Potent Paper and Poison Pen Stationery Shoppe

Mid-year Planner

Potent Paper and Poison Pen Stationery Shoppe was a two-storeyed, wonky-faced shop so sunken it was half-buried into the cobblestones of Horizont Alley. Nestled in between the apothecary and the tobacconist, Hermione had stumbled across it during a hunt for a more effective set of potion vials. She had a half-harried look about her, robe pockets stuffed with scraps of parchment involving sketches for her ideal design, gloomy August storm pressure ensuring her curls were doing their utmost to escape from the ever-straining elastic of her hair tie. It was darker than it should be, the lamps already lit inside. The bottled glass of the two windows, set either side of a dark wood door, reflected the glimmer of candlelight, creating a soupy, murky effect. The well-weathered sign still held traces of the gold leaf inscribing the shop name, which glinted ever-so-slightly. Hermione, being a recent war hero and general woman on a mission, wasn’t comfortable lingering in the wizarding shopping district in the aftermath of the war. So it was a split second later that she pushed open the door and snuck inside. 

Instantly the noise of the crowds; bangs still echoing from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, shouts from various street hawkers pushing their wares, and high-pitched conversations held among those returning to Hogwarts, was silenced. Instead, the crackle of a quiet fire, a gentle chime of the doorbell and the ticking of a grandfather clock filled the space. For the first time in a while, Hermione relaxed. 

The shop seemed small on the inside, uncharacteristic to the usually-magically extended premises that she had become accustomed to inhabiting in wizarding London. There was a small, low table in front of the door which was stacked with decorative cards, paperweights and dipping ink pens, scattered around a hazardously placed candelabra, which seemed in danger of dripping wax over all the wares in moments. Around the edges of the shop were shelves stuffed full of notebooks, diaries, planners, if the small, neatly inscribed calligraphic labels were to be believed. A glass-fronted case of manuscripts stood near the till. On closer inspection, these turned out to be rare editions of charm manuscripts all related to stationery. A narrow and dark staircase in the back corner appeared to lead to more wares upstairs. The two window displays were filled with small, dainty ornaments, the type she had been accustomed to seeing in Dumbledore's office. She wondered how many of them McGonagall had kept. She practised thinking of the both of them even though it hurt, feeling the pain, acknowledging it. She moved deeper into the shop. 

“May I help you?” 

Two trouser-clad and loafered legs were descending from above. Long fingers were brushing what might have been dust from the front of them, the grey stuff quite starkly apparent against the darker wool. 

“I’m -” 

Hermione’s promise that she was just browsing died as the figure emerged into the candlelight. 

They took stock of one another. 

The man’s - for it was a man - nametag read “William.” His face was pale, narrow, sleep deprived. His eyes were a mistrustful grey, his hair dark brown. 

Hermione stared at Draco Malfoy’s dye job. 

It was shocking, really. The last she had seen and heard he wasn’t in the country. She had tried to use her influence with the Ministry and Harry (obviously not returning to complete his studies, despite how sternly she had tried to advise) to see which of the seventh year Slytherins would be returning. Not because she had been looking for a name in particular, but more so she could prepare herself to face them again. 

Draco wasn’t in France, clearly. He had dyed his hair brown (box, she was sure of it, there was something very flat about the colour even in the flickering light, and it really didn’t suit him given how pale he was), and had gotten a job. 

He was still waiting. He looked like he wanted to not be waiting. Perhaps he hadn’t thought about the possibility of being recognised, something she clearly did. 

Hermione considered her course of action. 

“Actually William,” she said, and watched his shoulders remove themselves from his ears, “I was wondering if you had any suggestions. I’m looking for a mid-year planner.” 

There were several moments where all that could be heard was the clock ticking. And then. 

“We have several that might interest you.” 

Malfoy was a good salesman. The thought surprised her, as everything he did appeared to. He gestured to one side of the room. She briefly relaxed when she realised she wouldn’t have to follow him upstairs. Flashes of Bathilda Bagshot’s reanimated corpse, leading Harry up to his death in Godrick’s Hollow, had filled her mind. Malfoy waited for her breathing to return to normal. 

There were more than she realised were possible to buy in wizarding London. Malfoy took her through all of them. 

Paper weights were compared. He expanded on which pages were spelled against bleed-through, and which were left blank so the user might apply their own charms. There were some with horizontal daily breakdowns. Others with vertical. Times of the day had been blocked out for some, whereas others had a blank canvas. Some had weightless charms added, so that minimal disruption to a bag weight might be enjoyed. These, Malfoy warned her, had the propensity to wear out, and could result in said planner hovering several inches off the desk, annoying for those with a heavier quill who needed more stability. There were several with maps of Diagon Alley in the back, others with lists of wizard-friendly B&Bs for those who liked to travel. One could even tell you the weather every morning in a chirpy, eager-to-please voice. Hermione was quite keen on that one, before Malfoy informed her in a stilted tone that the voice had belonged to a house-elf, who he didn’t believe had been compensated for his work. 

“Oh,” she said, blushing. She wasn’t disguised. And even though they were pretending not to know who he was, she still felt a little put out that perhaps he wasn’t offering her the same courtesy. 

“Yes. That is,” he hurried to say, “if you mind about that…that sort of thing. I know a few people who do, so…” he trailed off. 

“Thank you. Yes. Perhaps not that one.” 

Hermione liked a vertical weekly planner, monthly calendar layout, at least four bookmark ribbons, charm-blank so she could add her own, and as thick a paper as she could get without the whole thing becoming cumbersome. Over the course of the afternoon, it turned out that Malfoy liked much of the same she did, and felt quite passionately about which planners were up to par. 

“This one,” he said, pulling out an oxblood leather cover with a flourish, “is one of our more expensive models. I’m not sure what your budget is, but I have to say I really am a fan of the softcover. If you look here you can see that the actual paper can be swapped out, so after a larger investment up front you can just buy the inserts for the upcoming year.” 

“Oooh,” Hermione cooed, flipping through it. Malfoy forgot he was Malfoy, and she forgot she was Granger, and he came closer to her, peering over her shoulder excitedly. 

“See - they’ve got a handy foldout in the middle recording all the moon phases for the year which I find especially useful for brewing, and they have three - not ideal I know - ribbons so you can keep track of your day, month and whatever of the other things you want. There’s also a decent amount of black space at the back for notes, and I know you can charm these to duplicate to the same type notebook, so any notes you make in here will be secured in another, should you need them to.” 

“This is brilliant! Downside?” 

“Well, the price,” he gave a little laugh, and she could smell coffee on his breath, a little mustiness from the shop, and the faintest whiff of tobacco. “I’m afraid this is our premium range - we make them in-house, actually.” 

“Really?”

“There’s a printing press out the back, so actually - if you wanted another ribbon I don’t see why we couldn’t add one in. We can also personalise, put your initials on the front in gold or silver. But yes. Something like this will run you 10 galleons.” 

He said it apologetically, and Hermione baulked at the price. She stared at the front cover, smoothing her hand over the leather. 

“How much for the inserts?”

“Those are much more affordable - 16 sickles a time.” 

She brightened at this, her fingers still wrapped round the soft leather edges. 

“I can - I can add your initials for free, if you like.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes.” He was staring resolutely at the diary when he spoke. “As a thank you.”