I’M BACK WITH MY FAN FICS! This one was inspired by the AO3 fic Brightest Witch at Beauxbaton. I hope y’all enjoy! I will be making a Christmas one soon!
Hermione Granger had never expected her fourth year at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic to include a diplomatic visit to Hogwarts, of all places. She’d spent years reading about the ancient Scottish school—the shifting staircases, the enchanted ceilings, the history soaked into every stone—but curiosity was entirely different from experience.
When the powder-blue carriages of Beauxbatons swooped toward the rugged hills surrounding Hogwarts, Hermione pressed her forehead to the glass, breath fogging lightly. The castle was nothing like the delicate palace of her school in the Pyrenees. It was darker, grander, and carried a kind of wild mystery she found instantly intoxicating.
“A bit dreary, non?” whispered Fleur Delacour from beside her, flipping her silver-blonde hair with easy elegance.
Hermione smiled faintly. “I think it looks… magnificent.”
Fleur shrugged. “If you say so, petite.”
But Hermione wasn’t looking at Fleur anymore. She was watching the figures gathered near the courtyard entrance, Gryffindors in warm scarves and red-and-gold hats, Ravenclaws clutching books, and Hufflepuffs bundled in thick cloaks. There were older students too—tall, relaxed, laughing—and among them a flash of vivid ginger hair brighter than the rest.
He was already looking at her.
The boy stood slightly above the crowd, broad-shouldered, long-limbed, freckles scattered across his cheekbones. He elbowed the boy beside him—who looked identical—and said something with a grin. His twin whipped around to see what he was looking at, spotted Hermione in the carriage window, and grinned as well.
Hermione jerked back so fast she nearly collided with Fleur.
“Mon Dieu, what is wrong?” Fleur asked.
“Nothing,” Hermione muttered, cheeks warm. “Absolutely nothing.”
But when the flying carriage landed with a soft rustle of wings and the Beauxbatons students swept out onto the icy courtyard stones, Hermione felt eyes on her again. She kept her chin high, her posture straight, her blue silk Beauxbatons coat buttoned neatly.
The ginger boy was still watching.
_________
Fred Weasley had been bored out of his mind for weeks. The Triwizard Tournament was supposed to be dangerous, thrilling, legendary—but aside from the dramatic arrival of Durmstrang on a ship and the shimmering spectacle of the Beauxbatons carriage, Hogwarts felt mostly the same.
Until she arrived.
He’d noticed her immediately: brown curls escaping the neat Beauxbatons beret, eyes alive with curiosity, mouth slightly parted as she took in Hogwarts with scholarly awe. She wasn’t giggling like many of the other visiting girls, nor whispering excitedly. She looked like she was drinking in the world.
Fred elbowed George again, unnecessarily this time.
“I saw her the first time,” George said dryly. “No need to bruise my ribs.”
“She’s—”
“Yes, she’s pretty, mate. Do try not to combust.”
Fred ignored that. He watched as Dumbledore welcomed Beauxbatons in his usual whimsical grandness. Madame Maxime stood as tall as ever, her presence commanding. The students gathered inside the Great Hall, and Fred felt fate twist a thread around his wrist.
Because as Hermione Granger passed the Gryffindor table, she glanced at him.
Fred smiled boldly.
She blushed.
George choked on his pumpkin juice.
________
Hermione had thought she’d be too busy with the scheduled academic tours and cultural exchanges to interact with Hogwarts students directly. She hadn’t accounted for the Weasley twins.
The first time they spoke was in the Entrance Hall after dinner on the second night of her visit. Hermione had lingered behind, mesmerized by the shifting constellation of candles overhead. Her classmates had already swept off toward their guest wing.
“Lost?” came a voice—warm, teasing, unmistakably confident.
Hermione turned to find one of the twins leaning against a pillar, arms crossed loosely. She recognized him instantly—he was the one who’d smiled at her.
“I’m not lost,” she said, fighting back a blush. “I’m merely… observing.”
“You looked like you were searching for something.”
Hermione hesitated. “Do you know, I’ve read so much about Hogwarts. Sometimes I think I know it better than my own school. But seeing it in person… it’s rather overwhelming.”
The boy’s grin widened. “Fred Weasley.”
“Hermione Granger.”
Fred’s eyebrows shot up. “Granger? Thought I’d remember that name.”
“Well… this is my first year at Beauxbatons. Before that, I was in—”
“Let me guess,” Fred interrupted. “A secret society of brilliant scholars sworn to protect the wizarding world with knowledge and impeccable handwriting?”
Hermione laughed—actually laughed—before she could stop herself.
“Something like that.”
Fred cocked his head. “Would you like a quick tour? Nothing official, mind you. The Weasley version is far more… enlightening.”
Her caution warred with curiosity. Madame Maxime would want them to stay in groups, but surely a few minutes wouldn’t hurt…
“I suppose a short tour wouldn’t be too improper.”
Fred lit up. “Brilliant. Right this way, mademoiselle.”
Hermione’s heart fluttered.
________
Fred showed her the secret passage behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy; the trick window that looked out onto a grassy hill in Wales; the charmed suits of armor that occasionally broke into song if you said the correct password (“Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo,” Fred whispered, making the armor belt out an off-key tune).
Hermione had long ago resigned herself to being the overachieving bookworm at Beauxbatons—too studious, too curious, too earnest. But with Fred, none of that mattered. He didn’t tease her for knowing the history of each corridor. He didn’t mock her when she recited facts. He kept asking questions—real questions—and listened like she fascinated him.
By the time they reached the courtyard, Hermione was flushed with happiness and winter chill.
“Well?” Fred asked. “How’d I do? Charming? Educational? Unforgettable?”
“All of the above,” Hermione admitted.
Fred placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “Excellent. Then I’ve completed my civic duty as a Hogwarts host.”
Hermione grinned. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” His expression softened. “Truly.”
Their eyes lingered on each other for a beat too long.
Hermione looked away first.
_________
Over the next week, Hermione somehow found herself running into Fred everywhere. The Great Hall. The courtyard. Outside the library. Sometimes George was with him, sometimes not. They made her laugh; they asked about Beauxbatons; they teased her gently about her fierce studying habits.
Other Beauxbatons girls whispered.
“Did you see? The ginger one is looking at her again.”
“Hogwarts boys are so strange…”
Hermione ignored them.
She liked Fred. She liked his reckless humor, yes, but also his honesty. He wasn’t pretentious, or snobbish, or intimidated by her enthusiasm for learning. He liked that she was curious.
But Hermione never imagined he might actually—
“Ask her,” George said one afternoon after Transfiguration, nudging Fred with his elbow hard enough to jolt him. “The ball’s in a week.”
Fred scowled. “Maybe she’s going with someone from her own school.”
“Mate, she’s been making eyes at you for days.”
“She has not.”
George rolled his eyes. “Do you want to take Hermione to the Yule Ball or not?”
Fred swallowed. “Yes.”
“Then ask her.”
Fred dragged a hand through his hair. “How?”
“Ask her.”
“George—!”
“Fred.”
“IT’S COMPLICATED!”
“It is profoundly not.”
Fred groaned, cheeks red, and stomped off toward the courtyard.
__________
Hermione was reading under one of the frosted archways, wrapped in a pale-blue cloak, curls tucked under a winter hat. The afternoon sun cast a soft golden glow across the courtyard stones.
Fred approached, heart beating like a badly tuned drum.
“Bonjour, Hermione.”
She looked up, smiling. “Hello, Fred. George not with you today?”
Fred swore his heart melted at how she said his name.
“No, figured I’d risk appearing a distinguished gentleman rather than a mischievous duo for once.”
Hermione laughed softly. “Dangerous attempt.”
“Yes, well, I’m all about risk.”
Was his voice shaking? No. He wouldn’t allow it.
Hermione closed her book. “Is everything all right?”
“Completely. Brilliantly. Entirely.”
He inhaled. “I—Er—I was wondering—well, not wondering exactly, because I—no—Merlin, this is going terribly—”
Hermione’s cheeks flushed with amusement. “Fred?”
He stopped babbling. “Would you go to the Yule Ball with me?”
Silence.
Snowflakes drifted gently between them.
Hermione’s lips parted.
“I… would love to.”
Fred felt the world split open into fireworks.
“You—really?”
“Yes,” she said softly, smile spreading. “Really.”
Fred exhaled the breath he’d apparently been holding for his entire life.
__________
Hermione wasn’t usually nervous about social events. She’d attended formal galas at Beauxbatons, practiced etiquette, and memorized dozens of ballroom steps. But this was different.
This was Fred.
A boy who made her laugh. A boy who looked at her like she was interesting, not inconvenient. A boy older and charming and a bit reckless—and chosen her.
She stood in front of her mirror in the guest dormitory, trying to steady her breathing. Her dress was soft winter-blue with silver accents, fitted at the bodice and flowing at the skirt. Fleur helped place a delicate snowflake clip in Hermione’s hair.
“You look lovely,” Fleur said sincerely.
“Thank you.”
“And your Weasley boy will think so as well.”
Hermione blushed. “He’s not—he’s just—well—”
Fleur smirked. “I have eyes, petite. He stares like a kneazle at a dish of cream.”
Hermione turned away so Fleur wouldn’t see her smile.
___________
The Great Hall dazzled as if someone had bottled winter and spilled it across the room. Ice sculptures shimmered, enchanted snow drifted overhead, and the ceiling glowed with soft starlight.
Hermione descended the staircase slowly, breath catching when she saw him.
Fred Weasley stood waiting, dressed in deep Gryffindor-red dress robes far more flattering than he’d probably admit. His wild hair was tamed—barely—and his freckles were starlike against his skin.
His jaw fell slightly when he saw her.
Hermione’s heart somersaulted.
“You… you look…” Fred stammered. “Incredible.”
“And you look very handsome,” Hermione said. “Red suits you.”
“Everything suits me,” Fred blurted, “but especially this moment.”
George materialized behind him and whispered loudly, “Smooth as butterbeer, dear brother.”
“Go away,” Fred hissed.
Georged winked at Hermione and vanished into the crowd.
Fred offered his hand. “Shall we?”
Hermione took it.
Warmth shot up her arm.
_________
Hermione had expected the ball to be elegant and formal. She hadn’t expected Fred to turn it into pure joy.
He danced well—but more importantly, he danced playfully, twirling her and dipping her dramatically, making her laugh so hard she lost track of the music. They talked between dances, leaning close over pumpkin tarts and hot cocoa. Hermione learned Fred’s dream was to make a joke shop with George. Fred learned Hermione wanted to work in magical law—and maybe write a book someday.
“You’re serious,” Fred said, impressed.
“Often,” Hermione replied. “But I like to laugh, too.”
“I’ve noticed.”
When the final slow song played—a soft, lilting melody—Fred hesitated.
“Hermione… may I?”
Hermione nodded, and Fred pulled her into his arms. Her hands slid to his shoulders; his rested gently at her waist.
They swayed.
Hermione felt the beat of his heart, steady and warm, under her cheek.
Fred lowered his forehead to hers.
“I’m really glad you came to Hogwarts,” he whispered.
“So am I,” Hermione whispered back.
The world shrank to just the two of them.
And when the final note faded, Fred leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away.
She didn’t.
Their kiss was soft, hesitant, and perfect.
Hermione felt like she was floating.
So did Fred.
___________
After the ball, the remaining weeks of Hermione’s stay flew by, filled with laughter and shared secrets and stolen moments in quiet corners of the castle.
They walked by the Black Lake, skipping stones and dodging the giant squid’s playful splashes.
They sat in the library—Hermione studying intently, Fred pretending to study but mostly watching her with a fond smile.
They explored more hidden passages, Fred showing her every mischievous shortcut he’d discovered.
One afternoon, by the frozen courtyard fountain, Hermione said quietly, “I’ll miss this place.”
Fred’s smile faltered. “And I’ll miss you.”
Hermione looked down. “Beauxbatons doesn’t allow long visits like this often. And once the Tournament is over…”
“I know.” His voice was softer than she’d ever heard it. “But we’ve still got time. And after that—well, there’s always owl post.”
Hermione looked up, eyes bright. “You’d write to me?”
Fred answered immediately. “Yes.”
“Even if I over-explain everything?”
“Especially then.”
Hermione laughed, and Fred took her hand, thumb brushing her knuckles.
_________
The morning of departure dawned with pale sunlight and crisp winter air. The Beauxbatons carriage shimmered in the courtyard, students milling around with luggage floating behind them.
Hermione clutched her suitcase, heart pounding. She’d said her farewells to several Hogwarts students already—but not to Fred.
She found him waiting near the carriage steps, hands shoved in his pockets, looking uncharacteristically subdued.
“You came,” Hermione breathed.
“Wouldn’t miss this,” Fred said. “Though I nearly told George to push the carriage into the lake so you’d have to stay.”
Hermione giggled. “Madame Maxime would have hunted him to the ends of the earth.”
“True,” Fred conceded. “She terrifies me.”
Hermione stepped closer. “I’m really glad we met.”
Fred swallowed. “Me too.”
Silence settled—heavy and bittersweet.
“Will you write?” Hermione asked quietly.
Fred reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded parchment. “Already started a letter.”
Hermione’s heart gave a happy flutter. “I’ll write back.”
“Good.” Fred hesitated. “And next year… maybe I can visit France.”
Hermione’s cheeks warmed. “I’d like that.”
A call echoed from the carriage: “Hermione! Vite!”
She turned back to Fred. “Goodbye.”
Fred gently cupped her cheek. “Au revoir.”
He leaned in and kissed her—a soft, lingering kiss that tasted like winter and hope. When they pulled apart, Hermione’s eyes shimmered.
She climbed the carriage steps, turning once more to see Fred standing in the snow, hand raised in a small wave.
Hermione waved back.
And as the enormous winged horses lifted the carriage skyward, she pressed a hand to her heart and whispered—
“I’ll write every week.”
Below, Fred whispered into the cold morning air—
“Me too.”
And he meant it.
__________
Hermione’s first letter arrived at The Burrow three days later. Fred tore the envelope so quickly that George made a scandalized noise.
“Oi! Treat your girlfriend’s letters with respect!”
“She’s not—We’re not—Shut up, George!”
But Fred read Hermione’s letter four times in a row—every word warm, enthusiastic, thoughtful, unmistakably her.
He wrote back immediately.
And when Hermione received his letter at Beauxbatons, she pressed it to her chest, beaming.
Neither of them knew what would come next—not really. They were young, and the world was wide. But they had winter. They had memories. They had the promise of something new and hopeful.
And they had letters.
Dozens of them.
And that, Hermione thought every time she read Fred’s messy handwriting, was enough.
For now.
