Gurnig had agreed that Hermione could view the house in Warwick on Boxing Day ("We will show it whenever it is convenient for you, Miss Granger."), so here she was. She leaned against the boundary wall of Warwick Castle and studied the historic Tudor in front of her. It very well could be the most valuable property on Gringott's books, at least for Squatter's Leases. The neighboring Muggle houses each sold for a million pounds or more, and the wizard house was bigger—definitely big enough to have been passed through an established wizard family before being lost.
A young man wearing khaki trousers and an oxford shirt and carrying a portfolio stepped out of the front door, and Hermione straightened as he glanced both ways and trotted across the street. "Are you Miss Granger? I'm Randall Cole. I'm here to show you the house." He shook her hand. "My boss would have come, but he wanted you to see the front of the house, and he can't exactly do that himself in this neighborhood." He held his hand out at the height of an average goblin.
"I understand," she said.
He waved his hand towards the long line of Tudor houses across the street. "You can see yourself, it's a beautiful neighborhood. You will get some tourists, but there's complete privacy out the back of the house if you don't want to deal with that. Shall we go in?"
Agreeing, she followed him across the street and into the house's long, narrow entrance hall.
"I couldn't say this on the street, obviously," Randall said, closing the door behind them, "but Muggles just don't notice this house unless someone's coming in or out, and then they forget about it after a few minutes. If you don't want anything to do with your Muggle neighbors, that's not a problem. The back is completely hidden from them. There's a nice garden, and you can apparate in and out of it with no secrecy violation. Or if you do like Muggle neighbors and want to be friendly with them, that's cool too. They'll just know you as that pretty girl who lives down the street. They'll never be able to remember your house number and won't think anything of it. There's also another wizard house at the other end of Mill Street, but, well, it's the Parkinsons, so…"
"Probably not going to be that friendly to a Muggleborn Gryffindor," Hermione said.
"Probably not. Especially since, honestly, this house is nicer than theirs."
Living close to Pansy's family was definitely not a selling point. Although annoying them by doing so in a nicer house did help balance it out.
"Is there indoor plumbing?" Hermione couldn't remember from her last visit four years ago, and with a house this age, 'missing' for who knew how long, there was no guarantee.
"Yes, absolutely. It's an old-fashioned wizard type like Hogwarts has, but there is running water, indoor sinks, baths, and toilets, and it's all in good shape. You shouldn't have to do anything to it."
"Good Floo connection?"
"Check this out." Randall led Hermione into a formal sitting room. Four Queen Anne chairs surrounded a cozy gaming table in the same style, and a harpsichord sat against the wall. From the ceiling hung a wrought iron chandelier, glowing softly with bluebell flames that gave a dancing light to the room.
As they walked in, a portrait of a dark-haired man wearing a ruff and with a ludicrously tiny mustache waxed into points laughed. "Look who's back for more. You are a glutton for punishment, aren't you, m'lad?"
"Hush, you." Randall jabbed his wand towards the portrait and ordered "Silencio." The portrait looked positively affronted and tried to lecture him, but nothing came out. "There are some portraits in the house, and there's a Thief's Curse on everything, so you can't get rid of them until the Squatter's Lease is over. But there's a huge attic, so you can just put them in storage if you don't like them."
The portrait bit his thumb and flicked it at Randall, then stalked out of his frame. Portraits: that was not a selling point, having to deal with 'roommates' that might not want a new resident.
"You were asking about Floo connection. This'll be your main one right here," Randall said, gesturing. The far end of the room, roughly in the middle of the house front to back, was filled by a fireplace large enough to stand in and wide enough for a marble bench inside beside the actual hearth. "Look at that. You don't have to bend down to step in, and there's a bench if you just want to chat with your friends. You don't have to bend over with your butt sticking out into the room. The Floo Network isn't connected right now, but we can set that up for you before move-in, no problem. There are three more fireplaces downstairs and four upstairs, not as big as this one, but plenty to heat the house. Lighting is still the chandeliers and the old sconces on the walls," he gestured to the torch holders, "but those are easy enough to update to glow-orbs if you like."
"I know; I did that at my current house," Hermione said, looking around. The fireplace had a gorgeous carved mantle, and on top of it was an armillary sphere, several spindly wizard tools, and an Orrey model of the solar system with six planets.
"You probably know this, but at the end of the lease, everything in the house will be yours, too. I've got to say, it's a great deal for the furnishings alone. You could sell all this and have enough for a whole other house."
"What's the history of the house?" Hermione asked.
Randall flipped open his portfolio. "We don't really know. It reappeared about 40 years ago; we're not sure when it disappeared. None of the portraits have any known descendents. The newest one dates to the mid-18th century, and the others call him 'the young'un', so…" He shrugged.
"What about the house-elf?"
"Well, uh… There's a house-elf." Randall blushed and closed the portfolio again. "Don't tell my boss I told you this, but I have to be honest with you. I've shown this house five times, and this is the first time I've been in here this long without something awful happening to me. And you'll notice I'm not walking under that chandelier." He pointed to it. "Last time it crashed down right on my head. I had to go to St. Mungo's with a concussion, of all things; my mates are still teasing me about it. They have a betting pool on what's going to happen to me this time. That said, I'm told that elf is gone and the younger one is a little nicer, but you'll know more about that than I will."
"Is it all right if I look around by myself?"
"Certainly. I'll wait for you in here." He summoned a chair and moved it against the wall, well away from the chandelier.
Hermione went to the neighboring room, a formal dining room that shared the central wall with the fireplaces. A long carved dining table with clawed feet and matching chairs stood in the center, set with china plates and silverware, as though a dinner party were expected that night. The forks only had three prongs, and those were widely spaced and rounded, as though someone had explained a fork to the silversmith, but he'd never actually seen one before. From there she went into the hall, past the staircase at the back of the house, and into an office or study. A quill, an inkwell, and a stack of parchment sat on the desk, waiting for someone to write a letter. Everything in the house was perfectly clean, as though the owner had gone out for work and would be back any time.
Hermione pulled off her scarf and let it fall to the floor. She'd purposely brought an old one with several snags and a butterbeer stain. This was an old trick that suitors used when courting young ladies from well-bred wizard families, in order to judge how welcome they were in the house. The house-elf would tidy up anything left about, of course. If the elf liked you, the scarf would be cleaned, repaired, and left by the door. If the house-elf didn't care one way or another, it would be left by the door, but without any fixes. If they didn't like you, the scarf would never be seen again. Or worse. The first time she'd viewed this house, before choosing the one in Delamere Forest, one of the knitted gloves Molly had made for her fell out of her pocket before she went upstairs. When she came back down—or more accurately, nearly broke her neck falling down after tripping over a mysterious ripple on the carpet—she found a tangle of yarn in familiar colors in one of the fireplaces.
There was a statuette on the mantle. Hermione picked it up and looked it over, then carried it to the end of the entrance hall, in front of the steps. An occasional table stood there, and she sat the statue on it. This was another old trick of established wizard families, this time used by brides-to-be to see how welcome they were in their future husband's house. If the house-elf was open to a new mistress, the statue would stay where it was—it'd be her right to rearrange the house, after all. If the statue was moved back, the house-elf did not approve.
Hermione climbed the stairs to the first floor. Here was a bath, a drawing room, and three bedrooms, each in perfect order, as though their occupants would return at any moment. Each bedroom had a painting; one had left his frame and gone to another's to play chess, while the third featured a kissing couple who startled when she walked in and sheepishly left the frame. In the drawing room was a portrait of a man pouring over a book, who shushed her as she came in. She tiptoed back out.
The staircase continued to a large walk-in attic, where several trunks were already stored. She opened one to check for doxies or anything else that would have to be exterminated, but this room was as clean and neat as all the others.
With a sigh, Hermione went back downstairs. The statuette was still on the occasional table, and folded neatly beside it was her scarf, looking brighter than it had in years. She picked it up and spread it out. The snags were all repaired, and the butterbeer stain was gone. Well, there was still one room to look at, probably the most important one in the house at this point. With a deep breath, she walked into the kitchen.
It was almost as large as the dining room, with the far half taken up by a simpler table and six chairs. The half towards the central wall was the cooking area, and she groaned despite herself. There were tons of counter space, several cupboards, and a reasonably functional sink by wizard standards, but there was no stove or range. Instead, the fireplace had a hob for pans and hooks for pots, and above it on the same chimney was a wood-fired oven. While it wouldn't be impossible for her to cook on that—six months living in a tent with Harry and Ron had taught her how to cook over a fire—she couldn't say she relished the idea of doing so every day. If she lived here, she'd either have to depend on the house-elf for meals, or do some extensive, and probably expensive, renovations.
She took a seat. There was an 'elf's room' beside the fireplace, a tiny room hardly larger than a closet for a house-elf, which was a popular feature of older wizard homes. She sat quietly, and after a minute or two, the door fell open ever so slightly, just a crack. One could almost think it was just loose on its hinges, but Hermione saw a hint of eyes peeking out.
"I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but could I please have a glass of water?" Hermione asked.
The door popped open, and the elf stepped out. "Oh, yes, of course, Miss!" She wasn't quite full grown and had huge bright blue eyes and was dressed in a scrap of an old bedspread draped into a tunic. Her nose was unusually small for a house-elf's. It still looked like a carrot, but like a carrot that if you pulled it up, you'd feel bad and try to put it back in the ground for another week or two. "Just water? I have some pumpkin juice or ooh, I could make you some tea!" She said this as though making tea was the most exciting thing she could imagine doing.
"Just water's fine."
The elf's ears drooped a little, but she forced a cheerful tone as she said, "Right away, Miss," and pulled a stepstool over to a cupboard to get a glass.
"Well… how old is your tea?" Hermione asked, looking around the kitchen. If it dated to the same time as the rest of the house…
"Oh, it's very fresh!" the elf said, as though guessing her thoughts. "I got it only a week ago."
"Maybe a spot of tea would be nice, then."
"Right away!" The elf took a china teapot, teacup, and saucer out of the cupboard, then pulled the stepstool to the sink and set to making the tea. In just a few minutes, it was done, and she carefully poured a teacup full and carried it to the table for Hermione. "Would you like anything in it? I have fresh milk."
"Maybe some sugar?"
"Right away!" She ran to the cupboards, pulled out a silver sugar bowl, and put it on the table in front of Hermione, then stepped back expectantly as Hermione tried her tea.
"It's very good," Hermione said. A wide grin spread across the house-elf's face. "My name's Hermione. What's yours?"
"I'm Hope." Her ears drooped a little again. "I know it's an odd name for a house-elf."
"I think it's nice," Hermione said, and Hope's ears popped right back up, the grin widening.
Hope fidgeted as though she were torn between returning to the elf's room or coming to the table, then twisted her fingers together and asked, "Do you like the house, Miss?"
"It's very nice," Hermione said. "You must work hard on it."
Hope blushed and fidgeted again, then murmured, "I think it'd be much nicer with people in it."
"Wouldn't it annoy you to have someone come into your home and change everything?"
"Oh no, not at all!" She gestured around the kitchen. "It's so old-fashioned. I'd love to have some new things."
"I don't think I could afford to decorate as nicely as some of your friends' families do," Hermione said.
"Oh, that's all right! I'm used to not having any money."
"How do you eat?" Hermione asked. Of course, she knew Hope didn't have any money, but how did this family of house-elves manage all alone for several generations?
"I keep a garden." Hope's eyes got even bigger and brighter. "Would you like to see my garden, Miss?"
"I'd love to," Hermione said, pushing herself up. Hope practically skipped towards the back door as Hermione followed. She opened it and bowed, gesturing for Hermione to step outside.
"Wow," Hermione said. She had expected the same muddy, soppy mess that most gardens were by Boxing Day, but this was like stepping out into summer except for the cold. Everything was in full bloom, huge flowers nodding their heads near the door and around a gazebo, while further away she could see vegetables and even a wheat field. How much magic was Hope using to keep this growing in winter? This wasn't a garden; it was a farm! Somewhere nearby, she even heard chickens clucking.
"I can grow almost everything I need out here," Hope said. "Tea doesn't grow well here, but one of my friends' masters likes my chamomile, so I trade for it. I even have sugar beets."
"You make your own sugar," Hermione said. Hope nodded brightly. As Hermione looked at the landscape stretching away from her, the fresh milk for her tea came to mind. "Do you have cows back there?"
"Oh no, that'd be silly," Hope said. As an afterthought, she added, "I have goats."
"Goats," Hermione repeated with a slow nod.
"Their names are Billy and Jolly."
"Billy and Jolly." Hermione shook her head in disbelief. "You must put a ton of work into this."
"It keeps me busy," Hope said, but then eagerly added, "but I've still got plenty of time to take care of a mistress, too."
Hermione's voice lowered on its own accord. "Are you lonely here, Hope?"
Hope twisted her fingers together. "It'd be really nice to have a family," she said. "Oh, but I wouldn't be a bother! If you wanted, you wouldn't even have to know I was here!"
"Oh no, I wouldn't want you to hide," Hermione said.
"So… You like the house, then?"
Hermione turned around and looked up at the house. It was just as nice from the back. In fact, the back could have easily been the front, which was probably the intent. A path from the back porch led down the street, and she couldn't see the Muggle houses from here, but she could see the Parkinsons' at the other end of Mill Street. "It's a lovely house, but I'm not sure." Hope's ears drooped almost to her shoulders, and her lower lip started to quiver. "But I really mean that I'm not sure, one way or another. I need to think about it. All right?"
Hope nodded and led her back inside.
"It was nice meeting you, Hope." Hermione held out her hand. Hope wasn't sure what to do about it, but Hermione talked her through shaking.
"I hope I'll see you again, Miss Hermione."
Hermione returned to the sitting room, where Randall stood up with another suspicious glance at the chandelier.
"So, what do you think?" he asked. The dark-haired man in the portrait poked his head into the frame, and it looked like a few from upstairs were behind him, listening.
"I think I need some time to consider."
"Normally I'd give you a spiel about how I've got other people looking at the place, so you shouldn't wait too long, but this time Mr. Gurnig told me to be straight with you. The goblins consider you one of their 'special customers', so they're going to hold the house for you for…" He opened the portfolio and let out a low whistle. "It says a year. I've never seen them do a year, especially not on a Squatter's Lease. They must mean it when they say 'special'."
"Yeah," Hermione sighed with a look around the long-abandoned room. "Special."
Hermione was absent-mindedly rolling the edge of a butterbeer bottle along the table in The Three Broomsticks when Seph joined her, and almost didn't notice him sit down.
"Ooh," he said, biting his lip. "Looks like the house visit didn't go well."
"Yes and no." Hermione put the bottle down properly before she spilled it. "I thought it'd be an easy choice. Either the house-elf would want clothes and be willing to be a nice roommate, and I'd take it; or she wouldn't want anyone in her house at all and I'd pass."
"So, she wants clothes but isn't willing to share?" Seph asked.
"No, just the opposite. She's an absolute dear and desperately wants a mistress."
"She doesn't want clothes?"
"Nope. Well, I didn't ask, but it was obvious that if I had, she would have burst into tears or gone into hysterics."
"Are you sure? I mean, you're the expert, but I thought they all wanted clothes." Hermione looked at him in surprise. "I just said something really stupid, didn't I?"
"No! No, not at all!" A grin broke across her face. "When I first heard of house-elves, I thought the exact same thing, and everyone acted like I was a complete idiot for it."
"I don't see why. It seems perfectly reasonable to me."
"Thank you! Frankly, I think a lot more of them want clothes than we know about. I mean, they're not exactly going to say so to any witch or wizard who walks up. They may not even admit it to themselves, because it's such a huge taboo in their culture."
"So you think maybe she wants them, but won't admit it?"
Hermione thought for a moment, then sighed. "No. Hope's got the idea of caring for a human family so built up in her mind I don't think it's ever occurred to her. And I doubt it will. After building it up so much, I don't think she'd ever admit if she didn't like it after all. Honestly, if she did, it'd mean I'd really screwed up. I don't want to be the kind of mistress that house-elves want to get away from. I don't really want to be one at all; I just don't think I want to be part of that system."
"But you're still thinking about it," Seph pointed out.
"It's just… Hope doesn't have a choice about whether she's part of that system or not. If I don't take the house, what if the person who does is awful to her? But on the other hand, it wouldn't just be me and Hope. It'll be all of her descendents and all of my descendents. What if my great-great-grandchildren are awful to her however many greats?"
"You're really balling yourself up over this."
"It's really important." Hermione sighed and took a sip of her butterbeer. "I don't care what Mr. Gurnig says; I think the goblins are setting me up. Especially since they keep calling me one of their 'special customers'. What does that mean, I'm a glutton for punishment?"
"Oh, I can explain that," Seph said. "I worked in the Goblin Liaison Office before I moved to Werewolf Support Services. Goblins value excellence like wizards value wealth, and you and your friends bested them at their own game. And not to take anything away from Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley, but everyone knows you were the brains behind that robbery. Goblins might not like it on an individual level, any more than a businessman likes being bought out, but professionally, they're bound to have a lot of respect for you. They probably view you the same way they view their richest customer. Actually, I think their richest customer inherited the wealth, so they probably view you better. They won't use Gringotts to get back at you. It's bad business; it's simply not done."
"Are you sure?"
"Let me put it this way. If there weren't a house-elf, would you take the house?"
"In a heartbeat. It is a really nice house."
"That's all the goblins are seeing. Any other witch your age, she'd be going 'so for a song, I get this nice house, in a good neighborhood, with pretty furnishings, and oh, there's also a house-elf dying to wait on me hand and foot? Sign me up!' They don't see you driving yourself nuts over the choice."
"I suppose. Mr. Gurnig did say they'd originally offered me the house because it'd been on their books a long time, and if anyone could get on Hope's mother's good side, it would be me."
"There you are. It's just business."
"It's not just business to Hope."
Joseph grinned. "I love that Hope is your first concern with this. You're not nearly as worried about yourself or what your friends will think."
"My friends will think I've completely lost my gobstones," Hermione said, resting her chin on her hands. "And what if I did take the house, and the press got hold of it? Rita Skeeter's always looking for an excuse to roast me over dragonfire." She looked around, then held up her fingers about an inch apart. "By the way, if you see a lime-green beetle about yay big, let me know."
"Oh… Kay… With the press, though, couldn't you cut them off at the pass by writing the story yourself, like you did with the Isolation Center account?"
"It's not really the kind of thing you put in a press release, though, is it?" Hermione asked. The last paragraph of her book suddenly came to mind. 'The best way to learn about another culture is to live with its people.' "But it could be a regular column, maybe. I mean, there's got to be a big difference between studying house-elves and actually living with one. I'm bound to learn a lot, at least at first. If I wrote that up, it'd be a way to teach other people, too."
"I bet Witch Weekly would be all over that," Seph said. "The Daily Prophet might even be interested for their 'Lifestyle' section."
"Most wizards don't know anything about house-elves. This could be a way to show more people that house-elves are people too, that they have wants of their own and emotions that are just as strong as ours. Oh, but I'd have to make sure it was OK with Hope first. I mean, it's her life. If she doesn't want it splashed all over the press, I wouldn't blame her a bit." Hermione paused, and looked at him. "Is this just terribly mercenary of me?"
Seph gave her a boyish grin that scrunched his eyes. "I love you.—Wait, sorry! Wrong thing to say on the third date." He put up his hands defensively. "What I mean is, I love talking to you. When you work in the Werewolf Support Services Office and actually care about the job, people think you're not all there up here, you know?" He tapped his temple. "And I have to think it's the same way with house-elves."
"Oh yes, definitely," Hermione agreed. "Like you can't possibly be sane and care about this other group you're not a part of."
"Exactly! When I'm with you, I feel like, for the first time in I don't know how long, I'm talking to someone who actually gets it. Do you know what I mean?"
"Yes." A smile bloomed across Hermione's face. "Yes, I know exactly what you mean."