Chapter Text
First, it was a thought in the back of her head, 'You seem familiar .' Right after, there was a quiet, almost devilish comment from a team mate, "The British moved beyond the first round." What was the importance of it, Fleur couldn't grasp in the middle of avoiding contact with the tip of a blade.
"En garde! Prêts? Allez!"
Attack. Dodge. Parry.
Attack. Parry. Attack.
Dodge. Parry. Attack. Attack. Parry.
Scream.
Move for the next bout.
Quick and meticulous. A secular sport. A national pride. She’s been doing this for so long that some competitors are old friends telling you ‘what’s going on’ over a quick stabbing. That's why the information needs to hit the brain a third time, with the strength of the Paris-Lyon train.
"I haven't seen her in years." Delacour finally whispers to her captain as both stare at the neighbor strip. The Ukrainians were getting very close to hitting the points necessary to advance, but one tiny British was dodging for her life.
Fleur had recognized the fencer by her hair and nose when the other was arranging her helmet before the bout. It took her a few seconds of far away staring, as the years have changed the British features just slightly for her to doubt herself but the woman was one of those faces that Fleur lost track of when she made the jump from Junior to Senior. Gonne to other life adventures, taken far away in a time that it was easier to see people in bouts than paying for the long distance calls between countries.
She's still as fast as Fleur remembers though.
The Ukranian was getting distracted by the amount of touch without points they were getting. The British succeeded in taking their right of way, meticulously stealing each point at a time.
"It's sad that she isn't the last in the team round. They could reach semifinals"
"And lose to us?"
The captain answers by smiling mischievously and letting Delacour know she would use this break to go to the washroom. Experience tells the French shouldn’t be here staring at the competition, but nevertheless she is. The memories about this girl, now a woman, are banging at a door in her brain, trying to get out, but there are so many doors it could be coming from.
Fleur remembers bits and pieces about her. She got into fencing because her best friend really liked it and walking around with a sword could look threatening. Oh. She started as an Epée fencer, that’s why Fleur started talking to her. To convince it didn’t really suit the British at all. Foil worked for her, bias aside. There was a bit of memory about wanting to work for the government and with underprivileged kids?
“ Did you do what you wanted to do, old friend?” Fleur was frustrated that she could remember conversations and not the woman’s name. She could ask an organizer but that would be embarrassing and she refused to have a smartphone. So, she waits.
The British finally screamed. She got the last point of her bout, giving some breathing room to her next team mate. Fleur is hoping she will turn her back to her, see at least the last name of the person she’s been obsessing over in the last three minutes. The irony of the teenager's behaviour on her thirty two year old self is shelved under ‘I could control but I give no fucks.’
However, her plan is parried when instead of leaving the strip and moving towards their chairs, the British takes her helmet off, talks with the coach and turns towards Fleur.
None of them had planned this stare down. None of them were expecting to find each other so quickly and intensely. Fleur thought about turning her head, pretending this never happened and moving on with her life, but the other fencer’s eyes were unblinking. A deer caught in the head light figuring out what kind of reaction she should have.
En garde.
Delacour offered her a nod. It was only fair. She had watched her whole bout and appreciated how smart of a fencer she is, even with dubious motives. The British finally blinked and accepted the gesture by nodding back, letting her shoulders drop together with the adrenaline of sparring.
Prêts?
Fleur was never that good at being social. She knew how to be, she just wasn’t good at starting it herself. Came out forced, unfriendly. It’s the sad habit of knowing people will come to you and bouncing off of them. But this person’s gravity was strong. Curiosity pulling mental threads, remembering little things, that she wasn’t even sure that belonged to this person. It just felt right. A little like fate.
Which also felt childish to admit to herself. Bill would never let her live down if she ever disclosed this line of thought. She will go with ‘I was sure I knew her, so why not say hi? Is that a crime?’ when asked why she was waving to someone in the middle of their competition.
Allez!
In a fast lunge, the British held a laugh and parried the wave with a wink. It was so fast that Fleur only realized she had lost the point when she read the name in the back of the other uniform.
GRANGER
The train got to the station and the door inside her mind had finally opened.
Hermione Granger. Old acquaintance and banter connoisseur. First crush.