"Are you sure?" The girl raised her eyebrows skeptically. "This is my stop?" The bus driver scratched the patchy stubble on his chin and peered at the map of the city on his dashboard.
"Yup. Looks like it. You wanted Hampstead Gardens?"
"You're kidding me. And I'm not sure 'wanted' is the correct term here." The driver ignored the second remark and sighed.
"Do I look like I'm kidding, young lady?" The girl sneered.
"Someone like you should know not to judge a person by their looks." It was true, years of driving a bus and smoking cheap cigarettes had taken their toll on the man's appearance. But he found it insensitive for the girl to point it out in such a way.
"Look, just hand me your ticket and bugger off." He stuck out a grimy hand. She gave it to him in a sharp movement that was more of a slap than a civilized gesture.
"Whatever." The girl rolled her eyes for the second time and waited for the doors to creak open. When they did, she marched sullenly off the bus and heaved her massive trunk so that it bashed into the doors and the side of the bus before clattering onto the sidewalk beside her. She then made a rude gesture at the driver, which he pointedly ignored.
The girl muttered something foul under her breath and turned toward the small subdivision ahead. She stared. "Shit." It was, well, small. And a subdivision. She didn't do small, or subdivisions for that matter, or anything less than the mansion where she actually lived. She didn't do poor. She didn't even do middle class. And this collection of trash was where she would be spending a few precious days of the rest of the summer. Not to mention the filthy trash that lived inside. She thought briefly about hailing a cab to get away in her desperation, but she didn't know how to do it. Did she just wave her arms around? Call someone on a… a felly-tone? She had no bloody idea. There was always the Knight Bus, but you could get some unsavoury types there. Additionally, she'd practically be disowned if she took such a common mode of transportation. Then again, the same thing might happen if her parents knew she was here.
She shuddered. No matter what, they couldn't know. They couldn't find out about the garbage she was spending her summer with. The girl steadied herself and marched up to the door, her massive snakeskin trunk dragging on the pavement. "Number two, number four… Number six." She muttered. Well, here it was. Number six, Hampstead Gardens. The family who lived here, er, the trash who lived here, had put little pots of yellow flowers of the doorstep alongside a well-trodden mat that read 'WELCOME" in aggressive capital letters. It was modern enough, but small. And a subdivision. Ew. A tiny, hissing voice popped into the girl's head. You don't have to do this. You can catch a filthy muggle bus back; after all, you survived one once. You can go back home. You can back out. But could she? If she did go back, would someone be there for her? Would anyone even care? Nope. No one gave a shit. Nobody needed to know that she was here. She raised her cliched fist… gagged… and knocked.
At first, nothing happened. The girl felt her breath slowly return to normal. There was no one even home. Dumbledore the barmy git had messed up, sent her at a time that no one was even there, and all she had to do was buy a bus ticket and go back to her parents and her estate. It would be like nothing ever happened to-
The door swung open.
"Oh, hello Pansy! Welcome!" The speaker was a muggle woman in maybe her late forties, plump and kind faced. Her brown hair was straight and had a kind of well-kept gloss. Whatever. It didn't change the fact that she was filthy, just like her mudblood daughter. Pansy Parkinson adopted her customary sneer.
"Your disturbing doormat already welcomed me, thank you very much." The woman flinched, but barely.
"Oh, the welcome mat! It's a muggle tradition. Sort of like… er… the peeking post boxes that wizards keep? My daughter tells me that the more expensive ones can be quite funny, especially from the Weasley boys' joke shop!"
"We don't have one." Pansy responded cooly. "Mother thinks they're rude. Father thinks they're for poor people." The woman looked slightly taken aback, but she forced a smile.
"Well, each to their own, eh? Do come in, dear. We'll get your trunk up to your room, and supper's nearly on the table." The woman walked into the house, holding the door open for her hesitant guest. Pansy didn't move. "Come on in! We don't bite." I do, Pansy thought. Like a snake. She folded her arms petulantly.
"I can hardly be expected to carry my own trunk inside. After all, I am a pure-blood." That's right, Pansy, the voice inside her head hissed again. You're a Slytherin. Time to start acting like one for a change. The woman stared.
"I don't think that being a pure-blood makes you weaker, does it?" She asked. The question was a dangerous one. Half serious, half sarcastic. Now! The voice came back. Prove you aren't a coward! Give her what she deserves, talking to you like that. Pansy whipped out her wand. The woman's eyes grew large. "I'm sorry, dear, I didn't mean-"
"Well, it sounded a little funny. It's almost like you were saying that you're equal to me, which you aren't. You and your mudblood daughter should be grateful I even agreed to stay in this dump with you. You should do whatever I want! You should kneel and polish my shoes. So forgive me if my pureblood hands could get calloused lugging that trunk up the stairs, because they could. Your filthy daughter can do it for me." The woman sucked in a breath, slowly, and muttered,
"Only a week. Only a week." She opened her eyes again and sighed. "I'm sure Hermione would be happy to do it for her guest. After all, you must be tired. Like I said, supper's on the table, and your room is clean-" Pansy ignored the rest of the sentence and marched inside the doorway. She didn't care to listen to the incoherent ramblings of a muggle, especially when she was hungry. The inside of the house was as simple as the outside, Pansy noticed with distain. There were more yellow flowers, some simple armchairs, a fireplace, and a clean rug in the front room. In Pansy's own front room, the furnishings were as lavish as physically possible. She'd had royal red curtains, a rug so thick and plush that your feet sank several inches into it, golden armchairs stuffed with goose down, everything. Even some imported taxidermy. This place was nauseatingly basic. Thumping noises started to come down the staircase toward her, followed by a girl with frizzy chestnut hair and a wide, forced grin.
"Parkinson- erm- Pansy! It's... nice... to see you here." Hermione smile faltered for only half a second. It was enough.
"Yeah, just take my trunk upstairs would you? It's heavy. Also, it's snakeskin, so if you damage it..." Hermione just shrugged and tugged at the monstrously heavy trunk. Her progress was slow and painful looking, but Pansy did nothing to help. So what if Granger was having a hard time? So was Pansy. And no one was doing a bloody thing for her. Not a bloody thing.