Hermione had often wondered irritably why her mother hadn’t insisted on keeping her legs closed until Wendell had proposed. She did love her parents, it was just that they weren’t the ones who had been forced to bear the stigma of bastardry in her home village. It was her. Nobody would employ her in case her base blood somehow managed to taint them. She’d finally moved away from the village, wandering through all the counties in turn, looking for a job which either never materialised or never managed to last very long, until she’d ended up where she was right now: in Slytherin county, walking down a street in its capital of Wiltshire.