A/N: So this is my first attempt at writing something that actually isn't really Marauders-related. I'm in the midst of finishing my five-year-old story called 'Call Me Crazy,' but I couldn't help myself.
Here's to hoping I finish this one.
Disclaimer: Due to the alternate universe (sort of) of this story, Fred Weasley does not die.
Chapter One
Hermione Granger figured that if someone told her that she would be in this kind of situation five years ago, she would have hexed his head off and laughed at his underestimation of her capabilities. After all, she was the 'brightest witch of her age' – best friend to Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Kill-Voldemort, and supposed sweetheart to his trusty sidekick, Ron Weasley. People actually placed bets on where she would be now – one of the top Healers at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, or one of the Heads of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, or hell, even the Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In short, everyone imagined that Hermione Jean Granger would be one of those who achieve greatness and live in it for the rest of their lives.
Yet here she was, twenty-two years old, fresh from five years spent completely in the Muggle world now serving as a waitress at the Leaky Cauldron. The brightest witch of her age was wiping tables and making finger sandwiches for weary travelers who barely recognized her after a long, tiring day. However, Hermione ensured that she wasn't recognizable – something that her superiors never really understood.
"Hermione, do you mind closing up tonight?" asked Hannah Abbott, one of Hermione's superiors despite Hannah's protests. When Hermione entered the Leaky office just a week ago, Hannah had been more than adamant that Hermione be employed for something far higher than what she was requesting. However, without any explanation as to why, Hermione personally asked to work as a waitress for all the night shifts, never to be seen in broad daylight. Reluctantly, Hannah gave her the position.
"Not at all," replied Hermione, wiping her hands on her apron and leaning against the counter. She shot Hannah a small smile, eyeing the silky black dress and the spiffed-up hair. "Are you going on a date?"
"With Neville, actually." Hannah's cheeks flushed pink. "We've been going out for three years now."
"Congratulations." Hermione went back to wiping the counters, while Hannah hastily grabbed her cloak to avoid the awkward silence that almost always followed their brief conversations. A goodbye slipping out of her mouth, Hannah headed out the door and left Hermione to her thoughts.
Hermione finished polishing the counters and the tables, before changing the café sign from 'Open' to 'Closed.' With a shaky wave of her wand, the lights dimmed to an almost black. Her eyes scanned the restaurant – clean tables with upturned chairs, a long wooden counter at the back of the room and dim chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Satisfied, Hermione fastened her cloak (a dusty old thing from her Hogwarts days) and stepped towards the backroom into Diagon Alley.
Hermione stared at the shadows cast over the shops along the cobblestoned street, tugging her scarf closer to her neck. She slid the hood over her curls and started her slow walk towards her flat, a little unit over Flourish and Blotts that the previous owner had sold to an 'anonymous tenant' on a whim. Hermione had originally hesitated at the nearness of her flat to the Wizarding World after so long, but a firm voice inside her head strictly told her that buying it would be the best thing to do.
She never really ran into anybody during her walks home, a pleasure that she enjoyed immensely. She could already imagine the bullshit they're going to write in the Daily Prophet – an immense falling out of the Golden Trio, perhaps? Or a nasty scandal between her and her supposed flame, Ron Weasley? Or just a deadly secret that everyone was dying to find out? Hermione could only fathom what kind of stories journalists could make about the five years that she's been gone, and at this point, she couldn't care less. Their opinion of her didn't matter.
She paused and stared thoughtfully at the large shop on 93 Diagon Alley. Weasley's Wizard Wheezes loomed over her in the dark, the colorful storefront beaming against the moonlight. Hermione smiled wistfully, recalling the two owners with fondness. Fred and George Weasley, Ron's older brothers, had been the banes of her existence at Hogwarts due to their troublemaking skills, but she adored them as much as everyone else did. Fred and George knew how to make her laugh when no one else could, and she supposed they took pride in that. They always seemed to go the extra mile with her.
Choosing not to linger, Hermione hurried off towards her flat. It was going to be another busy night at the Leaky Cauldron tomorrow, and she needed rest.
Hermione had become a master at hiding behind her curls, but even that fact couldn't shake the nasty feeling inside her that something bad was going to happen that night.
The Leaky Cauldron was surprisingly busy that Monday evening. She and Hannah had been working tables left and right, while Tom and his new apprentice worked nonstop at the bar. They called in for another waitress an hour into service at the rate things were going, and no matter how early Hermione slept the night before, nothing could have prepared her for the exhaustion of the customers that night.
"This is crazy," exclaimed Hannah, wiping beads of sweat from her forehead as she and Hermione met up at the counter. "I've never seen this much people at the Leaky on a Monday night before."
"Busy day at work, maybe," replied Hermione quietly, putting glasses of pumpkin juice on her tray. "Table six wants pot roast, Alice."
"Have you not taken note of the date, loves?" said Tom from the bar, wiping the counter clean. "It's the second of May. Harry Potter's going to be making a speech tonight and everything. Everyone's just stopping by for a quick drink and maybe dinner before heading off to the Apparition points."
Hermione froze. How could she forget? Today marked the anniversary of the Final Battle. Snippets of Hogwarts in ruins, dead bodies and blood flashed through her mind, and she winced behind the curtain of hair that covered her face. Hannah glanced at Hermione uneasily. "Would you like the night off?" she offered, wiping her hands with her apron.
"It's a busy night," declined Hermione. "I have to stay."
"Blimey, Mione," said Tom in surprise, "shouldn't you be there at the Anniversary Ball?"
"No," said Hermione sharply. "No, I shouldn't."
In one swift movement, Hermione piled up the dishes easily on her tray and walked away. Hannah turned to shrug apologetically at Tom, and he waved his hand dismissively in reply. Letting out a sigh, Hannah set off to get the last of people's orders before she went off herself to get ready. She could've sworn though that she saw tears well up in the bushy-haired heroine's eyes, but refused to ask the reason why Hermione was so sensitive about the topic of the War.
The rest of the night was a vague blur to Hermione. Hannah had left as soon as the temporary waitress came in, and within five minutes the brunette had decided that she was better off alone than with the waitress attempting to aid her. Hermione lost herself in the blur of getting orders and serving them, her long matted hair covering her face as she heard her former best friend's speech over the wizard's version of the television placed in the café. She ignored the pang in her chest at the discovery that neither Harry nor Ron mentioned her name, chiding herself that it was she who left them this time – and they gave up before she came back.
The café had closed late, and Hermione offered to lock up. She finished polishing the tables at nearly two in the morning, and then another shaky wand movement indicated the dimming of the lights. She didn't even bother checking if everything was alright. She just needed to get home. The heroine fastened her cloak neatly over her grimy uniform, before entering Diagon Alley.
Once again, she chose not to linger as she padded her way across the cobblestone. The eerie feeling that something bad was going to happen hadn't left her, and that worried her more than she would have liked – and that was saying something, considering she was a major worrywart. Hermione tugged her cloak closer to her frame, seeing her flat in the distance. Letting out a gulp, she hurried towards it. It was so close –
CRACK.
Hermione let out a screech, whipping out her wand immediately and darting her eyes around the vicinity as if she were back at the Final Battle. Her eyes widened in regret.
"Hermione Granger? Is that – is that you?"
Her face pale, Hermione's eyes darted over the two muscular bodies clad in matching purple dress robes. Her eyes trailed over the clean polished shoes, neat suits with matching goofy-looking ties and sharp, angled jaws dropped slack by her appearance. Brown eyes met two pairs of twinkling blue ones, and Hermione couldn't help but whimper at the sight of bright red hair.
The Weasley twins.
Hermione did the only thing that her mind was telling her to do at that moment. She ran.