Certain
“Granger!!!”
She looked up from her work to see the platinum blonde prat standing there. That usual sneer there on his face. She wondered often if that sneer was because of her features, because of her parents, because of his prejudice, or just because she was doing his homework.
She looked back at her hands, brown and smudged with ink, wryly. Her nails used to be clean, polished, filed and cared for regularly. These days the closest she got to taking care of her hands was simply rubbing them in oil when she finished washing clothes. It had staved off the absolute horror that her hands could have been given the state of some of the servants in the Malfoy house, but it would take a lot more to restore them to their former glory.
Nothing that a bit of Granger magic can’t fix, Mia.
Her mother’s voice didn’t hurt as much as before.
“Are you done yet?” He asked coming towards her.
He placed a hand on the edge of the desk and leaned over her. Her lips twitched at how nice his hands were. Unblemished from toil, he hadn’t even begun to develop callouses from wielding his wand. Soft, oiled, perfumed-- they were the hands of the upper class. Her stomach churned at the thought.
Breathe, she urged herself. Nothing is forever.
“Yes, if you'd look it over.”
Draco rolled his eyes and signed her receipt book. She handed it to him and watched him leave. She shrugged looking at the still glowing signature before closing it and standing. She went to find Narcissa’s list for the week to check the items that were already done before she went about finishing the rest. Reshelving the library, cooking the meals, washing laundry and setting the table were all that were left for the day.
She'd carried out the last platter when the normal amount of chaos came running into the hall. The children, the older children, and others coming in to sit at the table a refined space apart yet still cramming into each other’s space. Narcissa sat at the head of the table watching the servants move about and Hermione serve dishes along with them. If she spared a glance towards the woman, she knew there would be that cold calculating look there, a glimpse of contempt, and more self-righteousness than a woman that cruel had the right to be.
She left them to their meal and went back to washing dishes. Narcissa had added more to the list since the last time she looked at it. There was just enough on it get done that she wouldn’t have much time to read as she lay under the stars in the warm, summer air.
The stars trembled above her as she held the last book her father had brought home close to her chest. She hadn't had time to mourn the loss of all of her other books and things, no time to mourn everything she'd lost with the war, only time to focus on what she still had.
Her mind, her heart, and her dignity.
I promise father, she thought looking up and trying to ignore the way her eyes burned. Hot tears over her brown face, her entire body ached from the day's work. Her clothes were dirty and her hands--
She looked at them, brown and dusted with dryness from harsh dish soap and toil. She’d ran out of oil earlier, the last of her stores from home. She could see them aging, wrinkling, morphing with the number of dishes she would wash in the future and the labor she would endure.
They were a servant's hands until you looked closer at the paper thin cuts from books carving their pages into her. Maybe they were a scholar’s hands.Either way they were hers and worlds different from the hands she used to have. She used to relish the days when she and her mother would pamper themselves at home as a treat for being so studious.
Ma belle, a woman's hands betray her world, her mother said as they lounged in the sun wrapped in soft robes and relaxed as the special mix of herbs and oils worked their magic.
What would her hands say about her? She smirked, imagining her mother, her warm smile, and rich voice.
That you are a fighter, a survivor just like your mother.
She laughed and curled up in the grass, relaxed and somehow settled.
Perhaps, she'd visit Molly for a spell, just a moment. That always cheered her up even if the woman seemed hell bent on getting her to marry her youngest son. She had nothing particularly against Ronald. The Weasleys had more or less been kind to her in their own way and painfully ignorant of the effect of their pure blood status influenced their interactions with her. They weren’t of Malfoy status, but Arthur still held a seat in the Wizengamot Council because of his pureblood.
In Surtse, such things carried great clout such that even a muggle like her should have been grateful that Molly wanted her in the family.
Grateful, she thought ruefully. Never mind that the Weasleys were barely scraping by to pay rent, struggling no worse than some of the poorest muggles in Surtse.
Ronald is a good man, dear. You’ll see. He may not earn much, but he’ll make enough and really that’s all you need.
She’d already had enough. Her parents had been well-to-do but they had never flung their money carelessly. The estate that the Grangers owned was more a business investment than home now that they were gone. They taught her the meaning of enough. Enough meant comfortable. She’d had enough. She’d had less than enough and just barely scraping by. She clutched the book to her chest.
She didn’t want enough anymore. She didn’t want to be so close to comfortable that she could taste it or so far away that she dreamed of it. She wouldn’t take just enough anymore.