instinctively, Fleur knew she could trust Nadine with her secret, but something was holding her back. A certain something that looked suspiciously like embarrassment. But, it would be nice to have someone to talk about this sort of thing with. She gave Nadine an appraising look and bit back another denial.

“If I tell you, you have to promise to not tell anyone, even Gabby.”

Fleur had her attention now. Nadine sat up a little straighter.

“My lips are sealed.”

Fleur took a deep breath and released it in a shaky exhale.

“I found my mate.”

Nadine was not a Veela. She had no idea the intricacies of Fleur’s heritage. But even she knew the gravity of the statement. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She snapped it shut. It was the first time in what must have been years that Fleur had seen Nadine so utterly speechless. Fleur couldn’t even savor the sight, she was so nervous. She had averted her eyes to the ground, and so, was completely surprised by the sudden appearance of Nadine in her lap. A very exaggerated, very wet kiss was pressed to her cheek. 

“I’m so excited! Who is it? That hot girl in Slytherin?”

“Why do you think it’s a girl?”

“Are you kidding?”

“No?”

Nadine threw her head back and laughed.

“Of course your mate would be a woman. Imagine a man! Hah! Now spill, who is she?”

“It could be a man!” Fleur mumbled.

“It’s not though, is it?”

“No.” She said quietly. 

Nadine continued to stare at her. Somewhat reluctantly, Fleur answered. 

“Hermione Granger, she’s a 4th year in Ravenclaw.”

“Fleur! I never pegged you as a cradle-robber!”

“She’s only 2 years younger!”  

Nadine had scrunched up her face as she tried to recall just who Hermione Granger was. When realization dawned on her, it slowly transformed into a smirk. 

“Ah yes, she’s the reason for your sudden love of bouillabaisse.”  

Fleur rolled her eyes. “I needed an excuse to talk to her. But it didn’t matter anyway. Did you know she’s deaf?”

“Duh, everyone knows.”

“I didn’t.”

“You, my friend, have many strengths, but observation is not one of them.”

“I don’t know what to do about it.”  

Nadine, who had (finally) gotten off Fleur’s lap, returned to her original seat, this time with her back straight and attention firmly on her friend.

“Fleur, can I give you a bit of advice? One woman to another?”

“No.”

“I think you should give her- wait a second did you say no?” She said, incredulity emanating from her in waves. 

“Yes.”

“Yes no, or no yes?”

“Whatever makes you stop talking.”

“Well. I never!” She brought the back of her right hand to her forehead and clutched her heart with her other. “You have wounded me, dear Fleur, wounded I say!”

Fleur, who had been picking at the fabric of the pillow currently sitting on her lap, suddenly moved with the grace and athleticism commonly associated with her and flung the pillow directly into the side of Nadine’s head. A direct hit.

“I’ve been hit! I need a healer!”

“I’m sorry, it was an accident.”

Nadine, who was now dramatically rolling around on the ground yelling out obscenities, stopped and sat up. “An accident? Throwing a pillow at my head was an accident?”

“Of course. You can’t be suggesting that I, heiress of the Delacour family most noble, would stoop to such… primal urges.”

“Oh, I bet you stoop to primal urges quite often.” Nadine wiggled her eyebrows. 

Another pillow found Nadine’s head.

“Stop, stop! Mercy! I beg of you!”

“Fine,” she huffed, “what’s your… ‘advice’?”

Nadine straightened up from her spot on the floor. Fleur was surprised at the serious tone her friend had taken on. 

“Look, I might not be a Veela or even understand half of what that entails, but I do know you need to connect with her in a way that makes her comfortable. Learn how the hand signal thingy works.” 

“I don’t even know what that’s called.”

“Well I guess you have a new first-thing-to-do for tomorrow, don’t you?”

“Can’t I just talk to her? I mean, clearly, she can understand, we had a conversation!”

Nadine’s serious tone dropped, replaced by a confident, teasing voice and a smirk. “First of all, you exchanged like, maybe 10 words. That’s not a conversation Fleur. I’ve seen you talk more to your hairbrush.” 

There were no more pillows to throw. Fleur’s arm itched for one.

Nadine continued, “You have to show her you’re willing to put in the work. Look, she has what, like two friends?” Fleur hadn’t thought about it. To her horror, she realized Nadine was right. She had only ever seen Hermione with the blonde girl, Luna, and that red-haired menace. “I doubt that many students here bothered to learn how to “talk”? Is that insensitive? Whatever. My point still stands. You can’t expect her to do all the work. How’s a relationship like that going to work anyway?”

It was… surprisingly good advice for Nadine, who wasn’t known for her emotional insight. Normally the girl offered an awkward pat on the back in comfort and a strained, forced smile. As such, it took Fleur several seconds to remember to talk back. 

“Yes,” she began, slowly, “you’re… right.”

“Of course I’m right, no need to act so surprised!”

“Forgive me for being shocked. The last good ‘advice,’” she emphasized with air quotes, “you gave was which skirt to dress Madame Bubbles in.”

Madame Bubbles, a particularly vivacious doll, had been a constant companion to Fleur in her youth. She hadn’t held a high opinion of Nadine, but she had appreciated the girl’s fashion advice. Fleur had dutifully relayed the message, many, many times.

“That plastic tart wouldn’t know fashion if it hit her in the face.”

“She had other strengths.” Fleur’s smile had slipped back on. 

“Like what? Being a total bitch?”

“Well, she never shoved me in a mud puddle.”

“For the last time, that was an accident.”

They fell into the familiar argument, playing their respective parts and acting in the inordinately dramatic way they were known around Beauxbatons for. It was a comforting ordinariness that Fleur realized she had been missing only when they had begun bickering. For all the dramatics and jabs Nadine pushed, she was without a doubt, a lifelong friend. The few people left in the carriage common room had long since trickled out as the night wore on, leaving just the two of them to fill the silence of the night. It wasn’t until the clock chimed midnight that Fleur had demanded they go off to bed. She had a plan tomorrow, and she wasn’t about to blow it for a late night. 

The next morning, Fleur had shown up to breakfast early, as usual. But unlike the last week, where she was filled with yearning and a certain level of helplessness, she was filled to the brim with optimism and determination. She had a plan. She sat at the table staring, rather than reading, her textbook as she waited for Hermione and the blonde girl to arrive. Sure enough, the duo walked in not long after Fleur had sat down, their steps almost perfectly in sync. They were communicating using that strange method again. It was curious to observe. They could be talking about anything and anyone and she would never know. They could be talking about her. Fleur was not unused to people’s quasi-discrete attention, but it was not something she would ever say she enjoyed as most of it tended towards resentment and bitterness. Of course, she hoped that whatever it was that Hermione and her friend were discussing did not fall into such familiar territory. Hope springs eternal.

As usual, Hermione stayed just long enough to eat a few bites of toast, but today Fleur was grateful for her promptness. She managed to keep her head down as Hermione exited the Great Hall. As soon as the younger girl had disappeared behind the doors, Fleur stood up and glided over towards the blonde. 

“Bonjour, Luna was it?”

The other students were looking at her with looks of disbelief. It was highly irregular for anyone to talk to Loony Lovegood. It was even more irregular for someone with any semblance of clout to do so, and clout Fleur Delacour had in spades. 

“I was wondering when you’d talk to me. Do you want to walk the grounds?” She said in that same dreamy voice she had the first night. 

“Yes, that would be nice.” 

Luna stood up, abandoning a barely touched breakfast as she did. They walked out of the Great Hall and into the cool autumn morning. Fleur tightened her cloak around her shoulders. 

“I thought you might want to get away from the other students,” Luna said, breaking the silence. 

Fleur looked at her in surprise. 

“I would not have minded talking with you in there.”

“Even with what you wanted to talk with me about?”

Did Luna know what Fleur was going to say? She found herself curious as to the extent of Luna’s knowledge. 

“What do you think I wanted to ask about?”

She gave Fleur a dopey sort of smile before replying, “Hermione, of course.”

“Well,” She was a little stunned, truth be told, and it took her several seconds before she could regain her composure, “how did you know that?”

“Oh, the Plidders told me.”

“The what?”

“Plidders, they’re very curious little creatures you know. Daddy wrote about them in last month’s issue. They’ve been swarming around you since you arrived.”

Fleur knew the rumours about Luna Lovegood, but as she was accustomed to unwanted speculation, she hadn’t paid them much mind or given them much credence. It wasn’t a mystery now why the others thought Luna a tad bit… odd. She chose to ignore the curious side of herself that wanted desperately to ask about these creatures. Instead, she relented to her desire to find out precisely how much Luna knew about the nature of her relationship with Hermione. 

“Do you know why I was going to ask you about ‘ermione?”

“Of course, you’re two halves after all.”

“Two ‘alves?”

“Of the same coin, you know. I could tell the second I met Hermione she was destined for someone.” 

“Did you?”

“Yes, although, I wasn’t expecting someone like you.”

“A girl?”

“French.”

Fleur was unable to suppress the undignified snort that escaped. 

“Well, I wasn’t expecting someone like ‘ermione.”

“British?”

“No,” Fleur shifted her weight uncomfortably, “different.”

“She is pretty special, isn’t she? The Plidders barely touch her, but the nargles are all over her.”

“Yes, well, I meant more her affliction.”

“Is she sick? She didn’t tell me.”

At this point, Fleur was unsure if Luna was being purposefully obtuse. Unfortunately, as she didn’t know the girl, she was unable to get a proper read on her. 

“No, ‘er, what is the word? Impairment?”

“She’s not ‘impaired’ she’s exactly as she should be.”

Fleur was starting to get a tad annoyed. 

“Oui, well she can’t ‘ear, so it is not inaccurate to say she is impaired.”

“We shouldn’t focus on what she can’t do.” Luna’s voice had lost its misty quality, and her tone had turned to stone. It was a bit disconcerting to see the normally serene witch transform into one of edges and rigidity. Fleur quickly backtracked.

“Yes, you are right, of course, I apologize. I was wondering if you would be able to help me, to talk with her I mean.”

If her Grand-mère could see her now; Fleur Delacour for all her lessons of propriety reduced to stumbling over her words in a desperate attempt to gain the trust of one dubbed “Looney Lovegood.” 

“Of course I can!” The edges to her voice had dulled and softened, leaving behind the far more familiar gentle disposition.

“I noticed you talk with ‘er with your hands. Is there a spell or something I can use to learn this?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, there’s no spell. But there is a book!” She put on her large purple, feathered eyeglasses she had stored in her cloak pocket, and opened her bookbag with the other arm. A few moments later, she pulled out a large, worn-looking book. She passed it to Fleur. 

British Sign Language, An Introduction , the title read in modest blue lettering. She flicked through a few pages, enough to realize with a sinking feeling, that the book was most certainly muggle. 

“None of the pictures move then?”

“No, but sometimes if you squint and jump up and down 47 times on your left foot exactly 32 feet above sea level, they look like they do.”

Fleur smiled. “I’ll make sure to give that a go then.”

“I don’t think it would you help you much,” they were approaching the front doors again, and Fleur could hear the sounds of dozens of students walking to class not too far away, “it’s only the words that move, and they just rearrange spell out ‘Cranberries’ again and again.”

“I don’t know it might be useful, that is one of my favourite berries.”

Luna gave her a blinding smile. “Don’t get discouraged. Hermione can’t always see things clearly, the nargles get in her way.”

Without giving Fleur a chance to respond, she turned away and walked back into the castle.

Chapter Text

Fleur stalked about the carriage. Frustration did not begin to scratch the surface of the true magnitude of feeling she was experiencing. Never in her life did she have to chase. People gladly lined up just to have a chance to talk to her. And now, the one person whose attention Fleur cares to capture is purposefully ignoring her. How ironic.

Fleur didn’t like being bad at things. She despised the feeling of being inferior to another with just about anything. So powerful was her reluctance to inadequacy, that it was a rare occasion indeed that she stuck with something she initially was bad at. Yet here she was. Crouched over a muggle book at 2 in the morning with nothing but a faint Lumos to illuminate the pages, and desperately trying to mimic the illustrations. Illustrations that didn’t move. Muggles.

She rubbed her eyes. Her head dropped dramatically to her crossed arms that were resting on the table, and let out a muffled sigh of defeat. She wasn’t making any progress. 

It was humbling. Learning by oneself was not an easy task to begin with, never mind when the topic was as experiential as sign was. She slammed the book closed in a huff and angrily dressed for bed. Perhaps tomorrow would bring her a new resolve. Her eyes were just about to close when a sharp tapping came from the window. She grumbled. 

Who was possibly sending her a letter at this hour? Her sluggish mind caught up to her when she realized just who it may be and she flung the sheets from her in her haste to reach the small window. It squeaked slightly as it opened. The owl, a large white eagle owl distinctive of the Delacour family, forced its way in almost immediately. He flew to perch on the back of her desk chair where he waited for her. 

“Do you want to stay the night?” She was met with silence. 

She summoned a few treats from her trunk before moving to untied the letter from his steadily presented leg. He nipped at her hand a few times in thanks before taking off back into the night. She supposed she couldn’t blame the owl as she looked around her small room. It certainly wasn’t as appealing to an owl as a forest full of mice.

Fleur flipped the envelope around, noting the softness of the parchment and the elegant scrawl distinctive of her Grand-mère. The Delacour emblem was unbroken; an elegant fleur-de-lis. 

Carefully, she broke the wax with the sharp letter opener her mother had given her when she turned 15 (the proper age to begin correspondence with foreign dignitaries, she had been told) and took the single piece of paper out. 

Fleur, 

I am most pleased to hear that you have found your Destined. An unexpected yet welcomed surprise. You must speak with her as quickly as possible; it is quite likely your magic will begin to atrophy the longer you dawdle. Your Destined’s might follow suit. Keep a close eye on her if you are insistent on delaying your interaction. If there are any indications of symptoms you must spend time with her- I don’t care if you have to curse the girl to get her into the same room, but proximity is essential and ignoring this step would be detrimental to both of you. 

As to your other worry: you would do well to remember that magic is not capable of solving all. I told your mother she was far too lenient with your attitude. Connect with her however you can and get those silly ideas out of your head.

With love, 

Grandmother

Fleur restrained herself from crumpling up the letter. It was written in typical Grand-mère fashion: deceptively agreeable until it was time to drive the point home. She was right, of course. Grand-mère was rarely wrong; it was, in Fleur’s opinion, one of her worst qualities. 

She crawled back in bed, leaving the letter strewn across her desk. Tomorrow , she thought, tomorrow I’ll learn properly.

A few days had passed before Fleur, stubborn in this as she was in everything else, decided to finally call in the expertise of another. As her options were limited to Luna and that other girl, she had elected to ask the former. Unfortunately, Luna was almost always with Hermione and Fleur didn’t have the courage nor the strength to engage in conversation with her Destined just yet.

Fleur waited around the corner of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. She had stumbled across (near threatened a 3rd year Ravenclaw for) the time of the 3rd year Ravenclaws class. Her foot tapped impatiently as she waited for the class to be dismissed. Her transfiguration class was set to start in 15- now 13- minutes, and that was halfway across the castle. It was supposed to be a rather fascinating lesson on advanced applications of fundamental transfiguration and she was loath to be late, perhaps if she rac- the classroom door opened. Third years spilt out, eagerly talking about the lesson they just had. A few glanced curiously at her as they passed. Fleur paid them no mind. None of them was the girl she was trying to find. She grew worried- perhaps Luna was ill or had to leave early, and Fleur would be left standing dumbly staring at a bunch of 14-year-olds. She scoffed.

Eventually, the last person exited the classroom. Luna. Fleur gently grabbed her arm. 

“Luna, do you have a moment?”

“I have many,” Luna said, in her familiarly distant voice.

“I read through the book you gave me. Quite a few times, actually. But I-” An idea sprang to mind. 

“I don’t understand,” She switched to sign. It was one of the few phrases she knew. She had figured that she would get plenty of use of it if she ever managed to strike up a conversation with her mate. 

Luna smiled widely. It wasn’t one of the soft, dreamy ones that typically adorned her face, but one that lit up her features and endeared her to whoever was on the receiving end. A swell of pride blossomed in Fleur’s chest. She had made the right decision. Finally.

“Good,” She responded. Then, taking pity on Fleur began to speak once more, “I take it you’re not yet confident?”

“Non. Understanding the motions from a static diagram is… difficult,” Her foot began to tap, “I was wondering, hoping really, if you would be willing to help me?”

“Yes, I think so. Are you free now?” Luna tilted her head.

“Oh! Now? Oui, yes, I am. Perfectly free.”

Luna merely nodded and began to walk down the corridor until she stood opposite a painting of a witch dangling by one arm from a tower while eating a slice of chocolate cake. The painting’s face shifted between exaggerated screams and contented smiles without rhyme or reason. The woman said nothing as Luna reached up a hand and knocked on the sturdy wooden door at the foot of the tower. At the sound of the third knock, the woman dropped her cake and hoisted herself up.

“In ya come then,” she said. 

“May the moon control your tides,” Luna said in what Fleur assumed was thanks. 

“And the stars guide you home,” the woman replied before hauling herself up and walking inside the tower.

The door magically expanded, steadily becoming more and more realistic, until it took up the entire frame and the oil paint had turned to oak. Luna reached out a pale hand and pulled it open. The revealed corridor reminded Fleur more of the grand halls of Beauxbatons than the cold, damp, depressing ones she had come to associate with Hogwarts. This hall was warmer than the drafty one she had left. The walls weren’t exposed stone but plastered and painted an off-white. They hadn’t walked far until another door was revealed; Luna walked up to it confidently before she turned back around and said in a serene voice, “Ready?”

Fleur nodded. She had to hand it to the British witch, she had a knack for dramatics. The room was cosy; hardly enough room for Fleur to stand upright. The walls were lined with bookshelves full of books ranging in size, age, and condition. Two comfortable, if not worn, couches faced one another in front of an enormous fireplace, as tall as the room itself, to Fleur’s right. 

Luna walked up the bookshelf and without preamble plucked one of the tomes without so much as a second glance. The book was one of the largest Fleur had ever seen. She was curious about what could be inside- was it ancient magic that would allow her to learn quicker? Did it contain whispers of ancient spells designed to fix Hermione? 

Luna, oblivious to Fleur’s musings, simply motioned for the other girl to sit on the couch nearest the door and sat with a great inelegant huff on the other. Fleur followed suit (albeit with much more grace) and lowered herself onto the edge of the couch. The younger girl opened the book as Fleur eagerly leaned forward, clearly excited to see the worn pages inside, but was quite surprised when it opened to reveal a hollow cavity that held two butterbeers. Luna smiled and handed one over. 

“Now,” she said as she twisted open the top and took a generous sip, smacking her lips in satisfaction afterwards before continuing, “tell me what you know.”

Fleur was as surprised as anyone to find herself falling into a routine. It wasn’t that she opposed order and schedules, she found them to be rather useful, it was more that Fleur Delacour was not known for following them. She regularly had ideas (delusions) of grand study plans where she would start revising the very first day of term so that she would be more than adequately prepared come exam season. Unfortunately, she had neither the time management skills nor the patience. Her classmates were used to Fleur agonizing over precise time tables for approximately 1, or in one unusual year (her 4th), 2 weeks, before inevitably throwing in the towel with a dramatic huff and deeming the entire thing an exercise in futility. She still managed to produce some of the best marks in her year, but her carefully scheduled study sessions were instead held at all hours of the day and night; sometimes in the dark of early morning after she woke up with a bizarre burst of energy, and sometimes in lieu of a lunch break.

She woke up at 6 a.m to begin studying vocabulary at her desk table until it was time to depart for breakfast at 7:30. Classes, that she was forced to attend despite being exempt from examinations, followed until 2 pm when she slunk into some abandoned classroom or forgotten corner of the grounds to practice for the rapidly upcoming task (dragons! It was mental, it was madness, it was… the Triwizard Tournament). Finally, at 5 she made her way down to the Great Hall to attempt to see her mate and bask in the feeling of being reunited- even if it was nothing but mere proximity, she still felt a wave of relief wash over her when Hermione was near. The… symptoms of the bond were not debilitating (if irritating) but it was still a welcome reprieve from near-constant nausea that followed her throughout the day. Slowly, she had begun to sit closer and closer to the front of the Ravenclaw table. Each day, one spot (two, if she felt emboldened) nearer to the one whose absence left her mind in a jumble and her thrall lashing out uncontrollably toward those around her.

By 6, Luna would exit the Hall. Fleur would follow as quickly as she could without drawing attention. They would meet in that room (Luna had called it the Meadow, for what reason Fleur wasn’t sure) to practice sign until the precise moment the clock struck 8. Fleur was surprised to learn the punctuality Luna practised. She had assumed the young witch drifted to whichever topic or task struck her fancy whenever or wherever that may occur, but it had become abundantly clear that the witch held no such blase attitude toward her schedule. Rather, she was the picture of punctuality, regularly revelling in the precision of a well-maintained timetable. As such, she refused to run over, even if Fleur begged her for an additional 10 minutes. Likewise, she never allowed Fleur to divert the lessons into a more lackadaisical get-together or release the older witch early. No, she was immersed in her task from the very moment Fleur sat down.

It had taken many sessions for Fleur to obtain the necessary nimbleness to accurately and swiftly sign. While she wasn’t quidditch (or any sport) player, Fleur had prided herself in her innate grace- grace that evidently did not extend to sign. Regrettably. Despite her expectations, she learned carefully, and most frustratingly, slowly. Still, there was no denying that she had improved under Luna’s scrutiny. Fleur couldn’t be sure, but she had a strong inclination that Luna was aware of her and Hermione’s… connection. It was a topic that was carefully danced around until both of them (Fleur suspected in actuality it was just her) thought nothing of it and the illusion of normalcy dominated their perception of their interactions. 

But there was, despite all the evidence to the contrary, an underlying sense of tension. Once again, Fleur was uncertain if she was alone in her view, but she felt a tautness to their interactions that perhaps shouldn’t have been present had it been a more typical student-mentor relationship. She suspected that a part of it was rooted in the fact that Luna was four years her junior. At this age, four years was nearly insurmountable. Initially, Fleur couldn’t help but compare Luna to her rambunctious younger sister, and thus was nearly always surprised when Luna spoke in her dreamingly knowledgeable tone to impart some bit of information to which Fleur was previously completely ignorant of. She knew that Luna was smart. It was practically a requirement for Ravenclaw, but Luna had an uncanny knack to know things she shouldn’t know. Or, rather, couldn’t know. Fleur quickly learned to recognize, and then to brush off, Luna’s knowing glances. They served no purpose. 

Surprisingly, somewhere between being exasperated and frustrated with the Ravenclaw, Fleur began to her somewhat… amusing. Once Fleur learnt to simply accept whatever came out of the girl’s mouth without giving it any additional thought (something which she normally despised to do) the girl became a reluctant friend. It had only been a few weeks, but Fleur was already more comfortable with Luna than she was with many of the “friends” she been acquainted with since she was a young girl. If she gave much thought, she would have come to the slightly depressing conclusion that perhaps these “friends” weren’t “friends” at all, and merely tangential characters who held no purpose in Fleur’s life other than to fill in the space between the foreground and the background. But she didn’t give it much thought; she simply enjoyed spending time with Luna. It hadn’t begun on the best of terms, Fleur would be the first to admit, but the result was Fleur futilely trying to hold in a guffaw at some comment Luna made about one of the older Ravenclaws and a sense of calm that surrounded Fleur whenever she walked through the portrait entrance to see Luna dangling upside down from the back of the sofa. The first few minutes were spent talking idly about one another’s day until Luna had deemed it quite enough and begun their lesson without so much as an acknowledgement about the change in direction.

It was due to Luna’s tutelage that Fleur finally felt confident enough to hold a conversation in sign, admittedly a short, surface-level one revolving around her favourite things to do in town. She had meant to speak with Hermione before the first task. Truly, she had. She had it all planned out: the night before at dinner she would corner Hermione and ask for help on a charms project (nevermind that Fleur was the best in her class with this particular subject), but by chance or by the Gods meddlesome ways, Hermione hadn’t shown at her normal time and Fleur was left helplessly wallowing in self-pity and unfulfillment. 

Now, sitting at the Ravenclaw table the morning of the first task, she was well aware of the less than subverted looks of the limited Hogwarts student body. Her stomach was in knots. It was a cliché that normally she would turn her nose to, but on today of all days, she embraced with a reluctant acceptance that it was precisely the description that suited. She shifted in her seat uncomfortably, as if someone had placed tacks on the worn wooden bench. It was early. Few students were present in the Hall, and even fewer were from Beauxbatons. She was alone. Fleur picked absentmindedly at her breakfast, trying desperately not to notice the anxious thoughts that pervaded her mind. She failed. Thoughts of charred skin, crushed bone, and cut flesh flashed through her mind. A dragon! What had she been thinking to enrol in such a contest? If it weren’t for the pressures placed on her by her school, family, and even her friends, Fleur would have contemplated throwing in the towel before they had even begun. A memory of her father sprung to mind whenever such an idea even tickled her thoughts. His kind, but forceful voice telling her that Delacours don’t give up . It was an unofficial motto, one which was so plebeian Fleur had a hard time reconciling it with her posh, aristocratic family. Why her father was so insistent on it, she hadn’t the foggiest. He was born a reputable French pureblood but as Veela law dictates, was married a Delacour, with all the opulence and dignity it entailed. 

Don’t give up, rang through her mind, again and again, and again. As she chased with her fork after the lone grape on her plate, it echoed in her mind. A constant comfort. A constant pressure. The entirety of the Delacour clan was placed on her shoulders. Do poorly here and the next thing she’d know her Grand-mère would utter the words- 

A tap on her shoulder interrupted her thoughts. Fleur turned, a scowl already in place. The nerve, nay the audacity of the Hogwarts boys! Couldn’t they see that she was preparing! But when she turned around, prepared to curse whatever unfortunate soul she came across halfway to hell, she was rendered speechless by Hermione Granger standing slightly uncomfortably before her. Her mouth, deemed “smart” by her Professor and “quick” by her peers, was left undignified- gaping helplessly open before her wits returned to her in a frenzied rush and she snapped her jaw closed once more.

“Good luck,” Hermione’s rough voice spoke out, softer than the Great Hall demanded and forcing Fleur to lean slightly forward to catch her words.

“Thank you,” Fleur replied, signing in practised motion made fluid from hours of practice with Luna. She mouthed the words through a smile so wide it surely prevented Hermione from reading anything at all. She couldn’t help it. Hermione, who had near nothing but ignore Fleur, was wishing her good luck. An overwhelming sensation of affection blossomed through her. 

Hermione looked at her in surprise. Had Fleur known Hermione better she might have replied with a teasing remark. But she didn’t. Instead, she forced herself to bite her tongue. She had never been good at that; being raised an heiress gave you potent confidence in your words that lent itself to speaking one’s mind without fear of retribution.

Hermione stood stock still a few moments longer; oblivious to the way Fleur’s heart raced and the curious looks from their classmates. She shifted from one foot to another as she tried to decide to say anything more. The longer she stood, the more amused Fleur became. A familiar smile that was rapidly transforming into a confident smirk grew on the French girl’s face. Hermione’s eyes tracked the motion of Fleur’s mouth, then snapped back up to her eyes, mortified to realize Fleur had followed her line of sight. 

“Right, I’ll see you after?” Hermione questioned. Fleur was pleased to note she signed as she spoke, and even more pleased when she realized she would have understood without the aid of speech. 

Fleur tapped the side of her right hand to her left’s open palm, “ definitely .” 

There was no mistaking it now, a blush had blossomed across Hermione’s cheeks. Fleur barely managed to spot it before Hermione abruptly spun around and walked out the hall without getting anything to eat. 

Fleur chuckled to herself, maybe all was not lost.