The Crescent

‘Are you sure this is the place?’

Hermione, Ginny and Luna stood beneath the shading branches of a giant plane tree, staring at a double fronted shop, the window frames of which had been painted a rather challenging shade of green. It hurt Hermione’s head just to look at it.

‘Bow & Truckle’s Tearoom,’ Ginny read from the gilded sign above the door. ‘Mum definitely mentioned tea in her letter.’

As if she were the Gryffindor of the trio, Luna grabbed Hermione and Ginny’s hands and led them into an indoor garden. Flowers bloomed across all four walls of the café, vines of ivy dangled from the ceiling and wrapped around glass chandeliers. The floor was soil, with a paved path winding to each individual table.

‘Welcome!’ greeted a high voice, in an accent not unlike Fleur’s. An old, short man hopped in front of them, dressed all in green, donning a broccoli in his buttonhole. ‘I am Monsieur Racine. Have you booked a table?’

‘Er…no,’ said Ginny. ‘I had no idea you would be quite so…popular…on opening weekend.’

The room was abuzz with quiet, polite conversations between friends, couples, siblings, mums and daughters, but, notably, wizardkind. It was the first magical business to open in Bath under Kingsley’s new directive, and it was certainly taking advantage of holding the monopoly.

‘I might be able to squeeze you in,’ said Monsieur Racine. His eyes roved over the trio, before landing on Hermione’s withdrawing figure. ‘Oh, yes, I’m certain I will! Mademoiselle Granger, it is an honour to meet you. Please, please follow me. By the window. Best seats in the house!’

Monsieur Racine escorted them down the garden path and removed a RESERVED sign from the table overlooking the plane tree and passing muggles, who completely ignored the garish café without a second glance.

As the witches took their seats, the old wizard clapped excitedly and handed each of them a menu scroll. ‘Excellent!’ he said. ‘The teapots are charmed to serve whatever flavour you desire and tap the cake stand for delicious treats. Enjoy!’

As soon as the wizard left, flitting to another table, Ginny burst with the giggle she had impressively managed to contain. Hermione smiled. Despite the dogged black cloud looming over her, Hermione still enjoyed the sound of her friend’s laughter over almost anything.

‘See, this is why we keep you around, Golden Girl!’ Ginny cupped Hermione’s chin and showed her off to Luna. ‘Who needs a reservation when you’ve got this face!’

So that’s why they hang around with you. It makes sense. Relationships are transactional, after all. You help them whenever you can and they… hmm…what exactly do they do for you?

Was that truly why she remained friends with her? Surely not. Ginny had fame in her own right as a starting chaser, as well as being Harry Potter’s girlfriend. Hermione decided to laugh it off and perused the menu, trusting Ginny and Luna over her own destructive mind. 

‘What a wonderfully unique man,’ said Luna. ‘Though, the Nargle’s will be having a field day in these.’ She flicked the flowered wall and edged away. ‘Keep your purses close, girls.’

Luna had a natural gift for drawing a smile from Hermione, without even trying. By just being Luna. Like a breath of fresh air, her return had swept through the house, snapping Hermione out of her Saturday morning stupor. Though her sleep had been interrupted by Ginny’s giddy, screaming welcome, Hermione was grateful, as always, for Luna’s presence, and her rare soul, unmarred by cynicism.

‘Have you found any Nargle’s on your travels?’ Ginny asked, nose deep in the menu.

‘Not yet,’ Luna said airily. ‘But we are making excellent progress tracking the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. Rolf has taken some droppings back home to Wales to analyse.’

Ginny sniggered. ‘Charming! Here, Mum, I’ve brought you back a magnet and a bag of Snorkack shit!’

Hermione thwacked Ginny on the arm but failed to hide her own giggle. ‘Sorry, Luna,’ she said, pulling a straight face. ‘It sounds wonderful. And Rolf’s nice, is he? You only seem to have good things to say about him.’

Luna’s face beamed at his name. There was even a hint of a blush, which was wonderfully unexpected considering Hermione was sure Luna lacked the capacity to feel embarrassment.

‘He’s Rolf,’ she said simply. ‘He’s passionate and kind and intelligent. He’s a morning person, like me, and a foodie, unlike me. And his moustache twitches when he laughs.’

‘I think she’s in love,’ Ginny announced. ‘Merlin, I can’t handle another wedding. I’ve had Bill’s – Percy’s – George’s engagement party. I don’t have the money for another dress –’

‘Charlie and Oliver’s is next year,’ Hermione helpfully reminded her.

Ginny groaned. ‘No, that’s enough. Please, Luna, no more love!’

‘He’s my colleague,’ Luna said. ‘I am able to admire a person without falling madly in love with them, unlike some people. Not all of us have an infatuation as a child that blossomed into a funny sort of relationship.’ Ginny huffed and jumped off her pedestal, as Luna pensively added, ‘Unless you count my interest in the neighbours’ gnomes, which I don’t think you can, really.’

‘Quite right, too,’ said Hermione. She tapped her brown teapot with her wand and lifted the lid to the strong aroma of mint. ‘Not all of us have to mix business with pleasure.’

‘Well, half the Holyhead Harpies would disagree with you there,’ said Ginny. She nudged Hermione and added, ‘That reminds me, I need to introduce you to Margaux. Our latest French import. She’s a real treat.’

‘I don’t do Quidditch,’ Hermione stated.

‘I know, but you never said anything about not doing Quidditch players,’ Ginny said, tapping her own teapot. ‘Anyway, what cakes shall we get? Mum’s already hinting at coming here for her birthday, so I should really do some research.’

‘Well, I’m never one to stand in the way of an intellectual investigation,’ said Hermione. ‘Perhaps a sampling of each?’

Ginny and Luna both nodded and the three of them tapped each tier of the cake stand. Before they’d even retracted their wands, cakes were popping across the plates; lemon, walnut, chocolate, jam, coffee, carrot, and plenty more that Hermione couldn’t identify by sight or smell. Each portion was split into three bite-size pieces. The witches licked their lips, clinked their tiny forks together and started with a yellow sponge doused in icing.

Lemon exploded over her tongue, sending Hermione back into her chair with closed eyes, humming in delight. She hadn’t been able to enjoy food all week, skipping breakfast and lunches for sleep and forcing down whatever was to hand at dinnertime. But a beautifully baked, zesty lemon sponge. Well, that was almost worth the week of unintentional fasting.

‘Fuck me,’ Ginny garbled with half of the cake still in her mouth. ‘That’s a solid nine out of ten.’

‘Agreed,’ said Hermione. ‘Maybe even a ten.’

‘Eight and three-thirteenths,’ said Luna. ‘Walnut next!’

It took almost an hour for them to try every single one. By chocolate – the one Ginny insisted on saving until last – Hermione’s stomach was churning. She nibbled at the corner. It was lovely and rich, but she was too stuffed to enjoy any more of it.

Ginny melted into her chair. ‘Knew it. Knew that would be my favourite.’

‘Banana for me,’ Luna said, sipping on her chamomile. ‘Hermione?’

‘Lemon,’ Hermione declared as she checked her teapot for a refill. Her mint tea had been replaced by the calming notes of jasmine. ‘Nothing compared to that first bite.’

Ginny jumped to her feet, suddenly bursting for the loo, and excused herself along the stepping stones. Hermione made a mental note to tell Ginny to get her bladder checked, as a moment’s quiet fell over the table. Hermione and Luna never found silences awkward. They both understood they could be comforting. Needed.

Though Luna was also not one to hold her tongue when she had something to say. She was simply more tactful than Ginny, able to wait for an appropriate moment.

‘Why are you wearing a glamour?’

Hermione spluttered on what was supposed to be a relaxing sip. ‘I-I’m not.’

‘It’s smothering you,’ Luna said, brows carving a worried frown into her head. ‘You should let your face breathe, Hermione.’

There was no use in lying to Luna. She was probably the only person to see and accept Hermione for what she truly was. Changed. A little broken. And it was one of many reasons Hermione was so pleased Luna had accepted an overseas exhibition

‘You know I’m awful at make-up,’ Hermione said casually, waving it away. ‘Glamour’s are easier and quicker and cheaper –’

‘And a lie.’ Luna squeezed Hermione’s hand and forced their eyes to meet. ‘Show me,’ she said. ‘Show me your face.’

‘No.’

‘Fine, I’ll do it –’

Hermione batted Luna’s hand, knocking her wand into the crumbs of Ginny’s plate. ‘I said no.’ Hermione lowered her voice and glanced over her shoulder at the other tables. ‘Golden Girl, remember? If I am not perfect – perfect, Luna – then I am news. It only takes one of these witches or Monsieur Racine to send word to the Prophet and I will be torn to shreds.’ She took a breath and relaxed herself back into the chair. ‘A glamour just – just saves me a lot of unnecessary effort.’

‘You’re not right, are you?’

Hermione sighed and shrugged and used any cue she could think of to make light of the darkness. But eventually, she decided to settle on the truth. Or, as much of the truth as she was willing to part with.

‘Summer’s over, Luna,’ she said simply. ‘I’ll never be at my best this time of year.’

‘I’m going to postpone the next trip. Rolf is expecting me in Iceland by Monday, but he’ll understand. Lavender’s still training in St Mungo’s, isn’t she? I’m sure she’ll be happy to arrange a bed. A few weeks respite will make all the difference. I’ll stay with you. We’ll tell the others you’re on holiday, and tell Mr Shacklebolt that you are overworked, and I’ll –’

‘I love you, Luna, but you are going to Iceland.’ Hermione pushed Luna’s hands back into her own lap, regaining control of the spiralling conversation. ‘You are going to travel and research and excel in a life far grander than cafés and offices. Please. I’ll never forgive myself for keeping you away from that. And I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive you either.’

Luna brought her mug to her lips, considering Hermione and her words and her façade, until she reluctantly relented. ‘I want weekly letters.’

‘Consider it done.’

‘And I’ll be asking Ginny to make sure you’re sleeping.’

‘That…might prove difficult,’ said Hermione. ‘But I’ll catch up in the day when she’s training. Promise.’

‘Weekly letters,’ Luna reiterated. ‘Or I’m booking the first portkey home.’

Ginny dropped back into her seat with a thud and nodded over Luna’s head. ‘Heads up, wands up. Look who’s just walked in.’

A small line of witches followed Monsieur Racine’s anxious lead through the tearoom, eventually stopping at the table directly behind Luna. They unfastened their beautiful outer robes, with buttons made of ivory and lined with shimmering silk, and lowered themselves into the chairs, careful to take in their surroundings. One of the women locked eyes with Hermione and her whole face tightened.

‘Is there no other table?’ Mrs Crabbe asked.

‘No, madame,’ said Monsieur Racine, without bothering to justify or explain himself.

Since her meeting with Kingsley, Hermione had spent her quiet periods at work researching the Odds. Memorised names to faces. On the table behind Luna were Ingrid Rowle, Francis Crabbe and Dahlia Travers. They had hardly been integral cogs in the Death Eater machine; but Kingsley had charged her with a job. And Hermione would happily comply.

Hermione cast an instant Muffliato charm and closed the gap between her friends.

‘Has Kingsley written to you?’

Luna shook her head. ‘Ginny did. We have new neighbours,’ she said. ‘The Odds. You know, I’ve been called that a few times. I didn’t much like it.’

‘We’ll need to be quiet now until we leave,’ Ginny told Luna. ‘We’re supposed to keep our ears open.’

‘It’s hardly subtle if the table goes silent,’ Hermione said. ‘You two keep talking. I’ll listen.’

Hermione removed the Muffliato and brought her cup to her mouth. She made sure to nod randomly and make agreeable noises, but she had no idea what Ginny and Luna were talking about. Her ears were focussed on the table to her right.

‘…no doubt we’ll end up in that Quibbler rag. How it’s still in print is beyond me.’

‘I’m stuck between three Gryffindor’s and the Diggory’s. Merlin knows how I don’t get cursed every time I walk out the front door. I see their curtains twitching. I almost want them to do it. Claim self-defence.’

‘It’s inhumane. It actually makes Azkaban’s new wing tempting. Especially if this is all this city has to offer. A nauseating café with questionable clientele…’

‘You should see Diagon Alley. Twilfitt & Tatting’s may as well have a sign saying SCUM PREFERRED. It used to have principles. It used to have…oh, I don’t know…standards.’

Hermione clenched her jaw and nodded again, inhaling the jasmine infused fumes of her cup.

‘The Ministry has truly gone to the dogs. I have never seen such a waste of resources. And it’s our money they’re wasting!’  

‘Don’t get me started on it…’

‘Extra funding for fucking House Elves. And Centaur Relations. What the fuck is that?’

Hermione laughed quietly at a joke Ginny hadn’t made and took another sip.

‘My husband’s name still holds some weight among the Ministry. I’ll try and make some arrangements.’   

‘Dahlia, no. Not here.’

The table fell silent, and Hermione immediately rocked back in her chair, chuckling heartily, feeling the burn of three pairs of eyes hitting the side of her face. Her own laughter blocked most of the restarted conversation, but her ears cleared just in time to hear Mrs Crabbe’s bitter voice.

‘…the conceited fucking Mudblood.’

Hermione lowered her cup before she dropped it. Agony shot through her arm. A fresh skim of blood stuck the black sleeve of her jumper to her skin, and were it not for her glamour, Hermione knew her friends would be fretting about the colour draining from her cheeks.

‘Of course he had to sit us here. Everyone must prove a point. Mudblood-loving cretin…’

Hermione scrunched her eyes shut and tried to use her thumping pulse to block her ears. 

‘The mental one is fine. Doesn’t know what day it is. But the blood-traitor? Scum. As filthy as the Mudblood Queen herself.’

Hermione rose, knocking her chair into the soil. She apologised and excused herself and her feet moved quick, almost running down the winding path to a door labelled WITCHES. 

She stumbled onto the toilet lid of the centre cubicle. Peeling back her sleeve, she found a tacky layer of blood coating her forearm from wrist to elbow. Pulses of dark blood bubbled up from the depths of the wound, spilling over, dripping onto her black jeans. The jagged cuts felt as fresh as if carved at afternoon tea.

Hermione inhaled deeply, slowing her breaths, waiting for the floor to stop spinning. Not since the day of its creation had the scar torn open so many times. She could still feel the knife, juddering against bone in maniacal frenzy. A pain for the ages that Bellatrix made sure would destroy her time after time after time.

Once she could safely balance on two feet, Hermione unlocked the cubicle and crossed the emerald tiled floor to the row of stone sinks to let the water pour over her arm, freezing the pain in place. Diluted blood poured into the sink, and she carefully dabbed the wound until the bleeding eased.

The door to the bathroom opened. Cackling laughter echoed off the tile as a witch stepped inside, bringing the noise of the tearoom with her.

‘…must wash up. One moment, dears!’

Hide your arm. Hide it!

Hermione didn’t have time. The witch turned into the bathroom and froze as her vexed blue stare landed on Hermione’s face and then fell to her wet arm.

She’s still real. Don’t look at her. Just leave.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Granger.’

‘Ms Black,’ Hermione returned, shuffling closer to the sink.

‘I assure you; I am not following you,’ said Narcissa, her tone flat and even. ‘I am meeting friends for tea.’

‘I never said you were,’ said Hermione. What an odd thing to say. ‘Despite what your friends’ may believe, I am not so conceited as to think you would spend your precious free time following me into bathrooms.’

Idiot. You deserve to be cursed for that.

‘Quite,’ Narcissa mused, as she moved to wash her hands in the basin beside Hermione. ‘I am…’ The older witch paused over her words as she lathered her hands together. ‘I…I have plenty of Blood-Replenishing Potion in my personal stores. If you are ever in need.’

Hermione had to stop herself from laughing. Not at the irony of it all, or anything particularly funny, but by the mere intention of the witches’ words. Hermione had expected an arrogant quip. Or judgemental silence. Never an offer of assistance.

She mirrored Narcissa and turned off her own tap, and searched for something to wrap her arm in. ‘I would appreciate your discretion on this matter, Ms Black,’ she said. ‘It is something I live with. It does not…it does not hinder my life or my work. And I would rather Skeeter not have anything to say on the matter.’

The last thing she needed was Kingsley or the Ministry getting wind of her scar. The outline of Bellatrix’s hatred had healed well in her final year within Hogwarts’ walls. It became an ugly scar she could easily glamour or hide with sleeves. But it reopened once she started working in the Ministry. From hushed whispers in the atrium, to lectures on free speech. It didn’t matter that the war was over. The word still hung on the tips of stranger’s tongues, and every so often, Hermione was reminded of the fact.

Narcissa’s eyes refused to leave Hermione’s bloody arm, even as she dried her hands. Even as she straightened up. Even as she clicked open her handbag –

Her wand. Here comes the curse. Brace yourself.

Narcissa’s movements slowed as she withdrew her hand, in which she clutched a crisp, white handkerchief. She extended her arm, offering it to Hermione while making sure to keep plenty of distance.

Hermione hesitated, but eventually nodded her thanks and accepted. She unfurled the pristine fabric, embroidered with a cursive NB. She laid the handkerchief over the sink and tried to wrap the seeping wound, but a lack of her left hand and the dizzying effect of the pain had affected her dexterity.

As she reached for her wand, two pale hands took the handkerchief from Hermione’s grip and tucked it around her arm. Narcissa brought two corners together and tied the makeshift bandage, once and then again, pulling it into a tight knot.

Hermione’s breath caught as Narcissa’s fingers danced over her wrist where four scratches had scabbed into straight, dark lines.

‘What habit of mine will kill me?’ Narcissa asked.

Hermione frowned, baffled. What did she mean? Was she supposed to answer or was it some odd rhetorical question? Or maybe a riddle to torture herself over? Hermione’s mouth opened and closed as she stammered over a thought.

Don’t say anything you’ll regret. Just walk away.

‘I-I don’t think I understand what you mean,’ Hermione said carefully, suddenly aware of Narcissa’s fingertips resting on her arm. ‘I should return to my friends.’ She broke the hold and moved for the door. ‘The lemon cake is quite delicious, and won’t kill you, I’m sure. Enjoy your afternoon, Ms Black.’

The three witches didn’t linger long after that. Hermione made her excuses of too much cake and the three of them settled the bill and left the tearoom as the table of pure-bloods rose with glee to greet Narcissa.

Hermione and Ginny spent the rest of the afternoon indulging Luna’s need for exploration. They toured the Roman Baths and scoped out restaurants for future special occasions. Hermione bored them with a literature tour, but then paid them back in kind by taking them shopping for muggle clothing. Ginny made a point of jumping in the background of every tourist’s photograph, and Luna was fascinated by the hordes of muggles dressed in blue.

‘I think I’ll like it here,’ she said. ‘There is a strong Ravenclaw presence. I wonder if Rowena hailed from Bath.’

‘It’s Bath Rugby,’ Hermione explained with a giggle. ‘A muggle sport. You throw a ball shaped like an egg and try and score at either end. A bit like Quidditch, but you stay on the ground and don’t beat each other with clubs.’

‘I’ll have to drag the boys to a game,’ said Ginny. ‘Is it violent?’

‘I suppose it can be.’

‘Excellent,’ said Ginny, rubbing her hands together. ‘Hermione, you can get us tickets for the Roogby match, right?’

‘I’ll try,’ said Hermione, putting a brave face on her lack of invitation. ‘Not today’s though.’

‘I forgot to ask – how was Luxemburg?’ Luna asked, as they climbed the hill back towards home.

‘Oh, I-I didn’t go in the end,’ Hermione murmured.

‘Whyever not?’

Because you weren’t invited. Because they forgot about you. Because they never wanted you there in the first place.

‘Had to work late,’ Hermione lied. ‘But you won, right, Gin?’

‘Bigonville were woeful. 290-20. I got nine goals, two assists and Witch of the Match.’

Luna clapped her hands and bounced on her toes and cheered with a shriek that went straight through Hermione’s bones. ‘Superb work! I don’t suppose you play in Iceland?’

‘We’re playing in Norway next month if you can get there?’ Ginny elbowed Hermione’s arm. ‘I suppose you’ll be working that evening too?’

She’s already making excuses for you. How pathetic is that?

‘I’ll try and get there,’ Hermione promised, knowing full well that unless the match was being played at three o’clock in the morning and Hermione could smuggle a cauldron full of Sleeping Draught into the stadium, she wouldn’t have the energy for it. By the time the match would come around it would be deep into October. The days will be shorter, Harry and Ron won’t think to invite her, Ginny will have forgotten the promise, and Hermione will be a walking ghoul just trying to get through the day.

As they turned onto the familiar crescent of houses, Hermione’s feet itching to carry her to bed while the sun was still high enough to get a solid block of sleep in, they found a smattering of opened doors, an idling black car, and a flash of red hair and raised voices.

The three witches rushed into the commotion. Hermione and Luna jumped between the two warring parties while Ginny installed herself amongst the sea of red.

On one side were the Weasley’s, extracted from their houses, acting as the guardians of the street. Ron, Bill, Charlie and Percy. And on the other side was just about the last person Hermione expected to see, stood tall in a navy suit, blonde hair slicked neatly to the side, looking totally unaffected by the whole furore.

‘Granger,’ Draco greeted with a low nod. ‘Luna.’

‘Good afternoon, Draco,’ Luna said, a smile crossing her lips. ‘Pleasant travels?’

‘I was sure I was going to die in that metal chasm, but yes, the drive from the Ministry was horrifically picturesque,’ he said in a tone that was surprisingly earnest. ‘Now, would one of you mind telling your red-headed friends here to lower their wands. I am unarmed, unmotivated and unbothered by their presence here. I would merely like to look around my new home.’

‘New home?’

‘Granger, I am just as puzzled as you are,’ he said, exasperation washing over his sharp face. ‘But I am a good boy now. And good boys do as they are told. I am supposed to move into number 29, but the weasels won’t let me.’

‘I will not have him living next-door!’ Ron bellowed.

‘Ron, you need to calm down.’ Charlie’s arms were wrapped around Ron’s chest, heaving him back towards his own house. ‘Kingsley’s orders are final.’

‘Charlie’s right,’ Bill added, pocketing his wand. ‘Let him through.’

Ron fought against his brothers’ grasp. ‘He is a traitor! He took the mark!’

‘Harry backed his release, Ron,’ Hermione said. ‘Trust your friend knows more about the situation than you.’

Ron shot her a look of disgust and turned his anger back to Draco. ‘I don’t trust him!’

‘And I don’t trust you,’ Draco jibed. ‘There, we already have something in common.’

‘Enough, Malfoy!’

Ginny shoved her way through the growing crowd until she was standing between Ron and Hermione. She sandwiched her brothers’ face between her hands and spoke to him like a child, very slowly. ‘If you do not shut the fuck up and let Malfoy through, you will have to move back in with Mum. Is that what you want?’

Ron stilled. Ginny had played her trump card and won by a landslide. Ron took a reluctant step to the side, and with an awfully unhelpful smirk, Draco strode towards his house with a key in one hand and a black leather briefcase in the other.

‘That’s not all they’ve conveniently forgotten to tell you,’ Percy muttered.

He jerked his head back to the road, where another black car was turning onto the cobbles. The air shifted and wands that had been stowed away were back out in the hands of the Weasley’s, and once again Hermione found herself stuck standing between her friends and everyone else, following orders rather than her own gut.

The car rolled to a stop in front of Hermione and all three passenger doors opened. The three new arrivals stepped out, oozing a distinct arrogance that only a Slytherin could possess.

‘Sorry, we’re late,’ Pansy Parkinson said, in a high tone lacking any sincerity whatsoever. She linked her arms with the boys either side of her – Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott – and started a march towards house number 3. ‘Did we miss the welcoming party?’