Mirrors
The warm air is stifling and the sweat trailing down the back of her neck further irritates her. Despite the cooling enchantments, the weather has its own ideas. The tension boiling in the hallway only adds to her discomfort. Hermione spares a thought to wonder if McGonagall is doing this intentionally. Hermione isn’t entirely sure that she doesn’t deserve it.
Fleur’s back is to Hermione. Hermione just knows Fleur is examining her nails or something similarly irksome. Hermione is at least respectably crossing her arms. One of them has to have class and Hermione finds herself that person more often than not.
Of course, Fleur would disagree.
Fleur plays innocent, plays the better woman. She acts as if she is too above it all to roll around in the mud with Hermione. She bats her eyes and thickens her accent whenever McGonagall calls them to her office. If someone walks in on their screaming matches then she acts like she was dragged into it instead of instigating it. Fleur has a voice meant for screaming. She—like her heinous voice—is aggressive and arrogant. Hermione seethes whenever some idiotic, dunderheaded, fool actually believes Fleur’s act. Fleur barely even tries to act!
Hermione doesn’t care. Fleur can fool anyone else because Hermione knows the truth.
Fleur is far worse than herself—she’s demented, obsessed, and pettier than a scorned hag.
She hopes Fleur can feel the derision even in Hermione’s thoughts. Fleur better be able to decipher the waves of malevolence from Hermione. In that hope, she lets her thoughts turn nastier and even more pointed. Hopefully strong enough to make Fleur’s mental shields sore.
Harry looks between the two of them and taps his leg again. He’s been fiddling with his glasses for upwards of ten minutes. Harry has been caught between them enough times to know he’s in a dangerous situation. It must feel like being caught between two vipers. Unfortunately, Harry feels the need to mediate his two friends’ ardent dislike of one another. Doubly unfortunate for Harry, their years-long affair of loathing is no simple dislike. Hermione would dare to use the word hate.
Not even the Boy-Who-Lived can make them friends.
“This has to stop,” Harry says. He still foolishly believes this is a bridge he can mend. This isn’t like Hermione and Luna. With Luna, Harry called Hermione out on her rudeness and hypocrisy enough times for her to realize the complete prat she was being. It took Hermione some time to warm up to Luna but she could—there was nothing barring her. There was no hate beyond the initial turn off of Luna’s…well, Lunaness.
There’s nothing but barriers between Fleur and Hermione.
There’s a walled fortress between them. Hermione would sooner throw herself into the spiked moat then attempt to scale the walls. She has no intention of attempting to climb Fleur’s prickly walls and even less desire to see what lies behind them. It’d likely be a barren, dry, understimulating field. Hermione won’t be picking the dried weeds of Fleur’s lacking personality from her boots.
Fleur and Hermione’s feud has no sides, no peace, and no aggressor. Their hate is equal and fair. They don’t ask their friends to take sides and just might bite their heads off if they did. It’s personal. They’ve nurtured their grudge so long that they’ve become protective of it.
There is no stopping them.
“No.”
“Never.”
Their answers are immediate and overlap. Fleur harrumphs at their coincidental timing. The blue fabric of her dress robes crinkles around her straight shoulders when she crosses her arms. Fleur’s posture has never once suffered from her propensity for looking down upon others. She still wears Beauxbatons’ blue despite having lived and worked at Hogwarts for years now. It’s one of the minor things that serves to irritate Hermione.
Everywhere she goes she catches sight of blue that stands out amongst the crowds. Hermione wouldn’t put it past Fleur to be aware of how much it bothers her, how easily it catches Hermione’s eye. She can’t help but turn at swathes of blue, so ill-fitting Ravenclaw’s particular shade, and watch Fleur’s procession. Fleur who cannot walk through a hallway without students stopping her, without Jessamine’s constant presence. Fleur catches Hermione’s eye every time and gives her a smug nod as if Hermione was looking for any reason other than the blue.
It’s not Hermione’s fault that Fleur tries to stand out and succeeds. It’s hardly her fault if the blue drags Hermione focus away from conversations as she tries to place what overpriced robes Fleur is showing off now.
It happens to everyone.
Sometimes she turns, sometimes she looks, and she wonders. She wonders what specific shade of blue it will be today, what material. Is it shining because it is silk? Because of charms? How would it feel beneath Hermione’s fingers?
Hermione wonders that even now. Fleur still obstinately turned away but leaving the masterful stitching of her thick coat visible. Blues and whites weave in and out of one another and a few of Fleur’s loose hairs fall against the collar. Hermione’s fingers twitch and a want flickers. She wants to feel the weave, brush those hairs away, see if Fleur’s neck is as smooth as—
Jessamine’s cough breaks Hermione out of her…distraction. That fucking blue. She really wishes Fleur wasn’t wearing it.
Ron shakes his head, “Leave it, mate. Never get between two girls when they fight.”
Ginny backhands Ron’s stomach hard enough for him to wheeze. “If Fleur could be less awful, we wouldn’t be in this position.”
While a comment worthy of Ginny’s backhand, he isn’t entirely wrong. Unlike Harry, Ron has learned the danger of getting between Fleur and Hermione when they get going.
Ron still hasn’t recovered from the incident last summer. He’s avoided the two of them together ever since. Sometimes as far as apparating away upon spotting either of them. Today was supposed to be a mending of sorts. Alas, Fleur could not remember how to be civilized in company.
Ginny, meanwhile, hates Fleur. Ginny wouldn’t have liked Fleur without the whole Hermione-Fleur situation. She’s precisely the type of person Ginny is prone to bad mouthing at the pub. To make the situation worse, Fleur has made it her life goal to insult and goad Hermione on a daily basis. Ginny pointedly ignores Hermione’s protests that they don’t want their friends involved in their feud. Ginny has chosen her side and refuses to be dissuaded.
Fleur might actually place over select Azkaban residents in Ginny’s mind of horrible people.
Ginny is a bit…protective over Hermione. Protective, loyal, and mildly obsessed. Hermione didn’t exactly plan for that but well, Tom Riddle happened.
Ginny’s adoration is terrifying at times. Hermione wonders how Fleur copes with her hate.
“If Hermione could watch where she walks, we wouldn’t be here,” Fleur scoffs.
“You tripped me,” Hermione seethes. Fleur finally turns around. Of course Fleur’s hair isn’t sticking to her.
Fleur glares at Hermione. Jessamine bites back a smile behind Fleur. Hermione isn’t sure why Jessamine always seems so smug. She is Fleur’s best friend and a frequent witness to their spats.
Jessamine sometimes intimidates Hermione. She seems to know what someone is thinking or what will happen before it does. If Hermione didn’t know better, she’d think Jessamine was a bit of a seer. “I would never do such an immature thing. When you get older, perhaps you’ll understand,” Fleur says.
Hermione leans in with her own glare, “Maybe you’ve forgotten your manners in your old age.”
Their noses are inches apart as they glare at each other. Hermione feels her heart racing and her blood roaring. Fleur’s putting off a dangerous, sharp energy. Fleur’s time spent near curses has left her with a presence that Hermione can easily pick up. Cursed things are often haunted. Hermione can pick out where Fleur’s magic twines with the magic of long dead magical creatures. It’s subtle—far too subtle for anyone other than a sensor.
That subtle aura is like a beacon to Hermione. Always humming and inviting, it makes it near impossible to lose Fleur so long as she is nearby. It’s a damned nuisance.
It wasn’t always. Once, if once could be described as a time full of many circumstances rather than a singular occurrence, it was invaluable. It was a necessity. It kept them alive.
It kept Fleur alive.
A humming that was impossible for Hermione to miss even when Fleur’s breathing was shallow and Hermione’s head was foggy from blood loss. A signal, a beacon, a salvation. No matter what happened, Hermione could follow the heartbeat of long dead magic.
Even when the fear threatened to overwhelm her, their song did not abandon them.
I’m here, I’m still alive, find me.
Hermione buries the thoughts away in the deep recesses of her mind. She locks them in a box and kicks that box into the sea. No, they do not talk about that time. They don’t even think about it.
Then never existed, as far as either of them are concerned.
Fighting with Fleur outside of McGonagall’s office, that’s what they’re doing.
Fight with Fleur. Oh how easy she makes it. She’s still sneering at Hermione.
“At least I have manners to forget,” Fleur says. Hermione gets the urge to do something about this sanctimonious—
“Why is it cold?”
Hermione’s breath fogs and her teeth chatter. The world and her argument fade to the background as she turns around. The witch stops fighting and the sensor steps in.
He hasn’t yet focused and is still a splotch of mellow blue. Ghosts are an easy color to look at and an easier color to miss—a muted gray-blue that can be overlooked. It makes it that much easier to ignore the pleas of the dead. With every second the ghost becomes more defined. Eventually the blue blur becomes a young boy with only a faint blue outline.
He looks like a first year—maybe second.
Hermione smiles as warmly as she can and crouches down in front of him. “It’s winter.” It’s not but she can see the snowflakes in his hair. It would have been when he died. He isn’t aware enough to know otherwise.
The blur is gone but his lips are still blue. He’s so very pale.
“I hate being cold,” he whines. He starts crying and blubbers in a high pitch tone. It hurts to hear. It’s loud enough that Hermione’s eardrums will ring for an hour. Ghosts have an amplifying effect despite their usual incorporeal nature. There’s several schools of thought on the why and Hermione has tried her hand at a few essays on the matter.
She hears feet shift anxiously. Even those unable to see or hear him feel a sense of wrongness. The hair on the back of their neck is likely standing upright and unease slips beneath their skin. None of her friends ever cared to study the occult and none of them are natural sensors.
Still, they are all wizards—wizards with a very unhappy ghost wailing a few feet from them. Every being whether they’re a sensor, wizard, muggle, or magical creature can feel a ghost. They don’t always realize that’s what they’re feeling. Sometimes, often, it’s a sense of wrongness. The feeling of a presence when there is an empty room.
Hermione thinks she’s heard this ghost before—in passing. She’s heard this kind of sobbing in the hallways. She’s heard sniffling but whenever she tries to find the ghost, it stops. Sometimes she finds handprints on windows or snow where there shouldn’t be any. It’s perhaps the first time he’s materialized.
Hermione takes his hands between hers. He immediately stops crying—just like they always do. Touching ghosts is risky. They don’t know that it’s an option until she initiates it. They don’t know they can touch or affect her until she opens that door. She holds his ice cold hands between her warm ones and his lip wobbles.
“You don’t have to be cold anymore,” Hermione promises and he launches himself at her. He’s a blubbering mess.
Hermione wraps her arms around him. His ice cold nose presses into her neck. She closes her eyes against the wave of sadness. “You can move on.”
“I’m not supposed to go anywhere without my parents,” he manages between stuttering cries.
Hermione holds him tighter. His frame shakes. If she had to guess by the style of his uniform—and she’s gotten very good at identifying uniform styles—he’s been dead for a long time. “Your parents are waiting for you.”
He cries harder, “Promise?”
Hermione pulls away and sets her hands on his shoulders and smiles at him again, “Promise.”
Eventually his sobs fade until they’re entirely gone. The sadness lingers.
It always does.
It’s settled deep in her chest and she misses her parents. She misses her friends. She’s tired of never getting warm. She hates being alone. No one ever hears her.
Hermione’s body quakes and her breath is still fogging. She stands up and ignores the pops that her knees make. The stiflingly hot hallway seems so far away now—the fight even further.
It’s important for sensors to be able to separate themselves. The ghosts aren’t them. Their pain isn’t theirs. The little boy needed a witness, a guardian, but she does not need to wear his pain. The bite of the cold slightly fades.
She is Hermione Granger, she’s outside McGonagall’s office, she hates Fleur Delacour.
Arms wrap around her shoulders—warm arms, thank god, she’s warm again. She’s pulled into a headlock and swayed rather violently. “Look at you, banishing ghosts left, right, and center!” Hermione recognizes Ginny’s voice and lets her warmth deep in for the moment.
Hermione eventually rolls her eyes and shoves Ginny off of her. She fixes her hair and rolls her shoulders—trying to shake off the encounter.
She isn’t cold anymore but she still shivers. Ginny is good at gauging Hermione’s needs and mood. She can tell more than most when Hermione could use an extra push.
Ginny knows how to read Hermione.
Again, Ginny’s undivided attention can be frightening.
“I didn’t banish him,” Hermione argues.
“Non, the ghost whisperer just rescues them all,” Fleur derides.
Her irritation and need to pick a fight returns as soon as Fleur opens her mouth.
Fuck Fleur.
“Have you heard from your mother recently? I just had dinner with her,” Hermione snaps back. It’s petty, mean-hearted, and so very effective.
Fleur’s nostrils flare and she curses Hermione in a mixture of French, Veela, and German. Hermione—who speaks all of those languages because of her close association with Apolline Delacour—smiles in response. The smile isn’t any nicer than her words were. Jessamine eventually stops being a smug asshole and tries to hold Fleur back when she takes a threatening step towards Hermione.
“You two, again,” McGonagall interrupts them. Fleur’s mouth shuts with a snap.
Hermione looks to the ground—suitably chastised by three words. “Headmistress,” Hermione manages to greet with only moderate humiliation.
“In my office. The rest of you? Don’t you have jobs outside of my school? Are you so desperate for another detention, Weasley?” The Weasley siblings look at each other. They both had their fair share of detentions during their time at Hogwarts. They blubber through excuses and back away from the situation. Ginny pulls Hermione into another warm hug before she flees.
Ron claps her on the shoulder. “You got this,” Ron cheers her on quietly. He may be her friend but he is terrified of Fleur.
She pats his hand and he awkwardly gives her a thumbs up. He falters at the sight of Fleur’s blistering glare. Ginny pulls him away when he freezes.
Hermione is quite familiar with the headmistress’ office and not entirely for reasons that she’s proud of. It looks similar to when Dumbledore was still Headmaster. The stones of Hogwarts do not change for one person. Something about it is more inviting—less foreboding—now. Hermione isn’t sure if it’s because she is no longer a student or if it’s McGonagall herself.
Hermione takes her chosen chair and Fleur sits in hers.
They refuse to look at each other and McGonagall’s disapproving frown grows more intense.
“How many times have you two been in my office?”
There’s a beat of silence and Fleur and Hermione both look at each other. Fleur glares as if Hermione will magically have the number.
“How should I know?” Hermione eventually hisses at Fleur who won’t stop staring.
“You’re the brightest witch of our age. The girl genius,” Fleur throws back.
“You substitute for Arithmancy! Between us, you should know how many bloody times!”
Fleur gives her a condescending look and relaxes, “How much does it bother you that I teach Charms and substitute for Arithmancy? Does it ruin your favorite subjects knowing—”
“That’s quite enough from the both of you,” McGonagall interrupts.
It’s a good thing too because Hermione was this close to eviscerating Fleur. It does bother her that Fleur is teaching those classes.
Honestly, it bothers Hermione that she’s teaching any class at Hogwarts.
“This situation is…untenable. We will have to fix this. We cannot have two of our professors quarreling.”
“Snape never got along with anyone.”
“Do you want to be Snape?” McGonagall asks. Hermione looks down again—regretting ever speaking. “As I was saying, you two need to learn to get along.”
Not likely.
“We cannot,” Fleur says. For once, Hermione agrees with her.
“You will. This institution will not employ professors who cannot mend their differences. Too long has the wizarding world protected intolerance.”
“We’re not intolerant!”
“Our hatred is mutual and unbigoted.”
“Yes! I just cannot stand her existence!”
“It’s really just her awful personality, Headmistress.”
“You made Fleur’s office into a bog a week ago, Hermione.” Befitting the bog shrew she is. “You burned Hermione’s personalized History of Hogwarts a few days ago, Fleur.” An unnecessary act of pure evil and maliciousness.
“There’s no proof,” Fleur argues with a straight back and an unflinching demeanor.
“It is with great pleasure that I inform the two of you of our newest program. As you well know, not every student has the best home life. As a way to mitigate our students’ exposure to damaging households, we’re beginning elective summer classes. This gives them a reasonable excuse to avoid returning home while still providing them with an education.”
A sense of dread washes over Hermione stronger than any ghost. “You’re going to make us teach together.”
Fleur gasps dramatically, “You wouldn’t.”
McGonagall nearly smiles at their displeasure. “The syllabus is already on both of your desks.”
“You cannot do this to us. Not without warning!”
“If you both wish to have a post to return to, I can. You will teach the class together. You will either learn to get along or at least hide it better. Am I clear?”
They murmur their agreements and leave the office while they still have some dignity.
They both let out a sigh of relief when the door closes.
“Look at what you’ve done now,” Fleur grumbles and Hermione rolls her eyes.
“You tripped me.”
Fleur sneers at Hermione and storms away. Hermione’s eyes absolutely do not trail after her and if they do, it’s only to keep her eyes on her mortal enemy.
Hermione lets out a long sigh after an hour of Fleur and goes the long way to her own office. She passes a few students along the way but luckily none stop her.
The walk is comforting in its familiarity. She’s spent the better part of her life in the castle. When she graduated from Hogwarts, she nearly left for the Ministry. She might have, had she not felt the pull.
She wanted to keep learning from Apolline who was an endless source of knowledge. She knows things that Hogwarts will never teach. She has a way of knowledge that isn’t quite forbidden but that borders on it. Hermione was also attached to more than a few ghosts of Hogwarts. Myrtle would throw a fit if Hermione ever left. Connor and Audrey would pout but encourage her. She might even miss Nearly-Headless Nick.
They wouldn’t follow her.
They’re too nested in Hogwarts. Hermione thinks the same may be true for her. Sensors have far more in common with ghosts than anyone wants to admit. She’s happy with her life. She has a place in Hogwarts. A space for her and those like her. Apolline built a strong network amongst sensor students throughout her career—Hermione does her best to honor that and build upon it.
As a child, she didn’t think she’d have anything like this. She couldn’t leave then anymore than she can now.
Life would be perfect if not for a French witch with a penchant for nuisance.
The longer she’s away from Fleur the calmer she becomes. Her shoulders unwind and her Fleur induced grimace softens. Fleur is going to give her wrinkles and probably be proud of it.
She reaches her office door to find Crookshanks sitting on top of her lending library. He must have swatted off a ceramic mug that a student made her. It’s broken in front of the lending library and dozens of students must have walked around it. They never fix what Crookshanks breaks—it seems to be part of their enjoyment.
The students love that their creepy professor’s ghost cat is a bit of a dick.
He preens when she gives the shards a pointed look. “We’ve talked about this,” Hermione admonishes. Crookshanks licks his paw. Hermione shakes her head and fixes the mug with a wandless and wordless magic. She picks up Crookshanks and opens her door, grabbing the mug on the way in.
She closes the door to her office firmly and presses her head against the wood. As quick as the chill left, the summer heat returned. Hermione sets the mug on her desk and Crookshanks on her chair. Hermione wipes her forehead with the back of her hand and pulls her tie loose.
The mug reads “I had a joke but it died” in bold red and gold. Hermione loves it.
As McGonagall promised, there is a syllabus waiting for her. Hermione glares at it for a moment before venturing over. She opens it with one hand while pouring herself a glass of water.
A History of Inter-School Relations
Fuck.
McGonagall has left it barebones and nearly empty meaning that she hopes they’ll cooperate to construct a syllabus. She expects them to actually collaborate.
Fucking fuck.
She actually expects them to teach a class together.
They’ve both tried to get the other fired. Hermione once nearly successfully pinned a crime on Fleur that would have had her banned from Wizarding Britain. If it weren’t for Harry and his bleeding moral heart, she would have succeeded.
Fleur made her an enemy of the Veela. The entire species of Veela—not just Fleur’s clan. Hermione isn’t sure how she managed that but she gets harassed by every single Veela she meets. Strangers that Fleur could not possibly know make her life miserable at every turn. Sometimes they try to kill her!
Fleur always knows when she’s had a run in with a Veela outside of Hogwarts. She looks pleased for days. Hermione once had to spend a night pulling needles out of her arms before class the next day. Fleur wore needles in her hair that entire day.
There’s no way they can teach together.
A knock is hesitant at her door. Hermione closes her eyes and wishes against all hope the person will continue on. “Professor? Nick is teasing the first years again.”
Hermione hangs her head. She has to routinely chase Nearly-Headless Nick away from the first years. It’s a hassle—a chore that sensors pass around like a hideously transfigured cup. She is always caught holding the rat-chalice. “I’ll be right there, Cynthia.”
Hermione pulls on a worn Gryffindor cloak. The first-years always get a kick out of a professor in house colors. Hermione finds they’re also calmer when she looks more approachable. Ginny suggested losing the stern expression when it came to the younger students.
Depending how spooked the first-years are from Nick, they may need some extra care. Ginny would be so proud. “Tact, Hermione!” Ginny would shout at her in their early years.
Ginny spent a lot of time trying to help her be less abrasive. Ginny finds her bluntness amusing but she’s one of the few. Ginny took it upon herself to try and…polish Hermione’s social skills.
She places a book on algae that she thinks Thomas would like in the lending library. She wrote his name on a note so he’d know it was for him specifically. She doubts anyone else would be tempted to read it but Hermione doesn’t rely on possibilities.
She starts walking towards the great hall looking for the students. A seventh-year Hufflepuff student rolls her eyes and playfully boos when she passes. “Miss Atras, I saw that!” Hermione calls out.
Andrea smiles wide and bright. “Wear Hufflepuff colors for a change, then!”
Hermione shakes her head—these kids. “Would you wear another house’s colors?”
Andrea pouts. “To make my students feel more included? Absolutely.”
“You know,” Thomas—Andrea’s boyfriend—starts, “Cynthia mentioned the first-years when she was sprinting by. Bet they’d get a laugh out of the terrifying Occult Studies professor in a different house’s robes.”
Andrea nods with enthusiasm. “I’m not scary,” Hermione argues despite knowing her reputation.
“You’re the brightest witch of your age, the strongest living sensor, and withstood possession,” Thomas lists on his fingers.
“If rumors are true she played a vital part in preventing Him from returning,” Andrea adds.
Thomas lifts a fourth finger. “Professor, you’re terrifying. You teach about ghosts and wraiths. You walk down the halls talking to ghosts that most students can’t even see.”
“You give more detention than any other professor,” Andrea adds.
“You expect everyone’s best.”
“You have a dead cat.”
“You go head to head with Professor Delacour,” Thomas finishes.
It is not the first time she’s been told that she is scary nor will it be the last. It comes with the territory. It is one of the more kind ways she’s been told although they had the list a little too ready. Andrea and Thomas mean it in a fond way. She isn’t terrifying to them and she’s sure she’s one of their favorite professors but she is objectively, a fright.
Helping the first years—especially the muggle-born students—learn to control their senses is one of the reasons she started teaching in the first place. She knows how horrifying it is when someone is unable to meditate or control the effect ghosts can have.
She doesn’t think she’ll ever fully forgive the Wizarding world for abandoning muggle-borns to the dead. The Statute of Secrecy is barbaric. It’s one awful thing to leave children in the dark regarding magic, it’s a malicious decision to leave them to ghosts.
Most wizards are not natural sensors and it won’t affect them beyond heightened feelings of unease and the like. Natural sensors, however, are especially vulnerable. She isn’t sure how they thought it was a good idea to leave children in a world unequipped to deal with ghosts.
Hermione sighs and checks the time. It’s nearly dinner and Nick likely has the first-years scattered. “Hand me your cloak,” Hermione eventually gives in to Andrea. Andrea laughs with delight and hands it over, accepting Hermione’s in return. “The things I do for first years,” Hermione grumbles.
Andrea puts on the Gryffindor cloak without a second thought. “They never talk about how grumpy you are,” Andrea says.
“Would you like detention, Miss Atras?” Hermione asks.
Andrea clears her throat. “I mean, Tom isn’t Professor Granger the best professor?”
Thomas has the barest smile as he starts pushing Andrea away before she can bury herself further. “The very best.”
Hermione starts back towards the first-years and everyone stares at her Hufflepuff cloak. The first years in particular seem mystified—maybe Andrea was onto something.
She continues down winding stairs and along never ending hallways with a sure path. She doesn’t get lost anymore. Years of exploring with Harry and Ron have mapped the school in her mind. She still finds secret rooms and passageways but she believes she always will. There is always more to discover and learn about Hogwarts grounds. Even beyond the castle, there is much that she does not know. She found a grove of glowing fungus thought to be extinct just last year.
She became Neville’s favorite person until Luna made him a flower bracelet. He still wears his friendship bracelet to this day even though it’s a constant source of teasing from Ginny.
A painting shrieks when a hand lands on her mouth. She’s pulled into an alcove and shoved against a window. Fleur towers over her with an irate expression. Hermione could almost forget what Fleur looks like without an irritated or angered twist to her features. Fleur’s hand is flattened against Hermione’s collarbone as she firmly keeps Hermione in place. “We’re going to—what are you wearing?” Fleur twists the robes to and fro.
“Hufflepuff robes,” Hermione answers.
Fleur makes an annoyed noise. “Obviously! Why?”
Hermione shrugs. “I felt like a change.”
Fleur takes a deep breath and as if reining in homicidal thoughts. “Answer my questions,”
Hermione relaxes against the window. “I’m not one of your students, Professor Delacour.”
“If you were, you would have a lifetime in detention.”
“I was a star student.”
“Why. Are. You. Wearing. This.”
Hermione wonders how far Fleur will go if Hermione doesn’t answer. “I like yellow,” Hermione says.
Fleur looms. The paintings nearby begin to gossip. “They’re at it again.”
A man in a painting of a windmill takes off his hat. “Hopefully they don’t start with spells. Remember Richard? His whole wing was blasted by these two.”
A woman amongst luxurious chairs and a fireplace fans herself dramatically. “That was these two? Why I never! How are they still employed?”
The man laughs and runs a hand through his sun-bleached hair. “Heard from the rumor mill that they might not be. Headmistress McGonagall is making them teach together.”
The woman laughs loudly. “Rumor mill! I see what you did there, sir. I suppose we’ll be getting new Charms and Occult professors, then.” Fleur casually tosses a spell over her shoulder that knocks the woman’s painting down. She screams bloody murder. “Help! Help! I’ve been shot!”
Fleur’s lips curl up in a pleased smile.
“Madam, come over here!”
“Are they flirting?” Hermione asks.
Fleur looks disgusted. “I believe so,” Fleur answers, “explain the robe.”
Hermione looks pointedly at Fleur’s drawn wand. “Are you planning to put that away?”
Fleur shakes her head. “You never know when it may come in handy with difficult people.”
“Are you threatening me, Professor Delacour?”
“That depends, Professor Granger.”
“On?”
“If you continue to be difficult,” Fleur replies.
Hermione drums her fingers on the stones behind her as she debates her answer. The sound of her nails against the stone is quiet but audible. “I am known to be very difficult.”
“Hermione,” Fleur growls—her patience tried.
“Nearly-Headless Nick scared some first-years. Miss Atras thought it would make them laugh,” Hermione answers. She does need to get back on her way as much as she would love to draw out this confrontation. Hermione loves these moments when it’s just them and they don’t have to pretend to be proper for anyone else, even though they’re wretched at pretending. Pushing Fleur is an art form that Hermione delights in.
The answer visibly annoys Fleur. The very nature of Hermione’s role in Hogwarts will always serve to aggravate Fleur. “Off to save more poor souls?”
Fleur coddles first-years and is overwhelmingly protective of her students, family, and friends. Fleur wouldn’t allow a single hair to be touched on their heads. She’s already pulling her hand back from Hermione so that she can be on her way. Fleur is fierce and caustic but she is incredibly caring to those in her circle. Hermione has the pleasure of not only being outside of Fleur’s circle but in an unreachable square. They’ll never be able to change their shapes.
Fleur will always detest Hermione and Occult.
“Someone has to,” Hermione says unkindly. Fleur flinches. A stick has more natural sensing than Fleur does. Fleur could study nothing but Occult and still be unable to sense. Despite how often Hermione rubs it in Fleur’s face, it’s a constant sore spot for Fleur. Hermione should be kinder considering everything that’s occurred between them but they both give as good as they get.
Any semblance of peace is gone and the air sits dead between them. Sweat trails down the side of Hermione’s face. “I will not lose my position because of you,” Fleur says darkly.
That must have been her original reason for pulling Hermione into the alcove. “I feel exactly the same.”
“You will take this class seriously,” Fleur orders.
“I always do. Think you can stop tripping me long enough to help with the syllabus?”
Fleur leans closer to her. She looks down at Hermione with searing judgment. “Think you can keep your head in the now long enough to teach?” Fleur asks just as unkindly as Hermione had.
Hermione’s tendency to drift isn’t unknown but it isn’t something she likes being commented on. Even students don’t comment when she gets distracted mid-class. Hermione is not a flighty or inattentive professor. It’s against her being. She is a serious, attentive, and focused person. Her students deserve her undivided attention. She doesn’t like giving up on a subject until she’s thoroughly satisfied her curiosity and learned all that she can. Despite what she wants, she can’t help her drifting attention as a sensor in Hogwarts. As the strongest sensor and the occult professor, it’s largely her responsibility to deal with any occult issues. Hogwarts is one of the loudest places she’s been. The castle itself seems to have a life in death. Generations of the dead all have something to say and there’s only so many listeners.
Hermione isn’t sure which of them is more aggravated at this point. “I’m looking forward to this summer,” Hermione says with a challenge.
“Oui, I look forward to your incompetence.” Hermione won’t engage further—she has spooked children to herd. She turns to leave and Fleur’s hand lands on the cloak. She pinches the trim between two fingers. “You look silly in this.”
“Prefer my Gryffindor robes?”
The chattering of paintings quiets and streams of sunlight pour in from the window. Fleur’s jaw works for a moment. Hermione forces down the surge of memories. Their affair is a dance on a blade’s edge. They could easily fall either which way but they choose to bleed instead. “I preferred the Azkaban uniform,” Fleur purrs with delight.
Fleur managed to get Hermione trapped in Azkaban for a week. Like with all of their more…mortally risky endeavors, Hermione found herself in a dementor free room. They will put each other in awful situations but they never truly endanger the other. It hardly deserved a conversation—it was a mutual nonverbal decision. Just because they despise each other doesn’t mean they want the other dead. Well, most of the time.
Still, Hermione is sure nothing has ever made Fleur more happy than knowing Hermione was stuck in a damp room for a week. “I’d prefer you in a burial robe but we can’t all have what we want,” Hermione replies.
Fleur smiles and it’s nearly fond—dangerously so. “Run along, Professor Granger. The children will be lost without your abysmal help.” Hermione doesn’t leave and Fleur keeps her hand on Hermione. She eventually takes a step forward and takes hold of Hermione’s loose tie. Fleur fixes it with slow sure motions. She bows her head and avoids Hermione’s gaze. Fleur’s eyes stay fixed on the task and Hermione takes the opportunity to really look at Fleur. So often she avoids looking lest she be caught staring.
Fleur is still the most beautiful woman Hermione has ever known.
Hermione will never forget the first time she saw Fleur.
She was…enchanted.
Fleur wasted no time in ruining that first impression. Fleur is an expert at reminding Hermione why she cannot stand her.
They both are.
Whenever one of them falters, the other is always there to keep their hatred simple and clean. When the blade dulls, one of them must sharpen it.
It’s Hermione’s turn to pull them away from the fall. Fleur’s slowly dipping them over the edge, the side they fail to avoid time and time again. Hermione can feel the steel slipping away and the open breeze of possibility. Hermione needs to keep the dance in motion. She needs to push them back. Her back must be unbowed and yet Fleur’s deft fingers test her willpower. Hermione needs to be the one to dig her feet in and bloody their soles.
Fleur’s fingers are careful and diligent as she toys with her tie. Fleur has long since fixed her tie. Her fingers brush Hermione’s throat, her fingers dip below Hermione’s collar, the cool tips of her nails scrape over her skin. Fleur eventually makes a hum when she’s satisfied. Fleur still isn’t looking at her. Fleur runs her fingers down her tie and Hermione grabs her fingers.
Dangerous. Oh so very dangerous.
Fleur’s eyes flick up and lock onto Hermione’s. Her cool eyes dance in the sunlight and oh she knows. Hermione’s thoughts must be as transparent as Fleur’s. Dance, she tells herself. This is where she needs to twirl away from Fleur. She knows her move, damnit. They’ve memorized the steps. Fleur’s breaths are the loudest sound in the castle, her fingers warmer than the summer air, and Hermione’s steps falter.
She misses her move and fails to uphold her end of their dance.
Hermione’s eyes trail down to Fleur’s lips.
She takes her time–a slow trip to hell. She allows herself to take in the way her eyelashes flutter at Hermione’s attention, the slope of Fleur’s nose, prominent cheekbones that Hermione’s fingers ache to trace again, and her beautiful soft lips. Fleur takes a deep breath as Hermione’s gaze settles on her lips.
Fleur isn’t pushing her away.
They’re missing their steps but the music is still playing—building. Hermione knows how quickly she could close this gap. She knows how Fleur would taste, how Fleur’s lips would part soft and unbelieving at first, how Fleur’s whole demeanor would change like a wildfire and she’d burn them both. She knows how Fleur would grab hold and damn them both as is her nature. She’d taste Hermione and need more. They’d pull each other into free fall and there wouldn’t be anything to catch them this time. Fleur is many things and always the worst of them, Hermione reminds herself. Fleur doesn't believe in halfways. If she dislikes then she hates, if she likes then she loves.
Their hate is a tricky thing. Their hatred is stronger and more enduring than any friendship could ever be. They’re eternal, like this. Always struggling with their nature, their history, and their relationship. Immortalized by their hate. Gods in their own feud, locked away from the world. Gods pleased by nothing more than savoring their games.
“Are they kissing? The rumors are true, then?” A painting breaks their spell.
Hermione rocks back away from Fleur and clears her throat. “I need to find the first-years,” Hermione says. Her voice is scratchy, not as sure as it was moments ago.
Fleur’s cheeks are pink and she looks anywhere that isn’t Hermione. “I heard there were some students gathered near the troll statue,” Fleur says. She’s visibly collecting herself, building all their walls back up again. Their war is one best waged on a battlefield of buried memories and possibilities.
Hermione lets Fleur’s fingers go but Fleur’s doesn’t retreat. Her finger’s drag the rest of the way down Hermione’s tie and she presses her hand flat against Hermione’s stomach, the palm of her hand pressing against Hermione’s buckle. Hermione swallows and her breath hitches. It’s been years since the last time they got this far off course. Fleur’s touch, teasing as it is, sets Hermione’s skin aflame. Every bit of her attention is focused on Fleur’s touch, how Fleur holds her so possessively. She wants to pull Fleur closer. She wants to feel Fleur’s body against her’s. She knows how Fleur’s hair would feel between her fingers as she pulls her closer, she knows the sound that would come out of Fleur’s mouth at first touch.
That sound is all Hermione can think about.
Fleur’s face is turned away, facing the window, but Hermione can see half of her smug smile. Fleur’s attempt at regaining the upper hand is ruined by the way her fingers dig into Hermione’s shirt and the way she struggles to regain composure. No one else would notice the way Fleur’s smug smile is barely holding. No one else would be able to read Fleur’s faint flush like Hermione. Fleur’s stuck between places. Not quite ready for a decision, flayed and far more vulnerable then either of them like to be.
All Hermione needs to do is reach out and Fleur would allow it. Fleur would be quick to try and turn the tables. Yet, when the fog cleared and they were both in their right minds, the hate would return.
This too would become something they don’t talk about. She’d feel the burn of Fleur lips for days and it would drive her mad.
They can’t do this.
Hermione, in an unusually merciful mood, remembers her steps.
She takes Fleur’s fingers from her with a gentleness foreign to them. She indulges in her own greed and brushes Fleur’s fingers with her thumb. Hate is easier than whatever this is.
“This is better than Draco Malfoy’s meltdowns,” a painting murmurs.
She drops Fleur’s hand at the same moment she takes a step away from Hermione. Hermione nods and turns away from Fleur. “I’ll check the statue first.”
“You ruined their moment! They could have finally kissed and gotten over this whole spat. Heaven knows we’d all be safer for it,” another painting complains.
“Think of how boring it would be without their fights,” a different painting says.
Every step is heavy, leaden. Her head is foggy and she needs to focus. She needs distance from Fleur and their dangerous moment.
Fleur growls and the sound of another painting landing on the floor. Hermione shakes her head.
That was almost…they nearly…not good. They’re usually better than that.
Hermione reminds herself of all of Fleur detestable personality flaws to cool off any lingering thoughts. She runs through the flaws with the ease of a well loved diary entry.
Arrogant, rude, evil, annoying, spiteful, a stain on Hermione’s life.
Hermione reminds herself of every terrible thing that Fleur’s done to her. They don’t work as anything but bitter enemies. Hermione will have to do something horrible. She wonders if the Romanian cave ghouls still have a bounty on Fleur’s head.
She follows Fleur’s suggestion to check the troll statue—at great personal risk, Fleur could have cursed it to attack Hermione after all. The galleon that she gives all second-year Occult students hums in her pocket. She takes it out and examines it, luckily the coordinates match. Cynthia must have found the first-years.
She finds the first-years in a state of disarray. They are shouting at one another and Nearly-Headless Nick is trying not to laugh. He’s failing rather embarrassingly. His attempts to scare children are ruined by the giggles that keep escaping him.
“Nick,” Hermione sighs. He does this every year and she reprimands him. He never learns—never changes. He just keeps harassing the students. He scars them! Children really shouldn’t need to see his severed neck. Despite his more…nefarious schemes, he’s practically Hogwarts’ poster ghost. Everyone knows Nick, even the students without sensing.
“They asked!”
“Just because they ask doesn’t mean you show them your severed neck,” Hermione explains once again. As she has many times. She sometimes wonders late at night if this will be her life, an unending cycle of chewing Nick out.
At least three first-years are crying.
“You’re no fun, Professor Granger,” Nick accuses.
“Nick, go. We’ll talk later,” Hermione says. Nick complains as he wanders off.
Cynthia—who went ahead of Hermione—wraps an arm around a student’s shoulders. “Randall ran off.”
“Why are you wearing Hufflepuff robes?” Sean wipes at the tears on his face. He looks at the robes with abject fascination. It’s a sight so shocking to the first-year that it’s knocked him out of his fear.
Hermione smiles and pats his shoulder. He looks up at her with wide eyes and it hurts Hermione how young these kids are. He’s so trusting of her. He believes she can banish the ghosts and help him learn to shut out the dead. There’s a certain gravity to a child’s expectations and trust. Hermione spends every day trying to ensure her students’ faith is not misplaced. “Sometimes you have to be a badger.”
Sean blinks at Hermione several times. His eyes dart between the cloak and Hermione—one of the more prominent Gryffindors in recent history—Sean’s lips twitch until he finally laughs. “You’re not though!”
She’ll have to actually thank Andrea for the idea.
The others look to Sean and slowly pull themselves together. It’s as if there is a silent signal that it’s alright now, if Sean can laugh then the fright is over. “I need to go find our lost Slytherin. Are you alright here?” Hermione asks.
Sean nods, “We’re okay now.” The first-years all bravely nod and some subtly wipe at tears or straighten their robes. At least two students attach themselves to Cynthia’s side. She’d be concerned about how tight they’re holding on but Cynthia offers Hermione an easy smile.
“Are you alright getting them to the great hall?” Hermione asks Cynthia.
Cynthia nods, “I’ve got them, Professor. Come on, ducklings.” Cynthia picks Sean up and starts running with him tucked under an arm. They race after her with delighted laughter. Thank god this year’s bunch were easier to calm than usual.
Except Randall.
She walks down the hallway and calls out for him. It’s quiet but not worryingly so. Hermione isn’t picking up on any altered moods, weather, or anything suspicious. She could lighten up on her barriers but Hogwarts is a dangerous place for sensors.
She almost walks by the door.
She freezes just after she passes it. It’s cracked open with a hint of light escaping. Hermione presses her fingers to the heavy wooden door and gives it a push. It opens without a creak.
Randall is completely still in front of a mirror. Hermione gives it a scrutinizing look and looks at the writing on it. It takes Hermione a moment but she places it—the Mirror of Erised. She’s read about it, of course. Harry and Ron also told her about it. Harry had spent many nights staring at a reflection of something he could never have. Hermione thinks the mirror is an unspeakable cruelty.
Hermione lowers her eyes and avoids looking at it. She will not be caught in its thrall. She doesn’t need to know what it thinks she wants.
She walks up to Randall and he hasn’t reacted. He just stares at the mirror. He’s lost in its magnetism, in the swirling agony of the impossible.
“It shows your greatest desire,” Hermione tells him.
Randall doesn’t answer.
Hermione finds a nearby blanket and throws it over the mirror. Randall finally snaps out of it. His eyes are watery. “Did you see them?” he asks her. He looks lost and her heart pangs. This should not be here. Harry said that Dumbledore had it moved.
Hermione kneels down in front of him. “I didn’t look.”
A tear finally escapes. “Why not?” he asks. His voice cracks with accusation. He can’t imagine not looking. It must seem foolish not to look, or perhaps he is envious that he cannot go back to having never looked in the first place. Either way, his red tinged eyes demand an answer.
She knows what he must have seen—knows well enough to put two and two together. This shouldn’t have happened. They’re supposed to protect the students from things like this. The world isn’t what it once was.
“Do you remember the lesson about mirrors?”
Randall nods. “Mirrors are bad.”
Hermione smiles fondly because no, that’s not what she said but also yes it is. She spent an hour going over the intricacies of mirrors and how they interact with spirits. Mirrors are easy for ghosts to get stuck in and become shades. They’re easy nests. They can lure in an unsuspecting sensor. They can amplify a shade’s emotions. Admittedly, they can be very useful. They can be used to clarify a spirit’s image. Mirrors are common tools for occultists with a low sense. Not all occultists are able to see ghosts so they use their reflection instead.
Hermione just has a personal distaste for mirrors. They’re too dangerous. She understands the use but thinks anything that can backfire that easily shouldn’t be used.
“They are traps,” Hermione politely corrects.
Randall shakes his head, “It showed me my parents.” Of course it did. The damned mirror has no sense of mercy. Why not show children their dead parents?
Hermione is grateful that Dumbledore took the mirror away before it properly got its hooks into Harry. She thinks the thing likes to feed off of its audience—that it knows what it’s doing. Harry rolled his eyes when she said that in their first year.
He would agree now.
Now that he has a better understanding of the occult.
Now, after everything.
Tom Riddle’s diary—horcruxes.
Magical objects are not just meaningless trinkets. They are imbued with power. They either have their own spirit or they become a nest of spirits. Magical objects are more or less alive—ensouled. Non-magical objects can be prone to the same fate but not to the severity that magical objects are. A non-magical object might become haunted or ensouled under certain conditions but a magical item will have a soul.
She wonders which the Mirror of Erised is–a nest or alive.
“They’re always with you. You don’t need a mirror for that,” Hermione says.
“They were bad people,” Randall whispers. Hermione is really not the person to comfort Randall on the complexities of having dead parents with ties to Voldemort. Another child she’ll be recommending for therapy.
“They are still your parents,” Hermione says with the utmost care. They were in all likelihood death eaters who were killed by other death eaters to tie up loose ends. They were not good people. A child shouldn’t have to deal with that. A child should not have to balance the love for their parents and the knowledge they were monsters. It is an awful burden to leave a child with. She curses them for not protecting him better. They chose to join Voldemort, they chose to commit themselves to his cause, then they left their son to deal with the fallout.
Hermione lays a hand on the exposed section of the mirror. It surges to meet her. Ah, she won’t question McGonagall then. She did not bring the mirror back—it brought itself back.
An inkling of fear crawls up her spine. She needs to get Randall far from this mirror. It feels twisted and warped but it isn’t strong. It isn’t powerful enough to kill outright and it must take great effort for it to move. She can feel the thrum of power within but the mirror is hungry–starving–and needs to eat before it can recover its energy. She could destroy it now but haunted objects like this put up a fight when they realize their existence is under threat. She refuses to let Randall be stuck in the crossfire. She’ll escort him out of here, not willing to let him get lost again.
She’ll have to return tonight to deal with the mirror.
She triple locks the door despite the fact the mirror isn’t strong enough to move. She doesn’t need any other wandering students to stumble upon it. Randall gives her a look when she checks it again. She won’t tell the already scared student that the mirror showing him his dead parents is actually haunted and was probably feeding off of him. It’s for the best not to worry him. She’ll be sure to include a lesson on recognizing signs when objects or spirits are feeding next week.
Hermione forces her feet ahead of her, not fully willing to leave the mirror behind. It’ll be fine, it’s drained and locked up. She can return and destroy it. It’ll be fine.
Randall is sullen their whole walk back. “What would it have shown you?” Randall asks.
What is Hermione’s greatest desire?
Hermione isn’t sure she has a greatest desire. There is a certain comfort as of late. She is where she is supposed to be. Hermione is content. She has an excellent job and works with good friends. She has a life outside of work. She catches up with Harry and Ron every week. She has peers that she can consult and fellow scholars that challenge her. She is constantly engaged—in her work, with her students, with her writing, and with her friends. She’s hardly left wanting for anything. There are regrets, of course, but desires are a different story.
Fleur is the only real issue she has. She is a perpetual thorn in Hermione’s side. She causes strife and disorder in Hermione’s life.
Fleur is many things but not lazy. She dedicates an obscene amount of time and effort on ruining Hermione’s life. Every interaction is a headache inflicted by an unbearable French drawl. Hermione’s dentist—should she still use one—would be horrified by how often she grinds her teeth.
Fleur came into her life and blew it up. Her sense of peace was taken away the moment that the Beauxbatons landed. This, of course, was Fleur’s intention. From the first moment Hermione’s name kissed Fleur’s ears, she must have started plotting how to drive Hermione insane.
Hermione is plagued by visions of Fleur as a vengeful divine-being molded with the singular purpose of agonizing her. Fleur, whose attention feels like the heavens crushing down on her. Hermione feels so utterly mortal beneath her gaze. Perhaps that’s the heart of why Hermione’s loathing is so vast. It goes beyond Hermione’s childhood of otherness and being bullied, no that’s not the nerve that Fleur stomps on. It’s not that simple. When she was fourteen and looked at Fleur with childish hope, it was that simple. It was straightforward before everything. It was just two young girls, it was just the popular girl sneering at Hermione as they had so many times before. It was Hermione’s defensiveness reacting with like.
Fourteen and her spirit was crushed by a beautiful girl with a personality more rank than Malfoy’s. She had heard about Fleur from Apolline and was eager to meet her. There was a certain excitement about meeting her favorite teacher’s eldest daughter. Apolline’s smile would sweeten when she spoke of her daughters. Hermione wondered if Fleur saw the same expression when Apolline spoke of her. There was a queer wanting that filled her with anticipation. The universe seemed to be chanting in her heart, the ghosts chattering alongside her in companionable excitement, everything seemed to build to their introduction. The chill of Fleur’s initial hatred has left parts of Hermione frozen.
Twenty-nine and she’s still unable to accept the sense of mortality, of unimportance, that Fleur provokes.
Hermione did what all people do before a goddess when worship is off the table, she resented. She boils in her own resentment every time Fleur looks down on her. If Fleur thinks she is somehow superior, then Hermione will break open the sky and drag her down with the rest of them. Hermione envisions Fleur as a haughty goddess, glutted on her own ego, and hates her all the more for it.
Hermione doesn’t have many desires let alone one true desire. What does she really want?
Perhaps Fleur’s timely demise is lurking in the Mirror of Erised.
“Professor?” Randall prompts.
Right, a child.
“Reform of Wizarding society,” is a more appropriate and honest answer.
Randall nods, knowing Hermione’s vocal thoughts on the matter. Hermione never mentions her thoughts and beliefs in class nor to her students but she is famous. It’s easy enough to read the many journals and articles that Hermione has written. Even easier to read the slander pieces about her.
Randall fidgets with his green scarf, “is it that scary for muggle-born sensors? Are you really that vulnerable?”
Redredred on the walls and in the carpet. It’s saturated and stained—forever a part of fabric. She won’t stop screaming and the others wail because of her anger. She makes them worse. Blood keeps dripping—
Hermione clears her throat, “Wizarding families aren’t really taught how to identify and train a sensitive wizard or sensor either—”
Randall scoffs, “I don’t want your safe answer,” he pales when he remembers who he’s talking to, “professor.”
“I thought Slytherins enjoyed their word games,” Hermione teases.
“Usually,” Randall says. The fact it’s not a usual situation goes unsaid.
“It’s worse,” Hermione quietly admits.
Randall swallows and looks around nervously, “I can’t see them but I feel them.” That’s not uncommon. Most wizards aren’t able to see ghosts without training. “I couldn’t hear Nearly-Headless Nick but I could feel him right near me. Delilah can see and she nearly fainted at whatever he did.”
This is one of the reasons Occult Studies isn’t popular. It helps everyone learn barriers and meditation, how to identify when a spirit is near, but it can be harmful to wizards. It opens a door. Most wizards can become an accomplished sensor. It is a field of study ripe for improvement. It’s a branch of magic that is easy to see the results in. If a wizard that isn’t sensitive and doesn’t sense ghosts trains enough, they may be able to see ghosts. Most wizards don’t want that.
It opens the door to the darker side of Occult—the one Hermione tries to help protect her students from.
Hermione understands why her class is the least attended after the first year.
“That can be worse, I’ve heard.”
Randall shakes his head. “I don’t think it is.”
He remains quiet for the rest of the walk back until they’re right outside of the great hall. “Would I be able to see them?” he asks.
Hermione grimaces at the question she knew to expect. Those with dead loved ones will always wonder. “There’s no guarantee that they’re ghosts.”
“They wouldn’t have just left,” Randall looks ill as he says it. He doesn’t say it with hope, he says it with dread. Hermione’s heart hurts for the young boy whose greatest desire is to have his parents back and his greatest fear is to see them again.
“Go to your friends,” Hermione says with a softness she has only for her students.
He heads in and she walks to her seat. Ginny throws an apple at Hermione as she gets close. Years of similar behavior allows her to actually catch the apple. She takes a bite and throws it back. Ginny throws it to Neville who fumbles the catch and gives Ginny an exasperated look.
Hermione sits down and carefully doesn’t groan. She’s starting to feel old. How did the professors chase Harry, Ron, and her around? It’s a wonder they didn’t live in detention.
Hermione doesn’t hate her career or her responsibilities as a sensor. She’s just tired. It isn’t a shock she’d become so entrenched in teaching about ghosts. It has been her whole life.
She was younger than most muggle-born witches are when they realize they’re different from the world around them. The first time they do something odd—something magical.
She has the same story as the other muggle-born wizards. She had no idea about the magical world or wizarding society. She started having abnormal situations because of accidental magic. Eventually, a woman who could shift into a cat would visit her home and tell her a story about witches and wizards.
Textbook.
Except for the small matter of ghosts.
Minor, really.
She doesn’t remember a time when she didn’t see ghosts. They’ve always been there. They’ll sit on bus stop benches, walk down the streets, meander through grocery stores—just like people.
Hermione had many imaginary friends growing up.
Jean and Harold realized her imaginary friends are perhaps not so imaginary when Hermione started talking about Jean’s long deceased sister.
“Auntie Sarah says you have to make me waffles,” wasn’t necessarily an alarming sentence in itself. Jean talked about Sarah all the time. “Rock waffles,” was a terrifying thing to hear. Jean burned Sarah’s waffles one time and she spent the rest of her short life cheekily asking Jean for rock waffles.
Jean had absolutely never mentioned it near Hermione.
It was just the first of unending comments. Dozens of imaginary friends, talking to walls, staring at nothing, getting upset when people sat in her friends—it was all very alarming for a muggle family.
Then her magic started acting up.
She saw her first shades and eventually her first wraith.
That…was a bad time.
It only got worse and she didn’t have Hogwarts or other sensors to fall back on. Children who grow up in wizarding families have some knowledge of ghosts and the occult. They don’t feel useless when their child cries out in the night and develops a fear of the dark. They can give their child some kind of answer. They can train their children to put up mental barriers and tune out their sense.
Muggle families have no such luxury.
The ever present anger burns. Hermione couldn’t be less impressed about the way things are done. She has a bone-deep bitterness towards so-called traditionalists. Tradition is important but not when it leads to an entire demographic being excluded. Wizarding society has to change with time.
Muggle-born wizards shouldn’t be behind on their studies because of outdated thinking.
Muggle-born children shouldn’t be vulnerable to any malicious shade or gods help them a wraith.
Hermione is beginning to sound like Apolline.
Which, of course, is why Fleur detests her.
The first sensor Hermione met was Fleur’s mother and she trusts Apolline more than anyone.
At the time, Hermione didn’t question why the heir to the Delacour clan and a French National was a professor at Hogwarts—perhaps the first time Hermione didn’t question something. Hermione was too…overwhelmed when she first met Apolline to really question it.
She was, of course, the most obvious spy to ever spy.
Hermione didn’t care about that. She still doesn’t. She cared about someone who could banish Ma—malevolent ghosts and teach Hermione to protect herself. She cared about someone who didn’t get uncomfortable when she’d try to help a ghost.
Apolline was the first person to really understand what it meant to live amongst the dead.
Apolline is the most important person in Hermione’s life and she has been since Hermione was eleven.
This is what caused that initial conflict when Fleur came for the Triwizard Tournament. Hermione’s bond to Apolline is what started the sequence of events that led them here. It was the first piece in a far larger maze. A maze of which both Hermione and Fleur have found themselves lost in.
Hermione understands why Fleur hates her. She does. She thinks Fleur understands why Hermione hates her in return. That’s why their feud is special—important.
Fleur rarely saw her mother as a child. Fleur blamed the absence on Hogwarts and eventually Hermione.
Hermione, who is a sensor when Fleur is not.
Hermione, who Apolline dotes on.
Hermione, who needs Apolline when Fleur needs her just as much.
Hermione, who is close with Apolline when Fleur barely has a cordial relationship.
Hermione understands Fleur’s perspective.
Fleur needed her mother and never had her. She should have been Apolline’s priority but she never felt like she made the list. Instead, she was expected to maintain her position as heir of her clan. She was expected to be the best at Beauxbaton. Fleur had to be the star daughter, sister, student, and heir.. She wonders how much of that weight was genuinely put upon Fleur and how much she internalized. Regardless, the result was the same.
She understands Fleur’s perspective but she doesn’t let it affect her or her relationship with Apolline.
Hermione needs Apolline in her life.
Apolline isn’t as “naturally talented” a sensor as Hermione but she is one of the best in Europe. She can understand the complex feelings Hermione has about the dead, the living, and how sometimes she feels somewhere in the middle.
She protected Hermione when no one else could.
A heavy tome drops on the table in front of Hermione, snapping her out of her thoughts. All eyes immediately wander over to Hermione and to the surprise of no one—Fleur.
Fleur pulls her seat out and sits down. Someone had the horrendous idea to sit them next to each other. It’s been years of unpleasant meals. Fleur grabs the arms of Hermione’s chair and turns it towards her. Fleur’s audacity never fails to astound her.
Money is exchanged between hands and whispers erupt. McGonagall refuses to look their way. Lavender squeals. “Yay! My favorite part of the day!” Hermione can barely hear it over the overbearing presence of Fleur.
“This is the History of Beauxbatons. Read it. Then we can start the syllabus,” Fleur crosses her arms.
Hermione cuts her meat and tries to control the urge to devour the book. The pages are worn and she’s sure it smells of Fleur’s room. It’ll be her private copy. One she’s cherished and re-read. There won’t be a question about the validity of the knowledge. It will be accurate, or rather as accurate as it can be. “Have you read Hogwarts’ history?”
“Of course.”
“There are many other schools,” Hermione says.
“Obviously.”
“You think inter-school relations should just be about our schools?” Hermione manages to make her skepticism as scathing as possible. Their knees knock together and Hermione has to awkwardly twist at the waist to eat her dinner.
Fleur’s jaw clenches and Hermione knows she’d be spitting mad if students weren’t watching. With an audience they at least attempt to scrounge together some scraps of decorum. It might be more believable if they haven’t been caught yelling at each other numerous times.“It’s called a starting place. What do you suggest, creepy? Should we dive right into a school neither of us have experience with, hm?”
Fleur’s infantile nickname for Hermione drips with condescending derision. She hasn’t even bothered changing her nickname since they were children. Hermione detests Divination for all that Trelawney, Lavender, and Parvati swear it goes hand in hand with Occult. It doesn’t. Hermione will not allow it to. If she has to single-handedly fight to prove that then she will. They are separate. Occult is real and Divination is a load of crock that only serves to humiliate Occult. Hermione understands how someone who isn’t sensitive and doesn’t care to train in Occult would think it’s hogwash. Who would believe ghosts exist if they haven’t felt their presence? She would like to know how people can reasonably rationalize hauntings and their innate sense but she supposes people cope with their ignorances in their own ways.
It’s still maddening and everytime someone looks down on her class or doubts sensors are real, Hermione becomes that much more empathetic towards Divination. She hates it. She never wanted to have to take Divination’s side.
God, people must couple the classes in their minds. The expendable made up studies. Hermione’s brain feels like it’s going to explode from her blood pressure.
Lavender giggles a few seats down—as if summoned by Hermione’s misery. If Fleur is the architect of Hermione’s suffering, Lavender is a lead worker.
“We know the most about our schools and Durmstrang. We should start by researching the others,” Hermione argues.
“We will not have enough knowledge to properly teach the class in its first term. Unfortunately our first class will not have the best material and that’s on top of having you as a professor.”
Hermione scowls at her. “I have been teaching longer than you.”
“Communing with the spirits does not count,” Fleur dismisses.
Hermione uses all of her breathing practice not to stab Fleur in the hand. No. Their game is the long con—the slow game. They take their time with each other. They draw out each act of cruelty until the other realizes who was responsible.
Hermione had once bribed a vampire to blackmail a wizard to threaten a seer to tell Fleur that Gabrielle was stuck in eroding Parisian tunnels. The seer then bribed a wizard who seduced a different wizard to seal Fleur in the tunnels.
She was trapped for two weeks.
Hermione left food and water down there, of course. She wasn’t trying to kill Fleur.
Fleur hadn’t known it was her for months. She should have figured it out earlier.
“I understand that neither of us want to teach this class but I will not shirk the responsibility that we have towards our students. Will you?”
Fleur grumbles, “We should make it excellent, I agree. Our names are on the line. I stand by my point, though. It’s already going to be boring enough.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “History is fun, it just has to be taught right.”
Fleur wrinkles her nose. “History is boring.”
“Even Veela history?” Hermione challenges.
“No, that is interesting.”
Hermione taps the book that she’s still vibrating with a need to read. “Why?” Fleur puffs up with defensiveness and Hermione puts her hands up. “It’s a genuine question. Is it interesting because you’re invested or because of how it was taught?”
Fleur ponders the question. “Hm, both?”
Hermione nods and leans back, still tracing the engraved cover. “Students will be invested because it involves their own school history. It's elective and completely voluntary—”
“It’s to avoid their toxic households,” Fleur says dryly.
“Somewhat voluntary. We’ve got their interest secured now we just have to create an engaging lesson plan.”
Fleur blinks several times. “You’re excited. You’re genuinely thrilled to make a lesson plan and teach during summer.”
Fleur stares at her with muted horror.
Hermione grins and taps the book. She pulls it towards her. “We’re professors, we teach.” She wonders if she could convince Fleur that Veela history is an essential part of their class too. She knows Fleur must have one of a kind books on veela.
“I teach, you compensate,” Fleur sneers—as if remembering she’s supposed to.
Hermione is the bigger person. “Meet me at my office after classes.”
Fleur huffs. “Meet me at my office.”
They glare at each other as the hall watches what is a daily occurrence. Cynthia tries not to openly stare while attempting to cheer Randall up. Andrea is sitting with the Gryffindors and looking highly amused at how everyone is playing along. Ginny looks ready to throw a knife at Fleur if need be.
Even Neville is watching their barely private conversation.
Their…rivalry is well known to even the students.
“My office—”