Hermione
The little brass bell over the door gave a half-hearted jingle as Hermione stepped into Flourish and Blotts, announcing her presence to precisely no one who cared. The scent of parchment, old ink, and just the faintest hint of dust greeted her like an old friend, wrapping around her in a way that made her forget—if only briefly—that she was a functioning adult with a job and responsibilities, not a twelve-year-old girl about to spend her entire allowance on a book about arithmancy for fun.
The bookshop was quiet, just the way she liked it. Diagon Alley crowds were a waking nightmare, and being recognized as the Golden Girl of the war only made them worse. The starstruck stares, the whispers, the occasional bold “Thank you for your service!”—all of it was exhausting. She had learned that the best time to run errands was midday on a Thursday, when everyone else was at work and she was on break from her St. Mungo’s apprenticeship.
She turned down an aisle and let her fingers trail along the spines of the books, feeling the different textures of leather, cloth, and enchanted bindings. She was here for research, as usual, though she hardly needed an excuse to visit. This time, it was for her latest side project—an ambitious proposal to replace the outdated, wildly unfair magical creature rights laws. The project consumed most of her free time, but she didn’t mind. It kept her busy. Kept her distracted. Not that she’d ever admit it to anyone, but she still had nightmares about the war. Some nights, she could swear she smelled fire, acrid and choking. Other nights, she saw shadows moving in the corners of her flat, only to remind herself seconds later that no, that was impossible, and yes, she was perfectly safe.
Her gaze flitted over the titles before landing on one that piqued her interest: Magical Contracts and Their Loopholes by Abtha Crass. Intriguing. She reached for the book, already running through the possibilities in her mind—maybe she could find a way to push her proposal through faster by exploiting old Ministry clauses. It wouldn’t be unethical per se, just... efficient.
But before her fingers could even brush the spine, a voice interrupted.
“Anything I can help you with?”
Hermione’s hand froze midair. Her brain, unfortunately, did the opposite of freezing—it went into overdrive, registering the voice, the particular cadence of it, the way it curled around syllables in a manner that had once made her grit her teeth in irritation.
She turned slowly, her stomach dropping with a sense of inevitability, and there he was—Draco Malfoy, of all people, rounding the corner of the bookshelf like some sort of tragic apparition.
The effect of seeing him in person, after so long, was almost comical. The second his eyes landed on her, his usual confident stride stuttered, and for a fraction of a second, he looked—Merlin help her—absolutely baffled, like he’d just walked in on a hippogriff wearing reading glasses.
Three seconds. That’s how long it took him to collect himself, to smooth over his expression and slip into that familiar, practiced neutrality. It was a skill, really, the way he could mask emotion so completely. But Hermione had spent too many years studying people to be fooled.
His eyes flickered over her briefly, assessing. She hated that she found herself doing the same—taking in the way his platinum-blond hair had grown out slightly, the way it fell just into his eyes before he swept it back with a practiced hand. The black tailored robes, the sharp cut of his jaw. He looked... expensive, which was an absurd thought because he was, quite literally, standing in a bookshop like a normal person.
Malfoy cleared his throat. “Granger.”
There was something about the way he said her name—flat, clipped—that made her snap to attention like she’d been caught sneaking into the Restricted Section.
“Malfoy,” she replied, far too quickly, her cheeks warming. Lovely. She was blushing. Absolutely wonderful. “I—um. What are you doing here?”
“I work here.”
“Oh.” She blinked. That was... unexpected. And mildly concerning. She’d been coming here every Thursday for months, and she’d never seen him. Usually, the shop was run by a small, elderly woman with spectacles and a perpetually unimpressed expression.
Malfoy must have read her confusion because he added, “I’ve only just started. It’s part of my probation.”
“Right,” she said, because that was definitely a normal and articulate response.
She tucked a curl behind her ear, struggling to process this new information. Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, Slytherin Prince, and all-around childhood nemesis, was now... a bookshop clerk. That was—well, honestly, she wasn’t sure what it was. Strange? Poetic?
Probably just the universe’s way of ensuring her life remained full of unnecessary complications.
Malfoy watched her with an unreadable expression, and the silence stretched long enough to become unbearable. Say something, Hermione. Anything.
“Well, uh, I’m just here for…” She reached blindly for the book she’d been eyeing, nearly knocking over an entire stack in the process, “this. So…”
Smooth. Very smooth.
“I’ll ring you up.” He tilted his head toward the counter, his tone perfectly neutral.
She nodded stiffly and followed him, feeling absurdly like she was back in school, waiting for Snape to deduct house points. The shop counter was blessedly empty, and she placed the book down alongside a few galleons.
“Wrapped?” Malfoy asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Oh, no, I’ll just take it, thanks.” She nodded a little too quickly, snatched up the book, and turned to leave, resisting the completely irrational urge to run.
As she stepped back onto the cobbled street, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
What. The. Hell.
Her usual Thursday trip to Flourish and Blotts had just gotten significantly more complicated.
☆°☆°☆
Hermione was curled up in the well-worn armchair in the living room of the little flat she shared with Ron, the dim glow of the enchanted lamps casting a warm light over her latest research project. Her new book was balanced open on the arm of the chair, a notebook resting on her legs as she jotted down notes in her neat, precise handwriting. She liked working like this—cozy, focused, the familiar scent of parchment and ink mixing with the lingering traces of Ron’s cologne in the flat.
The front door swung open with a creak, followed by the distinct thud of boots being kicked off haphazardly. Ron strolled in, still dressed in his Quidditch gear, his red and gold Puddlemere training robes damp with sweat. He grinned at her and flopped onto the couch, arms stretched out like he had just conquered some great battle.
"Hey, 'Mione."
Hermione barely glanced up from her notes, her nose scrunching slightly. "Don't you want to shower before your sweat soaks into the cushions?"
Ron groaned dramatically and threw an arm over his face. "You're so bossy, Hermione."
"And you're currently marinating in your own sweat on our furniture," she shot back, circling something in her notebook.
Rolling his eyes, Ron rolled himself right off the couch and onto the floor with an exaggerated oof. He sprawled out on his back, staring up at the ceiling. "Happy now?"
"Marginally," she replied, hiding a smirk.
He tilted his head toward her, voice softer now. "How was your day?"
A small smile played on Hermione’s lips. "Alright. Healer Foster let me assist on an intense case today—really fascinating spell damage—and I picked up a new book."
Ron hummed in acknowledgment, eyes already drifting shut. He was only half listening, something that seemed to be happening a lot more often lately.
Hermione hesitated, suddenly feeling a small, inexplicable urge to poke at him—just a little. "Oh, and I ran into Draco Malfoy."
Ron's eyes snapped open so fast she almost laughed. "Where?"
"Flourish and Blotts." She closed her book with a decisive snap and leaned back. "He works there now. It’s part of his probation."
Ron sat up slightly, his face immediately souring. "And you're just fine with that?"
Hermione braced herself. She and Ron had disagreed about this since the trials. He was convinced that anyone associated with the Death Eaters should’ve been thrown into Azkaban for life, no exceptions. She, on the other hand, believed in nuance. In second chances.
She sighed. "Ron, I’m not going to stop shopping at a perfectly good bookshop just because Draco Malfoy works there."
That wasn’t entirely true—she had considered it for a brief moment. But then she had stubbornly decided that she wasn’t going to let Draco Malfoy of all people dictate where she bought her books. Besides, who was to say he’d even work on Thursdays?
forgiving toward him. He tried to kill Dumbledore!"
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, regretting bringing Malfoy up in the first place. She was too tired for this argument again. The war had ended years ago, and yet sometimes it felt like she and Ron were still stuck in it, fighting the same battles with no real winner.
She inhaled deeply, then exhaled. "What do you want for dinner?"
Ron blinked at the sudden change in topic, his mouth opening like he wanted to argue further, but then he huffed, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "Chinese food?"
Hermione snapped her notebook shut and stood, abandoning her research for the night. "Great. I’ll go get some while you shower."
Ron grinned, pushing himself to his feet. "You’re the best, 'Mione."
Before she could protest, he leaned down and pressed a sloppy, sweat-scented kiss to her forehead.
Hermione wrinkled her nose. "You are disgusting—go shower, now."
Ron laughed, dodging the pillow she threw at him as he disappeared into the bathroom, leaving her shaking her head with a small, reluctant smile.
°☆°☆°
Next Thursday, Hermione stood outside Flourish and Blotts, arms crossed tightly over her chest, staring at the door like it had personally wronged her.
Healer-in-training for Merlin’s sake. She had faced Death Eaters, battled a mountain troll at age eleven, obliterated a Horcrux with her bare hands—well, a basilisk fang, but still. And yet here she was, hesitating on the threshold of a bloody bookshop, all because Draco Malfoy might be inside.
Absolutely pathetic.
All she had to do was walk in, make a beeline for the Laws and Regulations section, browse for exactly as long as necessary, and leave. If Malfoy was working, she'd only have to interact with him once, and only because he'd be the one ringing up her purchase. Simple. Efficient. Professional.
Hermione inhaled deeply, steeling herself, and pushed the door open. The little bell overhead gave a cheerful jingle, utterly betraying her inner turmoil.
The moment she stepped inside, she felt herself relax slightly. No sign of Malfoy. In fact, no sign of anyone.
Good. Perfect.
She wasted no time heading to her usual section, fingers skimming the familiar spines as she searched for something new, something she hadn’t already devoured. She browsed, flipped through a few pages, even pulled out a promising title, only to realize she’d already read it twice.
Hermione let out a quiet sigh, crossing her arms. For the first time in possibly ever, I’m leaving this bookshop empty-handed. <
She should have just walked straight to the door, exited with her dignity intact, and gone about her day. That would have been the reasonable, mature thing to do.
But then curiosity reared its insufferable head.
It wouldn’t hurt to check if Malfoy was working today, would it? Just a quick peek. Not because she cared, obviously. Just—academic curiosity. Like flipping to the last page of a book to see how things end before committing.
Her feet betrayed her before her brain could stop them, carrying her toward the front of the shop, where she ducked behind a particularly tall stack of books. Carefully, she peeked around the edge.
There he was.
Draco Malfoy was indeed working, leaning over the counter, completely engrossed in a book. His platinum-blond hair fell slightly over his forehead, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Whatever he was reading had his full attention, his usual aloof expression replaced by something more… focused.
Hermione found herself squinting, tilting her head slightly. What on earth was he reading? It didn’t look like a standard inventory ledger. It was too thick, too old-looking. Something interesting? A novel? A research book?
The logical next step, of course, was to casually maneuver herself to get a better look at the cover.
The problem was, she underestimated the stability of the bookshelf she was using as cover.
The moment she leaned forward, her elbow nudged a precariously stacked pile of books, sending them toppling to the ground with a resounding crash.
The sound shattered the quiet like a Bludger through a window.
Hermione’s stomach plummeted.
Mortified, she acted purely on instinct—flee.
Without so much as a glance toward the front counter, she spun on her heel and bolted for the door. She didn’t wait to see if Malfoy had looked up. She didn’t stop to pick up the books. She didn’t even breathe until she was at least three streets away, still walking at a pace that could only be described as deeply suspicious.
By the time she finally slowed, her face was on fire.
Merlin, she wanted to slam her head against a wall. Of all the things she could have done—politely walked away, pretended she’d meant to knock the books over, anything—she had chosen flight.
Absolutely mortified, she groaned into her hands.
She was never ever going back there.
Probably.