Chapter 7
Hermione sat stiffly in front of the vanity mirror, watching as Lady Beatrice twirled her wand with an expert’s ease. The older woman’s reflection was calm, collected—her elegant fingers moving with precision as she murmured incantations under her breath. Hermione, on the other hand, felt her pulse hammering in her ears.
The first change was subtle—a tingling warmth brushing against her scalp as her thick, chestnut curls lightened strand by strand, softening into a straight, dirty blonde cascade that barely reached her shoulders. Hermione swallowed. It was strange to see herself like this. Almost like looking at a cousin she had never met.
Next, her features shifted—nothing drastic, but enough to be unfamiliar. The curve of her nose softened, her lips thinned slightly, and her high cheekbones became just a bit rounder. Her brown eyes faded into a warm hazel, flecks of green shimmering in the morning light.
Lady Beatrice hummed in approval. “Yes, this will do.” She tapped her wand lightly on Hermione’s collarbone, and the sensation of warm honey spread through her skin.
“What was that?” Hermione asked, her voice quieter than usual.
“A simple False Identity Charm,” Lady Beatrice explained. “Anyone who looks at you will assume they should know you but won’t be able to place where. To them, you will simply be Amalia Selwyn, my niece from the French branch of the family.”
Hermione inhaled deeply. Amalia Selwyn. Amalia, a name too close to Amelia's. It felt strange, because just for a single moment Hermione could swear she looked just like her portrait. Amalia Selwyn was a name that meant nothing to her but everything to her safety.
The Lord, who had been standing near the door, crossed his arms. “Are you certain about this, Beatrice?” His voice carried the weight of caution. “She hasn’t stepped foot outside in over a year.”
Hermione turned to face him, determined. “That’s exactly why I need to go.”
He studied her, gaze unreadable. Then, with a slow nod, he stepped aside.
“Very well,” he said. “But if anything seems off, you return home immediately.”
Lady Beatrice beamed, clapping her hands together. “Then it’s settled. Let’s not waste any more time, dear. We have shopping to do.”
The air smelled of aged parchment, polished wood, and fresh herbs as Hermione and Lady Beatrice stepped through the wrought-iron gates of Cézanne Passage, an exclusive shopping district hidden away from prying eyes. Unlike the bustling chaos of Diagon Alley, Cézanne Passage exuded quiet sophistication. Velvet awnings stretched over elegant storefronts, and polished brass signs bore the names of ancient, distinguished businesses—ones that had served pureblood families for centuries.
Hermione instinctively kept her head down, her gloved hands gripping the folds of her cloak. But no one gave her a second glance.
It was working.
Lady Beatrice strolled ahead confidently, her posture commanding respect. As they passed a boutique known for its rare potion ingredients, Hermione felt her stomach twist as she recognized a familiar figure just a few feet away.
Daphne Greengrass.
The blonde girl stood by a display of finely crafted wands, idly inspecting one between her fingers. Hermione froze. For a brief, terrifying moment, she was back at Hogwarts, sitting in the Great Hall, debating Transfiguration theory with Harry.
Lady Beatrice, sensing her hesitation, didn’t break stride. Instead, she looped her arm through Hermione’s and murmured under her breath, “Keep walking, dear. Let the charm do its work.”
Hermione forced herself to take a step. Then another. She exhaled, willing herself to believe in the magic woven around her.
And then Daphne looked right at her.
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat.
But instead of recognition, Daphne simply furrowed her brows slightly, as if trying to place her. Then, with a dismissive shake of her head, she turned back to the wands.
The charm had held.
Hermione let out a shaky breath. She was Amalia Selwyn. She belonged here.
Lady Beatrice squeezed her arm. “See, dear? You’re just another girl in the crowd.”
And for the first time in a long while, Hermione almost believed it.
Hermione trailed behind Lady Beatrice, her gloved fingers skimming over the spines of leather-bound tomes stacked in the window of Bellamy & Sons, Fine Bookmakers. The crisp scent of parchment and aged ink filled the air as they stepped inside, the low murmur of customers blending with the quiet rustling of pages.
It felt strange, standing in a bookshop again. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed the simple pleasure of browsing—the act of picking up a book, flipping through its pages, feeling its weight in her hands.
“Are you interested in anything, dear?” Lady Beatrice asked casually, though Hermione noticed the way she lingered by a shelf labeled "Advanced Spell Theory and Practical Applications."
Hermione hesitated. “I was just looking,” she said, glancing over the selection. She recognized most of the titles—texts she had already read, theories she had already studied. But there were a few unfamiliar ones. Her fingers paused on the spine of "Arcane Methods of Prediction: A Study in Seer Practices" before she thought better of it and withdrew her hand.
Lady Beatrice hummed. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to pick up a few things. A young lady should always be learning.” She plucked a brand-new leather satchel from a nearby display and handed it to Hermione.
Hermione ran her hands over the soft material, something about it oddly familiar—like the kind she used to carry her schoolbooks in.
A bell chimed as a new customer entered.
“Did you hear?” A woman’s voice carried from the entrance. Hermione and Lady Beatrice both instinctively tilted their heads to listen. “The Carrows withdrew their son from Durmstrang. They’re homeschooling him now—too many disappearances lately.”
Hermione forced herself not to react, even as her mind churned. Disappearances? She glanced at Lady Beatrice, who remained expressionless, pretending to be engrossed in a selection of ink bottles.
Another voice—a younger woman—sighed dramatically. “Can you blame them? The Triwizard Tournament will be happening this year, and half the schools are in chaos.”
A sharp laugh. “Hogwarts has always been in chaos. Honestly, I’m surprised they’re even hosting.”
Hermione’s grip tightened on the satchel. The Triwizard Tournament?
She turned to Lady Beatrice, heart pounding. “The tournament—”
“Shh,” Lady Beatrice cut in smoothly, offering her a calm smile before turning to the bookseller. “We’ll take these.” She placed several volumes on the counter, including the satchel and a fresh set of quills.
Hermione bit her lip but said nothing as the shopkeeper wrapped their purchases in brown paper.
After leaving the bookstore and picking up parchment and robes, Lady Beatrice guided Hermione toward a small, unassuming apothecary tucked between two larger shops. The scent of dried herbs, crushed roots, and something vaguely metallic hit Hermione as soon as they stepped inside.
Rows of glass jars lined the wooden shelves, filled with shimmering powders, coiled plants, and strange, preserved ingredients floating in liquid. An elderly witch behind the counter was carefully weighing out a portion of ground moonstone, her sharp eyes flickering up as they entered.
Lady Beatrice strode forward confidently, her heels clicking against the stone floor. “We’ll need a fresh supply of crystal powder,” she said smoothly, placing a slip of parchment on the counter.
The apothecary looked over the list before disappearing behind a curtain. Hermione turned to Lady Beatrice with a raised brow. “Crystal powder?”
“For scrying,” the older woman said simply, browsing through a shelf of rare enchanted teas. “A Seer should always have the best tools available.”
Hermione blinked. Lady Beatrice wasn’t usually this indulgent.
“You’ve never bought me crystal powder before,” she pointed out.
Lady Beatrice gave her a small, knowing smile. “Consider it a gift. You’ve been working hard.”
Hermione didn’t quite believe her, but before she could question it further, voices from the other side of the shop caught her attention.
Two witches stood by a collection of healing balms, whispering in hushed tones.
“I’m telling you,” one said, “Durmstrang is pushing their students harder than ever. They’re practically throwing them into the tournament.”
“They can’t do that,” the other whispered back.
“They can, and they have. A friend of mine has a nephew there—said the headmaster is practically forcing them to enter.”
Hermione’s stomach twisted. Durmstrang. The tournament. Forced entry?
She thought of Draco. She hadn’t heard from him in over a year, but if that rumor was true…
Lady Beatrice placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, startling her out of her thoughts. “Come along, dear.” The apothecary had returned, handing over a wrapped parcel of supplies.
Hermione hesitated, still thinking about the whispers, but nodded. As they stepped back onto the bustling street, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just stumbled upon something very, very important.
The fabric boutique was dimly lit, with golden chandeliers casting warm light over the rows of luxurious materials. Hermione trailed slightly behind Lady Beatrice as they browsed the latest imported silks and velvets, her fingers brushing absentmindedly over the fabric. The shop smelled of lavender and old parchment, an oddly comforting combination.
“You must be careful with the detailing, dear,” Lady Beatrice said, inspecting a delicate silver-threaded lace. “Something too extravagant will call attention.”
Hermione nodded, barely listening. She was enjoying the simple act of being outside, surrounded by quiet murmurs of witches discussing the latest fashion trends and summer events. It felt… normal. A rare feeling these days.
Then, a voice from across the boutique made her freeze.
“Beatrice. What a surprise.”
Narcissa Malfoy stood poised near a selection of deep emerald fabrics, her expression unreadable. Dressed in an elegant traveling cloak, she exuded effortless refinement. Hermione lowered her gaze immediately, willing herself to blend into the background as Lady Beatrice turned with a polite—if not slightly forced—smile.
“Narcissa, darling, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I was just selecting materials for Draco,” Narcissa said smoothly. “Durmstrang has such a strict dress code, but I do like to ensure his robes have some refinement.” Her gaze flickered briefly to Hermione, sharp and assessing.
Hermione kept her expression neutral, her heart hammering. She could feel Narcissa studying her—taking in the lighter, straighter hair, the aristocratic tailoring of her dress. Did she recognize her?
Lady Beatrice didn’t hesitate. “Oh, where are my manners?” she said, placing a hand lightly on Hermione’s shoulder. “This is my distant niece, Amalia Selwyn. She’s been staying with me for some time now.”
Hermione inclined her head slightly, schooling her features into something vaguely disinterested, the way she’d seen other pureblood girls behave. “Madam Malfoy,” she said quietly.
“Selwyn?” Narcissa echoed, still watching her carefully. “I wasn’t aware any of the younger Selwyns were in England.”
Lady Beatrice let out a light, airy laugh. “Well, you know how it is. Families like ours prefer to keep things private.”
Narcissa didn’t press, but Hermione knew she wasn’t entirely convinced. The Malfoy matriarch was far too intelligent not to sense something was amiss.
Before any more questions could be asked, Lady Beatrice gave Hermione a gentle nudge. “We really must be going. Amalia tires so easily after long outings.”
They bid Narcissa farewell and exited the shop at a brisk pace, Hermione resisting the urge to glance back.
But as they stepped onto the busy cobbled street, Draco Malfoy was just returning from the apothecary, a small bag of potion ingredients in his hand. He wasn’t paying much attention—until a familiar figure brushed past him.
His steps faltered. He turned.
Hermione—no, that wasn’t possible.
He barely caught a glimpse before she disappeared into the crowd beside Lady Beatrice, but something gnawed at him. The shape of her face, the tilt of her chin—it was too similar.
Frowning, he strode towards the boutique where his mother was still inside, deep in conversation with the shopkeeper.
“Mother,” he interrupted, still staring after the retreating figures. “Who was that girl with Lady Beatrice?”
Narcissa lifted a brow at him. “Amalia Selwyn, apparently.”
Draco’s frown deepened. “A Selwyn?”
“That is what Beatrice claims,” Narcissa said, adjusting her gloves. “Though, I must say, something about her felt… off.”
Draco didn’t respond. He was already lost in thought, the name meaningless compared to the overwhelming certainty that he had just seen Hermione Granger.
And yet—how could that be possible?