Warm grease crackled in the frier. The curly headed brunette dumped a batch of fries into the bubbling liquid, wincing as it splashed at her arm in protest. She strode over to sink and placed her tingling arm under the faucet. Adjusting the temperature to hot with her free hand, the burning sensation finally subsided, and she withdrew her arm from the water, drying it off with a rather filthy dish rag. She plopped down on an overturned crate and buried her face in her hands.
She could've been a world renowned scholar. She could've been a ridiculously successful doctor or alchemist. She could've taken up art or business. And yet here she was, wasting away in the kitchen of a two-star restaurant. Hermione Granger had hit rock bottom.
"Granger! Get back to work!" a male scolded her, jabbing his finger into her face, "I'm not paying you to have a pity party." Hermione nodded and produced a rather halfhearted smile. The man grunted and wobbled away; he must've weighed a good three-hundred pounds at the very least.
Grumbling to herself, she pulled the fries from the grease and plopped them down onto a plate. She drizzled cheddar cheese upon them, topping them off with bits of bacon and onions. If she didn't know any better, she'd say they looked very appetizing. But after having been the one to prepare them for well over half a decade, she'd learned rather quickly never to willingly eat here.
Hermione placed the plate on a tray and departed from the kitchen, pushing open the swinging door that separated the dining room from the preparation centers. It was fairly empty tonight; an older couple sat in front of one of the windows, picking their forks at loaves of meatloaf and bread, and a lone man scribbled on newspapers he'd strewn across the table nearest the entrance. The fries must have been his, his area deprived of any food. She strode over to him, her fake smile still painted across her lips. "Here you go, sir," she chimed, attempting to sound as sincere as possible as she sat the tray on the table.
The raven-haired male looked up at her, his grin as wide as could be. Hermione had to take a few steps back in order to take it all in, her heartbeat echoing through her ears. "H-Harry?" she whispered, clutching at her chest. It couldn't be; after the war, they'd all went their separate ways. They hadn't spoken or sent letters to each other in nearly six years. But here he was, seated directly in front of her, babbling on about this and that. She was in a different world at this point, and his words had gone in one ear and quickly out the other.
It took her a few moments to regain her senses, and as she snapped back into reality, Harry stood up to hug her. His arms felt strange wrapped around her, almost like they were trying to fit two pieces of a puzzle together than obviously were meant to be at opposite ends of the table. Hermione left her arms limp at her side.
"Harry, you can't be here," she finally pushed herself from his grasp. He stared at her in disbelief, obviously dumfounded by what she was saying, "You can't-"
Hermione shook her head, unable to finish her sentence as she stood there, staring into the eyes of a man who she once called her friend. She raised her hand as she attempted to say something, but unable to find the correct words or even her voice, she turned around and exited through the swinging door. Her boss stood at the frier, reloading it with more frozen fries. She paid him very little attention, though, as she yanked off her apron and grabbed her coat off a hook near the back door. "Sir, I have to leave," she said, pulling her jacket on.
"I don't think so, Granger!" he bellowed, pointing his spatula at her. Hermione simply ignored the man and exited the restaurant, the sharp winter air greeting her. Shoving her hands into her pockets, she trekked home. She didn't look back at the restaurant, at the boy – no, the man – she was leaving behind. She didn't stop or reconsider her decision. She simply walked. She roamed the streets of London until she couldn't walk anymore, and yet she still continued walking, even as her soles begged for mercy.
Hermione Granger had hit rock bottom. And she refused to let anyone, not even her childhood best friend, ever know it.