Black ink, red ink
Hermione wrote letters to her friends that evening. She was getting accustomed to being alone, though eagerly waited for the day she could return to school. As someone who wasn’t particularly extroverted, she found herself missing being around people. She missed letting their chatter float over her at the Gryffindor table, missed shooing away their requests for homework help, missed squabbling with Harry and Ron over inconsequentials.
It was only because she was lonely, she thought, that she wanted to return to the stationary shop.
And she was lonely. She was waiting for the letter that would inform her of her parents’ return to health. She was waiting for Harry and Ron to have a spare evening from the auror’s office so they could have dinner. She was waiting for the Weasley’s to grieve enough in private so that they might grieve with her. She was waiting to not feel sore, and sad, and…alone.
She should have been grateful that at least the Battle of Hogwarts kiss hadn't progressed much further, though she missed the fact that her extrication from that relationship meant she felt distanced not just from Ron, but all of them. Perhaps she should have made better friends. It was easy to stay up thinking these thoughts, it was harder in the cold light of day to reach out. She knew how everyone was feeling - exhausted, overwhelmed, keen to move on and forget all of the suffering as best they could.
She knew, for instance, that Neville, Luna and Ginny were going out in muggle London most evenings. She had heard that many of the Ravenclaws held elaborate trivia nights and then joined them. In her last letter, Ginny had described doing karaoke with Justin Finch-Fletchly, and so she knew they were having fun even if she wasn’t. She had also heard that the Slytherins, Parkinson, Nott, Goyle, were spending time in muggle London also. Ginny had given her a brief mention of Zabini and a carpeted muggle club where women took their clothes off, though this she skated over. She presumed Ginny thought she might have disapproved, though if Hermione was honest, it sounded like fun. She just wished she was capable of letting go.
She went back to the shop in late afternoon. She hadn’t intended to go, not particularly needing anything more. Well, not urgently needing anything more. But her ink supplies were running a little low, and she reasoned with herself that she’d prefer to purchase ink from Potent Paper and Poison Pen than buy it from any of the places in Hogsmeade, or use the ink Hogwarts provided to those students who had found themselves without. And so, after wrestling with herself and her loneliness in the morning, and making herself a large lunch in the early afternoon, Hermione departed for Horizont.
“Hello, Hermione.” William - Draco - looked well rested when he greeted her.
“Hello, Will.”
They both stood there for a moment. She wondered if he was as lonely as she felt. Surely more so - how many people were reaching out to him, now? She had no idea how Pureblood society worked. She was also not naive enough to think that suddenly those attitudes had disappeared. Of course, he didn’t wear his ring. Had possibly dyed his hair the muggle way. Knew what ball point pens were.
“Can I help you?”
She had been standing and staring at him for too long.
“I just ran out of ink,” she lied. “Well, almost run out. But I thought you might have better stuff than in Hogsmeade. For when I do run out.”
His eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. She wondered if she could get away with suggesting he dyed those too, then dismissed the idea.
“Are you - “ he cleared his throat. “Um. Going back?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am. I want to finish my studies.”
“Of course.”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
She felt the thin membrane of their relationship.
“Are you, erm, student age? Or have you already finished?”
There was a pause, he fiddled with the register.
“I could go back. I was invited.” This he said quite fiercely. “I was invited back. But I don’t - I’m not sure, to be honest. Well, I am sure. I don’t want to go back. I mean, I want to go back. But not - I don’t want to go back now.”
“I understand,” she said, twisting her fingers together. “It would be nice if you were there.”
She wasn’t sure if it was a lie or not, and they both hesitated in the uncertainty.
“Ink,” she said, after she couldn't quite bear it any more. “I need ink.”
“Let me show you what we have.”
They had a rainbow, of course. And colours that she’d never seen before. Formulations she’d never heard of. Versions that couldn’t be real, and yet they were. Some colours she didn’t even have words for, that made her think of ancient magic and power.
“If you’re looking for something long lasting, then we have a range of archival inks,” he steered her towards a small collection. “Obviously, these are more for those creating manuscripts and work best for spell books.”
“Do I need those?”
“If you’re, you know. Thinking of writing something you’d like to keep forever.”
“Oh.”
“Memoirists, for instance, tend to purchase these.”
“I don’t think - I don’t know if that’s for me.”
“That’s okay. They are more expensive. But if you wanted to -” he played with a lid of the deep black. “I think it would be a good idea. For you. At least, I’m sure lots of people would read it.”
“I don’t know what I’d say,” she said before she could stop herself. She gave a little laugh. “I’m sure everyone is sick of me anyway.”
“I don’t think people know you,” he said, and then he made an excuse to walk away for a moment. She let him, and turned his words over as she pretended to peer and look at the labels.
He came back, asking awkwardly if she wanted a coffee.
“Do you have tea?”
“We do.”
He brought her a cup, black, without milk.
“It’s oolong.”
“It’s nice.”
“I like it too.”
They drank - his a black coffee - in silence, holding the cups away from the paper. She spilled a little on her saucer, balancing it awkwardly on her hand while her bag dangled dangerously below.
“Do you want to put that by the register while you browse?”
She stared at the small beaded bag she hadn’t slept away from since the war.
“Thanks. That would be nice.”
With her hands free she was able to sip and listen to his opinions on ink. She wanted a black colour and red, though she was tempted by verdigris, pomegranate, pigeon, cloud’s breath, daylight, beetle's wing.
“This is the blackest black we own.”
“There are different types of black?”
“Hermione,” he frowned at her. “Of course there are. Let me show you.”
They drew swatches of ink in fat black squares. He brought down versions of the quills she had purchased the day before so she might practise and see which inks melded properly with the writing implements she had. He tried to convince her into the more exotic colours, not out of a desire to sell to her, more to share with her. Their drinks were finished and he offered a second, she accepted. The candles burned low, they sputtered. He looked more like himself than she had ever seen in the dim light. He smiled at her without animosity, she accepted gratefully. He tried not to let her pay, she refused. She wondered, her heart in her throat, if he would suggest they do something else. Have dinner, perhaps. He didn’t, and she walked home happy anyway.