It was the beginning of autumn, when the air still holds the memory of summer's warmth but the threat of winter's chill, and Margaret Hale did not wish to go to the North. Her mother and father had finally, after years of delay, given in to the inevitable. The family tried to scrape by in the Muggle world, but as the years wore on, they began to feel less and less at home with non-magic folk. There had been many tears, prayers, and postulating, but in the end, they went. Mr. Hale already had been offered a position at a prestigious wizarding school, and all that was left to do was pack.

"I still do not understand why Mr. Hale cannot simply apparate to the school and return to us in the evening."

Margaret replied, folding a gray coat into her trunk, "Mama, remember apparition is not permitted on school grounds. And it will be a great comfort to him if we are there."

Mrs. Hale sniffed delicately and continued her needlework. Margaret gazed mournfully out the window, breathing in the sweetly scented air. She sighed, murmuring, "But I shall miss Helstone exceedingly." It was, and always would remain, her childhood home. Helstone—green meadows blanketed in wildflowers stretching lazily to a rushing river. Dark trees stood in small, cool groves, inviting her to run and play amongst them as she as a child. But her childhood, she was painfully aware, had drawn to a close. It would end as soon as she left this place. She would never return to those golden, sunlit hours of youth.

Mrs. Hale cleared her throat, jerking Margaret back from nostalgia. "Dixon asked if you want a cup of tea, Margaret."

Dixon waited in the door, her bat-like ears quivering in anticipation. Margaret always had a distinct feeling the small, rotund house elf disliked her. Mrs. Hale had always been first in Dixon's affection, ever since she had been given as a wedding present to the aforesaid. Perhaps Margaret was not "worthy offspring" of the Dixon's mistress. Nevertheless, Margaret was determined to be gracious to the elf, and by her kindness, win her over.

Thus resolute, Margaret smiled radiantly at the elf. "Yes, please."

Dixon shuffled off, and Margaret bent her head over her trunk once more. She ran her hand over simple muslin dresses, and sighed. She did not possess much finery, which had never distressed her until she lived with her mother's sister in London. Her mother came from a wealthy pureblood family who objected exceedingly to her marriage to Mr. Hale. Nevertheless, they took Margaret in for several years to "acquaint her with good wizarding society." Margaret had enjoyed the hustle and bustle of London, the art and culture of the capitol. But her heart longed for Helstone. And now that she had finally returned to her childhood home, she must leave it. Margaret sniffed quietly and blinked rapidly—her mother could not see her cry.

"Your tea, miss," Dixon squeaked alarmingly.

Margaret blinked, grasped the proffered cup, and beamed, albeit shakily, at the house-elf. "Thank you, Dixon. It was kind of you to bring me this." She knew, of course, that kindness did not enter into it. She had asked for tea; Dixon had prepared it. Regardless, Margaret clung to the belief that perhaps someday the elf would care for her.

But now, Dixon was staring at her expectantly, and Margaret realized she had not yet tasted her tea. She lifted it and sipped delicately, closing her eyes. She was convinced that tea was a branch of magic all its own. It had restorative powers that even St. Mungo's did not possess. She grinned—rather foolishly, she now realized—at that thought. Margaret glanced up, hoping no one had seen her momentary grin. Dixon had left the room, and Mrs. Hale sat, or rather slumped, in a seat.

"Mama, are you well?" In truth, she looked ashen. Margaret had never seen her look so ill. Perhaps it was the move, the thought of leaving their home. Surely it couldn't be... No, she would not think of that. She would never think of that. It did no good to dwell on disasters that had not yet, nor ever would, occur. "Do you need me to fix a meal? We have some cheese and bread, and the garden has lovely—"

"I am fine, Margaret," Mrs. Hale replied hoarsely. When she saw her daughter's incredulous look, she smiled. "Truly. Do not trouble yourself with worry on my account. All your energy should be spent in packing, my dear."

Margaret nodded, still unconvinced. She glanced at her trunk, still half-full, then back at her mother. "I cannot yet finish. I wish to spend these last few hours cherishing my home, not packing away my clothes. I shall miss Helstone with all my heart." Her voice broke and she turned back to the window, trying to hide her tears.

Margaret heard the rustle of skirts, then felt her mother's soft touch on her arm. "None of us desire to leave this place; I least of all." Margaret buried her head on her mother's shoulder, weeping freely. Mrs. Hale stroked her daughter's dark hear and whispered soothingly, "We must make the best of the time we have left. Go, smell the roses, walk the grounds. I shall have Dixon pack your things."

"Thank you. Oh, thank you, Mama. You do not know how much this means to me. I—"

Mrs. Hale smiled teasingly. "Daughter, do not waste the precious time you have. Out with you, silly thing!"

Upon reflection, Margaret knew that her exit from the room would not have been considered ladylike in most circles. But her joy at roaming the grounds one last time could not be contained. She bounded from the room, all smiles, light, and happiness. She could drink in the perfume of the roses and lean against the aged trees once more. Suddenly, her prospects seemed a little less bleak. Perhaps she would not mind the North, after all.