Chapter 3: Do not get attached
...
During the following months, Hermione noticed how Lady Malfoy's gaze transformed. In the beginning, Hermione felt like nothing but a zoo animal, not that she had ever been to a zoo but had read about them. How people admired and awe at captivated creatures, staring at their colours and uniqueness for a moment before dismissing them and going to the next cage. That's how Lady Malfoy would see her, like a pet in a zoo. Lady Narcissa was entertained enough to let her roam the Library, pick some tomes, and dismiss her as other pressing matters were more important. Apparently, being the Lady of the Manor was a very consuming occupation.
It was almost offensive. To feel like the wealthy Lady's baboon. She would ask Hermione to recite a summary of the books she had read that week and provide a list of the ones she wanted to read next. Hermione had forgotten how Lady Malfoy's eyes looked. She barely bothered looking in Hermione's direction while the girl recited her week's literature adventures. But the books were worthy, so Hermione kept returning faithfully every week. "She will eventually tire; we are nothing to rich people, my love. Do not forget that she will get bored and eventually dismiss you." Monica's words would daunt Hermione, although they were meant to be soothing: "Do not get attached, my love or you will get your heart broken."
She was not getting attached. It was just a strange feeling. Not knowing why Lady Malfoy would bother making Hermione talk for an hour about sequels and epilogues when she could have one of the servants open the door for her, let her pick the books, and leave without enduring the cold dismissal of an aristocratic lady.
The servant girls were kind to Hermione, though. Particularly Mrs. Sprout. She would give Hermione a freshly baked cookie after seeing Lady Narcissa and ask her about her week back at home. "I barely leave the manor; I like hearing you talk about the crop fields and the people at the village."
After a while, Hermione started to forget to clean her knees as thoroughly and sometimes would forget to remove the wildflowers from her hair—the ones Luna liked to braid into her wild curls.
One day in particular, her hair must have been quite untamed as Lady Malfoy laughed more loudly than Hermione had ever heard, calling her a wild lion with a lion's mane.
"When was the last time you brushed your hair?" she asked non-mockingly.
Hermione's cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. She sincerely did not remember and told her so. Mom had tried to do it early in the week, but Hermione was in much of a hurry to leave for class; this week, they were learning about geometry, and she was still struggling to calculate the volume of a sphere.
Lady Malfoy's gaze became tender.
"My mother was quite opposed to me reading and attending school. She felt it was such a waste of my potential when I could be learning to serve high tea," Lady Malfoy told her. "I sincerely was more worried about discovering why boiling water and leaves could transform into tea than learning how to serve it for the old boring ladies."
Hermione had to cover her mouth to dissimulate her giggle.
Grey and stormy, with little dots of sunshine, Hermione thought. That's how Lady Malfoy's eyes look when she is pleased.
"I am sorry for my appearance; I will make sure to..."
"Don't," she cut her gently, "Don't apologize for something you don't mean. And it would help if you didn't mean it. I want you to come with wild hair and dirty nails from hunting pixies, telling me about all those places you have travelled through our books."
Hermione did not miss how Lady Malfoy had called them ours.
"Lord Malfoy has speared me many kindnesses. One of them was my dream to have a school for the girls in the state. You remind me of the reason why I advocated for it."
Hermione no longer felt like a circus attraction. She thought that maybe, just maybe, in her own eccentric and aristocratic way, Lady Malfoy cared.
Several weeks later, Hermione learned to pay more attention to Lady Narcissa's moods. She would always be composed. But Hermione noticed when her eyes were red from a sleepless night or her neck stiffed with worry and not from sitting straight on her elegant chair.
"Lord Malfoy is in a mood again, and our poor Lady has to deal with it." Mrs. Sprout would protest, "You make her smile, sweet child, so keep coming back as long as they let you."
...
After finishing the historical fiction section, Lady Malfoy asked Hermione if she enjoyed music.
Hermione did, of course. There was a small bar where all men went after work; on the rare occasions Hermione's father went, she would follow him without him noticing her, and she could hear them singing loudly through the establishment's windows. It was mainly drunk nonsense. But the piano was loud enough for her to appreciate the pleasant tones.
"We have a grand piano that is mostly abandoned. I taught Draco, but he seldom plays when he returns from Hogwarts. He's mostly occupied hunting with his father and racing in his horses or swimming with the boys. I want someone to use the piano besides my old self."
Hermione would have never called Lady Malfoy old. She was breathtakingly beautiful.
"I do not know how to play, my Lady"
"I know, Hermione." She no longer called her dear child, but instead Hermione or little lion, as if Hermione had become a person and not only another face in the state. "I will teach you, of course; you will need to come a different day of the week for your lessons."
Hermione's mom was not pleased. Initially, Hermione thought her mother was jealous. Why else would a twelve-year-old think her mother would oppose a grandiose lady to teach her daughter to play an instrument?
But on a late night, she saw her mother's head resting on her father's shoulder, "What if she takes her from us? What if they hurt her beyond repair? We are nothing but toys to them," and to Hermione's surprise, her dad sobbed as well.
...
Her fingers were not remarkably talented. One could even call them too short and clumsy for an instrument like the piano. Nevertheless, for some unknown reason, Hermione refused to disappoint Lady Malfoy, who was spending so much of her precious time trying to teach her how to play.
She would practice at home, with imaginary notes coming out of the tip of her fingers while moving them against a wooden board. Hermione would practice once a week at the Manor when Lord Malfoy was away, as Lady Malfoy did not want to disturb him. Hermione had seen him on two occasions during the past year; none had been pleasant. He had spared her a short look, full of disdain and uninterest, and Hermione had felt herself tremble.
"He has not forbidden Lady Malfoy to see you; that is as good a sign as you could expect from him," Madame McGonagall had reassured her. "Lady Malfoy would never go against him and do something to displease him. He won't be kind to you, but as long as he does not consider you a threat, he will allow whatever Lady Malfoy hopes to do with you."
The village had started to whisper. The little girl running to the Manor twice a week, Lady Malfoy's pet, she heard other girls mocking. But Hermione was above care.
Lady Narcissa's fingers were gentle when she placed them above hers to teach her to press the keynotes, and her voice had become warmer over the months when she asked Hermione to describe her days helping Mother recollect apples and berries.
"Who braids all these flowers in your hair?"
"My friend Luna, she is always kind to me; we collect them for our mothers."
Lady Malfoy had smiled that sweet smile that made her eyes wrinkle.
From then forward, Hermione would bring Lady Malfoy a small bouquet of wildflowers before each piano lesson. Hermione would pick them from the fields, fresh from that day, washing her hands in the kitchens before her lesson. Lady Narcissa would place them in a vase at the top of the piano, letting their scent fill the air while they played. She liked poppies, windflowers and sweet violets, but as Hermione would learn from a botanic book when looking for their name, Lady Malfoy's favourites were the primroses.
...
"We will have to pause our piano lessons during the summer."
Hermione tried to hide her heartbreak. She struggled to keep the tears at bay. Reminding herself that this is temporary, be grateful for whatever time Lady Malfoy has to spare for you.
"Draco will be home during the whole summer, and the house will be too busy with people coming and going."
Hermione nodded and kept her head down. She would not cry in front of Lady Narcissa.
"You should still come for books, Hermione; I do not wish you to spend the entirety of your summer without them." And Hermione knew she could not ever be upset with Lady Malfoy.
It became the new rule during her summers—their little ritual.
Walk discretely to Lady Narcissa's study while everyone was busy with lunch at the Manor, drop her books, leave a note listing the new books she had picked for herself, and Hermione always remembered to leave a small thank you flower.
...
Turning fifteen years old had been nothing but awkward. Hermione's clothes stopped fitting, her shirts becoming too tight at the top and her legs too long for her dresses.
Mother had anticipated this. She had saved some money for fabric and was ready to order practical skirts for Hermione.
She sincerely did not care. All Hermione needed were comfortable clothes to help her mother recollect and shoes that would allow her to run fast enough for when Seamus and Colin decided to play stuck in the mud.
"You need at least one pretty dress for your birthday." Lavender had insisted.
Lavender was the daughter of the gatekeeper—a respected position among the staff. Hermione initially disliked her; she had been one of the girls teasing her due to her bushy hair and big teeth. Eventually, after Hermione had helped her solve her algebra equations, "Father will be so displeased, please help me, Hermione," they had become some sort of friends.
"You like flowers; why not a flower dress!"
And Monica had listened to Lavender's suggestion for Hermione's absolute mortification.
...
The dress was lovely, yes. Too nice. Hermione would have a hard time keeping it clean from mud and dust for the remainder of the day.
But today was her sixteen birthday, and she had flatly refused wearing it last year. Mom had been sad, although she had hidden it well. Hermione would not disappoint her again. She was going to wear it and make her mom happy.
A big cake was waiting for her at home, and Dad had promised her she would be allowed to have her first sip of wine today. She just needed to stop at the Manor; Lady Malfoy had sent word she needed to arrive earlier today to pick up her birthday present. Hermione's gift was always a book she did not need to return to the Manor's Library. She was ecstatic.
"You look lovely, child, a young lady in blossom." Mrs. Sprout pinched her cheeks, making them redder and hotter than they already were. "Hurry yourself up. Lady Narcissa is expected at the Notts today, and I suspect she won't have much time to see you."
Hermione nodded and sprinted towards the studio with silent steps. She had learned to make herself quiet and discreet while navigating the hallways.
Her heart was beating furiously inside her chest. She wondered if Lady Malfoy would approve of her dress. Hermione had refused to stare at herself long in the small mirror next to her mother's side of the bed. She felt silly and self-conscious.
Before entering the Library, she was disappointed to realize she had already mudded a corner of her dress, but it was too late to do anything about it.
She knocked softly and waited for the "Come in" of Lady Malfoy.
She knocked again.
She might have left already.
Hermione was familiar with Lady Narcissa's study and knew every corner by heart. She felt hesitant to open the door without Lady Malfoy's permission.
She stepped in after another unanswered knock, knowing that Lady Malfoy was not there yet. Hermione decided she would wait for a few minutes, and if she did not come, Hermione would come back for their piano lesson in a few days and receive her gift then.
She then noticed the hefty book sitting on the desk. Hermione knew what it was. Her heart beat faster. Incapable of restraining herself, she walked slowly towards it, just wanting to take a small peak at the title, knowing she would not hold it in her arms until Lady Malfoy gave it to her. She would hug her and whisper, "Happy birthday, little lion," and Hermione would be willing to wait a century as long as she got the rare hug that Lady Narcissa would give her only on her birthday.
"You must be Hermione."
At the sound of her name, Hermione turned around, unfamiliar with that voice.
A man was standing before her, casually resting his shoulder against the door frame, a carbon copy of Lucius Malfoy, but with a squarer jaw. The corners of his lips were lifted with a smirk.
Grey and stormy, with little dots of sunshine, he had his mother's eyes.