The Red Lion was quiet tonight, as it usually was on a Wednesday evening.
A few couples claimed the unobtrusive corners of the pub, the warm smoke in the room making them even more hidden. A group of burly looking construction workers sat together, sipping their beer and murmuring quietly, their heads bent together in deep discussion.
The pub wasn't particularly popular either, as it was too small and stuffy, especially during that humid July evening. It was hidden in the small, forgotten town of Melton, which had a population of less than 2000 people. The habitants of the town called it the "Crooked Town", as the buildings were built rather crookedly and were painfully small. The buildings looked as if they would topple over from the way they had been built.
For the few people there, however, it would seem that they were drawn to the dodgy two-storey building, despite being horribly cramped and obnoxiously decorated. It was sufficient for them to drink away their woes and sorrows, for husbands to sneak from their wives in the middle of the night, for young couples to snog without being reprimanded, and for bachelors to sit and think.
As such, a rather tall and modestly built man sat at the bar, as he did on most Wednesday evenings. He was quite handsome, in his creaseless white button down shirt, pressed black trousers and shiny black shoes. His blonde hair was neatly combed with not a single hair astray.
It was quite plain to see that he most definitely did not fit in the town, where women dressed gaudily and men were in scruffy oversized clothing.
No one noticed him, and if they did, they ignored him or completely forgot about him. He never spoke to anyone, and all he ever did was sit at the end of the bar and casually sip at his drink.
However, on this particular night, the man swivelled around in his seat and surveyed the room. His eyes landed on a woman, bent over a book, a glass of what was to be iced water sitting beside her. She had been there when he arrived at the pub and absolutely hadn't moved from said position. And for some reason, the man found himself drawn to her. She seemed familiar, even though he couldn't see much of her face, as a mass of curly hair fell over her face.
The man finally stood, ignoring the eyes that were trying to subtly follow his movements. As he neared her table, he squinted at her book.
Numerology and Gra
Her fingers were covering the rest of title, but the man clearly knew what she was reading, as he raised a delicate eyebrow.
A witch. He mused to himself. Studying Arithmancy.
He remembered the long and tedious lessons with his tutor, the lessons he dreaded, yet his parents had forced him, like everything else, to sit through years of hours upon hours of looking at old parchment with boring numbers and making the most pointless calculations. Merlin's beard, he hated Arithmancy. He'd rather study tea leaves with Trelawney than have anything to do with it.
He stood before the table and waited. But the woman didn't even acknowledge his presence. Slightly irritated at how she had failed to notice him, he cleared his throat quietly.
The woman's head snapped up, "Is it closing time al-"
"Ah, no-"The man started. However, the words he had rehearsed over and over in his mind were completely forgotten as he stared at the curious woman.
"Granger!"
"Malfoy!"
It had been approximately five years.
Five years since Hermione Granger had contacted anyone from the Wizarding World. Five years since she had touched her wand. Five years since she had produced an ounce of magic. Five magic-free years.
Until today of course.
Hermione had just been rummaging through her closet one cool morning, looking for something to wear. She plunged into her messy closet, tossing things over her shoulder, and buried under a pile of old sweaters at the very back of her closet, was a book. Curious, she brought the book out of the dark closet to examine it.
The faded writing title made it impossible to identify, but the spine had clearly said it all.
Numerology and Grammatica by Professor Septima Vector
Once said book had been identified, Hermione had flung it across the room with a loud "Oh my God!"
She had left it there and gone to work, as she was now late. She paid no attention to her irritated boss, ignored most of her colleagues, and had barely gotten any work done…all because of one damn book. By the time she reached home, a throbbing headache had blossomed at her temples.
Hermione mustered up some courage to venture into her bedroom, but not without a rolling pin tightly gripped in hand.
Approaching the book, she held the rolling pin out, waiting for something…anything to happen.
But no attack would come, and she knew it. Sinking into the ground, she pulled the book onto her lap. Hermione rubbed the worn pages gently between her thumb and forefinger, slowly flipping through the yellow parchment, smiling ruefully at the scribbles she had made in the margins so long ago. She ran a finger down the spine of book, leaning against the wall, trying to blink back the tears that were threatening to fall.
Of all books, it had to be this one. Her favourite subject. She was suddenly flooded by memories of her third year, with Harry, Ron, the time turner, Sirius, Remus...and she couldn't take it anymore.
She pressed the book to her chest, wetness dripping down her freckled face.
God, she missed them all. She missed her friends and Hogwarts. She missed Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. Hell, she even missed the goblins at Gringotts.
After just sitting there for nearly half an hour, simply thinking, Hermione decided that she would reread the textbook. Pulling herself together, she stuffed her book into her beaded bag (the undetectable extension charms had worn off) and walked to the pub down the street.
The Heavens were certainly laughing down at her as she looked up into the face of the first Wizard she had seen in five years, and it happened to be Draco bloody Malfoy.