Lord Granger, left for the Caribbean soon after Hermione was banished from her classes. The Black Widow's reign truly began then. While Hermione's step-sisters continued on with their lessons, Hermione was put in charge of the housekeeping crew, which under the guise of saving money, dwindled to Hermione, the cook and a stable boy. Between the three of them, the silver remained bright, floors polished, linens white, gowns starched, furniture dustless. The Lady and her two henchmen stayed in altering states of pleasure and ignorance to Hermione's misery.
It wasn't so bad at first, when Hermione had her wand and was able to spell and charm things into order. Even when her dresses started mysteriously disappearing from her closet, sheets and pillows from her bed, trinkets and jewelry from her room, the transfiguration and charms kept her sane. When what was left of her possessions was unceremoniously dumped in the mostly empty servants, room, Hermione still had the books she saved hidden from the Widow's sight and her wand. Soon though, her wand was taken in a fit of malice and to bring her books out at night when she had a chance to rest was to risk those being taken as well. You will be left with nothing, replayed in her mind too often.
The final blow struck many months later. Her father came home from his budding business in the Caribs with a fever that had no other symptoms and no obvious causes. The fever took a deadly turn and two days found a bitter Hermione standing beside her father's sick bed, opposite two indifferent sisters and a convincingly tearful Black Widow. An elderly healer tottered around, waving her wand in the same patterns she'd been waving them for the last two days. Her charms and spells yielded the same results as the last two weeks as well: nothing. No virus, no bacteria, no parasites, no poisons. She wasn't incompetent, nor had she been bought off as far as Hermione knew. The Black Widow was just good. Or bad, depending on your perspective.
"He's not going to live is he?" the Widow asked, sniffling into her handkerchief something fierce. When the healer shook her head slowly, the Widow let out a short wail and fell to her knees. It was all a very good act in Hermione's opinion. The three Widow and her henchwomen obviously had practice at showing grief.
Hermione mourned for more than her father; he was lost to her the day he met the spider and her little hatchlings and she'd been mourning him for some time. She mourned for the death of her future as well now. She might survive these women and their evil-heart beats and breath and such-but there would be no life for her with these women around.
She watched as her father's labored breaths slowed, stuttered and then stopped. The Widow crumpled to the floor clutching his hand and crying in earnest now. Astoria and Daphne began to sniffle, big fat crocodile tears sliding down their faces. The healer called time of death, offered her condolences and left the room quietly. When the door closed behind her, the Widow's head snapped up. She stood up and straightened her skirt, brushing off invisible dust.
"Daphne," she said, none of the faked grief in her voice. "Quickly, write Daniel's lawyer. Tell him he's dead and we want his will enacted as soon as possible. Astoria warn those nasty little goblins at Gringotts that a pretty little sum will be arriving soon." When the girls hesitated, she snapped at them. "Come on then, we don't have all day and I have too much to do to hover over the two of you. There's a funeral to be planned."
The girls scurried off to their tasks. Daphne glanced back as she left the room to sneer at Hermione and offer a parting, "Mudblood." Astoria snickered behind her. The Widow moved towards the door, leaving the room as well.
"It seems you've failed in saving your father," she said. "Such a shame after all that hard work, that you have nothing to show for it. You'll be nothing soon enough." Her laugh resembled her youngest daughter's titters. "Don't you have something you should be scrubbing?"
The woman left Hermione and her dead father alone. She stared at his whitening face hard for a moment before hurrying from the room. She couldn't force herself to stay in the room with her lifeless father for long. Nothing banged around in her head as she made her way back to the servants' quarters, growing in volume as she sat down on the bed and began to cry.
What am I supposed to do now? Orphaned, poor and muggleborn did not a treasure make. The Black Widow forbade the Duchess or Marquis Black from visiting the house and burned every correspondence Hermione ever sent or got, effectively cutting her off from the public. The funeral would be the first time Hermione left the house in months and she wasn't even sure if Hermione be allowed to go. I have to leave this place, she thought. But how?
Terribly short today, but as soon as I figure out how to start the next chapter I will upload again. All the best!