"There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they will do for themselves." - Jane Austen, Emma
Devon has long been the residence of the wizarding family Weasley, whose estate at Ottery St. Catchpole is such the envy of the surrounding counties as to inspire countless garish facsimiles. The land surrounding Burrow Lodge is entailed upon farmers and craftsmen, good Muggle families who take great comfort from their landlord's demeanor. The good opinion of their tenants is due in large part to the fact that the owner of Burrow Lodge is neglectful in collecting rents nearly every month, and generous with his well-stocked pond. Weasley has a dutiful wife to recommend him, who bore him enough sons to ensure that Burrow Lodge would remain a fixture of the Weasley family many, many, many generations after his eventual death. There are six sons, and one daughter, who (being the youngest and the only witch) is spoiled endlessly by both her parents: William, the eldest, Charles, Percival, identical twins Frederick and George, Ronald, and Ginevra.
The summer Ginevra turned nine, Mr. Weasley received into his care the eleven-year-old daughter of his trusted steward, Granger. The mousy child, a girl called Hermione, would supply his only daughter with a playmate, and in turn be reared in as much conspicuousness as could be afforded the only child of a beloved servant. Ginevra, on the other hand, had developed a propensity for pranks like her twin elder brothers, and respectable tactics to avoid taking any responsibility for them. And none of those had included a propensity for friendship with another girl.
The carriages are running late.
The post came and went, and they gave no reason as to why they would be so tardy. The eldest brother only mentioned in a brief postscript that the seven Weasley's would be accompanied home for the Christmas holiday by four additional persons in a second barouche. Nevermind that one of them is the richest man in England, and the fiancé of Miss Ginevra Weasley. Rich visitors have little consequence in fellow homes of wealth, and the rich in Devon take great pains to arrive as far from the scheduled arrival time as possible.
Miss Granger is not yet four and twenty, but an invitation to the seaside for her was rejected by Mrs. Weasley, who had insisted emphatically that she had need of her. So it always goes. If she fancies her husband in the least bit ill, it is Hermione who must nurse him back to the pallor of a buttermilk biscuit. Three weeks without Ronald to divert her has been torturous indeed.
Gods, why are they so very late?
Hermione sighs, and the curls on her forehead dance. Mrs. Weasley insisted that Hermione look presentable for their guests, so she was subjected to the hot iron for nearly two hours. The wild curls are pinned like sausages into a chignon at the base of her neck. Ronald will insist she looks grand, but Frederick and George will be sure to find much fault in her.
Hermione's breath fogs the windowpane.
She is always meek in the society of the eldest male Weasleys. They are as boisterous as they are fiery. It is decidedly disagreeable to be always the brunt of their jokes. In the first month of her stay at Burrow Lodge, so little was seen of her that it became a comfortable family joke that she must have fallen down the well, only to find her huddled in a corner with a dwindling candle and a book.
Ronald has long been the only sibling who had any regard for Hermione. As a wee child, she found herself more often than not sharing her secret hiding places with him. In turn, he gave her books about magic, and even taught her how to read ancient runes.
Her cheeks blush to think of him. He has a kindness, a measured affability which recommends him greatly as a friend, plus grace and gentleness which well become a man of his stature, even if he will inherit very little from his father. He will make a fine curate, if the church will have him. After three weeks by the sea, his hair will be itching his ears. He will bear it without complaint, until Hermione coaxes him to sit in front of the kitchen hearth with her small scissors.
When the horses turn through the gate, Hermione flies from her window seat and alights the stairs without touching down. He's here, he's here. She draws her shawl around her shoulders and bursts through the front door of the manor house as the Weasley's fine carriage pulls up before the steps. A second silver barouche is close at hand. The servants stand at the ready, and Mr. Weasley takes his place at the base of the steps. His imposing top hat does not deter his sons from bursting forth out of the carriage, and shaking his hands each in their turn.
Hermione shrinks back against the stone railing, behind Mrs. Reynolds, the cook. "It's alright, dear," Mrs. Reynolds murmurs. She holds out her hand behind her back, and Hermione grips it tightly.
The two eldest sons lead the parade into the house, boisterous and howling, while Percival and the twins follow behind. To her everlasting relief, they ignore her. Ronald is the last to emerge from the Weasley's carriage.
Hermione steps out from behind the cook, and smiles brightly at her dearest friend. As soon as he lays eyes on her, Ronald's face breaks into the most delighted grin, but he does not go to her as he ought. Instead, he hastens in his fetching blue silk coat to the second barouche and waits in attendance for Merlin-knows-whom.
The door swings open and Mr. Potter emerges. Hermione has seen him on only one other occasion, in church for the wedding of a distant Weasley cousin; he has small spectacles that perch on the end of his nose, but he is otherwise a fine looking gentleman. He has a small scar on his forehead from an incident as an infant, which he willingly tells the story of whenever he is asked. He sports a burgundy jacket and gold waistcoat, which sets off his shock of black hair nicely. Mr. Potter holds out a hand, and Miss Weasley steps out of the barouche with his assistance. She too is finely attired, but in light blue muslin. Her feathered bonnet ties neatly beneath her chin, and her crimson curls spill over her cheeks.
Next to emerge is a woman whom Hermione has never seen before-a slim, pale woman with jet black hair wearing tangerine and sage. Where Ginny's bonnet is flowery and feathered, this woman's hat is velvet, perched, and draped fetchingly to one side. Ronald helps her out of the carriage, and offers her his arm. Two more gentlemen step out in their own time, both of whom are too starched and pinned to be anything other than a fine picture of wealth.
Hermione's heart leaps into her throat. Ronald… just look at me. Look at me. But he does not turn to her again. His gaze is focused intently on the dark-haired woman, who preens under his attention.
"May I borrow you?" Mrs. Reynolds murmurs to Hermione, pulling her focus from the strangers.
"Of course, Mrs. Reynolds." She allows herself to be pulled back into the manor, without having the pleasure of greeting her oldest friend.
Mrs. Reynolds enlists Hermione to bring in the cart to the drawing room, so that their guests might take their tea immediately upon settling in. The room fills with the liveliness of eleven people who have just shared a holiday. Mrs. Weasley stands to receive their guests at the door. Mr. Weasley bows with all the gentility of an aubergine in a top hat. Hermione stands beside her usual chair, practically concealed by a screen in the corner. The Weasley brothers span the outskirts of the room, while the visitors fill in the middle. Ronald steps forward and gestures to the party.
"Mama, Father, may I introduce Mister Potter, Miss Parkinson, Lord Zabini, and Captain Malfoy." Ronald points to each person in their turn. The two stuffed shirts are indeed fine gentlemen. Mr. Potter emphatically shakes Mr. Weasley's hand. Lord Zabini bows and smiles brightly, with all the charm and affability of a man who has been born to entertain. Captain Malfoy barely inclines his head.
"How do you do!" Mr. Weasley booms. "You are very welcome, gentlemen."
"Many thanks, good sir. We are delighted to tread upon your kindness, for as long as you'll have us," Mr. Potter says with a jovial pleasantness, which could either come from genuine delight or good manners.
"And who is this exquisite creature?" Mr. Zabini demands, pointing to Hermione. She blanches as all eyes settle on her, looking to Ron in panic.
Ron laughs. "Why, this is a most delightful creature indeed. Miss Hermione Granger. A writer of some renown, at least to me, and a dear companion of my sister's for these twelve years." He tugs Hermione forward by the elbow. Ginevra scoffs.
"Delighted to make your acquaintance," Hermione says softly. She curtsies to Lord Zabini. Miss Parkinson gives her no hint of curious acknowledgement, and Captain Malfoy even less. Still, Mr. Potter smiles, and Lord Zabini clasps her fingers.
"Hermione. What are you still doing here?" Mrs. Weasley crows.
Hermione's face falls. "I beg your pardon," she peeps. Fred and George snicker, and Ginevra fails to cover her delighted smirk.
Mrs. Weasley drums her fingers on her elbows. "You are quite aware that the sewing wasn't cleared away from yesterday afternoon."
"Oh. Yes, you're quite right." Tears well in the corners of her eyes, but Hermione curtsies anyway, and makes her way from the drawing room under a sea of watchful glances. "I'll just take care of that, shall I?"
She closes the door to the drawing room behind her and presses her back to the wood. Her eyes are wet.
"Is she not out? In society?" a faint voice asks from behind the door, presumably Zabini's. A collection of laughter bubbles from the room. Hermione cannot bear it.
She flees to the library, and not to the sewing room as Mrs. Weasley intended. She tucks herself into the wingback chair facing the hearth, feet pulled up beneath her, and buries her face in her knees. Of course. Nothing has changed. They are, as always, the family who allows her to remain, and never cherishes her company for their own.
The floor creaks and her eyes snap open. "I know, I'm not allowed in here-"
"It matters not," a low voice insists. "Besides, who would I tell?" A pair of black boots come into view and a white handkerchief is proffered. "Do not give them the satisfaction of your tears," he says. Hermione takes the offering and wipes her eyes, putting her feet back on the ground in haste. She looks up. Grey eyes glint at her in the fire light.
"I wasn't crying," she whispers. She dabs away her treasonous tears anyhow.
"I was mistaken." He clasps his hands behind his back, and straightens to a noble posture, as if he is addressing a room full of sailors. Once he has discerned that her weeping has truly ceased, Captain Malfoy steps away. Her gaze follows him.
"How long have you been in the country?" she asks.
He stands at the window, with nary a concern for her desperate sniffles to regain composure. "Two weeks. Devon is not what I had in mind," he says. "I find I have a taste for the sea, and nothing can quench it."
"Devon is flanked on two sides by the sea."
"I have run aground." He shakes his head. He is a tall man, with wide shoulders that bear his coat across them like velvet over marble, but he has fair hair and fairer eyes, which in the blue light of the moon and yellow light of the hearth glow like silver. He can't be much older than her. He has all the countenance of a man twenty years his senior, but none of the wrinkles. Perhaps he has not an intensity of feeling, which so grips the Weasley fellows. Still, he had discovered her, and offered a small bit of comfort, which is more than can be said for her usual companion, whose absence in her distress is keenly felt.
"Will you be staying at Burrow Lodge long?" Hermione traces her finger over the monogram on his handkerchief.
He does not regard her, but nods. "I am at the whim of my friend."
"Lord Zabini."
"Yes. He has a particular interest in a business venture with Mr. Potter, and he requires my advice."
"What advice is that?"
"He values my opinions. Beyond that, he requires me to approve of his taste in friends."
"And how do you find them?"
Captain Malfoy sighs. "Mr. Potter is most certainly a friendly wizard, with wealth enough to recommend him. The Weasley brothers are… an interesting lot. Perhaps save Ronald, I find them all to be in some ways obsessed with their own minds, and in all ways determined to have them known."
She smiles. "Yes… I think that is astute."
"Hermione!" Mrs. Weasley's tinny voice carries down the hall. Hermione scrambles to her feet, and thrusts her hand out to return the Captain's handkerchief.
"Keep it," he mutters. He bows curtly, and strides from the room, turning on his heel to greet the lady of the house as she approaches the open doorway. He glances back at Hermione. "You're right, Miss Granger. It is a fine library. I thank you for availing yourself, I shan't keep you from your errand any longer." Mrs. Weasley's perturbed face appears around the frame of the door and she glares at her ward.
"What were you doing speaking with the Captain?" she whispers fiercely. "Surely, you don't have your sights set on a wealthy war hero. He would never stoop so low."
"He's been here all of an hour," Hermione sighs.
The elder woman bears her yellow teeth with a hiss. "These grand wizards are not your equal. You would do well to remember that, Squib." She flounces away, with taffeta rustling behind her.
"So you constantly remind me," Hermione says, when the woman is out of earshot. "And I'm not a Squib, you old bat."
The horrid nickname takes her back, to the days when the Weasley children were still attending school, and she was reminded every moment of her magical inferiority. At least these days she can find several hours of amusement, far away from Mrs. Weasley's scrutiny. And she has her journal. Well, Ronald has it. She eagerly waited for him to send it back, but instead, he had promised to bring it when he came home. If only she can catch him alone.
Oh, Ron. He is so grown, so handsome… her palms heat with unspent potential, and the air crackles around her. Oh, to expel the magic which thrums in her. So much energy, and nowhere to channel it. It claws at her heart.
She is twelve again, in her mind.
Though she has always had a propensity for shyness, and keeps to herself as much as she is able, Hermione indulges herself in stolen moments by writing little stories, in a notebook Ronald gave her for her twelfth birthday. He has replaced the notebook for each subsequent birthday, as she fills the pages to the brim with adventures. She composes each message in runes, so that only Ronald can read them, and each name is masked as another; Mrs. Weasley is Queen Moll, Ginevra is Princess Verity, and Mr. Weasley is Lord Loafer. The brothers are Odd, Tod, Nod, Pod, and Cod. Ronald is Lancelot. At the end of each tale, Ronald writes his review in the book, always followed by a plea for more. "Nod and Pod's duel was particularly good, though I do wonder how a victor could be declared when they pierced each other through the heart and each died. Even more curious is that Lord Loafer danced on their graves, is he not one hundred years old? Don't keep me in suspense!"
It happened twelve years prior, after surviving another blistering return of the 'Od boys for Christmas holiday (and being caught by Mr. Weasley on three separate occasions in the library, and being subsequently banned), that Hermione had her first episode of magical potential. Having thought herself to be a Muggle, as had been so repeatedly asserted to her by Mrs. Weasley, Hermione kept this particular revelation a secret as long as she was able. But, as secrets are wont to do, the truth came out; Hermione set fire to her curtains in the course of fitful sleep, and were it not for a servant smelling smoke, she would have burned herself and the top floor of Burrow Lodge to ash. Mrs. Weasley's grip on her only tightened after that, and she was forced to yet again endure countless hours of schooling alongside Ginevra.
Spring came and made way for Summer, and fondness grew between Hermione and her one friend, Ronald. He knew just how it felt to be subjected to his boisterous, overbearing family. He was kind, and made her laugh when an impasse had been met with his mother, relegating her to her bedroom after dinner. Ronald was not so brotherly in his affection for her as to be impersonal, and he was noble in his desire to keep her comfortable and unaffected by his mother's rantings, while still offering to help her perfect her rather tenuous grip on her magical ability, without her own wand-he had a good heart, and his eyes crinkled when he smiled at her.
It was further Ronald's idea that Hermione have the opportunity to study more magic, and as such, they would remain in each other's company by both attending Hogwarts for the first time in the autumn.
When that summer waned, Hermione had broached the idea with Mr. Weasley that she might be sent away to Hogwarts. With Ron's support, she had brought them a series of reasons, namely: "I won't be a burden to you if I'm away at school." (Hermione's contribution.) "I'll be much less likely to set fires by accident if I receive proper schooling." (Ron's contribution.) "And anyway, they've allowed girls there for nearly a hundred years, so surely they'll take me." Hermione had folded her arms behind her back and bit her lip.
"Miss Granger, I'm sure you're aware that one must be invited to attend the most prestigious wizarding school in the world," Mrs. Weasley had tutted, shaking her head.
"I didn't know that." Hermione had looked down at her ratty boots, which peeked out from under the hem of her dress.
"Hermione is twelve like me, mother. Don't you think they'd take her?" Ron had squeezed Hermione's hand. "I'm sure it was an accident, her not being invited."
"And who would pay for her books, her tuition, her robes?" Mr. Weasley had huffed. "I have six children attending Hogwarts in the fall, my boy. I'm not made of money!"
"Even if Miss Granger were to be invited, it just isn't possible for us to pay for it. Unless she suddenly finds a sponsor of some sort, but who do we know that would honestly pledge to paying for seven years of schooling for a child that isn't related to them by blood?" Mrs. Weasley had folded her hands on her lap and sighed wistfully. "So, you see… it isn't possible. Hermione will continue her private studies at Burrow Lodge."
And that's all that was ever said about that. That September, Lancelot had departed for his first year at Hogwarts with the rest of his brothers, and Hermione, bereft at the loss of her friend until Christmas, dove head-first into her studies with Mrs. Weasley. And so the time had passed-twelve years of it, as the Weasley children each graduated Hogwarts, and went on to University in their own time, and Hermione became a woman, without remarking about it too closely. Though her guardian had rarely taught her anything remotely magical, Hermione still took comfort from a busy schedule, kept rigorous by Mrs. Weasley's untiring energy. Propelled by spite or grief, Hermione had became quite adept with a needle-
"Have you been touched by the fae?" Ronald's bemused grin greets her as her daydream fades away. She jumps for joy and throws her arms around his neck. He lifts her, spinning her feet from the ground. Jeering shouts echo down the hall, and Ron pulls Hermione into the library quickly. From inside his jacket, he produces the little brown journal with the marbled flyleaf, which he had inscribed for her in his neat script on her last birthday just a few months prior. He presents it like a prize.
"Your last entry was a feat of prose," he says proudly.
Hermione clutches the journal to her chest. "I can't wait to read your notes, I've been anxious for them."
"I didn't have time to write them down," he says, peeking around the doorway distractedly. "I must know. Hermione… what do you think of her?"
She blinks. His face is flushed and giddy. "Whom?"
"Miss Parkinson. Lord Zabini's cousin. Is she not a picture?"
She swallows hard. "Yes, she's lovely."
"An accomplished witch, too. Cor, 'Mione. And I've never heard such pretty singing! You should play a duet of an evening. I know you'll agree. You always do." He squeezes her arm.
"Ahem, yes… well, not tonight. I must tidy the sewing room like your mother asked." She tamps down rising panic, which threatens to burst forth in whatever unbecoming manner comes to her first. A barbaric scream might be on order. "But another evening. If I'm allowed."
Hermione curtsies and hastens down the hall, with her dearest friend hot on her heels. "Hermione, don't be that way-"
"Like what?" She wheels on him. "I'm busy, Ronald. Get back to your Miss Parkinson before you're missed. I'm glad you're back. I hope you had a pleasant trip."
Upon entering the sewing room, Hermione sets her journal on the devan and scoops up the discarded embroidery hoops from where they had been forgotten. She feels his eyes on her neck, but she gives him no credence.
"We should get you a wand," he says as she tidies the sewing accoutrement by hand.
"I would have little use for one," she sniffs.
"You're upset."
"I'm not."
"You can't fool me, Miss Granger. I know you."
Hermione glares at him over the basket of notions as she sorts the various spools into color order. "Whatever gave you the idea that I'm upset? I'm not. I'm happy as a lark."
He raises an eyebrow expectantly, and shuts the sewing room door. The din of the party mellows to a dull roar. She scrubs at her cheek with the handkerchief, which still found purchase against her palm. She hastily tucks it up her sleeve before he can ask about the emerald monogram. From his sleeve, Ron produces his wand. With one flick, the sewing sorts itself into the basket in the most orderly fashion, rendering the rest of Hermione's duties null. She sighs, and softens.
"I just… missed you. I am relieved that you've returned. I am sorry for being petulant."
Ron sits beside her on the settee, tossing the tails of his coat up so he doesn't squash the fine silk. "I've come to expect it," he teases gently. He pats her hand. "Come back to the party."
"Your mother won't have it."
He touches her under the chin. "One glass of firewhiskey and mother will be snoring by the fire. Please? For me?"
It is tempting to give in to those pleading blue eyes, but she shakes her head. "I have to get back to Lancelot and the 'Od boys. He's about to be named king of the pirates, you know."
"Don't give it away!" He covers his ears. He gives her a sad smile, and then shrugs. "If that's what you want. But you'll be missed."
"Only by you." Hermione secures the sewing box and slides it beneath the settee. "But I'll meet you at the stables in the morning for a pre-breakfast race."
"I'll demolish you."
"That's what you think," she laughs. "You've been gone two weeks, and I've been practicing." Hermione flees the room with one last wave. Ronald bids her goodnight.
She climbs the stairs to the attic as she does every night, ascending to her tower where old women dare not go, and closes herself into her chilled dominion. Hermione doesn't bother with the fire, which will burn all night if she lights it now; instead, she curls up on the seat beside the window with her woolen blanket, and watches the torches on the drive below as they lap at the autumn breeze. She holds her palm upward and whispers across her skin: incendio. The flame she has grown to control leaps to life. It is her own, a flame just for her, better than any waxen candle in any Weasley chandelier because it answers to her will.
Just then, a shadow moves on the gravel walk below. She closes her palm, but not before she realizes that the moon of a face is turned upwards to scrutinize her in the window. It's him. The stoic Captain, whose handkerchief is still tucked up her sleeve. He raises his hand to his hat-a great, tall thing which shadows his face as he bows his head-and gives her the only regard she has ever received from a gentleman of means. It's quick. Soon, he's joined by Lord Zabini on the lawn, and the two men spark up pipes. Smoke curls around their faces.
She watches them, like a voyeur in the stars, until the tobacco burns away.
Author's note: Thanks so much for joining me for this Regency romp! I'll be updating once a month, mid-month. This story is heavily inspired by Mansfield Park and Pride and Prejudice, but will draw from all of Jane Austen's work. :)