Chapter Text
Quiet footsteps. Slumped shoulders. Sore neck. Rustling parchment. A creak from a wooden door, interjected by a low hum of disturbed magic. A cottage, standing stout and quaint, took note but was not alarmed. It's visitor, as new as the sapling growing near it's south wall, is not a stranger. Not for the past few weeks.
Hermione sighed, rubbing at her forehead. She leaned a shoulder on the doorjamb, exhaustion lining every part of her body.
“Those old codgers. It's not as if I'm doing something illegal,” she mumbled, a frown marring her delicate features, with curly locks swaying with her movement as she dragged her feet inside. She was unbothered by the dark space, and too tired to conjure fire to light her way. She had long memorized the shapes and paths of her little abode within hours of residing in it.
Her satchel weighed her down, full to the brim with different scrolls and books. But for her, with the ingredients she needed still out of her reach, it might as well be empty – like the gaze of her supposed 'seniors' when she explains the intrinsic value of her study for domestic, if not international, use.
Three months ago, Hermione went on a journey to find components necessary in her research. She was on the verge of a breakthrough – producing flame-like heat without the use of wood, or any other combustible material. If her theory is correct, and she knows it is, the Rose Quartz – when fused together with a Jasper stone, to empower the core, and powdered Clear Quartz, to maintain balance – will emit a warmth that could be as intense or as gentle as the user wills it to be. Her goal is to make this solution accessible to the common folk, ensuring their hearths are lit bright, and warmth aplenty, aiding even small, low-income families through the winter moons – whether they possess magical abilities, or not. As long as the right conditions are in place, and their will, resolute, the coral rock will be a mainstay item in every household for centuries until a better product arises.
Or that's what she hoped for.
Her scholastic 'opponents' in the academy have woefully bombarded her with harsh criticism, citing the impossibility of the proposal, as well as considering it 'daylight robbery' to the 'hardworking lumber workers that need an honest living'. Hermione would have normally scoffed and walked away from such petty excuses. That's not to say she doesn't sympathize with the tree cutters – she's doing this research for their sake most of all! It's dangerous work bringing in fire wood from the mountains – but because she's used to being the subject of scorn from the stuffy, traditional sages that haunt the halls of the vast academic archives. They were too focused on the economic benefits of the trade instead of focusing on innovations that will benefit all, and not just themselves. And most of all, their delicate pride shattered at the notion of a youngster, a woman, would know more than them; would have more complexity in thinking than them – would be better than them.
It only added fuel to the intellectual hell fire when they learned she was Muggle-born. From quite an oddball pair that have...peculiar job descriptions even in the Muggle world. Regardless, she loves them for being incredibly supportive. Somehow, she'll find a way to improve the tools they use as teeth hygienists. The salt solution doesn't seem to work well with people with low pain tolerance.
A dull twinge not related to the strap digging into her shoulder made her brush her fingers against her chest. Her light smile faltering at the remembrance of where she is, and where they are.
She's here. In another country. A separate continent. So very far away from them...
– the smokey image of peppy, happy smiles, and warm cuddles seem like a distant memory –
… far away from home.
Hermione furrowed her brow and shook her head, shaking off the growing cobwebs of disquiet, before placing her things down in the shadow of a cabinet, stretching her arms until her joints popped, rotating her head to loosen up stiff muscles. She let out a long sigh.
She shouldn't have been so naive to think the sages wouldn't do something when she ran her mouth too much for their liking.
Constant ambushes flecked with hexes left and right – at the market, at the library, at the tavern, even at her favorite apothecary – plagued her daily life after her thesis pronouncement. Her magical sense quickly discerned the resentment and discontent lining each magical barrage that came her way. The final straw was when one random curse almost grazed her mother's forearm as she placed dark chocolate oatmeal cookies near a window to cool.
Despite the cowardly showmanship of political power, Hermione could recognize none aim to end her life. They always fade away once she's close to a crowd or when she's steps away from home. Oh no. Her life had too little value compared to theirs. They wouldn't risk splitting their souls for it. Not to mention it would ruin the image of them being benign sources of insight. She scoffed, walking absently towards the kitchen to whip up a snack. Those old coots. She'd show them someday.
She surmised they just wanted to break her concentration on her work. And maybe as a bonus, her spirit – probably wanting her to desert her dissertation all on her own. Or best of all, she will no longer 'sully' academy grounds with her 'outrageous' presence.
Her feet froze, head turning sharply at something that shined softly in the moonlight.
“What in Merlin's name... again?”
Hermione narrowed her eyes, brows rising high. She leaned her weight on one leg, shoulders tensing, feeling perplexed and astonished. She's still relatively new in the country, all things considered, accumulating only a handful of friendly acquaintances during her stay. The merchants were amiable, but no where near familiar with her to bestow her anything but respect deserving of a reliable customer.
And yet, on her small, understated table, sat a gift. Her sixth gift in a row.
Or so she thinks are gifts, she mused. She hasn't opened any of them yet, suspicion too high on her plate – not knowing who the sender is would do that for a woman living on her own – although a thorough scanning spell, thrice cast, eliminated the possibility of them being cloaked with hidden malice.
Despite her misgivings, she would admit that the gold-laced, delicately frosted design of the boxed-shaped packages were becoming quite the handsome centerpiece on top of her small mantel. It would be a shame to tear apart the beautiful wrap when they've obviously been crafted carefully and expensively – judging by the enchanted, Unicorn hair thread that kept the wraps secure. The neat, silver swirls, like vines gently clinging onto a tree, serve as both an enhancement on the aesthetic appeal of the package, as well as an aid in protection. The rare string allows only the sender and recipient to open the bundles without repercussion, ensuring the successful delivery of whatever precious items are inside. It appealed greatly to Hermione's natural curiosity.
And yet, it would not do to completely lose her guard, given what she's been through.
Shaking off the incoming, anger-induced headache, Hermione thrummed her fingers on the surface of the table, staring at the new box, chin on hand, considering. A glance outside showed a steady stream of powdery snow, her mind taking a mental inventory of her food and wood storage, her plans for the day, and the experiments she needed to do. She sighed, recognizing the futility of going outside now. The snowfall had been gentle, but persistent, for the past fortnight. Considering its the middle of winter, she shouldn't be surprised. She had hoped she could do a last minute canvassing in the nearby mountain range. Apparently, she was barred from getting her ingredients from the Gem Smithy. Something about a royal decree and worries about foreign control and whatnot.
She bets the sages were interfering with her business again. She just knows it.
Turning her attention back to the box, she ran a light finger on the edge of its glittery material, contemplating if she needs to change up her protective charms. But if she did, she wouldn't get such... pleasant surprises. Wary as she still is, she couldn't help but feel... touched, that someone would go out of their way to figure out her warding – which is impressive – find a way around it, just to leave behind something that would sparkle in the dark, like the first slivers of light after a storm. All her other gifts were presented this way. If not on her welcome mat – an odd decoration for this country but a reminder of home – it's at her preferred space in the garden – exactly where she likes to sit, under the shade of an old tree.
If not on the barrel next to the main door – she likes to use it like a table to hold her things – it's next to the flower pot – she's been nurturing a local flower as a side project. It had pretty petals.
The last one was at her favored reading corner, where she likes to watch the sun set, drinking tea.
And now, the kitchen, where she planned to cheer herself up after a very, very, long day of arguing.
Her gaze softened, recognizing the significance of each placement.
She bit down on her lower lip, ticking down her mental list again. Finishing her other tasks in advance last week seemed like a double-edged sword: on one hand, she no longer had to worry about meeting deadlines. On the other, she has nothing left to do.
Hermione blew a quick huff of air through her curly bangs, resigned. There was absolutely no reason to not open the bloody boxes anymore, is there? No curses. No hexes. No malingering presence. No books needing to be returned – except for what she just borrowed today. Dissertation neatly rolled up in the corner of her private space, still waiting for results from her experiments, which require a completely dry environment. Another glance out the window assured her this would not be made possible anytime soon.
Hermione carefully cradled the elegant package, fully intending to open it together with the rest of her parcels. If her calculations are correct – and it often is – it's the eve of the Yulefest. It wouldn't be quite the break in tradition if she opened them now.
-{-}-
Straightening up after arranging all her gifts on a cleared work table, Hermione analyzed the soft glow emanating from two of them. She tilting her head for a moment, allowing a hint of a smile.
“Clever. They know me better than I thought.”
Hermione always loved puzzles. From the rudimentary up to the most archaic. For her, there's no such thing as an impossible riddle. Just an impeded solution – whether by blocking the senses or fooling them, it's just a matter of time before one arrives to the answer.
And this particular one is adorably created. Simply put, she just has to arrange the packages in the order she received them, like so –
Two of the other packages emanated a teasing twinkle before the first two packages had their glowing light dimmed before burning out.
Oh. Maybe it's not that simple.
Hmm. What if she rearranged them in the reverse order –
Ah. How fascinating. One package twinkled before burning out. The two other packages remained shimmering. One never responded.
Whoever sent these to her, flatter her greatly. Tickling her intelligence.
Hermione took up her wand, taking a few minutes of speedy calculations, before flicking it in complicated patterns in the air. Ribbons of light rained down on her work table, covering it, and its burden, entirely with hues of gleaming blues. All the packages quaked subtly, as if jarred awake, before rearranging themselves in rapid order. Her spell systematically placed the parcels in different series, waiting for half a second for them to react, or not, before moving on to the next sequence.
Hopefully, nothing truly valuable gets shaken inside, Hermione reflected, a little too late, while brushing a windswept lock away from her face.
A bright sparkle from all lit packages now caught her attention, giving her growing grin a luminous glow.
-{-}-
A low chuckle resonated in a long hallway, leaving the stoic, armed men nearby to blink inquisitively up at the source. Their faces remain blank, but not unfocused.
A pleased smile graced a young man's face as he strode by, waving his hand at them, as if asking to be excused for being a distraction. The evening sentry bowed smartly in acknowledgment before pretending to resume their duty. Their eyes had stayed glued – stealthily – to the man's figure, noticing how purposeful his stride was compared to the lackluster gait from this morning. His noble garb, flecked with subtle swirls and golden hues against a sea of browns and mahogany, danced as if to further suggest his good cheer.
They dare not express it out loud, but they all felt relieved that His Highness is in a better mood compared to the past fortnight. Gossip among the gardeners and at the smithy confirmed one crucial thing they all hoped for for their quiet, yet kind, future sovereign: his heart, has finally, been touched.