She was quietly brilliant, he decided. Accio wasn't dramatic or spectacular, and not the most power hungry spell on his mother's list. He had chosen fire because it was the most difficult spell, the one that demonstrated the most power and control and his mother had been happy, but she seemed more than happy with Hermione's choice as well. She had succeeded first try of course, which was an important omen in his family, even if her surprise at actually having managed the spell belied the apparent ease with which she had cast.
Not that he had expected otherwise with her accidental apparition every night.
She continued to excel in lessons, advancing to cover levitation and and lumos over the next couple of weeks. Her witchcraft was excellent and she managed to create a ball of light in her hands by the end of the last lesson. Meanwhile, he successfully created a mace out of a hedgehog and even successfully controlled the decoration on his onion-teapot.
She didn't take as well to calligraphy; although she wrote fast and took extensive notes, her handwriting was always rough and blotchy. Her astronomy wasn't as good either, nor her Latin, although there were signs she would catch up quickly with the rate she absorbed information.
They were split up for Thursday and Friday, Hermione going with a stern widow to learn the skills essential to womanhood whilst he continued fencing in preparation to learn duelling. He was slightly ashamed to admit that he was relieved she showed almost no aptitude for any of the more physical skills - she complained all through lunch about her first flying lesson, sporting a spectacular tangle in her hair and furiously flushed cheeks until her elf noticed her disarray. That was an even funnier point, how her elf was constantly scolding her - her appearance, her eating habits, her reading choice, the way she sat...
His mother had bought her a Longma as a gift for her first spell and she took to the animal like his Kelpie to water. She would hurry down after lessons in the few hours before she disappeared each day to polish his scales and brush the silky fine mane that flowed down the beast's spine. She insisted on learning to ride, so every afternoon was spent on horseback. He taught her on the mighty sleipnir, sedate despite their size, with the assistance of a cushioning charm. She refused to ride her Longma (which she named Katana) until she was capable on the sleipnir, which he understood - the scaly back of the Longma looked slippery.
The few times he did manage to pry her away from the stables and the books, they played board games. She was terrible at all of them - gobstones, chess... even a couple of card games that she taught him.
Her morning with his mother passed without event, she seemed to arrive each morning already suitably dressed from the clothes laid out for her the night before. He assumed it was perhaps some kind of switching spell, but considering how long he knew ladies took to dress it was rather useful.
His own meeting with his mother also went smoothly, she was pleased with his progress and asked for a report on Hermione's. He reported accurately and they were granted a day off.
He found her in the library, already changed out of her smart clothes. She looked up from the book she was reading as he entered and he peered at the title over her shoulder. She was practicing calligraphy, he realised, wondering if she even understood the meaning of a day off. From what he gathered she spent the time she was away at school as well - muggle school. No wonder his mother liked her.
'We have the day off. What would you like to do?' He asked her and she looked up with a smile.
'Baking?' She asked brightly. He looked at her blankly.
'Baking...'
'Yes, lets make biscuits.' She replied, as if her suggestion was as ordinary as suggesting he light the fire in winter. 'There must be a kitchen here.'
She jumped up, reshelving the book and holding her hand out for him to take. He stayed frozen, trying to decided whether baking was something suitable, something they were even allowed to do. He doubted it, cooking was something elves did; people of superior breeding did not. Then again, Hermione wanted to do it, his mother might excuse the inappropriate activity if he said he was sharing her culture...
He took her hand and led her down to the kitchen.
He had no memory of being in the room before, although he was certain he had been in with his nana-elf when he was very young. It was incredibly warm; so hot that within minutes he was peeling off layers down to his white shirt. The elves looked dubious at their request but quickly provided the ingredients as Hermione listed them off. Her elf, Flighty, didn't appear to slap their hands, so he figured it couldn't be too terrible.
He joined the young witch at the low table and she introduced him to each ingredient - four white powders, he recognised sugar and salt and had seen flour on top of bread but baking powder was new to him. She told him it made the biscuits airy. Two spices; ginger and cinnamon, one a pale brown powder, the other a deep woody brown. Both smelled warm and christmassy.
It was like potions, he decided as she measured out butter and syrup into a brassy pan and put them onto the stove to melt. He supervised the melting whilst she measured out the dry ingredients and mixed them in a big bowl with a wooden spoon. It puffed up in little clouds and her blue dress was quickly covered in white handprints.
He pulled the pan off the stove as soon as the last knob of butter melted and carefully carried it over by the smooth wooden handle. She showed him how to make a little hole in the middle he poured the melted mixture in whilst she stirred. An elf hurried to take the pan from him as soon as he was done and then, to his horror, Hermione pushed up her sleeves and fully dug her hands into the gooey mixture and began kneeding it between her fingers. Within moments she was covered in flour to her elbows and her hands were coated in a thick layer of golden brown dough.
She laughed at his expression and insisted he do the same, he tried to resist but she brandished her doughey hands in the direction of his face and chased him around he table, giggling all the way. He managed to remain out of range and thought himself safe, until she grabbed a handful of flour from the bin and chucked it at him. It puffed across the table, falling like fine snow across his shoulders and settling in his hair until he looked like a ghost in the reflections in the gleaming pots. Outraged, he spluttered for a moment, then he saw her mischievous grin and decided on the spot that he certainly couldn't let her get away with that. He reached over the table, plunging his hand into the doughy mixture and lobbed a glob at her.
His aim was excellent and it splattered against the white apron an elf had tied over her dress when she first requested ingredients. She squealed in outrage and dove behind the bin of flour for cover as he brandished a second handful of dough. He couldn't get a clear shot at her as she scrambled for distance, remaining safely behind cover. He edged sideways, glanced down to step over a loose flagstone and a cold, wet... something caught him across the face.
A gleeful giggle soundtracked his realisation that Hermione had grabbed a wet cloth from the sink and thrown it across the room at him and despite her appalling aim, had somehow caught him across the face. The water had mixed with the flour to form a gooey, sticky mess in his hair.
He drew his wand menacingly, glared warningly at her and turned around to the bin of vegetable scraps next to the sink. He waved his wand and sent the peelings flying towards her, then froze in horror as he realised the the young witch, entirely unintimidated by his glare, had levitated the entire contents of the flour bin and was ready to deposit the whole lot over him.
Fifteen minutes later Gellert and Hermione stood in the horse yard being hosed down - literally- by an irate Klein. The head elf wore a scowl, but the amusement of the other elves tempered it slightly. Gellert teased the gluey flour out of his hair as Hermione picked carrot peelings out from the sodden folds of her skirts.
'The young master and young miss will tidy up their mess.' The elf said sternly, blasting Gellert's hair with water again, then turning to Hermione to give her the same treatment. He was ashamed to note that she had come out of the encounter considerably cleaner, although he was inclined to put that down to her knowledge of the mess that flour and water would make - his own attempt to recreate the mess over her with the sugar had been mended in a single blast from the hose.
'Yes, Klein.' She said contritely as an elf performed a drying charm over her. She disappeared back into the kitchen as he continued to work on his hair.
'Klein hopes the young master has learned his lesson.' The head elf scolded as Gellert finally ran his fingers through damp, but no longer slimy hair.
'Don't cook?' He replied dully. The elf smacked him around the head lightly.
'No, young master be learning to cook. Young master should also be learning not to mix flour and water. I is telling master next time he should be using syrup on the young miss.' He gaped at the elf's completely straight face. The wrinkled servant looked at him completely seriously. 'It is not becoming of the young master to be losing so easily.'