Pretty but Peculiar Girl

I was raised (though not born) in the unassuming village of Portsmere Heath, in the picturesque country of Wiltshire, nestled between its rolling downland, chalk river vales, and ancient forests. the south of this quaint little place was a steep hill facing south west, on which cows, sheep and horses quietly grazed under the warm June sun. Oftentimes, I retreated there for solitude and study, seeking a repose from life's toil and demands. The hours spent in the shelter of the mighty oak with a book on my lap belonged to my most treasured moments, and never failed to have my spirit revived and invigorated.

The great King's Road entered the village through the West-gate at the foot of the hill, curved to the right and upwards, ascending with the green, velvety slope. A lazy river ran across the eastern part of the town, where women did their washing and young boys and girls played, in a carefree manner that only children can, unbound by the cares of the grown-ups. The north side was surrounded by acres of woodland teeming with fauna and flora. The spot was also dear to my own heart, and I loved taking long walks there, with no clearly defined purpose but to let my dreams and imagination roam freely, along with the deer and other wild game which made their home in its abounding shrubberies.

The village itself did not stand out from a dozen others dotted around the country. It had a little white stone church, a brick town hall, several shops, an all boys' school (for girls were taught at home the art of motherhood and homemaking) and a tavern, which drew the town residents on many an evening with its assortment of affordable beverages, a lively tune to lift up the spirits after a day of labour, and companions of various sorts with whom to discuss the events of the day. However, at the heart of the social life of the townsfolk was the market square, the site of daily errands, business transactions and, more importantly, the exchange of the local gossip, of which I suspected that I was a frequent subject.

The town was a home to a simple rural community. The folk of Portsmere Heath, most of whom were farmers, were of a friendly and hospitable nature, though also rather provincial in their thinking, tending to look with suspicion at anyone who dared to break the traditional mould, and I surely belonged to that category.

Most of the families occupied the houses along the two cobblestone roads that flanked the square. Each house was made of grey stone and had a cross-gabled, steeply pitched roof. Their leaded glass windows, framed with rough-hewn stonework, were opened wide with the first crow of the rooster, and overlooked a patch of garden at the back and a yard at the front. The buildings were so uniform and alike in their appearance as to leave no doubt about the conformative mindset of their inhabitants.

One of the cottages, situated on the outskirts and more secluded from the main view, belonged to my father, Maurice Granger and me, his only daughter, Hermione Jean. My papa was a local craftsman, a man rather advanced in years but whose mental faculties remained sharp as ever, not blunted by the environment or absence of like-minded companionship.

The love of his life and wife of his youth, and my dear mother Penelope, had died soon after I crossed the age of one, so I was told, leaving him bereaved and alone to care for me. Soon after, he left behind the industrial city of London with its smoke-heavy air that claimed the life of my mama prematurely, and settled in the rural Wiltshire in hopes of raising me in a cleaner, calmer and friendlier atmosphere that the countryside afforded, as he shared with me on an occasion.

However, the years preceding Penelope's passing were not a matter willingly raised by either me or my father by some sort of a quiet mutual understanding. Though I longed to know more, the pained expression on his face in those rare moments when our conversations neared that delicate subject, warned me that despite the years that had lapsed since, the tragic events were still vividly etched in his memory and to inquire any further would be to bring him more hurt and grief, which I did not wish to do.

I was brought up to be a lover of nature and good literature. The former was easy, for the magnificent landscape surrounding the village caused wonder and brought delight even to the most dull-eyed of observers. The latter proved more challenging for there was one library in the village, and few well-thumbed books adorned its otherwise empty and dust-gathering shelves. It must be said that any sign of wear on the tomes was but a doing of their singular reader, that is me. I was described as a "funny girl" by my well-meaning but ignorant fellow villagers, who considered my fascination with the imaginary world as a youthful whim at best, and an undeniable mark of having a screw loose at worst (poor darling takes after her eccentric father, they were wont to say).

Having been of years five and a score, I set my sights significantly higher than what was expected of a maiden of my age, who should be content with finding a suitable husband and bearing children. It is not that I did not dream of romance, dream I did, and often; but there was so much more to be explored, new knowledge to be gained, exotic places to be visited, and interesting people to be met, and I thought my own world frightfully little and confined. Thus, I escaped to the realm of my books, looking for solace and adventure between their dog-eared pages.

Not engaged in an active search for a husband, I did not devote too much attention to my outward appearance, though I heard people say that I was pleasant to look upon. Standing before the looking glass, I found the girl in front of me not wholly unlovely, with the heart-shaped face of milky complexion, encircled by long, flowing masses of chocolate brown hair, which I usually plaited around the crown of my head for reasons of functionality and practicality as I went about my daily tasks. Bright, hazel eyes peered back at me appraisingly from the smooth glossy surface, my brows furrowed slightly, which gave me a decided and determined look. I examined the slight crease at the corners of my lips, which, besides hinting at my age, reflected that, for all my earnest outlook on life, I was not a creature devoid of humour and laughter, whatever others may have said. My nose was positively covered in freckles, which were especially visible in the bright lighting of a summer's day. Not that it particularly mattered, with my face usually buried in a book, which had earned me a reputation of "a pretty but peculiar lass", with a pronounced emphasis on the latter.

With all that some people were saying about me in the simplicity of their mind (I did not doubt that their words were not motivated by vicious spite but rather the human proclivity to form opinions and pass judgements based on limited information and understanding), at times I wondered if the fact of me being bookish and très ambitious was the sole reason for their somewhat reserved attitude and mistrustful looks directed at me as I passed the streets of their town. My town, I corrected myself mentally. Born far from its low-lying valleys, rolling hillside pastures, winding country lanes and swathes of green fields, now golden with the ripening harvest, was I not one of their kindred, having spent nearly all my years here? As I pondered the differences that set us apart, I was under the impression that they went beyond the material, having been rooted in a deeper sense of identity. The distinctions must have been marked by something far less tangible than my intellectual sensibility, unconventional interests and lack of concern for the matters that the maid of my age ought to occupy herself with, but nevertheless palpably true.

These were the thoughts skimming through my mind as I navigated the town's narrow alleys that led to the southern gate, near where the library was situated. It had become my habit to come there frequently, although I endeavoured to let at least several days pass between my visits as to not impose myself on Mr Garrick Ollivander, the village blacksmith who devoted his unoccupied afternoons to repair the old building, which gradually deteriorated from disuse, and who had unofficially taken on the role of its guardian, having a rudimentary knowledge of the literary classics, which may seem unlikely given his present profession. He was also my greatest ally, next to my pa, in propagating literacy among townspeople, especially young women and girls, who seldom received further instruction beyond the very basics of reading, writing and arithmetic, and even those skills were oft found wanting.

The premise of educating what people referred to as weaker sex (but I vehemently disagreed with that notion and thought women capable of greatest acts of courage and sacrifice) was generally deemed entirely unnecessary and frowned upon by the society. Most girls were taught at home, and those fortunate to be born into a family of higher social status, and whose parents' pocket could afford it, by a trained governess.

The woman's main assignment and crowning achievement to which she should wholeheartedly attend was to secure a decent marriage offer, and, therefore, the focus of her education centred around making her appealing to prospective suitors. It seemed, the primary if not sole aim of education for females such as myself, was to rear us to become "decorative, modest, marriageable beings"; in our town, at least, this was certainly the case. Many equated schooling with a life of futility and purposelessness, and in sooth, reciting Shakespeare's sonnets and quoting John Milton, or else daydreaming about your own adventures fashioned after Gulliver's would not help one manage their household. But wasn't there more to life than ensuring the house was in order, the children well fed, and the husband enjoyed his second helping of soup?

WIth that being said, I tried not to look down upon other girls, who had given themselves to this purpose, because I knew that the life of housekeeping, motherhood and manual labour were one of the few options at their disposal. Spinsters, such as I was in danger of becoming, having remained unmarried despite my "ripe" age, were considered inferior, and were more often than not doomed to reach the pitiful end of common beggars, or with fate favourable enough, of unpaid servants, relying on the charity of the male relatives. The few intent on taking charge of their own destiny by renouncing the social and moral conventions became "fallen women".

It seemed that my kind faced these three choices: marriage, domestic service, or a life of femme galante, if they did not wish to be reduced to begging or scrounging for sustenance. Such was our plight and whenever I temporarily lost fervour for the cause, disheartened by unfavourable attitudes and meagre results, this conclusion alone drove me forward in my objective of helping to liberate women by the primary means of educating them.

Thus far, I had but one pupil under my tutelage. Luna Lovegood, whose character certainly lived up to her name, was an enchanting girl of ten, slim and fair as waxwork, with enormous dreamy blue eyes and pale yellow ringlets that reached down her waist. The way she looked at the world with innate curiosity, constantly questioning and investigating, revealed an inquisitive and restless mind, much like my own. Half an orphan, such as myself, she lived alone with her father, Xenophilius Lovegood in a tall, rickety house off the King's Road, at the foot of the hill.

Mr Lovegood was a man of a similar stamp to my father, noted for his unorthodox views and unconventional interests, even more so than my own papa, for he rarely ever left his abode, eschewing all human contact for the sake of his research, of which nature I knew not.

It is strange how the life of the Lovegood family paralleled ours in many ways. We had conversed on a couple of occasions and the way the man spoke had left me with an uneasy impression that he possessed some secret knowledge from which the rest of us were barred. Yet, he deeply cared for his daughter and had readily extended permission for me to teach her the fundamentals of reading and writing, for which I was immensely grateful.

Luna was a quick learner and a delightful company, though she sometimes caught me off guard with her precocious understanding of the frailty of human condition, and natural wisdom quite beyond her years. She appeared to see and hear more that was expedient for a damsel of her age. This worried me a bit and I would have liked her to be more child-like and blithe, but whenever I disclosed these doubts to my father, his response, delivered with an accompanying chuckle, was that I had been no different, and that her emotional and social development would eventually follow her cognitive maturity.

Arriving at the library, I put these thoughts aside. There would be time to return to them later. My eyes swept over the prominent, handsome building, which in the days of its glory must have been one of the finer samples of the local architecture with its decorative facade of ivory stone presenting well against the darker sylvan backdrop of high woody hills. Presently, its slowly decaying, faded walls, green with overgrown ivy and moss, were scarcely distinguishable from the uncultivated grove trees, which advanced beyond their appointed perimeters.

Inside, several rows of tall and wide pine-tree bookcases extended toward the white, freshly-plastered ceiling, the newest product of Mr Oliivander's restorative efforts.

In many ways it looked like a typical library must have looked (although I had no other point of reference, rarely having gone further than three miles from our town) safe for the yawning emptiness of the shelves, which made for a very desolate sight. Only a dozen tomes adorned one of its otherwise hollow cases near the entrance. I knew them all by heart, having read them many times for the dearth of other literature. The eclectic collection consisted of: Beowulf, Malory's Morte D'Arthur, Paradise Lost, the mentioned Gullvier's Travels, Romeo and Juliet and a little book of Shakespearan sonnets, Mother Goose's Fairy Tales and Nursery Rhymes, which I currently had at home for the purpose of perfecting reading with Miss Luna, next the Alchemist, The Essays of Counsels, Civil and Moral by Bacon, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, an old, battered copy of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales and18th Century Lyrics- Selected Works, many of which I had memorised by frequent reciting.

As I perused the shelf, wondering which one to pick for my next read, the light peered inside, rendering the dust specks even more discernible. Having made my decision, I took out a hand-sawn copy of Romeo and Juliet, which I had read so many times I had ceased to count, the book's fragile binding and creased pages bearing the testimony of that fact. I blew the dust off its yellowed cover, which displayed an ink-drawn illustration of the star-crossed lovers from the famous balcony scene, with the vine branches hanging on the walls of the Capulet's residence.

"Who is there?" I heard a voice somewhere above my head, so I looked up and around. It belonged to Mr Ollivander, whose straggly silver hair was the only part visible, the rest of the man obscured from my view by the tall bookcase. I walked over to him.

Seeing me, Mr Ollivander climbed down the library ladder on which he was standing and nodded in my direction with a sincere smile, "Ah, Miss Granger! And what will you be borrowing today?"

"Romeo and Juliet, I think. You know that I like to re-read it every summer season, the warmth aids my imagination in transplanting myself to the streets of Verona," I answered.

"Help yourself, child," was his kind reply and his eyes left me for a while, apparently preoccupied with the surface of the wooden case.

"You've done a wonderful job on the ceiling. Just look how much brighter it is! When you're finished fixing up this place people will hardly recognise it." My praise was genuine.

A tinge of colour crossed his face, "Oh, this is most kind of you to say. I daresay the room looks better but still an awful lot remains to be done. As far as reading is concerned, how is the young Miss Lovegood doing with her lessons?"

"Wonderfully well. I'm positively astonished at how quickly she's making progress. She can already read a simple book without my assistance, and we have only begun in April."

"This is indeed a good piece of news in a world filled with bad. And who will be your next recruit?" he asked jokingly.

"I don't know that yet, Luna is the only one from whose parents I managed to obtain an approval so far. To be fair, I had another idea, just an inkling, of forming a new school here in our little town following the pattern of "ragged" schools that are being established in London. I think the premise is quite revelatory. It would be volunteer-led and therefore open to all, and free of charge…"

Barely had I begun to outline the innovative idea when the man waved his hand dismissively at me.

"Listen, missy. Your efforts are most admirable but I'm afraid you're on a wild goose chase with what you're trying to accomplish. I've spent my last fifteen years here and this place is a proverbial cultural backwater. Portsmere Heath has its charm and that's why I've stayed for so long but all modern arguments roll off its residents like water off a duck's back. Take my advice and don't entertain this idea any longer. Teaching fledglings is a wise, even noble pursuit but the older folks will sooner chase you off with their pitchfork than support the founding of such an institution. Even if your enthusiasm and persistence were to eventually warrant their approval, I doubt it would reach as deep as their pockets."

The incredulous expression on the man's face matched the ambivalence in his voice but I was altogether too excited and invested in my idea to let it dampen my zeal. I carried on animatedly, unravelling the details of my plan at length.

"...as for the governing body, more learned men, such as yourself or my father could fulfil the role, at least temporarily," I finished the outline of my project.

My interlocutor said nothing at this, but his work-roughened hand stroked his beard as he listened. At length, he spoke, "By Jove, you surely can talk. I can see I will not succeed in imploring you to abandon your scheme. In many ways you can be just as hopelessly stubborn as old Mr Xenophilius. He's devoted years to his research, deaf to all persuasion and what has he achieved? Nothing, and poor Miss Luna is more than half an orphan with her father given over to spending long hours shut in his study."

"Oh, but he loves his daughter fervently, and insists on having her around most of the time, though I agree that Luna should be encouraged to mingle with other children more to learn social graces. She's a sweet child but spends an awful deal of time alone; other girls seem to exclude her from their games and she thinks of me as her only good friend. Naturally, I am very fond of her, in fact, I see some of myself in her. Perhaps it's the family circumstances and the fact of both of us being raised without the maternal presence, the thread that has fastened us together," I said, thinking of the girl's mother who, similarly to mine, died one winter, when Luna was very young.

Yet, unlike Penelope's death, which in all its tragedy was not uncommon, hers fell under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances. The townsfolk were saying that Mrs Lovegood had suffered horrendous injuries that implied a most brutal murder, but there was no evidence adduced of an outside party involved. I recalled how the local tongues wagged for the entire summer following, however as the years passed, people of Portsmere Heath seemed to have forgotten the quiet and private person of Pandora Lovegood.

"You share more with Miss Lovegood than you may realise," Mr Ollivander replied with a wistful sigh, as if whatever else we held in common was a sad and doleful matter, even more so than our half-orphan plight.

"Tell me please, sir, what is the nature of Mr Xenophilius' investigation? I know you are closely acquainted." I asked upon reflection, hoping to gain some insight into the subject.

To my great disappointment, Mr Ollivander, knitting his eyebrows a little, said only, "Good friends we used to be before he had shut himself out like that following the passing of Luna's mother, but your question I cannot answer."

This was the end of our conversation as I realised the lateness of the hour, the light of the dipping sun throwing its long tangerine rays onto the library's dusty walls. I placed the small-sized book in the white linen pocket conveniently tied just below my waist, and said my goodbyes.

On my way back home I met little Miss Luna, feeding the chickens that gathered around her, letting them peck at her half-open palm and humming a song softly to herself.

When I inquired about how she was doing she offered me one of her lovely smiles that blossomed slowly with a radiance of fulfilment.

"I'm well, thank you. I've been practising writing and reading my own sentences, just as you advised me, and father says I shall soon be able to assist him in his studies!" She said with a glow of satisfaction and tossed another handful of corn to a yellow chick who was bobbing its head impatiently, as to persuade its young patroness to hurry.

This mention piqued my curiosity afresh but I decided against further questioning. What would a little girl like her know of her father's work?

I simply smiled and said, "You must have made your papa proud. Shall we meet again on the morrow?"

"Yes, Miss Granger."

"I will come and pick you up at ten. We'll climb to the top of the hill and have our lesson there. What say you?"

"I should like it very much." said Luna in her gentle, dreamlike voice.

"That's settled, then. Have a good afternoon, Luna."

"Goodbye, Miss Granger."

Upon my return, I found the house empty and the meal I had left for my father still on the stove. Poor papa must have been working again into the evening. The dinner, now undoubtedly cold, consisted of a boiled leg of mutton, mashed turnips, rosemary-glazed carrots and an onion puree along with a piece of treacle tart for dessert, baked by our kind neighbour, Mrs O'Donnell, who occasionally took to indulging us with her talent for sweet delicacies; I was self-admittedly a decent cook but no baker.

I entered my father's workshop, adjacent to the house at the rear through the little back door, ready to reprimand him for his negligence of maintaining proper meal times, especially at his age. The words of rebuke died on my lips when I saw him, seated at the dark walnut desk, his grey head bent over a small wooden box and an array of tools spread untidily on the weathered surface. Dulcet melody was coming from the little machinery he was working on, its sweet, nostalgic tones and sonorous tinging of tiny bells floated through the chamber, tugging at my sky had shed its coat of colours, the warm light from the kerosene lamp competing with the last rays of the sun.

My father was a skilled tinkerer, specialising in the restoration and conservation of tools, but with his flair for invention and original thought, it was the crafting of musical boxes that brought youthful zest and ebullience to his spirit. However, with little demand for his artisan services in our area, he employed his creative mind and steady hand to mend the various household utensils that the townspeople brought to his workshop for a new lease of life. The assortment ranged from kettles and pans to mangle boards and brass oil lamps and I liked to say that if there was anything beyond his ability to restore to its previous working state, it was a sure sign that it should have been laid to rest along with one's great-grandmother who had received it as a wedding gift in her youth.

I looked more closely at the trinket: made from rosewood, with a lovely inlaid brass design consisting of scrollwork, foliation and bee skeps, set with tiny precious jewels of emerald and amber that glinted and winked at me. With the gold trimmed lid presently open, it displayed two figures dancing gracefully, rotating on the glassy base; another marvel wrought under my father's hands.

Seeing me enter, father lifted his head and met my tender gaze, reciprocating it with a soft, loving smile.

"Oh, Hermione, you're back and I am afraid I have lost track of time yet again. How are things going on within our town?"

Thinking of the furtive glances and critical stares I received this morning while procuring victuals in the marketplace I asked, "Papa, do you think I'm odd?"

"Odd? My daughter odd? Where did you get an idea like that?" He perused me with his inquisitive-looking blue eyes which twinkled meaningfully under a pair of bushy, greying eyebrows.

"I don't know. People talk…" I exhaled, unbidden feelings of self-doubt surging in my breast.

Father raised his brow, "And since when does my Hermione care for preconceived opinions? This is a small village, you know. Small-minded as well," he paused thoughtfully. "But small also means safe."

It appeared he has been guessing at the thoughts I entertained, increasingly recurrent thoughts of venturing out into the open world.

"Even back in London I knew a girl like you who was so ahead of her time. So different." he added.

He was lost in thought for a few moments, then roused himself.

"They all mocked her, until the day they all found themselves imitating her."

"Please, tell me one more thing about her," I implored, intent on seizing the moment to hear more about the woman I had never really met or had had a chance to love.

Father's eyes searched mine before he turned his gaze back to his work, "Your mother was…fearless. Fearless," he asserted, caressing the slender figure of the female dancer. Then, without warning, he pushed the lid close and the soft music ceased, the only sound in the semi-dark room being the crackling of the fire.

A/N: There it is, the first proper chapter in which we meet our heroine and learn a bit or two about her ;)

In the conversation between Hermione and her father at the end of the chapter, I've borrowed (okay, stolen) the majority of the quotes from the 2017 movie "Beauty and the Beast" though the descriptions and impressions as seen through Hermione's eyes are my own :) I just found the original movie scene so perfect and touching!
I think there'll be another "introductory" chapter to set the scene better and then we'll finally catch up to the events described in the prologue.

Also, I try my best to stay consistent and in line with the 19th century style and language but it's a challenge as my knowledge of Victorian English is limited. Therefore, if you see I've deviated, feel free to point that out!Thank you so much for reading! xx