Witch weekly
If Hermione had known that all it took for the past Selwyn portraits to like her was a few new outfits and a styled-updo, she would have done it ages ago. For the first time, the portraits didn’t glare, scoff, or roll their eyes as she passed. Instead, they smiled approvingly. A past Selwyn lady with burgundy hair even nodded in greeting.
The warm glow of candlelight filled the dining room as Hermione stepped inside, feeling an odd sense of pride at their approval. Lord Ambrose was staring blankly at the table, clearly zoning out while Lady Beatrice animatedly recounted what must have been a very absorbing story. She threw her hands about with enthusiasm, though her posture remained poised. Despite his distraction, the lord still nodded every few seconds, feigning attention.
At the sound of Hermione’s footsteps, the pair finally noticed her.
"Oh! Little one! You're here already!" Lady Beatrice beamed.
Hermione smiled slightly at the nickname. When she had first met the woman, she had seemed so cold and distant. Now, her sudden warmth was almost unsettling.
Lord Ambrose barely lifted his gaze, glancing at her before returning to his empty plate.
"Now that we're all here, let's begin dinner, shall we?" Lady Beatrice said, as food began appearing on the table.
The guilt Hermione had been suppressing all day crept back in, settling like a heavy weight in her chest. Here she was, dressed in a luxurious gown, dining in a grand manor with these two who had somehow become something like foster parents. But the people she loved were still gone. The grief threatened to rise in her throat, but then she caught sight of their smiles—so expectant, so pleased.
She had to stay. She had to hold herself together.
The sheer variety of dishes on the table was overwhelming. Three different appetizers, followed by five distinct courses, each plated with exquisite precision. It wasn’t until she saw it all laid out that she started worrying about how Pimsey had managed such a feat alone. Or—her stomach twisted—was he not alone? Could the Selwyns have a secret army of house-elves locked away in the kitchens? The thought was disturbing.
"Why is there so much food?" Lord Ambrose suddenly asked.
Pimsey appeared at his side instantly, looking slightly embarrassed, though he tried not to show it.
"We have a new addition to the household, my lord. I seem to have miscalculated."
Ambrose gave a small nod, dismissing the elf.
Hermione eyed the excessive spread of side dishes and desserts, baffled. Just how much did Pimsey think she ate in one sitting?
As the couple began serving themselves, Hermione hesitated. It wasn’t an issue of cutlery this time, but rather an issue of taste. Every dish before her was known for its extraordinary flavor—and its ridiculous expense. But she had never tried any of them before.
Noticing her hesitation, Lady Beatrice tilted her head. "What is it? Do you not know which utensil to use again?"
Hermione shook her head. "No, I just... I've never had any of these before. I don’t know what to pick." Embarrassed, she grabbed her upper arm, suddenly aware of the cool air against her skin. The dress's short sleeves, elegant as they were, did little to keep her warm.
"Just try them all," Lady Beatrice said with a shrug.
Ambrose hummed in agreement. "Sweet or savory?"
"Uh... savory," Hermione answered.
He gestured toward a plate. "Roast pheasant with vegetables."
Hermione smiled in relief and eagerly served herself. As she took her first bite, the couple seemed to slow their own eating, watching her expectantly. The rich, seasoned flavor hit her at once, and she gasped, quickly covering her mouth as she chewed.
"This is amazing!" she declared, immediately going in for another bite.
Ambrose looked pleased, but Lady Beatrice’s expression soured. She picked up her wine glass, swirling the liquid idly before clearing her throat.
"Do you not think you're overstuffing yourself, child?"
Hermione’s fork froze mid-air. The moment was shattered, the warmth in her chest replaced with something cold and unpleasant.
Silence settled over the table. Ambrose’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Hermione swallowed her bite, suddenly hyper-aware of how much food remained on her plate.
She took smaller bites after that, barely tasting the rest of her meal. When she finished, she set her utensils down and rose to her feet.
But before she could leave, Lady Beatrice’s voice stopped her.
"Do you not wish to enjoy dessert with us?"
Hermione hesitated. "I don't really like sweets."
The lady merely nodded, unfazed. "I see. I suppose this is partially my fault, but Pimsey is still moving your luggage."
Hermione’s brow furrowed. "My luggage? Why?"
Beatrice took another sip of wine before answering. "I disliked the room you were given—too dark. Your new one is on the third floor."
Hermione stared at her. She hadn’t been particularly attached to her previous room, but moving her things without asking was... strange.
Lady Beatrice smiled at her again, this time with a knowing glint in her eye. "Try the pumpkin soufflé. It’s not overly sweet—you might like it."
Grudgingly, Hermione gave in. One bite turned into two, then three, and before she knew it, the entire soufflé was gone.
As the three of them finished dessert, Lady Beatrice continued filling the silence with her usual rambling. She talked about other wizarding families, name-dropping a few that Hermione actually recognized. Then, she moved on to shop prices and the abysmal quality of certain goods. After that, she went on an impressive tirade about her distaste for Transfiguration.
It was fascinating how long the woman could talk without pause.
But as Hermione’s patience began wearing thin, Pimsey appeared once more. "Lady, it is done."
"Ah, finally," Hermione muttered, practically leaping from her seat.
"Ah, yes, just before you go—"
Hermione slumped in defeat but turned back with a carefully blank expression.
"There’s a surprise waiting for you in your new room," Beatrice said, raising a single finger. "Consider it a small welcome gift."
Hermione’s interest piqued. "Another gift?"
The lady blinked. "Another? What was the first?"
Hermione glanced down at her gown, the rich plum silk draping over her figure.
Beatrice followed her gaze and let out a light laugh. "Oh, do not consider that a gift, young one. Consider it a necessity."
She shook her head in amusement, sipping her wine as if the matter was already forgotten.
Following Pimsey felt a little humiliating—after all, she lived here now. That was why she was moving to a new room. Her old one was “too close to the main hall” and had been meant for short-term guests. Now, she was being upgraded.
Her new room was on the third floor, left side. She and Pimsey walked in silence down the left hallway before turning a second left—one Hermione hadn’t even noticed before. Blissfully unaware it even existed. The second hallway was thankfully much shorter, but her room was still near the end of it. The third door to be exact.
Pimsey muttered a quick farewell and was gone, leaving Hermione alone.
The hallway was well-lit, decorated tastefully—maybe this really was an upgrade. She reached for the door handle and pushed it open.
Inside, soft candlelight illuminated the room in a warm glow. The space exuded understated luxury, perfectly balanced—nothing too flashy, yet every piece was of impeccable quality.
In the center stood a four-poster canopy bed with plush bedding so thick it nearly swallowed the mattress. Nearly ten pillows were piled on top, inviting her in like a siren’s call. And Hermione wasn’t about to resist. She shut the door and sank onto the bed.
It was heavenly. She had never laid on anything so comfortable. The warmth seeping through the blankets told her it was likely enchanted.
Dark wooden furniture filled the room, upholstered in rich fabrics that gave off an air of old wizarding aristocracy. The cool, muted colors were exactly to her taste. She had no idea how they had managed that.
To her left, a writing desk sat by the window, neatly stocked with quills, ink, and parchment. A tall bookshelf lined the left wall, leaving only enough space for the door she had just entered through. On the right side, a wardrobe stood tucked into the corner, beside a folded privacy screen and a vanity already stocked with perfumes and hair products.
Near the fireplace, a small sitting area with an elegant yet impossibly comfortable-looking table and chairs completed the space. The thick, heavy curtains hadn’t fully drawn shut, allowing the moonlight to peek in just enough to add to the ambiance. Tapestries and paintings adorned the walls, depicting beautiful scenes Hermione didn’t yet recognize.
The last thing to catch her eye was a full-length standing mirror, positioned between the vanity and the privacy screen.
She wanted to stay curled up in bed forever. But if she didn’t get changed now, she never would.
Sitting up with a sigh, she noticed something odd.
Two small iron bowls—one filled with water, the other empty—sat near the corner of the room. Her brows furrowed. Why was there a bowl?
Then, she saw more. A cushion by the fireplace. A scratching post. A window perch lined with a soft mat.
A gift.
She had been given an animal.
Her best guess? A cat. Though considering where she was, it could be a magical creature.
"Kitty, where are you?" she called, bending down to check under the bed.
“He’s under the writing desk,” a voice said.
Hermione almost smashed her head against the bedframe. She whipped around, wide-eyed, searching the room for the source. But there was no one there.
“W-Who said that?”
A soft giggle floated through the air. Hermione’s eyes darted from corner to corner, but still, she saw nothing.
"My name is Veradis. I am your speaking mirror, Miss."
Her gaze finally landed on the full-length mirror between the vanity and the privacy screen.
"I have a speaking mirror?" she asked, still a little wary.
The mirror hummed in agreement. "You do! I was pulled out of storage today. I cannot tell you how thankful I am, my Miss. It was beyond boring in there."
Hermione blinked. She had never owned a speaking mirror before. She knew how they worked—Hogwarts had a few—but she had never interacted with one.
"You can call me Hermione," she said after a pause.
The mirror hummed again, almost as if smiling. "Hermione it is! I do hope we get along!"
Hermione smiled slightly before turning back to the room.
“So where’s the kitten?” she asked, hands on her hips as she scanned her surroundings.
"He was under the writing desk, but he’s by the bed now," Veradis replied.
Hermione stepped around the bed and—there he was.
A large, fluffy ginger cat with a spectacularly squashed face.
"Hello," she cooed, crouching down to pick him up. Her voice softened instinctively, as if speaking to a child.
The cat didn’t resist.
"What a lovely kitty you are, yes you are," she murmured, running a gentle hand through his fur. He purred in response, rubbing his face against her palm.
Hermione glanced around her room, taking it all in again. It still felt surreal.
The cat meowed, tilting his head.
"You’re a smart one, aren’t you?" she mused, carrying him over to the bed and setting him down on the blankets. As he curled up contentedly, she began changing out of her dress.
"What should we name you, hm?"
The moment she slipped into her soft pajamas, she let out a sigh of pure relief. Between the enchanted warmth of her blankets and the cat snuggling into her side, she had never felt more comfortable.
Then came the guilt.
Tears burned at the edges of her eyes before she hastily wiped them away.
The cat meowed, drawing her attention back.
"Right, your name," she murmured. "What should I name you?"
Silence.
"Maybe… Pumpkin?"
The cat's tail stopped wagging.
"Or maybe a human name? You seem like a… Robert? No, too human. Arthur? That’s not bad, right? Arthur’snice!"
The cat let out a very displeased meow.
"Fine, not Arthur then," she sighed. "But I did like that one."
She flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling.
"What about Fluffy?"
The second the word left her lips, she cringed.
The cat promptly stood up, strode to the far side of the bed, and plopped down near her feet.
Hermione sat up, offended. "Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad! That’s an overreaction!"
Veradis giggled.
"Veradis, do you have a suggestion?" Hermione asked, rolling onto her side to face the mirror.
"Crookshanks," Veradis replied immediately.
"Crookshanks?" Hermione echoed.
The mirror hummed. "Crookshanks."
She frowned, lips pursing as she tried to make sense of it. "Why Crookshanks?"
As if barely holding back laughter, the mirror finally answered.
"Because his legs are disastrously crooked."
Hermione gasped, bolting upright.
Her sudden movement startled the cat, who scrambled to his feet—allowing her a clear view of his legs.
Which were, unfortunately, very crooked.
"Oh, Crookshanks," Hermione murmured, still half in shock.
The cat meowed
And just like that, the name stuck.
The morning finally felt like the beginning of a routine. With Veradis’s help, Hermione picked out an outfit: a simple gray skirt that fell just below her knees, a white blouse with a few elegant ruffles, and a cardigan Veradis insisted she wear, claiming it would be chilly. She remained unconvinced—after all, what did a mirror know about the weather?—so she left the cardigan draped over the privacy screen.
She patted Crookshanks, filled his water bowl, and headed off to breakfast.
Now bathed in natural light, the hallway appeared even more inviting than it had the night before. As she shut the door behind her, making sure Crookshanks didn’t slip out, a soft thump echoed through the corridor. She hesitated, her gaze shifting toward the very last door at the end of the hall.
Slowly, she took a few steps forward, her curiosity outweighing any hesitation. Bravery, curiosity… perhaps even stupidity—whatever it was, she found herself knocking gently on the door. Silence.
She knocked again.
When no response came, she did what she absolutely should not have done—she turned the handle and pushed the door open.
The room was similar in size and layout to hers, but unlike her pristine new accommodations, this one was lived in. An unmade bed, scattered letters on the writing desk, books stacked on every available surface. Her first thought was that it belonged to the lord or lady of the house, but something about the room didn't fit them. It lacked the careful elegance of Lady Beatrice’s tastes and was far too disorderly for the composed and meticulous Lord—unless, of course, there was another side to him she had yet to see.
A prickle of unease crawled up her spine. This isn’t your business.
The memory of Lady Beatrice’s cool expression at dinner flashed in her mind. She knew Hermione had been snooping before—what would she think if she found out she was doing it again?
With a sharp breath, Hermione backed out of the room, shutting the door quickly behind her. Whatever secrets lay inside, she would not be the one to uncover them.
Not today, at least.
With renewed determination, she turned back toward the main hall. If she wanted to prove herself worthy of staying in this house, she needed to be the kind of witch Lady Beatrice would want to take in—not one who skulked around in places she didn’t belong.
Hermione’s ballet flats tapped lightly against the wooden steps as she descended, the rhythmic sound announcing her arrival. As she passed the portraits lining the walls, she offered a small smile and nod to Amelia Selwyn, the red-haired lady in one of the paintings—a polite morning greeting before slipping into the breakfast room.
Lady Beatrice and Lord Selwyn were already seated, one absorbed in Witch Weekly, the other hidden behind the pages of the Daily Prophet. Lady Beatrice glanced up from her magazine and smiled.
"Ah, there you are! I was beginning to worry you'd slept in. What held you up?" She returned her attention to the magazine, lifting her teacup to take a sip.
Hermione slid into the seat across from her and began filling her plate. "I apologize. Crookshanks was a bit of a nightmare this morning."
Lady Beatrice merely hummed in understanding, but Lord Selwyn gave no indication he had heard her at all. Hermione wasn’t surprised.
A moment later, the lady set down her magazine and gave Hermione a once-over, her brows drawing together. "Is that all you're wearing? It’s going to be quite chilly today. Did your mirror not tell you? Should we exchange it?"
From behind the newspaper, Lord Selwyn peeked up briefly, as if mildly intrigued by the conversation. Hermione's ears burned. Of course, Veradis had been right. And she, naturally, had been wrong.
She sighed, shaking her head. "No, I insisted. It warned me—quite thoroughly—I just didn’t take the advice. But don’t worry, if I get too cold, I’ll run up and grab a cardigan."
Lady Beatrice gave a knowing nod before turning back to her breakfast.
Silence settled over the table, thick and unfamiliar. Hermione wanted to say something, to ask something, but these people were still strangers. She didn’t know them, and they didn’t know her.
Sensing the awkwardness, Lady Beatrice cleared her throat. "I’ll be going out today. Is there anything you’d like me to get for you?"
Hermione blinked, caught off guard. "Oh," she murmured, trying to think.
"Clothes? Books? Potions? Anything?"
Hermione hesitated. There was nothing she truly needed—nothing that came to mind, at least. Well… except one thing. The only thing she really wanted was to let Harry and Ron know she was okay. That she was happy. That she was being looked after.
But she couldn’t. No contact meant no contact.
Her shoulders slumped slightly. "No, I'm quite happy, thank you, Lady Beatrice." She forced a small smile.
Lady Beatrice studied her for a moment before giving a short nod. "Very well. I shall be back for lunch—unless I’m held up."
With that, she swept out of the room, leaving Hermione alone with Lord Selwyn and the quiet rustle of the Daily Prophet.
Hermione hated to admit it—she truly despised saying it—but even when surrounded by books, she was bored. Utterly and completelybored.
She was alone in a massive house with little company. Her only options for conversation were a talking mirror or an extremely busy house-elf. Neither made for particularly engaging company.
Sprawled across the library sofa, her legs kicked lazily in the air while her head hung upside down over the edge. She let out a long, exaggerated sigh. There must be something to do.
Then, it hit her—a brilliant idea.
She was stuck in a huge house. A huge house—one she had yet to explore properly. She could wander the halls until the portraits started gossiping about her.
Jumping up from the sofa, she decided to start with the smallest floor first: the third floor.
By Merlin’s beard, she was being honest—there was nothing exciting on the third floor. Just bedrooms, bathrooms, and one solar room she assumed belonged to Lady Beatrice. That was it. A bit disappointing, really.
As she descended the stairs, she caught sight of Pimsey.
"Ah, Pimsey!" She barely managed to flag down the always-busy elf, who was carrying a large wooden box filled with what looked like protective dueling gear.
"Where are you going?" she asked, tilting her head.
"To the dueling courtyard, miss," Pimsey replied, balancing the heavy box with ease.
Hermione’s mouth fell open. "There's a dueling courtyard?"
She had completely overlooked the grounds of the manor!
"What else is outside, Pimsey?" she asked, excitement bubbling up.
The elf seemed to consider this for a moment. "There’s the grand courtyard, the ornamental garden—"
"Any places I don’t know about?" she interrupted eagerly.
She swore she saw the elf frown. "Miss, you don’t know most places," he muttered, as if puzzled by how much she had yet to discover. "But there’s the Owlery, the Black Pond, and the old stables."
Hermione was more than interested.
"But, miss," Pimsey continued, giving her a scrutinizing look, "why are you planning to venture outside? The house has more than enough interesting rooms."
Hermione scrunched up her face. "The only interesting rooms I’ve found so far are a hundred bedrooms and one solar room."
Pimsey raised an eyebrow, as if baffled by how little she had explored. "Have you not been to the Astral Tower?"
Hermione’s head snapped up. "The what?"
The elf nodded. "It is just ahead. You turn right, then right again. The third door—the smallest one—leads to the tower."
Her face lit up.
Why hadn’t she found this before? Had she walked right past it? The excitement thrummed in her veins, making her nearly bolt off before Pimsey even finished speaking.
"Thank you, Pimsey!" she called, already halfway turned to go.
"Miss—wait," Pimsey said, stopping her. His voice was quieter this time.
She turned back, puzzled.
"Please be careful," he said seriously. "And pay attention to where you’re going. You can get lost."
A strange chill ran down Hermione’s spine.
The warning had weight to it—more than it should have.
She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be afraid of, but something in Pimsey’s tone made her hesitate.
Just for a second.
Then, she squared her shoulders, nodded, and hurried off toward the Astral Tower.