The "hacks" or information in this fic are a mix of real things and stuff I made up, so please do your own research before trying anything.
---
Nimue woke to the rhythmic clatter of the milk cart on the street below. There was the distinct, metallic clink of glass bottles meeting the stone steps and the low, gravelly murmur of the milkman's voice as he moved through the early morning mist. She dressed herself without being told, her fingers working the cotton of her shirt with practiced familiarity.
She tied her laces twice, making sure the bows were tight, and went down to the kitchen. Her mother was already at the stove, and the kettle was already boiling, sending a plume of steam into the air. The morning light was already sliding across the honey-colored floor in a long, brilliant white rectangle.
A week in the London house taught her things she had never learned at the manor. She learned that milk came in glass bottles that were cold and heavy, often sweating with condensation. If you left them on the step too long in the sun, the milk went sour. Jane would make a sharp, pinched face when she poured it into her tea, the acrid smell of spoiled cream filling the small kitchen.
She learned that sheets didn't change themselves; you had to pull them tight at the corners and tuck them firmly under the mattress. Jack taught her how to fold the linens when they came out of the washing machine. He showed her how to tuck the corners and shake them until they snapped smooth.
When she finished, the stack was crooked and lopsided, but it was hers. Cinder thought this was a grand game and would jump on the bed the moment it was made, his paws leaving faint, dusty prints on the smooth cotton.
She learned that the stove had to be wiped down after every meal and that the cloth had to be rinsed in cold water, not hot, or it left unsightly streaks on the black surface. Jane handed her a damp cloth and showed her how to wipe the counter after she accidentally spilled the flour.
Saoirse let her crack the eggs for lunch. She showed Nimue how to tap them on the edge of the ceramic bowl and pull the shells apart with a steady hand so nothing dropped into the clear whites.
She learned that the floor in the kitchen was the color of golden honey and that the broom lived in a narrow cupboard under the stairs. She swept that floor herself on the third morning, standing on her stool so she could reach the corners where the dust gathered.
Saoirse watched her from the table, her cup of tea halfway to her mouth, but she said nothing. When Nimue finished, Saoirse got up and swept it again, but she did it quietly when she thought Nimue wasn't looking. When Nimue checked later, she couldn't tell where her own sweeping ended and Saoirse's began.
She learned that the refrigerator made a constant, low humming sound when it was working and that the oven gave a sharp click when it was hot enough to bake. The washing machine sounded like the sea when it spun. It was like a ship caught in a great storm, and Cinder would hide under the bed with his ears flat every time it started its noisy spin cycle.
She learned that clothes didn't fold themselves, that dishes didn't wash themselves, and that the house didn't magically tidy itself while she slept. Her father was quite bad at folding shirts, leaving them wrinkled and uneven. Her mother would always refold them when he wasn't looking, her hands moving with a swift, silent efficiency.
Doing these things took time, but doing them together made the work feel light. There was something in the steady rhythm of it—the sweep of the broom, the fold of the linen, the scrape of the sponge against a ceramic plate—that made the days feel longer and fuller and somehow hers.
She learned that the dust lived under the sofa and behind the heavy doors and on the wide windowsills. Sweeping it all up took much longer than she had thought it would. Jane would check her work and give a small, encouraging nod, saying nothing about the few grey bits Nimue had missed.
She learned that the neighbors said hello when you passed them on the street and that Mrs. Mark had a son in Australia and a ginger cat that sat on the windowsill every afternoon with its tail curled tightly around its paws. She learned that the man with the glasses at number two was called Mr. Ainsworth. He had been a teacher before he retired, and he still had a large blackboard in his front room that he used to work out the difficult crosswords in the newspaper.
She learned that the house had a dusty attic and that Jack and Saoirse had spent the last two days cleaning it out. They came down each evening with grey dust in their hair and sticky cobwebs on their clothes, too tired to do anything but sit at the table and let Jane put warm food in front of them.
It was strange. It was new. She liked it very much.
. . .
The afternoon was warm, the kind of heavy warmth that came after a sudden rain. The pavement steamed, and the air smelled of wet stone and the sweet, 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, Saoirse's muffled voice, Jack's short laugh, and then a sudden crash that made her look up at the plaster.
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 was quiet for a moment, and then she heard Saoirse say something quick. Jack laughed again, and the house settled back into the easy rhythm of the afternoon.
Jane came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a floral cloth. "Ice cream. Let's go."
Nimue stood up at once. "The others?"
"They are busy." Jane smiled. "We will bring them some back."
The street was quiet. The plane trees were full now, their leaves thick and dark green. The light through the branches was a mix of emerald and gold. Nimue walked beside Jane, her hand tucked into her mother's palm, her eyes focused on the pavement ahead.
They passed the house with the blue door, the one with the dead flowers in the pots. Nimue looked for the man with the glasses, but the curtains were drawn tight. They passed the house with the red door and the brass lion. The old woman was at her window, watching them go with a steady gaze. Nimue waved, and the woman waved back with a slow, fragile hand.
At the corner, a woman was coming toward them.
She had brown hair pulled back into a sensible knot, and she was wearing a coat that looked a bit too warm for the humid day. Beside her was a girl. She was small, like Nimue, but slightly taller. Her hair was big and bushy, the color of autumn leaves and untamed as a thicket. She was holding her mother's hand and swinging it back and forth as she talked. Her mouth moved fast, her words tumbling out like water over stones. When she saw them, she stopped walking abruptly.
The woman stopped too. "Oh," she said. "Hello."
Jane smiled. "Hello."
"I'm Jean. We live at number eleven. You brought us pudding last week. Panna cotta. My husband ate half of it before I could stop him."
Jane laughed. "Jane. This is my daughter, Nimue."
Jean repeated it, the sound of the name careful in her mouth. "That's a lovely name. Unusual."
"It's Welsh."
Jean's eyebrows went up in surprise. "How lovely. How old are you, Nimue?"
"Four."
"Hermione is four as well. She will be five in September."
The girl was still staring. Nimue stared back, taking in the other girl's intense expression.
They looked at each other. There was a moment of profound silence, the kind that happens when two children haven't yet decided what to make of each other.
Jean turned to her daughter. "Hermione, say hello."
The girl stepped forward. She was wearing a dress with small blue flowers on it. Her shoes were white and impeccably clean, and her hair was so big it seemed to float around her face like a chestnut cloud. She looked at Nimue for a long moment, her expression very serious, and then she said, "Hello."
"Hello," Nimue said.
Hermione opened her mouth to say something else, but her mother was already talking to Jane again, her voice quick and warm. "We saw you at the market last week. With the leeks. I was going to say hello, but Hermione was tired, and we had to get home."
Jane nodded. "We go most days. It is easier than the shops."
"The fish there is good. The man with the stall near the end—he always gives me an extra piece for Hermione. She likes the cod."
Jane laughed. "Nimue likes the prawns."
Nimue wasn't listening to the adults.
Hermione was looking at Nimue's hair. She stared at the startling white of it, the way it fell straight against her shoulders, and the way it caught the afternoon light. Hermione's hand came up, almost without her meaning to, and touched her own hair, the thick, brown bush of it. Her face did something complicated, a mix of curiosity and perhaps a little bit of envy.
Jean noticed. She reached out and smoothed Hermione's hair, a quick, automatic gesture that did little to tame it. "I don't know what to do with it. It's always been like this. Nothing I try makes it stay down."
She looked at Nimue's hair, and her eyes went curious. "Is there something you use? Some kind of treatment?"
Jane's hand rested on Nimue's head, her fingers light on the white strands. "My mother sends us things from France. Herbal rinses, mostly. Chamomile, rosemary."
She paused. "Nothing you can't make yourself."
Jean leaned in, interested. "What do you use?"
Jane told her. The words were ordinary—egg, honey, a rinse of vinegar and rosemary, and a brush with natural bristles. But she said them the way she said everything, like she had thought about it deeply and knew exactly what worked.
Jean listened with her whole body, her head tilted and her eyes on Jane's face. When Jane finished, she straightened up.
"I will try that. Thank you." She looked down at Hermione. "We can do that tonight."
Hermione was still looking at Nimue. Her face was still 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 tried it, mimicking the syllables carefully. "Her-my-oh-nee."
"Close." Hermione's mouth twitched. "You can call me Mione. My mum does."
"Mione," Nimue said. It was easier. It was shorter. She liked the way the sound felt in her mouth.
Hermione nodded. "What is yours? Nimue?"
"Yes."
"That's hard too."
Nimue shrugged. "it's just my name."
Hermione looked at her for a moment, and then she smiled. It was a small, shy smile, but it changed her whole face, making it 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. She glanced down at her daughter and smiled.
"Can we?" Hermione asked.
Jean looked at Jane. Jane nodded.
"Three o'clock? She needs her rest first." She touched Hermione's hair, smoothing it back, though it sprang up again immediately. "You can play after your rest."
"Three o'clock," Jane said.
Hermione nodded. She was still looking at Nimue with a newfound spark of interest.
"Bye, Nimue," she said.
"Bye, Mione."
They walked away, mother and daughter, their hands swinging between them. Hermione looked back once, her hair bouncing with every step, and raised her hand in a quick wave. Nimue raised hers in return.
Jane's hand was still on Nimue's shoulder.
"New friend," Jane said.
Nimue looked at the ice cream shop at the end of the street, at the door with its glass panes, and at the bright buckets of color behind the counter. She looked at the street, the plane trees, and the brick houses. She looked at the corner where Hermione had disappeared.
"Yes."
The ice cream shop was small and cold, smelling strongly of sugar and frozen cream. The woman behind the counter had grey hair and a kind face. She leaned down to Nimue's level when she asked what flavor she wanted.
"Vanilla. With a flake."
The woman smiled. "A flake. Very fancy."
She scooped the brilliant white ice cream into a cup and pressed the chocolate flake into the top. When she handed it to Nimue, the cup felt so cold it made the girl's fingers tingle.
Jane bought a cone for herself and two cups to take home. They sat on a green wooden bench outside the shop and watched the street.
"This is what people do," Jane said. "In the city. They buy ice cream. They sit on benches. They watch the world go by."
Nimue licked her ice cream. It was cold and sweet, and the chocolate flake crunched satisfyingly between her teeth.
"Does Saoirse know we are bringing her ice cream?" she asked.
Jane smiled. "She will find out soon enough."
They sat for a while longer. The sun was lower now, and the shadows were stretching across the pavement. Across the street, a woman was pushing a pram. A boy was kicking a ball against a brick wall with a steady thud. A man in a hat was walking his dog, and the dog was pulling at the lead, its nose pressed to the ground.
Nimue finished her ice cream and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Jane didn't tell her not to.
"We should go back. Before it melts."
They stood up. With the cups held carefully in Jane's hands, they started back down the street. The light was gold now, the color of honey and the color of the kitchen floor after it had been swept.
Nimue looked at the corner where Hermione had disappeared. She thought about the afternoon, about the small garden, and about the girl with the hair that would not lie flat.
She walked faster, pulling her mother's hand. The cups in Jane's hands wobbled, and Jane laughed. They went home.
===
Flash Q&A
A reader, PartyCannonPirate on Webnovel, brought up something interesting about Lucien being a male Veela and how Veela bloodlines work. They mentioned that in canon, Veela are a female only race, and even when they marry other species, their children are always female and fully Veela, with no such thing as half or partial Veela.
I did reply to their comment, but I want to address it here as well.
As I have mentioned before in the Q&A chapter, some parts of this story follow canon closely, while others diverge. 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 extremelyrare. 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 is where I plan to explain the background more fully, including characters like Raphael.
As for the idea of "part Veela" or diluted bloodlines, I am also taking a different approach here. In this setting, Veela traits can become less visible over generations when they marry outside their kind. It is not that the bloodline itself disappears, but the physical traits and some outward expressions become more subtle.
For example, Jane has the distinct Veela ears, though they are less pronounced than her father's. Nimue has them as well, but even softer. Daphne, in this interpretation, would have them too, but so faint that most people would not notice.
This idea comes from a mix of what I understood from the movies and some fan interpretations. I also remember seeing takes where characters like Daphne were hinted to have distant Veela ancestry.
At the same time, I do not treat this as the Veela bloodline becoming weaker in essence. It is more about how visible or noticeable those traits are. If someone like Daphne had very distant Veela heritage, it would explain why characters like Ron do not react to her the same way they do to Fleur or the Beauxbatons students, even though they often share classes.
That was my main consideration when choosing to use this version of the lore.
Second, for Hermione's appearance, I am using the book version but blending in some of Emma Watson's features. Since her father is a dentist, I chose not to emphasize the details about her teeth and focused more on her hair instead.