Chapter Text
March, 1885
London
Hermione’s shoulders hunched in disappointment. Another day had passed without her sighting the sun. Her bones ached with an exhaustion that far surpassed the long day of working at the Smith, Smyth & Smythe's law firm as an administrative clerk.
London was draped in a cloak of grey clouds, the stone buildings blending into the monotone city. It felt like the very soul had been sucked out of the city. Chimney smoke wound its way through the narrow streets, clinging to building eaves and the thinning cloaks of busy people heading home at the end of the day.
Hermione stepped out of the law firm's building, her breath forming in white puffs that disappeared almost as soon as they formed. The wind cut into her cheeks, not with the lively bite of early spring but with the spiteful persistence of a winter that refused to loosen its grip. The chill curled around her fingers, even as she clutched at her worn woollen shawl. The threads were so worn that the frayed edges were no longer able to hold a repairing charm.
She thought about casting a warming charm fleetingly. The thought of locating her wand and drawing the energy required to cast the charm was too overwhelming in her current state.
Maybe later.
Instead, she walked on, her boots scuffing along the cobbled alley that separated the law firm from her boarding house at the other end of Diagon Alley. A cart rattled past, an elderly witch pushing the small cart advertising roasted chestnuts. Not even the fragrant nuts could cut through the oppressive dull blanket coating the early evening.
This was not the life Hermione had imagined for herself after she had received her Hogwarts letter at the tender age of ten. She had been too young and naive, even when her parents had disinherited her for something out of her control, she had clung to hope of a brighter future. She had become a ward of the Ministry of Magic until she had graduated from Hogwarts, top of her class. Even then, she had been unprepared for the prejudices she faced as a Muggleborn witch. Not even her grades could help her access further education or a job that paid higher than minimum wage. She needed references and sponsorship, something she would never have access to, thanks to her lineage.
As her feet carried her forward, a flash of white caught her eye, a crumpled piece of parchment stuck in the gutter. Hermione stooped and prised it free with red, stinging fingers.
“A Better Life in the Colonies”
Ministry of Magic - Department of Colonial Emigration
In partnership with the Sacred 28 Aide Society
She stood for a long moment, reading and re-reading the words. Better life. The phrase lit a spark in her chest. She felt a glimmer of hope for the first time since leaving Hogwarts. Beyond the greys of London, maybe it was possible to have a better life. She could almost feel the imagined heat of foreign sun on her face, the taste of fresh fruit on her lips, not soggy from being preserved in glass jars. A break from the never ending grey, the possibility of a landscape drenched in greens, bursting with colour from the scattered wildflowers. The image reminded her of relaxing around the Great Lake at Hogwarts during the spring after exams. The best days of her young life.
Hermione neatly folded the parchment and tucked it into her dress pocket, carrying the ray of hope home through the dusk, as the gas lights flickered gold above her like reluctant stars.
--
Their lodging was nothing special, a far cry from the luxurious warmth of the Gryffindor common room, the attic room had cracked windows, faded wallpaper and what they hoped wasn’t mould growing in the corner above their little stove. Lavender Brown was wrapped in a blanket that had once been red. She looked up from her sewing as Hermione entered, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re late,” she stated, her voice warm, laced with a hint of concern.
“I was asked to work overtime. Again. Without pay.” Hermione replied as she kicked off her worn boots.
“Again?” Lavender scoffs, “That's every day this week.”
“Hmmm,” Hermione hummed noncommittally, “and I suspect it will continue until I find a new job. My new manager has decided that I can’t leave until my desk is cleared. It’s my fault I’m inefficient. They think I haven’t noticed the steady increase of tasks that land on my desk daily.”
Lavender’s eyes sharpened with disbelief, “Goodness, when will things finally start working in our favour?”
“I, I found something today,” Hermione began with hesitation. She pulled the parchment out of her pocket, smoothing it flat on her thigh, before handing it to Lavender.
“A better life in the colonies,” Lavender snorted softly, “Isn’t this just a polite way of encouraging half-bloods and muggleborns to leave?”
Hermione sank into the chair across from her, drawing the shawl tighter across her shoulders, “Maybe. But is that such a bad thing? This could be a win-win situation.”
Lavender tilted her head, musing, “You may be right. I can’t think how things could possibly get better for us here. Unless, do you know any rich men looking for a husband?”
Hermione snorted, “Considering the rich folks are funding the scheme, I don’t think we are the ideal brides.”
Lavender laughed, “I wonder who will end up in our menial jobs if they intend on shipping all of the undesireables off to the colonies.”
They were both silent for a while, lost in their own thoughts. Lavender had picked up her needle again, while Hermione picked quietly at her fingernail.
Hermione closed her eyes and imagined the possibility. She pictured bright blue skies and a field of wildflowers; a sense of freedom in the unknown. She yearned for an escape from the endless grey monotony that surrounded them currently.
“It wouldn’t hurt to find out more information about this.”
“You are right,” Lavender said with caution, her eyes roaming over the parchment once more. “Let’s go to the next information session at the Ministry. Apparently they hold them every Sunday.”
“Okay,” Hermoine smiled, relieved that Lavender was willing to join her. “I wonder which colonies are included in the scheme? Also, how would we even get there?”
“Wherever we end up, I can guarantee you it won’t be by portkey. Those things are way too expensive to hand out to peasants like us!”
“Oh Merlin. We are going to end up on those muggle boats in Woolwich.”
Both Hermione and Lavender shuddered at the thought.
--
After the information session, eligible women were encouraged to begin their registration with the Department of Emigration. They were herded from the meeting hall into a dingy corridor that smelled faintly of ink, damp stone and mildew. Hermione stood in line with Lavender just behind her, hands tight around her folded gloves, heart beating somewhere between hope and fear of the unknown.
Other young women waited silently along the walls, their shawls drawn tight, skirts brushing dust that never quite disappeared no matter how often the corridors were scrubbed. Their faces, like Hermione’s, were worn by years of silent struggle, expressions ranging from hope to anxiety to resignation. Hermione thought she caught a glint of anger in the eyes of a small, unassuming brunette, yet the emotion was masked before it could properly register.
A squat witch in grey robes called her name, with a small smile to Lavender, she followed the witch through a wooden door into a low ceilinged office. A fireplace sputtered in the corner, giving no warmth to the dreary room. Two witches and a wizard sat behind the broad oak desk, quills moving at their own accord. It felt like the judgement had begun before she had even sat down.
“Miss Hermione Granger,” said the witch in the centre, without glancing up. “You wish to apply for colonial emigration. Do you have a destination preference?”
Hermione cleared her throat, glancing back towards the wooden door, “The presentation mentioned Canada was an option?”
“Excellent,” the witch murmured, flipping a parchment, “It will most likely be on Prince Edward Island. This is an exclusively magical community hidden in rural Canada. Would this be acceptable?”
“That sounds excellent.”
The elderly wizard behind the desk nodded. “You have no surviving parents or family to support?”
“No sir.”
“Are you healthy? Under thirty?"
“Yes sir. I am twenty.”
“You understand that this scheme is for those willing to undertake domestic service for a minimum of twelve months?”
Hermione nodded, “I do.”
“Wages will be provided by the employer and docked each month to cover your travel and administrative expenses. You will not be charged upfront. Travel will be by steamer ship, most likely from Liverpool to Halifax. The journey can take over a month. You will be accompanied by experienced Ministry chaperones.”
“I understand,” Hermione said again.
“You will be required to sign a binding contract,” the witch continued. “Any use of magic will be subject to local authority. Your wand will be registered with the Canadian Ministry of Magic upon arrival.”
Hermione nodded.
“Very well. Do you have any questions?”
“I have a friend also interested in the scheme. She is actually registering today. Would there be a way to guarantee that we are placed in the same location?”
“If you both meet the basic eligibility, we can add a note to your file. There will be a 2 knut processing fee that will be payable at the end of the registration process.”
“Excellent, thank you.”
“Once we have completed the application forms. We will request your academic transcripts from Hogwarts and submit them to prospective employers. Your scores in Charms and Transfiguration may be of particular interest.”
Hermione gave a brittle smile. Her O.W.L. and N.E.W.T scores, once a point of pride, now stood to determine whether she would be permitted to scrub cauldrons for a chance of freedom.
“Next, you will sit for an interview,” the witch added crisply, “to assess your… respectability.” Her tone flattened as her eyes flicked down to Hermione’s scuffed boots. “And your character.”
“It is to assess whether your morals align with prospective employers,” the wizard added, not lifting his head up from the parchment. “Nothing too invasive.”
“And a physical exam, tomorrow,” the second witch added, “to verify fitness for travel.”
“Once all of the materials, the application, transcripts, interview notes and medical records, are reviewed, you will be placed on the official waiting list. Once an employer requests you, you will receive an owl with travel instructions. We aim for no more than six weeks between acceptance and departure.”
Hermione nodded slowly, this was all happening very quickly. She was glad there would be periods of waiting to regroup.
--
April, 1885
London
The owl came before work, taking both Hermione and Lavender by surprise. The sky was as grey as old wool, clouds sagging low over the rooftops, the city appeared to breathe in smog rather than air. Hermione’s heart broke for the poor Ministry owl, these were terrible conditions for flying.
After offering the owl half a biscuit, Hermione leant on the windowsill, the parchment damp at the corners, the ink bleeding slightly where the rain had touched it. Her fingers traced the name written on the envelope, as she turned nervously to Lavender.
“It’s only addressed to me.”
“That’s okay, just open it,” Lavender urged.
She stood for a long moment, her breath fogging the glass, before she broke the Ministry’s seal.
Her eyes flicked quickly across the page.
Dear Miss Hermione Jean Granger,
We are pleased to inform you that the Department of Colonial Emigration has found a domestic service placement for you on Avonlea, Prince Edward Island, Canada.
Please find enclosed a list of all necessary items you will be required to pack for your participation in this scheme.
You will be required to attend preparation courses every Sunday at 10am in the lead up to your departure.
Passage will depart in six weeks time.
Further details to follow.
Yours sincerely,
Nobby Leach
Department Head
Department of Colonial Emigration
Hermione let the letter drop to her lap, her fingers trembling. The small attic room was quiet, the only sound was the hiss of the kettle on the stove and the soft click of Lavender’s needle against her thimble.
Lavender looked up, hope already rising in her eyes. “Well?”
“I’ve been accepted,” Hermione said softly, “I am to go to Avonlea on Prince Edward Island.”
Lavender smiled, the sincerity not quite reaching her eyes. “Avonlea,” she echoed, “it sounds like it’s straight out of a fairytale.”
Hermione hesitated, “There wasn’t an offer for you included.”
“I thought as much,” Lavender sighed.
“I’m sorry…” Hermione began.
“No.” Lavender set the mending aside and crossed the room to stand beside her. “Don’t be sorry. This is a good thing. You can go ahead, make a good impression, sing my praises, and maybe I can get a placement at your household. Just a little later.”
“But what if it doesn’t happen?” Hermione asked, her voice catching.
“Then one of us gets out.” Lavender reached over and took Hermione’s hand in hers. “Who knows, maybe I will find my rich husband.”
Hermione smiled, her throat tight.
--
The classes were held in the repurposed ballroom of a shuttered wizarding hotel off of Diagon Alley. Although it would have been majestic in the years gone by, the space now hosted cracked ceiling roses and the dust that danced in shafts of light. Rows of hopeful young girls sat upright on hard wooden chairs, taking notes with careful, hunched shoulders.
They were taught to speak softly, to walk without creaking floorboards and how to curtsy without hesitation. A witch with steel-grey hair taught the conduct classes, rapping her pointer against a stack of etiquette books thicker than Hogwarts' Standard Book of Spells (Grade 5).
"You are to be pleasant, but never forward. Competent, but never proud. And you are never, under any circumstances, allowed to correct your employer’s pronunciation of Latin."
There were classes on wardrobe, what could be worn and when, how to charm stains from linen without fuss, how to fold and pack and repack for travel. They were shown diagrams of ocean liners, with transit instructions for each deck, and where the magical compartments were hidden in case of Muggle inspections. A matron, they were assured, would oversee them from London to Halifax, then on to Charlottetown.
Back at the attic flat, Hermione practiced spells late into the night after work.
Hermione sold nearly everything that she could part with before her departure date.
Her brass candleholder, the chipped porcelain basin and worn rug with frayed corners were some of the first items to leave her possession. She refused to part with any of her books, determined that they would find a way to transport them to Canada.
With Lavender’s help, Hermione perfected an Undetectable Extension Charm on her old carpet bag, before repeating the process on Lavender’s bag, in preparation for when she would join Hermione.
They reasoned that it was better this way; better to travel with just the carpet bag. One piece of luggage would be easier to protect on the long journey. The weightlessness charm ensured Hermione could carry it herself, and no one would be the wiser.
Lavender had joined her one Sunday after her classes, determined to source cheap fabric on Diagon Alley so Hermione could have a new working wardrobe. They used the spare coins Hermione had scraped together from selling her worldly possessions. Together they chose dark, sturdy wool and modest cottons, buying enough fabric to make up her entire packing list.
Back home, they laid the fabric out across the floor and set to work. The two of them worked together to make three modest day dresses, one finer dress for special occasions, two white aprons, four sets of undergarments and a nightgown.
Once the new garments were folded, pressed and spelled clean, Hermione began the daunting task of packing up her life. Hermione began with the packing list, ensuring she had the required clothes, travel documents, toiletries, mending kits and eating utensils before organising her books. Hermione had never been more grateful for shrinking charms.
“Add this,” Lavender murmured, slipping a pot of healing balm into the endless pocket, “because Prince Edward Islands winters are supposed to be brutal.”
Hermione looked at her friend and felt something twist in her chest, love and grief and loyalty all tangled together. They had been bosom friends since the tender age of eleven, when the Sorting Hat had placed them in Gryffindor together. The thought of leaving her friend behind caused an ache to bloom in her chest.
“I’ll write to you,” she promised.
“You’d better.”
“And I’ll find a way to bring you over.”
“I know.”