Roses are red
Violets are blue
I don't own Harry Potter
This is sad, but true
Written for the Age of Potter competition hosted by Beyond the Book Fanfiction Nook. I had so much fun with this prompt. I hope you enjoy :)
Alpha/beta love goes to my wonderful friend Mrs. Ren xx
Hermione Granger watched the scene below from her vantage point; the small window at the front of the apartment she shared with her father. Her hand rested on the cool glass as her gaze followed the squat man who had been hired to drive her to the train station. His name was Pettigrew, and he had a face like a rat; an amused smile broke across her face as she saw him struggle to lift her lone suitcase into the carriage.
"You don't need to do this," her father's voice was soft and sad. She turned to face him with a sigh. Mister Granger was a lanky man with dark curly hair, though the strands around his temples were slowly turning grey. He wore brown slacks and a matching button up shirt with a filthy apron wrapped tightly across his front. In his hands he held a rag, which he twisted between his fingers. Looking at him, one might mistake her father for a blacksmith. His nails were often dirty and sweat graced his brow, but rather than being proud of her father for his obvious toil, Hermione only felt mild revulsion.
"Yes, I do." She said, her tone resigned.
Her father snapped his mouth shut, his lips pursed tightly together. Sadness pooled in his eyes and shone from the dark orbs that were so like his daughter's. He nodded once and then turned from the doorway and disappeared down the narrow hallway. Hermione's shoulders slumped as he left; she knew she was offending him by taking the job in Wiltshire, but she really didn't have a choice.
Her father was a dentist. Not a blacksmith or a barber, as most dental technicians were; just a dentist. It was not a lucrative business, nor was it a profession held in high esteem. Her father was sure that it would eventually become so, but as the years had passed since her mother's untimely death, the only thing William Granger had become renowned for was his malpractice.
More people had died as a result of his 'modern' way of tooth extraction; some lost too much blood, others couldn't stand the pain. His reputation preceded him, but he could not know that because he never left the house; the house that they would soon lose, if Hermione did not take this job.
She sighed again before turning away from the window. Below, her father was conversing with the coachman who would be taking her to the train station. Hermione crept slowly down the stairs, taking in each photograph as she passed them; there was one of her mother, and another of all three of them when Hermione had been eight years old. Finally, she reached the front door and exited her childhood home, knowing full well it may be for the last time.
"Goodbye, Papa," she said without looking at her father. "I shall write you as soon as I get to Wiltshire."
Her father did not reply and Hermione could not bare to meet his gaze, so she accepted the hand of the coachman, bunched her skirt in her other fist, and climbed into the back of the carriage.
She had never been in a carriage before. She and her father lived in London, and their needs lay within walking distance. But now, she was heading to Wiltshire under the request of a rich family who had commissioned her to do a portrait for their son who had recently come of age. A need for such a display of obvious wealth was beyond Hermione's comprehension, but they had offered her a handsome sum of money and their hospitality for the duration of her stay. The carriage had been sent by them, as had the train ticket; it was one way, as she was unsure how long it would take to complete the painting.
The thought unnerved her as she settled against the back of the seat; she did not know when she would see her home or her father again. She blinked back tears as she admired the white gloves on her fingers, refusing to look back at her father as the carriage began to move down the cobbled streets.
The train ride was uneventful, and by the time Hermione had disembarked in the late afternoon, she was more than ready to arrive at her final destination. She boarded another carriage, and she scratched at her neck, longing to be rid of the restrictive material of her only good dress. The rocking movement was more like the ocean on the roads of Wiltshire; nothing like the bumpy streets of London. It was enough to lull Hermione into a stupor as the chauffeur drove her towards her accommodation.
Malfoy Manor was a large, solid structure made from grey stone. It rose up from the surrounding hillside like it was simply part of the natural landscape. The carriage stopped outside the wrought iron gates. Beyond the black bars, Hermione could make out a small group of people clad in black and white waiting at the front of the house.
The clunking and scraping of metal against stone rang through the evening air, and Hermione started in her seat as they began to roll forward again. A few moments later she arrived at the front door. There was a shuffle as the coachman dismounted and scurried to open the carriage door.
Though Hermione's instinct was to open the door and disembark herself, her mother had spent enough time grooming her for proper society; she supposed that wouldn't be necessary now. She was a working woman, well versed in art and literature; what kind of man would be interested in such a wife?
"Miss Granger," a tall man with a wide middle and impossibly skinny legs stepped forward. He was dressed in livery and his nose pointed to the sky as he greeted her. Hermione stifled a giggle at his pompous tone. "Welcome to Malfoy Manor."
"Thank you," Hermione murmured, clasping her hands in front of her.
"My name is Mister Dursley," he continued. "I am the Head Butler and Lord Malfoy's valet." He did not extend his hand, and barrelled on before Hermione could utter a simple pleasantry in response. "You will be staying in the servant's quarters; we hope you will find this arrangement satisfactory."
"I'm sure it will be perfect."
Mister Dursley harrumphed and turned on his heel, heading back inside the house.
A maid stepped forward and curtsied. "Miss Granger," she smiled up at Hermione. "My name is Ginny. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your room."
A footman had stepped forward and picked up Hermione's bag while the maid was talking . She raised her eyebrows and was about to suggest that she could carry her luggage herself, but thought better of it.
"This way," the maid smiled kindly again before lifting her skirts and gliding into the house.
"His Lordship is finishing up some business in the study," Ginny babbled, "and her Ladyship is lying down; she gets headaches in the evenings."
Hermione was barely paying attention as she followed behind the maid. She was too busy admiring the architecture and the artwork on the walls.
The walls were made from panelled wood, and tapestries hung on almost every one of them. Bare walls held a variety of artwork, from portraits of regal looking people to beautiful landscapes that might have been painted from a dream.
Hermione itched to touch them, to feel the texture of the canvas beneath her fingers, but she refrained. Instead, she clasped her hands behind her back and hurried to catch up with Ginny who now had a significant lead on the brunette guest.
"Mister Dursley will be ringing the dinner bell any moment," she said breathlessly. "Just ignore it; we have our dinner after they're done upstairs. Feel free to unpack or rest," she looked Hermione up and down once, "and perhaps put on something less...restrictive."
With a final grin, the maid left and Hermione flopped on to the rickety single bed behind her. She found it would be impossible not to like the maid, but if Ginny's constant chatter was anything to go by, Hermione knew that her stay here would be exhausting.
