Sparks of Prophecy

The entrance hall they briefly passed through was beyond breathtaking, leaving Hermione momentarily stunned. The towering ceilings stretched so high that she could see the railing of the second floor, and the sheer size of the room made her feel small. The chandelier that hung in the middle of the hall was magnificent—its crystals catching the light and casting delicate rainbows across the walls. It was, by far, the most beautiful thing she had seen in the entire manor. The dark wood panels on the walls, though imposing, offered a strange comfort, but the portraits—oh, the portraits—were unnerving. The stern eyes of long-dead Selwyn ancestors seemed to follow her every movement, watching her with judgmental gazes. It was like she could feel their disapproval, weighing heavily on her.

Hermione tried to shake off the feeling, but it lingered. The eyes of the Selwyns—of all the previous lords and ladies—seemed to be tracking her every step. She almost swore that under the effects of a truth potion, they would have confessed to judging her for even existing in their presence.

Pimsey, the house elf, led her up the grand staircase in complete silence. Hermione couldn’t help but notice the oddness of the situation. Yes, there were two staircases—unbelievably posh, even for a family like the Selwyns. She couldn’t stand the fact that they even had a house elf. What made it worse was that Pimsey was the only elf she had seen so far. For a pureblood family, that was stranger than spotting a Crumple-Horned Snorkack at a Ministry gala. The silence between them felt heavy, and Hermione's hands suddenly felt oddly empty. She wasn’t struggling with luggage for the first time, and it made her feel almost guilty—especially since Pimsey had insisted on carrying it all himself. She felt terrible about it, but what could she do? She couldn’t exactly argue with the elf’s insistence.

When they reached the top of the staircase, the hall split into two directions. One staircase twisted upward again, presumably leading to the third floor, but the hallway itself seemed just as cold and daunting as the rest of the house. The only exception was the hallway to the left. There was something about it that caught Hermione’s attention, though she couldn’t quite place what it was. She found herself lingering there, her gaze fixed on the left hallway as Pimsey continued walking without a second glance.

Finally, Hermione realized she was standing there, frozen in place, and quickly snapped out of her trance. She turned to find Pimsey’s large eyes fixed on her, waiting patiently. A flush of embarrassment crept up her neck as she stammered, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to seem—”

She quickly raised her hands to her face, hoping to hide her blush, but the embarrassment only grew. “Worry not, young miss,” Pimsey said kindly, with a soft smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just wish you’d stick close. The house often changes. Even a resident can get lost if not paying attention.”

Hermione nodded quietly, feeling the weight of his words. She hadn't quite understood what he meant at first, but now the idea of this strange house shifting around was becoming clearer. She gave a small, grateful smile and began following him once more, trying to steady her racing heart. The strange, eerie feeling of the house only seemed to deepen as she continued down the hallway, and her curiosity about the left side only grew stronger. But for now, she had to focus on getting through this strange, unnerving journey.

The house was quiet, eerily so, and it felt colder than it should have. Not just the air, but the entire place—like a museum, designed to be admired but never truly lived in. The silence in the hallways felt oppressive, almost like the house was holding its breath, waiting for something—or someone—to break it. Hermione tried to shake the discomfort, but the emptiness stuck with her as she wandered down the right wing of the manor, her curiosity overwhelming her.

She couldn't help herself. Snoop as she might, she discovered one thing above all else: the Selwyn manor was absurdly large. The sheer number of rooms was ridiculous, and yet, it felt as though they used none of them. What did one family need with a music room? A whole gallery? It seemed preposterous, but it was the reality of the place. Even stranger was how so few of the rooms were locked. Hermione hadn’t expected that. It was almost like they wanted her to poke around, to see all the unnecessary space they kept to themselves.

After what felt like hours of snooping, Hermione descended to the ground floor, hoping she wasn’t late for breakfast. The portraits, as usual, stared down at her with their judgmental eyes as she passed. She quickly turned to the large doors beneath the grand staircase, where she hoped to find something more inviting. To her relief, the dining room was bathed in light from massive windows that stretched from the floor to the high ceilings, sunlight spilling into the room, softening the coldness of the manor. For a brief moment, it felt like she could finally breathe, but as she stepped inside, the room was strangely empty. Had she missed breakfast?

Just as she was about to turn and leave, the sound of heels clacking against the wooden floor echoed through the house, growing louder until Lady Selwyn appeared, descending the stairs with a sharp gaze directed straight at Hermione.

"Are you done snooping? If yes, come have breakfast."

Hermione’s face flushed bright red. She opened her mouth to stammer out some excuse but knew the Selwyns wouldn’t care. They never did. Caring was beneath them—something for people who had problems, something that didn’t apply to the Selwyns. Hermione swallowed hard, fighting the urge to run, and hurried after Lady Selwyn, her steps echoing against the stone floors, trying to match the woman’s quick, assured pace.

Lady Selwyn led her to a smaller, more intimate dining room just a few doors away. This room felt even more welcoming, with the same tall windows but this time decorated with green plants and flowers, softening the otherwise intimidating atmosphere. The sight of the plants made Hermione feel just a bit lighter, especially since she’d noticed the distinct lack of flowers in most other parts of the manor. It was a small, but welcome change.

Lord Ambrose was already seated at the head of the table, reading the Wizarding Times, a Daily Prophet laid down beside him as if it had already been dismissed. The table was laid with pastries and a selection of other foods, though Hermione was too nervous to focus on them for long. Lady Beatrice approached the table, kissed her husband on the cheek, and took her seat beside him. Hermione lingered by the door for a moment before quietly shutting it behind her and walking hesitantly to the table.

The cutlery on the table looked foreign to Hermione. There were so many pieces—more than she had ever seen in her life—and she didn’t know which one to use. She felt her palms start to sweat as she glanced at the two Selwyns, their faces unreadable as they ate in silence. The pressure of the moment was suffocating, and for a moment, she almost regretted her curiosity.

Lady Beatrice looked up, her gaze sharp. "Is there nothing to your liking? Should I ask Pimsey to make a special request?"

Hermione felt her cheeks burn again. She hadn’t expected the question, and her mind scrambled to answer. “I—I’m just... there’s too much cutlery, I don’t know which one to use.”

There was a beat of silence. The look the couple exchanged was blank—too blank—and Hermione’s heart began to race. Did they think she was foolish? Was it a ridiculous question? She couldn’t tell. Lady Beatrice, however, didn’t miss a beat.

“Breakfast knife," she said, picking up one of the many knives. “Breakfast fork.” She motioned to a pair of spoons. "Soup spoon," and then the smaller one, "Tea spoon." Another knife, “Butter knife,” then another, “Jam knife.” Finally, she pointed to the last pair of utensils, “Dessert spoon and fork.”

Lady Beatrice looked at Hermione, waiting for her to catch on. Hermione felt a spark of realization, but behind that spark was still a deep-rooted fear of messing up. With a deep breath, she swallowed her anxiety and reached for the right cutlery, slowly beginning to eat.

The silence stretched on, save for the occasional clink of plates and the faint rustling of paper from Lord Ambrose. Hermione, trying to gather her thoughts, finally cleared her throat, breaking the tension. "Why are we having breakfast here?" she asked, her voice small.

Lord Ambrose glanced at her for a mere second before going back to his paper, not responding at all. Lady Beatrice, however, looked up with a cruel laugh.

"You mean to ask why we aren’t having breakfast in the dining room?" she said, her voice laced with amusement. Hermione nodded, confused.

"Who in their right mind would have breakfast in the dining room? What new? We’ll dine in here. Our breakfast room? Come on, what are we, animals?" The laughter that followed was sharp and cold, and Hermione felt a chill creep down her spine. The warmth she had felt earlier was gone, replaced by an uncomfortable knot in her stomach. She looked down at her plate, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling of Lady Beatrice’s words ringing in her ears.

It was as if the brief moment of comfort she had felt had been shattered in an instant. Hermione fought to regain some composure, focusing on her meal as best as she could.

Placing the knife back on the table, Hermione stood up, the chair creaking against the floor. Lady Beatrice gasped. "Just what are you wearing?" Hermione looked down at her clothes, a frown crossing her face. She was wearing her usual Muggle clothes—nothing too fancy, but definitely nothing embarrassing either. Lord Ambrose glanced up from behind his newspapers but quickly turned his gaze away. Lady Beatrice shook her head. "That won't do." She hummed thoughtfully, and Hermione raised an eyebrow, truly having no idea what could be wrong with her clothes. Sure, they were Muggle, but they weren’t bad.

"Ambrose, what do you think we should do?" The man didn’t respond, just flipped a page of the paper. Lady Beatrice sighed in frustration. "We can't call a seamstress, can we? Surely there’s one we can trust, or one who'd be willing to be Obliviated afterward! I shall look into this— you cannot walk around the manor in such clothes." She declared, heading toward the door. Hermione followed at a slower pace, but just as the lady stepped out, Lord Ambrose put his newspapers down. Hermione almost jumped at the motion. Her face showed confusion, wondering why the busy man was now staring at her.

"I hear from your professors you like to read," he said. Hermione felt like this was the first time she’d truly heard him. She nodded, her curiosity piqued, and the man hummed. "The family library is in the right wing. I'm sure there will be something for you to pass the time with." Hermione’s eyes lit up, like shining jewels. She grinned, a true, happy smile spreading across her face. "Yes, thank you! I’ll head there right now!" She beamed, then hurried out of the room, eager to explore.

The lord couldn’t have been more right about the fact that she would find something she liked in the library—it was magnificent. The library felt like its own wing, consisting of three stories and multiple sections, each clearly marked. Hermione slowly walked down the main hall, each side branching off into another hallway, each with a sign naming its section. She wasn’t even searching for anything in particular; she was simply so fascinated by the room, in complete awe.

The Arcane Archives

Bloodline & Wizarding Genealogy

Ancient Magical Artefacts & Enchantments

Wards & Protection Spells

Divination & Prophecies

Politics, Strategy & War Magic

Magical Creatures & Potions

Dark Arts & Cursed Tomes

The list went on and on. Hermione’s eyes sparkled for the first time since hearing the news, but the feeling didn’t last. The guilt crept in. Was she allowed to be happy? She shouldn’t be. She should hate herself. She should hate the world. How could she live and go on if they were gone? Right, they’re gone. The familiar wave of tears swelled up, the lump in her throat forming. Just how was she supposed to stay here for so long? She thought "long time," but she didn’t know how long it would be. A week? Maybe a year? Her wholelife? Her knees weakened, and she squatted to the floor, hugging her knees. She missed her home, her family, the ease of life where nothing was wrong.

She closed her eyes. The silence was so unusual. She was used to the constant chirping of birds at home, and at Hogwarts, there was always persistent noise she couldn’t escape. She wasn’t sure if it was comforting or disturbing. When she opened her eyes again, the stone floor with its diagonal checkerboard pattern greeted her. It was comforting, in a way. Sometimes it felt good to cry, to let it out. Other times, no matter what she did, the feeling wouldn’t go away.

Dusting herself off, she filled her mind with comforting lies about how her parents would want her to be happy, to do what made her happy. With a determined breath, she began searching through the library. The first section she explored was Divination & Prophecies.

If she had this stupid gift, then she might as well learn as much as she could about it.

After hours buried in the books, Hermione was beyond exhausted, but she wanted to take a few books back up to her room. She wasn’t sure if it was allowed, but she hoped so. As she retraced her steps, she found it surprisingly easy to navigate Selwyn Manor. The thought of Pimsey’s warnings crept into her mind, but she quickly dismissed them. It could all be just a ploy to scare her off from snooping, right?

When she reached the entrance hall, she noticed the door to the parlor was slightly ajar. Peeking inside, she saw Lord Ambrose. He had his coat on and seemed to be packing something. Eager to ask him about the books, Hermione hurried in after him, but in her haste, she almost ran into the second parlor door—unaware that it was locked and wouldn’t open.

Lord Ambrose raised an eyebrow, looking almost distraught by her actions. Hermione cleared her throat, gathering the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on her. "Lord Ambrose? I was wondering…" She took a deep breath as she fidgeted with her fingers. "If—if it would be possible for me to take some of the books from the library up to my room?"

The man shut the briefcase in which Hermione had only caught a brief glimpse of documents. He buttoned his top button and nodded. "Of course. Take all of them if you wish. You can simply give them back to Pimsey afterward. He’ll take care of it." Hermione nodded, a grin spreading across her face. The happiness surged in her so strongly she could almost jump into the air. But the guilt she had pressed down stabbed at her, trying to claw its way out, though she kept it locked away.

"Where are you going?" she asked, realizing what she had said only a second later, as the man took a step toward the fireplace.

"I am off to my job," he replied, taking a handful of Floo powder. Hermione’s head tilted in curiosity. "You work?" she asked before slapping her hand over her mouth, cursing herself. What was wrong with her today? She must have seemed incredibly rude to him.

But to her surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. He took a step into the fireplace and held his hand in front of him. "I am an Unspeakable, Hermione." Her eyes widened as the green flames overtook him, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

Hermione spent the rest of the afternoon holed up in her room. She had nearly missed lunch, but when she arrived at the dining room, Pimsey informed her that there would be no shared meal. The lord was held up at work, and the lady had gone out on errands. Even happier to have some time to herself, Hermione took her lunch alone, accompanied only by her books—after another brief etiquette lesson from Pimsey on proper dining manners.

Now curled up on the comfortable couch with a blanket wrapped around her, she flipped through the second book on Divination for the day. Her opinion remained unchanged—it was profoundly stupid. A bunch of nonsense. Nearly every passage spoke about feeling, imagination, and energy. She shut the book with a sigh, utterly defeated. What was she supposed to do with any of that useless information? Fortunately, she remembered the book on protection spells she had grabbed just before leaving the library. That, at least, should be more practical.

Just as she flipped open to the first page, a loud knock startled her.

"Child, are you decent?"

Hermione hastily tried to untangle herself from the blanket while answering at the same time. "Yes!" she called out, though it probably sounded more like a muffled struggle.

The door opened, and Lady Selwyn stepped inside, followed by another woman. Hermione arched a brow and turned toward the lady, expecting an explanation.

"This is Miss Greaves," Lady Selwyn announced, flashing a brilliant smile. "She’s a dear friend of mine and our family’s seamstress."

Hermione blinked. Goodness, the woman’s teeth were so perfect her parents would have cried tears of joy. The thought sent a sharp pang through her chest, and she swallowed against the familiar ache.

"What is a seamstress doing here?" she finally asked, confused. She remembered the lady’s remark about her clothes at breakfast, but surely she wouldn’t go so far as to summon a seamstress just for that… right?

Lady Selwyn laughed, taking Hermione’s hand and leading her toward a mirror by the closet. "She’s here to make you some proper clothing, silly! You can’t walk around the manor in that. Have you not noticed the portraits glaring at you?"

Hermione blinked again. Yes, she had noticed the portraits glaring. But she had been too preoccupied with… everything else.

The lady suddenly paused, frowning as she glanced around the room. "Is this the chamber you’ve been given?"

Hermione nodded, and the lady muttered something under her breath before shaking her head, clearly unimpressed. The first time Hermione met her, she had seemed so refined and elegant. Now, she appeared a little… chaotic.

Meanwhile, Miss Greaves had already begun taking Hermione’s measurements, answering the question Hermione hadn’t even dared to ask. Yes, Lady Selwyn had indeed summoned a seamstress because she disliked Hermione’s Muggle clothes that much.

As Miss Greaves worked, Lady Selwyn listed her requests: ten interchangeable daywear outfits, six evening dresses, and two special occasion gowns—because apparently, Hermione would someday need them. As if she wasn’t in hiding. As if she had anywhere to wear them.

Miss Greaves nodded eagerly at every word, and when given the time to craft the wardrobe, she simply waved her wand. Using a few spells, the fabric Lady Selwyn had chosen transformed into neatly folded garments in Hermione’s exact size.

What baffled Hermione most wasn’t the sheer excess of it all—it was the revelation that she was expected to change before dinner. Every single night. From her daywear into evening wear.

By the time the seamstress and Lady Selwyn left, Hermione stood alone in front of the mirror, now clad in a dark plum floor-length gown made of smooth silk. The empire waist fit almost too well, the vintage-inspired design appearing restrictive but feeling anything but.

She looked… pretty.

But she wasn’t sure if she deserved to.