Fog and Feather
The excitement stirred by the first task of the Triwizard Tournament ignited a fire that burned brightly within the walls of Hogwarts even two weeks after the actual competition. The halls were filled with passionate speeches and conversation as members from the three competing schools clashed and celebrated with one another. The Gryffindor students walked around with their heads held high—as if they had won some great battle. They wore little pins on their shoulders with a holographic picture of Harry Potter sat atop his broom, golden egg lifted high above his head. Despite their distaste for Harry after his selection over Cedric, many of the Hufflepuff students also wore the pins, though they did not show the same bravado as the Gryffindors. The Ravenclaws appeared less invested, but Hermione had heard their cheerful whispers and distracted conversations as they discussed the Hogwarts champion with pride.
Not to be left out (or to submit to the Gryffindor pride), Slytherin house had quickly shown their stripes, choosing to lend their support to the runner-up—Victor Krum. Maroon Durmstrang armbands adorned their robes and they had taken to walking with Durmstrang students through the hall and practicing with them on the Quidditch pitch.
The Durmstrang delegation themselves walked through the halls proudly, much to the awe of the younger Hogwarts students. There had been an initial burst of outrage at the results of the first task—the Durmstrang high master lashing out at Dumbledore for Krum’s award of second place. However, with the support of the Slytherin students, and a determination to win the next task, the drama had quickly died down.
While most of the talk was about the performances of Harry and Victor, there were plenty of Beauxbatons supporters wandering the halls as well. Mainly the boys who stared at the passing Beauxbatons girls in dumbstruck awe and many of the first- and second-year girls. Ravenclaw even had a few of the older students proudly displaying Beauxbatons blue on their scarves.
However, while Harry and Victor had been paraded through the hall like heroes, no one had seen the Beauxbatons champions in the days following the tournament. Early whispers even claimed that Isabelle had been mortally wounded.
Madame Maxime had been locked in Dumbledore’s office immediately following the tournament with the ministry tournament advisor and the other school heads. There had been a petition to disqualify Fleur and Isabelle from the challenge for their untraditional use of magic. While Madame Maxime had fought valiantly for her students, she likely would have failed had it not been for the ministry advisor who stepped in to carefully remind the others that the only one who broke any written rules was Krum and that, if he was not to be severely punished, there was no evidence to disqualify the Beauxbatons champions. They had reluctantly agreed to award Fleur and Isabelle a tie for last instead (a choice Madame Maxime ached to refute but realized her rebuttal would fall on deaf ears).
Hermione had been released from the Beauxbatons carriage the day following the incident with Mad-eye Moody. Professor Black had been adamant that she not be moved while her core was still so damaged. She barely allowed Hermione to leave the next day and, even then, it was only after she had made Hermione swear to take the elaborate set of potions the professor had supplied her.
Hermione hadn’t been back to the carriage since. It was not that she didn’t want to go, it just always seemed impossible. She had tried. The first time was the evening after she had been released. Hermione had been anxious to see how Isabelle was recovering—she had not awoken from her medical coma by the time Hermione had left. She had just made it out the gate when she was intercepted by Hagrid who asked her to join him on his way back to his hut (he apparently had come across an injured beast in the forest and would benefit from another pair of hands). The next time she tried was two days later. This time, Professor Snape intercepted her by the Black Lake, hoping to speak with her about a recent assignment. She had tried two more times in the following days with similar results. The one time she had made it to the carriage door, sneaking out early in the morning before anyone was awake, she was stopped by a stern looking Madame Maxime who had turned her away and refused to acknowledge her pleas.
Eventually, Hermione resigned herself to simply not knowing and had stopped trying.
Two weeks after the first task, Hermione finally saw Fleur for the first time.
It was an overcast day and the sun cast gloomy shadows through Hogwarts’ stone archways. Hermione had been walking from her potions class in the dungeon back towards Ravenclaw tower. She saw the blonde-haired Veela moving towards her at a brisk pace—her head down as she attempted to avoid the attention of those she passed. Hermione slowed, hoping to stop the girl and ask how Isabelle was doing, how Fleur was doing. However, Fleur seemed to pick up her pace as they neared and, without warning, crashed directly into her sending tumbling to the ground.
Hermione sat up slowly, reaching her hand towards her pounding head—she must have smacked it against the hard floor—and curling into herself. By the time she got her bearings and looked up, Fleur was nowhere to be seen, just the sound of rushed footsteps echoing through the hall. Hermione slowly gathered her things with a sigh and moved to stand up.
She was hurt. Hermione had come to like the Veelas’ company, though she could barely admit it to herself, let alone Fleur, and the weeks without Fleur and Isabelle seemed to weigh heavy on her mind. She had seen brief glimpses of some of the other Beauxbatons students at lunch and between classes, but Fleur and Isabelle had been absent. Hermione knew she had pushed them away but had secretly appreciated their persistence. She knew Isabelle was probably still recovering. Hell, Hermione was still recovering, taking four potions a day under Professor Black’s careful eye. But she couldn’t understand Fleur’s avoidance.
The girl had claimed that Hermione was her mate. While Hermione still had her doubts about that claim, that bond was supposed to mean something to the Veela. Maybe Hermione was right and Fleur had gotten it wrong. Her shoulders dropped with the disappointing weight of the thought as it sunk through her and settled heavily in her heart.
Hermione blinked her eyes quickly, trying to disperse the building tears. She slung her bag across her shoulder and quickly reached her hands into her pockets. It was not yet winter, but a chill was already seeping into Hogwarts.
She was surprised when her fingers brushed something soft.
Curious, Hermione made a detour and headed for the library. She passed a group of jeering Hogwarts students on the way.
One reached out to grab at her.
He snagged her robe and pulled her around, forcing her to pause before the group.
Hermione was met by the bright red-orange hair of Ron Weasley. He kept his grip on her coat as he reached into his pocket for something. Quickly pulling out his hand, he revealed one of the Potter buttons. In one easy stroke, he stabbed the button onto her shoulder, its needle digging straight through her robes and sticking painfully into her skin. It would draw blood. Ron smirked, satisfied with himself.
“There ya go Hermione,” he said, his voice garbled as if he had been chewing something. She thought he would leave it at that but, as he scanned her, something poking out from under her scarf caught his attention. He reached forward, shoving the scarf aside to grab the blue ribbon resting against her neck. He yanked it forward, drawing her neck with him, until the old ribbon snapped. Hermione felt the feather trail up her chest as he pulled the string towards him, his grubby fist bringing it close to his face.
“Huh,” Ron said, observing the feather, “Wonder what this is?” He gestured to his friends who shrugged their shoulders, “Well, no matter, he went on. Can’t have ya wearing this, someone might get the wrong impression.” He pulled the makeshift necklace into his fist before throwing it out the open window behind him. Hermione watched as the feather caught on the breeze, drifting slowly over the cliff below. She tried desperately to hold her tears in.
“Well, there ya go,” Ron continued with a smile, crossing his hands over his chest “Now your cheering for the right team and no one will guess otherwise.
Hermione quickly pushed away from them, begging the tears not to fall. She diverted her path from the library and made her way outside to the cliff. She looked over the edge helplessly, trying to catch sight of the blue ribbon.
She was devastated. That ribbon had been with her through everything, had pulled her through when she had no one and nothing. It was the only possession she truly owned before coming to Hogwarts. And the feather, Hermione still didn’t know what it was or what it meant, but it had been given to her. It was rare that anyone ever gifted something to Hermione. Although she had returned it, and the book, to Professor Black, they had made their way back to her and Hermione had accepted them. She was sad to see it go.
Slowly, Hermione slid to her knees, tucking her face into her curled legs and wrapping her arms around herself. She sat there over the misty cliff trying to take deep breaths.
As she calmed, she moved her hand back to her pocket to pull out the object she had discovered.
The air rushed from her lungs as she revealed it.
In her hand sat an elegant silver feather. Not made of real silver, for it was light and soft to the touch but, given its color and vibrance, it may have well been.
Hermione rotated the object slowly in her hands taking in its beauty. As her magic, no calm under the influence of potions, reached out gently to meet the magic in the feather, something surged forward into her mind.
Where the black feather had produced hazy images, as if lost to time, the silver feather streamed sounds: a baby crying, and then another; beautiful tinkling laughter met with a softer second chuckle; a sweet melody, drifting calmly through the air and soothing Hermione’s very soul; whispered ‘I love yous’ exchanged back and forth over and over again; a heartbreaking scream.
Hermione was startled by the powerful emotion the sounds stirred within her and quickly sucked in a ragged breath. She was tempted to reach for the book concealed within her bag as she had very little doubt that this had something to do with the Veela. She was done pretending not to see the strange connections.
Just as she reached into her bag, her fingers gripping around the soft spine of the book, she was alerted to another presence by the soft crunching of footsteps. As they made their way towards her, Hermione withdrew her hand and hastily moved to add the new feather to the growing collection in her bag. She turned her head just as the newcomer arrived.
Hermione was surprised, to say the least. There, four strides behind her, was the towering figure of Viktor Krum.
Hermione had not seen Viktor much. She knew he was a champion in the tournament (clearly) and that he had played for some professional Quidditch team over the summer. Beyond that, he was as much a mysterious stranger as the women she had met in the Beauxbatons carriage.
He nodded his head at once her before shifting his gaze to look out across the fog.
Despite his lack of movement towards her, Hermione felt unsettled by his presence. Something deep within her ringing softly in warning.
She remained wary even as she adverted her own gaze back towards the cliff edge, moving slowly to bring her belongings closer to her.
It was silent for a few minutes and slowly Hermione began to relax, the tension carefully training away.
To her annoyance, Viktor moved to sit beside her, barely an arm’s length away in the damp grass.
“Hello,” he said in a rich accent, the deep timber in his voice shattering the silence around them. “If I may ask, what draws a young woman like yourself to the edge of a cliff?”
Hermione readied an answer on the tip of her tongue, but he continued before she responded.
“A beauty such as yourself should be tucked away within a plush room, not surrounded by such a wilderness.” He added nonchalantly, as if he found himself chivalrous.
Hermione scoffed.
“What? You find my understanding upsetting?” He asked.
“You are a pig if you think women should be confined to tall towers, shielded from the world outside.” Hermione kept her voice calm, but a tremor ran through it. She shifted her gaze away from him as it grew fiery, her emotions beginning to boil beneath the surface.
“Hah!” he exclaimed, “you are quite funny. What is your name?” He reached forward as if to grab her arm.
“Hermione,” she scoffed, moving out of his reach, “not that it is any of your business.”
“An Hermione, a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. I am Viktor Krum, the Durmstrang champion. Perhaps you saw me in the first task?” He puffed out his chest at her.
“You think what you did to that poor dragon is something to be proud of?” She exclaimed, moving to stand.
“Indeed,” he said, not at all sensing the bite to her words, “My swordsmanship is excellent. It should make you proud, to know that your suitor can slay a dangerous beast.”
Hermione looked at him as if he had completely lost his mind. “Excuse me? My what?”
“Your suitor,” he answered proudly, “You are quite stubborn though,” he continued to himself. “Perhaps you would let me help in time. If you were mine you would be happy, not so stubborn. I would lock you away, show you only on the best of occasions and shower you with gifts.” He grinned as if he had figured out a challenging problem.
Hermione backed away from him quickly, her fear growing when he followed her. “Are you quite mad?!” she exclaimed, “I am not yours, nor will I ever be. You would dare threaten to treat a woman as such? As if she’s your bloody property.” Hermione shoved Viktor back, hard and in the chest, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He surged forward, wrapping his large hands around her wrists, “I am a champion. What I want shall be mine.”
Hermione was not one to bow down to the overinflated egos of small-minded men. As the strong hex left her tongue, Viktor was ripped away from her and thrown to the ground—Hermione’s hex caught only his shoulder and he screamed out in pain as he gripped his arm.
The figure now standing over Viktor turned their head quickly and smirked at Hermione before turning back to the prey on the ground before them.
The figure reached down and lifted Victor by his shirt, growling violently in his face.
“You lay a hand on her again and there will be hell to pay. You are nothing but an entitled prick.” The figure said. As Viktor went to scoff, reaching his hand towards the figure, Hermione watched as the figure’s hands elongated into talons, ripping through Viktor’s shirt and piercing into his flesh. He cried out in pain.
The figure hissed into his ear, “Leave. Her. Alone. Or I swear to you I will string you up and torture you, slowly. I will drive you to the edge of insanity and heal you only enough to do it again and again. I will do it until you beg me for death and, even then, I will break you, bone by bone, until you succumb to the pain. Do you hear me Viktor Krum?”
Viktor trembled, nodding rapidly. As the figure released him, he scurried away back towards the castle.
Hermione could do nothing but stand still, frozen in place.
Slowly, the figure turned towards Hermione, lowering her cloak as she moved to face the frightened girl.
“Are you alright?” She asked kindly, gently moving to caress Hermione’s face.
Hermione couldn’t respond, she was entranced by the shimmering golden eyes of Isabelle Dubois.
Isabelle smiled softly and slowly moved to help Hermione back towards the castle.
They walked silently together as Hermione regained her bearings.
As they neared the door, Isabelle paused. She reached into her cloak and pulled something out.
Turning Hermione towards her, she reached to take one of Hermione’s hands. She brought it towards her own and slowly placed the object inside of it, wrapping Hermione’s fist around it tightly.
“You should keep this close,” she said with a smirk, “Wouldn’t want it to end up in the wrong hands.”
Hermione looked down and was surprised to see her broken blue ribbon, feather still attached.
“How...” Hermione tried to speak, but Isabelle only smiled and moved away from the castle towards the Beauxbatons carriage.
“I see you’re rooting for the other team now? And here I thought Fleur and I finally had a fan!” Isabelle exclaimed.
Hermione noticed the offending button on her chest. She ripped it off and threw it towards the cliff with a snarl.
Isabelle smiled happily before releasing a high pitched, cackling laugh.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Hermione!” She went to turn before pausing, “Oh! And you best find Fleur, knowing her she’s probably worried out of her mind!”
Hermione watched dumbly as Isabelle disappeared back into the fog.
Once the girl was out of sight, Hermione stuck the blue ribbon quickly into her bag and made her way back into the castle.