Hermione stepped out of the guest room as she shut the door softly behind her. Before her stretched a long hallway, dimly lit by torches that cast flickering shadows on the walls. The corridor was lined with portraits of various figures—witches and wizards frozen in time. Unlike the ones at Hogwarts, these portraits were still, their painted eyes staring ahead without movement or sound. It was unsettling, almost eerie, for someone so used to the liveliness of magical paintings.
As she moved forward, Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that the hall wasn't entirely silent. The air was heavy with whispers—soft, unintelligible murmurs that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once.
She paused, her heart quickening. Where were those whispers coming from? Her eyes darted to the still portraits, each one seemingly ordinary and lifeless. Was someone watching her? But it made no sense—no one here knew her well enough to spy on her. It had to be her imagination. Perhaps her ears were ringing, or maybe she was just overtired.
Shaking her head, Hermione continued down the hall, trying to ignore the sound. But the whispers grew louder, though still indistinct. They clawed at her nerves, refusing to be ignored. Irritated and unnerved, she spun around, her voice ringing out in the empty hall.
"Who's there?" she demanded. "Come out. Show yourself!"
Her words echoed back at her, swallowed by the silence that followed. No answer came, no movement stirred. The stillness of the portraits felt almost accusatory, their painted eyes fixed on her as though silently mocking her outburst.
Hermione exhaled sharply, her frustration mounting. She was alone—or at least, it appeared that way. But the whispers... they hadn't stopped.
As Hermione continued down the hallway, her eyes scanning the silent portraits, one photograph caught her attention. Even in the dim light, the figure in the frame was unmistakable—Albus Dumbledore.
She stopped in her tracks, her brow furrowing in surprise. Why is there a photograph of Dumbledore in Beauxbatons? she wondered. Perhaps it was part of a collection of famous witches and wizards from around the world. Still, it struck her as odd.
She stepped closer, studying the image. Dumbledore's twinkling eyes gazed back at her, his expression as calm and wise as she remembered.
Then, suddenly, a whisper.
This time, it was louder than before. Hermione stiffened, her senses on high alert. The whisper hadn't come from nowhere—it had come from the photograph.
Hesitantly, she leaned in, pressing her ear to the cool surface of the frame. For a moment, there was silence, and then a voice, soft yet clear, spoke directly to her.
"Welcome, Miss Granger, the future headmistress of Beauxbatons."
Hermione pulled back, blinking in astonishment. What?
The absurdity of the statement made her chuckle, though unease still lingered in her chest. Future headmistress? What on earth was that supposed to mean?
Her gaze darted to the other portraits lining the hallway. Were the whispers coming from the photographs? she wondered, her mind racing. If so, how? And why?
She took a step back, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting someone to appear and explain. But she was alone, save for the silent faces in the frames.
Hermione's curiosity led her to another photograph, this one depicting what appeared to be a frog clad in wizard robes. As she leaned closer, a croaky whisper emerged from the frame:
"Go back, Hogwarts bitches. We hate you."
Startled, Hermione stepped back, her heart skipping a beat. She frowned at the bizarre hostility of the message, but her curiosity overruled her unease. She moved further down the hall, stopping at another portrait. This time, it was a figure composed entirely of flowing water.
As she leaned in, the whisper came again, soft yet eerily knowing.
"Hi, Madame Curiosity," the voice cooed. "Wondering why? A lot of questions in your head, and yet the answers seem so far away."
Hermione's brow furrowed as she straightened. What is all this whispering supposed to mean? she wondered. Is this some sort of enchantment, or is this just how things work at Beauxbatons?
She approached yet another portrait, her hand reaching toward it, when she suddenly felt a firm grip on her wrist.
Startled, she spun around. Standing behind her was Teyna Parks, the caretaker. Her expression was amused as she released Hermione's arm. She was still dressed in the same burgundy coat she'd worn earlier, its hem brushing her mid-thighs, with only two buttons holding it closed.
A grin spread across Teyna's face as she said, "Hogwarts students breaking rules on their first day. No roaming here and there at night."
Hermione flushed, quickly attempting to explain. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd go for a stroll."
Teyna's grin widened as she leaned in slightly, her tone playful. "I won't report it to anyone. Girls have done this before, you know. They stroll at night… for me."
Hermione blinked, taken aback. "For you?"
Teyna's fingers brushed along the lapel of her coat as she gave a knowing look. "I give them a show…"
Hermione's mouth fell open slightly, unsure how to respond.
"And sometimes more," Teyna added with a smirk, her hands moving to the first button of her coat. She slowly undid it, revealing more of her caramel-toned breasts. "But I charge for that."
Hermione was frozen for a moment, completely at a loss for words. Finally, she managed a tight, polite smile and said, "No, thanks."
Without waiting for a response, she quickly turned on her heel and strode back toward the guest room, her cheeks burning and her thoughts racing. What kind of caretaker is she?!