Chapter Text
December 22, 2000
Hermione
The rain hadn’t stopped pouring since that morning. It was one of those grey, drizzly days that made you want to stay curled up in the window-seat of your sitting room with a good book, the fireplace roaring, and pizza ordered for delivery.
The foot traffic in Diagon Alley was low, which was to be expected with the downpour; however, Hermione found she quite enjoyed running errands in the rain. The town-home she shared with Ron could get stuffy at times, and she found being out and about with water falling from the sky to be one of the best ways to clear her mind. This wasn’t a popular opinion, it seemed.
But today, Hermione wasn’t out running errands. One of her employees called out sick this morning; so, on this day, she found herself, hair curled up in her wand with loose tendril curls framing her face, dressed casually in an off-the-shoulder white t-shirt and stylish jean overalls behind the counter of her very own bookstore. Well, The Wandering Quill Café, to be precise, but that’s a bit of a mouthful. Hermione opened her bookstore/café six months after finishing her Eighth Year at Hogwarts, and she’d been successfully running the business for a year now.
Yes, everyone thought she was headed straight for the Ministry, right to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. A preposterous name, anyway. She thought she'd have been there, too. However, life had other plans.
While she was back at Hogwarts finishing Eighth Year, Ron and Harry started at the Auror Academy. They both were offered positions in the academy immediately following the Final Battle. While Harry had absolutely excelled, Ron had dragged behind. Harry helped him, of course, but there’s only so much The-Boy-Who-Lived can do; the rest, Ron Weasley had to figure out on his own. And he had. Kind of. Eventually. Well… he’d definitely made it Through.
Unfortunately, his ego had been more than bruised and he had felt more and more like the sidekick of Harry Potter rather than one-third of the Golden Trio. Hermione could sense this in the way he had been hesitant about her starting a career at the ministry. “You’re brilliant!” Ron had exclaimed. “You can join the Ministry and rise in rank anytime! Now or two to three years from now. They’d be lucky to have you, and I bet they’ll be chomping at the bit when you do decide to join. But…why don’t you do something that won’t take up all of your time to start out? We just fought in a war, for Merlin’s sake. We’ve been apart for school and Auror training. Don’t you think we should take time to focus on us?”
Hermione had definitely seen his point, even if she had been a little reluctant to agree. So, she had bought Flourish and Blotts from the previous owners—who had gone into retirement after the war, as older witches and wizards were wont to do these days, having seen and lived through two wars and whatnot—and had rebranded it as The Wandering Quill Café, Wandering Quill for short. She had a variety of books, and she had single-handedly brought the muggle coffee culture to Diagon Alley.
The Wandering Quill Café had the distinct, welcoming charm of an old library—timeless and brimming with secrets yet to be discovered. The air was thick with the scent of rich coffee beans and aged parchment, creating a fragrant symphony that seemed to soothe any weary soul. The shelves were lined with leather-bound books—new and old, muggle and magical—while delicate dust motes danced lazily in the soft glow of the antique lamps attached to the ends of each bookshelf. The wooden floors creaked underfoot, which Hermione felt only added to the nostalgic ambiance. There were various velvet armchairs, each different in color, some of which seemed a bit too deep and inviting. The dim, amber lighting created by delicate crystal chandeliers overhead gave everything an ethereal glow, as though time itself had slowed down within these walls. At the front of the shop, thick velvet curtains hung at the windows, their rich burgundy hues softening the light that filtered through from Diagon Alley, casting everything in a soft, magical haze, a subtle nod to the days Hermione spent curled up in the Gryffindor common room.
There was something more here—something unseen but felt in every corner. Hermione was proud of what she had accomplished here, indeed. Somewhere anyone seeking peace, sanctuary, or reprieve could find it. This was something her generation was in desperate need of, even with the taboo of seeing Mind Healers reducing significantly after the war.
It’s then, as Hermione reminisced on all of the decisions she’d made in her adult life, that the bell to the shop rang out to signify a customer.
Odd, she thinks. It’s barely 2:30 on a Friday afternoon. A chilly, rainy Friday afternoon, to be precise. Patrons weren’t normally out at this time, especially in the rain. Even if it was three days before Christmas.
“Good afternoon!” Hermione calls out, but she doesn’t get an answer. No matter, she thinks, and she begins to place her book under the counter and tighten her apron behind her back.
“Oh, Draco!” Hermione hears, and her ears immediately perk up as her heckles raise.
Draco? As in Draco Malfoy? Ha! The day Draco Malfoy steps foot into a Muggle-born-owned establishment is the day hell freezes over.
“This is so… quaint.” Cheap. “And cute.” Last-season. Hermione could practically hear the words that weren’t being said in the tittering, metallic feminine voice. “How have we never been here before?”
“Well, seeing as my house-arrest has been lifted only a week, I daresay it wasn’t on the list of approved rendezvous spots before now,” a deeper voice answered the first.
House arrest?? Maybe hell has frozen over. And pigs have got to be flying, too. Maybe she should write to Luna.
The woman let out a shrill, tinkling laugh (ouch and ew) before responding with a forced, “Don’t be morose, Draco.”
Merlin, spare me, Hermione thought.
She heard the couple rounding one of the bookcases before coming into her line of sight and approaching the counter. Hermione, while not able to plaster on a full-blown smile, offered a small grin to her new customers. Draco-Fucking-Malfoy and Tittering-Metallic-Voice.
When was the last time she even saw Draco Malfoy? It must’ve been at his trial after the Final Battle. She and Harry had both testified on behalf of him and his mother, much to Ron’s vehement disapproval. Did he say his house arrest ended a week ago? Merlin, has it already been two and a half years?
It seems he has grown up a lot in these last two years. Maybe it's a new hairstyle? Maybe he’d outgrown the slicked back look? He had let the top grow out some, and it had a slight wave to it, but the sides were shorter, closer to being shaved. He’s no longer pointy, she noted, just…sharp. Sharp eyes, sharp jaw, sharp shoulders, sharp suit. Of course, though, right? It was Draco More-Money-Than-Morgana Malfoy. If he didn’t look like he was dipped in wealth, was he even doing his family name justice?
The woman he was with seemed familiar, but Hermione couldn’t place where she knew her from. She was definitely old-money beautiful, the exact kind of Pure-blooded witch one would expect Draco Malfoy to end up with. She had dark hair that was curled perfectly around an angelic face (not wild, autonomous curls like Hermione’s), ethereal blue eyes, beauty charms applied precisely, not a hair out of place or wrinkle in sight. However, Hermione was slightly thrown off by the woman’s prominent baby-bump.
That’s right! Hermione remembered reading in the Prophet six or so months ago that Malfoy had married the youngest Greengrass daughter when she graduated from Hogwarts. Estelle? Arabella?
“Astoria,” Malfoy began. Right! Astoria! “Please. You wanted to come out, we’re out. You wanted to try the ‘quaint new coffee shop’, we’re here. Now, please tell the kind lady…” Malfoy trailed off when his eyes left Astoria, and he saw Hermione for the first time in two years. Hermione, to her credit, was able to keep her small grin in place. Malfoy, on the other hand, nearly choked on his shock before he got himself back under perfect, stoic control. “...what you’d like. Hermione Granger, as I live and breathe,” he continued.
“Malfoy,” Hermione nodded. “What can I get started for you two?”
“Wait,” Astoria cut in. “Granger? Hermione The-Brightest-Witch-of-Her-Age Granger? Oh my gosh! What a treat! You two know each other?”
Astoria, to an untrained plebeian, eyed them back and forth like the cat who had gotten the cream. Hermione, on the other hand, felt no such excitement. And, as a trained plebeian (thank you very much) who had been under many-a-spotlight and been to numerous charity events and galas since the end of the war, she noticed straight away that Astoria’s enthusiasm was as genuine as gold-brushed nickel. It was there, right there in the uptick of Astoria’s lip and slight flare of her nostril. At this moment, Hermione couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but it certainly wasn’t delight.
“Yes,” Draco answered Astoria, peering down at her. “Granger and I were in the same year at Hogwarts. I was a right bastard to her during our formative years, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, goodness me. How terrible, Draco! Surely you’ve apologized?” Astoria batted her eyes up at him in a false reprimand.
Draco coughed. “Well, actually I…”
“He has not,” Hermione finished, still, miraculously, holding her grin. Really she should win some award for her great acting. They’d never know she was screaming for them to leave in her head. Unless one of them is a Legilimens…no! Stop. Hermione held her hand out to Astoria. “But that is neither here nor there. Nice to meet you…?”
In the most finite instant, Astoria eyed Hermione’s hand hesitantly before deciding it would do more damage to not take the Golden Girl’s offered introduction and returned Hermione’s handshake. Briefly.
“Astoria Malfoy, a pleasure to meet you Ms. Granger,” Astoria simpered before pulling her hand back and coyly wiping it on her robes. (It wasn’t coy, and Astoria was a dolt.)
Ah, Hermione thought. There’s the stem of the false enthusiasm. Astoria, it seems, is a blood purist.
“You as well, Mrs. Malfoy. Is there anything I can get started for you two? Lattes? English Breakfast tea, perhaps?” Hermione questioned. Please leave, she thought to herself.
It isn’t that Hermione held any real vitriol toward Malfoy still. She didn’t, not really. She had forgiven him when she had decided to testify for him. They were all children in an adult’s war, after all. However, that did not mean that today, on a drizzly Friday afternoon—during the holidays and in the middle of her shop, no less—was the day Hermione felt like confronting the past and Malfoy’s numerous misdeeds.
Thunder rolled outside the shop causing the ancient storefront windows up front to rattle. A fortuitous sign, no doubt.
Hermione’s eye twitched.
“Oh!” Astoria exclaimed, tightening one hand around Malfoy’s arm and the other on her pregnant stomach. “Draco, dear, I’ve just remembered. Narcissa has asked us to join her for afternoon tea today. How forgetful of me. We mustn’t spoil ourselves beforehand. You know how she is.”
Malfoy turned from where he had been Staring at Hermione. He raised an eyebrow at Astoria and drawled, “Are you quite certain?”
“Oh, yes,” Astoria replied, flapping the hand clenching Malfoy’s arm—as much as any part of the upper echelon of society could flap, mind you—before turning back to Hermione. “I am so sorry to have wasted your time, Ms. Granger, but, really, we must be going.”
“Of course,” Hermione returned. Thank Godric for small favors and weak excuses. “You wouldn’t want to keep Lady Malfoy waiting.”
“Indeed,” Astoria replied, turning to head back through the shop.
Malfoy rolled his eyes as he started to turn after his pregnant wife. As they were nearing the bookcase to round back toward the entrance, however, he stopped and turned back to Hermione. “It was nice seeing you, Granger. Maybe some other time,” he remarked.
Hermione was slightly taken aback and offered him a single nod. “Malfoy,” she returned.
Hermione closed the shop up at 5:30 p.m. and headed home. The town-house she shared with Ron was located a few blocks away from the entrance to Diagon Alley. It was a charming three-story Victorian building, its weathered brick façade worn but full of character, with a wisteria tree standing proudly out front. Winter stole the soft, purple blooms from her, but she smiled at the tree nonetheless, her hand trailing the cast iron railing of her front stoop, as she made her way inside to start dinner for her and Ron. She hadn’t been able to run to the grocer today, so it would probably be Shepherd’s Pie.
The old home opened into a foyer that immediately made you feel welcome. Hermione hung her coat and scarf on the stand by the door and placed her bag on the marble top entry table. She hadn’t done many renovations, just painting most of the walls a milky-cream color to brighten the space up. The red-mahogany oak floors still creaked enough to remind you of the home’s age.
The entryway was adorned with a vintage brass chandelier that allowed a soft glow to fall over the space. She trailed her fingers along the dark, floral wallpaper as she made her way over the threshold into the next room. The wallpaper had to be one of her favorite parts of the home. It was faded in places, but she loved the deep hues of eggplant, burgundy, moss green, and touches of gold.
Past the entryway was the oak staircase that curved upward toward the bedrooms, its banister intricately carved with floral patterns. To her right was the sitting room, and the kitchen was located straight back.
The sitting room walls were painted in a warm, earthy tone—a soft sage green that Hermione adored. It was the only room in the place, aside from the entryway, that didn’t have white walls. A pair of large, vintage windows framed the room to the right of the entry, their wooden shutters drawn halfway open, letting in just enough of the outside world to make the room feel connected to the street beyond. In the center, a worn but comfortable sofa sat with worn yellow upholstery, slightly frayed at the edges. A couple of mismatched throw pillows rested against the armrests.
Against one wall was an old wooden bookshelf, shelves sagging slightly under the weight of well-loved books, their spines faded. Across from the entry into the room was a brick fire-place. On the mantel were magical photos of Harry and Ron during Auror training, last year’s Weasley family Christmas, the Golden Trio during fourth year, Harry and Ginny on their wedding day, and one muggle photo of Hermione’s parents. She convinced Ron to get a telly, and it was displayed proudly above the mantel on the wall. Hermione made her way into the room to start the fire.
To the left of the sitting room was another doorway that led through to the dining room that led left into the kitchen. All the rooms on the ground floor connected, and Hermione treasured the ebb and flow of the space.
Once she made her way to the kitchen, she began pulling out vegetables from the fridge to prep for the pie when the front door opened.
“Oi!” Ron bellowed through the house.
“In here!” Hermione returned. She set the oven to preheat and began peeling the potatoes.
Ron bustled into the kitchen, heading straight to the fridge to pull out a muggle beer, something he had learned about from Harry. He plopped himself at the dining room table, popping the tab of his beer, taking a swig, and toeing off his boots.
“How was your day?” Hermione inquired as she added the potatoes to a pot to boil before moving to start browning the ground meat and chopping the onions, carrots, and celery.
“Shite,” Ron mumbled, taking another deep swig of his beer. “Guess what wonderful news I learned today?”
“Oh,” Hermione started. “I don’t kn-”
“Our best friend is being promoted. Again.”
“That’s excellent news, Ron! Oh, I should Floo call over and offer Harry a congratulations!”
There was a beat of silence before Ron slammed the can down on the dining room table causing Hermione to jump.
“Shite!” She shouted, rushing over to the sink. She turned on the faucet to run water over the cut from the knife.
“Merlin, Hermione! Are you okay?” Ron exclaimed, rushing to her side. “Let me see.”
Hermione held her hand out for Ron to examine, hissing when he grabbed at it.
“Fuck, sorry,” he mumbled, grabbing for his wand. He whispered a mediocre healing charm, and the cut sealed haphazardly. “It shouldn’t scar, it was just surface level. Godric, Hermione. You should be more careful.”
Hermione, still a bit frazzled, just nodded and went to wash the knife before finishing up with the vegetables and adding them to the pan.
“Anyway,” Ron started, walking over to the table to grab his beer and finish it in one go. “Yes, by all means, Floo call and congratulate Harry. But what about me Mione?”
She cringed at the nickname. “What do you mean, Ron?”
“I mean,” he continued loudly, tossing his empty can on the table and heading to the liquor cabinet. “I’ve been there just as long as Harry has, and I’ve not had one promotion. This is his third!”
“Oh,” Hermione mumbled, grabbing and draining the potatoes before beginning to mash them and setting them back on the burner.
“Oh?” Ron started pouring himself a tumbler of firewhisky. “That’s all you have to say is ‘oh’?”
“I mean, yeah, that sucks, Ron. But what do you want me to say? I’m sure you’re doing your best.”
“Oh, you’re sure, are you?” He mocked before draining his firewhisky and pouring another. “Well if The-Brightest-Witch-of-Her-Age is sure, then I must be.”
“Ron, please,” Hermione began with a sigh, beginning to shift in place and stirring the mashed potatoes.
This was happening more and more recently, Ron picking fights from seemingly thin air. And Hermione found herself caught in the same old pattern—her instinct, as always, was to face it head-on with the same stubborn resolve Ron often wielded. But she was tired. She had been bullheaded through the war, because survival demanded it, and through Eighth Year, because perfection and progress were the only ways to cope with the aftermath, familiar coping mechanisms and whatnot. But now, as life moved on, she realized she no longer wanted to force her way through every struggle. She no longer wanted to meet every challenge with the same relentless tenacity that had once been her shield.
Life, she realized, no longer needed to be approached as a series of battles to be won. She didn’t want to have to bullhead her way through it any longer, as though each moment was just another war to survive.
Ron, it seemed, held no such sentiment.
“You don’t get it, do you, Hermione?" He asked, the tenor of his voice carrying a sharper edge. "It’s not just about the promotions. It’s about how everything just seems to fall into place for Harry. It’s like he’s always the one who gets what he wants. And me? I’m just...stuck.”
Hermione paused, her hand hovering over the spoon she’d been using to stir the mashed potatoes. She could feel the frustration and bitterness in his words, but she also knew he was lashing out. She turned toward him, her eyes firm.
“You think I don’t get it?” she asked, straining to keep her tone even; her voice was tinged with exhaustion. “Ron, you’ve been working hard, and I know that. We have all been working hard—in our jobs, in our lives—to move on from the war. But Harry doesn’t have it easy, either. Just because he gets promoted doesn’t mean things are always easy for him. You know that better than anyone.”
Ron’s laugh was hollow. “Yeah, sure. But it’s not about him, Mione. It’s about me. I’m the one who’s been there, putting in the hours, doing the work. And it’s like no one notices.”
She bit her lip, feeling as though she were addressing a brick wall and not wanting to make this worse.
“Ron,” she started carefully, “what do you really want? To be promoted because it’s your time, or... do you just want recognition? You’re important, you know. But you have to see that for yourself.”
He stared at her for a long moment, before dropping his gaze to the glass in his hand.
“What are you making, anyhow?" He questioned. "I hope not Shepherd’s Pie, again. That’s the third time this month.”
Hermione gaped at him.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is Shepherd’s Pie. Again, as you so eloquently put it.”
“Godric, can’t you make anything else?” Ron chided.
“Of course I can, Ronald, don’t be absurd. Besides, I don’t see you rushing home to start dinner.”
“Me?” Ron exclaimed. “Why would I cook dinner, Hermione? Now who’s being absurd? I work at the ministry all day lo-“
“And I run my shop all day-”
“Oh, woe is you. How taxing it must be to read and make coffee all day,” Ron sneered.
“Ron!” Hermione scolded, cursing herself for letting him bait her into a verbal sparring anyway. “You are clearly spoiling for a fight, and I am not going to give you one. Obviously you’re upset about Harry, but that isn’t fair to me!”
Ron rolled his eyes before draining another glass of firewhisky.
“Whatever, Mione. Cook whatever you like,” Ron stated, setting his empty tumbler on the counter. He made his way back to the dining room before grabbing his boots and pulling them back on. “I’m going out.”
He started to make his way out of the kitchen.
“That's it? You're just going to walk away?” Hermione called after him, making to follow behind. “Ronald Weasley, where are you going?”
Hermione reached to take Ron’s arm.
“Hermione stop!” He shouted, pulling his arm from Hermione’s grip. Just then, the smoke alarm started blaring, and Ron abruptly turned back around. When he pulled his arm and turned, though, the back of his hand struck Hermione across her brow.
“Fuck!” Hermione cried as she fell to her knees. Her ears started ringing as she brought her hand up to her brow and winced in pain. Her world slowed and felt like it was going in and out of focus on a tilted axis.
She thought she heard someone calling her name, but she couldn’t focus. Chaos felt like it was quickly ensuing with the ringing, the tilting, the smoke alarm blaring, the pain in her brow throbbing.
She squeezed her eyes tight and tried to focus.
“Hermione!” A panicked voice above her urgently prodded. “Hermione, please, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“It hurts,” She rasped out in a whimper, blinking slowly.
“Hold on, stay right here,” the voice urged.
No problem, she thought bitterly, hand still held tightly against her head. She thought she could make out the sound of someone bustling about toward the direction of the kitchen.
The smoke alarm stopped.
“Hermione? Are you okay? Can you hear me?” Ron. It was Ron. She felt him take hold of her hand and she flinched away from him.
“Godric, Hermione, I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve got ice for your head,” he stated, sounding more than a little offended.
Hermione slowly looked around where she was sprawled on the floor and brought her legs up to hug her chest. She looked up at Ron wearily. He was, indeed, holding an ice pack.
“Not going to…to hurt me? Ron, you hit me!” She started.
“Mione, no!” Ron cried. “That was an accident. I’m so sorry, Mione. I didn’t mean to. The smoke alarm started to go off, so I turned around. You were right there! My hand caught you as I was turning to run back to the kitchen. I didn’t realize you were so close. I swear, Mione. I would never hurt you on purpose.”
Hermione eyed him cautiously. That makes sense, she thought. But he did turn right as the smoke alarm started, or was it right after the smoke alarm started? Merlin, help me. Everything felt so convoluted now. She slowly nodded, reaching out to take the ice from him and bringing it to her brow.
“What happened?” she asked as Ron helped her to her feet and led her to the sitting room. She pulled the ice pack away, forcing herself not to shy away from his touch.
She blinked as Ron took her hand and helped her unto the couch, rubbing the ice pack over her brow again, wincing when it shifted slightly.
Why was she uncomfortable with him all of a sudden? Ron had been frantic when he’d apologized, his voice full of panic, almost like he was pleading for her forgiveness. It was an accident, she told herself. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, hadn’t intended for it to happen, but the lingering sting in her skin made it hard for her to feel completely calm about it, not to mention completely comfortable with his touch.
“The potatoes scorched, smoking up the entire kitchen. I pulled them from the burner and charmed away the smoke, but I think the potatoes are a lost cause. We should just order a pizza tonight. You shouldn’t keep cooking, anyway,” Ron informed her.
She nodded, sitting on their plush, worn sofa. “Sure, Ron.”
“Great!” He cheered, "I'll call the pizza place on the telly-phone and place a delivery order.”
“Oh! The oven,” she blurted out, starting to get up from the couch.
“No, I got it,” Ron chuckled, gently pushing her back before heading to the telephone in the kitchen.
The pizza arrived a short time later, and Hermione kept her disappointment to herself at the order. Hawaiian pizza, Ron’s favorite. Definitely not hers.
Ron settled in next to her on the sofa, another muggle beer in hand. He leaned forward to grab the TV remote and a slice of pizza before leaning back into the couch.
Hermione reached for a slice of pizza, slowly picking at it as Ron flipped through the channels until landing on football. Lovely.
Ron’s favorite Premier League team was playing. As the game went on, Ron let out one whoop and cheer after another, taking generous swigs of his beer, and constantly jostling Hermione in the process. By halftime, he was on his third slice of pizza and third beer of the night. Hermione was still on her first slice.
“What’s wrong?” Ron asked, staring down at her picked apart slice of pizza. “You’ve barely eaten.”
“Oh,” Hermione started as she slowly rose to her feet. “Nothing, I’m just tired and this ache in my head is growing. I think I’m going to head up to shower and turn in early.”
Ron stared at her and he looked annoyed, almost like he was going to protest before he thought better of it.
“Right,” he agreed. “You should get some rest. That was a nasty spill you took.”
“Right…” Hermione nodded back and went to throw her pizza away in the kitchen.
All of the pots and pans, cutting boards, knives, and preppings were still out in the kitchen. Ron’s empty beer can still sat on the dining room table and his empty firewhiskey tumbler still sat on the counter. Hermione sighed as she made her way to the trash, letting out an audible gasp when she saw the oven was still on.
She rushed over to turn it off. Her blood began to boil. Was she a house-maid?! That man! Could he not do anything? She rolled her eyes and pulled open the bottom cabinet next to the oven where they kept the trash can so she could throw her pizza away. The trash was overflowing.
Hermione stared at it for a moment before deciding she actually wasn’t going to be dealing with any of this tonight. Her head was pounding, and she had ended up having a Day. An emotionally tumultuous day, to be precise, no thanks to Draco Malfoy, of all bloody people.
Draco Malfoy! She thought suddenly. I didn’t even get to tell Ron that I had seen Malfoy today.
She stuck her head in the dining room to peek into the living room. Ron was nodding off, head lolling to the side against the back sofa cushion.
Hm, she thought. No matter. She determined that she could always tell him tomorrow before making her way back to the hallway and up the stairs.
A nice hot, steaming shower, fluffy pajamas, and a good book. That’s what Hermione needed right now. Why stress over anything else tonight?
Yes, she thought, tomorrow is perfect.