Chapter 2
Diagon Alley had been a safe haven for the teenage girl for a few years now, Flourish and Blotts even more so. With her serpent brooch displayed on her blazer, skilfully coordinated with a knee-length skirt that was deemed fashionable by both Wizarding England and Muggle France. She did not hesitate to smile to herself at the irony.
Hermione had already placed an order for her textbooks during her last school year, as the reading materials hadn't changed in a good decade or so. The need to collect those preordered texts was far from the forefront of her mind as she held the railing and brought herself to scale four flights of stairs on the narrow, leaning building.
Hermione’s fascination with mythology was not a well known fact, unless you happened to be a stout librarian at a magical school, or the bookkeeper at one of the world’s greatest wizarding bookshops. She had begun with Homeric literature, devouring The Iliad, and becoming mildly humoured by The Odyssey. It was her more recently acquired interest with Euripides that brought Hermione to the dusty, long abandoned shelves on the fourth floor of Flourish and Blotts.
Hermione’s shadowed paradise was next to the limited texts on blood ward reversal, which was currently being browsed by an elderly woman with a burn-like mark on her right cheek. Both readers quietly immersed within a literary redemption, the two barely acknowledged one another behind a slight nod of the head out of respect. The woman was a member of house Selwyn. A cursed house, although not one of the most severely affected by petty generational blood feuds and broken betrothals.
Hermione had read Medea during her train ride home from Hogwarts, and had been seeking out the first translated version of Hecabe for weeks. Although it may seem a futile task to acquire a text existing thousands of years ago, within the wizarding world there is an emphasis on preserving what those who are gifted with magic hold dearest. Be that purity, lineage, or a niche appreciation for a rebellious Athenian playwright. Hermione had become the latter, and had disgusted herself at even presenting the notion of conforming to blood supremacy, yet alone treasuring the belief so heavily instilled within her fellow classmates.
Reaching the top shelf, on her tiptoes that made her seem slightly unbecoming, her hands brushed against withered parchment and a binding of green cloth. It had been added a few hundred years later, Hermione observed from the feeling of frailty in the fabric and spine. It would do nicely for only two galleons.
Although the rayon fabric had torn in a few areas, there was a fraying sensation Hermione found comfort in whilst brushing her fingertips against the spine, feeling the engraved lettering of the title, gilded in gold. One day perhaps she may be not much dissimilar to the text in her hand, she mused. Bathed in green fabric and gilded in gold, fraying at the edges with her untamed mane, yet a constant atmosphere of admiration. Her lessons were coming along well, and soon she would be required to adhere to high wizarding society’s conventions once she came of age. If she had plenty of books and a room of shelves to sustain her avarice of knowledge, Hermione did not disregard the prospect of becoming an ornament to society, as long as her husband believed her to be more than the commodity proposed to others.
The payment for the books were on a tab, and Hermione left the attic with a price of parchment that noted the purchased texts, leaving them on the counter for the bookseller to charge once he had returned. In the meantime, she had errands of a darker matter to attend to.
Hermione had forgotten how impractical heeled shoes were upon cobbled streets, particularly those on slopes like Knockturn Alley. Murmuring the few necessary rune wards as her hand grasped the rusted doorknob, she entered the dusting shop that appeared to be more of a hoarder’s pride and joy than a serious supplier of dark artefacts, until one looked closer at the decor. He’d been waiting for several weeks now, and it had been a long summer since their previous encounter. A band of hematite hugged her index finger, one gifted by him. There was a time and a place, and he had not forgotten their encounter. However, Hermione was seeking more than a mere boy. She sought an alliance and a locket.