An Unplottable Cottage
Sylvie Wynchworth was on her fourth attempt to enter the packed pub, but for the fourth time, she was rebuked. She had waited in the line, had attempted to flirt her way through, gazing up at the hulking man through her mascara darkened lashes trying to sweet talk her way through the ebony door, and she had resorted to bribery. He narrowed his dark eyes, heavy eyebrows pinching in the middle as if confused by the paper note presented to him.
“No entrance for you lot tonight.” His voice was gruff but carried across the amassed line of patrons. “Private party.” With that, he swung his giant frame around, entered the pub, and closed the door behind him with finality. The crowd dispersed, but Sylvie Wynchworth did not. She had had a terrible day and was unwilling to return to the empty flat where she and Glen had planned their future. Sighing, the flaxen blonde teetered on too-high heels as she walked until she came across another pub.
The noise was downright rowdy as she slid onto the only stool available, next to a pair of men whose heads were bent close to hear each other over the din of the room. She signalled the attendant for a glass of white wine and tried not to gawk at the pair. The man closest to her had a pointed look to him – all sharp angles and a slender build – but her gaze immediately slid to the one beside him. If the other were a Greek statue, this man would be categorised as a Roman god. His tanned skin glowed under the lanterns, and he had heavy brows and dark eyes that held an intelligence Slyvie would love to delve into. He was shorter than the blond man beside him, and she appreciated the coiled strength she could see in his exposed forearms. The man glanced over at her before she could glance away, and he smirked at her, his eyes roving over her body quickly. He opened his mouth to say something, but a short woman with a high voice slid into his side and took his attention.
Sylvie allowed the din of the pub to wash over her as she sipped her first, then second, glass of wine. Occasionally, the group next to her would be loud enough in their drunkenness that she could make out bits of the conversation.
The blond was constantly talking about killing a weasel, and everyone would need to talk him down. Sylvie thought he had the right idea, weasels were the worst once they got into your garden, almost impossible to get rid of once they’ve burrowed their way in.
As the night wore on, Sylvie forgot why she had gone out and eventually the trio gathered their things and sauntered out the doors but not before a napkin was slid next to her third glass. The name Theo Nott was scrawled on the paper with a room number to a hotel in Trafalgar. Sylvie Wynchworth hummed to herself as she swayed off the stool and called a cab from the curb.
✧✧✧
Seven hundred and forty-nine kilometres away, Hermione Granger stood in an empty field of wildflowers, her riotous curls piled atop her head. The outline of a small home shimmered and then disappeared. She had finally made her countryside cottage unplottable. After the war, Hermoine moved in with her best mate, Harry Potter, for the summer holidays. While he started his training program with the ministry, Hermione went back for one more year of her education at Hogwarts, along with a few other students. Notedly, several Slytherins were also forced back by the Ministry’s Rehabilitation Act of ‘98.
Following the completion of her Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests, or N.E.W.T.s, (She of course, received O’s in all subjects and liked to remind Harry occasionally that while he may have entered the workforce earlier than herself, she passed all her exams without the help of a defaced book.), Hermione left Hogwarts and the close-knit group of 8th years she had called family for 9 months.
With Hogwarts firmly behind her, she moved back into her room at Grimmauld Place. But after a year of living with Harry and Ron, two boys who never outgrew the expectation of a doting mother and indentured house elves, Hermione decided that she needed her own space. They had not been taught how to make a location unplottable, but after some extensive research and an incident that included losing every left trainer in Grimmauld, Hermione had figured it out.
Brought back to the present by the whoops and cheers, she was not startled by the strong freckled arms circling her. Her smile widened into a full grin at Ginny Weasley as Hermione turned, hooting in glee, and jumped on Ron’s arm. She took a moment to enjoy his arms around her before stepping out of his embrace and threw a wry smile at a lanky boy with dishevelled black hair.
“Knew you would manage it ‘Mione,” Harry gave a lopsided smile back as he cupped a hand over her shoulder. “What is a bit of Unplottability spellwork for the Brightest Witch of Our Age?”
Hermione’s smile faded a bit as she jabbed an elbow into his ribs.
“Don’t start, Harry. You know I cannot stand that stupid moniker. People say they mean well but I can always hear the ‘for a muggleborn’ tacked onto the end.”
“Let’s not bicker, children,” Ginny chimed in with her best Molly Weasley impersonation, complete with hands on her hips.
“I want to see the inside!” Ron turned in a circle, his freckled face turning crimson. “Uh, which way was it again?”
Shaking her head in soft affection, Hermione stepped forward and pushed the little white gate open with a sigh of magic. The quaint stone cottage materialised again and the friends all exclaimed over the magic as if they had all not spent 7 years fighting in a magical war of good and evil.
The cottage was not very big. The front room’s walls were lined with bookshelves, all of which were overflowing haphazardly. In the middle of the room, were two crimson sofas that Hermione had nicked from the Gryffindor common room and a single overstuffed chair directly by the hearth. The hardwood floor was worn and covered in several rugs she’d purchased from local charity shops. The sitting room led to a kitchen with a muggle fridge and stove. In the corner sat a round dining table with mismatched chairs surrounding it. Two closed doors for the bath and Hermione’s bedroom. It was simple and Hermione was in love with her home.
“Hey Mione, I don’t see Crookshanks. Did he finally d—” Ron was cut off, and Ginny lowered her wand and raised an eyebrow.
“What Ronnikins was trying to say, how is Crooks doing with the change? Probably less Doxies for him to chase out here.” Ginny cast finite, allowing Ron to have control of his voice once more.
“Blimey, Gin! That was just uncalled for!” Ron sputtered out, spittle flying from his unsealed lips.
“Be glad it wasn’t a bat-bogey hex,” Harry laughed. “I hate when she gets me with one of those.”
Hermione shook her head, knowing that Crookshanks had never forgiven Ron for his mistrust in Third year. She was sure the half-kneazel had gone out of his way to make cohabitation with the boys extremely hard.
“Thank you for being here for this, it means a lot.” She hugged Ginny to her side with sisterly affection. While she and Ron didn't last as a couple, she was glad she had the Weasley clan in her corner.
“Any time Curls, but now I need to go. Luna is waiting and she starts to redecorate when she has too much time on her hands. And I’ll be taking these two gits with me.” After a chorus of goodbyes and promises to catch up soon, the floo roared to life as Ginny shouted out for Number 12 Grimmauld Place.
Hermione decided to leave the curtains open, but had she gone to check the window before bed, she may have heard the pop of disapparation.
✧✧✧
Draco Malfoy’s silver gaze zeroed in on the location where Hermione Granger disappeared from the map.
“She figured it out then. You gave her the book?” He did not take his eyes from the map, lest she reappear.
“Obviously. Unplottable spells have been strictly regulated since they found out the Blacks had Grimmauld spelled, and Sirius Black used it as a hideous hideaway. No way were they just going to allow someone as outspoken about the new regime as Granger be able to disappear off of the face of the globe whenever she wished,” Theodore Nott said jovially, his floppy locks bouncing with every movement of his head.
“Lucky your father liked to keep certain rooms in Nott Manor hidden then,” Draco drawled as he sipped a short glass of Ogden's finest.
“Lucky daddy dearest beat the spell into me, and I could transcribe it into a crumbling journal, you mean, and then casually bribe Flourish and Blott to carry two volumes of it the same day Granger came looking.”
“Is that not what I said, Nott?”
Just then his eyes were drawn to the flames of the fireplace flaring green. With a whoosh and a snooty sniff, Pansy Parkinson brushed cinders from her impeccably tailored robes and stepped from the hearth, holding up a modified gold galleon.
“She-weasel marks it a success. Granger successfully hid her… quaint… home and should be safe from any remaining beasties –current company included.”
Pansy dropped into the dark settee, lounging back as if she were Lady of the Manor. She may have entertained ideas of owning Malfoy Manor once, but that schoolgirl fantasy came to a quick end when they had to make Amortenia for their NEWTs. Pansy had been startled to notice it no longer smelled like green apples and roses, but had changed to honeysuckle and earth, reminding her of sureness and calloused hands.
“I still do not understand why you couldn’t just give her the spell instead of all the subterfuge. We are on good terms with the Gryffindorks. She would not have turned down your help.” Pansy buffed her nails on her hem, looking bored, but the curious gleam in her dark eyes gave her away.
“I never want to hear the words thank you from her, not after everything I have allowed to happen to her.”
Theo and Pansy shared an exasperated look. They had heard it before, but after seven years, Malfoy’s self-deprecation was getting tiresome.
“Draco, don’t you think she has already forgiven you? She spoke at your trial for Merlin’s sake! Her and the Chosen One both.” Theo started in on the same conversation they repeated so many times, it almost felt like using a Time Turner (if they hadn’t all been destroyed in the Ministry, that was).
Draco was also tired of it and waved his slender, pale hands dismissively.
“Did you know, I apologised, once? I cornered her after we left the Great Hall one evening in 8th year, and I made a fool of myself. Ended with her thanking me for the apology! As if I said it so she would forgive me. I did not want it then, nor do I want it now.” He glared at the pair and turned his back towards the large window overlooking his mother’s gardens. He may have meant to dismiss them, but neither of them were house elves and continued to chat until he was done sulking, letting the conversation drop.