Green Apples and Unfinished Things

HERMIONE

There it sat.

The apple.

Mocking her from the edge of her desk like it had something clever to say about her taste in men.

Green, half-eaten, shining faintly beneath the lamplight as if to say: Well, that was dramatic, wasn’t it?

Hermione stared at it, arms folded, jaw tight.

Of course he would leave it. As if breaking into her home, rifling through her memories, and kissing her hand like they were characters in some doomed Russian romance weren’t enough. No—he had to leave a symbol. Something crisp and sour and smug, just sitting there like a postscript to his disappearance.

And the worst part?

It worked.

Because she felt it. That ridiculous ache in her chest, that old, traitorous part of her heart that insisted on interpreting even the smallest Malfoy gesture as meaningful. He could toss her an insult or an apple and somehow it all meant something.

She’d spent two years moving on. Or at least pretending to. It had required effort. Sacrifice. A highly disciplined program of avoiding Slytherins, sleeping eight hours a night, and dating men who did not look like they could ruin her life with a raised eyebrow.

Which brought her to Adam.

Adam of the clean nails, ironed jumpers, and punctual Sunday calls to his mother. Adam, who once helped a pigeon with a limp and considered it his spiritual breakthrough. Adam, who thought Die Hard was a “classic period piece.”

Poor Adam.

With a sigh born somewhere between guilt and relief, Hermione turned from the apple and headed downstairs.

He was exactly where she’d left him—on the couch, one leg tucked beneath him, smiling far too earnestly at the paused screen of Notting Hill. He’d poured her wine. Had even placed a coaster under it. The sweet idiot.

“Hermione,” he said, perking up, “is everything alright?”

She stopped halfway down the stairs and looked at him. Really looked at him.

There was nothing wrong with Adam. Nothing at all. That was the problem.

He’d never challenged her. Never baited her into arguments about magical ethics or kissed her in shadows like the world was ending. He’d never made her cry, which she was beginning to realize was both a mercy and a disqualifier. And worse—far, far worse—he’d never made her laugh so hard she forgot who she was supposed to be.

She walked into the room, picked up the glass of wine, took one sip, then put it down.

“Adam,” she said gently.

And then, like removing a bandage with as much dignity as one could muster, she sat on the edge of the armchair and braced herself.

“This isn’t going to work.”

To his credit, Adam didn’t sputter. Just blinked slowly, like he hadn’t heard her properly. Or perhaps wished to pretend he hadn’t.

“Oh?”

Hermione nodded. “You’re lovely. Genuinely. You’re kind and stable and you have an admirable fondness for spreadsheets. But I—” she sighed, “I’m an emotional hurricane disguised as a well-read woman with a wand. And I think it would be cruel to keep pretending I can be anything else.”

There was a pause.

Then, earnestly: “Is this because I said Love Actually is overrated?”

Hermione almost laughed. Almost.

“No, Adam,” she said, softening. “It’s not the movie.”

He looked down at his lap. “Is it someone else?”

She hesitated.

Because what was she supposed to say? Yes, it’s someone else. He’s a morally flexible former Death Eater who broke into my bedroom, insulted my décor, kissed my hand like a tragic French villain, and still makes my heart behave like it’s fresh out of Hogwarts.

Instead, she offered: “It’s not someone. It’s... history.”

He gave her a slow nod. “Alright. I understand.”

Which she suspected he didn’t, but appreciated nonetheless.

Hermione stood, walked over, and kissed the top of his head gently.

“You’ll find someone,” she said. “But I’m not her.”

Adam smiled sadly. “I’ll save the wine for her, then.”

She walked him to the door. A quick, quiet goodbye.

And then she was alone.

Again.

Only this time, it didn’t feel hollow. It felt necessary. Like making space.

She walked back upstairs slowly, the house dim and quiet now, the only sound the creak of the floorboards and the fading echo of her own heartbeat.

When she reached her bedroom, the apple was still there on the desk.

She stared at it.

Then, after a long moment, she picked it up. Turned it in her hand.

And took a bite.

⋯⋯⋯

If there were ever an occasion that warranted a drink strong enough to knock one’s sense of romantic idealism into next week, it was this one.

Hermione arrived at the pub looking like she had survived both a heartbreak and a fire—because, in some abstract way, she rather felt as though she had. Her hair was doing that thing again, the uncontrollable frizz that always seemed to arrive in tandem with emotional upheaval, and she’d only remembered to put on lip balm and a half-hearted flick of mascara, which somehow made her look both overworked and under-slept. Fitting.

Ginny was already waiting, perched in a corner booth with two drinks and the look of someone who had seen things.

Hermione slid into the seat across from her with a sigh loud enough to turn heads.

“Well,” Ginny said, pushing one glass toward her, “you look like you’ve either had sex or killed someone.”

Hermione hesitated. Then drained half her glass in one go.

Ginny’s eyes widened. “That bad?”

“He showed up,” Hermione said.

“Adam?”

“Draco.”

Ginny blinked once. Then leaned back and let out a long, low whistle. “Well, that explains why your hair looks like it’s been personally hexed by a storm cloud.”

“I didn't know he was back,” Hermione muttered, running a hand through her curls.

“None of us did,” Ginny said. “Harry just mentioned it yesterday in passing—something about Malfoy returning. Officially. Finished his assignment in America. Gave his debrief to the Auror Office this morning.”

Hermione looked up. “So everyone knew except me.”

"It wasn’t in the Prophet, if that helps. More like whispered hallway panic." Ginny twirled her straw. "Apparently he’s being reassigned here for a while. Local menace, rebranded."

“Wonderful,” Hermione muttered. “That’s exactly what my nervous system needed.”

Ginny smirked. “Harry said he looked… different. Sharper. Like someone who’s been doing Very Serious Things. Gave the new recruits nightmares during his presentation.”

Hermione stared at her wine like it might offer counsel. "That sounds like him."

Ginny squinted her eyes, as if barely remembering what Hermione had mentioned to her. “Wait. Where exactly did he show up?”

“My house.”

Ginny nearly choked on her drink. “Your house?”

“My bedroom.”

Ginny coughed harder. “You’re joking.”

“I wish.”

“You’re going to need to be a lot more specific,” she wheezed. “And preferably slower. I’d like to enjoy this.”

"He was eating an apple," Hermione said darkly, as if that were the real crime. “My apple, no less–like he belonged there. Like I’d summoned him with a bloody spell. I don’t even know when he arrived.”

Ginny raised both brows. "Did you throw something at him?"

“Seven, maybe eight pillows.”

“Good girl. Also, who has that many pillows?"

“I would’ve gone for nine, but I ran out.”

“Was he being smug?”

“He called Adam ‘socks and sandals.’”

Ginny burst out laughing. Loud, delighted, unapologetic. “Okay, to be fair, he’s not wrong.”

“I broke up with Adam an hour later.”

The laughter died. Ginny stared at her. “Oh.”

“I couldn’t keep doing it,” Hermione said softly. “It wasn’t real. He was safe, and nice, and sweet, but… I kept trying to mold myself into someone who wanted that.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know.” Hermione looked up, eyes heavy. “Draco kissed my hand. Told me he’d see me soon. Then disappeared like some irritating dark prince from a Victorian novel.”

Ginny tilted her glass. “Still knows how to make an exit.”

“He shouldn’t still have that effect on me. After everything.”

Ginny was quiet for a moment. Then, gently: “You still love him?”

Hermione didn’t answer. Which, of course, answered everything.

Ginny reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to figure it all out tonight. But you don’t owe him forgiveness, either. Not yet. Not ever, if that’s what you choose.”

Hermione nodded, swallowing thickly. “Thanks.”

“In other news,” Ginny added, tone turning casual, “Lavender finally convinced Ron to settle on a wedding venue. They’re thinking late spring. Some converted barn in Kent.”

Hermione blinked. “That’s nice.”

“It’s going to be lavender-themed.”

Hermione looked like she might start drinking again. “And how’s Ron?”

“Grumbling,” Ginny said with relish. “He told Mum that if Lavender adds one more shade of pink to the floral arrangements, he’s calling in George to swap the bouquet for pygmy puffs.”

Hermione laughed, a quiet, real sound.

“He’s happy,” Ginny said after a moment, her voice softening. “He really is. Lavender adores him, and weirdly, she’s not as annoying anymore. I think… I think they balance each other out.”

Hermione nodded, her smile faint.

“You okay with it?” Ginny asked.

“I am,” Hermione said. And it was mostly true. “It was over for us long before it ended.”

Ginny raised her glass. “To endings. And to the terrifying bastards who walk back into our lives with apples and unfinished business.”

Hermione clinked her glass against Ginny’s. “To clarity. However painful it comes.”

They drank in silence for a moment, the noise of the pub cocooning them like insulation from the past.

Ginny took another sip of her drink and narrowed her eyes like she was reading Hermione’s soul across the rim of her glass.

“So?” she asked. “What happens now?”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. She looked down, traced the rim of her wine with her fingertip. The pub buzzed around them, full of laughter and the clinking of glasses and couples brushing knees under tables—but for a moment, Hermione was somewhere else entirely.

“I don’t want to fall into him again,” she said finally.

Ginny stilled. “You think you will?”

“I think…” Hermione hesitated, then exhaled through her nose. “I know he still has that pull. That thing that makes me forget every rational part of myself. And it terrifies me how easy it is to slip.”

Ginny leaned back slowly, listening.

Hermione swallowed. “But I also know this: I deserve better. Better than someone who vanishes when things get real. Who never sent a letter. Who left me to feel discarded. He had his reasons, fine. But I’m not going to validate them by pretending it didn’t cost me something.”

Ginny nodded, quiet now, letting her speak.

“I want love that’s accountable,” Hermione went on, firmer now. “Not love that disappears when it gets hard. I want someone who shows up. Who chooses me with clarity, not cowardice. And maybe that sounds rigid or idealistic, but I’m tired of negotiating with ghosts.”

She looked up, eyes hard. “I’m serious, Ginny. I don’t care how complicated it is. How long our history stretches. I’m not going to make myself small just because Draco Malfoy decided to come back smelling like sin and biting into fruit like some smug literary metaphor.”

Ginny blinked. Then burst out laughing.

Hermione huffed a laugh, then drained the last of her wine.

“I mean it,” she added. “No more bending. No more giving him space in my head just because he knows I have a soft spot for him. I don’t care how tragic or magnetic he is. I’m not folding myself in half so he can feel whole.”

Ginny raised her glass again. “To boundaries. And to standing on business like the queen you are.”

They clinked glasses again, and this time Hermione smiled without hesitation.

Ginny leaned in, voice a little softer. “But… if he does show up again, and you feel yourself wavering—just call me.”

“Why? So you can hex him?”

“So I can drag you out of your house, take us somewhere foreign, and remind you you’re Hermione Granger, not some dizzy girl in a tragic French novella.”

Hermione snorted. “Do tragic French heroines usually throw pillows?”

“Only the great ones.”

It was an unwritten rule of the universe, or perhaps some cruel subsection of magical entropy, that Hermione Granger could not declare emotional boundaries without the immediate interference of the man most likely to obliterate them.

She’d just finished her second drink, cheeks warm from wine and the rare delight of female friendship, when the pub door opened with all the subtlety of a curse.

Enter: Draco Malfoy.

Behind him, ever the unwilling moral compass and professional bad-influence, strode Theodore Nott, wearing an expression that suggested he’d lost a bet or a dare or perhaps the will to live.

Hermione’s mouth went dry.

Of course he walked in like he didn’t know she was there. Like the universe had conspired, quite without his permission, to plant him precisely in her path. His coat was undone, his scarf draped carelessly, his hair doing that windswept, aristocratic rebellion thing it had no right to do indoors. He scanned the room like a man in search of trouble and finding it seated at a table two rows down.

Ginny muttered, "Oh for Merlin’s sake," under her breath, setting down her drink with theatrical restraint.

"Act natural," Hermione whispered.

Ginny raised a brow. "You’re gripping your wine like it’s a hostage."

Hermione turned back to Ginny, refusing to follow him with her eyes.

“I might commit a crime,” she said flatly.

Draco caught sight of them, hesitated for a fraction of a second—just long enough to be smug about it—and then altered his path with all the elegance of a man entirely above coincidence, walking to the bar like he hadn’t nearly shattered her just last night.

"Granger," he said when he reached the table, as if he was greeting a colleague he hadn’t hexed in years.

Hermione smiled. It was not kind. "Malfoy."

"Oh," he said, turning to Ginny as if just noticing her presence, his voice pitched with the exact level of faux surprise one might reserve for a long-lost cousin at a will reading. "Weasley. What an utterly unanticipated treat."

Theo, lingering just behind him like a long-suffering academic advisor on sabbatical, gave Hermione a look that said I tried to stop this, and to Ginny, a look that said please don’t kill him in front of witnesses.

Draco, immune to all things resembling social awareness, pulled out a chair at the next table without so much as a by-your-leave.

"Sit," he commanded Theo, with the imperial confidence of a man who owned neither the chair nor the consequences. "I’m feeling social."

"You’re feeling something," Theo muttered, collapsing into the seat like a man who’d just accepted his own demise.

Ginny sipped her drink with the nonchalance of someone fully prepared to set the building on fire if pushed. "Didn’t realise this was the new Auror watering hole."

"It’s not," Draco replied. "We were headed somewhere that serves drinks without parasols, but Theo insisted we stop here."

"No, I didn’t," said Theo.

Draco ignored him and looked back at Hermione.

"You look... settled."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, the gesture so precise it could have been patented. "Is that meant to be an insult, an observation, or a desperate reach for conversation?"

"A compliment," he said smoothly. "You’re radiating something very grounded and entirely unbothered by my existence."

Her smile sharpened. "Excellent. I was worried I might look like I cared."

Draco laughed—an actual, low laugh, the kind that curled in the belly and irritated the conscience.

"Merlin, I missed you."

And there it was.

The crack. The hairline fracture in the evening. The warning tremor beneath her ribs.

Hermione sipped her wine and reminded herself, firmly, that clarity was not a finite resource. That resolve did not falter at the mere appearance of charm, nor should it dissolve under the weight of shared history and pretty cheekbones.

Ginny muttered to Theo, "Ten galleons says she throws something within the hour."

Theo, who looked like he had seen this production one too many times, replied, "Make it twenty. I think he’s aiming for emotional combustion."

Hermione just tilted her head, let the slow smile spread like fire licking up parchment, and said, "Why are you always turning up where you’re not wanted?”

He leaned in, just slightly, his mouth parted like he was about to drop a line that would either eviscerate her or undo them both.

But before he could summon the words, the bartender arrived with an armful of drinks and a look that clearly said, No duels before closing, please. 

And the moment, like all things with Draco Malfoy, slipped out of reach just when it began to matter.

Now, there are certain universal truths which even the wisest witches occasionally choose to ignore: that socks are never where you left them, that Kneazles will always prefer the one guest who hates cats, and that Draco Malfoy—when seated beside you at a bar you frequent, looking like the brooding cover model of Dark Arts Digest—will inevitably attract attention.

Hermione had precisely two sips left of her wine and a perfectly tolerable distance of seventeen-and-a-half inches between her elbow and his.

It was, briefly, a peaceful moment.

Until she arrived.

She came teetering on heels that looked like they had never survived an uneven cobblestone, wearing a perfume that could be described, at best, as "a cry for help in jasmine.” Her hair was styled within an inch of its life, and her wand holster was rhinestoned, which—Hermione would later admit—was at least impressively bold.

“Malfoy,” the witch purred, one manicured hand sliding along the bar like it might slither directly onto his lap if given enough encouragement. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”

Hermione stared straight ahead. Ginny, seated just beyond her, muttered something about veela cosplay.

She simply sipped her drink. Slowly.

With the deliberate restraint of a woman who had thrice read Magical Law and Conduct (complete with annotations) to suppress the urge to hex someone.

Draco, of course, leaned back with the casual grace of a man who knew exactly what he looked like beneath low lighting and deep shadows. A human smirk, polished and insufferable.

"Portia," he said smoothly. "What a surprise."

“I always seem to know when you’re around,” she said, brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve. “Your energy, or… something.”

His energy, Hermione thought, staring straight ahead. Right. Yes. The magnetic field of male ego and tragic past trauma. Practically a lighthouse for desperate women and dangerous ideas.

“Oh, I can feel your energy too,” Theo muttered into his pint beside Draco. “It’s called an aura of chronic arsehole. Radiates like a Gringotts vault alarm.”

Draco didn’t reply. He was too busy half-smiling in that way he did—like he was bored, but not so bored he’d decline attention. Typical. Classic. Aggravating.

Portia giggled, brushing invisible lint off his lapel. "You look good. America must’ve been kind."

"Not as kind as Britain," he murmured, eyes still fixed on Hermione.

Hermione finally turned her head to meet his gaze.

“Oh,” the witch added, eyes flicking between them. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Don’t worry,” Hermione said, cool as December rain, “you didn’t.”

A beat.

Draco’s lips twitched. Treasonous, really.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the witch said to Hermione, offering a hand as though they were at a Ministry brunch instead of involved in a silent duel over Draco’s increasingly inflated ego. “Portia St. James.”

Hermione took her hand with the same expression she might reserve for a cursed artifact. “Hermione Granger.”

Portia’s smile flickered. “Oh. That Hermione.”

“Yes,” Hermione replied with a polite smile sharp enough to decapitate a garden gnome. “And you must be new.”

Theo snorted into his drink.

Draco’s shoulder brushed hers—barely a touch—but it grounded her like a weight.

“I’ll let you four catch up,” Portia said with a tight smile. “Do send me an owl sometime, Draco.”

She sashayed off in a cloud of citrusy regret.

Hermione stared at the last sip of her wine and wondered what the etiquette was for smashing a glass against your own forehead in public.

Draco looked over, smirk firmly in place. “Jealous, Granger?”

“Of course,” she deadpanned. “I’ve always dreamed of being reduced to a walking scented candle in heels.”

“You’re cruel,” he murmured, pleased. “Don’t worry. She’s not my type.”

“Let me guess,” Hermione said coolly. “You only go for witches who assault you with decorative bedding.”

His smile deepened. “Well, it does tend to keep things interesting.”

Ginny, to her credit, made a face that belonged in a textbook on diplomatic restraint. “Keep it PG, please.”

Draco ignored her. His attention stayed fixed, honed in on Hermione like she was the only person in the room.

“You’re wearing the earrings I gave you.”

Hermione stiffened. “They match everything.”

“How convenient.”

Ginny made a choking sound.

Hermione turned to him, jaw set. “You don’t get to do this,” she said, tone sharp. “You don’t get to flirt your way into a seat at this table. Nor do you get to bat your lashes at me and stare at me like that just because you’re bored.”

“I’m not bored,” he said mildly.

“Then why are you here?”

He tilted his head. “Because I wanted to be.”

“And what does that mean?”

Draco leaned in, far too close for good manners or Hermione’s sanity. “It means,” he said smoothly, “I wanted to know if your wine is as bitter as your temper tonight.”

Theo dragged a hand down his face. Ginny grimaced, muttering something about indecency.

Draco looked at her, unamused. “Do you always play chaperone, Weasley?”

“Only when she’s two seconds from either hexing you or shagging you in the loo,” Ginny replied, sipping her drink.

Hermione let out a strangled cough. “Ginny!”

“Ah.” Draco’s smirk was pure sin. “I remember those days quite well,” he murmured, reaching up to touch a stray curl.

“Don’t start,” she snapped, shoving his hand away.

The infuriating bastard leaned closer, the space between them evaporating. His voice dropped, silk over steel. “You always did have a knack for telling me what to do.”

Their eyes locked. She hated how much she still felt it—that familiar, infuriating pull. The one that scraped up her spine and down her resolve, turning principle into powder.

Then, with the calm theatricality of a man determined to haunt her, he reached down and picked up her half-empty wine glass, brought it to his mouth, and drank.

Just one slow, deliberate sip. As if claiming something.

He set it back down with reverence.

And when he spoke again, his voice was low and private, only for her: “It is bitter.”

Hermione stared at his lips for a heartbeat too long, then stood abruptly.

“Loo,” she said, curt and breathless.

Ginny didn’t ask. Just got up and followed.

They pushed through the narrow hallway, past the jukebox and the cracked mirror, and into the ladies bathroom—two stalls, one flickering light, and a counter that had seen better decades. The moment the door clicked shut, Hermione braced her hands on the sink and stared at herself in the mirror.

Eyes wild.

Cheeks flushed.

Pulse chaotic.

She looked like a woman unraveling.

“You want me to hex him?” Ginny offered lightly from behind her. “Or her? I’m not picky.”

There is a particular breed of woman who mistakes perfectly manicured nails and a well-placed smirk for actual power. They arrive on the battlefield of interpersonal conflict armed with passive-aggressive compliments, a faint perfume of inherited wealth, and the unwavering confidence of someone who has never been denied a reservation.

Portia St. James was exactly that sort of woman.

Which, to Hermione’s horror, made the fact that she followed them into the loo all the more inevitable.

The door creaked open.

“Oh,” Portia said, her voice high and gleaming. “I didn’t realize this was a private meeting.”

Hermione turned around slowly, as if considering whether or not this woman was real. “It’s a public bathroom, Portia. Not the Wizengamot. No robes required.”

Ginny coughed to hide a laugh.

Portia smiled, sharp and saccharine. “Of course. Just thought I’d pop in and introduce myself properly, without any distractions in our way. Since we’ve clearly got mutual interests.”

Hermione blinked. “You mean the whisky menu?”

Portia’s smile twitched. “No, darling. Draco.”

Ginny straightened. “Did she just—?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “She did.”

Portia tilted her head, perfectly amused. “You looked rather tense at the table. I wasn’t sure if it was the lighting, or if you just weren’t used to seeing him in proper company.”

There was a beat of silence.

Hermione placed her purse on the sink. Deliberate. Calm.

Then she turned, all poise and poison. “I see what you’re doing, and I’d offer you a chair, but you’re already reaching.”

Portia blinked.

Hermione continued, voice clipped and courteous in the way that always preceded verbal evisceration. “You want me rattled. You think if you toss out a few polished insults and smile through your lashes, I’ll fold like some girl who doesn't know the shape of his mouth in the dark.”

Ginny grinned like it was Christmas.

“But let’s get one thing clear,” Hermione said, stepping closer now. “I am not your competition. I’m the syllabus you skipped because you thought you already knew the material. Draco Malfoy may have many flaws, but he’s not stupid. He knows what I am. What I was to him. So if he’s playing games with you, understand this: they’re not about you. They’re about me. You’re just the pawn he’s using to get my attention.”

Portia’s lips pressed into a tight line.

“You can flirt,” Hermione continued, stepping closer still, voice like velvet laced with steel, “you can laugh, you can touch him all you like. But don’t confuse proximity with power. You’re standing next to him, not with him. There’s a difference.”

Portia faltered—just slightly.

“And if your strategy is to parade over here and assert dominance in a toilet,” Hermione added, tone frosty, “you might want to find a new battlefield. I don’t duel beneath chandeliers, and I certainly don’t defend territory I’ve already vacated.”

There was a breathless silence.

Then Ginny clapped, once. “Ten points to Gryffindor for that dissertation.”

Hermione gave Portia one final, sharp look. “Now, if you’re done pretending you’re a threat, there’s a stall open. Or the door’s that way.”

Portia flushed, then turned on her heel with the grace of someone who would absolutely cry in the back of a Thestral-drawn cab later and pretend it was allergies.

When the door closed behind her, Ginny turned to Hermione, eyes wide.

“I’ve known you nearly fourteen years,” she said, “and that may have been the single hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Hermione shrugged, retrieving her lip balm. “I’m standing on business.”

Ginny grinned. “Business looks good on you.”