The window glass felt biting against Nimue's forehead as she watched the heavy January sky. They had left Paris an hour ago. The dense city had given way to suburbs and then to wide, bare fields that rolled toward the horizon. The car smelled of Cinder's warm fur and the faint coffee Jane had bought earlier. The fox stayed curled tightly on her lap, his russet tail draped over her knee.
"Tu vas attraper froid, petite," Jane said. She reached and touched her daughter's cheek with a gentle hand, her green eyes full of quiet concern. "Tu es glacée."
(You will catch cold. You are freezing.)
"Je regarde," Nimue answered, pressing her forehead closer to the cold glass.
(I am looking.)
The fields outside were brown and sodden from the winter rains, and leafless trees stood like bare branches waiting to be drawn, stark against the pale, low-hanging sky. She watched a single bird sitting on a fence post, its feathers puffed up into a ball against the biting cold, until the car sped past and the creature vanished behind them.
Jane sighed softly. She reached back again to pull the collar of Nimue's blue coat higher, tucking the woollen fabric securely around her neck.
Matthieu kept both hands on the wheel, his grey cap pulled low over his brow. The radio played a soft French melody in the background, a woman singing about the sea while static crackled between notes. Nimue shifted against the door, the seatbelt pressing lightly against her shoulder as she listened to the tires hum against the wet asphalt.
"Encore deux heures," Matthieu said. He glanced at the rearview mirror, and his eyes met Nimue's for a fleeting second. "Tu tiens le coup?"
(Two more hours. Are you holding up?)
"Oui," she answered.
Saoirse stretched in the seat beside her, her knee bumping against Nimue's leg in the cramped luggage-filled space.
"Elle a regardé par la fenêtre tout le trajet. Pas une sieste."
(She has looked out the window the whole journey. Not a single nap.)
"Je ne suis pas fatiguée," Nimue insisted, though her voice was small.
(I am not tired.)
"Tu vas t'endormir dans l'assiette ce soir."
(You will fall asleep in your plate tonight.)
Nimue did not answer her aunt. Instead, she watched a tractor working in a distant field. Its heavy wheels threw up thick clods of dark mud as it turned the earth. The farmer in the cab was a small, indistinct shape, far too distant for her to make out his face through the mist.
Matthieu pulled off the main road and into a small town. The streets were narrow and wet, lined with old stone buildings and wooden shutters painted in various shades of faded grey. He parked in a quiet square where a large, ancient plane tree spread its bare branches over a stone war memorial.
"On mange ici," he announced, cutting the engine. "Il y a une auberge. Rien de chic, mais ça fait l'affaire."
(We eat here. There is an inn. Nothing fancy, but it will do.)
Jack opened the car door and the sharp winter cold rushed in, stinging their cheeks. Nimue lifted Cinder and set him carefully on the seat. "Reste," she commanded, pointing a finger.
The fox's ears flattened in disappointment. He watched her through the glass as she climbed out onto the wet cobblestones. The auberge was a small, squat building with low ceilings and dark wooden beams.
Inside, a fire crackled cheerfully in a large stone hearth, the wood popping as it burned. A woman with grey hair tied in a tight, sensible bun wiped a table near the window and gestured for them to sit. The room smelled of aged wood, woodsmoke, and the mouth-watering scent of roasting meat.
Nimue climbed onto a heavy wooden chair and studied the menu written in chalk on a blackboard, even though she couldn't read most of the sprawling script.
"Qu'est-ce que tu veux, ma chérie?" Jane sat beside her and began to pull off her leather gloves.
(What do you want?)
"Du pain," Nimue said. "Et du fromage."
(Bread. And cheese.)
"C'est tout?"
(That is all?)
"Et des frites."
(And chips.)
Jane almost smiled as she placed the order in rapid, fluent French. The woman nodded and disappeared into the kitchen while Saoirse stretched her arms over her head until her joints popped. "Je pourrais dormir ici. Sur la table. Juste vingt minutes."
(I could sleep here. Right on the table. Just twenty minutes.)
"Tu as dormi dans la voiture," Jack reminded her.
(You slept in the car.)
"Je me reposais les yeux."
(I was resting my eyes.)
Nimue watched the fire, mesmerised by the way the orange flames moved slowly while the logs blackened at the edges. A large grey cat with a torn ear slept soundly on the warm hearth, oblivious to the newcomers. Thinking of Cinder sitting alone in the car, Nimue looked at her mother.
"Mama. Cinder a faim."
(Cinder is hungry.)
"On lui donnera quelque chose après."
(We will give him something after.)
The food arrived shortly after, steaming hot. There was a basket of crusty bread, a plate of sharp cheese, and a bowl of thick-cut chips, along with a pot of rich pâté for the adults. Nimue ate her bread with thick butter and then moved on to her chips, dipping them one by one into a puddle of ketchup on the side of her plate.
Jane enjoyed a glass of dark red wine while Jack asked Matthieu about the road ahead. The driver answered in low tones, mentioning a specific turn near the river and a stone bridge that had been repaired the previous autumn.
When she finished her food, Nimue pushed her plate away and looked out at the square. She watched a woman walking a small, shivering dog and a man carrying a fresh baguette under his arm. The branches of the plane tree moved restlessly in the wind, scratching against the grey sky.
"On part bientôt?" she asked.
(Are we leaving soon?)
"Oui," Jane said. "Encore une petite heure. Ça va aller?"
(Yes. About another hour. You will be okay?)
"Oui."
Saoirse reached across and stole one of the remaining chips. Nimue simply watched her eat it without a word of protest, her mind already back on the road.
The last hour of the drive felt longer than the rest of the journey combined. The light began to fade as the sky turned from a dull, leaden grey to a bruised purple at the horizon. The flat fields gave way to low, rolling hills and vineyards, where rows of bare vines stretched across the slopes like intricate brown stitching on the earth.
Nimue pressed her face to the glass again. Her breath left small, fleeting clouds that vanished almost as soon as they appeared.
"On approche," Matthieu said.
(We are close.)
The road narrowed as stone walls lined with thick moss began to flank the car. They passed a sign Nimue could not read, followed by a church with a square tower and a row of houses with their shutters already closed tight against the evening chill. The car turned onto a long gravel drive where trees arched overhead to form a tunnel reaching branches.
Then the drive opened up to reveal the house. It stood three storeys high, built of weathered stone with ivy climbing one side and tall windows glowing softly in the fading light. Smoke rose from a chimney in a thin line.
"On est arrivés," he said.
(We have arrived.)
Nimue unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the door. The cold air hit her face with a sharp, clean scent of damp stone and turned earth. Cinder jumped out after her and pressed his russet side firmly against her legs.
The front door opened. An elderly woman stood framed by golden light. White hair framed a face full of deep lines, yet her brown eyes were kind.
"Bienvenue à Clairval," she said.
(Welcome to Clairval.)
The woman stepped back and held the door wider. She wore a thick grey wool cardigan that was worn thin at the elbows, and she smelled faintly of woodsmoke and baking. "Entrez, entrez. Il fait froid dehors." Her voice was low and resonant. "Je suis Marcelle. Ta grand-tante."
(Come in, come in. It is cold outside. I am Marcelle. Your great-aunt.)
Jane stepped inside first, followed by Jack with the heavy bags. Saoirse came in behind them and stamped her boots hard on the mat to clear the mud from her soles.
Nimue stayed on the step for a moment while Cinder pressed against her leg. Marcelle looked down at her and smiled. "Tu ressembles à ta mère. La même bouche."
(You look like your mother. The same mouth.)
Nimue did not know how to respond to the observation, so she simply stepped inside. The hall was wide and dark, featuring walls covered in old, silver-nitrate photographs where black and white faces stared out from heavy, gilded frames. A staircase curved upward from the centre of the hall. The wood was polished to a high shine, and the air smelled deeply of beeswax and old stone.
"La chambre est prête," Marcelle said. "La même que d'habitude. Celle qui donne sur les vignes."
(The room is ready. The same as usual. The one facing the vineyards.)
Jane nodded. "Merci, Marcelle."
Marcelle looked at Nimue again. "Tu veux voir ta chambre?"
(Do you want to see your room?)
The girl nodded and began to climb the stairs. The wood creaked under her trainers, and the ancestors in the photographs seemed to watch her as she passed. There were faces she did not know, all with brown eyes and dark hair. Some wore stiff collars and others wore long, antiquated skirts. One portrait showed a young girl in a white dress holding a bouquet of flowers that had turned a ghostly grey with age.
The room was located at the very end of the corridor. Marcelle pushed open the heavy door at the end of the corridor. The room was larger than the one in Paris. A thick white quilt covered the bed, and a wide window looked out over the dark vineyards. A fire burned low in the hearth. The flames were low and steady. A wooden wardrobe stood in the corner with doors carved in intricate floral patterns.
"C'est joli," Nimue said.
(It is pretty.)
Marcelle smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth. "Ta grand-mère a dormi dans ce lit quand elle était petite. Avant de partir pour Beauxbâtons."
(Your grandmother slept in this bed when she was little. Before she left for Beauxbatons.)
Nimue touched the quilt. It felt soft and smelled of lavender. She wanted to crawl under it immediately.
"Le dîner dans une heure," Marcelle said. "Tu as le temps de te reposer."
(Dinner in an hour. You have time to rest.)
She left the room and the door clicked shut with a solid sound. Nimue sat on the edge of the bed while Cinder jumped up to curl at her feet. After Marcelle left, the weight of the journey finally settled over her shoulders.
Jane drew a bath while Nimue unpacked a few essentials. The water ran deep and hot. Nimue sank into it with a quiet sigh as the steam rose to meet her. Jane sat on a wooden stool beside the tub with her sleeves rolled up, pouring warm water over her daughter's hair and working soap through the tangles. The steam carried the soothing, floral scent of lavender.
"Did you like Paris?" Jane asked.
"Yes." Nimue watched the water drip from her fingers in slow beads before she spoke again. "Can we write to Fleur?"
Jane's hands paused for a second, then continued. "Yes, after breakfast. You can tie the letter to the owl yourself."
Nimue nodded, comforted by the promise.
Jane rinsed her hair. The water ran grey for a moment before clearing to translucent. "We will stay here a few weeks, and then we will go home."
"To the manor?"
"Yes."
Nimue thought about the manor, remembering the long corridors, the familiar portraits, and the way her grandparents and Tilly would be waiting by the door. "Cinder will be happy."
Jane let out a small laugh. "He will sleep for three days."
Dinner was served in a long room at the back of the house. A wooden table, worn smooth in the centre, stretched the length of the space. Candles burned in glass holders. Their light shifted across the faces of those gathered there.
Marcelle sat at the head of the table. Beside her was a man with grey hair and thick, calloused hands whom Nimue assumed was her husband, Étienne. He did not say much, but he passed the bread and nodded politely whenever he was spoken to.
Two younger women sat on the other side. One was pregnant, resting a protective hand on her stomach, while the other had short, dark hair and a sharp nose. These were Marcelle's daughters, Chloé and Margot. Jane introduced Nimue. While Chloé offered a warm smile, Margot simply nodded before returning to her soup.
"Elle est grande pour son âge," Chloé smiled warmly across the table. (She is tall for her age.)
"Elle tient de son père," Jane replied. (She takes after her father,)
Jack looked up from the other end of the table. "Qu'est-ce que j'ai raté?"
(What did I miss?)
"Rien." Jane said, lifting her wine glass with a faint, playful smile.
Nimue ate her soup slowly and slipped a piece of bread under the table to Cinder. The adults talked about the journey and the vineyards, but she stayed quiet, listening to their voices blend with the crackle of the fire.
Étienne asked Jack about the drive, and the man answered in careful, slow French. Matthieu added a few details about the road conditions near Orléans.
After the soup, they were served a chicken roasted with aromatic herbs. The skin was crisp and dark. Nimue ate two pieces of the breast as Chloé watched her with a laugh.
"Elle a de l'appétit."
(She has an appetite.)
"Elle grandit," Jane said.
(She is growing.)
Nimue did not mind the talk. She simply ate until her stomach felt pleasantly tight and the warmth of the room made her drowsy.
.
The bed was soft, and the quilt smelled of dried lavender and the old, sharp scent of cedar. Cinder had already claimed his spot at her feet. His body provided a heavy, warm weight through the blankets. Jane sat on the edge of the mattress and smoothed Nimue's hair back from her forehead.
"You are tired, ma chérie."
"No."
"Your eyes say otherwise."
Nimue did not argue because her eyes truly were heavy. The room was dark except for the low, steady glow of the fire, where the wood had turned to glowing red embers. Jane kissed her forehead and whispered, "Dors bien."
(Sleep well.)
She left the room and the door closed softly. Nimue stared at the ceiling for a while, watching the shadows of the fire move like ghosts, until her breathing slowed and she drifted off.
. . .
The next morning Nimue woke early to unfamiliar birdsong. A bird called from the vineyard, its voice sharp and quick. Cinder was still asleep, though his tail twitched once in his dreams.
She slid out of bed and dressed herself in jeans, a thick jumper, and her blue coat. She tied her laces twice to be sure they were secure before stepping out.
The corridor was quiet as she walked down the hall. The polished wood felt familiar under her feet now, and the old photographs in their heavy frames no longer seemed to watch her, but stood instead in quiet attendance as she passed. The stairs creaked beneath her weight.
The kitchen was at the back of the house, a large room featuring a black iron stove and a long wooden table. Marcelle was already there, slicing bread with a heavy knife that flashed every time the blade came down.
"Tu es levée tôt," Marcelle said.
(You are up early.)
"Je n'arrivais pas à dormir."
(I couldn't sleep more.)
Marcelle pointed at a chair. "Assieds-toi. Je vais te donner du chocolat chaud."
(Sit. I will give you hot chocolate.)
Nimue climbed onto the chair. Though the wood was cold, she didn't mind. Cinder appeared in the doorway, shook himself out, and sat at her feet. Marcelle poured milk into a pot and set it on the stove, breaking a piece of dark chocolate into the liquid. The rich, sweet smell soon filled the kitchen.
"Tu as bien dormi?" she asked.
(Did you sleep well?)
"Oui."
"Ta mère m'a dit que vous aviez voyagé toute l'année. C'est beaucoup pour une petite."
(Your mother told me you had travelled all year. That is a lot for a child.)
Nimue shrugged. "J'ai vu des choses."
(I saw things.)
Marcelle turned from the stove, her interest piqued. "Quelles choses?"
"La mer. Les montagnes. Paris. Une dame qui avait un chat qui dormait sur le poêle."
(The sea. The mountains. Paris. A woman who had a cat that slept on the stove.)
Marcelle let out a dry laugh. "Marguerite." She shook her head fondly. "Elle n'a jamais changé."
(She never changed.)
The hot chocolate was served in a thick ceramic cup. Nimue held it in both hands so the heat could seep into her palms. She blew on the surface before taking a cautious sip.
"C'est bon," she said.
(It is good.)
"Bien sûr que c'est bon. C'est ma recette."
(Of course it is good. It is my recipe.)
Marcelle went back to her task at the counter, the knife making a rhythmic sound against the wood. Jane came in a few minutes later, her hair loose and her face still soft with sleep. She poured herself a coffee and sat across from Nimue.
"Tu as faim?"
(Are you hungry?)
"Oui."
Jane reached across the table and touched Nimue's hand, her fingers warm and comforting. Marcelle placed a plate of bread and butter in front of Nimue, along with a bowl of thick, dark red jam.
"Mange," she said. "Il y a du chemin avant le petit déjeuner."
(Eat. There is a while before breakfast.)
Nimue spread butter and then a thick layer of jam onto a piece of bread. She bit into it, enjoying the contrast between the crusty bread and the sweet fruit. Jack and Saoirse joined them, and the kitchen began to fill with voices. Étienne brought in a basket of fresh eggs from the barn while Chloé and Margot appeared to start their day.
Nimue finished her bread and drank the last of her hot chocolate while Cinder waited patiently for crumbs. Marcelle cracked eggs into a bowl with a sharp, rhythmic sound before whisking them with a fork.
"Tu veux aider?" she asked Nimue.
(Do you want to help?)
Nimue looked at the yellow eggs and the fast movement of the whisk. "Oui."
(Yes.)
Marcelle offered the whisk handle. Nimue stepped forward and wrapped her small fingers around the cool metal. She looked at the yellow mixture and began to move her wrist, watching the eggs turn pale and frothy. The rhythm felt steady. It felt like beginning again.
===
Flash Q&A plus note
From Empyrium on Webnovel
"I liked the story so far, even if it is very slow paced. But whatever that is with the french child is weird in my opinion, feels like its a buildup for a romantic relationship"
My answer:
Oh really? Then I'm glad you got that impression!
I wasn't sure if you missed all those notes I left in previous chapters or in the "introduction" chapter where I clearly said that Fleur will be one of her romantic interests.
After all, I intended to make Fleur her girlfriend (the main one) in the future. They only have kisses on the lips when Nimue is in her 4th year at Hogwarts. So that's still very far away, considering Nimue is just almost five right now.
As for their relationship progress in these chapters, the Nimue and Fleur dynamic reads as intentionally intense and ambiguous. They are still too young to be romantic in a sexual sense, but it's clearly meant to feel like a "first love" or soul bond setup.
.
Now, onto something else. Nimue loves music. We'll see how often she sings and plays in later chapters. Some of you might not know what song she's singing or what music she's playing, so I'll usually mention the song title and artist in the text or in note.
Sometimes she even has "background music" playing in her head. For example, if she's playing in the water and sitting on a boat, she might imagine or hear in her mind the "Pirates of the Caribbean" OST.
Or when she first arrives at Hogwarts, during the scene where the first years cross the lake by boat, she might sing "Hikari e" (from One Piece). Or when she's playing wild outdoors or training, she might sing or hear in her mind the song "Go" (from Naruto). Or maybe it's a Korean song or another language.
Also, you might see some lyrics written in the middle of a chapter. Don't worry, it won't be the full song—just the part she "focuses on".
Please remember that Nimue is, in a sense, "me." If you're new here, I graduated from Japanese Language and Literature Education, so of course the majority of my taste is Japanese songs. I also love reading Chinese web novels, which made me pick up some Chinese songs for my playlist as well. And because I've had TikTok since Covid, I also like some viral songs that appear on my FYP. As for Korean, I absolutely love IZ*ONE.
I also absolutely love slower songs like "Yours," "Darari," "Pretty Boy," "Qing Fei De Yi" (情非得已), "Canon in Love," "Messy," "Full Moon," "Dear My X," "The First Snow," "Cinta Yang Sempurna," "Sour Grapes," "Stay," "Really Like You," "恋愛サーキュレーション," etc.
Also please remember that in the lore, the higher being has Art as a domain, so obviously we'll see many things about art. Especially since Nimue often expresses herself through art. So you'll see some lyrics in the middle of chapters, or how often I mention songs, or Nimue doing artistic things.
I just want you to know that you will absolutely find this in later chapters. The reason I'm putting this warning and notice is because I just saw a post on Reddit talking about lyrics in the middle of chapters, and most people didn't like it and said they'd drop the fic.
So I'm putting the warning here, just in case. (For those reading on AO3, I also added clickable audio players there, but on Webnovel and FFN it's just lyrics and song titles.)
Enjoy, and thanks for reading 💕