Love is a powerful thing. It is the only thing that can both mend hearts and shatter souls, begin wars and create peace, drive people to be better than they ever thought they could be – and force them to do more terrible things than the imagination can conjure. That is your first warning:
Love is both beautiful and monstrous.
Before the real story begins, you must know that people have a terrible habit of making assumptions, deciding their view on things before they even know the whole story. This is often the fault of another flaw in the human psyche: ignorance. Most will often simply presume they know the whole story – such an act will often prove dangerous, even fatal. Hence the second warning:
The art of supposition is flawed - stay away from it at all times.
Lastly, always remember the fragility of the world you live in. Remember even more clearly your third and final warning:
Nothing is certain. Of that you can be sure.
~oOo~
It was finally happening.
After months of decisions, paperwork, and boxes, Hermione was – at last – moving house. With bay windows, wood timbers and a thatched roof, the small cottage in the countryside had been plucked straight from the forests of fairytale folk, and relocated in the middle of Hermione's new wild garden she would be able to tend to herself after long days at the Ministry.
She'd finally managed to placate Ron and Harry by saying they could come over tomorrow – they had been really enthusiastic at the thought of helping her move into her new home (which was, Hermione thought, a product of their still viewing her as an incapable woman, rather than the idea of actually having to do physical exercise that wasn't Quidditch.) The moving company had helped her move all her furniture and boxes into the right rooms, but the rest Hermione had demanded she be left alone to complete.
After two hours of positioning the sofa (facing the corner or against the wall?) and organizing bookshelf after bookshelf (alphabetical or by subject?), Hermione felt she'd earned a break. Deciding to check the house thoroughly to see if it was just as she remembered, she wandered up the stairs to the first floor, and continued up to the attic, choosing to start at the top and work her way down.
The attic was accessed by taking a slightly uneven, wooden staircase leading from the study. It had a large oak trapdoor sealing it shut which, after several attempts, Hermione managed to throw open, sending a storm of dust barrelling around her, attacking her eyes and her mouth as she coughed it away. Slowly, the old room came into view; the old wooden timbers supporting the thatch outside still seemed strong even though the cottage was around 100 years old - or at least that's what the estate wizard had told her upon her first viewing. There was one sash window at either end, the attic spanning the entire width of the house, and they both let in enough light that there was no sense of gloominess or melancholy in the late May afternoon. The thing that caught Hermione's eye, though, was the old wooden box next to the wall opposite the door. She hadn't seen it in previous viewings as the owners still had their things up here, but the box was rather unimpressive to look at – made of sand-coloured wood and completely bare except for the small piece of patterned brass that surrounded a keyhole on its lid. The cottage's previous occupants had taken everything else, and the box was of such a size that Hermione found it extremely implausible that they had simply forgotten about it when packing – it seemed to be around half a metre tall and deep, and about twice that in width.
Starting towards it, Hermione's innate sense of curiosity was piqued. What could be in this box? Was there anything in it at all? There was only one way to find out.
The heavy lid was forced open with a groan of complaint from the hinges – it was not locked as the keyhole had suggested to her – and she peered inside, her keen eyes quickly scanning the interior of the container.
Letters. There were letters – a whole bundle of them, all with the same wax seal stamped on them, it seemed – laying beside a beautiful, ornately carved, mahogany box. Eager hands grasped the box and lifted it from its home. As she looked closer upon its lid, she saw that the swirling, interweaving vines all surrounded two figures in the centre of the wood. It was a man and a woman, facing each other and holding hands – they appeared to be lovers.
Striding back across the attic floor, Hermione made the decision to go downstairs and have a cup of tea whilst perusing the small box further. It had been a long day, after all. She put the kettle on and dropped into a chair at her kitchen table; it wasn't quite in the position she wanted it in yet, but she could sort that out tomorrow. Her fingers drifted over the varnished wood, before they found cool metal at the rear of the box. Turning it, she found a key implanted into the otherwise untarnished surface. It was a music box.
Forgetting all about the drink she had intended to make, Hermione slowly eased open the lid of the small box. As delicate, tinkling notes cascaded gently from the box, Hermione ran her finger over the red velvet inlaid on its interior. It was such a pretty little thing, but Hermione couldn't help but wondering why it had been left behind – the previous owners had left no forwarding address, saying that they had already contacted all those it was necessary to to inform them of their change of location.
Feeling cold, she grabbed the russet jumper she'd draped over the back of the sofa earlier – it had suddenly gotten quite chilly.
For the next couple of hours, Hermione inspected the box further over dinner, trying to discern anything about its history – but it seemed its origins were to remain a mystery. After sending an owl to Harry and Ginny, and another to Ron, both of which informing their recipients that Hermione was settling in well but would not need any assistance unpacking tomorrow – she had her wand after all, she picked up the music box again and opened its lid for one last look. The sweet music echoed quietly through the half-empty room, but the lilting notes served no purpose in informing her about the curious object. Sighing, she lay the box onto her coffee table, which stood in the centre of the room, before standing up and trudging tiredly up the stairs for bed. It took about ten minutes for Hermione to brush her teeth and dig some clothes out to change into, but it had been a long day. Within minutes of her settling into her mattress, she was deeply asleep – there would be no dreams for her tonight.
Downstairs, the box slammed shut, sending the living room into abrupt silence.
A/N: I know this is short, but did you like it? This could be my first attempt at a full – length story, so please tell me if you're interested! I want to know if I should keep going with this, so I need to know if anyone's interested before I write the entire story for nobody to read. Still, though – any predictions?
This novel is inspired by Susan Hill's The Woman in Black, and the first section by Markus Zusak's The Book Thief. Obviously, I own neither!
Please review and tell me your thoughts!