Jörmungandr

Orange Tea and Shortbread

Hermione had never much cared about her appearance.

Well, that was just a blatant fucking lie. She cared a great deal about her appearance, but had pretended not to because, really, it was easier that way, wasn't it? When you're young and don't know how to fit it, it's comforting to pretend that you just don't want to, right? But then the world ate itself, and that particular mental contortion lost its appeal. Yes, she liked her hair soft and shiny. Yes, it would be nice to wear fancy dresses. Yes, she was jealous of people who were effortlessly put together, but at the end of the world, she would be glad for hot water. So, she rationalized. In the end, her body was a vessel for her mind, and, as long as it functioned properly, what did it matter how terrible she looked?

It wasn't nice hair that kept her in one piece, was it? It was quick fingers and a quicker mind.

Of course, that was all well and good for running from Death, but 1940s wizarding culture had a lot to say on a lady's appearance.

Not to mention that she was muggleborn in a time even more prejudiced than her own. She didn't know if Dippet was also a blood-purist. Though, she suspected not as she had mentioned it in her letter and he had still agreed to a meeting. But, he didn't have to be a purist not to want a stranger in his school in the middle of an international war. She would need to be put together enough to impress to even be considered.

And, well, she looked like hell.

Her hair was an absolute travesty: frizzy, brittle, and looking like a chimeric rat king. She was concerningly thin with hollow cheeks and dark circles under her eyes. Her entire body was covered in scars. Half of which ached with old dark magic.

A braided silver bracelet magically concealed the 'mudblood' carving, but she could still feel the itch of the curse under her skin.

Hermione had set up some modest accommodations in the second-floor spare bedroom—The main bedroom was in the corner of the second floor and had two large breakable windows. The spare room was more of a closet; off the hallway with a single tiny window, perfectly defensible.—The room had a small cot, dresser, and chest that she had pulled up out of her bag. She'd brought a small desk mirror as well, transfiguring it to full length, so she could at least try to look presentable for the meeting.

There was a small half-closet in the back. Her modern bag was placed in there and positively suffocated in traps.

After eating breakfast, eggy bread and sausage (Merlin, she loved real food), she had spent most of the morning setting up alarm wards around the house and grounds, with an extra hex on the trap door. It would take until the next full moon—a date she needed to look up—to properly solidify protection wards to a level that she was comfortable with. Afterwards, she had gotten the water running again, the heating charms previously installed working fine.

There was some sort of preservation ward on the house. Not strong (her wards weren't rebuffed), but subtle. Intertwining the house and trees and wind and leaves. It kept things stagnant, thick like honey. Any permanent changes done here had to first convince the house that it was better this way. And since she wasn't the true owner by name or by blood, she estimated any wards would last about ten days before they started to unravel.

Hermione had taken a warm shower to wash the stress off, and now she was in a scalding bath to relax. It was a bit novel not to be constantly on the move. Just to sit in the warmth and exist. Though she supposed she would get used to it. She was going to have to return to living in dorms. With children. God, when was the bathroom roster established? Was she going to have to fight over shower time again? Hermione Granger, Destroyer of Worlds, using all of her ill-gotten power to get the best shower head in the mornings.