Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or Final Fantasy VIII, no matter how much I wish they were my works. Any additional characters added are mine.
Hermione groaned, her brow furrowing as a streak of sunlight hit her face. She felt annoyed, wondering who might have opened her curtains, wishing they had left her undisturbed to sleep. Turning away from the relentless light, she realised that no matter which way she faced, the room stayed equally bright. Muttering under her breath, likely about her inconsiderate dormmates, she finally opened her eyes, blinking to adjust to the brightness. As her eyes adapted, Hermione looked at a wall painted in a gentle, soothing blue, very different from the warm stone of the Gryffindor dormitory. Confused, she blinked a few times; this was not a part of Hogwarts she recognised.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5gWVVQ8wCm
Hermione slowly sat up and looked around the small room. Although not spacious, it felt cosy, with a single bed positioned against one wall, crisp white linens, and a soft patchwork quilt. A vanity which held a modest collection of brushes and a small oval mirror. The cushioned seat in faded blue matched the wall colour. In a corner, a small round table with two sturdy but comfortable chairs stood, its surface adorned only by a delicate vase of freshly picked wildflowers. An unobtrusive wardrobe stood in a far corner, painted white, and offered ample storage. 80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKFPFnwSXts
Several framed pictures decorated the walls. One, encased in a wooden frame, portrayed an older man in a distinguished military uniform—standing tall, medals gleaming on his chest, and wearing a stern yet proud expression. Another image showed a peaceful landscape: a rolling meadow filled with flowers under a vast sky. The third frame showed a plump, cheerful woman standing close to a younger man, likely in his late teens, who looked very much Hermione’s age.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfc9vfEPWjx
Where am I? she wondered, as she pulled the duvet off and sat on the bed’s edge. In that moment, her memories flooded back suddenly: the dark chamber, the murals, and the guardian whose name now rang in her mind like a warning bell. Hermione instinctively moved back, seeking safety on the bed and pressing her back against the cool wall. The name “Griever” echoed in her thoughts—where had he taken her? Anxiety tightened in her stomach, causing tremors in her arms and making her fingers grip the duvet tighter.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5VfaqqUppa
Instinctively, she reached under the pillow, searching for her wand. Her fingers touched only linen, and her breath caught as a wave of fear swept over her. Filled with panic, she quickly sat up and began searching, her eyes flitting across the room. Finally, her eyes settled on her wand on the floor beside the small, round table. A wave of relief washed over her, so intense that her knees nearly buckled. She quickly moved toward it, grabbing it with trembling hands and holding it close to her chest, almost as if hugging it in gratitude.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwYpdEB28jz
Hermione looked at the vanity and saw her clothes neatly folded, realising someone must have dressed her in a nightdress while she was unconscious. This thought unsettled her—being undressed and dressed by a stranger without her knowledge was hardly reassuring. The nightdress was soft with pale fabric edged in delicate lace and a small bow at the collar. It was not a garment she would have chosen herself.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxKlNvjcSnE
Pushing aside her discomfort, Hermione moved towards her clothes. She dressed quickly, each action reassuring her as she slipped into the garments she knew so well. The familiar feel of her jeans and the soft cotton of her t-shirt. Pulling her deep navy blue jumper over her head, she felt grounded once more, the weight and warmth of the fabric serving as a quiet reminder of home. She noticed her clothes had been freshly washed—the jumper was soft and lint-free, her socks were perfectly white, and a faint scent of lavender and soap clung to them all. This small reassurance amid the strange situation reminded her that, despite everything, some kindness had been extended to her.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzfJMwxz2Xp
Hermione’s gaze fixed on her outer robe, where the Gryffindor crest and her Head Girl badge caught the light, their embroidery bright against the deep scarlet fabric. These symbols served as powerful reminders of her identity and place, connecting her to Hogwarts and her duties, which suddenly felt both comforting and distant. For a moment, she let her fingers rest on the crest, tracing the familiar raised outlines, recalling the countless hours spent upholding their values. But as she surveyed the unfamiliar room—the calm blue walls, ordinary non-magical photographs, and the gentle hush of a Muggle home—she hesitated, questioning whether wearing such clear symbols of magic was wise. The thought of unintentionally alarming her unknown hosts or attracting unwanted attention weighed heavily on her mind. The idea of revealing magic in a place where it might not be believed made her uneasy. With a reluctant sigh, Hermione carefully folded the robe, feeling the weight of her decision settle in her chest. She then tucked it away, determined not to cause unnecessary fear or confusion, yet feeling a pang that hiding these symbols was also a way of hiding a part of herself.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGo034yTvI1
As Hermione surveyed her surroundings, her eyes landed on a familiar object on the floor near the vanity. To her surprise, it was her beaded bag. She looked at it in disbelief, trying to understand how it got there. She stared for a long moment, her mind filled with questions. ‘How…?’ she whispered, knowing she hadn’t brought it with her on their trip to the third-floor corridor.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYvmqRut47O
Hermione shook her head before picking up the bag and tapping it with her wand to check its contents. As the familiar beaded bag opened smoothly, she glimpsed inside, feeling the magical sensation that made the interior seem to stretch endlessly, in contrast to the modest appearance of the velvet pouch. Relief washed over her upon seeing that everything inside was still intact—her books, with their spines unbroken and corners unbent, her neatly folded spare clothes, and even a packet of Honeydukes’ finest chocolate tucked beside breakfast leftovers like apple slices and oat biscuits, all untouched and fresh. The bag’s lightness reminded her of the powerful enchantment she had cast—offering infinite space without any physical weight. At that moment, it was more than a magical object; it was a lifeline to her old world—a portable sanctuary filled with comforts and essentials for whatever challenges awaited. Hermione folded her outer robes and stored them in her bag. As she pushed them through the opening, they disappeared into the magical depths with barely a sound—swallowed by the bag’s incredible capacity, defying all logic.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNOy5od0OKD
Hermione’s mind wandered back to the events that brought her here, as she tried to piece together everything that had happened. She vividly recalled the details: the haunting murals she saw, their muted yet expressive colours, with each brushstroke telling stories of loss and longing that seemed to echo through the cold stone walls. The sorrowful tale in the stained-glass windows stayed with her—the panes glowing with fractured light, casting a spectrum of melancholy colours across the floor as the story of suffering and hope played out in brilliant, jewel-like fragments. The emblem on the door shone with an eerie significance, symbolising something ancient and heavy, with sharp outlines against the gloom, as if daring her to cross. Most vividly, she remembered Griever, the large red lion, whose piercing blue eyes radiated pain and deep sadness. His mane, fiery and bright, framed a face scarred by countless trials, with a furrow between his brows expressing sorrow and burdened history. The emotion in his gaze unsettled her—wisdom and profound loss, as if every hope and disappointment of an age rested in those luminous eyes. Even now, Griever’s presence remained vivid and unavoidable, a silent guardian whose suffering felt as tangible as the cold air she inhaled.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtmQ53yGElN
Her mind replayed her encounter, especially when Griever explained he had “banished” Harry, Ron, and Malfoy from the chamber, deeming them unworthy. Hermione wondered what he meant, worried about their whereabouts. The word “banished” sounded ominous, evoking images of sudden displacement and the unknown—had they been sent somewhere hidden in the castle or to a place entirely out of reach? Uncertainty gnawed at her, as each possibility seemed worse than the last. She hesitated to imagine the worst, reluctant to follow that dark thought to its bleak conclusion. Griever’s voice—deep, resonant, tinged with weary sorrow—echoed in her mind, his words ringing with finality but not cruelty. Though she was anxious, she found some comfort in knowing he seemed without malice; his piercing blue eyes, shadowed by pain, held no hostility when he spoke of her friends. Instead, there was a gravity, a sense of reluctant necessity, as if he regretted his judgement. Hermione desperately hoped Harry, Ron, and Malfoy were safe, wherever they were. She clung to the idea that even in exile, Griever’s decision might have been guided by mercy rather than vengeance, leaving her with a fragile hope amid the swirling uncertainty.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6vBAKe4JXX
Hermione furrowed her brow as she thought about her encounter with Griever, whispering the phrases again, hoping to unlock their meaning. ‘Key? Curse?’ She attempted to recall the exact tone and inflexions that might reveal what was honestly asked of her, but the more she tried, the more the meaning slipped away like smoke. Frustration grew inside her, pressing against her temples and tightening like a fist in her chest, making her restless. How was she supposed to succeed when she didn’t even know what was needed? Would Griever come back for more explanations, or was she destined to figure out this puzzle alone? The creature’s ancient appearance suggested he had witnessed many eras pass, unsettling Hermione. She increasingly wondered if time was different for him—maybe days, weeks, or even years could go by before she received help. The idea of waiting forever without answers made the whole situation more intimidating, forcing Hermione to consider that she might need to rely solely on her own resourcefulness.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhtl0YWJGbg
Hermione shook her head, realising her main goal was to find out exactly where she was, and she tried to steady the persistent flutter of anxiety in her chest. Knowing she had to confront whatever was waiting for her beyond the door, she prepared herself for the challenge ahead. She paused briefly at the door, listening to the faint sounds coming from below—a subtle clatter of dishes, distant voices, and the soft squeak of old floorboards.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9MWEwP95rk
‘One step at a time,’ she whispered to herself, holding onto hope that she would soon return to Hogwarts. She briefly considered that she might be in a guest room within the castle, but the evidence around her told a different story. The pictures on the wall were ordinary—framed family portraits and landscapes, all still and behind glass, with no signs of movement or magic. There were no waving figures, no winks or knowing glances—nothing lively like in the wizarding world she knew. The absence of magical details in the images, combined with the distant hum of conversation and the floral scent of a freshly cleaned home, made her suspect she was in a Muggle household.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzjUybTzJ3D
Hermione, taking precautions, slid her wand up her jumper sleeve, feeling the smooth wood against her skin. She kept it in place with a quick sticking charm, sensing its comforting weight pressed close to her forearm, ready to be used instantly. She anxiously approached the door, her heart pounding in her chest.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkCKiz8rN3V
Hermione took a slow, steady breath, her thoughts returning to Griever. The memory of his sorrowful eyes and deep, rumbling voice stayed vividly in her mind, as if he were right in front of her. She yearned with an ache in her chest to speak to him again—even if just for a moment—to ask the questions that haunted her. The uncertainty gnawed at her continuously, her mind imagining Harry and Ron lost somewhere unknown, their faces marked by worry or confusion. Her anxiety grew—a dull ache twisting in her stomach and tightening her throat. Nothing would calm her nerves until she knew her friends were safe, away from whatever fate Griever’s judgement had imposed.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLXM7fv9Zn0
She let out a weary sigh, resting her forehead on the door. She yearned for Harry and Ron’s familiar presence, support, and comfort. Without them, an overwhelming loneliness enveloped her. Her mind buzzed with anxious thoughts, each clamouring for her attention, but she focused on the reassuring solidity of the door. She gently pressed her palm against it, feeling its stubborn resistance, and took a moment to steady her breathing.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡc99Xnr4czz
Hermione shook off her thoughts and reached for the door handle, her fingertips lightly touching the cool brass. She quietly opened the door, making sure not to make any noise, and paused at the threshold. The corridor ahead was softly lit, with gentle shadows stretching across the polished wooden floor. Hermione stopped, her senses alert, listening carefully as voices floated up from the rooms below—a gentle murmur of conversation occasionally interrupted by the clatter of dishes and the soft hum of daily life.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxm8634Dm97
Pausing briefly, she hesitated between acting and staying cautious, unsure if now was the right moment to reveal herself or better to stay hidden a bit longer. Driven by curiosity, she felt an increasing urgency—desperate to understand her location, her heart pounding as she considered her choices. She believed that by listening a little more, she might catch something valuable—perhaps a name, a clue, or even a reason for her sudden presence in this strange household.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡm4e9o76RoM
Although she felt guilty about eavesdropping, Hermione believed any information gathered before meeting her hosts could be incredibly valuable. The feeling of invading privacy nagged at her conscience, but necessity took precedence; in this unfamiliar setting, quietly observing from above might help her craft her first words or even prevent accidental mistakes. She considered introducing herself directly, but found it hard to resist the urge to learn more first. She slowly opened the door a little wider and pressed herself against the cool wall, her heart pounding. She focused intently on the voices below—listening carefully to the tones and inflexions that might reveal clues.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxumdVLDPJW
A woman’s voice floated up from below, tinged with curiosity. ‘So, I heard you have a mysterious guest?’ she asked. The gentle accent hinted at warmth and familiarity, yet beneath it was a surge of barely contained excitement—a villager eager to be the first with news. Hermione’s interest immediately sharpened—she sensed the conversation was about her.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡElM45Ep3cS
The soft sound of water flowing from a tap mixed with the faint clinking of dishes in the sink reached Hermione’s ears. The gentle splatter of droplets echoed lightly against ceramic and porcelain, interrupted occasionally by the scrape of a plate or the delicate chime of a glass being placed down. The scent of washing-up liquid, sharp and slightly citrus, drifted up the stairs. One woman downstairs appeared to be busy with the washing-up, her movements slow and familiar—a steady, practised rhythm suggesting she had done this many times before.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSExGElF2L0
The woman at the sink, her voice carrying the authority of someone older, said, ‘Yes, well, news certainly travels fast in a small village.’ Her tone showed amusement and resignation, as if she was used to how quickly local gossip spreads. There was a soft clink as she placed a plate down.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkP7Rn6eFv5
Hermione could hear the impatient tap of a foot below, sharp and rhythmic on the wooden floor. The younger woman, still curious, broke the short silence. ‘Well?’ she asked eagerly, her voice revealing her eagerness for more details. 80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡL3abTDlpwI
Hermione watched from her hidden spot at the top of the stairs, pressed against the cool wall. She listened carefully, hoping the conversation would reveal more about her predicament and the mysterious people who had come to her rescue. 80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiVBOH1kogQ
The tap briefly flowed again before going silent, its soft trickle fading into a deep hush. In the quiet, Hermione heard the faint, deliberate sound of footsteps—the rhythmic tap of shoes on the old wooden floor, each step purposeful, with the creaking and groaning of the wood bearing witness to many prior footsteps. Hermione pressed herself against the wall, her senses sharpening as the footsteps approached. The older woman’s voice, which had previously been muffled and distorted by the kitchen walls and dishware, now became clearer. ‘I’m not sure what to tell you, Gina,’ she said, her words rising thoughtfully with a note of uncertainty.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ10wVcq7rGp
As the women exited the kitchen, the lively sounds and scents of household life disappeared. Hermione’s heart pounded as she felt the two getting closer, with only the staircase acting as a fragile barrier between her and being discovered. She listened carefully, knowing her hiding spot could be uncovered soon, and that the conversation below might reveal important clues about her uncertain future.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZugLK2UHZM
Gina’s curiosity overwhelmed her. ‘What happened to her?’ she asked, her tone unmistakably eager to learn everything. 80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXENxeD2XKm
Hermione felt a wave of irritation at the intrusion. It seemed uncomfortably invasive—why should the circumstances of her arrival become gossip, dissected by strangers? She silently questioned what right Gina or anyone else in the village had to speculate about her. The walls, which moments before had provided comfort and anonymity, now felt thin and permeable—unable to protect her from the probing interest of strangers she’d never met.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNf5yZPPm0E
The older woman sighed tiredly before answering Gina’s persistent questions. ‘Zell found her unconscious by the docks and brought her here,’ she said, her voice tinged with concern. After a moment, she added thoughtfully, ‘She’s about his age, but he said he didn’t know her from school.’ An acknowledgement of how strange it was for a stranger, especially a young girl, to be alone and unconscious at their quiet village’s edge. The thought seemed to trouble her, as if the ghostly, windblown docks had conspired to hide the truth of how the girl arrived. Her voice softened as she went on, telling Gina, ‘She’s very beautiful,’ with a tone of admiration. Hermione’s cheeks tingled unexpectedly from the compliment, the warmth spreading across her face, which felt surprising and a little awkward. 80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ7aVDBVawo
Hermione pushed the feeling aside, determined not to let it distract her, and instead focused on the details she had overheard. A young man named Zell was the one who found her unconscious by the docks and brought her to this unfamiliar house. This realisation flickered through her mind, prompting her to sort through her tangled, fragmented memories. She tried to recall the cold stone beneath her, the salty air, or any hint of water lapping against the wharf, but the specifics remained frustratingly distant. Although she struggled to form a clear image of the docks, all she could see was a fog of confusion—mist and shadow merging into an indistinct blur, with no solid details to pinpoint her location. Where exactly had she been found? What kind of place was this, where strangers would carry her home and care for her with such tenderness? Despite her efforts, Hermione was left with more questions than answers, her sense of direction and certainty slipping away like sand. The more she tried to recall her whereabouts, the more she realised how truly lost she was, both physically and emotionally. Yet, even as frustration grew, she held onto the fact that Zell had found her—and perhaps, over time, the mystery surrounding her location and circumstances might be solved.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡskfSAsi2uk
Gina’s voice interrupted Hermione’s thoughts. ‘How long has she been unconscious?’ she asked urgently, her tone concerned. This drew Hermione’s focus sharply back to the conversation below.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUrrwSBtQQS
‘Three days, poor thing,’ the older woman said, concerned. There was genuine worry in her words, suggesting sleepless nights and anxious looks towards a closed door. ‘Something serious must have happened to her, but she only had scraped knees—nothing else.’ The woman shook her head, her face showing confusion. Her hands twisted in her apron as she thought about the strange situation—finding a young girl unresponsive but mostly unharmed. The scraped knees stood out among her otherwise perfect skin, adding to the mystery. ‘I’ve tried everything to wake her, but she won’t make a sound.’ She sighed, sounding tired and resigned.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdG0wQ2MuEl
Hermione’s brow furrowed in confusion. I was out for three days! How is that possible? she wondered, her mind racing. The idea seemed surreal, like a dream—a considerable gap of missing time stretching before her, impossible to cross. She shook her head in disbelief, then reached down, her fingers trembling slightly, and carefully rolled up her trouser legs. The fabric scraped against her skin as she exposed her knees. Several fresh grazes were visible—mostly scabbed over but still raw and vivid, with edges tinged a deep crimson-brown and bruised skin nearby.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCp5PDx2ttm
Hermione immediately recognised the injuries; the sight stirred a vivid, unsettling memory. She remembered the moment when a strange, invisible energy swept through the chamber—an unstoppable force that forced her and the others to their knees on the cold, hard stone. The impact shook her, the chilling feel of the flagstones piercing through her clothes, and the sound of knees hitting the ground echoed in the vaulted space. She could almost feel the sting again, her knees scraped raw as she instinctively tried to protect herself from the oppressive energy. The scabs before her were more than just signs of pain; they were silent witnesses to the mysterious power that had shattered her world, leaving her stranded, battered, and confused in this unfamiliar place. She rubbed her knees, the scabbed wounds stinging, hoping the motion would erase the lingering sense of that overwhelming pressure.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1JnkdMqMZS
Gina furrowed her brow, contemplating Hermione’s origins as her eyes narrowed with thought. ‘Hmm… I wonder where she came from. At least she’s alive,’ she said softly, her tone reflective and slightly distant. Despite these unresolved questions, Gina found some comfort in knowing that, regardless of her struggles, Hermione had survived.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlCcQrmcZwY
‘Yes, she is, lucky girl,’ the older woman replied softly, a gentle smile playing on her lips. 80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ10AQXzCQhK
But for Hermione, the word ‘lucky’ sounded strangely empty, almost mocking. The idea of fortune felt distant and unreachable, given her current situation. She remained completely unaware of where she was, the unfamiliar surroundings adding an uneasy tone to the compliment. Worries clouded her mind: the fear that she had been taken far from Hogwarts’ safety and familiarity haunted her, with the vast unknown spreading in all directions. She might be anywhere—a remote village, a busy city, or some forgotten corner of the world—each scenario fuelling her growing feelings of loneliness and danger. Hermione’s heartbeat quickened with quiet fear as she tried to accept the woman’s words against her grim reality; though kindly spoken, the compliment made her feel more stranded and alone, unsure how far she had wandered from everything she knew and trusted.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbPKMKmP9SJ
Hermione refocused on the conversation, listening carefully as the older woman spoke. ‘Zell said she might be a transfer student from another Garden. Surprisingly, she ended up here, though. Usually, transfer students travel in groups, so I can’t imagine what happened to the others if that’s the case,’ the older woman said, her voice tinged with worry. The thought of a lone transfer student arriving under such peculiar circumstances clearly disturbed her. The possibility of others missing, unaccounted for, added a sombre tone to her speech, as if a hidden group’s fate pressed down on the quiet kitchen, intensifying the strangeness of Hermione’s arrival and deepening the unresolved mystery.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt5nMLYKWHQ
The woman took a deep breath, her eyes drifting to the window, and with soft resolve, she said, ‘In any case, once she’s awake and able to travel, I’ll send her to the Garden. Hopefully, someone there will recognise her and offer help.’ Her words were quiet but filled with conviction, belief that the Garden—whatever or wherever it might be—held the promise of answers.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQPqxt4QMG5
Hermione’s mind was racing as she tried to make sense of the overheard conversation. Transfer student? Garden? She searched her mind for any mention of “students from Garden.” Still, despite her strong recollection of knowledge, nothing matched—no book, article, or fleeting reference linked to these words. It left her puzzled, wondering if she had misheard or if a detail she couldn’t remember was the key. The more she reflected, the more convinced she became that “Garden” was neither a place nor an institution she recognised.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj1lEv9iKpu
She pondered the words—“Transfer student” evoked images of students in neat uniforms nervously entering new classrooms. However, “Garden” remained obscure, with no apparent connection. Was it a school? A sanctuary? A botanical greenhouse? Maybe some secretive training academy that even her voracious reading hadn’t uncovered? The ambiguity of the term troubled her, its lack of context only increasing her confusion. Unlike familiar names like Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons—each rich in tradition—“Garden” seemed to drift aimlessly in her mind, as intangible as mist.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpmEJuQ6a7y
As she desperately tried to remember even the faintest hint of such a place, her frustration grew. She took pride in her extensive memory; if the word “Garden” had ever appeared in a textbook margin or been whispered in the common room, she would have remembered. But her mind stayed blank, with the word ringing in her head. It sounded somewhat idyllic, almost deceptively harmless. Still, there was a strange seriousness in how the women downstairs mentioned the name. This casual tone indicated it was well known here, even if it was entirely unfamiliar to Hermione.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaLZpZvqFLd
She wondered if she had been taken not only far from Hogwarts but into an entirely different world, with unique customs, institutions, and secrets. The idea evoked fear and intrigue. How many other differences could exist between this place and her world? What other hidden meanings could be concealed beneath everyday words? Hermione couldn’t calm her restless mind and kept replaying the conversation, searching for a missed clue. She believed that “Garden” was crucial for understanding her situation. The word stayed in her thoughts like a missing puzzle piece—close but frustratingly out of reach.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡseiMdI5Juu
The older woman paused briefly before saying, ‘For now, I need to give her some more soup. It’s the only thing I’ve managed to get into her while she’s unconscious.’ Her voice was firm yet tinged with concern. As Hermione listened, she could hear the soft sounds of slippers on the worn kitchen tiles, the creak of a cupboard door opening, and the gentle clatter of a plate being placed on the counter. The subtle aroma of broth filled the air—a comforting scent from hours of tending simmering pots, hoping to nourish the reluctant patient.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOIFK2KM8Pl
‘Of course, Mrs Dincht. I didn’t mean to keep you so long,’ Gina said, her voice tinged with slight embarrassment as she realised how much time she had taken. She shifted awkwardly, her fingers nervously twisting the strap of her worn handbag—a habitual gesture revealing her underlying anxiety. A faint flush appeared on her cheeks as she looked apologetically at Mrs Dincht. After a brief pause, Gina took a deep, steadying breath, her eyes flickering with hope and uncertainty. ‘Actually, I came by to ask if you might be able to watch Liam for me while I go shopping?’ Her voice quivered slightly, as if afraid of rejection, and her hands gripped the bag more tightly. Her request was almost a plea, shoulders tensing unconsciously as she waited for a response, her words filled with hope and vulnerability, her gaze searching Mrs Dincht’s face for even the faintest sign of reassurance and support.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRjwcJNhBBr
Mrs Dincht let out a gentle laugh, her eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘Still as lively as ever, I see?’ she asked casually, her tone playful. The warmth in her voice indicated she was familiar with Gina’s situation and found it more endearing than bothersome.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdzgyty6dGX
Gina sighed, her face showing fatigue and frustration. ‘You have no idea,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I swear he gets worse every day,’ she added, her voice a mix of frustration and affection. She briefly smiled, despite her exhaustion, thinking of her son’s latest antics. It was clear her son’s lively behaviour was a daily challenge, often involving him running through rooms and leaving books and cushions overturned.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ92JLOKkqCn
‘I don’t mind at all, Gina,’ Mrs Dincht replied, her voice warm and reassuring. She gave Gina a soft smile, the corners of her mouth lifting in a gesture that conveyed her understanding and a strong willingness to help.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJ6EbGa8Qhp
‘Thank you so much! I really appreciate it,’ Gina said, her voice full of genuine relief that her request was approved. As she collected her belongings—slipping her handbag strap over her shoulder and smoothing her coat—the faint creak of a door opening reached Hermione’s ears, followed by a soft gust of cool air. Standing on the threshold, Gina called back over her shoulder, ‘Do you need anything from the shop at all?’80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJ2BLKoMBs6
‘No, dear, I’m fine. Thank you,’ Mrs Dincht responded, her tone gentle. 80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡceoBVX5fZj
Hermione heard the door softly click shut, bringing a peaceful silence to the house. Gina’s departure created a quiet lull, broken only by the faint clink of crockery and the soft shuffle of Mrs Dincht moving around the kitchen, each movement calm and unhurried.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8VjqHcTw6B
Hermione returned to the room, carefully closing the door behind her to keep noise to a minimum. She once again looked at the photograph she had seen earlier—a picture of a woman and a man. The man appeared young, maybe seventeen or eighteen, with wild, spiky blonde hair that seemed impossible to tame. His piercing blue eyes met the camera, exuding a confident yet mischievous expression. A black tribal tattoo decorated the left side of his face, swirling sharply along his cheekbone toward his brow, making him easily recognisable even among strangers. He wore a casual, practical outfit—a faded bomber jacket over a simple white vest—with a rugged appearance reflected in his strong jawline and relaxed posture. An unmistakable sense of energy radiated from him, as if he were always prepared to spring into action.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIVIzxCuAVo
Standing next to him was a plump woman with a gentle, kind expression and eyes shining with warmth. She wore a simple brown-and-white dress, muted but well-kept, with a dark blue apron that bore faint stains and creases from many home-cooked meals. Her silver-streaked hair was neatly pulled back into a bun at her neck, and her round cheeks had a soft flush, suggesting she spent her days bustling in a lively household. Her small, slightly roughened hands rested protectively on the young man’s shoulder, symbolising affection and pride. The overall impression was maternal and comforting; her presence evoked memories of Mrs Weasley—Hermione felt a wave of nostalgia, warmed by the reminder of home. The photograph, set in an ornate frame with delicate floral engravings, captured a genuine moment of happiness: her warm smile and the gentle glint in her eyes revealed a deep bond between them, hinting at a story of enduring love and resilience. Hermione smiled subtly, grateful for the brief comfort the image gave her in this unfamiliar place.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHIOGN83r19
The brief reassurance quickly faded as her thoughts shifted to Ron. Her smile vanished, replaced by a heavy, gnawing worry that settled in her stomach like a stone. She imagined Ron’s face—freckled, earnest, often showing concern when she was late or missing from their usual spots—and wondered if he was pacing anxiously, his brow furrowed with confusion and fear. Were Ron and the others searching for her, calling her name through echoing halls, retracing their steps to find even a tiny clue? The questions spun relentlessly in her mind, a storm of anxious thoughts that refused to quiet. Did they know what had happened to her, or were they left in the dark, suffering the same uncertainty that tormented her now? The idea of her friends believing she was dead—lost forever, vanished without a trace—sent a shiver through Hermione, unsettled by the thought. It felt as if the very ground of her world had shifted, leaving her stranded and alone, longing for the comfort of familiar voices and loyal friendship.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYpHfMbhBMN
Hermione’s gloomy thoughts were broken by the gentle sound of the door opening, accompanied by the faint creak of its hinges. Mrs Dincht entered the room with brisk steps, her face brightening. ‘Oh! You’re finally awake, at last!’ she said warmly, her tone full of energy. The older woman moved confidently, balancing a tray with a steaming bowl of soup, a pot of freshly brewed tea, and a plate of crusty bread. Mrs Dincht straightened up, her eyes twinkling with absolute delight. She appeared as a round, motherly figure with a gentle face, flushed from the stove’s heat and her busy movements. Her broad, sincere smile reached her eyes, which crinkled in a welcoming and reassuring manner. ‘You can call me Mrs Dincht, everyone else does!’ she said, her voice warm, immediately putting Hermione at ease. Mrs Dincht promptly moved to Hermione’s side and helped her find a seat at the table, positioning her so she could easily reach the tray. She gently guided Hermione by the elbow, her touch steady and kind, ensuring she was comfortably seated in the sturdy chair at the small round table.
Mrs Dincht showed genuine concern as she methodically checked Hermione. She felt her forehead for a fever, her rough yet gentle hand lingering momentarily to sense any signs. She then took Hermione’s pulse with practised ease, counting silently while watching for irregularities. Lastly, she visually inspected Hermione for unnoticed injuries, her gaze carefully sweeping over her. Each action was warm and maternal, not rushed or intrusive. Once satisfied, a wave of relief appeared on her face, her shoulders easing as she finally relaxed. ‘Well, you seem fine,’ she told Hermione gently, her eyes softening with genuine relief. She brushed a stray silver-streaked lock of hair from her face before sitting in the chair opposite Hermione. Settling herself with a contented sigh, the chair creaked softly as she folded her hands in her lap.
Hermione gave Mrs Dincht a grateful smile, her expression softening. She took a steadying breath, smelling the comforting aroma of soup and fresh tea. Hermione introduced herself with genuine warmth, her voice tinged with vulnerability and gratitude. She respectfully inclined her head, her hair framing her earnest face as she acknowledged the safety she’d found in this unfamiliar place. Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, she gave a heartfelt nod, meeting Mrs Dincht’s eyes with sincerity. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for me,’ she said, her words honest and direct, hinting at the fears she carried.
As the initial wave of gratitude faded, concern flickered across Hermione’s face. Her posture grew tense, with shoulders stiffening as an uneasy silence settled. The warmth softening her expression was replaced by subtle worry, visible in her nervously twisting hands and uncertain glances around the room. She hesitated, lips parted, searching for words, then finally asked softly, ‘But I must ask where I am and how I got here.’ Her tone was fragile and wavering, her wide brown eyes reflecting dread and hope, as if bracing for an answer that might change everything she understood.
Mrs Dincht quietly exhaled as she reached for a durable ceramic pot with faded blue patterns, its rim chipped from years of use. With experienced hands, she lifted a gleaming spout kettle and poured hot water steadily into the teapot. Steam curled upward, swirling softly in the air and momentarily fogging her glasses as she leaned in. Her movements were slow and deliberate, almost ritualistic, as she placed a single teabag into the pot and covered it with a lid, letting the tea steep.
She spoke honestly and with concern. ‘I don’t know how you got here. I was hoping you might have the answer,’ she admitted as she set the pot down on a crocheted mat. Mrs Dincht paused briefly before speaking again, worried and curious as she recalled that day. ‘My son, Zell, found you at the docks,’ she said, her eyes briefly drifting to the window. ‘You were leaning against a pile of crates, soaked and shivering, with mud and seawater streaked across your clothes. We wondered if you were a transfer student from another Garden and considered whether something had happened to your ship on the way here,’ she explained, shaking her head as she described their first thoughts and confusion about Hermione’s unexpected arrival. She remembered Zell’s anxious insistence on helping Hermione to safety, his strong arms both gentle and urgent, and the puzzled looks of the dock workers as they watched. ‘It was such an unusual situation—no one recognised you, and there were no records of a new student arriving that day,’ She said pensively, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her teacup, revealing the concern and curiosity Hermione’s mysterious appearance had stirred in her and her son.
Hermione sat quietly for a few moments, thoughtfully considering her response. The information Mrs Dincht shared raised more questions than answers, fuelling her growing frustration. She observed Mrs Dincht gently stirring the teabag with a spoon, her movements calm and precise, the spoon’s soft clink creating a steady rhythm amid the tense silence. Mrs Dincht poured a cup of tea for Hermione and set it down beside her, accompanied by a small jug of milk and a bowl of sugar.
‘Thank you,’ Hermione whispered as she added a dash of milk to her tea before stirring in a spoonful of sugar. She took a tentative sip, feeling the warmth spread across her tongue and through her chest, calming her trembling hands. Hermione looked back at Mrs Dincht. ‘I ran into...’ she began, pausing as the words felt stuck in her throat, her mind racing with how much to share. She carefully chose her words, deciding not to mention Griever by name since that frightening encounter was still too fresh and vivid. ‘...some trouble, but I’m not sure how it led to me being here,’ she said softly, her voice barely audible. Her eyes lowered to her hands clenched tightly in her lap, knuckles turning white as she fought to control her anxiety.
Fragments of that terrifying encounter flashed through her mind—the piercing blue eyes, haunting and inhuman, cutting through the darkness with an unsettling intensity. She could still feel the prickling on her skin, as if Griever’s presence lingered, watching from some shadowed corner of her mind. The memory of being hunted, cornered, and helpless pressed against her chest, her heart pounding with fear. A shiver ran down her spine, her body tense as she fought to push the image away.
After a moment of quiet thought, Hermione looked at Mrs Dincht and said, ‘I don’t really know what Garden is, honestly. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it,’ she admitted, sounding unsure. She imagined students working in a large, sunlight-filled greenhouse, their sleeves rolled up as they tended a variety of vibrant flowers and trailing vines. The air around them was filled with the scent of earth and blossoms, with golden sunlight filtering through tall glass windows. She could almost hear the soft buzz of bees moving from flower to flower, the gentle rustling of leaves, and the quiet laughter of students lost in their studies. This image made her smile briefly, amused by the idea that perhaps Garden was just a peaceful botanical space, where plants and knowledge grew side by side. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder—was it really a garden for gardeners, or did the word mean something totally different?
Hermione’s curiosity took over, prompting her to ask, ‘What is Garden exactly?’ Hermione traced the woodgrain on the table as she gathered her thoughts, then drew the bowl of soup closer, appreciating the small comfort it brought. She sipped tentatively and was immediately surrounded by a rich blend of flavours—smoky notes blending with the subtle sweetness of root vegetables and hints of herbs dancing on her tongue. Each spoonful provided a gentle warmth, grounding her in the moment even as the conversation threatened to deepen her confusion.
Mrs Dincht looked at Hermione with complete shock, her eyebrows rising in genuine surprise, and the deep lines on her forehead becoming more noticeable. ‘You’ve never heard of Garden?’ she asked, her voice incredulous, as if Hermione had admitted to not knowing which way the sun rises. For a moment, Mrs Dincht was speechless, her lips parted in astonishment as she stared at Hermione, searching for any sign that this was a joke. The room was quiet, only the faint ticking of the clock and the soft rain tapping against the window breaking the silence. ‘I didn’t expect there to be people in the world unaware of them,’ she said, shaking her head slowly, her tone now filled with a puzzled curiosity. She thoughtfully tapped her chin with her index finger, her eyes narrowing as she tried to understand Hermione’s statement. The gesture was nearly habitual, a nervous tic revealing her increasing confusion.
After a brief pause, Mrs Dincht leaned forward, her voice softening as she tried to help Hermione understand better. ‘They are a significant part of the world and also popular tourist destinations,’ she explained, her words gentle but insistent, as if she believed the correct phrasing might trigger a forgotten memory.
Hermione only frowned, her brow knitting as she tried to make sense of the information. The confusion showed clearly in her face—a slight downturn of her lips and a distant stare—highlighting how hard she found it to reconcile Mrs Dincht’s claims with her own lack of knowledge. To Hermione, the word “Garden” brought no memories or associations, leaving her feeling even more lost. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, as she stared into her bowl of soup. The comforting aroma that had drawn her in moments before now seemed to lose its appeal; her appetite quickly faded as anxiety took over. A sense of foreboding grew in her chest, tightening and growing cold with each second; she couldn’t shake the feeling that Mrs Dincht’s explanation would only complicate her situation further. Regaining her composure, Hermione raised her head and met Mrs Dincht’s gaze, noticing her thoughtful, measured expression as she prepared to share what she knew.
Mrs Dincht leaned forward, clasping her hands. She took a deep breath to steady herself before she began. ‘There are three Gardens in the world,’ she said, her tone both informative and soothing, each word carefully chosen to bridge the gap between Hermione’s confusion and the new reality she was about to reveal. ‘Each Garden is famous in its own right and located in different parts of the world—Balamb, Trabia, and Galbadia. Students come from everywhere, attracted by the promise of adventure and the challenging education they will receive.’
Mrs Dincht’s gaze flickered briefly as she thought about them. ‘Each is unique in its way, especially in how they teach their students, but they share the same core purpose. Children and teenagers are trained both academically and in combat, learning everything from literature and math to swordsmanship and strategy.’ She gave Hermione a steady look to ensure she understood. ‘Gardens are schools for mercenaries,’ Mrs Dincht said, pausing to sip her tea. ‘Our local one is called Balamb Garden. It’s about ten miles up the road, nestled in the countryside.’ Her tone was steady and straightforward, but there was a touch of pride as she gently set her cup down with a soft clink.
Hermione’s body tensed in shock, her eyes widening. ‘A mercenary school?’ she echoed, her voice trembling slightly. The phrase felt surreal, almost like something from a story rather than reality, and for a moment, she struggled to understand it. Her mind tried to reconcile the harsh words with the comforting images she had imagined—sunlit courtyards, quiet study rooms, and the gentle rhythm of student life. But now, those images were gone, replaced by a stark scene: hallways echoing with the sound of weapons, classrooms where strategy and fighting were as important as reading and math, and children in sharp uniforms, their faces serious well beyond their years. She could barely imagine a world where children are raised not just to learn and grow but to fight—trained for danger, tested by conflict, and expected to face threats she could hardly conceive.
Mrs Dincht nodded affirmatively. ‘Yes, they accept students from five to fifteen years old, and students graduate at eighteen,’ she said, her tone gentle, as if discussing something ordinary. A warmth spread across her face, pride shining in her eyes as she said, ‘Zell goes to school there, and today is his final exam.’ Her words carried a faint tremor of excitement and worry. She sat up straighter, pointing at the photograph Hermione had been looking at earlier. ‘That’s Zell. Takes after his grandfather,’ she added softly, her voice warm with nostalgia and affection.
Hermione slowly nodded, her eyes fixed on Zell’s photograph. ‘He’s handsome,’ she acknowledged, her gaze searching the young man’s face. His warm smile and confident presence radiated kindness and self-assurance. His blond hair, styled in lively, untamed spikes, framed his face in a way that felt both daring and approachable. The strong jawline and his expressive eyebrows hinted at a mischievous personality. His neat blue uniform, with its crisp lines and polished buttons, showed discipline from the Garden, yet his relaxed posture suggested he was at ease. Behind him, Hermione glimpsed a patch of Garden grounds—lush green lawn and a gently curving pond—indicating a world full of order and vitality. She wondered what kind of person Zell was beyond this image—what experiences shaped him, what stories he might share, and how he differed from the young man facing his final exam today.
Mrs Dincht smiled warmly at Hermione, her face softening with genuine affection, with the corners of her eyes crinkling. ‘Yes, he is,’ she confirmed, her voice carrying a gentle pride.
After a moment, she turned back to Hermione. With a small, encouraging gesture, she pointed to the bowl of soup still cooling on the tray before Hermione. ‘Eat up before it goes cold,’ she urged, her tone kind yet nurturing.
Hermione finished her soup, carefully placing the empty bowl back on the tray. ‘That was lovely soup,’ she said sincerely, her voice gentle but grateful.
Mrs Dincht let out a warm chuckle, her tone light and friendly. ‘I try,’ she replied modestly. She rose from her seat and started gathering the dishes. Hermione, eager to assist and show her appreciation, stood up and approached the door. She reached out, her fingers softly grasping the cool handle, and held the door open for Mrs Dincht as she was about to leave. Mrs Dincht paused at the doorway and turned to Hermione with a warm smile. ‘Make yourself comfortable and feel free to come and go as you wish,’ she said kindly.
‘Thank you,’ Hermione called after Mrs Dincht, watching her disappear down the stairs. For a moment, Hermione stayed in the doorway, torn between remaining in the quiet comfort of the room and stepping out to explore the house further. Hermione was eager to learn more about her new surroundings, thinking that examining the house more closely might help her figure out where she was. She took a deep breath and returned to the room with quiet determination. She walked over to her beaded bag and picked it up, holding it close to her chest. Gathering her courage, she moved back to the door. She took a final glance around the room—the pictures on the wall, the neatly made bed with its cosy patchwork quilt, and the fragile vase of wildflowers on the table. Closing her eyes for a moment and steadying her breath, Hermione softly closed the door with a muffled yet firm click.
To Hermione’s right, a second staircase rose to the upper floor. Opposite her, at the corridor’s end, another closed door stood, its painted surface slightly paler than the walls, with a brass handle showing signs of frequent use. She moved closer to the door, curiosity urging her on. Just as Hermione reached out, her hand near the handle, Mrs Dincht’s voice floated up from below. ‘That’s Zell’s room. He gets angry if anyone goes in, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t,’ she said, her tone protective yet gentle, with a hint of amusement.
Hermione felt a flush of embarrassment when she realised she had almost intruded on Zell’s private space. A hot blush spread across her cheeks, and her ears tinted pink as she recognised her misstep. She hadn’t known it was his room; the door’s simple exterior and closed position could have concealed a bathroom or another part of the house. Its pale paint and worn brass handle did not indicate what was inside, leaving Hermione unaware as she stood just outside. Thanks to Mrs Dincht’s timely intervention, she appreciated being corrected before making a mistake.
Hermione carefully descended the staircase, her fingers lightly brushing the smooth bannister. She observed that the bathroom was conveniently placed at the bottom of the stairs, right beside the kitchen. Its door, painted a soothing pale blue, was slightly open, revealing a spotless space. Hermione entered, thankful for a brief moment of privacy. The bathroom was small but well organised, with neatly folded towels on a shelf, a small vase of flowers on the narrow windowsill, and a bar of soap in a delicate dish.
Hermione grimaced as she stood before the mirror, her eyes drawn to her own reflection. She looked dreadful; pronounced dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her complexion appeared unusually pale. Her gaze lingered on a small cut visible on her lower lip—an injury she did not remember sustaining, adding to her sense of unease and confusion. She sighed and splashed cool water on her face, hoping to bring some colour back to her cheeks, before taking a steadying breath and smoothing her hair a bit. Feeling refreshed and a bit more centred, Hermione paused briefly, appreciating the simple comforts of the room—the soft ticking of a small wall clock, the faint rustle of leaves from the garden outside, and the cosy atmosphere. After one last look in the mirror, she stepped back into the hallway, the door gently clicking shut behind her.
Hermione paused at the kitchen’s entrance; it was a modest space with walls adorned with colourful, hand-painted tiles depicting herbs and fruits. Sunlight poured in through a half-open window over the sink, creating moving patterns across the counters and highlighting jars of preserves and a basket of warm rolls. It was filled with the tempting aromas of fresh bread, leftover soup, and something sweet cooling on a nearby rack. Mrs Dincht stood at the sink with her sleeves rolled up, hands immersed in warm, soapy water as she carefully washed the dishes from upstairs.
The entire downstairs area was open-plan, except for the bathroom. The kitchen, though compact, connected smoothly to the dining room. Cream-coloured cabinets lined the kitchen walls. The dining space had a sturdy oak table with mismatched chairs, each showing signs of years of use. Beyond the dining area, the living room merged seamlessly with the rest of the space. Cosy armchairs and a sofa were arranged around a small coffee table, topped with a vase of flowers and a stack of well-loved magazines. It featured a small bookcase filled with novels and games, while family photographs decorated the shelves and walls.
Everywhere Hermione looked, she observed how immaculate the house was. Not a single speck of dust or disorder was visible, and everything appeared to have a designated place. Shelves were carefully arranged with books and ornaments, and the dining table was immaculate, free of crumbs. Cushions on the sofa and armchairs were puffed and neatly aligned, with throws free of wrinkles.
In the living room, she noticed a young boy—probably Liam—focused intently on a fighting computer game. The television looked unfamiliar and slightly odd to her. It was squat and angular, with a curved screen surrounded by chunky buttons and a faintly humming speaker grille, quite different from the sleeker models Hermione was accustomed to. The console beneath it was brightly coloured, covered with stickers and scuffs, and showed signs of frequent use. Liam’s controller was oddly shaped, with oversized buttons and a tangle of wires sprawling across the rug. On the screen, the game displayed vivid, blocky graphics—animated figures darting and jumping in a stylised arena, with bursts of triumphant music and occasional crackles of digital sound effects. Though some items seemed strange and outlandish compared to what she was used to, nothing in the room felt truly foreign.
Liam exhaled a dramatic sigh, visibly restless as he set the controller aside. He leaned back on the sofa, temporarily ignoring the tangled wires at his feet, and looked up at the ceiling with exaggerated despair. ‘Ergh, I’m so bored…’ he grumbled, his voice tinged with impatience and stretched for effect. Frustrated, he crossed his arms and tapped his foot on the rug. Occasionally, he cast a longing, almost hopeful look at the door. ‘I wish Zell would come over,’ he added softly.
Mrs Dincht watched Liam’s bored display with amusement. ‘He’ll be home later for a visit,’ she said gently as she placed a glass of juice on the table in front of him.
Liam jumped to his feet with excitement, the energy radiating from him like static. ‘Oh, yeah! I hope he does! I want to show him my new moves!’ he said eagerly, eyes shining with anticipation. His cheeks reddened as he lightly bounced on the balls of his feet. Without delay, he assumed a fighting stance, feet wide apart and fists raised, acting exaggeratedly serious. He threw a quick series of punches in the air, then performed an energetic spin kick, his trainers softly hitting the rug. The sleeves of his T-shirt rolled up as he shifted his weight, his movements a mix of eager imitation and childlike improvisation, clearly wanting to impress Zell with his latest techniques. A determined grin spread across his face.
Mrs Dincht raised her eyebrows at Liam’s lively antics, her face showing frustration and affection, her lips twitching to hide a smile. ‘Yes, well, that will be taken outside. I would rather my house stay intact,’ she said, adopting a mock-serious stance and placing her hands on her hips.
Liam’s posture sagged as he obediently responded, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ his tone tinged with disappointment. Drooping shoulders, he shuffled over to a spot on the floor in front of the television. Once seated, he picked up the controller and resumed his game, fingers curling around the odd-shaped device with its oversized buttons and worn stickers. His movements were less lively now, the energy that had filled the room earlier replaced by focused silence. Occasionally, his foot tapped absentmindedly against the rug, revealing the fidgety energy still beneath his calm exterior.
Hermione couldn’t help but smile and shake her head, thinking that the house had probably experienced quite a few mishaps due to Zell and Liam practising their fighting moves inside.
Her curiosity led her to a tidy, well-organised bookcase with shelves filled with colourful book spines and neatly arranged ornaments. In one corner, she noticed a small pile of magazines, their glossy covers slightly worn from frequent handling. She reached out and lifted the top magazine, feeling the weight of the pages beneath her fingertips. The cover displayed a bold, stylised logo against a vibrant backdrop of artwork showing distant cities and expansive landscapes. Hermione studied the title with a puzzled expression, tracing the embossed letters. ‘“Timber Maniacs”?’ she whispered, reading it aloud with curiosity and doubt. The magazine seemed unfamiliar, almost exotic, and as she looked at the back cover, she saw mysterious illustrations—maps, fragments of text in strange languages, and photos of places that looked both intriguing and entirely alien. Her curiosity deepened as she wondered what stories and secrets might be contained within its pages.
Flipping through the magazine, Hermione quickly realised it was a publication dedicated to various locations around the world. The glossy pages were filled with vivid photographs and detailed illustrations—towering crystalline cities shimmering under alien skies, windswept coastlines with unusual architecture, and busy markets bustling with strangely clad people and bizarre goods. Each article was decorated with bold headlines in languages she couldn’t understand, and the captions referenced places with exotic, foreign-sounding names: Esthar, Dollet, Trabia. Maps spread across the centre pages, marked with winding routes and cryptic symbols that offered no recognition. As she browsed the contents, her heart started pounding; not one listed location was familiar—no London, Edinburgh, or even tiny villages she knew. A wave of panic washed over her, growing stronger as she flipped through page after page, desperately searching for something to connect her to the world she knew. Eventually, she closed the magazine sharply and placed it back on the pile, her mind racing with anxiety and unanswered questions. Her fingers shook as she tried to steady herself against the rising fear of being lost and alone.
Mrs Dincht re-entered from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron with brisk yet gentle movements. She paused at the doorway, quickly noticing Hermione’s pale cheeks and tense jaw. Moving quietly, Mrs Dincht crossed the room, her voice warm but serious as she asked, ‘Are you all right, Hermione?’ Without hesitation, she firmly but gently placed her hand on Hermione’s shoulder to steady her and guided her carefully to a nearby chair. She looked at Hermione intently, checking for more signs of distress on her face, then offered a small, reassuring smile. After ensuring Hermione was comfortably settled, Mrs Dincht went back into the kitchen. Soon after, she returned carrying a tall glass of water and placed it on the table in front of Hermione. She gratefully took it, her hands slightly shaking as she grasped the cool glass, and she sipped slowly.
Hermione attempted to steady her breath, her eyes drifting back to the pile of magazines on the bookcase. Her mind raced with anxious thoughts, and the feeling of disconnection pressed on her chest like a vice. Her hands, sweaty and trembling with nerves, fidgeted anxiously on her jeans. She took a deep breath and looked at Mrs Dincht. ‘I have to know…’ Hermione began, her voice trembling as she struggled to express her confusion fully. The words almost escaped her lips, her breath catching as she tried to steady herself. Hermione searched Mrs Dincht’s face for reassurance and saw only a calm that encouraged honesty. Finally, overwhelmed by her anxiety, she asked in a soft, trembling voice, each word shaky with doubt, ‘Where am I, Mrs Dincht?’
Mrs Dincht’s face grew serious. ‘You’re in Balamb,’ she said quietly, her voice almost a whisper. Mrs Dincht reached out, pressing a gentle hand to Hermione’s clammy forehead. Her fingers were cool and tender. She paused briefly, not only to check for fever but also to provide reassurance. Mrs Dincht’s eyes grew softer as she looked for signs of deeper distress in Hermione’s face, her touch a quiet support amid the girl’s anxiety.
Hermione took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves, but her efforts were useless. Fear and anxiety overwhelmed her, making it hard to calm down. Her chest tightened with each shallow breath, and a cold sweat broke out across her forehead, worsening her discomfort. Internally, she angrily condemned her situation, her thoughts frantic and bitter, swirling in chaos. Her mind darted from one wild idea to another as she searched for any logical explanation. Where am I, Griever? she thought bitterly, knowing she wouldn’t get a reply from the mysterious entity that had stranded her here. Her inner voice was desperate and angry, echoing in the silence as she clutched the edge of her chair, her knuckles pale with tension. The quiet felt oppressive, making her heart pound louder and her thoughts race, filled with questions that brought no comfort or reassurance.
Hermione hesitated, her lips parting as if the right words might appear if she waited long enough. A knot of confusion churned in her stomach, making it hard to collect her thoughts amid the rising anxiety. Restlessly, her hands fidgeted in her lap, fingers tugging at her jeans’ seam as she stared at the floor. ‘It’s just…’ she said, shaking her head helplessly, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, shoulders hunched as though bracing for bad news. Frustration furrowed her brow as she looked up at Mrs Dincht with a pleading expression, seeking reassurance. ‘I don’t recognise the name,’ she admitted quickly, her words heavy with confusion and fear. Mrs Dincht’s reaction was swift—her concern showing as a frown creased her face and her gaze softened, sensing Hermione’s deep disorientation and fragile state.
Clinging to a small glimmer of hope, Hermione pressed forward, her voice wavering with uncertainty. ‘Do you have a map of the world?’ she asked, her words edged with desperation, eyes searching Mrs Dincht’s face. At that moment, her mind raced with frantic thoughts—if only she could see a map, maybe she’d spot Scotland marked among the unfamiliar names, a comforting connection to her world. Her gaze darted to the windowsill, and she wondered if Hogwarts, with its ancient turrets and secret passages, existed in this strange place. The simple thought that her home might be lost forever sent a renewed wave of fear through her, tightening her throat. Nonetheless, she kept going, her request driven by stubborn hope, eager to see if the world she knew was still within reach—or heartbreakingly missing from the map that might be shown.
Mrs Dincht shook her head apologetically, sighing gently as she looked at Hermione’s hopeful face. ‘I don’t, I’m afraid. Never needed one,’ she softly admitted, her fingers tapping her chin as she seemed lost in thought, trying to recall any other options. After a brief pause, her eyes lit up. ‘There’s a shop next to the train station,’ she suggested, her voice soothing. She gestured vaguely towards the window, as if tracing her route through the quiet streets in her mind. ‘Since Balamb is a tourist spot, they might have maps of the area—and maybe even the world.’ Her tone grew more confident and encouraging as she sought to inspire hope in Hermione. She paused, contemplating more deeply. Her brow furrowed with focus before she added, ‘There’s also Jim, our neighbour—he collects objects from around the world. His house is almost a treasure trove, with shelves full of trinkets and curios from everywhere. He might even have a map hidden among his collection.’ Mrs Dincht’s voice carried a hint of doubt, a small line forming on her forehead—she hoped these ideas would comfort Hermione, even if she didn’t have the answers herself.
Hermione listened carefully, nodding in understanding. Her expression softened slightly as she held onto the practical advice and the gentle reassurance it offered. Even the tiniest possibility briefly eased her anxiety, and she decided to follow Mrs Dincht’s suggestions, hoping to discover a connection to her own world amid the unfamiliar streets of Balamb. Hermione tried to smile but only managed a grimace, her mouth twitching as she masked her exhaustion and anxiety. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, words tinged with sincerity and hesitation. She took a deep breath, then slowly rose from her seat, the chair scraping softly on the floor. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her beaded bag strap and slipped it over her shoulder.
Hermione felt a restless urge to leave immediately, seeking a map and orientation, yet she hesitated, her feet stuck. The feeling grew that departing so suddenly without a proper goodbye might seem rude, especially after Mrs Dincht’s kindness. Her gentle presence, calming words, and gestures stayed with Hermione, making the idea of sneaking away almost unthinkable. She was overwhelmed by gratitude and guilt for being an uninvited guest in someone else’s home. Despite the awkwardness and uncertainty, Hermione’s curiosity and resolve remained strong—a persistent spark that fear or confusion couldn’t extinguish. Suppressing her nerves, she looked at Mrs Dincht with earnest, pleading eyes. ‘Is there a way for me to reach the Garden?’ she asked, her voice trembling with anticipation and uncertainty.
Mrs Dincht nodded, giving Hermione an encouraging smile. ‘Yes, I’m sure someone will be happy to take you,’ she said with a steady, quietly confident voice. ‘If you go down the road to the edge of town, there’s a car rental shop,’ she explained, gesturing with a slight wave towards the street beyond the window. ‘Someone there can help you arrange a taxi.’ As she finished, her smile faltered slightly, a hint of concern returning as her brows drew together, betraying her worry for Hermione’s safety as she prepared to face the unknown.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHn95QnESzQ
Hermione shook her head, showing determination despite her situation. Her jaw clenched with stubborn resolve, and a slight blush appeared on her cheeks as she clung to her last bits of independence. The worry in her hazel eyes gradually gave way to a resolute, steely look, as if she refused to let fear control her actions. ‘It’s okay, I can walk…’ she said softly but firmly, her words steady even though a flicker of doubt lurked underneath. She instinctively straightened her shoulders, gearing up for the challenge, her grip tightening on the strap of her beaded bag.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡw2u0eii1GL
Mrs Dincht’s eyebrows rose in surprise, her concern immediately deepening. ‘It’s ten miles from here, Hermione,’ Mrs Dincht reminded her gently but firmly. As she placed a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder, her touch was soothing and cautionary. Since ten miles is no small distance, especially with Hermione’s visible fatigue and anxiety, Mrs Dincht’s expression conveyed protectiveness and empathy; her brows furrowed as she balanced respecting Hermione’s independence and protecting her well-being.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuBe3nRqMID
Hermione let out a soft sigh, her shoulders sagging from fatigue and worries. She wavered, twisting her bag strap nervously, before quietly admitting, ‘I don’t have any money for a taxi,’ her voice tinged with shyness. Her eyes dropped to the ground, a blush colouring her cheeks. She briefly looked at Mrs Dincht, uncertainty flickering in her eyes, then softly added, ‘I’m sorry, I must seem so abrupt. I’m just wanting to find my way home.’80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ02tq6jlLjS
Hermione softly expressed her deep gratitude, saying, ‘I truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and I’ll never forget your kindness.’ Her voice wavered with genuine emotion, and tears threatened to surface. She took a hesitant but deliberate step forward, wrapping her arms tightly around Mrs Dincht and resting her face against her shoulder.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6nUl1oxvR1
Mrs Dincht smiled warmly as she gently released her hug, her hands resting firmly on Hermione’s shoulders before drawing her back to arm’s length. Her voice was gentle but confident as she said, ‘Well, you’re always welcome here.’ Mrs Dincht took Hermione’s hands, holding them gently. She spoke with unwavering firmness and genuine care, saying, ‘If you ever get stuck, come back here, okay?’80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvGjeZ5lBW7
Overwhelmed by this, Hermione nodded, her gratitude evident even as tears threatened to fall. She offered a shaky but sincere smile, her chest tightening with emotion. Mrs Dincht’s words gave Hermione a deep sense of reassurance, acting as a lifeline amid unfamiliar surroundings and making the idea of exploring the unknown slightly less daunting.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYrBSROsDTA
Hermione’s calm yet firm voice reassured Mrs Dincht, saying, ‘I promise, I will.’ As she spoke, a subtle change appeared in her face: her tense shoulders relaxed slightly, and the worried crease on her brow softened.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCX8CePuAlG
Mrs Dincht smiled, her expression softening even more as she gently released Hermione’s hands. ‘Before you go…’ she began, her tone filled with warmth and thoughtful concern. Moving with a steady, deliberate pace that belied her age, Mrs Dincht shuffled towards the kitchen. Mrs Dincht carefully opened the cupboard, her hands sure and unhurried as she chose food and a small carton of juice from neatly organised shelves. Mrs Dincht quickly made a few cheese-and-ham sandwiches, wrapped them in waxed paper, and handed them to Hermione. Then, Mrs Dincht reached into her well-worn purse—a faded tapestry clutch with a sturdy clasp that made a soft, familiar click. She searched through its contents, her brow creasing as she moved past old receipts until she found a small handful of coins. She pressed them firmly into Hermione’s palm. ‘Take that with you. Should be enough for a taxi,’ she said kindly.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxmfmKkbejd
Hermione’s hands shook slightly as she looked at the unexpected gift, clearly surprised. ‘I can’t accept this,’ she said hurriedly, her voice carrying concern and a faint tremor that revealed her feelings. The idea that Mrs Dincht might feel compelled to go to such great lengths for her deeply unsettled Hermione.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCLAg5SqGNx
‘Nonsense!’ Mrs Dincht replied firmly with unwavering certainty. She quickly dismissed Hermione’s protest with a brisk, almost motherly wave of her hand, her silver bracelets jingling softly.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnAaWiPKcDW
Hermione nodded and carefully packed the sandwiches, juice, and coins into her beaded bag. Mrs Dincht smiled and led her to the front door, her steps steady and unhurried. Hermione hesitated, then turned back to Mrs Dincht. She met the older woman’s gaze directly, her hazel eyes glistening with emotion she couldn’t quite hold back, cheeks flushed from the effort to stay composed. ‘Thank you for everything,’ she murmured, her voice sincere. Overcome with emotion, Hermione stepped forward and embraced Mrs Dincht again, holding her closely for a brief moment before letting go.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgWT7g8EBwA
Hermione stepped outside, the crisp morning air cool against her flushed cheeks. She paused on the doorstep, her feet hovering between the safe cocoon of Mrs Dincht’s home and the uncertainty outside. For a moment, she hesitated, glancing back over her shoulder. Mrs Dincht raised her hand in a gentle, encouraging wave. She returned the gesture with a shaky wave in silent thanks. Only after Mrs Dincht waved goodbye, lowering her arm gently, did she softly close the door, the click echoing with quiet finality.
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and then Add to home screen.