Deus Ex Machina

A day of mourning, officially



A/N: You’re getting an update a day earlier because I’ve a field trip tomorrow, and I’ve no idea what time I’ll get back from uni.



A few reactions to the funeral; this is quite sad actually – it is how many people are viewing the funeral as ‘the occasion of the year’ – rather than the solemn occasion it really is. The Grangier’s are a very affluent, well known family – and there are all too many people trying to take advantage of the funeral and Hermione’s grief.







Hermione had spent the night before in one of her neighbours guest rooms, sat on the window seat, awake and thoughtful. She watched the late Summer night deepen; witnessed the stars twinkle from behind veils of cloud; she looked on as the sun fought against the darkness, chasing away the black with beams of pale light.



“Mademoiselle, you is needing to eat breakfast, being bathed and dressing.” Gamay said, gently tapping her young mistress’s arm and handing her a cup of strong coffee. Gamay wore a grey blouse with a floor-length, full-skirted black pinafore dress, she carried a shoulder-length black hooded cape. One of her neighbour’s elves followed her with a silver tea tray full of Hermione’s favourite breakfast items.



“I’m really not hungry, Gamay.” She whispered after the elf had left – not wanting to slur her hosts.



“Please, Mademoiselle, just a little bit? You is not going to manage the day without something in your tummy.” The elf pleaded, her eyes huge.



“I feel sick, Gamay, I don’t think it will stay down.” Hermione admitted, rubbing her aching head.



“There is a potion being mixed in with the coffee, will help stopping you being sick… you must be eating a little bit. Just one croissant? For Gamay? To stop Gamay getting upset?”



“For you, Gamay, for you.” Hermione sighed, resigned to managing to nibble down most of a still-warm croissant and sip most of one cup of coffee.



Hermione had bathed in the luxurious bathroom in the guest room of her neighbour; Gamay had washed her waist-length hair in silence. Hermione had just stepped from the bath into a fluffy towel, when the Lady of the house’s daughter entered her room.



“Is there anything you need?” asked the slightly older witch from the door. She’d been a year or so above Hermione at Beauxbatons; Hermione only new her because she was the daughter of her Mother’s best friend. There had been many occasions in their childhoods when their Mothers had pushed them together, but the girls had been so different that the Mothers soon realised that they’d never be more than acquaintances.



“No thank-you, Mademoiselle Travere.” Hermione said quietly, pulling her dressing gown around herself.



“Do you require any help getting into your robes Hermione? Do you need help with your hair? There was a very fitting style in Mode de Sorcière, it would look lovely with your brown eyes, I could pin it up for you…”



“Mademoiselle Travere, forgive my impertinence, but this is the day of my family’s funeral, it is not a fashion parade. Gamay will see to my toilette, as she always has.” Hermione snapped, her eyes cold.



“Oh, well, of course, Hermione, Darling – but everyone’s eyes will be upon you, and they expect…”



“Believe me, Mademoiselle Travere, I am well aware of what is expected from me, all too well aware. Gamay will ensure I am attired perfectly and that my hair is styled appropriately for my role as chief mourner.”



“But… I thought I might be of assistance to you, Our Mothers were good friends, don’t you think your Mother want me to help you get ready?” she said with a hopeful gleam.



“No. I do not.” Hermione snapped, having lost all patience, “Mother chose Gamay to be my Lady’s Elf when I was seven, and nobody but Gamay, my Mother and myself have ever styled my hair. Do not use my grief as an opportunity to pretend I am some life-size doll to dress; and never attempt to use my late Mother’s name to gain your own way.”



“Jacinthe!” cried another witch from the door, the girl’s Mother, “Leave Madamoiselle Grangier alone! She will not want you bothering her!”



“Mother, I was helping Hermione ready herself for the day! See! I have copies of Mode de Sorcière to decide on a hairstyle!” simpered the younger witch.



“I doubt you were helping Madamoiselle Grangier ! Gamay is the second-most-capable Lady’s Elf I have ever seen, the most capable being Gamay’s Mother who is my Elf. Madamoiselle Grangier is not in need of your assistance – and today is a funeral, not a fashion show! Get out of this room and do not re-enter it until our guest is no longer here!” Said the Lady of the house, obviously enraged at her daughter’s behaviour.



“But Mother… I can be of so much more help than a mere elf could ever be! And everyone else would know that I styled her hair and helped her dress, and then Mode de Sorcière might take me on as a correspondent! It is one of the most reported upon occasions of the year!” simpered the younger witch.



“Get. Out.” Hermione said with venom. “You are unwelcome at the funeral, do not set foot there.”



“But, it would get me noticed by…”



“Jacinthe, you heard our guest, leave. Go to the green parlour, I will be down to speak with you shortly about your abysmal behaviour! How DARE you attempt to take advantage of my closest friend’s daughter’s grief?”



“Arrrgh! You just don’t want me to achieve my dreams!” Jacinthe cried, stomping her foot before flouncing out of the room and slamming the door.



Madame Travere was red-faced in her fury and took several deep breaths to calm herself before speaking. “I am so sorry, Madamoiselle Grangier, I must apologise for my youngest daughter’s behaviour. I have known for a while that she has wanted to waste her life as a fashion reporter for that ridiculous, lie-printing, anorexia-promoting glossy magazine – but I did not think she would attempt something so disrespectful. Are you alright?”



“Madame, please, do not trouble yourself. I have more important things to worry over today.” Hermione said, sitting at the vanity, watching Gamay work her magic with her hair.



“If there is anything you require, do not hesitate to send an elf to fetch me! Your Mother was my dearest friend, if I can be of any assistance to you, you only have to ask.”



“My Mother spoke often of you, she drove Father mad sometimes by recounting your ‘girlish chats’!” Hermione giggled lightly, “She thought of you more as a sister, than as a friend. I cannot remember one day when you did not speak to each other… she truly loved you, Madame Travere.”



“And I her, Growing up with five brothers made me cling to her like a lifeline!” chuckled the older witch, “We had some wonderful memories, your Mother and I… I miss her incredibly, I don’t know what to do with myself without our little chats every day!”



Gamay was busily carefully twisting Hermione’s hair into a large bun at the base of her skull, pinning the thick rope every few inches to hold it in place.



“Mother, is there any particular reason that Jacinthe is creating utter pandemonium?... oh, erm, Her-Madamoiselle Grangier, I erm… I’ll ah… I’ll just go… away… now.” Said Corin Travere, a young wizard the same age as Hermione, he dashed away with a blush on his cheeks.



Madame Travere tutted, “He has been acting so very strange recently!”



“He won’t speak to me anymore, have I done something wrong?” Hermione asked as Gamay pulled a black net over the large bun.



“I have no idea, he hardly speaks to anyone, doesn’t come out of his room… ever so strange!” the older witch realised Gamay was waiting to dress her mistress, “I will leave you to your elf, I will deal with my daughter. Please, remember that all you have to do is call and I will be here to assist!”



“Thank-you, Madame, and thank-you for your hospitality, I do not mean to be an inconvenience to you.” Hermione whispered.



“No, you are not an inconvenience! I won’t hear of the word! You are a welcome guest!” A screech of pure female wrath filled the air, “Please excuse me, I need to remind my daughter that she is a lady, not a banshee.”



“We is dressing you, Madamoiselle?” Gamay asked, picking up a pair of plain white knickers and matching bra and handing them to Hermione. The witch donned them before stepping into the Medieval-style black undertunic. Over this went a fitted black jacquard bodice, a full heavy cotton skirt and a full circle mourning cloak with oversized hood to veil her face.



“You is ready, Madamoiselle.” Gamay announced in a whisper, stepping back to smooth creases on the cloak.



“Am I, Gamay, am I ready?” Hermione whispered, her tears visible in her voice, even if the hood hid them from view.



“You is dressed and styled, but you must be doing everything else.” Gamay corrected with a sigh, wiping tears from her own eyes.



“I can hardly breathe, Gamay, I can’t do this!” Hermione gasped, turning to the elf, the cloak twisting about her legs.



“You is having to do this, you must.” The elf said gently.



Hermione took a deep breath before kneeling before the little green creature and taking her in a firm hug. “Thank-you, Gamay, thank-you.”



“Madamoiselle is being welcome.”



***



Half-an-hour before the funeral was scheduled to begin, Hermione walked with her head bowed to the gate in the iron fence that surrounded the Grangier family graveyard. She ignored the flashing of camera bulbs; she did not listen to the questions being asked by reporters; and she barely acknowledged the well wishes from people she honestly didn’t know.



The funeral had attracted the attention of over five-hundred witches and wizards, Hermione had not been aware that her Parents were acquainted with so many people! Her backstabbing distant cousin and his money-grabbing Mother had been held at the entrance by honest, well-meaning mourners who would not let the so called ‘family’ ruin such a sacred event. Other insincere ‘mourners’ were kept at bay by her faithful house elves clad in their muslin trousers and poet shirts; they knew who was welcome and who wasn’t.



“Madamoiselle, the elves is protecting the sanctuary and sacredness of the day. Nasties is not being letting in!” piped up one elf.



“Thank-you. Your work is very much appreciated.” Hermione whispered, gently touching the elf’s head and carefully rubbing his ears.



Hermione looked around after she had walked through the gate; surrounding the crypt were people dressed in fashionable robes; some looked as if they were going to a Queen’s court – rather than to a funeral!



“You should all be ashamed! This is a funeral, not a social gathering!” she cried through her tears, throwing back her hood, “My parents and younger brother are dead, and you are choosing to use it as an opportunity to take pictures and sell newspapers and magazines!”



“Madamoiselle Grangier, what will you do now?



“Is it true that it was arson, not an accident?”



“Is it true that your distant cousin has forwarded a marriage contract to your family’s solicitor?”



“How much have you inherited from the deaths of your parents?”



“Is it true that there are squibs present at the funeral of witches and wizards?”



“Is it true that there are muggleborns present at a pureblood funeral?”





Hermione’s tears fell in rivers, and in a flash Gamay was at her side. With a snap of her fingers, the railings of the fence were replaced with a wall, and the reporter’s shouts did not penetrate the black stone.



“Thank-you Gamay.” Hermione whispered.



“Ignore those… those… oooh! I’d swear if this wasn’t a sacred place!” Agathe Courtemance said from beside Hermione, gently pulling the young witch’s hood over her head. “Come on, there are genuine people who wish to see you and grieve with you.”



“Lead the way, Agathe.”



“Oooh, I’ve been talking with that Great Aunt of yours for the past hour, she seems nice.” Chattered the old squib.



“You’ve probably spoken more to her in an hour than I have in my entire life. She is too frail to travel far, and my parents were always too busy to travel to England to see her.”



“But she’s here now!” Agathe said in confusion.



“As are the five healers that escorted her.” Hermione said.



They walked to the small gathering of people, and Hermione curtsey to a very elderly witch in a wicker wheelchair, “Great Aunt.” She said.



“Goodness, how you’ve grown! Though, I haven’t seen you since you were three.” The witch said with a sad smile.



“I am sorry we have not been close, Great Aunt.” Hermione replied.



“None of this ‘Great Aunt’ rubbish, you’re going to be living with me, Hermione, call me Adamina – it is my name after all.”



“As you wish, Adamina.” Hermione whispered.



“We can speak after the funeral, Gamay has organised everything in your rooms at the castle, as well as purchasing your school books. All you need do is buy your new wand.” Wheezed the witch, taking a deep breath of her smelling salts.



“Please, take things steady! You are the only close family I have left – I do not want to lose you!” Hermione cried.



“Oh, child, I’m still fit for this world, Death hasn’t come to collect me yet.” She replied, patting her Great Niece’s hand before shooing her away to others who wanted her attention.

















This might seem a bit odd – but it will all fit in perfectly in a little while.

Many apologies that I haven’t answered reviews – I’ve been really busy!