Pushing an errant brown curl out of her face, Hermione shot an exasperated glance at her friend, frustrated that between the two of them only she had managed to become disheveled during their travels. Her blonde counterpart couldn't help that she was, as always, effortlessly put together, and she gave the brunette girl a sly wink before silently casting a beauty spell that forced Hermione's offending curls into beautiful submission.
"Beaucoup mieux," Fleur jokingly chastised with a devious grin that Hermione couldn't help but return. It was hard to be stoic when she was moments away from sharing such a special place with her dearest friend. Hogwarts was the place she called home during summer holidays, but this year she, and the Beauxbatons student-body, would be visiting for the entire academic year.
The anxious tension lingering in her chest was an unfamiliar feeling. As a member of Ombrelune, the most elusive house at Beauxbatons, a tight grip on emotions was expected. The house had a predilection towards logical thinking, a cold demeanor, and discrete manipulation that didn't reconcile well with this feeling of anxious apprehension. Feeling self-conscious was foreign to the witch who had spent most of her young life assured of her own talents and abilities.
Hermione cooly remarked, "I appreciate your assistance, ma moitié. It is important that I put my best foot forward while at Hogwarts."
Fleur and Hermione had come to an agreement years ago that they'd use English when speaking despite the blonde's preference for her native French. That didn't stop terms of endearment from working their way into the duo's vernacular. Hermione justified blatantly sharing evidence of their close friendship by reasoning that even without the pet names it would be obvious by the way that they interacted that the girls were inseparable.
"Your phrases are nonsensical; either way it doesn't matter which foot you step into Hogwarts with. Your Potion Master will make sure you are welcome, no?" Fleur's heavy accent floated through their carriage with a graceful elegance only known to Veela. She ran a hand down the front of her already wrinkle-free white blouse and straightened the black ribbon that circled under her collar.
Professor Snape's glacial expression appeared from memory in Hermione's mind. She'd first arrived in the potions dungeon before she had even started at Beauxbaton, after promising entrance exam scores and outside backing had pushed for an aggressive immersion into the art of brewing. In the comfortable silence enveloping the carriage, she allowed herself to recall their first encounter when her blood status had been unceremoniously declared by the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore.
"Severus," the elderly gentleman had stated, "I'm pleased to present you with Miss Granger. This young woman is a Muggle-born witch, but she's shown great potential in the art of potionry."
Hermione's right eye twitched slightly at the memory of her contempt toward the well-known wizard, a feeling that was born during those initial moments but had only grown in severity since then. Such a blatant addressing of blood status was taboo in France, seen as an attempt to water down an individual's magical abilities by their lineage's perceived faults. Regardless of his intent that day, her offense wouldn't go away quietly. Albus Dumbledore, for all his joviality, could take his inability to hold social decorum and kindly leave her alone.
With what she now knew was his characteristic sneer plastered on his face, Professor Snape had simply replied to his superior with a curt, "My main concern is only in her ability to brew, Albus. Leave me to determine if this colossal waste of my time will become a regular occurrence."
Waste his time she did. For the last four summers, she had made the trip to the Scottish countryside to absorb as much knowledge as he was willing to part with. He was stingy during the early days but Hermione understood his hesitancy; she would have been the same way. It was rather serendipitous that her private tutelage was under a Slytherin, a house whose core values were a near-exact replica of Ombrelune.
Snape, although never expressly complementary, had told her at the end of the first summer that she wasn't completely disappointing. At fourteen, almost fifteen, she now knew more about potionry than most witches or wizards learned in a lifetime. During the second year, he had demanded that Occlumency be added to her summer curriculum - setting the precedent for him to add additional lessons at his leisure. Since then, they'd also added dueling to their regimen.
The invitation to apprentice under a Potion Master, even informally, was unprecedented for someone who was her age, especially by a Master that wasn't employed by her own school. Beauxbaton, however, didn't put very much weight upon the art of potionry, instead focusing on the more delicate magic of transfiguration and charms. All of the "brute" magic that she'd thirsted for at Beauxbatons was at her fingertips when she visited Hogwarts, and she felt reaffirmed in the belief that no matter her blood status she was a witch to be reckoned with.
Fleur was referring to the man as her Potions Master because she was the only person who knew that two fortnights ago the man had taken Hermione by surprise when he extended to her an offer for an official apprenticeship. The opportunity had been an unexpected surprise following her fourth summer of interning under the stoic Slytherin.
A squeal of delight pulled her out of the memories as the Abraxan-pulled carriage came to a gentle halt on the front lawn of Hogwarts. The duo, alone in the spacious carriage to allow the school's choice for champion to prepare herself, shared a meaningful look as they gathered their hats and straightened their pleated outer robes once more for good measure.
"I know that I am prepared, but I worry that I will fail Beauxbatons if I am indeed selected to represent our brothers and sisters. Especially since you will be preoccupied with your brewing," Fleur admitted with her back turned away from Hermione.
Grabbing Fleur's hand in a rare show of physical affection only permitted due to their seclusion, Hermione's voice held a conviction that would have left a lesser witch flinching when she replied, "You will win this tournament, and I will do whatever it takes to help you. The man you call my Potions Master isn't as important as ma moitié; this is what is most important, and I will prioritize accordingly."
Finally collecting themselves and climbing out of the carriage, the blond part-Veela walked ahead of the brunette and threw a captivating smile over her shoulder with a parting comment, "Well, before the serious business begins we must find the most handsome boys to occupy our free time before the other girls make a claim on them!"
Free time, Hermione thought to herself with a scoff before relenting, We'll just wait and see how handsome they are before assuming there will be any free time.
*\
The room that they'd been told was called the Great Hall was rather plain compared to the serene dining chambers filled with the choir of Wood Nymphs they'd left behind in the Pyrenees mountains. At least, that is what she thought until she looked up and saw that the ceiling was enchanted to display the night sky - the constellations that she'd memorized as a child visible despite the fact that they were indoors.
She often wondered how she'd ever lived without a knowledge of magic.
"Hermione," Fleur called, drawing her attention back to the conversation with several other girls in powder blue hats.
Pushing her blonde hair behind her shoulder, she casually looked around the room and added, "What do you make of the hommes charmants of Hogwarts?"
Hermione's expression remained unreadable as she followed Fleur's line of sight where it had stopped on a young man seated at the table full of students wearing blue ties. Ravenclaw, if she remembered correctly: those who valued intelligence. A sentiment she could relate to, although she was sure that the young man practically drooling over her friend did not currently have academic pursuits on his mind.
Sparing a glance at the other tables, it came as surprise to her that it wasn't just the part-Veela who had garnered the attention of the males around the Great Hall. It appeared that the effortless and feminine composure ingrained in the Beauxbaton students was universally appealing. Unbeknownst to their new companions, the students from the south of France had been taught to use this attention to their advantage if a witch or wizard was bold enough to make it so obvious. Subtlety, after all, was a virtue.
"Oh please, give the poor boy a break," she chastised before reaching for her glass and enjoying the taste of her favorite drink. Pumpkin juice was not a common beverage in France, but it was one she'd grown fond of during her visits to the castle in the past.
Evangaline, a red-haired 7th-year student, placed her hand on Hermione's arm before whispering, "Oh Hermione! It would appear that you've caught the attention of one of the serpentine men."
"There's nothing appealing about the boys here, in fact, I've almost resigned myself to the fact that -"
Whatever veiled insult she had been about to give to the entirety of the Hogwarts student body was effectively ended by the entrance of the final school into the Great Hall, only a faint whisper left her mouth. Regrettably, it would appear that even impeccably educated debutantes could fall victim to teenage angst.
"Oh mon Dieu."
Dressed in blood-red robes, wrapped in fur cloaks that looked soft to the touch, the young witches and wizards marching into the dining hall exhibited a stern confidence that vibrated with power. Watching their Headmaster, a known Death Eater, stand near Professor Snape at the end of the head table, the pieces fell into place - dark magic, an area of education that was lacking in all her academic pursuits to this point.
A smirk worked its way onto her face. Tapping a manicured nail on the table to get the attention of her classmates, she whispered, "Those, my sisters, are men."
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Beta: serpent and sage
I don't speak French, but here are my rough translations:
Beaucoup mieux - much better
ma moitié - my other half, used as a term of endearment
hommes charmants - young gentlemen
Oh mon Dieu - oh my goodness