"No dearie, not that one: remember to check the colour of the stem to make sure you're looking at cow parsley. I've known of quite a few folks picking up hemlock instead, not checking for the purple hallmark of poison." Mrs Sprout held back Hermione's hand with her walking stick.
"Have you ever heard of hemlock being brewed into medicine?" Hermione asked her, standing back up to continue their foraging.
"Aye, although never successfully. It is true that the last stage before death slows down the heart, but it is so potent it has been impossible to make it safe. Best to use valerian for minor palpitations or angelica roots even." Mrs Sprout added conversationally.
The women continued thusly, foraging through the local woodland. Their conversation served both purposes of strengthening the bonds of friendship, and of passing down knowledge to the next generation of healers.
Mrs Pomona Sprout was immensely proud of the young woman Hermione had grown into. She considered her to have the potential to be a vastly superior healer, for she was learning both the ways of Pomona's ancestral wisdom but also supplementing her natural gift with any books touching upon medicine she could lay her hands upon.
"Lord Neville has grown into a fine gentleman, has he not? He seems to hold you in the highest regard." Mrs Sprout attempted to casually inquire after a while.
"Please Pomona, I know very well what you're implying. Lord Neville is a dear friend, nothing more." Hermione replied quickly.
"Maybe he's a good friend to you, but it is quite obvious you're more to him. He would be easily secured if you only just showed him the smallest encouragement."
"I am quite certain I could not make him happy." Hermione paused in her task of collecting wild plants, sighing defeatingly. "Could I be so mercenary as to secure my position in life, exchanging the man's happiness for my material comforts? I like him too much as a childhood friend to torment him this way. No, his moving to London this November will do him good. And who knows, he may find a suitable bride during the Season after all?"
"How about one of the Weasley lads?" Mrs Sprout wasn't easily deterred. "Young William is certainly very handsome. And I know I would have been very partial to Master Charles in my youth."
"Did you hear William is courting a young lady from Wilton? She is the daughter of French noble folks who fled the country during the Revolution. She would be quite the match if she were to accept his suit!" Hermione gushed.
"As for Charlie … yes, one would be hard pressed to find him any faults." Hermione could at least admit to the older woman. "But Pomona, can you imagine Mrs Weasley as a mother-in-law? No, this couldn't be done. It is possible for a woman to be settled too near her husband's family."
Mrs Sprout's laughter roared across the meadow. "Dear girl, we shouldn't laugh about our neighbours, for they may laugh at us in return. But I will not deny the truth in your words." Her mirth slowly settled in a final chuckle. "I shall ask no more then, only that you tell me about the young Master you helped in the woods. Did he give you his name? Was he handsome? Was he agreeable?"
These were worthy questions, but Hermione was at a loss as to how to answer them. Recalling that young man in the woods still left her with an assortment of conflicting feelings she had yet to untangle. Of course he had been abhorrent in his behaviour and even conceited at times. But Hermione could not forget his warm hand on her knee, the phantom feeling of which often came to hound her in her dreams. No one had ever before touched her so, and her skin was loathed to forget the sensation as it raised shivers up her leg, to a place that longed for something impossible to put to words when she woke up from her fevered nights, panting and aching.
He was so different from the other men of her acquaintance. Most of her circle consisted of aging gentlemen or young strapping lads such as the Weasley brothers. They were hardy and strong, used to exert their physical strength in their daily lives. But that young Master was honed like a duelling sabre. She had felt his form as she manipulated his shoulder back in place. She had been able to feel that while leaner than most, his athletic figure was taut and powerful. His easy jump onto his saddle while incapacitated was testament enough of his agility and confidence.
Above all, his eyes were impossible to forget. Hermione had never seen silvery orbs like his. They had been striking at first, sharp and sparkling in the sunlight as she approached him, their grey hue pained as he struggled against his injury. As he touched her, they had darkened like a summer storm moving in from the sea, changing to swirling mercury, mesmerising and heady. They featured most prominently in her nightly recallings.
But red hot anger still tinted these memories, the wound of her mortification to have been mistaken for a fallen woman still raw. Running through the countryside like a wild thing, unchaperoned, at the detriment of her attire, had been a grave mistake indeed. Once safely at home, changing from her ruined dress, it had been humbling to acknowledge the consequences of her unchecked behaviour.
Lady Minerva, and to some extent dearest Pomona also, were constantly attempting to instil the proper behaviour of gentility in her. Lady Minerva worried about her charge, knowing very well that Hermione should marry, and marry well, to secure her future. One couldn't deny that the girl's unknown forbearers were impediment indeed, for she had no connections nor money to recommend herself.
That encounter in the woods, and the mistaken nature of Hermione's virtue, had spurred her to make more of an effort into her refinements and accomplishments. She had redoubled her dedication to her singing and music, for she had a keen ear for it. Hermione was a natural soprano, her range and technical ability so great she was often called upon during their social evenings to sing challenging pieces from popular operas. Her music tutor had long ago even forfeited payment in exchange for the sheer delight of hearing her sing.
She also had a natural predisposition for the Latin languages, most particularly French. Together with Lady Minerva, who was fluent as well, they often had what they called 'Journée Française' and spent the entirety of their day speaking the language exclusively, to the delight of Mrs Sprout, who enjoyed the cadence of the foreign sounds even though she did not understand it one bit.
Lost in her thoughts brought about by the nameless rider, she whispered to herself. "Les paroles les plus obscures d'un homme qui plaît donnent plus d'agitation que des déclarations ouvertes d'un homme qui ne plaît pas*."
"What is that, Love? Is that an affirmative? Your blush tells me that he must have been handsome indeed." Mrs Sprout gently teased the young woman.
"Yes indeed, I cannot begrudge him his good looks, although they are tainted by his hubris I am afraid. I do not know of his name, never having asked to be introduced, nor do I care to know more of him."
Mrs Sprout knew her well enough to recognise the end of the conversation for what it was. "Come now Child, we have done good work foraging. Let's head back home and hang these to dry."
October had passed surprisingly swiftly for Draco, incapacitated as he was by his healing shoulder. He had been diverted by several of his friends visiting him at the Manor, Theodore Nott chief amongst them, staying several days at a time each visit. He had also become reacquainted with the Malfoy Library, spending many afternoons reading through his father's recent acquisitions.
He took delight in going through the fourth edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica, sporting no less than twenty volumes. A poetry folio by one fellow, oddly named George Crabbe, also grabbed his attention. But above all, he had spent countless hours reading and re-reading Walter Scott's The Lady of the Lake. He was lost in the wild beauty of the Scottish highlands, mysterious lakes and enchanted forests, a kinship with the region echoing in him.
But tonight saw him far away from his favourite leather armchair in the comfort of the Library. Tonight he was in a sour mood, riding his horse next to his parents' carriage, on their way to celebrate Samhain at the Longbottom's estate.
They made good times, and arrived as the sun dipped behind a ridge bordering the grounds. The pyre, which would be lit up later this evening, was being built up by local folks. He could hear the men's banter, served ale in pitchers by common womenfolks walking around them. He envied their easy enjoyment of the celebrations, reminding him of his many nightly revels he himself partook in during his Tour. No such prospect for tonight, he reflected grimly.
Draco didn't know Lady Augusta well, but the Longbottoms were second wealthiest in Wiltshire after the Malfoys, the two families feeling therefore a sense of obligation to keep cordial, if distant, contact. He knew enough of Lord Neville to dread the evening however. They had attended Eton at the same time, although never in the same circles. Draco couldn't help a snigger escape him as he recalled the shy, blundering twerp Lord Neville had been then, the boy showing a comical lack of coordination in their equestrian and fencing practices.
At Lavington Hall, the Malfoys were shown in an elegant reception room, brightly lit by a vast number of candles in the beautiful brass chandelier.
"Lord Malfoy, Lady Narcissa and Master Malfoy, your Ladyship." Announced the butler.
"My Lord, Lady Narcissa, it is with great pleasure that I welcome you tonight to Lavington Hall." Lady Augusta greeted them. "Master Malfoy, welcome back to England, my boy."
Both Malfoy men nodded to Lady Augusta in a stiff, yet still only just acceptable, manner and left the burden of conversation to their wife and mother, Lady Narcissa having long been the most obliging of the three.
"Lady Augusta, it has been too long indeed. I can see you are well." Lady Narcissa gracefully approached the ladies present in the room.
"Are you already acquainted with Lady Minerva, daughter of Laird Fincastle?" Lady Augusta introduced her companion to Lady Narcissa.
Draco had to apply much duress to himself to contain a sigh as the exchange of civilities thus proceeded for a while. He shared a look with his father, who appeared equally listless, as he accepted a glass from a footman, before turning back to the window to continue his perusal of the pyre.
More guests were introduced, most noticeably the Archdeacon of Wilts, the Venerable William Abbott with his wife Mrs Abbott and daughter, Miss Hannah, a shy young woman who couldn't even raise her eyes to meet Draco's in her bashfulness.
They were followed by two Militia officers, no make that one officer and a soldier. The Captain was introduced as some Henry Potter, and the soldier as Ronald Weasley. Dread, which he covered up by an unsightly sneer, filled Draco at meeting another Weasley. Indeed he sported the exact same hair as Charles, although he was taller and much younger. He was wearing a new, albeit ill fitting uniform, evident proof that he had to borrow it for the evening. Instant dislike filled the young Malfoy, fanned by the recollection of his past escort's burning reproach.
The officer appeared fine enough though. Captain Potter of Somerset, he seemed like a fellow he could shake hands with if given the proper opportunity to lose his embarrassing red-headed companion.
Lady Augusta's voice brought Draco back to the present. "Master Malfoy, would you be so kind as to seek my grandson and his guest in the Library? You know Lavington Hall well enough to find them promptly."
Draco nodded his assent, hiding his temper as best he could, resentful at being summoned like a footman by the aging harpy. Although he reasoned that any time away from the assembled group would be well spent after all.
He found his way to the Library quickly enough, the door of which had been modestly left open. He spotted Neville first, but required a double take to be sure. The boy had matured into a man since Eton. He was broad-shouldered and carried himself with an elegance that had been missing before, his baritone voice filling the room in a ushered monologue.
Neville's form was eclipsing his female companion from Draco's view. He quickly assumed her to be yet another insipid young Lady in attendance to this dreadful evening. Feeling the need to inflict pain to others equivalent to his own boredom, Draco drawled condescendingly.
"There you are, Longbottom. Only you would cower in the Library at your own dinner party."
Lord Neville turned around quickly at the intrusion, moving only just enough to render Draco the victim of two blazing eyes, burning with the fire of Boudica's flames.
* Author's Note: Hermione is showing off her French a bit here, but is rightfully quoting La Princesse de Clèves, written by Madame de La Fayette, which could be roughly translated to "Confusing words spoken by an attractive man cause more agitation than candid declarations coming from an unattractive man." or more colloquially "Hot guys can do no wrong." ?
Credit to 4giveMeJane and their beautiful Pride & Prejudice fic named A Rush of Blackbirds to have invented 'French Hour' whose influence upon my own 'French Day' cannot be denied.
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Draco will be meditating on the very great pain which a pair of fiery eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.