A/N: So I haven't written a story for HP since 2006 according to this website. Wow. But anyway, this came to me while I was watching a show on TV Land called "Younger" and this story will use some elements from that. It's a great show! If you've never seen it, check it out!
Setting: 2019. Story is canon with all HP novels EXCEPT Hermione never was Minister for Magic. Also (it's important early) I have no idea of Penelope Clearwater's family tree, so I'm taking some liberties.
Warnings: It'll have the word "fuck" in it occasionally. Also other colorful language. No lemons.
1.
Hermione paced back and forth in the foyer of her house, practically wearing a hole in the floor. The anxiety was making her nauseous. She wished it was seven o'clock already so this could be over. She heard an unmistakable pop just outside her front door and stopped suddenly.
Harry had barely had a chance to knock when Hermione wrenched the door open. She tried to smile, but it came out like a queasy grimace.
"Harry," she said with a nod, sounding stronger than she thought she would. Her friend smiled and stepped forward, enveloping her in a hug.
"It's been a while, 'Mione!" he let himself in, Ginny following after and giving Hermione another hug.
"Yeah, like three months! Wow," Ginny said, sidetracked, "did you guys...remodel?"
Hermione shut the door and turned to see what Ginny was talking about. The foyer opened up into the enormous bottom floor of the house, which had an open floor plan. There was the kitchen, dining room and main living room, and Hermione sighed when she realized what Ginny must mean.
"Er—no. We've been...decluttering," she muttered, stepping around her friends and going to sit on her couch. They followed, then both awkwardly sat on either side of Hermione on the three-seat sofa. Because there was nowhere else to sit.
"You on some kind of no-technology life plan or something?" Harry asked half-joking, half-worried as he gestured to the wall where their telly used to be.
Hermione said nothing. She swallowed hard, taking a quick glance around the room, realizing there was no way out of telling the truth. God knew she'd put it off long enough.
The missing chairs, the telly, the Persian rug her mother had given her when they'd bought the house, the antique crystal lamps she'd inherited from her grandmother, all gone. She felt tears prick her eyes.
It was just stuff, though. Just things. It was just a house.
A house she was losing.
"I actually...that's what I wanted to talk to you both about." She cleared her throat. Ginny leaned forward, twisting her body around toward Hermione. Her face was etched with concern.
"Hermione, has something happened? Are you ill?" the redhead asked.
"No...well..." she chuckled dryly, "not physically." When she noticed her friends give each other wide-eyed looks across her sunken form, she backpedaled. "I'm fine. It's just...we...we're broke. Ron and I. We're broke, and we're losing the house and—and—"
She felt a sob coming, but she swallowed it back. Because of all the things she was losing, she'd miss him the least.
"We're getting a divorce." Her throaty voice turned hard at the last word. Harry sat up straight as a board, leaning closer to his friend. Ginny turned ghostly white.
"What's happened?"
What has happened, Hermione thought. Everything has happened. Every awful thing that shouldn't happen, has happened.
She started out slowly telling her story, the one she had been holding inside for months now. The truth had festered inside her for so long she thought perhaps it was making her sick. After the shock wore off, all the anger and resentment and shame continued to build. And then, like opening the floodgates, she spilled everything.
Hermione told them how she'd come home from work to find Ron waiting for her. Rose and Hugo had just left to return to Hogwarts after the Christmas holiday. She had felt some big announcement was coming, because Ron had been distant and uninvolved with the festivities.
He said he met someone else. At work. And it had been going on for quite some time, though he wouldn't say how long.
He was leaving. Hermione was too devoted to her job. He never saw her. She refused to get a different one, one that actually paid well so they could afford the life Ron wanted. Sick of being the breadwinner, sick of waiting for her to come home late with take-home meals, sick of wondering if she was really at work or with someone else.
Hermione hadn't argued. She supposed those were fair points. Her job with the Ministry didn't pay well, but she loved it. And she guessed if Ron was the one coming home late, she would have her suspicions too.
She told her friends she listened calmly while her husband explained he was leaving her, feeling less shocked and hurt than she expected to be. It had made her sad.
Then, the worst of the truth came out.
"He said he gambled it all away. Our life savings, our house, it's all gone. He'd been making bets on Quidditch games with coworkers and just never hit his lucky break." Her voice took on a venomous tone. "He spent half an hour trying to justify it, and he got angry that I was more upset about that than his affair. I mean, our house! We raised our children here. We—I can't..."
She felt Ginny wrap an arm around her shoulders and tug her closer. Hermione dropped her head onto Ginny's shoulder, her face blank. Harry stood up and began pacing.
"I don't understand how Ron could do this. I mean, 'Mione, he loved you. Just last year on that trip we took to Spain, remember? All he could talk about was how proud he was of his family, and how he'd done so much better for himself than anybody expected him to..."
"Harry, don't..." Ginny warned quietly, rubbing her friend's arm. "It's hard to understand, but it's happened. We will help you figure out what to do, okay? Did you have any savings Ron couldn't access?"
Hermione nodded.
"I had my own account at a muggle bank. It had enough money in case of an emergency. But it's run out now..." she trailed off, making eye contact with Harry, who immediately stiffened.
"Hermione, how long ago did this happen? Is—is that why you sold that fancy rug I spilled pumpkin juice on once—oh. You said...Christmas?"
"Yes, Harry. That's why I've had to sell things. It happened just before the New Year."
"This has gone on six months?" Ginny said shrilly, tightening her grip. Hermione tensed.
"I didn't want to worry you—"
"But we had that dinner! At our house, it was April! And you and Ron came!" She put a hand to her mouth, looking horrified.
"Well...it was Ron's idea—"
"Of course it was! The git!" Harry spat, running a hand through his hair. "I've just come from playing Wizard's chess with him at Dean Thomas'. Thought it was strange when he said he wouldn't be here tonight." Harry screwed his face up, obviously mentally kicking himself.
"Don't worry, Hermione. We will help you. We have more than enough money—"
"I can't take money from you. I love you both, and thank you, but I can't." Hermione left her friend's arms to stand, wrapping her arms around herself. "I only wanted to ask that...you not tell Rose and Hugo. Not until I figure something out."
Harry and Ginny looked dubiously at each other.
"Uh, Hermione...they're going to notice their father is gone and half the furniture with him." Ginny said pityingly. "How—"
"Please, can you keep them with you, when they return for the summer break, just until I can find a better job? I've been looking, really, but with the economy as it is..."
"You're the smartest witch I've ever met! You can't find anyone to hire you?" Ginny was flabbergasted.
"I need money, Ginny. I need a job that pays substantially more than what the Ministry does. There's no way I can keep this house, but Rose wants to continue her education at that prestigious university in Wales I told you about, and the tuition alone is—-it's ludicrous. Ron can't afford it. He's paying off his debts. He insists these lovely people would kill him before they'd forgive all the money he owes them." She let out an exhausted sigh. "I've thought of everything. I've been going to interviews, and of course everyone is thrilled that Harry Potter's best friend is looking for employment at their business, but that's where their interest ends. They either don't have any openings or they want to pay with peanuts."
She dropped her head, digging the heels of her hands into her tightly closed eyes.
"This is a bloody nightmare come to life."
No one spoke for a long while, but the Potters had gotten quite good at unspoken communication over the years, and through a few silent glances and hard looks, they came to a mutual decision to do whatever their dearest friend needed them to do.
Harry wrapped his arms around Hermione, followed soon by Ginny.
"Of course," Harry said firmly, "Rose and Hugo can absolutely stay with us. Albus and James and Lily will be thrilled."
"I'll make sure they never suspect a thing," Ginny winked. "I got all the cunning wit and genius that skipped over my thick-headed brother."
Hermione laughed, a bit weakly, but it was a laugh nonetheless.
A tiny, tiny piece of her relaxed. Just knowing her children wouldn't find out about their family falling apart for a little while longer stilled the quiver in her gut. For a moment, anyway.
"We'll have to come up with some reason why they can't come home," Ginny mused to herself, "but that won't be a problem. Just let us know what you're going to do, okay? I want to be informed the second you need us."
Hermione smiled, reminded of the older Mrs. Weasley. Then the smile faded as she realized that they wouldn't be in-laws much longer.
"Hey; it'll be okay." Harry squeezed her once more before letting her go. "Trust me. Ron has a lot more to worry about." He glanced at his wife, who nodded, lips twitching.
"I think it's time I give the old bat bogey hex a few practice tries."
0.0.0
When the doors were locked and all but one light extinguished, Hermione crawled into bed.
She sipped on the large glass of wine that was by now a nightly ritual, and leaned back against her favorite fluffy pillow to peruse the jobs section of The Daily Prophet.
Many of the postings she'd seen before; she'd even been interviewed for some of them. She remembered with pursed lips how the owner of a quaint bookshop in Diagon Alley asked for her autograph before informing her he simply wouldn't hire her—the legislation she'd helped get passed that gave house elves more rights had cost him half his free workforce.
She had told Harry and Ginny it was because of the economy that she had yet to find gainful employment, but that was only half of it. She seemed to run into prejudice against her blood (which DID still exist, to her utter bemusement) or distaste for her current job at the Ministry, and thus she was, frankly, quite fucked.
She was just about to give it up for the night when she noticed a posting she hadn't seen previously. For a centuries-old, prestigious company that rarely hired outsiders. Her mouth went dry.
Suddenly, like the sun cresting the horizon, an idea bloomed in her mind. Her heart began to beat wildly—it was too far-fetched. Really. And she'd have to do several morally wrong, not to mention illegal things to accomplish it.
Glancing up, she took in the fact that there was now zero furniture in her bedroom. Her mattress sat directly on the floor, as she'd sold her beautiful four-post bed and matching trunk and dressing table.
Even the light she was using to read was conjured at the tip of her wand, because Ron had taken their bedside lamps, insisting he'd bought them and they were therefore his.
"But you don't even read in bed!" she'd screamed in a weak moment.
"Maybe there are other things I'd like to do in bed that I need the light for!" He had yelled back, ears immediately turning red. Then he'd absconded with the lamps.
Snapping back to the present, a great rage and humiliation covered Hermione like a scratchy blanket.
She bolted out of bed. The potion would need some time to brew.
0.0.0
It was a week later and Hermione was a frizzy ball of nerves. She had an interview in just a few minutes at the massively tall, intimidating building across the street. It stuck out like an ink blot on fresh parchment in the middle of muggle London, solid black and glittering with a thousand windows. The mirrored entrance gleamed in the sunlight, the polished black stone above boasting the name "Malfoy Law" in heavy white letters.
Of course, that was because she could see it. Most of the people walking past the broad, mirrored front entrance could not.
The Malfoys must have thought themselves very clever to erect such a structure in the center of a bunch of oblivious muggles.
She took a deep breath. Then another, and another. The barista at the muggle coffee shop eyed her with some concern. It was her fourth cup, which probably wasn't the best idea, but her nerves were shot anyway.
All she had to do was put the long, blond hair into the potion and take a sip and—and hopefully not make an absolute idiot of herself on this desperate mission.
Licking her lips, she stood and backed into the restroom, making sure no one was watching. She locked the door behind her, shutting her eyes tightly.
"Don't be so dramatic, Granger," she hissed to herself. "You've fought Death Eaters and won! You've destroyed Horcruxes! You're the entire reason Harry survived third year!"
She nodded to herself, then withdrew the hair from her robes. She felt like a sleazy sneak for stealing the hairbrush sticking out of a young woman's purse, but she needed to be sure she'd have enough hairs to keep this going for...as long as possible.
"Okay." She opened the cap on the little canister she'd brought and dropped the hair into murky liquid. It changed to green for a moment, then settled back to its normal putrid brown color.
She wrinkled her nose.
"Well, at least this can't get any worse."
She put the potion to her lips and choked it down.
0.0.0
"Can I help you?" drawled the toffee-skinned, exquisitely beautiful receptionist.
"Yes. I'm here for an interview? For the Junior Legal Counsel position."
"Name?"
"Amelia Wickham."
"Have you brought a detailed CV and references with you?"
"Yes..."
"Through that door there. Take the lift to floor ninety-seven. Turn left, last door on the right."
The receptionist swiveled her chair away from Hermione, disguised as 22-year-old Amelia. If she was going to live a double life, it might as well be a young, pretty one. And if she was being honest with herself, it would boost the likelihood of her getting the job.
"T-thank you," Hermione said, but the woman ignored her. She straightened her back and marched through the double doors and punched the call button on the nearest lift. There must have been twenty of them. People in luxurious clothes and robes she could never dream of affording were getting on and off the lifts. A few of them noticed her, and she blushed when she realized it wasn't because she was Hermione Granger. It was because her pretend body was quite attractive.
The doors to the lift opened and a man ten years younger than her was already there, leaning against the back wall of the lift with his hands in his trouser pockets. When he looked up at her, he quirked an eyebrow with obvious interest.
Trying to hide her discomfort, Hermione shuffled onto the lift and turned her back to the man, before pressing the button for the ninety-seventh floor. They were on the ground floor, clearly meant to be his exit, but the man made no move to leave.
Hermione cleared her throat.
"Getting off?" she ventured quietly.
The man chuckled, and a gross feeling settled in Hermione's gut.
"That depends." He said, using an obvious tone to accentuate the innuendo. "You must be here for an interview. I've not had the pleasure of meeting you before."
The doors closed and Hermione swallowed nervously. She had to handle herself the way a woman used to getting this sort of attention from men would do. However that was.
She ignored him. He came forward to stand beside her.
"Come on...what do you say I show you to the conference room, eh?"
"I know where to go, but thank you for the kind offer," she smiled, not letting it meet her eyes. She still didn't meet his gaze.
"I'll just show you a faster way."
"Faster than taking the lift?" Hermione asked, putting emphasis on the last word.
The man chuckled.
"We've gotten off on the wrong foot." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Thaddeus Wainwright. Delighted to meet you, Miss...?"
"Wickham." Hermione said, trying to sound confident that it was her actual name. "Amelia Wickham."
She didn't shake his hand.
The lift finally arrived at its destination and Hermione tried to exit with the grace and serenity of a serious businesswoman.
She tripped.
The bloody heel of her ghastly shoe snagged the carpet, sending her sprawling to the floor. Her purse opened, spilling out her wand, four books, tissues, some ridiculous thing called an eyebrow stamp Ginny had given her for her birthday the previous year and a photograph of her children.
She snatched the photograph first, knowing it was the most incriminating thing for anyone in the building to see her carrying in her purse. Her heart pounded furiously as she tried to sweep her belongings into the small purse, kicking herself for her stupidity and resolving to leave pictures at home in the future.
"Whoa!" Wainwright said, impressed. "That's one hell of an undetectable extension charm on that bag." He offered her one of the books she'd dropped and the folder that had been under her other arm that contained her CV and references.
"Thank you," she said, face flame-red. "I really need to get going for my appointment—"
"I'd be happy to escort you—"
The doors on the next lift opened, but it appeared empty. Hermione lowered her voice, realizing they were in the middle of a place she hoped would employ her in the future.
"I'm sure I can't be unfortunate enough to fall twice in the same hallway—"
"You'd be surprised at the unfortunate things that happen to women when they're alone," he said, certainly meaning to seem humorous, but there was darkness in his eyes.
Hermione straightened up and glared at him. Really, he had no idea who he was messing with. She'd have him hanging by his toes before he knew what had hit him.
"Excuse me, sir," she said sharply, "but I don't appreciate what you're insinuating. I wonder if the owner of this company knows he employs a walking sexual harassment suit." She took a step toward him; he seemed genuinely shocked at the change in her demeanor. Why, it was almost like she was someone else.
"Nobody's ever complained before," he said, trying to recover with a wolfish grin.
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
"They were either drunk, unconscious or dead. Confessing to murder now, are you, Thaddeus?"
Wainwright scoffed, opening his mouth to retort, when a presence behind Hermione made his mouth snap shut.
"Everything alright here, Wainwright?" A cool voice said. It stood the tiny hairs on Hermione's neck on end.
Wainwright nodded curtly.
"Of course. I was just showing Miss Wickham to the conference room."
"No need. I'll be interviewing her myself." Hermione slowly turned to face the man she'd come to work for, but only expected to see rarely, if ever. She barely registered the sleazy man's words as she studied her old rival's face.
"Yes, Mr. Malfoy. Brilliant idea." Wainwright said. "I'm off to lunch then."
He stepped back on to the lift, visibly relieved.
Silver eyes followed him closely.
"Oh, Wainwright...I'd like tea in my office in fifteen minutes. Your lunch can wait that long, don't you agree?"
The other man gave a weak smile, then dropped his gaze as the doors started to close.
"Of course, sir. Right away."
Draco Malfoy snorted. His hands were shoved deep in his gray trouser pockets. He still faced the lift, but his eyes drifted to her face. She felt her breath hitch. She knew he couldn't possibly know, but her mouth still ran dry.
"If you work here, you're going to be dealing with sods like him a lot. Think you're up to the task?"
Hermione bristled. Was she up to the task? She was Hermione Granger! She took tasks most would find horrendously challenging—and did them for amusement.
"Might I ask why you're so comfortable with the fact that so many less than honorable people work for you?"
Malfoy's lips twitched.
"We'll talk in my office," he said, and gestured down the hall.
"Your office isn't on the top floor?" Hermione asked, genuinely surprised. They began to walk down the hallway. He shrugged.
"I like being in the middle of the building. What if there's a fire?"
He said it with a straight face, looking ahead, and without even a hint of humor in his tone, but Hermione was willing to bet her last eight galleons that Draco Malfoy was joking with her.
So that was it, then. The disguise was working. He'd heard her voice now, and he still didn't know who she was. She realized she might actually pull the whole thing off.
A tiny tendril of hope she hadn't allowed herself to feel yet curled its way through her chest, cementing her resolve to continue on.
"Here we are."
Malfoy opened the door, then gestured for her to enter first. She cautiously did so, taking in the very minimalist decor. There was a tall leather office chair behind an enormous desk with stacks of parchment neatly organized, various expensive quills on their individual stands, framed awards and diplomas on the walls and nothing else.
Oh, but the view.
Floor to ceiling windows all around. Of course a 360 degree view of London would be impossible without magic in an office in the middle of a building, but she couldn't tell it apart from the real thing.
She heard Malfoy close the door.
"Well, have a seat, Miss...?"
"Amelia Wickham, sir," she said, trying to sound eager, like a young hopeful applicant would, but cringing internally at calling Malfoy "sir."
He shook her hand, then they both took their seats.
Then Hermione noticed a framed photograph on Malfoy's desk, but she didn't recognize the person in it.
"Ask Pansy to join us, would you?" He said to the woman in the picture. She nodded, then walked out of the frame.
"Ms. Parkinson is my Senior Legal Counsel. If I hire you, you'll be working directly under her. She's quite brilliant; you'll learn a lot from her."
"That's great." Hermione panicked. Pansy Parkinson? How did she not know she'd be working for Pansy Parkinson? She had assumed in all likelihood it would be someone she knew, considering there were only so many pure blood wizards available for Malfoy to hire. But Pansy?
Hermione stifled a groan.
Malfoy leaned back in his chair and rested the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other. He didn't smirk, or smile. He just watched her.
"So. Tell me why you want this job."
"Why I...why I want this job."
"Yes," He said slowly, as if she were mentally impaired.
"Well," she straightened, "I've always wanted to see the inside of this place. It looks so cool on the outside. Of course there are photographs and brochures but they don't do it justice. It's magnificent!" she breathed, hoping she had stroked his ego enough. Young, attractive, admiring. The three key assets to any woman who wanted to work at Malfoy Law.
But was it just her imagination, or did Malfoy seem...less interested?
"Fascinating." He deadpanned. Definitely less interested. "Those are your credentials?" He gestured to her folder.
"Yes, sir."
He sat there, still watching her, silent. After a moment of awkward realization, Hermione wordlessly handed him the folder. He immediately sat it on his desk without opening it.
He studied her for another long stretch. Hermione felt the fake smile slowly melt off her face.
"So, who are you?" He said abruptly, thumbing the folder and looking directly into her eyes. "I get the sense you're being dishonest."
Hermione's pulse thundered deafeningly in her ears, so suddenly she thought she might faint. Where was this coming from? What had given her away?
"I'm not sure I follow you," she said carefully. Her mind was tripping over itself, searching for a way out of this catastrophe.
Malfoy grinned, but it was small, and just as insincere as her own smile had been.
"The woman who just told me she wanted to work here because my building is shiny is not the same woman who just accused me in the hallway of turning a blind eye to the questionable behavior of my employees."
Hermione gulped. He noticed.
"Also, this folder feels like it weighs a kilogram. I'd guess twenty pages of your accomplishments. You're either an unbearable show-off or you're trying too hard to convince me how perfect you are. Who are you?" He asked simply, pushing the folder back toward her before leaning back in his chair. Bored.
So it wasn't "the" question. It was a test. One of those interview test questions. She'd nearly had a heart attack and had been about to give herself up because she wasn't prepared.
She mentally noted to learn to lie better.
"I'm Amelia Wickham, sir," she began, dropping the sexy simpleton act. "I have wanted to work here since I was seven years old. I've always wanted to work in this field, and there's no law office with a better reputation than Malfoy Law. It's the best of the best. And I have a lot to prove, sir," she threw on hastily, because it was true. Lies always seemed less like lies if they were rooted in some truth. She needed to prove, not just to Ron and their children, but to herself, that she was more than a has-been sidekick. "I'll work damned hard if you give me a chance. I'm not afraid to put in whatever time and effort the company needs. My career is my top priority in life." Another true statement.
Malfoy seemed satisfied with her answer and gave her a chaste smile.
"That's better. And just because I know you have a valid point and I always address valid points, I am aware of Thaddeus Wainwright's behavior and he will be reprimanded and sent to workplace sensitivity training. I can't fire him, since he's the son of one of my top lawyers, and I'd rather not see either of them go to a rival firm. It's the nature of the beast, I'm afraid, Miss Wickham." He stood and made his way around the desk to her, before leaning back against the front of the desk to look down at her. "Tell me something—do you enjoy 'Pride and Prejudice?'"
Hermione stammered. He stood at a professional distance, but they were still closer than they'd been since she'd punched him in third year.
And her false surname had seemed so perfect at the time. She'd named herself after the villain in her favorite Jane Austen novel. Because if she was being honest with herself, she did feel a bit villainous.
And Draco Malfoy had read a book she loved. One written by a muggle. How bizarre.
"Yes," she said adamantly. "All her books, actually." She flushed.
Malfoy quirked an eyebrow.
"Because they're love stories?"
"Because they feature strong female characters who were ahead of their time," she corrected.
"Ah." He rolled his eyes and snorted, unconvinced.
There was a loud knock at the door, and Hermione automatically turned to see who had entered. Malfoy merely turned back to his desk, bending over and snapping up a gleaming silver quill to write down a note.
Pansy Parkinson let herself in, and Hermione knew right away she was a force to be reckoned with.
"I'm here, Draco."
"I have eyes, Pansy," he said harshly, and Hermione heard the scratch of his quill against paper behind her.
"Is this the girl?" she asked, taking a step forward. Hermione noted her severe haircut, chin length and sharp beside her jaw, and her highly fashionable black, red and white pantsuit ensemble complete with dangerously slim red heels.
Hermione wouldn't be caught dead in any of it. But Amelia would be floored.
"Yes! Yes ma'am—my name is Amelia—"
"Don't call me 'ma'am' ever again. I'm not your mother," Pansy snapped. Then she pursed her lips. "The young ones annoy me, Draco."
"The young ones want it the most," Malfoy sighed, finally turning around holding a slip of parchment. "They'll go the furthest to succeed." He moved past Hermione and held the note out to Pansy, who cocked an eyebrow, but took it anyway.
"It's your call. I have other matters to attend to. You're welcome to my office."
Malfoy breezed out the door without looking back, calling an insincere "good luck" over his shoulder. Pansy sighed, then glanced down at the paper.
"Right," she said with an eye roll. She folded her arms across her chest and lightly shifted her weight to one hip. "So, I've got two minutes. What makes you special enough to work for me? I already know you're a pure blood, otherwise you wouldn't dare apply."
Hermione didn't blink. This woman would see right through any sucking up she tried to do.
"I need a job. I'm desperate for money. I have a...an embarrassing shopping addiction and if I don't find something soon...I'll have to..." she feigned horror, "borrow my friends' clothes."
Pansy's eyes widened, and for a moment Hermione saw a flash of sympathy and sisterhood in them.
Neither woman spoke for a moment as they simply regarded each other, judging and forming assumptions as women are wont to do.
Pansy's chest rose and fell with a deep breath as she seemed to come to a decision.
"Let's have a look at your CV then."
0.0.0
Hermione was exuberant.
After an hour discussing the job, the breathtaking salary, going on a tour of Malfoy Law and having a practice sit at the assistant's desk outside Pansy's office, Hermione walked out feeling almost as tall as the building she'd left.
It was a complete turnaround from where she'd been twenty-four hours previous. It was all she could do not to skip down the street toward her preselected apparition point.
But as she walked, each step she took seemed to sink a little deeper into the sidewalk. People passed her in both directions, some openly gawking, others too engrossed in their own lives to notice her face drastically change from buoyant to quite deflated.
It was more money. A lot more money. Enough for her to afford Rose's tuition and a modest flat in London.
But she'd have to leave her current job. One she loved, one that allowed her to pass legislation and effect changes she cared about. It wasn't the most financially rewarding, but she'd never been unfulfilled by it.
She was leaving all that to work for a man who bullied her in school. Who fought with Death Eaters in the Second Wizarding War. Perhaps he wasn't so bad now, or possibly he'd just gotten very good at hiding that he was.
Plus, instead of vindicating tortured house elves, she'd be spending endless hours trying to find loopholes in laws so Malfoy's company could continue making a million galleons a week. It was no secret the majority of the clients were guilty and proud of it.
From fighting for the innocent to protecting the guilty.
She had come to a complete stop in the street before it all sank in. A sharp tightening in her chest took her breath away.
This would be extremely dangerous, and she couldn't tell anyone about what she was doing. If she were ever to be found out, she'd be alone on that sinking ship. She wouldn't put anyone else at risk.
She'd never find a job again. She would be labeled as a liar, a criminal. The Daily Prophet would certainly drag her good name through the mud until it eventually tarnished Harry's and Ginny's. Her children would be ashamed. Ron would feel validated in cheating and leaving her.
There might even be serious legal consequences, considering the nature of her work.
Oh, this was such a bad idea.
Before she could stop herself, she tore across the street, barely dodging the taxis and swearing drivers. As soon as her feet were firmly on the sidewalk again, someone walking past clipped her shoulder. It caused her to stumble back, stepping down into the street again, directly in the path of a car screeching to try to stop in time—
A pair of strong, smooth hands snatched her back onto the street by her arms, still holding onto her until she caught her breath. For all that she'd nearly been run over, it barely registered. She could only think about what a massive mistake she'd made.
"Hey, you alright? It's a little early in the day to be throwing yourself into oncoming traffic. Give it 'til the bars close at least."
Hermione finally focused on the man with an American accent who'd wrenched her from certain death—or at least a serious maiming.
He was of average height, with dark brown hair that was shaved close to his head on one side and hung longer on the other. His slight facial hair was neatly groomed, and the visible skin of his muscular arms and hands was covered in magnificent tattoos. Dark brown eyes and just the very beginning of laugh lines, fitted shirt and jeans and a smile full of perfectly straight, white teeth, which she found immensely attractive.
Hermione's parents were dentists, so good teeth were kind of a dealbreaker.
"S-someone bumped me," she finally croaked. The younger man chuckled. "Thank you."
"Hey, don't thank me. Just uh—come have a drink? This is a great place." He stepped back, finally releasing Hermione's arm, and waved his hand at the bustling pub behind him. "Live band from Ireland tonight. Their manager bought everyone a round."
Hermione scrunched up her face to try to read the faded sign of the pub.
"'Jaded Ink?'"
"Er, no—that's a tattoo studio. Next door. The bar's called 'Poirot's' actually," he said, pointing to a different sign. "What do you say?"
"I don't know," Hermione shrugged, suddenly very shy. This total stranger was asking her to get a drink.
But she wasn't in her own body, so it wasn't as if she had any reason to feel shy.
"Ah, come on. Beautiful city, beautiful day—might as well waste it in a crowded bar with the guy who saved your life, right?" He laughed. So freely and openly, and it reminded her of a much younger, kinder Ronald.
But their laugh was where the similarities ended. Ron took seven years to get up the courage to ask her on a bloody date.
Hermione felt her lips give way to a tiny smile.
"I guess one drink would be fine. I've had a taxing day."
"Ooh, 'taxing.' Sounds extreme. I'm Sebastian Clearwater, by the way; your guide to this quaint establishment," he grinned, one hand splayed across his chest as he held out the other to take her hand and lead her toward the pub. "Friends just call me Seb."
"Clearwater?" Hermione said, pausing. The name jogged a distant memory. "Any relation to a Penelope? I went to school with—with someone who knew her," she finished quickly. Penelope would be much older than Amelia.
Sebastian's eyes danced with mirth.
"Oh yeah, Auntie Penny! Great gal. Were you uh—" he looked around to see who was listening, "—a student at Hogwarts, too?"
"Yes, actually," Hermione said with a smile. "Are you—"
"Just finished up at Ilvermorny four years ago. Wow-four years! I'm getting old. When did you graduate?"
They were inside the pub now, and Sebastian was talking quite loudly. Hermione had already answered this question for Pansy earlier, and had it ready.
"Two-thousand eighteen...so a little over five years ago." She tried not to blush at her lie.
Sebastian didn't notice.
"Ah, sweet! I appreciate older women," he joked.
They were deep into the throng now. A massive portion of the pub's occupants was crowded around the bar, screaming at a sports match on the telly. Sebastian held up a finger to her, still smiling, then dove in between two intimidating patrons to get their drinks.
Hermione sighed, feeling a crippling headache coming on. Her Polyjuice Potion must be near wearing off. She dipped into her purse and pulled out the small container to take a sip. No one would be any wiser in a muggle pub.
When Sebastian returned with their drinks, she put on her best grin and told herself she would have a little fun. She couldn't really wreck her life anymore, though technically she did have a new job to celebrate. It was an odd situation. She deserved a drink.
Not to mention it had been so long since a man had looked at her the way Sebastian was at that moment. She couldn't remember the last time she and Ron had slept in the same bed, much less been intimate.
Well, this was just one drink, and then home. She was a proper forty-four year old mother after all. Even if she only looked twenty-two.
0.0.0
This was a lonnnnng first chapter to start things off. Subsequent chapters will probably be a bit shorter so I can update more frequently.
Let me know if you liked it, and if I should keep going!
xo