Chapter Text
Chapter One: Hermione
Faking levity had been draining. Ron had basked in the simplicity of peace time life. The war had granted him (alongside you and Harry) celebrity status effectively eviscerating his childhood fear of being unremarkable. Ron Weasley was content; at last bestowed with immovable self-confidence. His once volatile temper was muted by not constantly having to justify himself. Ironically you missed this trait.
You were insatiable. Dissecting every particle of the world around you. The fast pace of your Hogwarts life had masked your relentless obsession with achievement. Achievement not for recognition. Achievement simply to understand more. There had never been an off switch. You realized belatedly that you were meant to be admired from a distance. You were too confined with the routine of your relationship and all your efforts to change just accelerated your descent into depression. Only Harry and Ron knew the secret of the Brightest Witch of her generation; when concentrated, brightness burns like acid. You were handling burning yourself. You swore you could feel your heart dissolve when you realized it was scorching Ron too. The wizarding world was perplexed when the destined Gryffindor couple had parted. You and Ron had tried. It had been with nostalgic sadness for the promise you once had that you had split up. Similarly it had been with mutual relief.
You move into dorms. The breakup had occurred the summer before your sophomore year of University. Your course load had been normal (light for you) and you immediately triple it. Technically it’s not allowed but you strike a bargain with the dean to bend the rules if you finally agree to a Q&A series about your role in the past war. This is decidedly not what you want but you reluctantly agree as your salvation will be found in musty tomes and crowded lecture halls.
That year you barely leave the blessed trinity of library, class room, dorms. Your mind is constantly on fire. Seemingly determined to make up for the drollness of the last year. You have always been gifted but have never been as deeply immersed as you are now. The lines between subjects become fluid. You start to glimpse the underbelly of magic, analogous to the periodic table but you think it might be in a 3-D, rippled, spiral format. You know you are years and endless revisions away from clarity.
The three Q&A sessions are held in packed auditoriums and are mercifully mostly predictable affairs. The majority of the time is spent in an attempt to reconstruct the timeline of a lengthy muddled war. You answer some technical questions on warding spells and potions and generally deflect attention away from yourself as much as possible.
You are still close with Harry and Ron (you always will be family and fiercely protective of each other) and when you ask (beg) they agree to come for the third Q&A. Near the end three assistant professors endowed with more curiosity than intelligence challenge the three of you to duels. The only rule is no intentional attempts to maim. As a member of The Golden Trio you have lived nearly a decade in extreme proximity and you know all of each other's ticks. You can tell that none of you are scared. There is no threat of death and that year of bare subsistence searching for Horcruxes had stripped the three of you of any ego you may have had; you aren't afraid to lose. You can tell Harry's apparent nonchalance is forced, beneath messy hair he is carefully analyzing the environment. Ron is wearing the same vague expression he wears when he plays and invariably wins at wizard chess. You breathe in deeply curling into yourself and falling deep into your magic.
You draw lots for opponents. Ron goes first. It is clear from the first incantation that his opponent is woefully unprepared, his wand-work all flourishes and inefficiency. The assistant's overly complex spells ricochet uselessly off Ron's shields. Ron dispatches him with his first spell; unceremoniously disarming him. Ron bow to his opponent. The gathered students applaud him respectfully. Harry's opponent is stronger and immediately fires a quick succession of spells at Harry. You had forgotten how prodigiously quick Harry’s seeker reflexes were. He counters the first two spells, then dodges the others while simultaneously and accurately launching a body locking spell that punches through his adversaries shields like water. His opponent dropped and stayed down. It had taken less than a minute. The crowd give him a standing ovation as he blushes and mutters the counter course at his immobile opponent. You are preparing for your opponent who is noticeably green and looks like he is seriously regretting his decision after witnessing the preceding two duels. The dean interjects with a poorly veiled smirk asking you if he may offer you a more worthy opponent. He is from an old bloodline and you would bet he grew up dueling. This whole situation strikes you as premeditated. You acquiesce, there really isn't another option.
You had once been terrified by duels. Paralyzed by a cacophony of thoughts. The war had necessitated you overcome this. You had learned to remove the space between thought and action. You learned to fight reactively, instinctively. Strategy was thought and thought rendered you immobile. You watch as the dean bows and you mirror his actions. An image of rippled spirals flashes through your mind and like a touchstone it picks you up and flings you deeper into your magic to a depth you do not recognize. Across from you, you see the Dean’s wand moving in patterns you aren't familiar with. Curiously the spells hangs in the air as if he had illuminated them for you to read. You notice the runes for traps inlaid with others for protection. You cast your own defenses and again are surprised when they are visible to you. The spells shimmer like snippets of code and recognizing a pattern you instinctively combine them with your hands into a compound that feels stronger.
You looks over and you can tell he is waiting for you to attack (schemer he may be, but he was undeniably chivalrous). His spells read like mazes, littered with minefields. The only part unprotected is his feet so you ice the floor to throw him off balance. His smirk falters but he gamely keeps his footing with a sticky charm on his feet. You barely blink when a spell is hurtling towards you. You duck but it's unnecessary as his charm is absorbed into your shield which glows strongly before abating. This is new. You register his perplexed expression. Technically you don't have a spell to dismantle his wards, the spell you need has to navigate the minefield of his shield before stunning. If you had been thinking you wouldn't have attempted making a new spell on the spot. However, primal you needed a familiar spell with a twist. You imagine the elements of a simple stunning spell and add some runes that encompass the essence of maneuverability and directionality. You combine them in a crude double helix. It feels solid and familiar. You don't know what the wand movement should be, are clueless what the spell would sound like. But the spell feels startlingly tangible so you close your eyes and from within push it as hard as you can towards him. Technique is replaced by brute force. Your ears roar and you have black spots in your vision. The spell surges out explosively, propelling you backwards. You hope it worked because your magic feels wobbly and you doubt that you could even cast a basic lumos spell at the moment. You quickly rub your eyes and look up catching the wide incredulous eyes of the dean (now on his knees, pale with his nose bleeding), with his wand across his chest in the universal sign for yielding. You nod and bow.
You finally notice that you too are receiving a perplexed standing ovation. In a carbon copy of Harry you blush. You are grateful that the reputation of the Trio is full of strange stories, as people are confused by what just happened but are willing to add it to the list of unexplained mysteries. For distraction you wave your wand at the wards and barely contain a gasp as you watch the spells shimmer back into your wand. Your thoughts have returned; you know this is unprecedented. You tell Ron and Harry later this evening.
Your third year passes even quicker than the second. It appears the second year was a ramp up period and this year you are a juggernaut. Sometime in the preceding two years you became the introverted unofficial student leader. You always have people around you. You are kind to them. You never forget that you are acid. You keep everyone at a distance. When the loneliness gets too much you apparate to a different town for a weekend; rarely the same one twice and find respite in acting as someone simpler. You choose small towns where time moves languidly and strike up conversations on trivial things which you can feel are exceedingly important. It is in a small town on the coast of France you meet her again.
Chapter Two: Fleur
The last half decade had shattered though not broken you. The myriad of pieces by themselves were strong but they steadfastly refused to be melded back into any semblance of unity. Sitting on the beach your inner poet drinks in the brushstrokes of the summer sunrise as the scientist contemplates refraction. The child in you bubbles over longing for wave-pools; part of you thinks it would take an hour to swim out to the lifebuoy shimmering in the far distance. You are so fractured. Anger can consume you so completely that scared you cast a freezing charm on your body and lie in forced stillness waging internal war for hours. You have cried more times than you remember over small gestures of kindness. You sometimes, painfully yearn for strong arms to dissolve into for always. More often you want to roam coffee shops and clubs and have passionate one night stands that are everything and nothing. Your parents had named you flower in the French tongue. It used to suit you; graceful and grounded. You thinks now you are a Kaleidoscope. Pretty but unable to view the world coherently.
Your parents used to take you to this's town during your childhood summer vacations. It holds so many of your firsts; first time you swam, first time you read by yourself, first girl you kissed, first boy you slept with. You once thought you could live here in a house overlooking the ocean nestled amongst the dunes, settle down in a sleepy bliss, in a place where you would be known by all and know all. You weren't the girl who had wanted that anymore, but the woman you became still enjoyed visiting from time to time.
You are passing time waiting for your coffee order at the local cafe when you see her. Hermione. You always thought seeing any of them again would be too painful. Your alliance was born of war time necessity and while you associated the word hero with her you also associated her with the worst period of your life. You left England soon after Voldermort was vanquished and your fledging friendship died somewhere over the English Channel.
She is curled up in the corner reading a book, and despite the years that have passed she looks much younger than you recall. You are startled by her tranquility. Her face is relaxed and the small smile tugging on the corner of her mouth suggest she is finding the book entertaining. You had thought she was serious by nature and now you wonder if the girl with the furrowed brows you had met had just been permanently scared. You are suddenly unsure of yourself. You have fought beside her in duels and know she is a devastatingly powerful and primal woman when she fights. You have heard her throw up afterwards looking at the bodies. You have bathed blood off her and sutured cursed wounds. You know she learned wandless magic after waking up with recurring flashbacks of Bellatrix while she was defenseless. All your shared memories are horrific and startlingly personal and you wonder how to amalgamate them with the soft, peaceful and beautiful woman in the corner. You wonder if you should even try.
You are contemplating leaving without your coffee when she looks up. Her eyes are unfocused and for a moment you think she might not recognize you and you feel both intense relief and a smidgen of sorrow. But its Hermione Granger and you discover the first trait that links this coffee shop Hermione with hero Hermione is astounding mental alertness, so she does and she blinks and stares softly at you with her head inclined to the left. Long moments pass and you watch her almost tenderly scan and analyze you and you wonder if you have ever been as gently deconstructed in your life. Absentmindedly you wonder if she ever owned a Kaleidoscope. You find yourself waving gently which seems to snap her out of her reverie and she beckons you over with lithe fingers and a shy smile.
The barista calls your name and you turn around to pick up your coffee. You mentally try to steel yourself but find it completely impossible. You think briefly that you couldn't be much safer than in Hermione's presence. You register you aren't afraid but your thoughts are skidding and tumbling even more than usual, and any other feelings you have are lost in the chaos.
Chapter 3: Hermione
You were reading a transfiguration book that specialized in fluid forms. You have been planning on becoming an animgaus. You have wanted to for years but refuse to do a permanent spell on yourself until you fully understand it. The transformation usually fails, often maims and sometimes kills. They are very few who succeed. The foolish usually don't have the power to make the spell work and wise are usually unwilling to challenge their mortality. Physical magic has traditionally been your weakest area; you still cringe at the thought of broomsticks and healing magic has been the least instinctive of all the branches you have tried. You had to read advanced healing theory to make the spells beginners do without thought work. Interestingly the advanced spells were no harder for you. Your professor had said you were the first student that had scraped by level one classes and transformed into a prodigy at level 3. You think that all your magic is in your brain and none of it in your blood.
The literature on the animagus transformation is sparse and what few books have been written have little useful information imploring the caster to be “strong of heart” and “resolute of mind” i.e. stubborn, idiotic and frankly suicidal. Transfiguration is the most “scientific” of the fields of magic and you have an inkling that there may be some common links between free moving particle transformation and the animagus process. The works you have read so far haven't uncovered anything specific but you have caught glimpses that you think might add up to clarity in the end. You read a snippet that proclaims “the beginning, as you will observe is in your imagination” and you smile thinking that sometimes science is analogous to poetry.
You are buried deep inside of yourself, allowing your mind to process and reorganize itself around the new information. You look up distractedly and see her. Fleur. As you struggle back to the present, you think abstractedly that Fleur has always been incredibly beautiful. You long ago accepted this fact and so feel only a ghost of envy. Your mind focuses, drinking her back in, overlaying the woman from past years with the lady in front of you. She still radiates quiet power but her poise is less guarded. Ironically the part Veela had been the most human in the war. She was warmth and passion at a time when those qualities were scarce. You had gravitated towards her and sought respite in her company when you could. She had pulled you back from brink of your sanity and put you back together. You were too lost and too shattered to understand. Months later when you finally did, she had left. You thought your thanks weren't worth the painful reminder for a woman trying to start fresh.
But she’s here. She’s here in the same place as you. You abruptly realize you have needed to speak with her for years. You need to know she is ok. Want to tell her “I learned French because of you; the language always makes me feel safe”. Want to say that when you examine your seams it is her that has glued all your fault lines. You want to confess that you didn't understand grace under fire till you met her. You shyly beckon her over.
She tentatively collects her coffee and comes over. She weaves around the other patrons, long limbs and soft eyes. “Hermione” She almost whispers, her voice gentle as if one sharp inflection could shatter you. Maybe she is right; your eyes are threatening to water and your heart is determined to set a beats per minute record. You don't trust yourself to speak, instead resting your book on the table in front and placing her coffee beside it. You smile at her sincerely, while leaning in to embrace her. Initially she tenses but relaxes as your arms wrap around her waist. She smells like the ocean and second chances. She feels so achingly warm. You are making promises consciously and subconsciously with every second. I will not let us lose contact again. I will protect you like you did me. Her arms move to wrap snugly around your neck and you contentedly rest your head on her shoulder.
Chapter 4: Fleur
You had forgotten how slight she was, resting your chin on her head with ease. Her arms are wrapped around you gentle and securely; reverently. Her breath hits your collarbone in little puffs. You are so very grateful that she is giving the two of you time to adjust, saving you from small talk that belies your shared experience. English has always been frustratingly ungainly on your tongue, incapable of conveying the poetry of what you feel. Body language is universal you muse, always perfect. Consciously your arms wrap around her shoulders, one hand moving to thread through her hair. You wonder if she can feel your erratic heart beat against her chest, or hear it as it pounds. You think the only time you held her like this was at Shell cottage, after… You bite back a shudder, refocusing on the present, on the feel of her warmth in your arms. To band aid old demons you pull her tighter to your chest. Back then you had whispered in her ear, “I have got you, you are safe. You have been broken but you will mend. You are the bravest person I know.” Softly tucking a lock of hair behind her ear you lean in and whisper “I have got you, you are safe. You were broken but have mended beautifully. You are still the bravest person I know”. The words echo melodically between the past and present. She pulls back slightly and watery hazel eyes find yours. You don't even attempt to stall your own tears. Your stomach churns but you feel lighter, as if the words spoken have started an improbable reconciliation between the disparate parts of yourself. Her hands reach up and calloused thumbs delicately collect your tears. Your heart aches when she whispers back in French “You feel like safety. You saved my life. You are the warmest person I know”.
You aren't surprised she knows French. In the year you had spent at Hogwarts you had heard teachers sing her praises. Initially you weren't impressed by her precocity; erudition rarely translated to skill outside the classroom. You were curious though and twice you sat in the back of her classes under the ruse of improving your English. You had assumed she would know the textbook verbatim (she did), you had expected her to be the cleverest in her class (she was), and yet you were still woefully unprepared for the reality. You remember watching her in ancient runes as a professor explained the rudiments of Celtic Symbols. She listened with her whole body, her head and shoulders rapt and inclined towards Professor Babbling, her back poker straight. Then her head tilted left and her body seemed to shrink in on itself engrossed in her inner world. When the professor asked if anyone had any questions you expected a minor technical question maybe a query for further clarification of a point. Instead you got a fully formed hypothesis. She noted that many of the runes seemed to be combinations of simpler runes or alternations to them. She asked and obtained confirmation that most of the runes were geography specific as different tribes developed them in isolation. This was interesting and a good deduction and you were grudgingly impressed; you thought given enough time you could have deduced this yourself. She wasn't finished though. “So given that many of the magical forging techniques and spells were created by different tribes of our Celtic brethren, might it be possible to create a universal Celtic language based upon the simpler rules with logical alternation to get advanced words. Then we could substitute these runes into the spells written in the local dialects. It might then be possible combine the best of all the old forging spells to create a more comprehensive hybrid?” You were vaguely aware of your slack jaw. You knew you it was highly improbable that you would EVER put that together, certainly not at 15, definitely not in 10 minutes. So no you aren't surprised she had picked up French somewhere. You are however, incredibly grateful she has.
The moment is too heavy with emotion. You feel too much happiness, too much relief, too much nervousness. You are swamped and overwhelmed and her eyes are beautiful and touchingly concerned. You pull her close again, to feel her solidifying warmth and to gain a moment to rein in yourself. You close your eyes and concentrate on breathing, trusting her arms to anchor you. Somewhat calmer you open your eyes and take in your surroundings. You spot her fountain pen and the cover of the book that was making her smile 'Transmutation of fluid; conceptualizing transfiguration'. You smile which then escalates into a chuckle because it just SO her. She murmurs “what” into your neck, so you gently pull back and point in the books general direction. “Earlier you were smiling when you read and I should have known it was a result of something archaic and recondite”, you voice is teasing and affectionate and yet she still blushes and drops her head sheepishly. Again you are struck by just how young she is, how unaware she is of her importance. She looks up and replies with absolute sincerity “It's not archaic if it’s relevant and the author is STILL ahead of the time. He is broaching subatomic particles, though he isn't a muggle so he doesn't phrase it quite like that, but his descriptions make me feel like I am inside the actual spell as it transforms solid matter to liquid and it’s so intricate and …” She blinks and her sheepish smile returns “and I am running on, sorry, it happens sometimes”. You sit down on the sit opposite where she had been sitting. She follows your lead and sits down. You quirk an eyebrow at her and say with undisguised mirth “don't ever apologize for your charming bookworms tendencies, maybe just slow down a bit so us average folk can nod in the right places”. She scoffs “Part Veela, beauxbaton champion and rumor has it on trajectory to be head healer in a few years.” In response to your shocked face she adds “People talk and I have been to France a few times in the past few years, Fleur, you aren't exactly average”.
Chapter 5: Hermione
You hadn't seen her in years, you weren't even close friends. You aren't even sure if what you had constituted friendship. She had been your healer, confidant, and teammate and in retrospect your unconscious role model. This chance encounter should be uneasy, possibly awkward but instead it's like falling down the rabbit hole into wonderland. Since you first met her you have been fascinated but you only really knew her through other people; Harry’s competitor, Bill's fiancé, Ron's obsession. You observed her when you she was around but you lacked justifiable reason to insert yourself into her life more, well that and your Hogwarts days were a haze of seemingly insurmountable challenges that had you unceasingly occupied. Admittedly her perfect poise and pervasive male fan club didn't help her approachability. And like just about everyone you had an embarrassing (though small) crush on her. You had seen her at Weasley gatherings and she always took the time to talk to you, but those days had been few and far between and it wasn't until the last year of the war you had seen her more frequently. Grimmauld place wasn't conducive to deep friendships and well Shell cottage you were living in your own personal hell. So your strong reaction to her surprised you and you think you must have formed a bond unbeknownst to yourself.
She asks you about your studies and seems genuinely interested in your responses, she doesn't bat an eye at your four majors and multitude of minors. No it wasn't intentional I just took the classes I found interesting and all the credits started to add up. She fills you in about her job as a healer. Seeing you bite your lip and tilt your head to the left, she says go ahead ask all the questions you want. She had patiently explained them in detail and you are reminded that she is extremely clever. The conversation tangents to discussion of peculiar illnesses and you are beyond excited at the flow of ideas that bounce between the two of you. Two hour later when she suggests dinner, you don't even hesitate, you gather your things quickly and immediately pick up the conversation where you left off.
Dinner leads to a stroll through the town down to the pier. “How's Ron?” she asks stopping to lean against the safety railings. You immediately tell her about his career with Harry as aurors, his horrendous beard and how much you admire the man he is growing into. She nods purses her lips and then hesitantly speaks again. “He doesn't mind your crazy class schedule or frequent trips to the superior land of France?” she questions equal parts serious and teasing. You look away, it’s been years and your breakup had been written about extensively so you are haven't had to talk about this in a long time. “We broke up”, you say soft but resolute, “over two years ago”. Fleur nods her eyes searching and so very kind, you blame them for your ensuing over share “We weren't right for each other... I'm not really relationship material” You say it factually without self-pity, it's the truth. Your brain just doesn't shut off and requires constant stimulation. You think just maybe you could end up being the female version of Dumbledore; eccentric, brilliant but essentially alone. But she takes your small hand in hers and squeezes, silently asking you to continue and you find yourself rambling on emotionally.