Chapter Text
“He did what?” Lavender exclaims, eyes blazing.
Hermione sighs. “It's fine, Lavender. I'd rather not get into it.”
“It is not fine! You're together for almost a year and he dumps you through a fucking owl letter?”
Lavender's tone pierces through the noise of the pub, and Hermione's cheeks burn. Lovely, just what she needs. As if Terry's rejection didn't sting enough, now the entire pub will know she got dumped. Blinking back tears, she sips her cider. The icing on the bloody cake would be someone listening in and selling the story to whatever trashy magazine Rita Skeeter works for nowadays.
“I'm sorry, babe,” Lavender says, putting her hand on Hermione's. “He's a knobhead who doesn't deserve you. Seriously!” She continues when Hermione snorts. “You're way out of his league.”
“It doesn't feel like it,” Hermione says quietly. No power on earth will persuade her to tell Lavender what Terry actually wrote in the letter. If she could Obliviate the memories from her brain, she would. She's never felt confident about her appearance throughout any of her relationships and that two out of three resulted in her being dumped hasn't helped matters.
“You are fit, Hermione, you just need to get your confidence back,” Lavender says. “Oh! I know what you should do. You should sign up to be a figure model for an art class. I did it last year, and it's such a rush. And it was a Muggle class, so no chance of anyone you know being there and seeing your bits.”
Hermione's brows raise. “Figure model?”
“Nude modelling. It's all very professional, but it's a real confidence boost. It's how I met Caoimhe,” Lavender adds with a grin.
Hermione frowns at the name. Who was—Ah. Lavender's summer flirt last year. She's in her self-proclaimed slutty year, and Hermione has stopped trying to keep up with the women Lavender would bring around.
“Thanks, but I don't think it's my kind of thing,” Hermione says. “I'll get the next round, yeah?”
-
The pecking on the window hurts Hermione's eyelashes, and she groans weakly. She's never drinking with Lavender again. The pecking continues, and she blinks a bleary eye open. A ray of sunlight has found its way through a gap in the blind, and it's annoyingly bright. The pecking becomes insistent.
“I'm up, I'm up,” she groans, slowly sitting. Her stomach lurches and it feels like a horde of thestrals are stomping through her brain. The alarm clock on her bedside table shows it's almost ten o'clock. Blinking blearily, Hermione wipes some drool from the corner of her mouth. Tucking the escaped breast back into her vest top, she rises shakily and goes to see what the insistent noise is all about. Rolling up the blind, she finds an owl hovering outside her window, a letter attached to its leg. She lets it in, and while it perches on the bedpost she rummages through her desk for owl treats.
“Sorry for the delay,” she says, holding out the treats.
The owl nudges her hand, but waits patiently for her to get her letter before flying off. Yawning, Hermione sits on the bed and opens the envelope. Then frowns. It contains only a name and phone number she doesn't recognise, as well as a crude drawing of a naked woman with curly hair. What on—memories from last night starts coming back. Lavender. Of course. Tilting her head, Hermione chews on her lower lip. Maybe she could... No. She shakes her head. Getting naked in front of a bunch of strangers scrutinising every scar and stretch mark doesn't sound like her idea of a good time. As if she didn't have enough complexes about her body. She rubs her palm over her sternum, feeling the ridge of the scar through her top. Stuffing the letter in her bedside drawer, she pulls on her joggers and leaves her room. The sound from the TV downstairs carries up to the second floor. That means Ron is up.
What was once the dining room—and subsequential meeting room for the Order—on the ground floor was turned into a living room when Harry decided to do a complete renovation after leaving Hogwarts. The newest edition is an LCD TV that caused him child-like joy bringing home during the Boxing Day sales. The living room is bright, and Hermione scrunches up her face. She wishes she could turn off the sun.
“Morning, Hermione. Rough night?” Ron sounds entirely too pleased that he's not the one hungover and in desperate need of coffee.
“Could you turn that down, please?” She grumbles and curls up in the empty corner of the sofa.
The TV goes silent. “Do you want coffee?”
“Please.”
Ron pats her knee. “I'll get you some toast too. Do we have any hangover potions left?”
“In the cupboard to the left of the cooker.” Closing her eyes, Hermione breathes deeply. She's never drinking again. She's not even sure how she got home, but since she has all of her limbs she doubts it was Apparition.
“Here you go,” Ron says, nudging her arm. “We were out of hangover potions.”
Sitting up properly, she accepts the toast and the coffee. “Thank you. When's Harry getting here?”
“Not until this afternoon. He's requested a late pub lunch at the Hope & Anchor, if you feel up to it.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He turns the sound on the TV back on—though thankfully at a lower volume—and they watch in silence.
Hermione bites into her toast. At the next commercial break, she speaks. “Ron, can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Back when we were dating, you enjoyed the way I look, right? I mean...” Merlin, she can't believe she's about to ask this. “When we were intimate.”
Ron snorts. “Are you serious?”
Her face heats up. “Never mind!”
“Hermione, you're super fit. It may have been a few years since I had first-hand experience—pun intended—but I still have eyes,” he adds with a cheeky grin. Then his face turns serious. “Is this about Terry? Did he say anything? I will hex him if you want.”
“He didn't. I was just—Forget I said anything.” Hermione finishes her coffee. “I'm gonna get dressed. Fancy a walk later?”
“Sure, let me know when you're ready,” Ron says, his attention fully on the TV.
She chuckles. Sweet, lovely Ron with his freckled face and boyish grin. Back in her room, she sits on the bed and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. She eyes the bedside table. Before she can second guess herself, she opens the drawer and takes out the letter and her mobile. Here goes nothing.
-
Four days later, Hermione walks into a community centre in South London for her first session as a figure model. It's all she's been able to focus on all week, resulting in a lot of wasted patent forms at work. She thought she would have a bit longer to settle with her decision. Of course, having longer to settle also means more time to overthink, panic and possibly leave the country. When she spoke with the course leader—Lucy—on the phone she learnt the previous model had to drop out because of a family emergency, and if she could start that Thursday that would be great. Hermione was so taken aback she accepted. Earlier that day she spent over an hour in the bathroom scrubbing, exfoliating and shaving to prepare. For a moment she considered using a glamour on her scars, but ultimately decided against it. They're a part of her.
The door is open to the room on the second floor where the art class is. Taking a few deep breaths to steady herself, Hermione knocks and enters. Half a dozen empty easels stand in a semicircle around a platform where a chair is placed. A woman a few years older than her with bubblegum pink hair is setting up a seventh easel and looks over her shoulder at Hermione when she enters.
“Hi, are you Lucy?” Hermione asks.
The woman smiles and straightens up. “Yes. Hermione, right?” She wipes her hands on her trousers and moves forward. “So grateful you were available on such short notice,” she says when they shake hands.
“I'm happy to help,” Hermione says, hoping her hand isn't clammy. “Sorry, I'm a bit nervous. I've never done anything like this before.”
Lucy smiles reassuringly. “That's all right; I'd be more surprised if you weren't nervous. If you need a break or feel uncomfortable, just let me know.” She points to a screened off area behind the platform. “You can change into your robe back there. You did bring a robe? Good,” she says at Hermione's nod. “The students should be here in ten minutes or so, if you want to get ready.”
Hermione does a nervous wee in the loo across the hall, then gets behind the screen to undress. While she's putting the robe on, she hears people starting to arrive. Fuck. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Lucy explained beforehand she couldn't be expected to get undressed straight away, and it's with that small comfort she swallows her nerves and steps out from behind the screen. The students taking their places behind the easels are of various ages and genders, and her eyes sweep over them.
Then her throat constricts and her eyes widen. Snape looks equally as surprised to see her. No. no, no, no, no. This can't be happening. She's just not about to get naked in front of a bunch of people including Snape.
“This is our lovely model for the remainder of the course, Hermione,” Lucy's voice breaks through Hermione's panic. “Whenever you're ready, Hermione.”
Fuck.
Hermione has never been less ready for anything in her life, but she doesn't have much of a choice. Fastening her gaze to the back of the room, she disrobes and steps onto the platform.
-
Pulling the door to the pub open, Hermione looks around for Lavender. When she spots the familiar blond hair, she breathes a sigh of relief. There's already a pint waiting for her on the table. Sitting, she downs half of it in one go.
“Oh, no. Was it that bad?” Lavender asks.
Hermione puts the glass down. “Snape was in the class.”
Lavender's eyes go almost comically large. “Snape? As in Severus Snape?”
“The one and only. It was mortifying.” Hermione rests her head in her hands. “I only noticed he was there when I'd already changed into my robe, and it was too late to back out.” She groans. “I can't believe Snape has seen me naked.” Lavender snorts, and Hermione looks up. “It's not funny.”
“It's a little funny.”
She glares.
“What I'm most interested in,” Lavender continues, “is what Snape is doing in a Muggle art class in the first place. Honestly, I thought he'd left Britain. It's been, what, seven years since anyone heard from him?”
“Making my life miserable. I don't think I can continue the class.”
“You should give it a few days before deciding, babe.” Lavender tilts her head. “If you try to take Snape out of the situation, what did you think about the class?”
Hermione ponders while running her finger along the rim of her glass. When she wasn't fighting the urge to escape through the window, it was quite nice. Having people study her body in a non-sexual way wasn't as scary as she imagined, and the sound of the pencils against the paper was soothing.
“It was... nice, I suppose.” She rests her chin on her hand. “But I don't think I can go back knowing he's gonna be there. It's too embarrassing.”
Lavender flicks her hair over her shoulder. “I think you should stay with it, but I support you if you don't.”
“We'll see. I suppose there's no chance of me volunteering you to take over for me?”
Lavender snorts. “No.”
Hermione sips her pint. During her posing, she sneaked a glance in Snape's direction every few minutes or so. His gaze was always on her, but not on her. He behaved like any of the other artists, and not like he'd been her teacher for six years and almost died in a war she helped win. That's a curiosity in itself.