Two Hands and a Mortal Existence Filled with Suffering
"Thank you for shopping with us today," Hermione grinned softly at the woman. The baby girl perched on her hip gave her a gummy smile and scrunched her hand in greeting. Hermione waved back, watching in adoration as the baby giggled.
The woman thanked her and left.
It had been a quiet day in the shop, slow and steady. Maybe fifteen customers total—mostly due to the relentless rain pounding outside.
Hermione hummed to herself, taking advantage of the lull to tidy up. She had just started reorganizing a display table when the shop phone rang.
Hermione ushered over to it and pressed the green button. “Granger Bookshop, this is Hermione speaking."
“Granger,” Draco’s voice came through, loud and panicked, “something’s screaming at me and I think it might explode.”
Hermione blinked. “What?”
A piercing beeping rang in the background. Draco cursed.
“I was just cooking, and this—this thing started shrieking at me!” he yelled, voice bordering on manic. “I tried hitting it, but it won’t shut up! Do I need to—Merlin’s bloody—”
Hermione pulled the phone away from her ear as he let out an exasperated noise. Then it clicked.
“Draco,” she said, already pressing a hand to her forehead. “That’s your smoke alarm.”
“Well, obviously! Now fix it!”
She let out an exasperated breath. “Draco, I’m at work. Can’t you—”
A sharp beep-beep-beep blared through the receiver, followed by Draco groaning in absolute agony. “You said I could ask you for help. This is me asking. No — begging. I am begging you, Granger. Begging. Just—come fix this before I lose my mind.”
Hermione puffed out a breath of air and looked around her shop.
Empty. Barren. A wasteland.
"Well, I suppose I could come," she started. "Although, my customers are going to be very upset when I tell them —"
"— Perfect. Thank you!"
Click.
Hermione stood there for a minute contemplating her existence and how she got there. And then, she looked at the phone.
Dial. Back. 11:27 am.
She now seriously reconsidered her past two interactions with Draco Malfoy.
"Did he seriously just —" she huffed out in anger and pounded the buttons on the phone.
She brought the phone but up to her ear and tapped her foot on the ground, muttering to herself.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Click—
"Granger? Why aren't you on your way?"
Hermione gawked. "Did you just hang up on me?"
A pause. Then, begrudgingly, "...I panicked."
"Oh, for Merlin’s sake—Draco, you didn’t even tell me where you live!"
Another pause. Then, with the voice of a man who had just realized how badly he’d messed up—
"...Right."
Hermione huffed. "Well? Give me your address."
"Uh." A beat of silence. "I… don’t actually know it."
She squeezed her eyes shut. "You don’t know your own address?"
"I never had to memorize it! I just live here!"
"Draco—"
"I can describe it to you," he interrupted quickly. "It’s in London—obviously. Near a park. Um… there’s a pub down the road—"
Hermione groaned. "You are absolutely useless."
"I’d love to see you function without magic for a year, Granger!"
She was already reaching for her wand. "Forget it, I’ll just Apparate. Think about where you are."
"Uh—uh—there’s a café next door! A blue awning—wait, the name—" He paused, then, victorious, "The Wandering Bean! That’s it! It's right beside my flat!"
Hermione sighed in relief. "Finally, something helpful."
The dark wood door of the two story half-timbered townhouse rattled underneath Hermione’s closed fist.
Its aged timber frames were a stark contrast to the white plaster structure. Its pitched roof alluded to an older, Tudor style home that had withstood the ages. It was impressive that such a structure was kept in proper condition — enough so that Draco Malfoy now occupied it.
It was a quaint little home, tucked between taller, more modern buildings. The one of the left was the Wandering Bean, the baby blue awning dawned its name in bold white letters and a sweet stream of espresso filtered out through the door that opened as customers came and went. The building on the right was a bank, made of glass, essentially, as wide windows made up the walls giving Hermione a few of the tellers front desk.
Hermione was almost positive the building nestled between was Draco’s — something about it seemed like it would be his. Perhaps it was the unkept garden in the front, the mail protruding out of the mailbox, or the repetitive screeching sound that the concrete walls had trouble containing.
She waited a few moments before knocking again, this time harder. She was grateful for the reprieve the wooden awning gave her from the rain.
The door swung open as soon as her first let up, revealing a disheveled Draco still in his pajama’s.
Hermione took one look at Draco and sighed before pushing past him.
There was a determination in her step as she walked towards the screeching and the smell of burnt — something.
"Gods, Draco, what did you do?" she threw over her shoulder. Draco followed her, feet slapping against the ground and hands gripping his hair.
“I was making eggs!" he announced, like that explained everything.
Hermione came to a stop just inside the kitchen and immediately regretted her decision. Smoke curled lazily from the stove, where a frying pan had been left to die. The thing inside it—formerly an egg, she assumed—had taken on a new life as a solid black mass. The smoke alarm screamed overhead.
She turned, staring at Draco. "This is a crime scene."
Draco, still gripping his hair, gestured wildly at the disaster. “It happened so fast! One second, I cracked them in—"
"Did you add oil first? Butter?"
"Oil?"
Hermione stared at him. "Draco."
"What?" he said defensively. "Eggs are already wet!"
Hermione shut her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose. She had never wanted to hex a man over breakfast before, but there was a first time for everything.
She turned and yanked a chair over. "Get up there and turn that bloody alarm off before my ears start bleeding."
Draco scoffed. "I can reach it without the chair." He stepped up confidently, stretching his long arms—and swatted at nothing. He tried again. And again. He went on his toes. He reached with the sheer force of his will. Still nothing.
"Bugger," he muttered.
Hermione, snickering, crossed her arms.
"I'm unnaturally tall," Draco insisted, though it sounded more like he was reassuring himself.
"Clearly not tall enough," she said dryly.
Alas, defeated, he climbed onto the chair and batted at the alarm with his palm. Nothing. He whacked it harder. Still nothing.
"I swear it's mocking me," he muttered, smacking it again.
Hermione rolled her eyes and stepped forward, pressing a firm hand against his abdomen to nudge him aside. He didn’t budge. Solid as a bloody wall. A very firm, very toned wall.
Draco glanced down at her, looking vaguely perplexed.
She shoved him again, this time with both hands. "Move."
"Oh!" He stepped off the chair, blinking like he had just realized what was happening. He folded his arms and watched her intently as she climbed up, grabbed the alarm, and yanked it cleanly from its mount. The blaring sound cut out instantly.
Draco gawked at her, betrayed. "That was an option the whole time?"
"Yes," she deadpanned, hopping down. "And so was not setting your breakfast on fire."
Draco scowled. "How do Muggles live like this?" he muttered. "You’re telling me people cook every day?"
"Yes," Hermione said, stepping over to the stove and shutting it off. "And we manage to do it without committing arson."
Draco huffed. "Cooking is stupid. If I ever get my magic back, I’m setting every frying pan in this house on fire out of principle."
Hermione poked at the charred lump in the pan. It didn't move. She sighed. "Well, breakfast is dead."
Draco wrinkled his nose. "Do I just… buy a new pan now?"
"Clean it, Draco."
He grimaced. "That sounds fake, but okay."
Hermione exhaled sharply. She had a feeling she was going to be here for a while.
Draco eyed the pan with deep suspicion, as if it might lunge at him in revenge for its mistreatment. "So... how does one clean a pan?"
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "Seriously?"
"I never had to do this before!" He threw his arms up. "I had house-elves, Granger. Then magic. Now, apparently, just my own two hands and a mortal existence filled with suffering."
She huffed and grabbed the pan. "You rinse it, scrub off the burnt bits, and—" She stopped, frowning at the bottom. "Merlin, Draco, how did you manage to burn the underside?"
Draco peered at it, then shrugged. "The flames were aggressive?"
Hermione let out a long, weary breath. "Of course they were." She marched over to the sink and turned on the tap. "Soap. Sponge. Scrub. It’s not hard."
Draco loomed behind her, watching over her shoulder like she was performing some kind of complex alchemy. "This feels unnecessary. Can’t I just buy another one? Or — ooh! You could just magic it away!"
She whirled around, thrusting the sponge at him. "No! And no, you will burn the next one too, and then you’ll be out of pans and money."
Draco snorted at her words as if he found them quite amusing, then he took the sponge between two fingers like it might bite him. "What is this made of?" He squinted at it. "It’s so... squishy."
Hermione plucked the shiny, plastic bottle of blue dish soap flicked open the cap. "Soap it, scrub, rinse. Not that complicated."
Draco hesitated, then grudgingly turned to the sink. He awkwardly squeezed a huge glob of soap onto the sponge, then began scrubbing. Hermione sighed, relieved that he was finally—
A loud squelch followed by a very undignified yelp.
"What the hell?" Draco retracted his hand like it had been personally attacked. He stared at the soapy mess in horror. "It’s foaming."
Hermione stared at him. "Yes, Draco. That’s what soap does. Honestly, I'm surprised you have soap and a sponge but don't know what to do with either of them."
Draco glared at the sponge like it had betrayed him. "I thought the soap color was relaxing."
Hermione rolled her eyes at this.
Then, very seriously, "I hate it here."
Hermione pressed her lips together, determined not to laugh. "Just—keep scrubbing."
Grumbling, Draco continued, his technique appalling but at least effective.
After an agonizing few minutes of Draco complaining about "water getting everywhere" and "why doesn’t the soap just leave," Hermione inspected the pan, nodded in approval, and handed him a towel.
Draco took it hesitantly, then stared. "What do I do with this?"
Hermione’s eye twitched. "Don't tell me you are this incompetent, Draco. I know you were first in potions class." When he looked at her like a deer caught in headlights and then shrugged, she sighed. "Dry. The. Pan."
Draco muttered something suspiciously close to stupid Muggle nonsense but obeyed.
By the time he was done, he looked exhausted—utterly drained by the harrowing experience of washing a single pan. He dropped onto a chair dramatically, rubbing his temples. "Never again."
Hermione leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. "So," she drawled. "What have we learned?"
Draco let his head fall back with a groan. "To never cook again."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "To use oil. And not burn your breakfast."
Draco huffed. "Fine, whatever. Can we eat now? I'm starving."
"Not unless you want charcoal eggs," she snarked.
Draco pouted at her, which was ridiculous considering he was a fully grown man. "Alright, Granger, what if—" He hesitated, then sighed dramatically. "What if you teach me?"
Hermione blinked at him. "Teach you?"
"Yes." He gestured at the stove. "Since you're apparently some kind of culinary goddess who knows the sacred art of ‘not setting breakfast on fire,’ you might as well pass down your wisdom."
Hermione folded her arms, considering. "You actually want to learn?"
Draco hesitated. "Want is a strong word."
"You're asking me to make you breakfast, aren’t you?"
Draco gave her a winning smile. "That depends. If I say yes, will you?"
"No."
"Then I desperately want to learn," he said, placing a hand over his heart. "Please, oh wise Granger, teach me your ways."
She snorted. "Fine. But if you set something else on fire, I’m hexing you."
Draco grinned. "Noted. Now, where do we start?"
Hermione turned toward the fridge and pulled it open—then immediately froze.
Inside, staring back at her like the saddest grocery haul in history, were four cartons of eggs, a half-empty jar of mustard, three bottles of butterbeer, and a block of suspiciously hard cheese.
She slowly turned to Draco. "Malfoy."
"Yeah, yeah, make yourself at home— uh, oh. Last name."
He perked up at the look on her face. Looking like a child waiting to receive a tongue-lashing.
"You have nothing but eggs."
Draco frowned. "What do you mean? Eggs are essential."
"Essential for what? Forming a cult?"
He scoffed. "For eating, obviously."
"You don’t cook."
"I was trying to!" He gestured dramatically at the stove, where the charred remains of his breakfast still sat in the pan like a warning. "Clearly, I needed practice."
"Clearly." She turned back to the fridge and made a face. "And mustard?"
Draco blinked. "It’s a staple."
"A staple for what?"
"I don’t know, sandwiches?"
"You don’t have bread."
Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked slightly betrayed by his own fridge. "...Huh."
Hermione shut the fridge door with a sigh. "Malfoy, this is a disaster."
Draco waved her off. "It’s fine. I’m an improviser."
"You nearly burned down your kitchen making eggs."
"An aspiring improviser," he corrected.
Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. "I think we need to start small. Like, 'how to function as a human being' small."
Draco huffed and crossed his arms. "I function just fine."
"Oh, really?" Hermione arched a brow. "Alright, tell me: when was the last time you ate something that wasn’t an egg?"
Draco opened his mouth—paused—then frowned. "...Tuesday?"
"Malfoy, it’s Friday."
Draco shifted. "...Huh."
"That’s it." Hermione grabbed her coat. "We’re going grocery shopping."
Draco immediately recoiled. "What? No. Absolutely not. I refuse to participate in this domestic nonsense—"
"Too bad. You clearly can’t be trusted to feed yourself." She pointed at the door. "Get your coat. We’re fixing this."
Draco groaned, slumping back in his chair. "Merlin, just let me starve in peace."
"Nope."
"This is cruel and unusual punishment, Granger."
"Consider it your penance for crimes against breakfast."
Draco scowled, but as Hermione stood there with her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently, he let out an exaggerated sigh and stood. "Fine. But I’m not carrying the bags."
Hermione smirked. "Oh, you definitely are."
Draco hesitated in front of the small grocery store, eyeing the automatic doors with deep distrust.
Hermione sighed. "For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy, it’s a grocery store, not Knockturn Alley."
Draco folded his arms. "I don’t trust things that move on their own."
"They’re automatic doors, not a possessed suit of armor."
"Same energy."
Hermione stepped forward, and the doors slid open with a soft whoosh. Draco startled back like they had tried to hex him.
"See? Witchcraft!"
"You're a wizard," Hermione reminded him for what felt like the hundredth time today.
"Yes, exactly. Wizard magic. This is—" he gestured at the doors, "—a poor imitation. Muggle magic is like off-brand Polyjuice Potion. It works, but only in deeply unsettling ways."
"Just go inside," she groaned, grabbing a basket and marching in.
Draco followed reluctantly, shoulders tense like he expected the fluorescent lights to attack. His eyes darted around at the shelves, his expression shifting from wariness to fascination.
"So… what happens now?" he asked, peering at a display of apples. "Do we just… take things?"
Hermione sighed, already regretting this. "No, Malfoy, we pay for them."
Draco huffed. "Muggle nonsense."
As they moved through the aisles, Hermione efficiently plucking items off the shelves while Draco trailed behind, occasionally picking up random things and pretending he knew what they were.
Hermione picked up a carton of eggs and turned to Draco. "Wait—if you don’t know how Muggle grocery stores work… how were you getting eggs before?"
Draco shrugged, examining a tin of baked beans with deep suspicion. "I just took them."
Hermione froze. "You what." And then she waved her hand and stopped what he was about to say, "You know what. I don't even want to know."
They continued on.
At one point, he grabbed a pack of instant coffee and held it up with absolute disgust. "This isn’t real coffee."
"Malfoy—"
"This is coffee-flavored treason."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "Then get the ground coffee."
Draco frowned at the shelf. "What’s the difference?"
Hermione gave him a flat look. "Do I look like a barista?"
Draco smirked. "Granger, are you admitting you don’t know something? This is a momentous occasion. We should alert the Prophet."
Hermione snatched the instant coffee and tossed it in the basket. "Pick your battles, Malfoy. And the Prophet can go fuck itself in the arse with a giant, family size can of Pringles."
Draco looked at her in mute concern, moving a his palm to rub the side of his face as he looked onto her with concern, before he smartly decided to drop it and wave her off.
Hermione told him it was time to move along and walked away with the cart. They reached the meat section, and Draco froze in horror at the butcher’s counter.
Hermione glanced at him. "What?"
He pointed. "Why is it just… there?"
"It’s a butcher’s block. People buy fresh cuts of meat."
Draco continued to stare. "Fresh cuts?"
"Yes."
"You’re telling me," he began slowly, "that Muggles go out of their way to acquire raw meat and don’t just summon it already prepared?"
"Correct."
"And then they—Merlin help us—cook it?"
"Yes, Draco."
He turned to her, aghast. "You’re making this up. This is a prank."
She sighed. "Draco, you grew up in a manor. Who do you think prepared your food?"
"The house-elves, obviously."
"And where do you think they got it?"
Draco looked at the butcher’s block again, then at her, his mouth opening and closing. Finally, he turned on his heel and muttered, "I need to sit down."
"Absolutely not, we still need bread," Hermione said, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him away before he could start a philosophical crisis in the middle of the market.
Draco barely had time to recover before a chipper elderly woman paused next to him in the bread aisle. "Oh, excuse me, dear, can you reach that for me?"
Draco blinked, looking around as if expecting her to be talking to someone else. When it was clear she meant him, he straightened, smirking. "Ah, yes. My time has come."
Hermione groaned.
Draco plucked the loaf of white bread off the top shelf with ease and handed it to the woman, who patted his arm. "Such a nice young man!"
Draco preened. "I am, aren’t I?"
But before he could launch into an unnecessary monologue, Hermione grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him away. "No flirting with the elderly, Malfoy."
Draco pouted. "You’re just jealous that Muggles love me."
"Muggles are tolerating you."
They reached the checkout, and Draco immediately pointed at the self-service machine. "No. Absolutely not."
Hermione raised a brow. "What?"
"I'm not doing that."
"It’s just scanning the—"
"No." He crossed his arms like a stubborn child. "I refuse to be outwitted by a machine today, Granger. Not after the morning I’ve had."
Hermione sighed and started scanning the groceries. Meanwhile, Draco stood behind her, staring in open suspicion at the self-checkout screen.
When it beeped loudly at her for an incorrect scan, Draco flinched. "I knew it. It's sentient."
Hermione sighed. "It's not sentient."
"It judged you, Granger. I heard it."
Hermione smacked the ‘OK’ button with more force than necessary while Draco muttered about Muggle surveillance conspiracies.
As they walked out, Draco nodded towards a police officer standing near the entrance. "Who's that? A security troll?"
Hermione nearly choked. "What? No, Malfoy, that’s a police officer."
Draco frowned. "I thought Muggle enforcement officers wore red coats and rode horses."
"That’s Canada."
"Oh." Draco squinted at the officer. "So what, they just… patrol things? Without magic?"
"Yes. If you break the law, they arrest you. They're the Muggle equivalent of Auror's, just with guns instead of wands."
Draco frowned and his eyes stayed glued on the officer as they grew closer. Hermione watched the older man shoot Draco a weird look — presumably for the way Draco had unknowingly puffed up his chest and pretended to look scary — before turning back to surveillance. "Whatever is a gun?"
"It's like a wand — but not really. It's main purpose is to cause harm, you see, it fires off a metal projectile at high speeds using a controlled explosion —"
"EXPLOSION?" Draco yelped. Hermione glared at him when everyone in the checkout area turned to look, including the very brash security guard that had taken a precarious glance at the hand Draco had stuffed in his pocket.
Gods, he was a mess.
"Shh!" Hermione hissed. "You can't just yelled 'explosion' in a store!"
Draco made a face. "Fine. So you're telling me that Muggles just walk around with tiny cannons in their pockets?"
Hermione opened her mouth to correct him as they finally exited the store but then screwed it shut again. Huh. He was actually kind of right. "Well — yes, actually. That's pretty much it."
Draco paused and seemed to consider this before he said, "I want one."
Hermione barked out a laugh and the very seriously said, "No."
"I could take his," he gestured back into he store. "I would first need to locate it — actually, first need to see what one looks like. Why didn't we use those in the war? Well, never mind, but I could definitely take it. He seems like a big loaf if you ask me —"
Hermione had taken to staring at him incredulously before cutting him off with a high-pitched, very disapproving "No!"
Draco scoffed. "What are they going to do, throw me in a Muggle jail?"
Hermione turned to him. "Yes. If they don't kill you for trying to take a Police Officer's weapon first!"
Draco paused. "Wait. Really?"
"Yes, Draco. What?! And before you ask—no, bribery doesn’t work."
Draco gasped. "So Muggle criminals just sit there?"
"Yes."
He looked personally offended. "For how long?"
"Depends on the crime. Like taking an officer's weapon could get you fined and put in jail for up to a year with no bail."
Draco turned to stare at the officer again through the window of the store, eyes wide with horror. "Merlin’s beard, you people are barbaric."
Hermione dragged him further out before he could start an interrogation.
Draco let out a dramatic sigh, shifting the weight of the grocery bags in his arms. "I hope you appreciate the suffering I endured today."
Hermione smirked. "Oh, I do. Thoroughly."
"Good. Because if I ever have to do this again, I’m setting the entire store on fire."
"And that," Hermione said, "would definitely get you arrested."
Draco groaned.