Chapter 4

Chapter 4

When Hermione had been planning her "escape," she had thought of one place she had known she would find the peace and quiet she needed: Grasmere. She had always wanted a little cottage or house in the Lake District, and Grasmere was in the heart of it. Her Muggle upbringing came with a healthy appreciation for British literature and poetry, which included a hearty portion of Wordsworth and Coleridge. That area had been the vision that prompted some of the most beautiful poetry written, and Hermione wanted to be a part of that beauty and serenity.

Being a woman of means meant Hermione could afford the best, and she planned on having it. There was a charming place called "Garden Cottage" that resided on the very edge of the city on a private drive. Hermione's estate agent showed her the most magnificent pictures of the property, and Hermione could see in her mind how gorgeous the land would look in the spring and summertime. As she stood on the outside deck of the property she was considering buying, she closed her eyes and droned out the sound of the estate agent and inhaled the wintry air. It would be magnificent in spring and summer. The fells around the property belonged to the owner as well, so she would be able to walk amongst nature's loveliness and lose herself in the splendor of it all. It hadn't been a difficult decision to make. The village was beautiful and quaint, the area was quite historic, and the nature, well, was simply, as Wordsworth would call it, "sublime."

When she drove into Grasmere to sign the documents, she was impressed with the provincial, yet touristy, style of the city. She made a mental list of the things she would need for a long, quiet winter. The first thing was to get groceries and then a stop off at Sarah Nelson's Gingerbread Bakery. It was reported to be the best in all of England.

Garden Cottage was quiet and calm with all the peace and solitude Hermione could have ever hoped for. She had many small projects written down to get the house just right, but she mostly spent her days reading and writing. She was considering writing a book on Ancient Runes. She fixed the annex above the main floor to serve as her Potions lab. She wanted to have all the necessities that she would need, such as burn-healing pastes, Blood-Replenishing Potions, Boil-Cure Potions, Bruise Removal Pastes, Calming Draughts, Draught of Peace, Dreamless Sleep Potions, Invigoration Draughts, Pepper-up Potions, and Strengthening Solutions. She already had a plentiful store of ingredients to make her own potions plus ingredients that were healers by themselves. Essences of Dittany, Rue, and Murtlap were among them. In between reading and writing, Hermione worked on her potions while Crookshanks slumbered nearby.

She thought a lot about the past, about Harry, Ron, Hogwarts, all those who had died. Each time she brewed, she could hear Professor Snape's cold voice in her head, telling the class how they should be cutting their ingredients. She realized he would always be a part of her, just as when she had to perform certain charms, she would hear the squeaky voice of Professor Flitwick, saying, "Now, swish and flick!"

By the time the winter was ebbing, Hermione was ready to emerge from her self-imposed isolation. She had taken to walking along one of her many "fells" around her property for exercise and meditation. It felt good to have the wind on her face. One lazy Saturday, late in the afternoon, she came upon a group of boys playing in the slush around a small river. She stayed back a ways, crouching down in the reeds that grew tall by the riverbed and listened to them chat with one other. They were little boys, she determined. They couldn't have been older than nine. One was tall and had sandy-blond hair that made her think of Remus Lupin with a twinge in her heart. The second boy had dark curly hair and was the loudest of the group. He had a wide, happy smile that he flashed often as he laughed, which was quite a bit. The last boy was quiet and had black hair as well, but she couldn't make out his face. He was crouched low, playing with a stick in the slushy, muddy snow.

Hermione watched the three friends with bittersweet memories of her own childhood skittered across her mind whilst they laughed and pushed the other. Suddenly, they started talking seriously.

"I told you, he's just an old git that is mean and hateful! He hollered at me and David because we were playing too close to his property!" said the sandy-blond-haired boy.

"I don't care," said the boy Hermione couldn't see. "I've been inside his house!"

The other boy with the black curly hair slapped his forehead. "Eugene, you're a damn liar! Just because we dared you to go and knock on the old man's door doesn't mean you have to lie about it," he said to the boy named Eugene.

The boy stood up, and Hermione could see his straight black hair and pale skin. "I told yer, it's true!" he insisted with his fists clenched to his side. "I went into the house, and he wears an old-fashioned frock coat and trousers, and a scarf around his neck. All in black, too. He's got black hair, straight like mine, and he said he's waiting for a lady to arrive. He's got a wife, I reckon, so he can't be so bad. He said she's really pretty, too. Yer dared me, and I dast!"

"You're making it up!" jeered the boy again.

"I did, I tell you!" Eugene yelled. "Aw, go 'way then!" He waved his hand dismissively at them and went back to his work in the mud and slush.

Hermione watched the two boys scamper off, and when the boy was finally alone, Hermione walked towards him.

"Hello," she said sweetly.

The black-haired boy jumped up and looked at her. He glanced around nervously, and Hermione softly said, "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid!" the boy said as he stuck out his chest and glared at her with his bright eyes.

"I'm Hermione," she said as she walked closer to him.

"What are you doing out here?" he demanded.

"I live on this land. Garden Cottage is my home," she calmly replied.

The boy's eyes grew large. "Wow! You really own that place? I didn't think anyone could ever afford to buy anything around here. You must be rich!" he exclaimed as he looked her up and down.

Hermione regarded him. He was tall and slight with black hair and dark blue eyes. His clothes fitted him well enough, but they looked careworn. His pale face was clear and unblemished, and he looked as if he could stand to have a few good, hot meals. If he were given a chance to eat well and be cared for, he could grow to be very handsome one day. A fleeting thought of Sirius Black crossed her mind, but she dismissed it.

"What's your name?" she asked him.

"Eugene. Eugene Wainwright," he said as he kicked some of the snow around him.

"Were those other lads your friends?" she asked.

"Yeah, I reckon," he said. "We go to primary school together in Grasmere at the church, and we're all in the fourth year. There's not a lot of us, so we kinda have to be friends."

"I couldn't help but hear you all talking," Hermione said cautiously as she bundled her scarf closer to her. She noticed the boy wore no gloves and his jacket was not a proper coat for wintry weather.

"I have cocoa and biscuits in my house, Eugene. I also have a cat, Crookshanks. Do you want to see my house?" she asked.

"Sure," he shrugged as he walked close to her.

"What were you boys arguing about?" she asked curiously.

Eugene shrugged again. "There's this old bloke who lives down outside of the village, off of Red Bank Road. He's supposed to be really scary. We kids never noticed before, but he has to have been there quite a while. The house is really old and creepy. The girls won't walk past his house, they're such babies, and the other boys just keep trying to make him mad by throwing rocks at his old house and deekabout for a dare."

"And you took the dare?" she asked.

Eugene became very expressive as he talked. "Yeah, I durst. I just went right up to his door, knocked on it, and there he was. Tall, all in black, with a really pale face, like he hadn't been in the sun for ages. He's got a black scarf and wears weird clothes. He was really mean, but I told him I didn't want to make him angry, I wanted to meet him."

Hermione was intrigued. "What did he do?" she asked as they walked up the steps to the back of her cottage.

"He slammed the door in my face. But I went back four times, and then he finally let me inside."

"What's his name?" she asked, now intrigued by the mystery man in black.

"Dunno," he shrugged carelessly. "Wouldn't give me one. Said it was his business. Said he didn't like children much, especially know-it-alls..."

Hermione stumbled. In her mind, she heard a voice echo in the back of her head from when she had been just a third-year. "Do you take pride in being an insufferable know-it-all?"

She straightened herself up and led Eugene into her house through the mudroom.

"So, what do you call him?" she asked curiously as she took her coat and Eugene's and hung them to dry.

Eugene looked thoughtful for a bit as he paused to unlace his boots. "I did tell him since he wouldn't give me a name to call him, I'd call him Mr. Black, you know, since he wears all black."

Hermione turned to hide a smile that was spreading on her face. She fought the urge to laugh and turned it into a cough.

"Come in, Eugene," she said as she padded towards the kitchen. Eugene sat in one of the booth chairs opposite her kitchen preparation area. Hermione went to put water in the kettle as she asked, "How did he like that idea?" she asked innocently.

Eugene barked a laugh. Hermione's ears perked up instantly. He even laughs like Sirius!

"His face went nearly purple! He's got a vein that pulsates from the side of head," he said with a huge grin on his face.

Hermione set down a plate of biscuits in front of him, and he took two, one for each hand and then a third, for his mouth. He was hungry. It bothered Hermione a great deal that a boy in such a well-to-do area of England would be so hungry.

She folded her arms across her chest as she watched him work his way through the biscuits. Without asking or offering, Hermione began to take out the chicken broccoli casserole from her refrigerator and heated a heaping portion in the microwave. She poured a large glass of milk and set it in front of him. Eugene paused in his inhaling of her biscuits to eye her strangely.

"Where's the cocoa?" he asked after he swallowed a mouthful.

Hermione smiled brightly at him. "It's heating up, as is the casserole. I reckon you are rather hungry, and I make far too much food. Crookshanks won't eat the broccoli, and I think it's sinful to waste good food. So you'd be doing me a big favor," she said as she rested her elbows on the counter opposite him.

"You're a nice lady," he said awkwardly as he brought the glass of milk to his lips.

"Thank you," Hermione replied graciously. She sat across from him and said, "How is it that you so readily came into my house? You don't know me. I could have been a bad person."

Eugene shook his head, his lanky black hair moved slightly. "Naw, you're just a mott. You're not all that big anyway. I reckon I could take you on iffin' I had to, but you're nice. I know about people. Since my aunt and uncle don't like me around anyways, I've met all sorts of people. That's why I wasn't flaiten to knock on his door."

Hermione frowned. "You should be afraid," she chided. "Not everyone is kind and nice."

Eugene looked at her with his large blue eyes. "I know that, lady. You don't need to tell me. The people who are my family treat me far worse than any stranger I've ever met."

His candor and tone rendered Hermione speechless. He was obviously psychologically older than his eight or nine years, and she didn't think it was such a good thing. She brought him a heaping plateful of food, and his face lit up.

"Thanks!" he said excitedly.

Hermione watched the skinny, lanky boy eat as if he had never had a decent meal in his life. Hermione looked at his hair. It was ill kept and choppy. "Eugene, may I touch your hair?"

He swallowed another mouthful and said defensively, "What for?"

"I was wondering about the last time you had a proper haircut?"

The young boy made a grumbling noise in his throat. "You ask too many questions. That's what I like about him. Doesn't yatter about nonsense. He works hard and has too much to do before she comes to see him," he replied.

Hermione heard the kettle whistle, and she fixed his promised cocoa. She set the cup in front of him and said softly, "I apologize if I have offended you."

Eugene shrugged as he ate another biscuit. "He has hair like mine. It just doesn't look like the others," he said sadly.

"What's his hair like?" she asked.

Eugene looked at Hermione as if she were speaking another language. "I just told you," he said impatiently. "His hair is longish, like mine. It's black. He has too much on his mind to care for it properly. He tells me I remind him a bit of himself when I was his age. He said his parents never gave him enough food. He never had nuthin' good."

"Where are your parents, Eugene?" Hermione whispered as she took the spoon to get him another helping of casserole.

"Don't got parents," he said as she placed another helping of casserole in front of him. He tucked right in and ate in heaping mouthfuls.

"Eugene!" Hermione scolded. "Take smaller bites! I don't want you to get sick."

Eugene looked at her and stopped eating. "Can I touch your hair, if I let you touch mine?" he asked as he gazed at her face intently.

"Sure!" Hermione said as she hopped up on the stool next to his. He touched her curls and said, "You're real nice. Not like my aunt. She never hugs me or lets me touch her. She's really dishy, too, for an old woman. You're not so very old, are you?" he asked.

Hermione smiled as he continued to examine her curls. "No, I'm only nineteen," she confided.

"I just turned nine!" he said excitedly. "You and I are ten years apart in age." His face grew sad. "He's really old sometimes, but there are times I think he might be young, somehow. Especially when he talks about her."

"Who is this woman, Eugene?" she asked worriedly.

"Dunno," he said simply as he closed his eyes. "He says she comes to him in the mirror, and they talk for hours. 'She's coming back,' he says. He said she had to hide from a wicked man for a long time, but now they will be together again."

Hermione was rooted in her chair in shock.

"Well, aren't you going to touch my hair?" he asked.

"Of course," Hermione whispered absentmindedly as she slipped off the stool. She examined his black hair and saw he needed a decent cut badly. She ruffled his hair and said, "I have a friend who could never keep his hair tidy when we were kids. No matter what he did to it, it always was untamable."

She stood there looking at Eugene and thought of Harry and Professor Snape. She was taken off guard when two thin arms wrapped themselves around her waist.

"You don't mind hugging, do you, Hermione?" he asked.

Hermione wrapped her arms around his slight frame and rested her head on top of his. "No, Eugene. I think hugging is as important as food. Not enough hugs can make a person sad and sickly."

Eugene held onto her tighter as he spoke. "I think he needs hugs just like I do. He's sick sometimes I think. He waits for that lady to be with him. He thinks every day she'll come to him, but she never does. Sometimes he cries. That's when he yells at me to leave."

"Oh, dear," murmured Hermione.

Eugene released her and went back to eating. "I bet he'd get all better if you hugged him a bit. But he doesn't like being touched. I came close to him once to look at a tattoo he had on his arm. He yelled and screamed at me to never touch him. He said he only liked for that lady in the mirror to touch him. So, I don't think he'd want a hug from you," he mused.

Hermione deviated the subject from the elusive and secretive man and asked questions about Eugene's home. "Tell me more about your aunt, Eugene," she asked light-heartedly.

"I dunno," he muttered. He looked thoughtful, and Hermione watched his beautiful blue eyes glaze over. "She's really pretty with curly blonde hair and blue eyes. She looks nice and smells nice all the time and has lots of kisses for my uncle and their kids, but she looks at me like I were a bug or something."

Eugene looked so sad. He clearly loves his aunt, Hermione thought sadly. "What is she like with her kids that is so different from you?" she asked.

"She always tells them she loves them. She holds them to her and kisses their heads and cheeks."

"Do you think your aunt and uncle love you?" she asked, thinking of Harry so desperately, she wished he were here this second.

"Naw," he said flippantly. He grew a bit nervous, and Hermione could tell he wanted to ask her something but was afraid.

"What is it, Eugene?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said as he shook his black hair. "I need to go. I have to go see Mr. Black. I don't say it to his face. He'd go razzie. He told me if I ever called him that, he would skewer me and then said he doubted anyone would miss me."

Hermione's eyes grew large. "That's totally barbaric!" she yelled indignantly. "Do you think he would hurt you?" she asked concerned.

"Naw," Eugene said confidently. "He needs me. I go run errands for him, and he gives me money. He tells me I'm special, but I shouldn't let it go to my head. He said soon a time would come where I would leave Grasmere and go to a real, posh school somewhere in Scotland. I tried to ask him more about it, but he said when I got a little older, near eleven, he'd tell me all about it. He also said I wasn't to tell people about him when I went there. He says he just wants peace."

Just like me, Hermione thought sadly.

"Your friend and I have a great deal in common," she whispered. "I came to Grasmere to get away from all the hustle and bustle of the city. It was too much."

"I want to go live in London," he said excitedly. "Can I come back sometime, and will you tell me about London?" he asked with bright eyes.

"You are more than welcome any time, Eugene," Hermione said warmly. "And please call me, Hermione."

Eugene got off his stool and said, "You are real nice, Hermione. I like you. Can we be friends?"

"Sure," Hermione said warmly as she walked him back to the mudroom.

Eugene sat on the bench to lace his boots and put on his jacket. Hermione wrapped her scarf around his neck and gave him a pair of old leather gloves. "Put your hood up, Eugene. I would hate for you to get sick."

Eugene wrapped his arms around Hermione and squeezed her tight. "I wish you could meet Mr. Black. I bet you're nicer than that old lady any day. I know he would love to get nice food and hugs. He's always so sad and gloomy."

Hermione thought about it and said quickly, "Please don't tell Mr. Black my name. You can make up a name for me, but don't tell him about me."

"Why?" he asked confused.

"Oh, I'm not ready yet to meet people, but I'm sure one day I would love to meet your Mr. Black," she answered lamely.

Eugene shrugged. "Can I come back tomorrow?" he asked.

"I plan on going to church in the morning," she told him. "Do you want to go to church?"

"Why?" he asked. "God never did nuthin' for me," he said defensively.

Hermione furrowed her brow. "That's not true, Eugene. God let us find each other. You have an adult now who cares about you and who will give hot food and warm clothes when you need them. I would say our meeting was... providential," she replied as she smiled.

"Okay. But I'm not wearing anything posh," he snapped. "I'll wear my jeans and jumper. If they don't like it, then they can lump it," he said stoutly. "I don't think God cares a thing about my clothes."

"That's true," said Hermione as wrapped her arms around herself. "He cares more about your heart and mind than your clothes or hair. Rich, poor, whatever...it makes no difference. God loves us just the way we are, faults and all."

Eugene looked at her as if she were talking nonsense. "I'll come by. Shouldn't I call you Mrs. Something? Aren't you married?" he asked suspiciously.

"Nope," Hermione answered. "I am Miss Granger. You may call me that in public. But here, you may call me Hermione."

"Okay, Hermione. See you!" he said as he walked out the door.

She watched him as he bounded out of sight and then went back to clean up her kitchen.

Cumbrian slang

Dast – I dared to do it

Deekabout – look around

Durst – past tense of dast

Mott – good-looking girl/young woman

Flaiten – afraid

Yatter – to talk excessively

Razzie - berserk