The Grist of Her Mill

By SilentG

Chapter 3

While it was interesting to speculate about The Mystery of the Magically Disappearing Predictable Potions Professor (Hellllloooo Wilma, where's Scooby?), what really captivated Hermione's attention at the moment she left the Dungeons was the book in her hand.

Now that she had it, she saw no reason not to read it. It looked like a quickie, she could probably finish it in an afternoon, and surely Lavender wouldn't mind if...

If Hermione was mysteriously unavailable for the next few hours, and didn't return the book to Lavender (whom she'd been tirelessly searching for, of course) until the evening meal.

Unfortunately, she had the Potions practice essays to copy and hand out, and Ron and Harry hadn't handed theirs in yet (surprise surprise). Owing to Harry's generosity, it would be a bigger job than she'd intended, with copies of all twenty essays (two from each of the ten study-group members) going to the entire Upper Sixth.

Heading to the Great Hall in search of the boys, Hermione plotted. She could probably finish the story in a few hours, so if she was willing to skip dinner, she could read it in Susan's office…

Yes, this was why it was so convenient to have the password to the private study of the Head Girl, Susan Bones. An open invitation since the beginning of the year, from one bookworm to another, an invitation seldom taken up on simply because both of them were almost always in the Library. Perfect. She'd see Susan when she handed out the essays, so she could ask her then if it was all right. Having made up her mind, she advanced on the Dining Hall with a quickened step.

-*~~*~~*-

Arriving at the Gryffindor table at a little after 11:00, she found only Colin and Seamus, but she didn't have long to wait. She had barely gotten herself settled and opened her mouth to ask the two boys if they'd seen either of her two best friends, when Harry appeared through the entrance doors.

"Hello, lads, Hermione," he said in his irritatingly affected hail-fellow-well-met Quidditch Star voice, as he plunked himself down beside her. "I come bearing epistles of arcane knowledge. Wanna see?"

"Yes thanks, Harry, I'll just have a quick look through them, if you don't mind." Harry handed the wad to his friend, who spread the pages carefully in front of her. The table was silent, all eyes on her, as myriad tiny changes in her facial expression captured the attention of the three boys. Colin frowned as she pursed her lips, smiled when she grunted in what sounded like appreciation, and visibly relaxed when she rolled the parchment neatly and turned to Harry with an only faintly superior air. "Those are quite good. You two should be proud of yourselves. I don't think you'll do half-bad after all." She looked around at the others. "Let that be a lesson to you gentlemen."

Harry grinned in appreciation and took out some books of his own. "Say, Hermione, can I have a boo at the other essays you got back? Only if you've had a chance to look at them, of course. D'you mind?" Harry twiddled his quill between his thumb and two fingers, a look of keen interest on his face.

"Gosh, Harry, aren't you a bullet! Who are you, and what have you done with The Boy Who Lived?" Seamus laughed at the Muggle joke, but Colin just glared disapprovingly at Hermione, his expression daring her to utter another disparaging word. "Of course, I've done proofing almost all of them. Don't keep them too long, mind, I have to get them all duped and out by six o'clock."

"You bet. Hey, would you like help with the dittoing? I'm not as good as you, but I might be able to help … after all, you've been so much help to me." Harry was so excited that he dropped the wad of parchments Hermione had handed him, and had to take a few minutes to fetch them off the floor.

"Well… if you don't mind, I'd love the company, at least. There is an awful lot to do…" She looked with dismay at the huge pile of parchments, which appeared even larger due to its disorder. "Oh, OK, let's do it. Meet me in the Transfiguration classroom at 12:30. You're free then, aren't you?" Harry's nod sealed their bargain, and Hermione happily returned to her work, sorting and smoothing the essay parchments.

Harry gathered his things with exaggerated deliberation, and said "Gosh, look at the time. If I'm going to help you later, Hermione, I'd better go talk to Ron now, about, er, Divination. See ya!"

-*~~*~~*-

Through the next hour, Lavender's book burned a hole in Hermione's book bag, and she prayed that the other girl wouldn't find her and demand it back.

At the appointed time, she met Harry in Professor McGonagall's classroom, and Hermione was more than glad to note that he'd come loaded down with food from the Great Hall. "Right. Shall we begin?" he said eagerly as they snacked on the sandwiches, pickles, sausage rolls, cream puffs and pumpkin juice he'd spread out on one of the desks.

"OK, how good are you at the duplicating spell we'll be using? I've brought a heap of extra parchment, so we'll only be replicating the text, not what it's written on." Hermione laid each of the essays out on the worktable next to McGonagall's desk, with a stack of parchments in front of each. She turned and regarded Harry appraisingly, arms crossed.

"Well, why don't I show you? Replicatio!" he said authoritatively, and an exact replica of Padma's essay on the history of Veritaserum appeared on the topmost parchment.

After carefully examining the document, Hermione nodded appreciatively at her best friend. "That's some pretty nifty wand work you've got going there, Harry. Have you been practicing?"

Harry allowed himself a self-deprecating smile. "Oh always, Hermione, always!" He said with a bow. "I wanted it to be perfect for you, so Ron and I did a little bit of work on some other parchments earlier today. You like?"

"Oh, very much. Shall we?"

With Harry's admittedly expert help, the duo were done the duplicating in a little over half an hour. It was excellent practice, Hermione said, for magical stamina and consistency. Harry nodded distractedly, obviously tired by their exertions.

At ten after three, they departed the classroom, and Harry offered to walk Hermione wherever she was going. "To the Owlery, to arrange for the essays to be delivered. It'll probably take me 'til dinner to address them all."

"Can I help you with that? Perhaps you can address the packages, and I can attach them to the owls. They can deliver them to the Great Hall at dinner," Harry said as they made their way down the corridor.

"Gosh, Harry, that would be super. You don't mind?"

"Mind, no! After all, it wouldn't be a quarter as much work if you hadn't agreed to my suggestion of sending it to everyone. I'd be pleased to help!"

Hermione worked very quickly at her job of addressing – it was summoning the owls and attaching the packages that took time. Harry had to rush to keep up, and so he didn't notice the extra-neat copy, tied with green twine, whose recipient was not a student, but a teacher…

-*~~*~~*-

Hermione made her way to Susan's little office, at the end of the corridor by the Charms classroom, murmured the password, and went in. The room was sparsely furnished, but both comfortable and serviceable. Hermione settled herself in an easy chair by the small window, curled up and began to read.

Her trip to the Spanish Coast was more than she'd imagined, and not at all like she had hoped.

'Funny,' thought Callisto Farmer as she hurried along the boardwalk to keep up with her energetic, if elderly companion, 'I thought that coming to the Costa Del Sol would be a dream come true, but it turned out that it was my idea of the trip that was the dream.'

This day certainly seemed dreamlike, what with the salty air lifting her hair and skirt in flirtatious flourishes, and the hot sun turning her delicate, creamy skin a light golden colour. There was certainly enough of it – thanks to her new friend, who had talked her into going shopping, and insisted on making a present of the aqua blue linen sleeveless sheath dress she was wearing; a purchase that she wouldn't have dreamt of buying on her own, and that she couldn't have afforded anyway.

Her feeble but sincere protests met with gentle stubbornness from her benefactress, who said, "No no, my dear, I must insist. You have such a beautiful figure, and the colour will go perfectly with your wonderful hair." Wonderful wasn't the word Callisto would have used, but then, the soft Spanish Artesian water she had bathed in no doubt had a hand in taming her mounds of unruly brown curls. As the younger woman shook her head in protest, a blue silk headscarf, ear-rings and a pair of high, strappy sandals made their way into her shopping bag, all on her new friend's Platinum AmEx card.

"Meeting you was a Godsend," she said aloud as she moved up alongside the slim, elegant septuagenarian. The other woman smiled cryptically at the young woman by her side. For the – sixth? seventh? – time that day, Callisto wondered at the puzzling mixture of kindness and mystery that surrounded the older woman.

After a whole day together, Callisto knew almost nothing about her benefactress, save her name, Esmeralda Brockenhurst-Sottier, and what she'd inferred by observation, namely that she was well-heeled, well-bred, and manifestly well-turned-out. Which wasn't much, but Blast! after the week she'd had, it was a relief to just put herself into the care of this obviously capable, and hopefully felicitatious, female.

-

The day at the beach had been a welcome diversion from the series of unfortunate events that had marked Callisto's Vacation in Paradise. Three months earlier, in November, when the Head of Development's secretary Marta had suggested the two pick up a pair of cheap tickets to Spain to escape the drear drabness of the London winter, she'd jumped at the chance.

A researcher at a chemical company, most people who met her saw the Dr. after her name and assumed that she was swimming in it. Not so, she explained carefully to her friends, her parents' friends, people at parties, et cetera (since when did English people, young and old, think it polite to discuss salary with perfect strangers?). There was no money in research these days, she said, and the only guarantee a Doctorate provided was a big debt to Banque Britannique de Mum & Dad (the latter was a joke she heard from a juror when she was defending her thesis – the punch line was supposed to be "Welcome to Euro-pe!" – but possibly her skills as a comedienne were lacking, or underdeveloped? – at any rate, it always fell flat.)

The general flatness of her social life was one of the weights that tipped her so quickly in the direction of Spain. Oh, she knew that she had a fun side, a free side, but it had been so loaded down under hundreds of pounds of books and debts and scholastic ambitions, that when after 17 years of steady school she went looking for it, she found it in such a state of distress that it hadn't been able to be revived, even under the expert tutelage of her two best friends, James and Larry (flaming, but loyal, fun and great).

"Darling, don't tell me that you're still a virgin," James said, his back to her as he rummaged impertinently through her closet looking for something suitable for 'fun and sun'.

"Gads, Jimbo, you can't expect her to have given in to one of those skinny, spotty, crisp-eating grad students she ran with, do you?" Larry was culling the already-small pile of clothes that was the result of his life-partner's search. He said to her aside, "Don't worry dear, you'll shop in Spain. All you really need is a pair of PJ's, clothes for the plane and a bikini. You do have a bikini, don't you? Because you don't want to risk buying one down there. Hygiene, you know."

Callisto nodded, both in answer to his question, and in agreement with his assessment of her shopping inclinations.

"No, Larry, but it wasn't just students at that Uni, you know. Calli, honey, didn't you meet any nice teachers?"

Thankfully, she was spared the indignity of answering that particular question by the doorbell. It was a courier, with her ticket. To Spain.

-

Even as she rolled her eyes at the formulaic corniness of it, Hermione felt a tingle up and down her spine, teasing the little hairs at her nape with the promise of an uncustomary, almost forbidden indulgence.

Frankly, between her and the wall, so far this girl Callisto was depressingly familiar, and the comparison wasn't at all flattering. Her two best friends weren't flaming, (and they weren't PC 'life-partners', thank Merlin), but she too felt bogged down and de-fun-ified by school responsibilities; she too had a tiny and entirely functional wardrobe; and most importantly, she too had a low-pay, no-glory, un-glamorous research position in her future, she felt sure of it.

The thought was not appealing.

The story seemed so trivial, so escapist, so – femme, that Hermione felt almost dirty reading it; as if she were watching French Cable TV, like her father did when he thought no-one else in the house was up. It was obviously a Pretty Woman set-up, with the smart, capable but socially-inept young woman manoeuvred into a position where she would be forced to accept the bounty of the more powerful, more together, older woman. I wonder when the hero's going to show up, she thought with not a little bit of anticipation. Gods, it would be funny to get Snape to read this story – of course, he'd never do it. But if anything in the world could make that man laugh, it'd be something like this.

Quick on the heels of that unexpected thought was another, namely, why she was thinking of her forbidding Potions master at all, but all was forgotten as she returned to the little paperback.

Trouble started about two days before she even departed for Paradise: in the person of Marta's new boyfriend, whom she'd met at an independent theatre production in Cheapside two weeks earlier.

"Calli, I've got news. Jorge's going to be joining us in Spain! He has a friend who's a stewardess, so he can get a cheap ticket. And he speaks fluent Spanish, so it'll be perfect!" She could see that Marta was trying to put a cheerful face on what she must know would be an unpopular development, and Callisto briefly considered just saying 'Forget it. Take my ticket and give it to … horhay … and I'll stay home and rent Bridget Jones' Diary again'.

But the stubbornness that she'd inherited from her dear Grandfather, may he rest in peace, sprung up like rebar to fortify her backbone, and she simply bit off a deliberately-forced smile (to show her displeasure) and said "Fine. I'll look forward to meeting him. He should be able to do a great job of translating descriptions at the Places Des Artes we'll be going to." Callisto had the satisfaction of seeing Marta's face fall as the import of her last words sank in. She turned on her heel and left.

Embarking on their journey, things quickly deteriorated, as her bags went missing and never arrived in Sevilla, their last flight destination. On the bus-ride to Cadiz, not only was she groped by a kind-looking elderly gentleman and heckled by a gaggle of drunk American Frat boys, but on top of it all her purse was stolen, and with it her passport and all her spending money.

She reported the loss, but on the advice of Marta and Jorge, decided to head to Cadiz anyway to enjoy what she could of the trip. "Calli," Marta said, "I brought lots of money with me. You can pay me back whenever. I'm sure you'll get some cash from the credit card company, or at least from your Travel Insurance."

Jorge was another unpleasant surprise. Obviously not English, while he usually occupied himself with making out with Marta in the most unbecoming way, he looked at Callisto very suggestively during the few times he was alone with her.

Rooming arrangements were another disappointment. Supposedly, Jorge was staying with friends in Cadiz, the famous coastal party town, Spain's answer to Puerto Vallarta (although the locals would say it was the other way 'round). However, he always seemed to end up back in the girls' double room, leaving his smelly socks on the floor and noisily making love with Marta in the other bed.

Things came to an impasse when Marta, in a fit of jealousy after meeting Jorge's stewardess friend in the lounge, got drunk and traipsed off with a black Australian businessman. Returning to the room alone (and admittedly a little tipsy), Callisto woke up to find Jorge in bed with her, making advances.

Tears in her eyes, she tried to fight him off – but he was too strong. He probably would have had his way with her (her pyjamas were gone, so all she had to sleep in was the embarrassingly skimpy black panties that James and Larry had given her as a present before she left), if Marta hadn't walked in at the last possible moment.

Unfortunately, the jilted secretary was too drunk to listen to reason, and immediately kicked both of them out on their ears; Callisto quickly and decisively breaking with Jorge, and striking out on her own. It was barely dawn by then, and with a heavy heart, she slunk off to walk the beaches until it was late enough to call home. That was when she met Esmeralda.

-

"My dear, I am very glad that I met you." The older woman smiled down at the fresh beauty beside her, made all the more lovely by the fact that she honestly didn't realise how attractive she was. Esmeralda couldn't help but notice the approving looks her companion received from foreigners and local men alike – 'It's good that one of us notices it', she thought to herself mischievously. She hesitated to even think of what the poor girl's fate would be if she, Mrs. Edward Brockenhurst-Sottier, hadn't encountered the maiden forlorn on this very beach. Her story was quite fantastic, but the widow instinctively believed it, not seeing any guile or deception in the cinnamon-brown eyes that looked at her with such serene trust.

"Thank you again for the dress – I still think it was outrageously extravagant, especially with the accessories, but it was a welcome extravagance, and truly kind of you." The slim, petite girl looked up with appreciation at the older woman, who managed to look feminine and elegant in her pale lavender silk suit despite her imposing height.

"Well, my dear, not that you didn't look fine in what you were wearing, but if you must know I have an ulterior motive." Callisto turned to her companion with a puzzled look on her face, and nodded to implore Esmeralda to continue.

"You see, I'm not alone here in Cadiz, at least I won't be after tonight – and I was very much hoping to introduce you to my son."

-

Coo, so Harry was right! She is his mother!! The gravity of this revelation temporarily stopped Hermione in her tracks, and she returned herself to reality with a shake of her head. She stopped briefly to wonder what percentage of the content was formulaic.

The inclusion of a gay couple was surprising to Hermione, but even more surprising was the casual racism that permeated the book. Is that usual? Don't they realise that this isn't the fifties? She thought with a snort of indignation as she read about the descriptions of Marta's liaisons.

Looking at her pocket watch, she saw that it was dinner-time, and wondered how the owls were making out. I hope there isn't a traffic jam. And I wonder what Professor Snape will think of our work…

With a sigh, she looked out the open window at the school grounds, wondering if she should put in an appearance in the Great Hall. No, she thought, I'm staying right here, and she listened ruefully to the rumbling protests of her stomach, wishing that she'd had the foresight to pack a meal.

Just then, Susan popped through the door and stopped dead at the sight of her schoolmate, unaccustomed as she was to having her open invitation taken up by the young Gryffindor.

"Oh. Hallo, Hermione, ta?" From Susan, the colloquialism seemed appropriate, not affected like when Harry used it, and Hermione knew that it was an abbreviated way to ask the questions: How are you, Is the place OK, Should I be worried, Do you need anything? She welcomed the brevity.

"Oh hi, Susan. Sorry not to warn you before coming here, I assumed it was still OK."

"Of course, not a problem whatsoever." Susan made right for her small lady's desk and began rummaging through one of the drawers.

"It's beautiful here, with this comfy chair and the view. Thanks!"

"Oh ta. There you are, you little bugger!" Susan hefted a huge, dusty, bound pile of parchment with triumph.

"Listen, Susan, could I ask a favour? Two, actually." At Susan's distracted nod, Hermione said, "Please don't tell anyone you saw me here." Susan's head bobbed as she flipped through the corners of the parchments. "And…would it be too much trouble to ask you to fetch me something to eat? Only if it's not a bother."

Susan looked at her friend quizzically. "Hiding out, are we? Well, that's fine. I'm happy to help you stay incognito, Miss Jones. Or perhaps Miss Farmer, since Grange is another word for farm. Shall we have a secret knock, then? For when I come back?"

Busy with her hoard of parchments, Susan completely missed Hermione's look of distracted puzzlement.

_____________________________________

A/N: Thank you to Susanna (aka pigwidgeon37), with whose permission I borrowed the name Esmeralda (from TSO). She also came up with the Replicatio spell, since it's inventing spell names at which I am an absolute duffer.

Kudos or flames? Let me know!

Many thanks to Isirta2001 for posting the challenge, and to WIKTT for their inspiration.

TBC

Upload Date: 26-Sep-02

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