A/N Wow! Thanks for the follows, faves and reviews, they're really encouraging for a first chapter! I'm just beyond happy that I'm not the only one who loves gothic-romance, ships Lumione, and wants to smoosh them together. I mean, it makes sense, right?! :D
Okay, now for a couple of AU notes. For the purpose of this story, I have implemented the following changes:
Floo: the Floo network is divided into two channels, one "private" and one "public." Only the houses of wealthy families and reputable establishments are connected through the private system. Everyone else must pay a small fee to use the public Floo, accessed in communal places such as an inn or tearoom. Small towns might only have one or two public Floos, whilst bigger cities have them dotted throughout the boroughs.
Brooms: although some witches use broomsticks, it is considered a rather unfeminine and dangerous practice. Those who do tend to ride side-saddle and use a specially charmed variety of "Ladies Broom" that limits speed and height.
There's bound to be other AU things which will crop up, but I'll address them before each relevant chapter.
Hope you enjoy this next instalment and PLEASE let me know your thoughts!
...
The next morning I received another letter, this one delivered by a majestic Eagle Owl bearing a scroll stamped with a black seal and tied with green velvet ribbon.
How very different the warm fluttering sensation in my breast upon unravelling it, than the icy despair occasioned by the curt missive from my Aunt's cousin! With what gladness and excitement did I peruse the handsomely-drawn Indenture Retainer, written in exquisite calligraphy upon costly vellum! And with what fascination did I trace my trembling fingers over the splendid Malfoy coat-of-arms letterhead: a silver 'M' emblazoned across a quarterly field of black and green, supported by strange winged creatures—serpents, perhaps, or maybe dragons. Winding across the shield's base was a silver ribbon bearing the motto, 'Sanctimonia Vincet Semper', which my smattering of rudimentary Latin translated to something like,"the righteous always win."
The document was written duplicately, side by side, with the terms of service I was to be offered and a place for my signature below each part. Mrs Marsh had already undersigned both pieces, next to which was written, "On behalf of Lord Malfoy, Malfoy Manor, Tredraconis."
The terms were, to my mind, quite reasonable—generous, even; considering my inexperience and blood status. Fifteen sickles per quarter annum, food and board included, with one day off each week. Duties to include the care of a child or children, including preparatory-level schooling and disciplining where required. Some light housework, such as mending torn clothes and fixing broken items.
I was to undergo a trial period of six weeks, and if all was to be found satisfactory to both parties, the contract would becoming mutually binding for the remaining year's duration.
My pulse flurried within me as I took up my quill and neatly signed my name twice, beneath each identical document, observing how careful and restrained my signature looked beside the dashing confident marks made by Mrs Marsh.
No sooner had the ink dried than immediately a zig-zagging line appeared down the middle, and the vellum split and detached, one half refurling, and slipping back into the noose of velvet ribbon, which the owl silently swooped down from its perch on the windowsill to bear away.
The remaining half of the document was, I supposed, mine to keep.
I gazed at it for some time, unable to quite shake the notion that I must be in some kind of dream from which I would surely awake any moment. Only the chiming of the mantle clock brought me out of my dazed state, reminding me that I still had much to do before this dream could become reality.
Folding the paper carefully up, I put it in my pocket book for safe keeping, and set to work on making my new clothes.
It took me just two days to complete four dresses and a robe. Never before had my wand flown with such dexterity and efficiency, nor my tongue incanted the complicated threading and stitching spells with such enthusiasm, and even enjoyment.
Knowing that my future no longer depended on a life-sentence of laborious seamstressing, I felt something of a thrill as I put together the garments that were to represent my escape from that fate.
I made up the poplin dresses to a plain pattern with wide pagoda sleeves that could be rolled up to suit the more physical demands of the nursery room. Bearing in mind Mrs Marsh's comment that "the Master likes his staff smartly dressed," I added some black piping and trim, and a black lace collar to each, which I could change to white once a suitable period of mourning had passed.
The dark-grey bombazine, which was to be my Sunday dress, I created to a more fitted and embellished design, with ruffle details around the cuffs and high neckline, and vertical ruching on the bodice.
The most difficult garment was the black silk evening gown—not because I couldn't make finery, but because I simply couldn't imagine myself in anything fine. I wasted several hours searching through my Aunt's huge catalogue of patterns to find something suitably "elegant", that would not make me feel as if were borrowing a costume to play a round of the drawing-room game Charades.
Eventually I decided upon a prettily-shaped dress with a wide neckline, a dropped, pointed waist, and a tiered bell skirt. An addition of a Bertha-collar of black lace (which took four painstaking hours to create) provided a demure cover for the low neckline, whilst giving the illusion of my having a little more feminine shapeliness to my sparely-padded frame.
Inspecting the finished effect in the mirror of my Aunt's bedroom, I was pleasantly surprised. I did not look quite like...me. The girl in the reflection was no prettier, taller or more substantial, but neither was she the shabby, mousy little creature that haunted the upstairs attic. My eyes seemed somehow changed, more expressive and luminous, and there was something different in my overall bearing and deportment...I realised that it had only partly to do with the dress, and as much to do with the newfound sense of hope and excitement that had lit like a lamp inside me, for the unknown future stretching out before me in a direction I had never dared imagine possible...
But my initial elation dimmed as I wondered if I really would have to attend a "formal situation" such as Mrs Marsh had hinted at, and, with a shiver of sudden anxiety, I found myself fervently hoping not. The idea of appearing in such grand society was, frankly, frightening. What had I to do with fashionable people and elegant soirees? I had never so much as attended a morning tea, and my knowledge of the etiquette of polite society was purely theoretical.
A little subdued, I took off the silk and donned instead one of the plain poplins. Immediately I felt much less elegant, but much more myself.
…
Closely situated to the muggle town of Bodmin, and just south of the famous moors of the same name, Turningstone was one of the larger magical enclaves of the south-western provinces. It prided itself, above all things, on its respectability and propriety, and seemed utterly bent upon shaking off the taint of barbarity that it had inherited by belonging to the untamed wilds of Cornwall.
But for all its thorough respectability, Turningstone was still but a small village, with only two Common Floos, one in the hotel at the far end of town, the other situated inside the public tearooms—and it was to this latter one that I headed on a fine, crisp spring morning, my reticule clutched in one hand, and a small trunk levitating at my heels.
Shared between these two containers were the sum of all my worldly possessions.
My trunk contained very little: only my clothes and a few worn books whose pages I knew by rote, but to which I attached a certain sentimentality in their having been gifts from my Aunt—albeit such practical, no-nonsensical gifts as, "Every Witch's Guide To Household Œconomy", "The Girls' Complete Book Of Sewing Spells" and, "Wellness Charms & Healing Potions For The Home."
My reticule contained my purse, pocketbook, and a small, charm-extended box containing a dozen small vials of common potions and tinctures. Also carefully stowed inside was the most costly of all my belongings: a velvet sewing-kit stocked with an array of Ever-Sharp needles and pins, several reels of Endless-Thread in assorted colours and a self-actuating measuring tape—the whole set being a present for my eighteenth birthday, and the last I was ever to receive from my Aunt.
All else in the house now belonged to her cousin, and as such, to take anything away would be to be considered stealing—a crime punishable with a life sentence in prison, or even the dreaded "Dementor's kiss" that my Aunt had occasionally terrified me into obedience with as a young child.
Only slightly less terrifying was the wall of disapproving stares which met me as I pushed open the tearoom's glass-panelled doors and stepped into its warm, gaily-painted interior. The hum of lively conversation immediately dropped to a low buzz of speculative murmuring, and I knew that the haberdasher's wife had done her duty to the gossips of the town.
I could count the number of times I had used the Floo on one hand, always in the company of my Aunt, so it was with no small pang of trepidation that I now made my way towards the counter.
As I threaded through the tables, I caught the general gist of the whispering, and my imagination easily supplied the rest. ..."That's her! Poor old Agna's charity-case muggleborn!" "Going to be a governess for the Malfoys—so she says." "Just what kind of governess needs a fine silk dress, I'd like to ask?" "Only fancy, such a creature entering a respectable establishment, quite unaccompanied, brazen as you please!"...
Straightening my back, I fixed my eyes straight before me, and did my best to ignore them, though my cheeks burned. Upon reaching the counter, I expected someone to appear and serve me, but after a minute of waiting I picked up the small hand-bell and rang for service.
At length the maître d' appeared. He had always been exceedingly polite to my Aunt, but took no such pains with me. "What do you want?" he snapped, peering at me through his monocle.
Three days ago I would have been daunted by such incivility, but today, standing in my new robes and about to embark on a new life, the same feeling of rebellious resentment that I had experienced at the haberdasher's flooded through me once again. Aware that I was being listened in on, I spoke up boldly to the benefit of them all. "I should like to take the Floo to Tredraconis. One way only, thank you—I shan't return."
"It'll be ten knuts," the man replied, "Five for you, five for your baggage."
I produced the required amount from my coin-purse and placed it on the counter.
With a dismissive grunt, the maître d' scooped out a small measure of Floo powder from a glass bowl, and poured it into my cupped hand. "You want Tredraconis Inn," he told me. "It's the only one in the town, and I might add that it's not fit for respectable folk."
I nodded curtly at him, refusing to be daunted by more aspersions. Stepping up to the hearth, I drew my luggage in beside me and for some moments I stood still, the Floo powder balled in my fist, unable to move or speak, the enormity of the step I was about to take literally paralyzing me. ...But then my eyes swept over the room, taking in the tables full of rudely staring, smirking and scowling witches, and I thought, There is nothing here for me, anymore...
I threw down the powder. "Tredraconis Inn!" I cried.
…
The room into which I emerged could not have been more of a contrast to the one I left.
Gone were the gleaming tables, well-dressed patrons and airy bright windows of the tearooms. Indeed, the room was so dark and dingy that it took me several moments before I could make out anything at all. The first thing I noticed was the smell of the place—a strong, unpleasant mix of stale liquor, rising damp and burning tallow.
As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I saw that I was in a tavern, and a more grimy and disreputable-looking establishment I could not recall ever having set foot in. With a sinking sensation in my stomach I beheld the clusters of rough-looking men sitting around rickety tables, drinking from great earthenware beer-flagons or nursing chipped glasses filled with oily, clear liquid. The atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke which caught in my throat and stung my eyes.
The bar, a great slab of blotched and stained oak, appeared to be unattended. Nervously, I stepped out of the hearth, searching for a friendly face—or at least a female one—whom I might apply to for assistance.
Failing to discover anyone answering to either description, I made a hesitant, general application to the room. "Is...is this Tredraconis?"
No-one replied—nor even appeared to notice me.
Gripping my wand tightly, I took a second step into the room. "Where may I find the inn's publican, please?"
Perhaps this isn't Tredraconis, I thought, with a thrill of dread. Perhaps I pronounced it wrongly—
"Well, well," a voice growled in my ear, and I jumped with a squeak of alarm, whirling to face the looming figure I had not seen approach from the shadows. "Looks like a little stray bird flew down the chim-ber-ley."
A burly wizard loomed large and close, a roguish smile on his dark-stubbled face. His appearance did little to inspire my confidence—rather, he seemed to fit exactly the description of what my Aunt would have called a "knave." His long hair was straggly and matted, his face bore the marks of a recent altercation, and his clothes were unkempt and strangely mismatched, as if collated from a variety of unrelated sources.
His accent sounded odd to my ears, not exactly foreign, but certainly not any Cornish dialect I had ever heard.
Never having been in such close proximity to any wizard before—let alone such a nefarious-looking one—I found myself instinctively recoiling and backing away. Almost immediately, I tripped over a pair of heavy boots, belonging to a second man who had silently moved in behind me, and now caught me as I fell.
"Oho, I think she likes me," said this man, and I was shocked to feel his hands making free with my bodice as he ostensibly righted me to my feet. As I shrugged myself out of his grip, he suddenly drew me tightly back against him, his arms wrapping about my waist like iron brands.
Crying out in protest, I tried to bring up my wand, but my arm was trapped by my side. "Let go of me!—How dare you!—Help me!" I desperately petitioned the other patrons in the room, but was rewarded only by a round of guffaws.
"Calm ya' cauldron, sweeting," said the black-haired wizard, a taunting gleam in his eyes, "we're only being friendly-like." He began closing in on me, until I was trapped in between the two of them. "We don't get too many lady-visitors down this way."
"I can see why!" I spat angrily, struggling wildly to free myself, clawing at the thick arms encircling my waist. "Unhand me this instant, you—you scoundrels!" This epithet earned another snigger from the onlookers, apparently used to seeing this style of treatment of strangers in their midst.
"Aw, that's not a very civil way to speak to gentlemen such as ourselves," the man holding me snarled in my ear, lewdly pressing himself against me. "We only want to get a little better...acquainted." So saying, one of his hands suddenly gripped my chin, forcing my face upwards and holding it still, while the black-haired wizard bent over me and, cutting off my shriek of terror, roughly planted his mouth on mine and thrust his tongue between my lips.
"Alright, that's enough, boys," said a new voice from somewhere nearby. "Let the lass go or you'll feel the sharp end of my stinging hex."
Finding myself abruptly released, I stumbled away from the two wizards, tears of fright and rage spilling down my cheeks as I rubbed my lips with the sleeve of my robe, trying to rid the bitter taste from my mouth.
Belatedly I brought my wand up, although it could afford me but little protection, for I knew no defensive spells but 'Expelliarmus', and not a single jinx or hex. I inwardly vowed that the first item I would purchase with my quarterly wages was a book of duelling spells.
"Curse 'ee for a damn'd killjoy, Fletcha'," the black-haired wizard swore at the intervening party, who I took to be the publican of the inn. "We was only having a little sport wif the wench."
"I told you before not to start trouble in here, Scabior," the publican growled. He was an older, bandy-legged wizard, with an ill-favoured face and sly, darting eyes. "The last thing I need is complaints bringing the law sniffing around this-aways."
"She weren't complaining," said the second wizard, a great, thuggish, fair-haired man—even bigger than his black-haired cohort—less-eccentrically dressed, but equally as shabby and dirty. "At least, not very hard."
"Enough of your guff, Rowle," hissed the publican warningly. Then, wand still wielded at them, he said in a louder voice, "Ask the young lady's pardon, lads."
The men exchanged glances, then the one called Scabior turned to me with a facetious smirk. "Begging your pardon, miss," he said in a tone of exaggerated apology. "I must've been 'overwhelmed by your charms', as they say."
I flushed deeply, the sting of his sarcasm adding insult to the injury already inflicted.
"You too, Rowle."
The blond wizard's eyes trailed insolently over my rumpled bodice. "If you'll only grant me your pardon, miss, I swear next time I'll treat you like a proper lady." He finished with a leering grin.
The publican turned to me. "I hope you don't take it too amiss, young lady," he said, in a wheedling tone that made my skin crawl. "The lads can be a little...uncouth when deep in cups, if you take my meaning. You won't be complaining about this to the authorities, will you now, miss?"
There was a profound silence, and a dangerous, taut tension seemed to fill the room, as if every ear was bent upon my reply. Instinctively I knew my safety—perhaps my life—depended on submitting the correct answer.
"No," I said, my voice audibly shaking, "I won't complain."
Instantly the tension relented, and the men began to drink and talk again. The publican smiled ingratiatingly at me. "Thank you, miss," he said. "We should like to avoid unpleasant consequences at all cost." He said it in such a way as to leave me no doubt that it would be I, not them, who suffered the consequences.
He addressed my attackers again. "Right, you two scumbags sit down and keep your traps shut, or I'll be having words with the governor about you."
The two wizards sauntered over to the bar, the black-haired one executing a mocking bow as he passed by me, the fair-haired man sneering loathsomely.
The publican turned back to me. "Now, what brings you down to Tredraconis, lass?" he asked, his sly eyes darting over me with a kind of calculating interest.
"I wish to get to Malfoy Manor without Apparation," I told him, my voice still unsteady. "Is it within walking distance?"
"It's a fair ways, miss," replied the man. "If you can fly we've got brooms for hire, but I'm afraid we don't have Ladies Brooms or side-saddles."
"No," I replied. "I cannot fly; I suppose I must walk. Can you tell me the way?"
"It would take three hours on foot, miss. But if you care to tarry for an hour here, the porter from the Manor will be stopping by to pick up some...ah, goods. You can arrange to travel back with him." Seeing my dubious glance at the two men at the bar, he added in a lower voice, "The porter is a respectable wizard, miss, you needn't be afraid of him. His sister is governess at the Manor."
I made a small cry of surprise. "But I am the governess!" I said. "At least, that is the post which I am going there to assume."
The publican's eyes narrowed with interest. "Is that so, miss? Aye, well, news travels slow down to these parts. I dare say Miss Weasley left to be married; good-looking, high-spirited wench like her wouldn't stay a maid for long... Even M'lord had eyes for her, though she were too sharp to be caught in his trap."
I experienced a strange pang in my breast. The governess before me, a famous beauty, a clever witch, admired by the gentry! She would not have been so contemptuously manhandled by ruffians, within seconds of arriving...she would never have been put in such precarious situation as I—utterly friendless and hopelessly ignorant as I was.
Once again, my deficiencies rose before me with painful clarity, magnified by the comparison my imagination wrought between myself and my predecessor...this beautiful 'Miss Weasley'.
"Well, lass?" My morose thoughts were interrupted by the publican's voice. "Will you take some refreshments while you wait? It will be on the house for the—ah—inconvenience you suffered."
"No thank—"
"I must insist, miss."
I sensed it would not be wise to continue to refuse. "Just...just a coffee, please," I said faintly.
"I'll bring it over to you. Sit down by the fire," he gestured to a smaller hearth, in which a paltry pile of twigs smoked rather than burned, "—and don't worry about these mangy dogs, they'll not bother you again if they reckon their hands worth keeping." He spoke loud enough for all to hear.
Compliantly I sat down in the indicated seat, using my wand to Accio my trunk to my side.
Moments later the publican brought me a tarnished tray bearing a battered coffee-pot, a jug of watery milk and a none-too-clean cup. "There we are, m'dear," he murmured. His eyes once again flitted over me calculatingly. "If I may make so bold, miss, what is your name?"
"Miss Granger," I replied as quietly as I could, not wishing to make it public knowledge among these villains.
The man bowed. "Mr Fletcher at your service," he said. "Well, Miss Granger, if you care for more coffee, you have only to call for it."
I nodded my thanks, and made a display of pouring out the coffee and milk, though my fingers trembled dreadfully. The coffee was terribly bitter, and a hard lump in my throat made it even more difficult to swallow.
My exciting dream of coming to Tredraconis had already become something of a nightmare, and I had not even been here one quarter of an hour. I recalled the tearoom-maître d's warning that the place was, "not fit for respectable folk". It seemed he had not exaggerated, after all.
I only hoped that Malfoy Manor—if indeed I ever made it there—would not contain any more such unwelcome surprises.