Hilltop Cottage

A/N: Okay. I said it would be longer, so here we go. Just a few things to note.

1. I chose the town of New Mills in Derbyshire because this is one of the places that JK Rowling is supposed to have thought of as Snape's home place (source: HP Lexicon on line). Curiously, it has a street called Spinnerbottom! Most of the place names I have used actually do exist.

2.Whittle Bank Road is a real road in New Mills, but Hilltop Cottage is ficticious.

3. This is the longest story I have written to date and it will take a while before the 'fun stuff' starts. I hope you enjoy it anyway, and maybe let me know what you think?

That's all. Thanks!

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Hilltop Cottage, in the old industrial town of New Mills in Derbyshire, sat behind a row of more auspicious houses on Whittle Bank Road. Almost like an afterthought, it nestled apologetically behind a tall, overgrown Privet hedge. The only clue to its existence was a battered wooden gate that sat in the middle of the shrubbery. White paint that had once shone proudly, its glossy surface almost blinding in the sunlight, was now chipped and dulled by the inclement weather that this area of the countryside was renowned for. Its hinges were caked with orange rust, and the wrought iron handles creaked in protest should anyone dare to venture beyond its boundary.

When Hermione stepped off the train at Newtown station, her first thought was of Hilltop Cottage. Formerly owned by one Bertram Mellor, it had been passed down to his only surviving relative at the time of his death five years previously. Hermione had only met her great grandfather twice. Once was at her christening; the second time had been on a family visit as he lay dying in the local hospital. Hermione kept a faded photograph of Bertram on the mantelpiece in the cottage to remind her that he had once been a robust and well-loved local gentleman, bearing no resemblance to the pale, wizened old man who had finally passed away in the early hours of the morning with no family by his side.

Bertram Mellor had never known that his great granddaughter was a witch. In fact, save for a few photographs that he had perused now and again, he had rarely given Hermione any thought at all. It is true to say that Bertram Mellor hadn’t always recognised the smiling girl with bushy hair looking up from the Kodak print, particularly towards the end of his life. But he had known she must be family, and that had been good enough for him. Bertram Mellor had never known that Hermione would be eternally grateful to him, or that he had saved her sanity on more than one occasion by providing her with a bolt-hole that no one else knew existed.

Hermione clutched her travel bag in one hand and threw her large rucksack over her shoulder. With a spring in her step, she set off for the exit and hoped there would be a taxi waiting beyond the small brick building that housed the ticket office. Her train had been delayed leaving Manchester, and she had arrived later than she had wanted to. It had been six months since her last visit, there was no food in the house, and if she weren’t quick, the late opening supermarket would be closed before she could even get a pint of milk. With a sigh of relief, Hermione let the double-glazed station door close behind her with a bang, and she set off purposely to the only waiting taxi, its yellow sign glaring “Grab-A-Cab” in the growing gloom.

‘Hi,’ Hermione said cheerfully, ‘I need to call by Price’s shop, then on to Whittle Bank Road, please.’

She smiled winningly at the driver, who drew in his paunch slightly and winked at her, giving her a toothy smile of his own.

‘No problem, love. Throw your bags in the boot there and hop in,’ he said. There was a hint of flirtatiousness in his voice that made Hermione wince inwardly, but she had no choice but to go with him. Apparition was not an option, not in New Mills.

Half an hour later, Hermione was standing at the doorway of Hilltop Cottage, attempting to get the key into the Yale lock, whilst being acutely aware that Mike the lecherous taxi driver was standing close behind her, holding her bags of shopping. She mentally berated herself for packing her wand in her holdall and then forgave herself just as quickly. She hadn’t known she would need it, and she hoped she still wouldn’t. With a bit of luck, he would take the hint and go without any awkwardness. With a small sigh of relief, Hermione felt the key slide home, and with a quick twist, she pushed the white slatted door open and dumped her travel bags on the bottom stair before turning to take the carrier bags from Mike.

‘I never knew anyone used this old place since Bert pegged it,’ he said amiably.

Hermione smiled sweetly. ‘Bert was my great grandfather, actually. Did you know him?’

She leaned forward and prised the plastic handles from Mike as he relaxed his grip.

‘Goodness me, yes. Everyone knew Bert. Never knew he had family, though,’ Mike said, leaning against the doorjamb.

Hermione’s heart sank. She hadn’t wanted to get into a conversation, and so she proceeded to walk awkwardly backwards whilst negotiating the shopping bags and hooking her foot behind the door to close it. Realising that Hermione was in no mood to talk, Mike coughed a little and shucked himself upright before nodding in her direction.

‘Right, then. G’night, Miss Mellor,’ he said, flashing her another smile.

Hermione stifled a giggle at her assumed name. It wouldn’t do any harm to maintain anonymity, so she didn’t enlighten him.

‘Goodnight, Mike. Thank you,’ Hermione called down the path. Only when the gate clicked shut and she heard the roar of the car engine did she close the door and laugh lightly to herself.

Later, when Hermione had packed away the shopping and treated herself to cheese on toast and a disgustingly large glass of red wine in front of the fire, she took the time to think. She had been putting it off for almost two years, but with the alcohol coursing through her veins and the sanctuary provided by the cottage, it was time.