Chapter Five

Disclaimer: The only dividend this pays is personal satisfaction.

Author's Note: RL things have been a bit hectic, but I'm thrilled to be back. I love this story, and I hope that you stick along for the ride.

Many thanks to my alphas, machshefa and Subversa, and betas, richardgloucester and sshg316. You ladies rock my socks, float my boat, and all that jazz.

When Hermione walked into the kitchen for breakfast, Pip was frying eggs in a red frying pan.

"Is that...?" Hermione's eyes widened as she took in the elegant design and the telltale cherry enamel. "Le Creuset."

"It is being heavier than what Pip is used to, but it is being very nice," Pip said.

"When did it arrive?"

"It was waiting in the Floo this morning. There is being a note here, Miss," Pip said.

Hermione saw the parchment on the countertop and read it:

Fine cookware for a fine friend.

Love, Blaise

She put the note down and, with a wave of her wand, opened every cabinet in the kitchen. She saw the red cast iron in several cabinets: cookware, bakeware, a few pitchers and serving pieces...sweet Merlin. Blaise had outdone himself. She bit her lip; she could have afforded every piece, and though she knew that it had hardly dented Blaise's wallet to outfit the kitchen, she felt as though she should have been the one to do it. And Blaise was right...Lyonesse needed refurbishing in more ways than one. So why had she not had the desire?

"Is this all being from the man who was visiting yesterday?" Pip asked.

"Yes," Hermione said, walking around the kitchen to close the cabinets one by one. "Blaise is a good friend."

Pip crinkled his brow. "Is Miss being betrothed to this Mister Blaise?"

Hermione laughed, taken aback by the suggestion. "No...he's just a friend."

"But..." Pip looked very confused. "Wizards only give gifts like this to their witches."

"Blaise doesn't have a witch," Hermione explained. Or a wizard, for that matter.

"Does he want you to be his witch?"

Dear Merlin. She needed more caffeine if he was going to ask these kinds of questions. "I...I just got up, Pip. I'm going to make coffee," she said.

"I is being sorry for asking too many questions, Miss!" Pip cried, and Hermione reached him before he could smack his head against the stove.

"You are not to beat yourself, Pip. Do you understand?" Hermione asked. "Please continue with breakfast, if you'd be so kind."

"The eggs! Pip is burning them!" Pip wailed, and Hermione sat down at the kitchen table and put her head in her hands. Living with a house elf was harder than she thought it'd be.

**

Hermione sent Pip on an errand so as to ensure that breakfast would be a quiet affair. Her eggs and toast were cooked to perfection, the coffee was deliciously bold, and she was alone with her thoughts at last.

Their trip into town had been interrupted, and Blaise had fallen over himself apologizing for being called in to work. He probably thought that the cookware was an apology; he'd always been an extravagant gift-giver. It wasn't that he'd given her a complete set of Le Creuset, per se, that bothered her: it was that she hadn't wanted to give the manor such a gift. She had learned from her reading that the manor was a magical being; it had taken in its builders' magical energy during the construction, and the family had sealed it with enchantments before the last brick had been laid. It was not quite sentient, but it could react to goings-on in the home...she supposed she would soon find out the toll that years of neglect had taken. Lyonesse had fallen into utter disrepair, and to what end? To be taken up by a wealthy Muggle-born witch-cum-War Hero who needed a new hobby?

Pathetic.

She hadn't even been here a week, and it was unfair to expect to have bonded with the manor already, but she felt like there was something chafing, some kind of friction that wouldn't allow her to get close. The portraits, the libraries, the house-elf who made breakfast for you ... it was like she'd stepped into a historical property, one of those old English castles that she'd toured as a little girl with her decidedly middle-class parents; she'd felt, for a moment, like she was a part of Tudor England, like she was there. This was how she felt in Lyonesse, but it was a bit eerie, too, like she'd stepped into an old abandoned, enchanted castle, living someone else's fairy tale. She snorted; who, then, would be the Beast? The house-elf or the ghost?

She'd come here because she needed something different, but living here felt messy and incomplete...temporary. The halls were still tinged with grey, cobwebs still hung from the ceiling, and she left the manor dark most of the time...why expend magical energy to maintain the empty places?

Was she treading lightly because it had been Professor Snape's house? It hardly felt like a home, and Hermione doubted he'd ever spent much time here. What was she trying to do here? Renovate it so...so what? So she could call this home? Set up a study in the library, hear the sound of her children's footsteps racing down the halls, inhabit her own portrait one day?

That was part of it, she realized. As dark and dank as Lyonesse was, it reeked of traditions and of the family that had cherished and created them. The Princes may have been purebloods, and they may have been Slytherins, but there were children's bedrooms, a stable for horses, an old, creaky rocking horse in the attic. Last night, she'd found sachets in the lowest drawer of the armoire in the Master Bedroom. The sachets had smelled of ginger and cinnamon, and Hermione thought that the woman who'd used them must have loved Christmas, winter, all that crackling firewood and spice.

Had Professor Snape ever got to know his family home like this? It was uncomfortable, getting so personal, getting so close. It felt like she was invading some sacred, private space to which she didn't belong.

Thinking about the sachets' owner had kept her up, and so she'd gone down to the library in the middle of the night, had pulled that beautiful leather-bound book that wouldn't open for her from the shelf. She'd set it down next to her in front of the fire and talked to it...Circe, she must have sounded ridiculous, but she hadn't known what else to do. How was she supposed to bring the manor into modernity without understanding its past and the people who'd created it? She supposed she could have gone to the Portrait Hall, but the book felt more intimate, as though the words would be more true, not some portrait's over-glorified or critical opinion of themselves or others. No matter that she couldn't read any of the words in the book, but she had a feeling that the book listened.

She finished her breakfast. Regardless of whether she understood Lyonesse, she was going to renovate it. Determination had to count for something.

**

Hermione was sitting in a wing-backed leather chair by the fire reading her books on renovation when she heard someone cough. She looked up and almost dropped her book. "Edmund! You startled me. Um, how long have you been standing there?"

He laughed but stayed as he was: arms folded across his chest, seemingly leaning against the fireplace. "A few minutes. How are you, Hermione?"

She was going to have to get over his resemblance to Professor Snape sooner or later. His expression was kind, and she focused on that: the kindness, the warmth she'd never felt in Potions class. "Just reading a few books on renovation...I think these are the ones you had Pip collect for me. They've been most useful."

He looked pleased. "What is the most valuable lesson you've learned so far?"

"That the manor is almost a sentient being, a living thing, thrumming with magic, cognizant of its care, or lack of." She bit her lip and debated whether to ask her next question. "Edmund, do you know if Professor Snape was here much?"

He stilled. "He was here infrequently."

"I just..." She shook her head. "This place is so... how could you not care for it? I know he had other priorities and obligations, but to let it just crumble..."

"It was crumbling before his grandfather died," Edmund interrupted.

"Then damn them both," Hermione muttered, surprising herself.

"That's a quick judgment to make, Miss Granger."

She looked at him crossly. "I asked you not to call me that."

"And I'd ask you not to be overly critical of that which you do not know. You were not here when either of them was alive."

She wanted to say I watched him die, do you think that counts?, but instead she set her book down and dragged her knees to her chest, giving herself time to think. When she spoke, she was calm. "I don't know the history of the place, but there's tradition...family...around every corner. I've found perfume sachets and a rocking horse and toys. There was a family here. A family I'm not a part of."

"Given the state this family fell into, you should be happy for that," Edmund said, his tone dry.

"So I don't get to criticize them but you do?"

"They're my family. Seems fair."

She was so tired. She didn't know what to say.

"Hermione," Edmund said, his voice soft, almost gentle. "You're doing a good thing here. You're right; this is a beautiful home...one that shouldn't have fallen to its present state." His voice sounded strained.

"Can you help me?" she asked, looking up at him, feeling like a schoolgirl.

Edmund pointed at his chest. "Ghost."

She chuckled in spite of herself. "I mean, the supporting me...talking, helping, suggesting books?"

He was quiet for a moment. "I don't see why not. Although according to the portraits, you have support."

Her brow wrinkled. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"There was a man here."

"Oh, Blaise." She waved a hand. "He's just a friend."

Edmund arched an eyebrow.

"No, not you, too...Pip already interrogated me with that old fashioned rubbish about how if a man buys you cookware then you're betrothed. No. Nowadays, men and women can be friends without sex getting in the way, and thank goodness, because it complicates things an awful lot...oh my God," she said, starting to blush fiercely, "I hope I haven't offended..."

"Me and my pre-Victorian sensibilities?" Edmund looked as though he was doing his damnedest not to laugh. "I've been around a long time, Hermione. Sexual mores have changed, and you shouldn't have to censor yourself around me."

She could still feel her cheeks burning. "Okay," she said, and then she remembered another question she had. "Well, since you asked me about Blaise ... can I ask about Hyacinth Grey?"

His lips became thinner, if possible. "You've been talking with Charlotte."

She felt as though she'd made a terrible error, but he'd asked her about Blaise, and that rankled a bit...just a bit. "Well?"

He closed his eyes. "Hyacinth was ... important to me. Forgive me, but I am not comfortable answering. Charlotte put you up to the question because she knew it would make me uncomfortable ... she never did like me much," he mused.

"But it's been..." Hermione started, thinking out loud, and Edmund suddenly looked annoyed.

"A long time?" He snorted. "If you lost the person you loved, how long would it take you to recover? And think about the ghosts who occupied your school...surely you know of the Grey Lady and the Bloody Baron? They've been ghosts for over a thousand years." He looked her in the eye. "Tell me, Hermione, have you ever loved deeply?"

Her heart was beating fast. This conversation wasn't going the way she'd thought it would.

He stared at her, unflinching. "I asked if you have ever loved deeply."

"No," she whispered, looking at the fire.

"I thought not."

"I didn't mean to offend," she said, eyes downcast. "I was just curious."

"Curiosity is a trait of yours, isn't it?" he asked with a small chuckle. "I'd best be going, but I wanted to talk briefly with you as you start the renovations, and it wouldn't do to punish you just because you're too much of a Gryffindor," he said. "The first and most important rule: the minute you feel tired, stop. The manor absorbs your magical energy as you rebuild it; when you tire, eat and rest. Wizards have seriously injured themselves trying to rush a renovation. Your magic must remain vibrant and plentiful. I'd also recommend bringing in professionals to do the electricity and plumbing...don't forget to charge the Ministry for their services."

She noted the information and reminded herself that he was not a servant to be bidden and kept around at her request, though she dearly wished to talk with him more. "Thank you, Edmund. I hope to see you again soon."

"Even after all this?" he asked, his lips quirking into what looked to be a smile. "You will, Hermione. You will." And he walked away.

**

By mid-day, she was ready to throw her books against the wall. Not that she'd ever dishonour books in that manner, and not that she disliked researching magical renovation, but she was ready to stop studying and start doing. But she was nervous and... and... She wanted Edmund to be there for the first time.

Her tried and true solution in such frustrated times was to knit. She'd promised Ginny a baby blanket, but more urgently, she needed get out of the manor, and she'd noticed that the yarn shop in Coleworth was open on Sundays. Devoting the rest of the day to tactile de-stressing seemed like a good plan. She let Pip know where she was going and she took off down the path behind the manor, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders to warm herself against the crisp breeze. Didn't England realize that it was May?

Coleworth was surprisingly bustling for a Sunday afternoon, and Hermione was pleased to find that the Yarn Emporium was indeed open. She opened the door and a bell rang, announcing her arrival, but she could scarcely hear it over the buzz of noise; there were quite a few women in the shop, lingering around the till, talking and laughing. All the better to let her shop in peace, she thought, taking in her surroundings. Two walls were covered from top to bottom with yarn, all kinds of color and fibre, from wool and cotton to mohair and alpaca. A smile spread across her face, and she set about her business.

"Can I help you?"

Hermione snapped out of her reverie and noticed that the woman was standing next to her. She was tall, and her long, chocolate-brown hair was streaked with silver. "I was just browsing," Hermione said, smiling. "You've got a lovely selection."

"Thank you. Are you visiting the area?" the woman asked. "I'm Susan, by the way."

"Hermione." The two women shook hands. "And I'm new here; I'm renting the manor for a little while."

Susan raised her eyebrows. "That's a forbidding place. Quite a bit of local legend around it."

"It's a bit bigger than I expected," Hermione said. That was putting it mildly.

"It's certainly a lot to take on. Are you there by yourself?"

"Yeah. I like it, though. It's secluded, quiet," Hermione said, staring at the bright colors.

Susan nodded. "Lots of people come down here for the quiet, fleeing the horrors of professional life in the city...myself included," she said. "Are you finding what you're looking for?"

Hermione sighed. "I'm not sure."

"I meant the yarn," Susan said with a kind smile. "How long have you been at the manor?"

"A week, maybe?"

Susan laughed. "Overachiever, are we?"

Hermione nodded, feeling rather like a schoolgirl.

"The peace and quiet doesn't come right away, and it can't be forced. It's frustrating, that way. I found that knitting helps, and it seems you've hit upon a similar solution," Susan said, smiling. She tucked a hair behind her ear. "I'll let you keep browsing. Let me know if you have any questions."

Hermione hoped knitting would help...it was a methodical, tactile process that produced a tangible, finished product. One that would be used by friends she loved. She thought of James, who clung to the blue blanket she'd made several years ago; he called it "Blue" as though it were a stuffed animal. She bit her lip as she sorted through yarn, thinking about her friends, deciding what material would be softest for the new baby, what colors would be best. Harry and Ginny had decided not to tell anyone what they were having this time, so Hermione decided on sunshine yellow and a soft orange...no doubt their children would all be Gryffindors. But at the last minute, she reached for a sage green, not knowing how she'd use it, but feeling that it was necessary.

Having made her selections, she went to pay. She was very pleased with the quality of yarn and told Susan as much, but then she saw Caroline walk by the window, and her mind took another course entirely. What would Susan know about the shop next door, about the absent owner who arranged his ingredients just so...?

And then Susan gave her the perfect opening: "How did you find out about the shop?"

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "I went to the herbalist yesterday..."

"Oh, did you meet Lionel?" Susan asked, obviously curious.

"No," Hermione started. "But I'd like to."

"Into herbal remedies, are you? He attracts a lot of business...well, we both do. Our shops are a bit unusual for a place as small as Coleworth, and so we draw quite a lot of custom from surrounding towns. A few tourists, but not many." Susan handed her the bag of goods.

"Is he around much? I'd like to chat with him," Hermione said.

"Well, he's a reticent sort," Susan said, drumming her fingernails against the counter. "We don't chat much, save a hello and how are you, and we've been neighbours now for quite a few years. He's an honest and fair businessman, and his instincts are just uncanny. But he's not much for talking. I'm sorry; I don't mean to discourage you."

Hermione was hardly discouraged. "What do you mean by uncanny instincts?"

Susan looked thoughtful. "Just that he seems to know when people need things. He's helpful; he'll let people buy on credit when they're having a hard time, and he's hired people who needed the work, including my niece. I think he feels more than he lets on."

Good to know. "I'll keep that in mind. It was lovely to meet you, Susan."

"You, as well. If you do see Lionel, tell him I say hello," Susan said, a bemused smile on her face as Hermione left the shop.

**

"That's a pretty one. I haven't seen 'er hereabouts," the bartender said, watching the brunette through the glass. "You get a look at 'er, Lionel?"

Snape turned his head from where he sat at the bar and watched Hermione walk out of the Yarn Emporium. Surprising; potentially annoying. He liked having his Sunday afternoons in the pub, but then, he didn't figure her for a pub kind of girl.

He tossed back the rest of his beer. "Too young for me, Jim."

"I'm just sayin', you don't see arses like that every day," Jim said, refilling his glass.

"Mm," Snape murmured noncommittally, his eyes on her as she started down the path that led to Lyonesse.

Indeed.

A/N: Someone has a cameo, and it's not a beta. Ten points to the reviewer who guesses Susan's identity and why she's here. *grin