The End Is The Beginning Is The End

A bright light?

Hermione frowned.

Where was she?

She felt warm.  Which was strange, because her memories…she could only remember cold.  Pain.  Oh god, such pain…

What was this?

‘Am I dead?’

‘No, no, you in bath.’

She immediately sat up, or at least tried to.  She had little energy, and could only manage to lift her head.

She needed to figure out where she was, immediately, and just exactly how much of what she had experienced actually happened.  This was vital.  Once, she had suffered a fever for days and had been delirious.  Maybe that was what happened?

Squinting, she first looked for the source of the voice.

It was a house elf.  Wearing dirty clothes.  She would have once climbed on her soap box to campaign for his—or her—release but right now she was more concerned about herself.

She was sitting in a large room reminiscent of an Italian bath, and she was laying in a pool of deliciously warm water, a white towel wrapped around herself.

Her skin looked the best it had ever been.  Sun-browned, yes, but clean and soft.  She lifted a leg and was surprised to see that even the hair on her legs were gone.

When had--?

She glanced at the elf and blushed.  Was she receiving some sort of spa treatment?

‘Who are you?  Where am I?’

‘I am servant.  This the bath.’

She frowned, ‘Yes you said that.  But what is your name, and where is this bath?’

The elf looked uncomfortable, and squeezed his hands, ‘Can’t say.  You feel better?  I take care of wounds.’

She frowned.  She felt fine.  Had she been wounded?  She detected no injuries.  But she felt so weak, and as if to answer on its own, her stomach growled.

‘I’m hungry.’

The elf nodded.  It snapped its fingers, and she almost cried because there was so much food.  Fruit.  Bread.  Hummus?  Oh god when had she last had hummus?

She struggled to feed herself, but the more she ate, the more her energy came back.

Afterwards, she felt like sleeping but the elf was worried again.  He wanted her to get dressed.  He kept pointing towards a white cotton night gown.  It was loose and not at all the kind of thing she would wear.

‘Okay….’

She found this all weird, but just went with it.  She was far too tired to really ask anymore questions.

‘This way, mistress.’

She followed the elf, down a winding hall.

Past several portraits of people with pale hair.  They all glared at her.

She frowned.

Because they had a very familiar haughty stair.  They looked so familiar but she couldn’t place it…

Into a sitting room she was led, and it was like a scene out of pride and prejudice.  The walls had fancy silk damask, a light pale grin. The floors were smooth hardwood, and the furniture was small, dainty, and pretty to look at but undoubtedly uncomfortable. 

There were no lights, but a large window showed a moon, its bright light filling the room.

Illuminating the only other occupant.

He sat, ramrod straight, holding a cane.  He was too old to be the father, too pretty to be the son…but he was most assuredly of the family.

And her memories slammed into her.

Hermione turned and tried to flee but the elf was gone, the door was locked and behind her she heard him speak in a low, saccharine sweet voice,

‘Welcome back, Ms. Granger.’