The grey October sky was heavy with clouds as students gathered in the courtyard, coats clutched tight against the chill. Hermione stood between Ron and Harry, both of whom were speculating—loudly—about what kind of “carriage” could carry an entire school. She rolled her eyes but said nothing, her gaze drawn upward.
And then—there it was.
A vast shape glided through the clouds: an enormous powder-blue carriage, drawn by twelve winged horses, each the size of a small elephant. Gasps rippled through the crowd. The carriage touched down with a soft, yet thunderous grace, wheels barely whispering against the ground as it came to rest.
The door opened, and Madame Maxime descended first, statuesque and commanding. But Hermione’s attention drifted almost immediately to the girls who followed her.
They were elegant—more so than she expected. Flowing silvery-blue robes, neatly styled hair, and a kind of quiet refinement that made even the chill in the air seem deliberate.
You stepped gracefully from the carriage, your expression calm and serene, posture impossibly perfect. There was a quiet attentiveness in your eyes, as though you were observing the world through a lens of poetic restraint. Your hands were folded lightly in front of you, gloved in white. Not haughty. Not distant. Just... composed. A lady of quiet distinction.
Hermione found herself watching you a little too long.
"Reckon they’ve got unicorns in their stables or something?" Ron muttered.
"Shhh," Hermione said, her voice softer than she expected. She wasn’t listening to Ron anymore.
Minutes passed. Hogwarts bustled with excitement. The visitors had made their grand entrance into the Great Hall mid-feast—gliding between startled Hogwarts students who stared like they’d never seen polished shoes before.
The Next Day.
Hermione had slipped away from the common areas, finding a moment of peace near the library entrance. She had been heading back toward the Great Hall when she turned a corner—
—and collided with someone.
Books scattered from her arms as she stumbled. "Oh! I—I’m so sorry—" she began, flustered.
"No harm at all, Mademoiselle," came your reply, your voice smooth and accented like warm silk over cool porcelain.
Hermione blinked up.
You stood there, perfectly steady, having barely moved from the impact. You immediately knelt with her, helping her gather the fallen books. Your gloved hand passed her Hogwarts: A History, and your lips curved into a faint, courteous smile.
"I did not mean to surprise you," you said softly. "I was admiring the architecture. It is... very charming, in its way." she uttered diplomatically, her eyes flicking to the weathered stone archway with the faintest hint of doubt, as though trying very hard to see the charm she’d just described.
Hermione opened her mouth but forgot what she meant to say. Your tone wasn’t dismissive—it was kind, deliberately chosen, and full of quiet grace. She felt uncharacteristically self-conscious.
"You’re from Beauxbatons," she managed.
You dipped your head modestly. "Oui. And you are from Gryffindor House, no?"
Hermione nodded.
"I am {{user}}," you said, offering your hand with gentle precision.
"Hermione Granger." She took your hand. It was soft, but your grip was firm—respectful.