Chapter One – A New Beginning
.
.
"Princess Hermione of Gryffindor," the unnamed Knight says, his voice breaking through the hushed grasses of the woodland that stretches out beneath her feet. His blood-stained boots soil the beloved land of her ancestral home, Hampstead. With its quaint farmlands and endless rose gardens. The flushed hue of a pink dawn sky caressing the nearby apple trees. Hampstead Palace: the place she grew up as a young girl. Roaming from morning until evening, as free as a bird and as happy as a new-born kitten. Now, just like everything else that had been stolen from her, this would be too. She was to leave it forever, to sacrifice her body and soul to the Crown.
"We have come to accompany you to Hogwarts castle, under the instructions of His Sovereign, Our Almighty King Draco," the Knight continues, his precise and important speech clearly well practiced.
"GOD SAVE THE KING!" The rest of the entourage hails, and Hermione sees bright flashes of red behind her tired eyes.
"He's no King," Hermione says back, but her mother, Lady Rose Granger, Queen Dowager, grabs her wrist forcefully enough to leave bruising.
"Be quiet," she hisses into her eldest daughter's ear. "That is now treason."
Hermione wrenches her hand away, looking into her mother's eyes with anger and hatred.
"It was treason to kill my brother," she spits, and her mother's eyes grow wild with fear and fury. "The True King James V."
"Do not speak his name," she warns. "Never again. Do you understand? The only thing separating us from our beheading on Tower Hill is your betrothal to the new King. Would you watch your whole family slaughtered because you cannot mind your tongue?"
Hermione says nothing, tears welling in her eyes. Half her family has already been slaughtered, but she does not remind her mother of that. If the ground would just grant her one wish and swallow her whole, she would gladly agree. For it hadn't just been her brother lost that fateful day in battle. It had also been her lover. Her dearest Ronald.
(1 week before The Battle of Hampstead)
"Ronald please," Hermione pleads.
The grass underneath their feet is sodden, but right now, in the middle of the night in the small East wing courtyard, this is their only place where they can be alone. The heavens opened with their downpour earlier on, and every single thing from fruit to worm is drenched in the soft water.
Her dress, burnt sienna and velvet, brush the overgrowth and cover the bottom layer in a soft bed of mud. Right now, however, she cares about none of that. All she cares about is Ronald, and that he doesn't embark on this battle.
"Hermione," he says, his voice breaking with as much plea as her own. He cups her face, his spearmint breath chasing all the way down her throat. She closes her eyes at his touch, ignoring the biting cold grinding into her skin. It's august, but not august weather. As if in spite, nature itself has cursed them with ungodly rains and winds. As if a sign from above that this battle shall not commence.
"I have to fight for my country," he implores her. "My home. My King."
"You have to fight for me," she says back, not knowing if she's trembling from the fierce cold or from fear itself. Perhaps both.
"He's your brother Hermione," he says. "The King. We must support him."
"I do support him," she counters. "God of course I support him. But Ronald, you are right. He is the King. Not you. He has to fight. It's his throne they are coming for. Not yours. Please, think of me. I cannot lose you both."
"Oh love," he says softly, smoothing down her damp her. He looks gently into her eyes, and she sees his freckles and wild red her; the trademarks of a boy she has loved since she was a young girl. "I am thinking of you," he continues. "Always. You will not lose either of us. I will stand by my Kings side and I will make this country good and right, for you. We will win Hermione."
Her voice quivers. "And what if you do not? What becomes of us then? The Slytherin army that Lord Draco has raised is mighty Ronald. He has backing from France and the Scots. What if…" she trails off, unable to add words to her already deeply disturbing visions.
Ever since she had heard the news that the Houses of Gryffindor and Slytherin were to go to war over the throne, her mind had been plagued with visions. Visions of bloodshed and loss. Of betrayal and grief so desperate it threatened to consume her entire being.
Ronald shakes his head, giving the princess a small smile. "James V is the rightful King," he says, with all the conviction and ardour of a loyal and devoted soldier. "He is the rightful son of King James IV, god rest his soul."
At the mention of her beloved father, Hermione's carefully constrained mask cracks a little, and salty tears pour from her eyes. If only he had not died six months ago, none of this would be happening. She would be living her life as usual, picking fabrics for dresses with her sisters. Matchmaking for servants at feasts. When her father was alive, the Kingdom of England was rich and prosperous. Happy and safe and secure.
All until it was not. As he lay dying of sweating fever in his chambers, his closest advisors were already preparing for the coronation of the Kings eldest son and heir, Prince James. Except, not all of them were as loyal as her father perhaps thought. Some of them held quite contempt for their King. A quiet anger simmering underneath their surfaces.
King James had been penny pinching, his right-hand man, Thomas Finnigan, The Earl of Northumberland had thought. His son Seamus was owed land for his betrothal, and the stingy King had not paid up. The Lockhart's, another prominent family at court, were angry with the King for giving their daughter as a prize to a middling gentry man. The Dursley's, thought that just their significant presence should promote land and jewels. How dare Sir Vernon's son have to be cup bearer to the King's bastard son?! They kept these grumbles quiet in their heart whilst the King lived. They showed no outward disloyalty or complaint. But when the King died and old rumours began to circulate that his heir was in fact a bastard, these families sought out comfort in the opposing army that was coming for the throne. Lady Narcissa Malfoy promised that when her son Draco, the rightful heir to the throne, became King, these prominent men would be rewarded. And so they switched sides slowly, like snakes in the night and summoned their men.
Now, Princess Hermione was one week away from when it was reported that Lord Draco and his army would land on English soil, and she was not prepared for the upheaval or danger that lay ahead.
"We will win Hermione," Ronald whispers in her ear, tilting his face with a strong finger to press his lips next to hers.
She kisses them softly. Slowly. As though doing so might prolong them long enough not to disappear.
"You better Ronald," she whispers back, tears now falling like a stream. "You better."
With a nudge from her mother, she breaks from her reverie. Her memories that are all she has left of her past. Standing tall, or as tall as she can at 5 feet 4 inches, she looks the Knight right in the eye.
"I will accompany you," she says, blinking back her tears, knowing she has no other choice.
But from today, she has one small one. And that is to never cry in front of her enemies. No. She will not let them see her fall apart. She will not let them see her break.
The journey to Hogwarts castle is arduous. It sits deep in the North, surrounded by dense forest and thickets. A perfect place to be lost and never again found she thinks. The bumpiness of the carriage upsets her stomach, and she has to stop frequently to relive herself. Next to her, Lady Rose, is stoic. Her lips are parted; barely breathing. Hermione knows she grieves for the loss of her boys, but they must all wear their masks now. If they want to survive that is.
On her left, her younger sisters, Katie and Luna, are equally as silent. The four of them sit together like sardines at sail, awaiting their new fate.
"Father never used Hogwarts castle," Katie says, scrunching her nose. "He said it was lacking in all ways."
They're not quite sure where they are now, but the stench in the air tells them the lands have changed. An earthy shit smell fills their nostrils and Lady Rose closes the window angrily.
"Katherine be quiet," she snaps.
"Why should we?" She argues back, and Hermione reaches across her hand in comfort. Katie squeezes it back and says nothing.
"We are surrounded by our enemies," Lady Rose hisses. "Our new servants shall become spies. Our maids shall become ears for the Crown. They will be waiting until we mess up. They will be waiting for the day they can take our heads."
"They can't take Hermione's head," Katie retorts. "She's to be his Queen."
At the mention of her new title, and what she is to be to that usurper, Princess Hermione feels the familiar rolls of nausea unsettling in her stomach once more.
"Perhaps not," their mother agrees. "But they can certainly take ours."
This shuts Katie up, and she hunches to the side, staring off into her own window.
At dusk, they stop at The Lockhart's country estate, and Lord Gildroy greets the women as though they are old friends, and not bitter enemies that he betrayed.
"You will dine with us tonight?" He asks Hermione proudly, showing off his newest front room.
The Malfoys have certainly come through with their side of the bargain for the Lockhart's loyalty, and Gildroy is reaping his rewards lavishly. His crimson and golden tapestries hang from the walls like silk, and new oak furniture painted in the French fashion adorn his parlour. A roaring fire is burning before them and Gildroy himself is dressed in clothes of the deepest and finest silks. Beneath them, the table is set with the finest food that can be bought, on gilded silver places with matching cutlery. Maids hustle and bustle about, bringing out dishes of extravagance, and Hermione's accompanying entourage (their own nickname for kidnappers) sit down to eat ravenously.
"I'm not hungry," the Princess announces, the thought of food now stomach churning. "I'm cold and tired and I want a bath. Show me my rooms."
Unperturbed, Gildroy ordered two maids to attend her, and they accompany her along the narrow dimly lit corridor. They each hold candles in front of her to light her way, and two small young servant boys hurry behind her with her suitcases and luggage. Her rooms are on the first floor, large and open, with a fire that has already been made up. Two servant girls are busy filling a large basin with steaming water in front of the fire, and carpets have been placed around it for her warmth.
"Princess, would you like to get changed?" One of the maids asks her timidly.
She nods, not yet trusting her voice and stands in front of the fire as the maids undress her. Piece by piece, they take off her damp clothes, until she is in nothing but her shift. Her hair hangs long and loose down her back, damp and wavy from the light rain. The maids help her into the tub, and she lets the scalding water wash over her skin, wishing it could burn its way right through to her bones. By the time she is ready to get out, her fingers are prunes but at least she feels clean and warm. Metaphorically, she can pretend the water has washed away the last few weeks. The stain of loss and the storm of grief that is only now just beginning to surface. But she knows that if she takes this pain, it may be used for something bigger than she is. A different purpose. If she harvests it, she may be able to shape it into something useful. Like anger and revenge. Like vengeance served freezing cold. As she stands and steps out, she knows at least one thing.
She will never be the same girl again.
