Chapter 8
It was decreed decades past by the venerable National Congress of Magical Habitation and Holdings, that certain properties situated upon lands deemed magically populated, should pass solely to eldest sons, to ensure the continuity of family lines.
As such, wizarding families of high station and noble name, were oft inclined to bestow upon their progeny, not fineries nor jewels, but parcels of land and stately manors. For what need had they of gilded trifles, when the security of their legacy depended upon the passing down of brick and timber?
The grand mansions and sweeping grounds which had belonged to a family's forebears, were a young wizard's surest path to consequence. And what ambitious mother or father did not wish to see their son thusly elevated?
The grand estates and manor homes were a source of pride and identity for any proper wizarding family.
Let it not be said however, that cunning parents did not find ways to circumvent the edict for their daughters' benefit.
A great many manors changed hands upon the betrothal of a young witch or found themselves settled jointly upon a married couple.
For even the staunchest defenders of masculine inheritance could be persuaded to view their daughter's future home with an approving eye, given the right gentleman caller.
Yet there stood the caveat, known but to few.
Should there be no son willing to take the manor, the law allowed for the property to pass to the husband of the eldest daughter, that she might preserve the family legacy.
But this fact was oft concealed, for most fathers much preferred a male heir and guarded their bloodlines jealously.
Only in certain prominent houses where daughters outnumbered sons, was this clause invoked after meticulous searching for a wizard of appropriate rank to take the hand of the elder sister.
For even the most traditional of patriarchs could see the wisdom of securing the family's magical lands, when no son existed to inherit them.
This had been the case with Ms. Pansy Parkinson’s family.
The Parkinsons were staples of the wizarding ton, their ballrooms and soirees the envy of the beau monde. Mr. Percival Parkinson had been blessed with one daughter but not a single son. For years, Percival refused to consider passing the family estate and fortune to any outsider, convinced he could sire a male heir even in his advanced age.
However, as Pansy grew into a diamond of the first water, her cunning father saw an opportunity.
The Parkinson home was renowned for its lavish parties, which attracted the highest echelons of wizarding society. Percival played the role of gracious host, all the while evaluating potential suitors for his precious only daughter.
Though many wizards displayed interest, he deemed none of appropriate rank and virtue to inherit the Parkinson legacy.
That is, until the night Percival laid eyes on young Draco Malfoy, the sole heir to the esteemed Malfoy family fortune. Draco's bloodline was beyond reproach, his fortune immense, and his influence at the pinnacle of the ton. He instantly knew Draco would make a fine husband for Pansy, and a worthy steward of the Parkinson estate one day.
And so, Percival set his clever designs in motion to entice young Draco to court his daughter.
A union between the Parkinsons and the Malfoy name would secure both families' positions for generations to come.
Indeed, Draco and Pansy would be the wizarding world's most dazzling match.
For the Weasley’s, the predicament was all the same.
Eldest son Bill had already secured the beautiful Fleur Delacour as his wife, though the delicate Frenchwoman was ill-suited to rural life.
Charlie, always one for adventure, had traveled abroad and returned with a bride entirely unknown to his family, much to Mrs. Weasley's dismay. Practical Percy had married the unexceptional Audrey, for which Molly Weasley could barely conceal her disapproval.
Of the remaining Weasley offspring, the rambunctious twins were at least assured independent futures, their prudent father having set aside funds so they might establish their own households. Youngest son Ron remained unwed; though his prospects were not limited, he had expressed a keen interest in building his own home by the sea.
It was only the comely Ginny around whom matrimonial speculation swirled.
Were she to permanently capture the attentions of wealthy Harry Potter, she could reside as mistress of his astounding estate, Stagfield Park.
Thus, if Ginny were to marry Mr. Potter, Auburndale would fall in the hands of Hermione Granger.
The evening of the party had arrived, and Miss Granger felt her nerves sharpened to an unprecedented degree.
It had been days since her unsettling nightmare, and she had gone through great lengths to avoid any encounter with Mr. Malfoy in town, on her daily walks with her brothers, and whenever Mr. Potter came to call on her friend Miss Weasley.
However, she was certain their paths would cross this evening.
Yet, amidst her unease, Miss Granger was also filled with palpable excitement, for she knew it was time to return home.
Overcome with irrepressible thrill, she hiked up her muslin skirts and broke into a breathless dash down the country lane.
The hard dirt path felt sublime beneath her bare feet, free at last from their pinching leather slippers.
Dew drops clinging to the grass blades kissed her ankles as she ran, dampening the hem of her gown.
All around her…
The sights, sounds and smells of the countryside infused the air with a spirit of liberation.
Soft crunches followed each frantic footfall as she crushed the dry grass and leaves underfoot.
The cheerful trilling of skylarks filled her ears, interwoven with the low, hypnotic buzzing of fat bumblebees hovering lazily among the wildflowers - vibrant yellow buttercups, powdery purple tufts of lavender, and the bushy pink crowns of foxglove.
The earthy, pungent aroma of the meadow grasses - so verdant and alive - mingled with the sweet perfume of honeysuckle vines twisting up the weathered slat fence lining the lane.
Wisps of unruly chestnut hair came loose from her messy braid and whipped wildly behind Miss Granger as she ran.
The flyaway strands lashed softly against her flushed cheeks while her threadbare gown billowed aggressively about her in the bracing country breeze.
Her heart thrummed with exhilaration and sweet, long-awaited freedom.
The sun's rays glinted through the leaves, scattering flickers of light that danced across the lane like fairy folk.
Hermione's skin tingled as the warmth kissed her face and bare arms. Her lungs filled with the fresh, earthy air as her legs carried her ever faster through the countryside's embrace.
In the distance, Crescent Hall came into view.
Arms spread wide, she let her hands brush through the tall grasses and wildflowers as she passed in a whirl of skirts.
The meadow's blossoms released their sweet nectar on her skin - nectar of freedom.
Reaching the estate breathless, she ran toward the familiar cascade of blonde tresses as Luna collected fruits from the green nearby.
"Hi," Miss Granger breathed out with an irrepressible smile.
Luna turned, returning her smile knowingly.
"Hi," she replied softly.
A momentary silence embraced them as they read each other's eyes. Shortly after, Luna took her hand, leading Hermione inside, basket of plump fruits in hand.
Passing through the manor's carved doors, the cool shade soothed Miss Granger’s wind-whipped cheeks. Her pounding heart and burning lungs recovered in the quiet sanctuary of Crescent Hall.
Together, they climbed the winding stairs, Luna glancing back occasionally as if to ensure her treasured friend remained real and not a vision that might dissolve into countryside air.
Reaching Luna's bedroom, Hermione froze in front of the carved mahogany armoire.
"This is it, I'm going home," she declared.
"You seem very excited, anyone would assume your life here is cursed," Luna replied airily.
"No, Luna. That's not the case at all...I just don't belong here," Hermione insisted.
"That's what you think," Luna said with a knowing smile.
"No, it's what I know," Hermione stated resolutely.
"Well, if you are so sure of it...you know just what to wear to the Parkinson party tonight." Luna continued, "Does Ginny know it's today?"
Hermione paused, contemplating the gowns within the armoire.
She traced her fingers over the beaded bodices and layered skirts, fine attire expected for an evening at the Parkinson estate. Finally, her fingertips rested on Pandora’s dress, her portal home.
Back to her friends.
Her life.
"No, I haven't told Ginny yet," Hermione replied. "In truth, I'd rather avoid any lavish festivities tonight. My mind is set on returning home."
"You must tell her, don't leave her in the dark Hermione," Luna insisted gently.
Hermione paused, considering her friend's wise words.
She pictured Ginny's face, so warm and vibrant, yet shadowed with hidden hurts. Hermione recalled the nights they had whispered together until dawn, confessing their innermost dreams.
She could not simply vanish without a word.
"You're right Luna, I won't," Hermione acquiesced. "I shall speak to her this evening before my departure. She has a right to know."
Luna nodded, relieved.
She wanted Hermione to find her bliss, but not at the cost of those she may leave behind.
"I am ready," Hermione declared. "But first, I must say goodbye to Ginny."
Luna smiled and took her hand warmly. "Come, let us find her. Your journey home can wait a few hours more."
Arm in arm, the two friends left the room, Hermione's portal dress in hand. She was ready to return, but even magic had its proper order.
The journey to Auburndale passed in a haze for Hermione, her busy mind pebbled with thoughts of what returning home would finally be like. The gorgeously intricate dress she now clutched would serve as her portal back to the reality she had been longing for since her puzzling arrival in this unfamiliar world.
Yet before departing, she knew there were goodbyes that must be said.
It did not take long for understanding to dawn on Ginny's face as she saw Hermione approaching with Luna, dress bag in hand. The pieces fell quickly into place, and Hermione glimpsed a slight tinge of disappointment clouding Ginny's bright amber eyes at the realization of her imminent departure.
Soon the three of them were sequestered in Hermione's bedchamber, and Ginny steeled herself for the end of their sisterhood.
"Must you go so soon?" she implored. "At least stay until the next grand ball."
"Ginny, I can't," Hermione maintained gently.
"Yes, you can, you just won't!"
Ginny insisted, a note of anguish piercing her voice.
"You know this is what I want. My mind won't change," Hermione said.
Ginny sighed heavily.
"I know, and I want you to be happy, I do sister. But...please grant me a little more time. Come to this evening's festivities at the Parkinson's manor—that's all I ask. You may take your leave after, if you still wish. Just allow me a few more hours of sisterhood."
Hermione hesitated, then agreed. "Okay."
"Bless you, Mione," Ginny breathed, relief washing over her freckled face. "For I don't know what becomes of us once you disappear."
She enveloped Hermione in a fierce embrace. Hermione returned it tightly, burying her face in Ginny's floral-scented hair.
She too wondered what would become of the girls left behind once she stepped back through time. But her heart knew with certainty which world was truly hers.
Just a few hours more, and she would be home.
The girls helped each other get ready; remnants of feminine preparations scattered across the vanity's surface.
They did one another's hair in intricate updos, weaving fragrant flowers and jeweled pins into their tresses in various styles. Sweet perfumes soon filled the air, as they took turns spritzing on fruity and floral fragrances from crystal bottles.
Finally, it was time to don their gowns.
Ginny and Luna looked on in admiration as Hermione finished lacing up the front of her corset, then stepped carefully into the sumptuous gown. The empire silhouette with its high waist framed her body beautifully. Layers of rich midnight blue silk cascaded down the full skirt like the night sky come to life.
As she moved, the fabric shimmered like stardust.
Delicate silver beads dotted the bodice, mimicking glinting constellations. Hermione looked every inch the celestial goddess.
For a few more stolen hours, she would play the role fate had assigned her in this world - before returning to her true cosmos come the stroke of midnight.
Ginny circled Hermione admiringly, taking in every detail. She committed the vision to memory like a priceless painting. A bittersweet ache filled her chest, mingling pride with the pain of impending loss.
"You look sublime, sister," she pronounced. Then busied herself with her own ensemble, concealing the sheen of tears in her eyes.
Once ready, the three stood together before the full-length mirror.
Three women gazing back, clad in rustling silks and satins - yet beneath it all, one heart bonded their souls.
"Girls! Time to get a move on!" bellowed Mrs. Weasley's voice from the manor's drawing room.
With a somber heaviness filling the air, the trio descended the winding staircase to join the rest of the assembled Weasley family. Their gowns whispered over the carpeted steps, a susurrus of impending farewells.
Mr. Weasley beamed up at the descending ladies.
"Don't you all look magnificent," he proclaimed with wistful pride, his gaze lingering on Ginny.
Ginny glided to her brother’s side, squeezing his hand meaningfully as they watched Hermione approach. A look passed between them rife with unspoken emotion, one Ron had yet to understand.
Hermione reached the last step and paused, letting her eyes sweep over the family that had become her own in this realm - committing their faces to memory.
These vivid, beloved figures who would soon dissolve into shadow and reminiscence when she returned home.
She etched each freckle, each smile into her mind before stepping forth to join the gathering.
Just a few hours more...then farewell forever.
"You look radiant, Mione," smiled Fred fondly, reaching out to gently pin back a stray chestnut curl that had fallen out of place.
George's hand rested reassuringly on her shoulder, as he often did. "Am I going to have to fight tonight? These aren't my brawling trousers," he joked.
A soft laugh conjured among the group. Slowly they began making their way out to the awaiting carriage, its interior magically expanded to hold far more seats than the quaint exterior suggested.
One by one they climbed inside.
Unbeknownst to the others, Hermione had already begun her silent goodbyes. She ran her fingers over the carriage's plush velvet seats, inhaling the familiar scents of leather and mahogany. As chatter and laughter filled the space, she etched each beloved voice into her memory.
When Mr. Weasley took her hand and helped her up the steps, the gesture felt weighted with finality. She met his eyes, reading the warmth and care that had sustained her in this realm.
At last, she took her seat, Ginny and Luna pressing close on either side, gripping her hands like lifelines.
As the carriage rattled off down the lamplit street, Hermione watched her temporary home fade into the distance, its windows glowing with light and warmth she would never enter again.
Onward they traveled toward the Parkinson soirée, toward her last hours among the living phantoms.
"So, are you boys excited for the party?" their mother giggled knowingly.
George nudged Fred, whose cheeks flushed red as poppies. "Someone here is eager to see Miss Angelina Johnson."
"Oh, piss off!" Fred swatted his brother's elbow away. "And you're just excited to put the moves on some unfortunate lady."
“Unfortunate?!” protested George. “Many ladies find me particularly charming; I’ll have you know.”
Snickers filled the carriage as they bantered and joked.
"Brother, I do adore you, but you are as humble as Mr. Malfoy," George jabbed.
"You dare compare me to that man? At least credit me his riches," Fred parried.
"Wealthy or not, he is truly dreadful," Mrs. Weasley interjected, her smile fading.
"He may be, but one must admit, he is rather handsome," Ginny mused. "Wouldn't you agree, sister? Objectively, of course."
Her question snapped Hermione out of her wistful reverie. She turned to Ginny in surprise as the carriage lamps flickered over her friend's sly, expecting expression.
"Well, I'm more inclined toward Mr. Krum's company," Hermione replied evenly. "After all, he did invite us."
In unison, the Weasleys corrected her: "He invited you."
A rosy blush rose unbidden to Hermione's cheeks at the implication.
In truth, her heart was already detached, half-returned to her old world. But she offered her friends a flushed smile, embracing the remainder of this dream.
"Or perhaps it's because Mr. Krum finds you more than merely tolerable," Fred snickered with a waggle of his brow.
Hearing his cheeky remark, Ginny swiftly countered, "And who finds you tolerable, dear brother?"
Her sharp comeback was met with agreeable laughter from the rest of the family. Fred's ears reddened once more as he shot Ginny an exaggerated scowl.
Securely enveloped among their warm banter, Hermione returned her gaze out the window. The rolling hills and hedgerows passed by in shadowy silhouette, backlit by the amber glow of the setting sun. She watched their progression somberly, letting her mind wander ahead to the inevitable parting soon to come.
She thought of the alternate life she could have led here, a life of love, family, and a future unknown.
That chapter would close upon her departure, its pages left forever unread. Her focus now was memorizing each line and contour of the world she would leave behind.
The Parkinson manor soon emerged from around a bend, its myriad windows ablaze with light. Music and merriment drifted out to greet them. Taking a deep breath, Hermione steeled herself.
The final act was about to begin.
Liveried servants hurried forth to meet the carriage, opening the doors with crisp efficiency. The Weasleys began to disembark, their fine clothes glinting in the lamplight.
Hermione lingered behind, her heart thrashing like a caged bird against her ribcage.
This was it - the threshold of her farewell.
Stepping down, she allowed a footman to assist her. The gravel drive crunched softly beneath the satin slippers she would soon exchange for her Mary Janes back home.
As Hermione entered on Mr. Weasley's arm, the sounds of the party enveloped her - crystal champagne flutes clinking, the drunken lilt of a fiddle, coquettish whispers behind fluttering fans.
They passed through the grand foyer where mirrors reflected their procession in endless replicas fading into shadowy distances. Candle-filled chandeliers dripped molten light over the refined scene. Hermione glided among the guests, both present and unmoored at once, exchanging greetings she would not remember come morning.
At the top of the stairs stood Draco Malfoy, watching her progression with an inscrutable gaze. Their eyes locked in a suspended moment before she passed onward, her gaze turning away from him into the swirl of her final hours among the living ghosts.
His— however— did not.