No, I will weep no more. In such a night
To shut me out? Pour on; I will endure.
In such a night as this? O Regan, Goneril!
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all—
O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;
No more of that.
- King Lear, Shakespeare
"Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"
"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to."
"I don't much care where –"
"Then it doesn't matter which way you go."
- Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
It always annoyed Hermione, the way people were apt to declare they were in the middle of nowhere.
Standing alone, as the empty dusk sky melded into a muddy field on all sides around her, Hermione had to cringe at her pedantic neurosis.
She wasn't quite in the middle of nowhere. There was water in her socks, and the air was filled with the sound of mosquites and the rustling of high grass, but it was entirely clear that about a mile to her left the field came to an end. To her right, it stretched out to meet the horizon. So to be fair, she was slightly off centre from the middle of nowhere.
A sharp southerly wind needled through her work robes, as if reminding her they were unsuited to a field in france. Unsuited for anything outside of research really. Was she really still wearing them? How many hours ago had she been worried about arriving to work early? It was another world away. Her hair whipped around her as Hermione let out the deep shuddering breath she'd unknowingly been holding. She should get moving. Form a plan of attack.
She was stranded in a field in her work robes and satchel. She had about 16 pounds on her, 2 galleons, 5 sickles, maybe half a dozen knuts at the bottom of her bag and definitely no Euro's. She didn't have a bank card, didn't have any form of muggle ID. She had a phone with no numbers in it, a crudely drawn bullet list, and no idea which direction would take her to the Delaceurs.
Hermione took another look around the field for good measure. Grass, no crops. No discernable signage. No livestock.
No way to know if she was in muggle territory or not.
Could she risk an apparition? Surely the field was close to the Delaceurs and therefore somewhat near a magical province. Then again, the port key sites during the world cup had been muggle. Unknown magical spikes in a muggle area might be tracked. Was she being paranoid?
Wouldn't be the first time Granger
Ron and Harry would probably have apparated by now. Or whipped out their wands to dry their socks before the thought even crossed their mind. She was just being paranoid.
Constant Vigilance!
Great. Now the voice had adopted Mad Eye's gravelly bark.
With a groan Hermione shrugged off her robe and rustled through her beaded bag for a muggle jacket. She'd walk to the road. Her socks were well and truly soaked now anyway. Better safe then sorry.
Of course, it had started to rain by the time she'd reached the road. The sky had opened up and the last dregs of indigo light had washed the field almost away until she was not so much walking as wading towards the tree line. The road itself was mainly hard packed yellow dirt and Hermione might had grimaced down at it, if only she could muster the energy to care. Her every conscious thought was trained on raising her right foot before her left. Then her left before her right. Then repeating. Repeating until the weight of her satchel and the droplets falling from her matted hair and the sheer implausibility of her surroundings were forgotten. Right. Left. Repeat.
She must have gone on for about a hundred metres this way, before realising she'd picked a direction at random. Who was to say this way lead to a village or house or sign, never mind the delacuers? Each trudging step could be in the wrong direction. The thought didn't stop her tracks, but it followed her.
Right. Left. Repeat.
I bet they're the other way
Right. Left. Repeat.
I bet there isn't a town in the direction for miles.
Right. Left. Repeat.
This road might even circle back on itself.
Right. Left. Repeat.
What if it's a dead end.
Shut up.
You shut up.
Hermione shook her head. Now was not the time to lose an argument to herself.
That way madness lies.
You're long past madness.
Shut up.
You're arguing in your head, about going the wrong way when you're not even sure of the destination.
Shut up.
Alice came to a fork in the road. 'Which road do I take?' she asked.
Shut up.
'Where do you want to go?' responded the Cheshire Cat.
Shut up!
'I don't know,' Alice answered.
Shut up!
'Then,' said the Cat, 'it doesn't matter."
"Oh would you shut up please!"
"Pardon?"
Hermione dragged her eyes from the path in front of her, astounded to see a thin, stooped man studying her bemusedly. Her heart shot out of her throat in a series of splutters and if he hadn't though a thoroughly drenched, lost English woman wandering around the French countryside batty before, he surely did now.
"Oh I'm so sorry I wasn't speaking to you- that is, I was, oh wait!" Hermione's cheeks near lit aflame as she hastily switched into broken French.
"I'm sorry. I wasn't talking of you. Do you speak English?"
The man's somewhat confused expression morphed to distaste.
"Non."
Hermione faltered further. She'd only picked up a few French phrases when travelling with her parents, and most of the time she'd had a guidebook with her.
"Could you please direct me to… erh, the Delacours?"
The man's brow furrowed as he eyed her once more. Hermione's sodden coat weighed heavier upon her frame, and she suddenly became far more aware of her drenched mane of hair. What if this man was a muggle? He wasn't likely to know the magical family was he? He was dressed fairly nondescriptly. Trench coat. Wellies. Traditional clothes that wizards in a muggle neighbourhood would be more than comfortable to don.
"The Delacours?"
"Erm. Or town. Town would be okay."
The main let fly a grumbled torrent of French, gesturing brusquely down the muddy path. Hermione just blinked at him. He seemed to realise that absolutely none of that had gone through and he sighed violently.
"You're English?"
Hermione nodded again, somewhat daunted by how ill tempered the man had become. The road seemed much darker than it had on her arrival. The trees around them seemed much closer too, leaning in, menacingly shining in the dark. The man might have been stooped but he was still larger than her, and her wand was pretty much useless now. She'd stowed it away in her bag. She was being stupid. Paranoid. She was tired. She was lucky to have run into anyone at all.
She hoped he wasn't a death eater.
"Oui."
"Didn't you pass the signs?"
Hermione's brain was usually straining to answer a presented question, but by the time it had muddled through the man's French, her face had taken over the reigns- it had 'what signs' written all over it.
"Where did you come from?"
Again Hermione faltered, unsure of her footing now that this apparent stranger was asking rather impertinent questions.
Her mouth jumped in ahead of her brain this time.
"The field. I..uhm…" Hermione floundered beneath the ridiculous nature of her outburst, then passed it off on her French. "How do you say, Shortcut? I was lost… A more timely path…"
The man's face was hard to make out. His cheeks were hollowed out and aged, his hairline receding, but standing so far away in the cover of darkness Hermione couldn't tell if his silence was wary, or suspicious.
MINISTRY PASS MARRIAGE LAW.
In the early hours of the morning, in a secret emergency chamber meeting, the Wizengamot have decreed that all muggle-born witches and wizards, and all children of muggle-born witches and wizards, are required to marry within the next 30 days. Minister Dawlish issued a comment to the Ministry of Magic this morning, ensuring the public that this law is a necessary precaution to the dire situation we find ourselves in. "There is no denying the sacrifice we ask of our people. The continuation of our magical world, through war, through reconstruction, through any challenge is worth any cost. It is through our differences that we must come together now to ensure that our world lasts the generations, that we can always carry the hope of our blood remaining strong." Story continues page 4 with details of the new law, those affected. Turn to page 14 for the Daily Prophet's exclusive prediction of eligible muggle-born bachelors and the matches that may follow.
DISGRACED EX-MINISTER WITHDRAWS FROM WIZENGAMOT
After disruptive behaviour in this morning's chamber meeting, Ex-minister and Order of the Phoenix agitator Kingsley Shacklebolt has resigned from the Wizengamot 'In protest of the government and the proposed marriage law'. Head of the Auror Office, Gawain Robards was unavailable for comment on the status of his employee.
Narcissa flung the paper to the table top, sending the delicate breakfast instruments skidding.
She really should stop reading such filth. It only served to ruin the rest of her day. How had her various ears at the ministry fail to mention Shaklebolt's imminent withdrawl? Or was this voluntary? Surely the man wasn't so simple as to actually give up his position and power as a means of protest? Narcissa drummed her nails against the dark ebony wood and watched as the breakfast things were vanished soundlessly away by the elves, leaving the elegant table clad only in mounds of notes and registers.
Who was now in charge of overseeing the estates? She had to send Draco up to the ministry immediately. There was little power left to the Malfoy name, but at least some gold in the vaults. Junior officials were easily bought. If they delayed the investigation further though, perhaps She had time to hide away a few more considerable estates. As it was, only the offshore sites and those in her maiden name had remained untouched. She was fond of the Irish Manor. Perhaps she could modify a few of the documents in the mean time. Rising gracefully, she made her way to the marble hearth, intent on summoning Draco when instead it lit of it's own accord. As the sowed, aged face spun into the grate she attempted to place it. The gamekeeper, that was certain, but where on earth from. Perhaps when the ministry was through with her she'd finally have fewer faces to remember.
"Madame je suis désolé de vous déranger. Vous m'avez demandé de vous avertir si tout Anglais sorcières visités. J'ai juste eu une jeune fille anglaise se promener autour du champ sud. Je ne pouvais pas dire à partir de sa robe si elle était une sorcière ou pas. Elle a été inondée à la peau, mais pas très loin du port-point clé. Elle n'avait pas vu de signes d'avertissement de ruines dangereuses. Je lui ai donné directions et à lui laisser aller, mais j'ai pensé que vous devriez savoir"
Narcissa let the meaning to his french trickle through to meaning.
"Madam I'm sorry to bother you. You asked me to warn you if any English witches visited. I just had a young English girl wandering around the south field. I couldn't tell from her dress if she was a witch or not. She was drenched to the skin but not far off from the port-key point. She hadn't seen any warning signs for dangerous ruins. I gave her directions and let her go, but I thought you should know"
Ah. The Malfoi estate.
Perhaps the Ministry had someone new snooping about already.
A/N: Adventures in university and depression have pretty much put this fic on the backburner. I'm so sorry to anyone still reading. I haven't abandoned it and mid semester is coming up soon so I'm going to try and pick it up. Thanks to CRMediagal for helping me out with a few plot points and just being there to encourage me- You're fantastic thank you so much. Also: to anyone who writes and loves fanfic, you should definitely give the book 'fangirl' a read, it was scarily accurate and just a great read. Love you all, hope you're sticking around :)
