Chapter Text
March, 1826
With a violent jerk, the carriage dropped sharply and Hermione felt her organs crawling upward into her throat. Her hands shot out to grip the flesh of the leather cushions reflexively, the fabric groaning between her fingers. Panic, raw and intense, swept through her body, and the howls of the wind outside were just barely audible beyond the pulsating sound of blood in her ears.
She needed to breathe. She simply just needed to breathe.
She tried, with a steady inhale, to fill the empty spaces between her ribs, but another dip forced her to hollow her cheeks through short, shaky exhales. She pinched her lips between her teeth to keep herself from groaning.
Breathe—just breathe!
“Hermione?” She could just make sense of her name; far away and hidden like a silhouette in mist.
Beads of sweat pulled from her forehead and lazily slide down the bridge of her nose and into the creases of her lips where she could taste her salt mixed with the waxy rogue on her lips.
Then came more muffled sounds she strained to understand, “Is everything alright?”
No, everything was absolutely not alright.
In fact, she would venture to say that everything was about as far from alright as they could possibly get at that moment.
The layers of her gown had grown heavy on her shoulders, weighted down by the wet heat that stuck like honey to the fabric. The pools of sweat collecting along the underside of her knees made her grimace, and the sheer sensory displeasure of her cotton stockings laying damp on her skin was enough to make her purge her gut.
Alright? Yeah, about as alright as the bubonic plague was.
This was a mistake. An awful, terrible mistake.
She unwrenched a hand from the cushion to blot her cheeks with the back of her glove; careful not to smear the freshly patted powders too hard.
And with another jerk, her mouth began to salivate.
“Richard,” she swallowed hard to fight the growing nausea, “open the window.”
“Are you going to vomit, Hermione?” His voice, while still distant, stiffened.
She barely shook her head. “Open the damn window, Richard,” she paused to collect herself, “or I bloody will.”
With a wordless flick of a finger and an audible click, the glass panels slid open, and the carriage filled with whispering March air that kissed goosebumps on her neck and chest. Her skin clenched taunt and her breath hitched. The sensation was borderline painful, but she welcomed the distraction, nonetheless.
“Chirst.” She swore, her eyelids melted closed. She took a slow, deep inhale, allowing the chilled air to sting her nose.
“We will be arriving shortly, Hermione,” Richard promised. “Probably another fifteen minutes or so, if I had to guess. Can you hold on till then?”
She answered him with the tiniest nod of her head.
On the surface, Miss Hermione Jean Granger was the perfect image of a gently bred, young witch within wizarding society. Her gown was the proper shade of dusty pink that was currently ‘all the rage in Paris,’ so she was told, with its subtle swirling embroidery along the bodice and full body skirt. Her brown curls were pinned high with pearl-created hair sticks (charmed to never let even a single ringlet drop) that complimented the simple golden necklace sunk between the mounds of her lifted chest. Her cheeks and lips were colored with rogue till they were the color of maidenhood proper; youthful and pure. And with the help of her corset, snug impressively tight thanks to the combination of magic and sheer human strength, her posture was as proper and upright as any dignified witch of class.
With another jolt of the carriage, her stomach lept and her eyelids flushed open. Raw magic tingled at her fingertips, and the glass panels slammed shut, caging the roaring winds away.
“Hermione,” he warned low. “We are flying.”
Of course, she knew better than to let her magic flare raw and undirected. It went without saying that she especially knew not to allow raw magic seep out when they were suspended some fifty meters in the air.
But, God, did she hated flying.
“Oh, Thank you, Richard! I hardly noticed.” She hissed between her teeth; her composure was slipping faster than she could gather it back. “Why are we even flying there? Do the Weasley not have a Floo in their country home?” Her voice was clipped and accusative in its tone.
“They do.” Richard stoked the underside of his chin. “However, it is rude to use a personal Floo without permission—of which we have received none.”
Her brows furrowed. “Did you not Floo to their home just the other month?”
“Aye, I did, but that does not mean we are privy to use it for tonight’s event, Hermione. I do not know which of the families Mr. Weasley does or does not allow to use his personal Floo. And we would not want to put our hosts in any compromising situations, regardless the company attending. So, we will come as instructed.” His golden eyes looked her over up and down, “however unpleasant that might be, I am afraid.”
Much like herself, her patron, the freshly titled Lord Richard T. Elliot was also equally stunning tonight. He looked as much the part of a nobleman as any. His polished navy robes oozed of wealth and his decorated gold buttons were polished to shine. The threaded embroidery that embellished the trims of his sleeves was simple yet beautiful in its design. He was handsome with his greying, brown hair combed and his mustache charmed to a slight curl at the ends. A gloved hand rested on the metallic hand of his cane, tapping absentmindedly as he watched her.
Hermione pressed the palm of her hands to her eyes until she saw speckles of lights dotting the pitch dark of her eyelids. “I regret not brewing a calming draught before we left. This ride is proving to be more than I thought I could handle.”
“Here.” Richard reached into the breast pocket of his robes and produced his flask, which sloshed gently as he pressed it gently against her knee.
A single narrow chestnut eye flicked open, watching him. “I hardly think your whiskey is going to help, Richard.”
“Just drink,” he said it less like a suggestion and more like an order.
The carriage lifted again, and the remnants of her late breakfast lurched so far up her throat, Hermione swore she could taste her biscuit.
If he had told her that the flask predated the construction of Hogwarts, she would have been inclined to believe him. The flask itself was a relic, littered with dents and scratches that sullied its (presumably) once smooth, polish surface. The flask was pathetic. The leather strap that held the screw top to the base was an unnatural sooty black, and the edges were worn thin with age. A particularly large dent on the bottom made the base unsteady, so it always rested lazily on its side as if all the years had caught up with it and it was just waiting to pass in the night peacefully.
“It’s not a potion,” she argued, but still snatched the flash from him anyway. This earned her a scoff and a pointed smirk from her patron.
“It is not,” he agreed amusingly.
She hastily unscrewed the metal top and brought it to her salty lips with a tilt. It burned like fire across her tongue and down her throat, and a shiver rippled up her spine as she shallowed. “God, Richard. That is,” she brought a hand to her mouth as she fought another tremble, “that is actually awful.”
He laughed, “Isn’t it?”
“What is that? And why does it taste like that?” She coughed, as fireworks burned from the back of her throat to her nose. She could not stop her face from souring between a string of Muggle curses. “Christ, I can still feel it in my nose.” It tasted like smokey campfire ashes, still hot to the touch.
“Aged and smoked in the Americas. My father brought it back from one of his voyages there when I was a boy. He always said it was one of his favorites. I could hardly believe it myself when I first tried it.” He grabbed the flask from her and took a generous swig himself, the contents nosily thrashing inside. “I eventually grew to like it.”
Her patron handed her the flask again, and she less hesitantly took another swig. This time, she anticipated the horrendous taste and was better prepared for the scorching, flame-licked flavor. To her dismay, it was not much better the second time.
She grimaces, returning the flask. “Do not mistake my going for seconds as me enjoying this.”
His smirk grew to a small smile, “Well, it must be doing its job because your jokes have returned.”
She opened her mouth to protest, to say something probably pointed and jagged, but stopped herself when she noted how distant her nausea felt.
Gold eyes watched her think, “An old Muggle wives’ tale a housemaid told me once,” he said, tapping a heavy finger to the rugged metal with a hollow thud. “Aye, a kind of Muggle magic, I would argue. I have brewed potions far less complicated than the ingenious craft of fermentation.”
He stashed the flask back into his breast pocket. “If you are still feeling ill when we arrive, I can have someone at the Weasley estate brew you a proper potion.”
She nodded, the whiskey had begun to light gentle tenders in her stomach, and she felt herself grow a comfortable kind of warm. “As much as I hate flying, I think it’s my nerves plaguing me more than anything if I am being honest.”
Richard grumbled in agreement, “Nerves are to be expected, but you will do wonderfully, my dear. If it gives you any peace of mind, this is a smaller, more private event. The actual season is not to kick off for another month.” His eyes flickered to her to the window, scanning the drifting clouds as they soared by. “You should have no trouble with tonight. You can think of tonight as a trial run for your debut in April.”
“I wish I shared your optimism for this.” The confession slipped from her lips with a drier chuckle than she probably intended. “I cannot shake the part of me that feels like this is a bad idea. Like I am going to somehow mess everything up.”
His smile twitched downward, sliding his flask into his robe. “Well, cast your anxieties aside. It does us no good to humor them now.”
A very typical Richard answer. Though the retort was not surprising coming from him, the dismissal in his tone made her ears burn with embarrassment. She was speaking before she had time to catch herself. “Easy for you to say, you aren’t the one dressed like a prized piglet off to slaughter.”
Whatever remained of his smile dissolved entirely, and Hermione straightened reflexively.
His lip curled into a sneer, void of humor. “You are not special in your suffering, Hermione. I am as much dressed to please these people as you are. Though, is it you alone who is acting like doing so will be the death of you.”
Hermione rolled her tongue along her teeth, anger settling heavy in her stomach. “That is hardly fair—”
“Fair?” He parroted under his breath, his head shaking with a scoff.
“—You cannot realistically compare our situations, when the expectations could not be further apart!” She bit back. “You have your title already.”
“You say all of this as if I forced your hand here—as if you did not agree to this.” He motioned to the carriage with the handle of his cane.
She bit her lip. “And, so what if I did? Am I not allowed to voice my doubts?”
“To what purpose, Hermione?”
His question was entirely rhetorical, asking more for an explanation of her actions rather than to reach an understanding of her feelings.
“Did you not agree?” He repeated icily, his brows knitted tight together.
“Yes, I did, but that doesn’t mean I have to be particularly thrilled about my circumstances,”
Something in his eyes steeled. “This is not just about you.”
She flinched.
No about her? How could it not be about her? How could anything not be about her?
Yes, for Hermione Granger, this was very much about her. She could try to lie to herself (and Richard) that her anxieties were just concerns for the success of their cause. For the wellbeing of thousands of wizards and witches just like herself. That she was ready to sacrifice herself and her freedom as long as it meant that there would be a better future for the children she would bear.
But she did not have to peel back many layers, to see the ugly truth disguised as altruism. She was terrified, and she hated herself for feeling that way.
She resurfaced the conversation, “I just want to acknowledge that this—tonight, that is—could be more unpredictable than we thought.”
“Why?”
She blinked. Again, the simplicity of his questions made her stumble for answers that were not readily there.
Why? Why what? There were so many ‘whys’ and very few answers that did not feel like she was undressing herself bare.
“Is there something I should know, Hermione? Have you finally taken to divination?” Richard asked sarcastically, annoyance flaring in his voice. “Because, until your tea leaves say otherwise, we are moving forward with the plan—as you agreed to—so enough with these meaningless distractions. Trust me, your mind is best suited elsewhere than entertaining whatever thoughts you are thinking.”
As if she could just, stop thinking. The sheer entitlement of the statement alone made Hermione want to roll her eyes. He was surely on his way to being in a proper mood about this. She had not intended on setting Richard off like that, but she could already tell this was devolving quickly into a lecture.
Unfortunately, being some fifty meters in the air, there was nowhere for her escape to.
“I have played their game far longer than you have. I have thought this through accordingly, I don’t need you to tell me about things I am already well aware of. What I need,” he grumbled with a nod of his head towards her, “is for you to do what promised and make pleasantries with these people. You are to dance when asked and speak when spoken to.”
“We will be at the Weasley estate any minute now. Trust, I understand the gravity of the responsibilities I have asked you burden but,” he took a deep breath in, like the words fought him to say aloud, “this is more important than whatever doubts you are feeling right now. I know that is easier said than done, but we came here with a purpose, and I intend to see that through.”
“We cannot afford to jeopardize this opportunity—this one single opportunity—because you are scared to do what women have done for centuries. I do not say this to be cruel; I say all of this because it does not serve you well to keep coddling you a moment longer. You cannot expect to marry a decent man of class without playing their game first.”
Coddle.
She hated that the substance of his argument was, indeed, not wrong. He was right, though she had no intention of agreeing with him verbally. Not now at least. Was tonight going to be the largest, most gossiped about event she was sure to attend this season? No. But, if she had any earnest intentions on solidifying their place in wizarding society, she would need to start at some point.
But.
Was the way he said it wrong? The taste of copper in her mouth would venture to say yes. Richard could be a real asshole sometimes. He meant well, but he was always missing just a bit of tact.
“Do I make myself clear, Hermione?”
“I do not need coddling,” she corrected, her stare firmly challenging his own.
“Aye, you do not. So, act like it, Hermione.” Richard held her gaze for a moment before turning to stare out the open window, signaling he was done chastising her.
Hermione was practically heaving.
God! What an unbelievable, right shit he was!
She could not believe he was really being clipped with her over this of all things!
What bloody right did he have to question her commitment to this plan? She had tutored for weeks—weeks! —with dance lessons from that awful instructor without complaint. She had willingly let Rose dress and redress her thousands of times in search for the perfect gown. She had stepped inside this dreadful, monstrous, outdated excuse of transportation and was fighting every single nerve in her body to sit still. And all she did was voice a single concern and this is what she reaps in return? His impatience? A fucking scolding?!
Exactly what more did Richard need from her? To prove to him that she meant to keep her word—that she to keep her promise?
She huffed.
Hermione positioning herself away from him to stare out the window.
Heat radiated from both of them and neither dared to speak for the rest of the carriage ride.
--
October, 1825
“The Ministry has interfered in our lives for far too long. Wizengamot made a spectacle of the Creevey boy adoption just as they had done to me,” Richard fussed in between bites of his roasted beef, as he had waved his knife around in emphasis. “And just like me, his case is being paraded before the courts! Unbelievable. The Slughorn title was rightfully mine. You know as well as I did, Remus! Who else better to take on his estate?”
Remus Lupin nodded. “I do think they are making a point to deflect from their lost battle over Grimmauld Place.”
“Aye,” Richard wagged his finger. “Not all of us can have Jame Potter’s precious blood running through our veins. Not even those vile rumors about Lily were enough to erase the fact that estate had been promised to the boy since his birth.”
“I have to give credit to Mr. Malfoy, he did try though.” Remus laughed.
“And try all that he did, it got him nowhere closer to acquiring that property. All he did was waste his and the rest of the court’s time humoring his antics.”
“They would do best to avoid bringing another case against Grimmauld Place again. Harry Potter, much like his father, is fairing to be a well-liked young Lord in Society. I fear any further attempts to smear his title will look weak for the traditionalists.”
“Oh, how I would have been properly sat front row if I knew Lucius was going to lose his case against Lord Potter. Sadly, I will just have to settle for hearing of his dismay instead.”
Remus hummed in agreement, swallowing the last of his liquor before pouring another glass. “It is a shame for Mr. Slughorn though, it would have been to his benefit to have you inherit his estate. He has neither a wife nor child. There is no one to lay claim over his title when he passes,” his dark eyes narrowed in thought, “unless, speaking of nasty rumors, this alleged bastard child has finally rode into town.”
Richard shook in head, his expression souring. “Godric, no. I know Horace. If he had sired an heir, I would have been first to know of it. There is no bastard child, no secret wife in the Americas; there’s no one. The responsibility to manage his estate and carry his title should be mine. I have sat aside him at countless business meetings since I was a boy. His staff and cohorts regard me highly. However, for the sake of keeping me on the outskirts of their world,” Hermione saw Richard roll his tongue against his cheek venomously. “The council continues to hold the possibility of that old crow siring a son very much alive and well. It is nothing more than propaganda to stir up doubt.”
“You are practically his son,” Remus agreed.
“Not to the Ministry, I am not.” Another angry bite. “The morning we challenged the Ministry was the afternoon they circumvented the terms ‘beneficiary’ and ‘patron’ to very clearly differentiate who could and couldn’t inherit titles.”
Hermione skewered a potato, watching the metallic prong sink into the starchy flesh. She took a bite. It had been cold for hours.
“How very thoughtful of the Ministry to publicly address the legality of your adoption again after all these years,” Remus raised a knowing eyebrow.
“Please,” Richard took another bite, his words slurring a bit. “Seats are up for re-election. Anyone with eyes could see that this is entirely to separate themselves from the most polarizing traditionalists.”
“Still, unfavorable as their policies might be right now, they still hold considerable power in the court.”
“It’s obvious that even outnumbered they still throw fortunes away to not see us as equals,” Richard scoffed into his glass. He stared into his drink as he swallowed, “And here I sit with a meaningless title and the promise of some worthless, abandoned estate they so benevolently gifted me to keep me quiet. I have ‘more than I’ve ever had before,’ so they told me from their cushioned seats. But this isn’t enough, Remus. This is not nearly enough. We demanded a change for the future and this is hardly a promise for tomorrow,” his glanced from Remus to Hermione, his face growing somber for a moment before he spoke. “I have seen hounds get plumper shavings of meat than this. This a bribe for complacency in hopes for a change in the court of opinion soon.”
She fought to keep her face neutral.
It was not uncommon that dinners with Remus would spiral from retellings of their school years in Hogwarts, to quidditch, to eventually political slander. On most occasions, Hermione eagerly enjoyed listening to these two squabble back and forth and even joined when the topics were of interest to her (she never much cared for quidditch, too much flying for her liking).
However, this dinner, like most dinners when Remus, had long abandoned the topic of complex spellwork and occasional gossip and was now a carouseling political conversation; going round and round without an end in sight. A few bottles of wine later, and these men would talk themselves in drunken circles till midnight and it was well already past ten o’clock. The table had not been dismissed, and Richard would surely lecture her if she did not stay till the guest was done eating.
However, it was also rude to talk with food in your mouth. So, while her plate was about empty, minus a few straggling potatoes, Richard and Remus still had plenty left to eat.
She wondered if Rose had made any dessert.
“Could you not marry then, Richard?” Remus asked, dabbing the corner of his wine-stained lips with a napkin. “They gave you an estate; why not try adopting the pureblood tradition of passing along your newly minted title onto a wife and some offspring?”
“I cannot,” Richard groaned. “Unlike your surname, there is no blood status validity to the Elliot name. It came into existence over tea, and should the Ministry deem so, it could end before dinner service. My title, this alleged estate, all if it can be unmade with a simple flick of a wand. Even if the Ministry kept their word, once I am dead, there is nothing stopping them from repossessing the estate and dissolving my title. Which is hardly compelling for a woman looking for stability in a marriage.”
She skewed another potato. Maybe she could request for Rose to make some more marzipan…
Remus nodded, staring into the empty space between them with furrowed brows.
A silence lulled over the long dining room table, besides the occasional scraping of silverware against metal and muffled chewing.
“What about Miss Hermione? Could she not marry?”
Chewing ceased and her lumbering thoughts of nutty confections dissolved.
Her head shot up and she spoke for what felt like the first time in hours. “What?”
“What about her, Remus?” Richard placed his folded hands on the table, his eyes narrowing.
Her jaw went slack.
Was Remus suggesting Richard marry her?
“Let me rephrase my question,” Remus cleared his throat and cut her thoughts before she could finish them, “Your title, you said so yourself, is meaningless to the Ministry should they decide it so. And as a Muggleborn, it carries neither political or social power. So, you cannot sire an heir in good consciousness, correct? Because, realistically even if you did, the likelihood of marrying a respectable pureblood witch are not likely given your status. On the alternative, could you sire an heir with a woman of equal or lower status, the legality of any status could be easily dismissed by the Ministry potentially leaving your next of kin with nothing. So, it prompts the question,” Remus’ eyes slowly scanned to meet hers. “If the Elliot name cannot be passed on from you, what if another could be passed on to her?”
--
Hermione tried her absolute best not to gawk.
As the carriage slowly began to sink below the low cloud line, she could hardly peel herself from the glass as the giant manor came into sight. It was the largest building for miles, and over the rolling farmlands it looked almost mystical. The entire carriage, thestrals included, could have drifted through the ivory-colored French doors with ease. With three stories, the manor had more windows and balconies than Hermione had time to count before she felt the wooden wheels kiss the gravely path. The carriage door magically clicked open, as she was quickly gathering the fabrics of her gown to step out, Richard offered her his elbow to steady her steps down.
The silent remainder of their travel must have given him time to right his twisted knickers, because he seemed ready to apologize.
Although, an apology from Richard was never as obvious as simply saying he was sorry. No, it usually manifested as wordless gestures paired with avoided eye contact till the tension had settled like dust. And if he has really pissed her off, he would usually grumble under his breathe to Rose to make ‘whatever Hermione wants’ for dinner.
She flattened the ruffles in her gown before she turned on her heel to take in the sheer size of the mansion. Already, sprouted lush, emerald leaves of English ivy had snaked its way alongside the white stone and nested in between the window shutters. The heart shaped leaves rippled like lilies in a pond and the whole house seemed to breathe with every gentle gust, like a slumbering giant. The ivy roped around the pillars of the balcony and stretched all the way to the roof, where she saw even the chimney decorated in its grasps
Her eyes traced along the winding vegetation downward to the base of the manor where she could see several garden beds of the largest lilacs she had ever seen. To the average person, wizard or not, the garden probably appeared lush; prolific even. To which, she would agree.
However, a tumor could also be described as prolific.
The early purple blossoms were just beginning to awaken from the recent winter, and the smell radiating from them was already fragrant. The plant was full of tender, green branches promising to grow into itself fully and she even spotted a few bees shyly kissing its flowers.
Despite this, it was painfully evident that the gardener was either negligent or ignorant of the proper care of lilacs as underneath the sprouting canopy, she could spot a sickly, brown stem and brittle branches. It was hard to assess what was wrong with it as they walked, but it was obviously diseased and would not survive into the next season. The rush to bloom was most likely a last effort to spread its seed before the disease, rather than an eagerness to be pleasant on the eyes.
“The flowers are finally beginning to bloom. They smell nice, do they not?” Richard offered an easy conversation; another one of his unspoken apologies.
Lilacs were among many of Hermione’s favorite flowers and Richard knew it. She loved the intense smell of the blossoms, and she especially fancied the way that the fallen petals would coat entire lawns in defiant shades of pinks and purples. She loved their readiness to bloom every year, and lucky for her, most people also shared her fondness for them. They were practically a staple in most English gardens in London.
And while the rotted stem and dead under canopy were particularly difficult for her to ignore, she kept her critiques to herself. Despite being an incredibly accomplished wizard himself, Richard never seemed particularly taken with herbology and seemed perfectly content paying premium for potion components opposed to growing them himself until Hermione became his responsibility.
“Quite.” She lied.
“Ah! You’ve come!” They both glanced upwards to see a large, redheaded man rushing towards them with arms extended.
Her patron pulled from Hermione to shake his hand, both men grabbing each other affectionately. The man patted Richard on his shoulder. “Welcome, welcome! Richard—Oh! I guess I cannot address you as such in mixed company. Welcome, Lord Elliot.”
Richard sheepishly grinned. “Oh no, Arthur. There is no need for that.” He chuckled uncomfortably. “I will be honest, it feels a bit strange coming from you of all people. Please.”
“Of course, then it is always a pleasure to have you, Richard. I am glad you could make it.” His soft eyes peered past him to her. “And you must be the famous Miss Hermione Granger.”
“Lord Weasley,” she curtsied perfectly. “Mr. Elliot has spoken so much about you, I feel as if we are already acquainted.”
“I could say the same for you, my dear! Your patron is quite taken with you, you know? Until you came along, I feared his face was shaped in a perpetual scowl.” Hermione laughed, seeing the very frown starting to pull at Athur’s mocking. “Oh, it is so wonderful to meet you! Miss Granger, my wife, Molly, has been in an uproar since Richard owled us the other evening with the news you were attending tonight. She is most eager to meet you.”
Before Hermione had time to respond, a woman who she suspected to be Molly Weasley was rushing forward as fast as her gown allowed and engulfed her in a swaying, welcoming hug.
“Miss Granger!” Molly pulled back from the rather startling embrace, her hands loosely gripping her fingertips. “It is so nice to finally meet you! Richard has told us so much about you!”
Her neck and chest flushed pink. “So I am told for the second time today. I do hope Mr. Elliot is saying only good things about me.”
“Why, of course, dear! I don’t think I’ve heard him utter anything but the highest praise. He says you’ve become quite the exceptional witch! He said you were maturing into a far better witch than he was a wizard at your age.”
Funny, he never seemed that impressed during their lessons.
Hermione beamed at her words and felt Richard shift next to her as he cleared his throat, “The carriage ride was a bit rough. I know Hermione could do with some water. Potentially a potion if necessary—”
“—I am feeling much better, there is no need to go through the trouble,” she interjected with a dismissive wave. “Water will do just fine.”
“Yes, everything is taking place in the ballroom, so feel free to help yourselves to the food and wine.” Molly smiled. “Now, go inside, all of you. We still have guests I need to greet, and I would hate to raise suspicions that I have favorites.” She straightened her gown and then shooed them away.
Mr. Weasley smiled coyly at his wife, “Do come inside soon, my love. I would hate for you to miss your own ball.” Pivoting, Arthur guided them through the set of open doors and into the large foyer. Hermione could hear the low chattering of conversation descending from the hallway. “All right. This way, friends.”
Richard offered her his elbow again. “After you, my dear.”
--
While there were many things that caught her eyes in Weasley manor, Hermione’s attention was almost entirely engrossed by the family portraits. Much like the house itself, they were almost obnoxious in size.
And the painting seemingly kept getting bigger and bigger as they walked.
At first, the paintings were just of the Lord and Lady of the house. Within their golden frames, the young couple were adorned in fine clothes of rich, regal greens and purples that complimented the striking color of their hair. They sat proudly in two tall chairs and their fingertips just barely touched as the portraits stole sideways glances at one another lovingly. In one she saw Arthur lean over and mutter something in his wife’s ear, causing both their stern faces twitch with suppressed laughter. Hermione could barely hold her lovestruck smile at the gentle expression of love.
Soon, the paintings of the couple turned into paintings of a family. The perfect, happy couple sat with two equally redheaded young boys, their age progressing through the portraits from swaddles to button shirts. Hermione watched one of them pick their nose before his mother swatted his arm away.
Arthur led them past mingling groups of guests and their heads bowed in respect to their host. He returned their gestures with a seemingly endless supply of wide grins.
Another family portrait hung overhead. This one was sizably much larger than the last and it was easy to deduce why. The eldest sons, who could not have been older than fourteen or fifteen were standing tall beside their seated parents. Wrapped in their parents’ arms were a pair of infant boys, reaching up from their swaddles with warm, gummy smiles. Sitting amongst at the feet of Lady Weasley sat another redheaded child who gripped the hem of her dress nervously. His glassy, golden eyes watched Hermione as they walked by. She gave him a small wave, but he buried his face in the dress fabric sheepishly.
She counted. With five children, the size of the mansion had begun to seem like a necessity rather than a luxury.
As they entered the ballroom, the growing sounds of conversation and clanking glassware pulled her attention from the painting.
The room itself was decorated simply. Shear clothes were draped down the walls like pearl-colored waterfalls, and they swayed gently as guests paraded around the room. A large brick fireplace was lowly lit on the furthest wall, where several women huddled around armchairs in what looked like enthralling gossip. More family portraits filled the shelves above the simmering fire, their eyes watching the liveliness with soft smiles and gentle waves. Guest picked at the elaborate spread stretched across a long, clothed table that flush against the opposite wall. It was covered in various wines and meads, soft breads, jellies, cheeses, and thin slices of salty, cured meat that made Hermione’s mouth water. Her ears perked to the soft sound of music, and she turned to see a piano playing a gentle melody that filled the empty spaces of lively conversations.
Arthur led them to a table where she immediately spotted several familiar shades of red. “Children,” he approached the table. “Stop your game and stand up proper, there’s someone here I want you all to meet.”
No one at the table moved.
He cleared his throat louder this time. “Now.”
The table erupted in a series of collective groans as cards were thrown down. “I could’ve won this round!”
“I highly doubt it, Percy. Your hand was rubbish. You had no aces.”
“Please, I was close to doing you all in. None of you stood a chance.”
“Enough!” Mr. Weasley hissed. His four children, all boys Hermione noted, reluctantly rose from their chairs and straightened themselves out. It had not occurred to her before, but as Arthur stood scolding his children into some resemblance of manners, she noticed just how tall the Weasleys were. They were all quite lanky in their statues, and when paired with their hair color, the shared family features were hard to ignore even in a crowd.
Tall. Red-haired. Handsome.
The only exception being Lady Weasley who was shorter than Hermione. However, her hair was no less copper, and she was just as fair as any of her children.
Their eyes pulled over their father with childish annoyance before they suddenly transformed into gentlemen before her eyes. Their shoulders rolled back, their jaws tightened, and she swore she saw a few of them grow taller. “Now, I would like to introduce you to our new neighbors. Of course, you have all met Lord Elliot. However, this is his beneficiary, Miss Hermione Granger. Mr. Elliot has purchased that vacant estate east of here, so they will be moving in shortly after the paperwork has been finalized.” She curtsied at the introduction of her name.
Arthur placed a hand on shoulders of his sons as he spoke, “As for my children, this is Charlie, Percy, and the twins, Fred and George.” They all bowed their heads. “I have three more children. My eldest son is traveling north right now for his work, so he is not in attendance tonight. As for my two youngest…” He sucked air through his teeth as he searched around the ballroom.
“Ron is probably with Harry. They were grabbing drinks a moment ago,” one of the twins spoke up. “I am not sure about Ginny.”
“I thought she said she was stepping out for a moment to fetch a book,” the other twin answered.
Hermione made a mental note to memorize their names, filing away their likeness on a shelf in her mind.
She found herself counting again and bit back a groan. The thought of carrying not five, but seven children made her stomach turn in a way the carriage had not. And based on the size of the four standing in front of her, she was grateful Lady Weasley could walk upright.
Arthur nodded curtly. “Well, there you have it. Miss Granger, you are more than welcome to join my sons in a game of cards should that interest you. I would like to borrow Mr. Elliot; we have few business acquaintances of mine that need our attention.”
Hermione smiled a practiced smile and loosened her grip on their intertwined elbows, “Of course, Lord Weasley,” She had anticipated that at some point of the evening, Richard would circumvent some excuse to weasel away from her. However, she had not expected them to part ways so shortly after their arrival. “Do not have too much fun without me.” Hermione chuckled meekly, feeling a selfish sting of betrayal.
“I will be just in eyesight.” Richard gave the flesh of her arm a brief squeeze before slipping his arms from her entirely.
‘In eyesight’ to mean he was going to stay near in case she actually needed him? Or ‘in eyesight’ to insinuate he would be watching her? Strangely, it felt like a bit of both.
The Weasley children lowered back to their seats and gathered their cards again. Hermione pulled out a vacant chair and joined the brothers around the table. She watched as her patron gave her a curt nod before disappearing alongside Arthur into the mingling room. When she could no longer hear the clicking of his cane against hardwood, Hermione turned back to the table where all sets of eyes were staring at her. A stacked spread of cards had slid their way before her.
She shook her head, “I appreciate the offer to join, but in truth, I am not very good at card games,” she confessed. “So, if you do not mind, I’d rather watch for now.”
The tallest, Percy, flashed her a smile. “Probably for the best, Miss Granger. My brothers will not show you any mercy because of your sex. And I do believe some of them have been playing dishonorably this whole evening.”
Charlie scoffed into his beverage. “Dishonorably?”
“I know you struggled in your primary studies a bit, brother,” Percy clapped his brother on his shoulder mockingly, “but dishonorably means to do something, not fairly or gentlemanly in nature.”
“And where is your evidence that I am cheating, Percy?” Charlie rolled the hand off his shoulder annoyingly and placed down his drink.
“Do I need proof?”
“Well, you cannot just sully my name with baseless accusations without some sort of proof.”
Percy sneered, “My proof, if you so need it, is that you always cheat. I am not sure I have ever seen you play an honest game in your life.”
“So, because you believe you have never personally seen him play honestly, that must mean a man is always guilty?”
“Fred, do not side with him!”
“No, no,” Charlie put up a hand. “Fred does have a point. I cannot be placed on trial because you’re having emotions about losing, Percy. Where is your evidence? My pockets,” he flipped the pockets of his trousers inside out, “are empty.”
“You are hiding the cards elsewhere.”
“Where elsewhere?”
“Y-You have won the last five games—in a row! Do you know how statistically improbable that is in a card game. There is no way with all the shuffling I did that you would have all the good cards in your hand that many times!”
“Ah,” Charlie rolled his eyes. “So, because it is unlikely that I beat you so many times, you feel it necessary to scorch my reputation and bring my character into question in front of this young witch? Is it that hard to believe that, statically speaking, I could just be better than you?”
“Godric,” Percy cursed. “Do you ever hear how pigheaded you sound sometimes?”
“No, but sometimes I hear how stupid you sound instead.”
Ouch.
Hermione’s head was on a swivel. She had only just met these people and was already sitting front row to a battle of wits that only seemed to be escalating. Something sparkled in the twins’ eyes that told her they were eager to let their older brothers duel.
“You’re a joke.”
“And yet, here we are laughing at you,” Charlie mocked.
The ease in which his jabs rolled off his wine-soaked tongue was impressive. Hermione watched as his mockery seemed to require no effort, no energy, like a sponge idly soaking water. The viper struck again before Percy had time to rebuttal. “Percy, tell me: do you make those witches you love to call upon laugh too?”
The twins muffled their fits of giggles into their shoulders.
Was she even supposed to be here? The sudden tonal change felt entirely too personal. She no longer felt like a guest in their country home, but instead like a nosey fly on their wall.
Color rose to Percy’s cheeks that rivaled his hair. “Please, we all know all about your short house calls.” He spat. “Always coming back so soon, I had always heard women prefer a man who can keep a conversation going a bit longer than five minutes.”
The twins, no longer trying to hide their laughter, roared hysterically.
Hermione barely stopped her jaw from going slack at the poorly camouflaged innuendo.
Just where was Richard? He promised he would be just in sight, and Hermione prayed to any higher power that he was anywhere but in line of sight—or God forbid earshot!—of the carnage she sat amongst.
It was beyond scandalous to say such crass things in public (or in front of a woman nonetheless!), but it would also raise eyebrows for her to react too overtly. A gently bred woman was to know just a little, not too much, about those sorts of activities after all, otherwise she might find her own name spread in the middle of a gossiping column.
And the absolute last thing she needed on her first night out in formal Wizarding society was her name plastered in the papers for gawking at a sexual joke.
The laughter caught the attention of other attendees and Hermione grew apprehensive. She would need to find a way to excuse herself from this boisterous table of men immediately, before the next thing of out Charlie’s mouth would have them all in trouble.
“I think I should excuse myself—”
“—Lads, I think enough is enough. We are scaring our guest.” Charlie corrected the scowl pulling at his lips and he appeared to have straightened slightly.
She watched the boyish charm return to his features, like a snake shedding its skin, and he flashed her a smile she was sure had made many witches before her melt into a puddle. It seemed her presence wasn’t forgotten after all. “My sincerest apologies, Miss Granger; we sometimes forget ourselves in the heat of fun, but that is hardly conversation appropriate in mixed company.” He picked up the abandoned deck of cards and began to shuffle them. “I do hope you stay for another game. We can behave, I promise.”