Hermione lay in her cot after the funeral party. The Marquis was as pleased with Hermione's declaration as the Duchess was outraged. Duchess wanted Hermione to give her time to find a safe, absolute solution, but there would be no derailing her. Hermione was tired of waiting around for-for what? She didn't know, but she was going to make something happen.
Hermione extracted a promise of contact from both of them. Surely if the Widow continued to deny the Duchess entrance to the house now, after the death of her husband, talk would rise. That seemed to placate her a bit, give her mind something to chew on so she would leave Hermione a bit of space to think until she managed to make her way into the house. Sirius claimed that he had a few ideas he hadn't tried out yet and looked a bit giddy to try them out. After that, the Widow came to ruin their bit of solace with a few well placed nasty comments and an order.
She pulled the little book from under her pillow. Not the best hiding place, but they'd never go anywhere where they couldn't see their face. She smoothed a hand over the cover and held it to her chest, rolled over, and for the first time in months, slept an actual sleep.
It was difficult to find time to even glance at the book, as if the Widow knew Hermione had found a new interest. Probably mind over matter. Nonetheless, she was excited to have the book nearby, even if she wasn't studying it yet. She put a hand on it at night when she was too tired to think straight; it gave her a glimmer of hope. It made her menial tasks endurable and snide remarks easier to ignore.
Two weeks still found Hermione unable to do more than stroke the cover. She was feeling a pinprick of something more bitter tasting than annoyance, but a glorious piece of comfort arrived in the form of an ugly, angry little house elf.
A sudden sound woke Hermione, at least an hour early by the clock she'd found while cleaning. She sat up and gasped at the little creature muttering in the corner. It had a package in its hands which he stretched out to her.
"Master is ordering Kreacher to bring package to you," it said. Kreacher? Does that make it male? It muttered something sounding very insulting under its breath.
"Who's your master, Kreacher?" Hermione asked him, walking towards him slowly, ignoring the package until she knew who it was from.
"Marquis Sirius Black, miss," he said. He spat out 'miss' like it was mud and glared at her with shrewd little eyes. She caught 'nasty mudblood' from his grumblings, but disregarded his tone and snatched the parcel from him.
True excitement bubbled up through her stomach. She pulled the strings and paper packaging apart hurriedly, dumping the contents on her bed. Today's Daily Prophet, a necklace and a piece of parchment fell out. The parchment was a letter from Sirius:
Dearest Hermione,
If you're reading this, then my intellect has not left me in my old age. I know for sure that I'm as spry as a young buck still, but that's a story for another time isn't it? The old Widow's not looking out for house elves, so I'll be sending Kreacher along with the Prophet daily. I know his manners are less than stellar, but he's not good for much else. Maybe your feminine charms will soften him, yes? The little tidbit on the lower left corner of the front page may prove comforting to you along with the main buffoonery.
Happy marauding,
Your favorite uncle
P.S.
The necklace is antique with a bit of a kick to it. I'll let you find out on your own!
Hermione smiled. Old prat. She picked up the necklace and studied it. It was a simple fine gold chain with a small pendant in the shape of a bird, a dove or maybe a sparrow. She thought of a sparrow's aerial acrobatics, free and ambitious. "Sparrow it is then." When she clasped it around her neck it was long enough to dip beneath her plain dress and her hair was enough to cover it. The happy feeling she got at receiving Sirius's letter seemed to concentrate in the pendant and warm the spot where it touched her skin. Is that the kick? She shrugged.
"Must Kreacher stands here forever or can he leave?" the house elf asked from the corner, surprising Hermione. She'd forgotten all about him in her excitement. "Filthy mudbloodses," he muttered, not as quietly as he thought.
"Go on then!" Hermione snapped. Foul little imp. He snapped his fingers and was gone. Glancing at the clock, Hermione sat down on her cot with the newspaper. The front page had a large picture of the King and Queen smiling primly and between them Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott stood. Nott had a broad smirk on his thin angular face; it almost didn't fit. Malfoy looked stoic, standing with his hands clasped behind him. The title read "Prince Adoption!"
This reporter is both happy and shocked to announce the coronation of Princes Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott! The crowning ceremony, followed by a lovely fete, was attended by only the crème de la crème, and yours truly was allowed exclusive entrance to bring the news back to you all. Amidst the pomp, the two young men were first adopted into the royal family, then graced with a circlet and ring with the royal crest to signify their new stance in the world of wizarding royalty. The fete resembled a brightly colored garden of swirling flowers as all those in attendance were donned in every color Madame Malkin ever had in stock. Even yours truly was wrapped in the finest navy blue and turquoise silk The Weird Sisters played another career advancing concert and the food was absolutely delicious. Beautiful!
Even as one celebrates the introduction of the two princes, the adoption and crowning does make one wonder if the allegations from an issue a few weeks ago aren't true: are the king and queen barren? If they weren't surely they would have produced at least one male heir by now and maybe a few princesses.
It also makes this reporter contemplate the king's plans for the kingdom. How is ascension to the throne to be decided? Both young men are the sons of dukes associated with the House of Slytherin. Handsome does not begin to describe them; while Draco Malfoy is all fair skin, steel eyes and very very blond hair, Theodore Nott has midnight black hair and the deepest brown eyes. With the bodies of young gods in their prime, these men will have no problem finding a wife when the time comes. While they hold parallel to each other in looks, Nott is at a distinct disadvantage when compared to Draco Malfoy otherwise. The Malfoy family is equal parts wealthy and ambitious. Mayhaps the Nott boy was chosen as a back-up? Or is this to be a competition for the crown? Yours truly will have her eyes and ears open, looking for the most important information to relay back to you, loyal readers.
Hermione scoffed. Important information my ass. The article was full of useless details, but morsels of interesting facts were hidden in it. The king and queen have chosen to adopt heirs-not one, but two-instead of having their own. Draco Malfoy has upgraded to a larger silver spoon. There wasn't much else to be said about the situation; the relations of the royals were either masters of their own kingdoms or very, very distant. To adopt and name their hers now was to avoid blood in the future, but to name two heirs seemed to defeat the purpose.
Hermione left the last bit to mull over later and moved on to the next article. She was glad to see that the article in the corner was shorter. I don't know how much more of Rita Skeeter's drivel I can read in one day.
Yours truly witnessed quite the display of bad hospitality yesterday at the home of the recently deceased Lord Daniel Granger. The four-time widowed Azalea Granger nee Greengrass (and many other names) denied the esteemed Duchess Minerva McGonagall entrance to her home in a most disgusting manner for what seems to be not the first time. The Duchess politely requested to visit with her goddaughter Hermione Granger, daughter of the late Lord Daniel and Jane Granger. She was turned away with the use of several offensive words and one very prejudice word that I shan't foul my pen with by writing it down.
After four mysteriously dead, wealthy husbands, and in light of her recent attitude towards the distinguished Duchess and her own step daughter, one begins to wonder if Madame Azalea Granger thinks herself too well off to entertain highly public profiles like that of the Duchess and-if reports from my source are correct-the well liked Marquis Sirius Black?
Somewhere off in the distance, the bitch was shrieking. Something precious, disgustingly expensive hit a wall. Hermione giggled.
Hope it wasn't too terrible! Journalism is not my strong suit but I hope it went well.