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Hermione genuinely liked her job. It kept her busy, it let her travel, and it offered her the chance to see places she never would have visited otherwise. She thrived on the change of scenery, on the thrill of new libraries, new magical practices, and new flavours of coffee to sample in backstreet cafés. But she loathed it whenever the assignment dragged her across the Atlantic. The UK was hardly a model of progressive thinking when it came to muggleborns and integration, but America was another creature entirely — louder, brasher, and often so tangled in outdated magical laws that even the Ministry looked enlightened by comparison.
Normally she played it safe: stay near Olympia, in Washington State, handle her paperwork, endure a few strained meetings, then portkey straight back to London before the jet lag could catch her. This time she was stuck in the country for two whole weeks, and her colleague had worn her down with promises of a “proper American road trip.” Against her better judgement, she found herself dragged along on a whirlwind tour, flooing from small town to small town, sampling whatever passed for local magical attractions.
By Saturday evening her feet were sore, her hair smelled faintly of smoke from too many floo grates, and her patience was thinner than the veil between worlds. Her colleague’s grand finale was a stop in a coastal settlement called La Push, pitched as ‘authentic’. Hermione eyed the sleepy streets, the salt-laden wind biting against her skin, and wondered if she should have just fabricated an emergency memo and portkeyed back to London.
Instead, she was dragged into a low-lit club that smelled of sweat and stale beer. Music pulsed too loudly through the thin walls, and the crowd looked like they’d only just graduated from high school, if that. Hermione, twenty-six and tired to her bones, found herself thrust into a circle of sticky tables and neon shot glasses. Someone pressed tequila into her hand she felt like a kid far too old to be drinking the vile liquid.
She lasted three rounds before retreating to the bar, leaning on its edge as if it would hold her upright in place of her disappearing will. She was already rehearsing her excuse to leave when a shadow fell across her.
The man who stepped up was — well, ridiculous. Broad-shouldered, towering, grinning with an ease so dazzling it seemed out of place in the dim room. He looked carved out of marble and trouble all at once. When he slid a drink across to her, Hermione’s first thought was that he might actually be one of the most beautiful people she’d ever seen. Her second thought was that he couldn’t possibly be real.
“Uh — sure,” she managed, her voice catching awkwardly as she accepted the glass, every rational thought wiped clean by the presence of him.
He watched her over the rim of his glass as she took a cautious sip, his grin widening when she wrinkled her nose at the taste.
“Not a fan of American liquor?” His voice was rich, warm, the kind that could’ve coaxed confessions out of strangers in the dark.
Hermione gave a small shrug, lifting her glass to her lips again. “How did you know I wasn’t American? I wouldn’t call it liquor though, more like floor polish in a pretty bottle.”
He laughed, loud and unapologetic, the kind of sound that rolled through the room and drew glances from nearby tables. “You have that look, some kind of tourist,” he said, grinning wide enough to show perfect teeth. “Your brutal, I like it. You’ve got bite.”
His eyes locked on hers, unwavering, as though he’d already decided she was the most fascinating thing in the building. “I’m Emmett.”
“Hermione,” she answered before she had the sense to stop herself. The way he leant in set her on edge — close enough that she could catch the faint, inexplicable chill that clung to him, close enough that his attention pressed like a hand at her back. Something about him was wrong. Off. Dangerous, maybe. And yet…
He was far too beautiful to walk away from. His smile was disarming, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and those eyes — golden and hypnotic — held her in place like a snare. Hermione’s chest tightened as she realised she’d been holding her breath.
“Well, Hermione,” he said, her name rolling too easily off his tongue despite the accent, “my table looks like the dullest party in the building without you. Come keep me entertained?” He tilted his head towards a corner where a group sat — two women and two men.
Hermione frowned faintly. Her instinct screamed wrong, though she couldn’t have explained why. Maybe it was the strange shimmer in his eyes when the light hit them, or the way the people at that table seemed to watch the crowd like they were prey rather than people.
Still, she found herself sliding off the barstool, curiosity winning out over common sense. “One drink,” she said firmly, pointing a finger at him as though laying down ground rules. But even she knew already that she would likely do whatever Emmett wanted.
Emmett only grinned wider, stepping aside with exaggerated chivalry to guide her through the crowd. “That’s all I’ll need.”
They wove through the crowd together, Emmett cutting a path effortlessly as people seemed to melt out of his way. He kept glancing down at her, grin fixed in place as though he already knew her answer to every unspoken question.
“So,” he said, leaning close enough that she could catch the low rumble of his voice beneath the music, “Hermione. What’s a gorgeous Brit like you doing in La Push? Don’t tell me you crossed the ocean just to sample our world-class floor polish.”
Hermione arched a brow, unable to fight the tug of a smile. “Work,” she replied, the warmth creeping into her cheeks betrayed her composure. “I wasn’t expecting to be collected by an overgrown linebacker in a dingy club.”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury, his grin never faltering. “Cut me deep. And here I thought this was destiny — first tequila, then sparkling conversation, then—”
Hermione tilted her head, cutting him off before he could weave some outrageous line. “And what exactly could you possibly have in mind?”
The corner of his mouth curved higher, mischief sparking bright in those strange golden eyes. He was larger than life in every sense — a presence that spilled into every corner, reckless and exuberant. He should have been overwhelming, too loud, too handsome, too much. And yet Hermione caught herself leaning infinitesimally closer, as though tugged by some unseen current. It was absurd, irrational — but undeniably real.
As they neared his table, her steps faltered. The group waiting there were like something lifted out of a dream, or worse, a glossy advert where everyone had been airbrushed into near-perfection. A woman with cropped, choppy hair reminded Hermione of the delicate pixies from children’s storybooks, though there was nothing soft about the sharpness of her gaze. Beside her, a man with the same uncanny beauty sat stiffly, his arm draped around her shoulders with the ease of habit but the tension of discomfort.
Across from them lounged a woman so breathtaking she could have stepped directly off a catwalk —long limbs and the sort of beauty that made Hermione’s teeth ache to look at.
And then there was the figure with his back to her, shoulders broad, posture precise, as if every movement were considered before it was made. She couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t need to. Every instinct told her that, like the others, he would be exquisite in that same inhuman way.
Hermione’s breath caught in her chest, a pang of disorientation hitting her. Why on earth was Emmett — a man built like a god, surrounded by people who could each pass as divine themselves — wasting his grin on her? Why call her beautiful when this was the company he kept?
It didn’t make sense. None of this did.