An Improbable Harry Potter Fan Fiction
Songs...
Hermione heard the tune, felt it. In her half-awake state the flute seemed to be a flash of moving, airy color, sparkling sky blue; the guitar an ebbing tawny flow of amber. She moaned and buried her face farther into the pillow, wanting to get up and be awake desperately. Unfortunately, her body and mind, ragged from last night's mad flight, wanted otherwise.
Summoning the energy to roll over, she located where the music was coming from. The window showed a beautiful landscape looking out over an apple-and-pear orchard (yes, she remembered barely... a mass apparition to this place, someone helped her up when she stumbled wearily over the roots of the largest tree). A large group of women and children climbed and picked the ripe apples and pears, and two sat by the full baskets playing the flute and guitar. Hermione closed her eyes and let the happy morning melody override any fear she had. These people could not be cruel.
Motivated by the sun that had just crested over the horizon, she reluctantly removed herself from bed, shoving off the layers of covers. A simple cream dress, loose and free, with a brown lace-up bodice had been laid out for her to wear. As she got them on, Hermione tried to piece together what had happened last night. She remembered the frantic ride, clinging to Voldemort's cape... and just barely the controlled group apparition. How someone had always guided her silently as they moved through the forest, and then how the silence had abruptly been broken after they apparated. All she could remember was being shown her room, and then... Hermione sighed. She deserved the rest, after all. Streightening her bodice and sleeves, she quietly made her way downstairs.
The cool wood, smoothed and shined, felt nice against her bare feet. The perfect weather of the "Indian summer" was wonderful. Hermione felt as if she would never, never fear again if she stayed at this place.
Ravenbrook, she said to herself. That's what they said this place was. A beautiful name, a beautiful mansion and grounds. Guided by the drifting smell of food, she quietly slinked into the kitchens.
A roar of a friendly kitchenmarm's voice greeted her. "Thar's the brave lassie!" Cheers went up amongst the women and girls working in the kitchen, and the kitchenmarm hurried over to introduce herself. "M' name's Annie Sigr, but e'ryone 'ereabouts calls me Marm Annie. Ye look like ye have a fair mind and hand, I could use ye in the kitchen!"
Hermione felt herself blush slightly. "But I can't cook at all..."
"Ach, no matter!" Marm Annie beamed at her. "I'm sure that ye can chop walnuts wi'out choppin' yer hands off!" Hermione smiled at the gentle teasing. Marm Annie dropped her voice lower to a whisper and spoke while looking at the open door. "There be someone a-waitin' for ye, lassie. Best be off with you for the moment, I'll call ye when I need ye."
Nodding and thankful to be outdoors, Hermione galloped out of the room, not for any perticular reason other than to show that she could. The lush grass and fresh air made her feel even better and banished the last fear left from last night. Looking around, she was puzzled. No one was there, she thought, until she spotted a figure in the shadows.
"Cho," she breathed quietly.
The other smiled, black hair floating about her face. "Hermione. I didn't expect to see you here."
"Me neither," she commented stutteringly. The shock of seeing a Hogwarts student from her same year hadn't completely faded.
Cho smiled at her clumsy speech. "Come," she said, turning quietly to the path. "I want to show you something."
Hermione followed her up the small flagstone path that led to a bluff up ahead. On the crest of the large hill, the grounds and gardens of Ravenbrook Manor could be seen for miles. She gasped as she looked upon the sparkling waters of the lake, the trimmed and blooming flowerbeds, the hedge maze, the isle in the lake... It was autumn, and every tree was aglow, alight with color. Wildflowers covered the hill, and Hermione smelled the perfume of lateblooming roses on the air.
Cho smiled. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
"Yes," Hermione said, breathless. "Yes, yes, it is..."
The silence spanned several minutes as Hermione seemed to drink of the beauty. Miles of beauty...
Cho broke the silence. "This is his estate, you know."
No, no, no, Hermione did not want to think of him. No Voldemort...
"He built it and planted it himself - down to every last tree in the orchard," Cho continued. "And to every last iris in the flowerbed."
Hurriedly, Hermione tried to think of anything else. Voldemort created such beauty? Impossible, wasn't he the man who had taken so many lives?
So... many... indeed.
Cho read her thoughts. She motioned quietly to the rose gardens. "One rosebush," she whispered, "For each he killed."
Hermione looked to where she motioned. The pure white roses were in full, fragrant bloom, fragile reminders of the past, against deeply rich green foliage... covered with thorns. She shivered. The past exactly.
Hermione felt Cho's hand rest on her shoulder in an comforting move. "It's best to just think of him as another person." With that she was gone.
Tears of anger and pain brimming in her eyes, Hermione's breath quickened. No. She would never trust him. Accept his help for now, but he couldn't have possibly changed so much. No. Her heart would harden to him... even if it killed her. With a coldly measured pace, she walked back to the friendly chatter of the kitchens.
She, of course, didn't see the small figure on the island that
knew enough to figure out what would happen. And she never heard
his dispairing sigh.