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.