Steamed Pudding
Hermione pulled on her jacket as she left Scrivenshaft’s, the late August sky rumbling with the threat of a gathering thunderstorm. Mr Feathertop waved to her as he slid the bolt and turned the sign. A closed door indeed, Hermione thought, waving goodbye. She caught her reflection in the shop window, with its elegant feather quills and ink pots of colorful promise, deep pearly blacks through to the softest, brightest dandelion yellows. She sighed softly as she fluffed her hair out of the collar of her jacket.
She’d been sure the quill shop would be a great fit as an after-school job, and kind Mr Feathertop (all but inevitable he run a quill shop with a name like that, she smiled) had been welcoming and relaxed, but one trial afternoon was enough to send her back to the drawing board. Despite a few customers and a steady stream of owl orders to fill there had been rather too much downtime and a few patrons with rather invasive questions. Time alone with her thoughts and time spent discussing the war were two things she was trying hard to avoid.
Fat raindrops started to fall as she turned up the lane towards Hogwarts, the sky brightening with the first flash of lightning. One, two, she began to count, but the thunder was already rolling and cracking overhead before she got to three. Oh wonderful, she thought, it’s already close: in a minute the heavens are going to open. Up ahead the door of the Three Broomsticks opened and a wizard stepped out, orange light spilling onto the darkening cobble stones. A better idea, Hermione decided, hurrying towards the Inn and hoping Madam Rosmerta would already be serving food.
“Good evening Hermione!” Madam Rosmerta called, smiling as Hermione scurried inside and shook the raindrops from her hair. “Just waiting out the storm, or?”
“Actually I was hoping, sorry, good evening Madam Rosmerta, I was hoping to have some dinner?”
“Of course, kitchen just opened. Special tonight is cottage pie.”
Hermione smiled and went to answer but found her words stuck in her throat. She felt slightly off-balance and realized she couldn’t quite remember how to speak. She swallowed as she watched Madam Rosmerta tilt her head, quietly appraising her, and coughed an answer out as best she could. “Yes, thanks, perfect.”
To her relief Madam Rosmerta only nodded. “Butterbeer ok?”
Hermione nodded too in reply, not trusting her voice just yet, and headed to a small table in the back. She tried to even out her breathing and shook out her fingers. It’s just cottage pie, she told herself, there’s no danger here, but her nervous system was reluctant to agree.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the carved wooden backrest of the bench, pushing away the rising, cloying grip of memory and focusing instead on the sounds and smells of the Inn. She’d been here a hundred times. She’d sat here, at this table, with Harry before, could imagine his voice and the warm smell of his jacket, his hair, his hands calloused from carelessness and Quidditch. Harry smelled of warm wood and something sweeter; the notes changed sometimes but were always comforting. She opened her eyes again, her breathing a little deeper now. “Thanks Harry,” she whispered, taking off her rain jacket and and hanging it off the chair opposite to dry.
Madam Rosmerta carried over the Butterbeer and set it down in front of Hermione. “I’m not used to seeing you alone, Hermione. Where are Harry and Ron? Are they joining you?”
“No. Harry should be back in a day or two for the start of term.” She paused, then dismissed her caution, deciding it was no great secret. “And Ron’s not coming back.”
“Oh?”
“He’s been helping his Dad with a couple of projects at the Ministry this summer and I think… I think he felt coming back to Hogwarts would be…” Hermione lifted her glass and turned it slowly, the cold glass and weight of the pint grounding her nicely in the present, deciding how best to finish her sentence as she met Madam Rosmerta’s eye. “Difficult.”
“I see. Well he was never exactly an academic, your Mr Weasley,” Rosmerta teased, smiling absently as if remembering the boy he’d been, the children they’d all been before they had to grow up fast.
“No. True. And... I mean just so… he’s not my Mr Weasley. At least not like that. Not any more.”
“I’m sorry, Hermione.” Madam Rosmerta looked it, too. “Your business is none of my business.”
“No, it’s alright. We haven’t fallen out or anything, not really it’s just…” She put her glass down again, the words escaping her.
“War and grief complicate things.”
“Exactly.” Hermione smiled at Madam Rosmerta, relieved to speak with someone who understood and who wasn’t afraid to speak honestly to the consequences of the war, someone who seemed to be motivated by genuine interest rather than a thirst for gossip.
“Why are you back early?” Madam Rosmerta asked.
“I’m Head Prefect for Gryffindor this year.”
“Head Prefect?”
“It’s a new idea of McGonagall’s. A sort of house representative.”
“I see. So there are four of you?”
“Exactly. One Head Prefect per house. It will mean a bit more work because we have additional responsibilities: helping ensure student welfare, attending occasional staff meetings, that sort of thing. But it’s also a chance to make a difference. And it comes with perks too; we have our own dorm with private bedrooms and we can go into Hogsmeade on weeknights. Anyway we were asked to return a few days early and get settled in.” Hermione took a drink from her glass. “And I’d lined up a trial afternoon at Scrivener’s today.”
“Oh yes? Harald will be glad of your assistance I’m sure, what with the back to school flurry. Though I wouldn’t have thought he’d need much help otherwise?”
“No, well… that’s the problem. I don’t think he does. I wanted an after-school job a few days a week, just enough hours to keep me busy and help pay my way this year. Scrivener’s is wonderful, I mean it’s a real institution, it’s just…”
“Quiet.”
“Exactly. And…”
“Go on?”
“I felt very on show. Customers asking me for details I’d rather not remember, battle tales and war wounds and… I’d rather not rake over the worst time in my life while ringing up two bottles of Thinker’s Ink.”
“I see.” Madam Rosmerta paused, then added “I don’t suppose you’d fancy helping out here?”
“At the Inn?”
“Yes.”
Hermione began to consider the proposal in earnest as Madam Rosmerta continued. “I’m short a barmaid since Martha decided she was getting too old for it all. I wasn’t going to replace her, but last night the town council approved a proposal that means new events and a lot more visitors this year and… honestly I’d be glad of the help, especially help I already know, and help that’s not dense as steamed pudding.”
Hermione laughed. “God I love steamed pudding.”
“Me too. But only on the menu, not behind the counter.” Madam Rosmerta made a face that indicated she spoke from experience.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, you’d be doing me the favor as I said. If it works out I’m sure we’ll agree on rates and hours. If you don’t like it you can keep looking.”
Hermione smiled. Why not? “Alright. Yes. Ok.” she said.
“Can you pop in tomorrow evening? I’ve a chap starting community service and I’m showing him the ropes anyway.”
“Yes, that’s fine, when should I be here?”
“Come for nine. That’s past the dinner rush but before last orders.” Madam Rosmerta looked pleased and turned to go. “I’ll see about that cottage pie.”
“Thanks.” Hermione paused, then “And… thank you Madam Rosmerta.”
“Of course my dear,” Madam Rosmerta replied, adding as she walked away, “us wounded witches have to stick together.”
=======
The next evening, Hermione made her way down to Hogsmeade, turning the events of the day over in her mind and preparing herself for the evening ahead. She wasn’t anticipating that becoming a competent barmaid-slash-waitress would involve anything terribly difficult, at the very least she hoped it wouldn’t be more difficult than her dreaded N.E.W.T. coursework, but she’d never worked in hospitality before (unless handing out snacks at her parents’ Christmas parties counted, and she was pretty sure it didn’t). And besides, she was determined to make it work even if it was difficult. She’d mulled over her options this past twenty-four hours and it seemed unlikely that a better job opportunity would present itself. The Inn was open longest in the evenings which meant more hours and more money. And even if she didn’t need the money she certainly needed the distraction. And she did need the money, she reminded herself, or at least she’d rather earn her own, if only for now.
Her mind drifted again to home, her parents, the sound her pocket money would make rattling around in the piggy bank she’d had as a child, the blue checkbook she’d had when she opened her first real account… Best not to go down that road right now, she decided, not when she’d be expected to concentrate on barkeeping in five minutes’ time and especially not when she was determined to avoid having a second panic attack in front of Madam Rosmerta.
She picked up her pace, the warm lights of the Three Broomsticks welcoming against the darkening pastels of the summer sky. This is a good thing, she told herself as she approached the door. One might even say it’s an unexpected bit of good fortune. She stopped, smiled, fluffed her hair and put her shoulders back. “Hermione Jean Granger,” she told herself, “let’s make the best of this.” And she was determined to do so. Unfortunately, fifteen seconds later, she walked into the Inn and saw two familiar figures standing behind the counter of the bar discussing the tap handles: Madam Rosmerta and Draco Fucking Malfoy.