Chapter Two
Hermione, Justin and really big houses
The house they were standing in front of was, for lack of a better word, gargantuan. It was built in the Jacobean style architecture common in the seventeenth century, which was when the manor was built, according to the friendly goblins. They had told them it was 'unplottable' and that the preservation spells should have kept it in pristine condition. When asked what exactly preservation spells did they had shrugged.
"Wizards don't like dust and mould and such," one had sneered, "too lazy to get rid of it so they charm the place to stay in good condition. In this case they cast enough charms to last for over a century."
It was true, once they had ascended the stairs to the front doors (which one could ride through on horseback, they were that big) they found the inside was as perfectly clean and spotless as the outside. No mould, no dust, not even a crack in the walls or a spider web hanging from the ceiling. The house even came with a name, Ofermede House. With the main building came the adjacent wings, the stables ("For abraxans or the like," the goblins had said, whatever Abraxans were), the dower house and (of course) the sizeable plot of land that was too big to be simply called a 'park'.
"Well," Mr. Granger scratched his head, "I don't think inviting family would be a bother anymore. I doubt we could even round up enough distant cousins to get a quarter of the rooms filled."
Hermione beamed. "And it's all mine," she gloated, "the library dad, it was just so big. So many books and everything is about magic and I just can't wait to start reading. Can I go now, daddy? Please? How much more bedrooms must we look at? We're going to be living here for forever, that's plenty of time to explore."
A sigh escaped Mrs. Granger's lips. "Hermione, we're all eager to see what the library has to offer but since an obscure magical law requires you to live here, and that by definition means we have to live here too, your dad and I want to know just what we're getting into. Just because someone tells us the place is fine that doesn't mean some faraway room won't have some roach infestation or some such."
They opened the ornate door that led to what would be bedroom number fourteen and glanced around. The furniture was old but in good condition, despite most of it being (at least partially) made out of wood. The abundance of wood carvings spoke clearly of when the furniture was made.
Hermione sullenly toed the large, ornate desk that stood against the wall.
Mr. Granger raised his eyebrows at his wife who shot him a long-suffering look in return. "You go devour those books darling," she gave in, "just be down by dinnertime."
Dinnertime, she shuddered. The kitchen had been, well, ancient. While the whole 'medieval' décor was charming it was also wholly worthless when it came to the kitchen and bathrooms. No refrigerator, no modern stove or oven or even running water. Today's dinner would probably be some form of take-away from the nearest village.
To say it was disconcerting to see a mansion appear out of what once was, well, an empty street corner in the middle of London would be to say seeing some killed in front of you was 'not very nice'. But alas, Mrs. Finch-Fletchley couldn't think of a better word to describe the feeling that came to mind when the massive building suddenly sprang into existence.
The building was undoubtedly very old but in surprisingly good condition, perhaps invisibility made it immune to the steady flow of time? It was made out of white stone and the entrance was lined by Romanesque pillars holding up a balcony. The windows were large and topped with flat arches. Once inside the true splendour was even more obvious. A long entrance hall held numerous gilded rococo tables that held increasingly more impressive works of art. Small statues, empty porcelain vases. The middle of the hallway held a grand, sweeping staircase with an intricate, golden railing. There was even a silver bowl with gilded apples of all things.
"The name fits," Mr. Finch-Fletchley uttered, trailing a hand along the railing's glimmering surface. "They certainly have a fondness for gold."
The reception, dining and less formal living room were all equally impressive. Period typical furniture made to meet such opulent standards that it bordered on being ridiculous. And almost everything was made out of gold. Golden frames for elaborate paintings, golden edges on the china found in the dining room cabinet. The paintings themselves even had gold as their main feature, from the cow with the golden horns to the one which was a pretty average painting of a scenery were it not for the golden mountain in the center of the painted forest. The most beautiful, but still flashy, piece, was the golden chandelier that hung from the ceiling. The most ostentatious piece was the elaborate throne at the head of the dining table. Words were carved on the back of the monstrosity.
'Hem roeckt niet wiens huys dat brant, als hi hem by de colen wermen mach' was what the words spelled. They were carved into the gold, rather than written, though the words flowed in an elaborate, curly script.
Mr. and Mrs. Finch-Fletchley shared a long look. "I think it wouldn't be amiss to add another language to our repertoire, or at the very least have someone over to translate everything. It simply won't do to live in a house filled with things we can't even pronounce, let alone understand."
Their tour of the building, aided by the ancient floorplans those odd goblins had provided when asked, took them quite a while. They found over a dozen bedrooms scattered over the four floors, as well as three separate libraries and an additional seven living rooms of various sizes. The most crazy things they found in those had to be the stuffed monkey whose furry fingers were adorned with dozens of thick, golden rings, the massive fireplace made out of (what else could it be) gold and the cabinet in one of the less formal dining rooms that held a dozen of elaborate golden set of cutlery. The funny thing was that, no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get the doors of the cabinet to open.
Second to none was, however, the completely golden room. Every single surface had been coated with it, from the ceiling to the walls and even the furniture did not escape the golden madness that ran rampant in the room. What was weird however was that the moment Justin and his parents had set one foot inside they found that they couldn't speak.
"…" Mrs. Finch-Fletchley had tried, cheeks flushing and hands starting to wave madly once she realise she couldn't utter a single word. "…!"
Justin had clapped his hands but that too produced not a sound.
"Wicked," he'd manage to say the moment he crossed the threshold back out of the room and into the hallway. "We've got to get grandma inside that room and pretend that everything's fine. It would drive her up the wall in no time."
Mrs. Finch-Fletchley whacked her son on his head, gently though, and clacked her tongue disapprovingly. Mr. Finch-Fletchley however stroked his thin thoughtfully. He never did like his omnipresent mother-in-law.
"Dad," Hermione's voice as sweet as the candy her parent's didn't let her eat and her face was the very definition of angelic grace. It immediately made Mr. Granger wary. He knew and loved his daughter but he had learned to dread her when she used this voice.
"Yes, darling?" He answered back after folding his (magical, with moving pictures) newspaper, fearing what she was about to say.
His darling daughter edged closer to his comfortable armchair, a true pinnacle of whatever magic thing was done to it because no matter the temperature the chair was always warm and cosy.
"Well," she began. "We have a lot of stables and a pasture and I did some research in the library and did you know that there are flying horses? They even have breeds, but that's not important now. I studied them and I really want an Granian. Some people say that they are more stable than the native Aethonan and they are the fastest breed there is. According to Hazardous Horses and How to Handle Them they are by far the easiest to take care of, and horseback riding is a very dignified pursuit in the Magical World. Proper Pureblood Pastimes has four chapters dedicated to its virtues, dad, four chapters. Can we get one? Please, daddy?"
Mr. Granger pinched the bridge of his nose. If a world-weary sigh escaped his lips, well, that was purely coincidental and had nothing to do with his precocious daughter. He kept one ear tuned to his little girl's long-winding discussion on a Granian's aerial stability compared to other breeds and how she would take really, really good care of it.
His daughter had never shown an ounce of interest in ponies before, but now that they were 'magical, flying ponies', well, no girl would stand a chance.
"Go ask your mum."
If there was one thing Mr. Finch-Fletchley had to name as his biggest flaw it was his and his wife's tendency to spoil their son. It was hard not too, with the both of them having such well-paying jobs it made what would normally be outrageous requests into only mildly expensive ones. Both him and his wife had grown up with well-to-do, but strict parents. It had been confusing when they had been told 'no' when they knew their parents could easily afford whatever it is they wanted.
They didn't want Justin to feel such odd, conflicting feelings and so it was that they usually gave in quite easily. Perhaps it was guilt, perhaps it was some odd, psychological form of revenge towards their own parents. They didn't know, but in the end it only meant Justin usually got whatever he wanted (within reason, his request of a boat had of course not been one they'd granted).
It didn't mean that Mr. Finch-Fletchley was at all immune to the steadily rising dread that his son's sparkling eyes and innocent smile seemed to summon. It felt as if spider's were crawling up his back and some faraway sniper had him in his crosshairs, ready to pull the trigger if he denied whatever request his son brought to him.
Because Justin when told no? A horror.
He'd prefer the sniper, truth be told.
"Dad." The monster inhabiting his darling son's skin said slowly, smiling all the while. "Look at what I found."
His son-turned-evil-mastermind handed him one of those peculiar moving pictures magic folks seemed to have. What was on the picture made his heart stop for one dreadfully long second. When his most vital muscle regained its steady rhythm an equally wicked grin began to form on Mr. Finch-Fletchley's own lips, mirroring his son's.
"Let's go ask your mum, son." He said after clapping his son on the back. What a great lad he'd raised, such a marvellous boy.
Flying motorcycles. Now that was an entirely sensible request. What was magic a wonder, being able to combine the two best things in the world into one awe-inspiring machine. Flying motorcycles, come hell or high water, he was going to get one of those.
Kudos to whoever finds all the sayings I've hidden in the Finch-Fletchley's house-tour part. Some are Dutch, some translate to English as well.