Hogsmeade: Victoire & Fleur
Victoire did not immediately recognize the voice of the woman who brushed against her within the warm and dark confines of the Three Broomsticks. She'd no idea it was her mum, but the accent made her think of home. She could very nearly hear the water lapping at her toes, and the scent of salt tickled her nose. It was foolish dreaming, she told herself, utterly snake in her resilience. Her mum was years away. Eighteen, in fact, and she felt ever so alone. Normally, she would've simply turned and not allowed sentiment to get the better of here. But there was no one here, no red-haired Weasleys to tease and torment her for showing sentiment.
Hence, she spoke.
She'd no accent to speak of, only a lingering classicism to her voice that had not been inherited from anyone with red hair. She was soft spoken, but her voice had Veela allure to it, something indescribable that was inherited from the woman who'd given a hair for her wand.
"My fault entirely. I'll buy you a butterbeer to make amends?" Her voice was already trailing by the end. Having not yet seen the woman's face didn't mean she could miss that blonde, blonde sunlight hair; she'd tried to emulate it enough with spells as a tiny thing in little witch's robes.