The "hacks" and information in this fic are a mix of real things and things I made up, so please do your own research before trying anything.
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Nimue woke to the rhythmic clatter of a milk cart passing along the street below. She heard the metallic clink of glass bottles being set down on stone steps, followed by the milkman's low, gravelly voice as he made his deliveries through the early morning mist. She got dressed without being told, her fingers moving over the cotton fabric with practiced familiarity.
She tied her shoelaces twice to make sure the bows were secure, then went downstairs to the kitchen. Her mother was already at the stove, and the kettle was boiling, sending a plume of steam into the air. Morning sunlight stretched across the honey-colored floorboards in a long, bright rectangle.
A week in the London house had taught her things she had never needed to learn at the manor.
She learned that milk came in glass bottles that were cold and heavy, often covered in tiny drops of condensation. If you left them on the doorstep for too long in the sun, the milk would go sour.
Jane would make a sharp, pinched face whenever she poured spoiled milk into her tea, and the unpleasant smell of sour cream would fill the little kitchen.
She learned that bedsheets didn't change themselves. Someone had to pull them tight at the corners and tuck them firmly beneath the mattress.
Jack taught her how to fold the clean sheets when they came out of the washing machine. He showed her how to line up the corners and shake the fabric until it lay smooth.
Her first attempts left the stack crooked and uneven, but at least she had done it herself. Cinder thought the whole process was a wonderful game. The moment the bed was made, he would jump onto it, leaving faint, dusty paw prints on the clean cotton.
She learned that the stove needed to be wiped down after every meal. The cloth had to be rinsed in cold water rather than hot, or it would leave ugly streaks on the black surface.
When she accidentally spilled flour across the counter, Jane handed her a damp cloth and showed her how to clean it up.
Saoirse even let her crack the eggs when they prepared lunch. She showed Nimue how to tap each egg against the edge of a ceramic bowl, then carefully pull the shell apart so that nothing fell into the clear egg whites.
She learned that the kitchen floor was the color of golden honey and that the broom lived in a narrow cupboard beneath the stairs.
On her third morning, she swept the floor herself, standing on her little stool so she could reach the corners where dust had gathered.
Saoirse watched from the table, her cup of tea halfway to her mouth, but she didn't say anything. When Nimue finished, her aunt quietly got up and swept the floor again, doing it when she thought Nimue wasn't looking.
Later, when Nimue checked, she couldn't tell where her own work ended and Saoirse's began.
She learned that the refrigerator made a constant, low humming sound when it was running, while the oven gave a sharp click when it reached the right temperature.
The washing machine sounded like the sea whenever it entered its spin cycle. Cinder would hide beneath the bed with his ears flattened every time the machine began to rumble.
She learned that clothes didn't fold themselves, dishes didn't wash themselves, and the house didn't magically tidy itself while everyone slept.
Her father was particularly bad at folding shirts, leaving them wrinkled and uneven. Her mother always refolded them when he wasn't looking, her hands moving quickly and quietly.
All these little tasks took time, but doing them together made the work feel easier. There was something comforting about the steady rhythm of it: the sweep of the broom, the folding of clean linen, the scrape of a sponge against a ceramic plate.
The days seemed longer and fuller, and somehow, they began to feel like hers.
She learned that dust gathered beneath the sofa, behind heavy doors, and along the wide windowsills. Cleaning it all took much longer than she had expected.
Jane would check her work and give her an encouraging nod, never mentioning the few gray patches Nimue had missed.
She learned that the neighbors greeted one another when they passed on the street. She learned that Mrs. Mark had a son living in Australia and a ginger cat that sat on her windowsill every afternoon, its tail curled neatly around its paws.
The man with glasses at number two was called Mr. Ainsworth. He had been a teacher before retiring, and he still kept a large blackboard in his front room, where he worked out the difficult crossword clues from the newspaper.
She also learned that the house had a dusty attic. Jack and Saoirse had spent the last two days cleaning it out. Every evening, they came downstairs with gray dust in their hair and cobwebs clinging to their clothes. They were usually too tired to do anything except sit at the table and let Jane put a warm meal in front of them.
It was strange. It was new.
And she liked it very much.
. . .
The afternoon was warm and humid, the kind of weather that followed a sudden rain shower. The pavement still seemed to steam, and the air smelled of wet stone and crushed grass from the garden.
Jack and Saoirse were still upstairs in the attic. Nimue could hear them through the ceiling: the dull thump of boxes being moved, Saoirse's muffled voice, and Jack's occasional laugh. Then came a sudden crash that made her look up at the ceiling.
Jane was in the kitchen, wiping the counter with a dry cloth.
"They are fine," she said without looking up. "Probably."
Nimue sat on the bottom step and waited. The attic fell quiet for a moment before Saoirse said something in a quick voice. Jack laughed again, and the house returned to its easy afternoon rhythm.
Jane came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a floral dish towel.
"Ice cream. Let's go."
Nimue stood up immediately. "The others?"
"They are busy." Jane smiled. "We will bring some back for them."
The street was quiet. The plane trees had grown thick with dark green leaves, and the sunlight filtering through their branches painted the pavement in shades of emerald and gold. Nimue walked beside Jane, her hand tucked into her mother's palm as she watched the pavement ahead.
They passed the house with the blue door and the pots of dead flowers. Nimue glanced toward the windows, but the curtains were drawn. Then they passed the house with the red door and the brass lion knocker. The elderly woman was sitting by her window, watching the street. Nimue waved, and the woman returned the greeting with a slow, slightly shaky hand.
At the corner, they met a woman walking toward them.
She had brown hair pulled back into a neat, practical bun and wore a coat that seemed a little too warm for such a humid afternoon. Beside her was a girl about Nimue's age, though slightly taller. Her hair was thick and bushy, the color of autumn leaves, and seemed to have a life of its own. She held her mother's hand, swinging their joined hands back and forth as she talked. Her words came quickly, tumbling out one after another.
When she noticed Nimue and Jane, she stopped abruptly.
The woman stopped with her.
"Oh," she said. "Hello."
Jane smiled. "Hello."
"I'm Jean. We live at number eleven. You brought us some pudding last week. Panna cotta. My husband ate half of it before I could stop him."
Jane laughed. "I'm Jane. This is my daughter, Nimue."
Jean repeated the name carefully. "That's lovely. Quite unusual."
"It's Welsh."
Jean raised her eyebrows in surprise. "How lovely. How old are you, Nimue?"
"Four."
"Hermione is four too. She will be five in September."
The girl was still staring. Nimue stared back, taking in her serious expression.
For a moment, neither said anything. They simply studied each other, as though neither had quite decided what to make of the other.
Jean turned toward her daughter.
"Hermione, say hello."
The girl stepped forward. She wore a dress decorated with little blue flowers and a pair of perfectly clean white shoes. Her thick brown hair seemed to float around her face like a chestnut-colored cloud. She looked at Nimue for a long moment, her expression very serious, before finally speaking.
"Hello."
"Hello," Nimue replied.
Hermione opened her mouth as though she wanted to say something else, but her mother had already turned back to Jane. Her voice was quick and friendly.
"We saw you at the market last week. You were buying leeks. I meant to come over and say hello, but Hermione was tired, and we needed to get home."
Jane nodded. "We go there quite often. It's easier than visiting several different shops."
"The fish there is good. The man with the stall near the end always gives me an extra piece for Hermione. She likes cod."
Jane laughed. "Nimue prefers prawns."
Nimue was no longer listening to the adults.
Hermione was staring at her hair. Her gaze lingered on its startling white color, the way it fell straight against Nimue's shoulders, and how it caught the afternoon sunlight. Without seeming to realize what she was doing, Hermione raised a hand to touch her own thick brown hair. Her expression shifted slightly, showing a mixture of curiosity and perhaps a little envy.
Jean noticed and reached over to smooth her daughter's hair. It was an automatic gesture, though it did little to tame the unruly curls.
"I never know what to do with it," she said with a small sigh. "It's always been like this. Nothing I try will make it stay down."
Then she glanced at Nimue's hair, her expression turning curious.
"Do you use something special? Some sort of treatment?"
Jane rested a hand lightly on Nimue's head, her fingers brushing the white strands.
"My mother sends us things from France. Mostly herbal rinses, things like chamomile and rosemary."
She paused before adding, "Nothing you couldn't make yourself."
Jean leaned closer, clearly interested.
"What do you use?"
Jane explained. The ingredients were ordinary enough: eggs, honey, a little vinegar mixed with rosemary for rinsing, and a brush made with natural bristles. She described each step calmly, as though she had given the matter plenty of thought and knew exactly what worked.
Jean listened attentively, her head tilted and her eyes fixed on Jane. When the explanation was finished, she straightened.
"I will have to try that. Thank you."
She looked down at Hermione.
"We can try it tonight."
Hermione was still watching Nimue. Her expression remained serious, but something in her eyes had softened.
"My name is hard."
Nimue tilted her head. "What?"
"Hermione. People say it wrong. They say Her-me-own or Her-me-oh-nee. It's Her-my-oh-nee."
Nimue repeated the name, carefully copying each syllable.
"Her-my-oh-nee."
"Close." Hermione's mouth twitched. "You can call me Mione. My mum does."
"Mione," Nimue repeated.
It was shorter and easier to say. She liked the sound of it.
Hermione nodded. "What is yours? Nimue?"
"Yes."
"That's hard too."
Nimue shrugged. "It's just my name."
Hermione studied her for another moment before smiling. It was a small, shy smile, but it changed her whole expression, making her look younger and less stern.
"Do you want to play?" Nimue asked. "In my garden this afternoon?"
Hermione looked up at her mother. Jean was still talking to Jane about the market and the price of vegetables. When she noticed her daughter's gaze, she smiled down at her.
"Can we?" Hermione asked.
Jean looked at Jane, who gave a nod.
"How about three o'clock? She needs to rest first." Jean reached over to smooth Hermione's hair again, though it immediately sprang back into place. "You can play after your nap."
"Three o'clock," Jane agreed.
Hermione nodded, looking at Nimue with a new spark of interest.
"Bye, Nimue."
"Bye, Mione."
Mother and daughter walked away, their hands swinging between them. Hermione glanced back once, her hair bouncing with every step, and raised a hand in a quick wave. Nimue waved back.
Jane rested her hand on Nimue's shoulder.
"A new friend."
Nimue looked toward the ice cream shop at the end of the street. Its glass-paned door stood beneath a small sign, and bright tubs of ice cream could be seen behind the counter. Then she glanced down the street, at the plane trees and brick houses, before looking back toward the corner where Hermione had disappeared.
"Yes."
The ice cream shop was small and cool inside, filled with the sweet smell of sugar and frozen cream. The woman behind the counter had gray hair and a kind face. She leaned down to Nimue's level when she asked which flavor she wanted.
"Vanilla. With a Flake."
The woman smiled. "A Flake? Very fancy."
She scooped the bright white ice cream into a cup and pressed the chocolate bar into the top. When she handed it to Nimue, the cup was so cold that the girl's fingers began to tingle.
Jane bought herself a cone and ordered two more cups to take home. Then they sat on a green wooden bench outside the shop and watched the street.
"This is what people do in the city," Jane said. "They buy ice cream, sit on benches, and watch the world go by."
Nimue licked her ice cream. It was cold and sweet, and the chocolate Flake crunched pleasantly between her teeth.
"Does Saoirse know we are bringing her ice cream?" she asked.
Jane smiled. "She will find out soon enough."
They stayed there for a while. The sun had begun to sink lower, and the shadows stretched farther across the pavement. Across the street, a woman pushed a pram along the sidewalk. A boy kicked a ball against a brick wall, each kick followed by a steady thud. A man wearing a hat walked his dog, which kept pulling at the lead with its nose pressed to the ground.
Nimue finished her ice cream and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Jane didn't tell her off.
"We should go back before the others start melting."
They stood up. Jane carefully gathered the cups, and they started down the street toward home. The sunlight had turned golden, like honey and the kitchen floor after it had been swept.
Nimue glanced once more at the corner where Hermione had disappeared. She thought about the afternoon, the little garden, and the girl whose hair refused to lie flat.
Then she walked faster, tugging at her mother's hand. The cups in Jane's hands wobbled, making her laugh.
Together, they headed home.
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There's images below
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Flash Q&A
A reader, PartyCannonPirate on Webnovel, brought up an interesting point about Lucien being a male Veela and how Veela bloodlines work. They mentioned that, in canon, Veela are an entirely female race. Even when they marry members of other species, their children are always female and fully Veela. There's no such thing as a half-Veela or partial Veela.
I already replied to their comment, but I wanted to address the subject here as well.
As I have mentioned in an earlier Q&A chapter, some parts of this story follow canon closely, while others take a different direction. Sometimes I create my own explanations for those differences, and sometimes I simply let them exist as part of the AU. This is one of those cases.
In this AU, male Veela do exist, but they are extremely rare. Almost nonexistent, really. They are more like anomalies than a recognized part of the species. I will go into more detail about this later, when the story reaches France and we meet Fleur. That's where I plan to explain the background more fully, including characters like Raphaël.
As for the idea of part-Veela or diluted bloodlines, I'm taking a different approach here as well. In this setting, Veela traits can become less noticeable over generations when they marry outside their kind. It doesn't mean the bloodline itself disappears. Rather, certain physical traits and outward expressions of Veela heritage become more subtle.
For example, Jane has distinct Veela ears, though they are less pronounced than her father's. Nimue inherited them too, but hers are even subtler. Daphne, in this interpretation, would have them as well, though they would be so faint that most people wouldn't notice.
This idea comes from a combination of my understanding of the movies and various fan interpretations. I also remember seeing theories suggesting that characters like Daphne might have distant Veela ancestry.
At the same time, I don't treat this as the Veela bloodline becoming weaker in essence. It's more about how visible or noticeable the inherited traits are. If someone like Daphne had very distant Veela heritage, for example, it could explain why characters like Ron don't react to her in the same way they react to Fleur or the Beauxbatons students, even though they often share classes.
That was the main consideration behind my decision to use this version of Veela lore.
As for Hermione's appearance, I'm using the book description as the foundation while incorporating some of Emma Watson's features. Since her father is a dentist, I decided not to emphasize the details about her teeth and instead focused more on her hair.