Hannah Abbott lurched violently from the wooden post, her desperate movements blunted by the layers of thick rope tightened around her body. The fire had already engulfed her upper torso and was creeping up to lick at her pale face and long fair hair. When the fire had been first making its way up her calves and thighs, she had been screaming for God and mercy. But as the flames crept higher, her wailing and shrieking had became less and less coherent, devolving to piercing and basic. She simply screamed to vocalise her pain. It was all she could do.
If the screaming wasn't enough, the smell of burning flesh and fat had begun to permeate the air. However, no one else in the crowd seemed to notice the stench or mind it. After long weeks of trial and torture, the townspeople were simply glad to be moving on after Abbott's confession was finally extracted. Even if the girl had refused to name any additional witches.
Hermione would have turned away from the gruesome display but her father's harsh grip on her shoulder warned her against doing so. Her mother stood at her other shoulder, watching intently, without expression.
It was important for Hermione to attend these witch-burnings to dispel any rumours of sympathies or allegiances to the accused witches.
But Hannah Abbott hadn't been a witch. Hermione was almost thoroughly certain of that fact. She would have discovered the Abbott girl sooner if the accusations had been true.
When the shrieking had finally faded and the soft crackling of the fire became audible, most of the onlookers began to disperse from the cobble square. But it would be hours before the fire died out. Only a scattering of bone fragments would remain.
Her father returned to his practice, squeezing her shoulder in farewell, and her mother returned to the family hearth. She would be home too before long, before dusk, but until then Hermione was found by the two youngest of the Weasley children. Ron and Ginevra, had shirked their daily duties to sneak out of their father's inn and watch the burning of a girl they had known since their youth. Hermione didn't understand it, but she knew that she was the irregularity, not they.
"Have you visited the marketplace today?" Ginny asked her, clutching at her arm and looping her own through it. The girl was wearing a new cloak, the hood trimmed with russet red fur. Her free hand traced the collar of her cloak, to entice Hermione's attention.
"No, I haven't." Hermione humoured her, "Is that new?" She nodded towards the article of clothing, humming in admiration. "How did you afford that?" The spring had brought with it rain and good business throughout their town, and Ginny was the only girl in her family, but nevertheless she was still only one child in a litter of seven.
"It was a gift," Ginny beamed.
That generous revelation brought Hermione's eyebrows shooting up. "Really?"
"I told her she shouldn't have accepted it," Ron cut in, his freckled face scrunched. It made for an unattractive look.
Ginny had started leading Hermione by the arm, while Ron paved a walking path through the thick marketplace crowd. It was the business hour of the day; the spring sun stood high in the sky. The air was much cooler away from the fire. Many of those who had been in the audience of the witch burning now stood around the various stands and shops, browsing the crafted products and fresh produce of the spring harvest, holding their children's hands and haggling with vendors. It all made for a quaint sight. But Hermione knew better.
"A traveler bought up one of the rooms," Ron went on to elaborate. "I really don't know what sort of merchant travels so lightly, but he's already made a nice profit off people like my sister."
"I didn't pay anything," Ginny insisted, tugging hard at Hermione's arm in protest as if it were Ron's.
"That's what you think," Ron snorted. "But anyways - " he peered at Hermione from over his shoulder. " - Dad felt so bad about it that he's letting the man board without charge for the rest of his stay." He scratched his head with a shrug.
Mister Weasley really was a bleeding heart. "That man's going to bankrupt your dad," Hermione commented dryly. She ignored the look of betrayal on Ginny's face. It was of no consequence because the girl recovered quickly anyways.
"Tom!" Ginny suddenly slipped loose from them, hurrying ahead towards a new merchant stand. "Busy day, huh?" There was a sweet laugh in her voice. Her pale eyebrows had softened, a helpless smile at her mouth.
There was a young man standing behind the wooden stall, with various beautiful artifacts and luxury goods assorted across his table. But all eyes were immediately drawn towards Tom and his fair skin, dark hair, and darker eyes. Hermione had never seen such dark brown eyes; they seemed impossibly black, smudges of ink on clean, white parchment. He was tall too, even taller than Ron but had a graceful and lean build.
And he wasn't alone. Lavender Brown, Susan Bones, and Megan Jones were hovering around his stand. Lavender Brown immediately broke away from the group of girls to take Ron's hands in enthusiastic greeting, while Bones and Jones looked on Ginny with disdainful eyes. Just last week, the four girls were practically inseparable, attached at the hips, always visiting the marketplace or doing laundry together.
"Yes, I've unloaded quite a bit," Tom answered modestly. A half-smile played at his slight mouth. He was pleasant and affable, but something about him struck Hermione as dull. He seemed like a doll, his hair and clothes neatly arranged and his face drawn perpetually smiling. He didn't even look her way once.
"I really love the cloak," Ginny continued, her long fingers playing with the ends. She really did look pretty. She must have worked herself up into a frenzy over looking good for him. Her red hair glowed with a sheen like fire, brushed unrelentingly sleek. Bones and Jones must have known that.
They're both also dressed up, in dresses fine enough for Sunday. Bones' bright red hair was missing its usual plait; she's gone for a new look, her long hair left free to simply run down her back. Going for the opposite effect, Jones' hair has been parted into two intricate braids.
"So Tom," Jones spoke up, drawing his dark eyes back onto her. "I really love the pendant." She was holding the metallic string up in the air, weighed down by a beautiful opal stone - shimmering white with countless flecks of prismatic colours. "Where did you say this came from again?"
"France." He's travelled quite a lot apparently. Or at least his wares have. "It used to belong to a beautiful baroness." A scatter of giggles erupted from the girls. Megan's pressed the pendant against the corner of her mouth, her brown eyes opened a little too widely.
Openly bored, Ron's mouth twisted into an expression of disgust. Hermione couldn't help but sympathise. But the other girls hung onto Tom's every word, almost physically leaning in. Hermione didn't even remember why Ginny had insisted on her accompanying her and her brother to the market when it seemed that Ginny has since completely forgotten about her. "How ever did the pendant come to you?" Hermione wondered wryly aloud.
His eyes had finally turned onto her. "The baroness became bankrupt after her husband was disgraced, stripped of his title, and thrown out the French court," Tom answered pleasantly. His smile didn't seem very appropriate for the story of misfortune.
"Oh, how terrible," Bones expressed empathetically with a sigh. She looked as if she was only barely restraining herself from reaching out to touch Tom in comfort, as if he was the baroness herself fallen on hard times.
"Right," Ron voiced impatiently. "Ginny, we need to get going. Fred and George would have ratted us out to Mom and Dad by now." That was a lie. Fred and George were opposed to all forms of authority figures; even they wouldn't betray their younger siblings to their parents. "Lavender, Mom wants you to come over for dinner tonight, is that alright?"
While Lavender vocalised her eager agreement, Hermione seized the opportunity to excuse herself politely. "I have to be getting home too. It was nice meeting you, Tom. Your wares are beautiful." She hadn't even introduced herself. "Goodbye," she added, her brown eyes lingering on the Weasley siblings before she turned to leave. Bones and Jones continued talking to Tom, more enthusiastically now they were alone again.
"It's been a pleasure," were Tom's parting words. The sincerity in his voice was impossible.
The walk back to her home was uneventful. But along the route, Hermione walked past the Dursley family's butcher shop. She hadn't stepped inside in years; her mother always went to pick up the meat for their major holidays dinners.
The shop was a modest building, it had once been painted red but the colour had since been reduced to the original brown of the wood. The Dursley boy, brawny and red-faced, saw her through the front entrance. He was hoisting up a large slab of pork for the display. They didn't exchange a greeting, not even in a meaningful look, and neither acknowledged seeing the other, but the silent exchange sat at the back of Hermione's mind even after she passed the threshold of the front door and entered her home.
"Hermione, come into the kitchen," her mother called.
She went on to help with what little remained to be done with the house chores, and soon the dinner table was set with plates, cutlery, and food. Her father returned home shortly after, complaining about Augusta Longbottom and her disagreeable temper. He washed up, cleansing away the flecks of blood that still clung to his arms.
The Grangers all sat down to dinner together and discussed the notable events of the day: her father's patients, her mother's stew, and the new merchant in town. Her mother even noted what a handsome young man he was.
When they had all finished dinner, Hermione helped her mother clean up, slowed down by the tiresome manual work. By the time the crickets began singing, it was time to retire to bed.
Briefly seeing her father in the family den, with an open book by the fireplace, Hermione went up the stairs and into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. There was a hard grey bed in the centre of the room and a small, bare bedside table beside it. It was all very Spartan. Setting down the lantern she had carried up to her room on the wooden dresser by the door, Hermione slipped out of her day clothes and into her nightwear. Tiredly falling down onto her bed, she looked across the room at the still-lit lantern. After a few seconds of focused staring, the lantern light helpfully flickered out of life and she turned over in her bed, pulling her coarse blanket around herself. Tomorrow would probably be much the same.
This was originally posted on Ao3, but I'm going to begin trying to post on this site too. Happy New Years! Reviews are appreciated, I'd love to know what you think!