It was early, but that’s how Hermione liked it.
If magic existed, this city would be its source. The only sound at this hour of the morning was the musical hum of the wind, and the distant caw of crows. Mist and fog clung to every surface, and as Hermione continued her walk to work, she smiled as she watched a leaf the color of red wine swirl lazily in a rain puddle.
She pulled her coat tighter around her chest as a strong gust cut into her like a terribly tight hug. The smell on the fabric curled around her, tugging at a memory she couldn’t reach. Someone important had given this to her, someone who smelled like green apples and mahogany and something expensive she couldn’t name.
Hermione picked up her pace as the mist turned into a drizzle. Soon, it would begin to truly rain.
She finally reached the bookshop and coffee cafe she practically called home. It was tucked into a busy Edinburgh street, filled with American tourists, British college students studying academia, and elderly locals who always came on Hermione’s shift - since she made sure to give them a discount and an extra scone. It never felt like work, it felt like a hobby that paid her. Her boss never said a thing when Hermione slipped into the bookshelves and took the time to read the books they collected and sold. No one minded if their food or drinks took longer, because she put so much thought and effort into each one. If this place was a living thing, Hermione would be its bleeding heart.
The rhythm of setting up took her mind off of the fact that she still could not remember who gave her the coat, and why the mere thought of them sent shivers down her spine. She made herself a cup first (a flat white with a dash of cinnamon) and turned the radio on (The Smiths began to sing). Hermione hummed to herself as she vacuumed the carpet, restocked popular books that had sold out, organized messy shelves, pulled fresh milk from the back fridge, added espresso beans to the machine, dusted off the wood under the windows, wiped down the tables, and finally set the fresh pastries out under a glass dome. Before she turned the sign to read OPEN, she scarfed down an almond croissant to keep her hunger at bay.
Now, as the world around her turned from black to grey, she became awake and alive. She was content, and she was happy.
***
It was no different than any other shift. Since it was a Wednesday, it was supposed to be slow enough that only Hermione needed to work. That’s how she wanted it.
There was a line, but most of the people were regulars - Ethan (a college student who got a rich black coffee and ‘studied’ just for the aesthetics), Harold (an elderly gentleman) a stranger (likely a tourist). The rest were a blur of faces that ordered quick and carelessly before they scampered back into the streets.
“Autumn’s truly here, hmm?” Harold said absently as he reached into his pocket. Hermione already had his tea and pastry ready by the time his gnarled, blue-veined fingers dropped the coins onto the counter. He winked at her, the gesture nearly lost in the wrinkles around his eyes. “You know me best.”
“Of course,” Hermione smiled. “Enjoy. See you tomorrow, Harold.”
Hermione dusted some of the crumbs off the counter as the next guest stepped forward.
“Good morning, what can I-” Her words fell away like loose stones on a cliff’s edge.
He was beautiful, and he was cold.
The man was dressed immaculately in gleaming leather boots, dark brown trousers, and a white shirt crisp from starch. The buttons that trailed up his torso and chest gleamed in the light. His skin was pale and smooth, with hair paler still. He carried a book bag over one shoulder, and Hermione noticed a thin, worn down striped scarf was tied around a strap. The gold and crimson color of it stood out starkly against his muted palette. Her eyes drifted away from the scarf to look him in the eyes, but she found it difficult to do.
Looking at him was like trying to look at the sun.
His bright gaze was silvery blue, the color of winter. It reminded her of days in late January, when the cold seemed to have no end. When the chill of sharp frost swept through every layer and every surface and cut one to the bone.
But it wasn’t just the color of his eyes, but the emotion in them that made it hard to speak.
He was looking at her like she was important to him. Like she was someone…
“Have we met before?” Hermione asked softly.
He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, moving the bag - and the scarf- out of her eyesight as it shifted behind him. He cleared his throat. His accent wasn’t American or Australian like she expected. In fact, it was British, just like hers. “I’m afraid not.”
Her heart sank. “Oh. Alright.” She shook herself. “Im sorry. What can I get you?”
“Just 2 blueberry scones and a flate white with a dash of cinnamon, please.”
Hermione stopped writing.
“Really?” She asked, some of her earlier pep coming back.
He blinked at her. “What does that mean?”
She shrugged. “I just didn’t take you for a coffee kind of guy. I thought you’d ask for our strongest tea, hold the sugar and cream.”
He smiled, and though it was small and guarded, it was still brilliant enough for Hermione’s stomach to dip.
“I am normally someone who prefers tea,” He said, almost shyly. “But someone close to me prefers their drink this way, and I order it when I’m feeling nostalgic.”
“How funny.” Hermione giggled as she grabbed the saucer and mug. “That’s my favorite drink. Cinnamon and all.”
She had looked over her shoulder at him, still smiling, but froze as she saw his expression.
It was as if a mask had slipped off. His hands shook. His eyes were pained, and the longing in them told Hermione that whoever this person was, they were as good as dead for how much this man ached for them.
Then she blinked, and his expression was cool, distant. As if all of that emotion had never existed inside him. “How ironic.” He said.
He didn’t speak again, and Hermione was too disarmed to make small talk anyways.
He felt familiar, whether he was someone she had met before or not. Something about his movements, his gaze, made her nerves come alive.
She handed him his order, and he only dipped his head in thanks before tucking himself into a secluded table towards the back.
Hermione needed to do something to keep her hands busy, or else she’d just stand here gazing at the back of his head the rest of her shift.
With a frustrated grunt she moved to the bookshelves and began absentmindedly adjusting books and trinkets.
***
It made her less ashamed that her gaze kept snagging on him like a loose thread of yarn when his eyes were constantly colliding with her own.
They were two planets moving in sync. He had a newspaper and large leather bound book on the table, but he didn’t seem to be interested in reading. She found herself always doing a side task in his line of sight, and when she’d glance at him (which she often did) his silver gaze would already be resting on her like a warm flame before he’d take a sip of his drink and look away.
Was this some sort of instant-attraction kind of thing? Or did he know her and he was lying? But if he did know her…why didn’t she know him? And what was the reason for lying?
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him light a cigarette, and she was shamefully grateful for an excuse to talk to him again.
“Excuse me,” Hermione said. “You can’t smoke in here.”
She glanced down at the paper just as his arm moved to cover it. Peeking out at her was the headline:
THE GOLDEN TRIO HAS BEEN SHATTERED: WITH TWO DEAD AND ONE MISSING, WHO WILL RISE TO DEFEAT THE DARK LORD NOW?
“It’s rude to eavesdrop, you know.” The stranger snapped. Hermione’s face grew hot.
“I’m sorry,” She mumbled. “I’ve just never seen a headline like that.”
“It’s for a fantasy story I’m reading.” He said smoothly.
“Right.” Hermione muttered. “Makes sense.”
She was forced to back up as he rose to his feet, wrapping his lips around the unlit cigarette.
Before she could think better of it, she blurted, “Can I join you?”
He blinked at her. “You smoke?”
No, no she didn’t. But he didn’t know that. “Yes.”
He raised a single brow that told her he didn’t believe her, but shrugged and walked towards the door.
It was past noon, which meant they’d only be open a few more hours. Customers rarely blew in to the shop this time of day. It’d be fine to step out, just for a moment.
They made their way to a needle-thin alley, barely big enough for the two of them.
The man added a second cigarette to his lips, lighting both of them with a classic metal lighter. She watched him breathe in, and the hot cherry on the ends burned bright. He took one out and handed it to her.
Hermione wrapped her lips around it as she looked at him. Something dark and satisfying bloomed in her like oil in water when his eyes darkened at the movement.
She felt emboldened by the mere thought that she had any effect on him.
“I know you.” Hermione whispered. “I know you well, and yet I can’t remember you.”
He ducked his head as if she’d struck him.
“Don’t talk like that, Granger.”
Her name on his tongue. Not pronounced like a stranger but like a friend. Like a lover.
She pulled at her jumper. “I’m not wearing a name tag.” Her composure was fraying at the edges. “How did you know that?”
His face fell, and then he pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes as he leaned against the brick wall.
Hermione’s heart pounded like a quickening drum.
Finally, he sighed and relaxed, as if he came to a conclusion.
“None of this will make sense to you.” He warned. She shook her head.
“I don’t care.”
He stepped close until his arms were braced on either side of her head. His eyes, the way he looked at her…
She wanted those icy blue pools to pull her under.
“Snape thinks I can reverse it,” He spoke as if he was thinking aloud, not really speaking to her. “If the Order can win soon, we can reverse it and you’ll remember everything.”
Her heart pounded harder.
“But you’ll hate me.” He leaned in close, and she breathed in the scent of him: apples and rich cologne and dark wood. The smell from her coat. “When you realize what I did you’ll hate me. You always told me you could handle the weight of the war. Maybe it’s best if I let you live this life instead.”
“What?” She felt dazed, the question weak and shivering.
He continued as if she never spoke.
“You are my greatest temptation,” The words curled and caressed her like silk on skin. “All of that effort I put in to get you out of that hellhole, and I jeopardize it all because I simply can’t stay away.”
He tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “This will be the last time, Granger. No one person should be obliviated this many times.”
Each word struck her like shards of glass: Snape, Order, obliviated.
But another word came to her, one said with only the utmost care and devotion.
Draco, Draco, Draco-
She watched the man, Draco, pull out a dark, long piece of wood.
A stick?
He pointed it at her temple.
“Wait-”
“I love you, Granger. Obliviate.”
***
What was she doing standing outside without a coat on, with a half-smoked cigarette in her hand no less?
Hermione threw the stupid thing on the ground and crushed it under her boot.
Her head pounded like something fierce. Maybe she just needed more caffeine. What time was it anyway?
She moved to leave the alley, but the smell of something achingly familiar filled her lungs.
Hermione looked around. She was alone, but she couldn’t help but feel like she’d been visited by a ghost.