Every little thing she does is magic
Everything she do just turns me on
[Sting & The Police]
It did not seem strange now to find people (witches and wizards alike) sitting in pubs and taverns across the country at times which were formerly considered indecorous hours for the partaking of that placid pastime of drowning one's sorrows with drink.
It was not the barkeepers' faults for enabling the country in such a way, as it were, though they were indeed the ones who decided when to open and shut their doors; no one had the strength to begrudge someone else of earning a living in those days, weeks, months of the aftermath, simply for the fact that 'living' – and all things associated with it – became one of the wizarding community's most precious commodities. Once again.
Still, that said, it was somewhat… peculiar… to find her sitting in The Leaky Cauldron at midday, an empty glass and another half-full (always the optimist) before her, with such a distressed look upon those pursed lips.
And while the War had afforded everyone a free pass for all the distressed looks that they could ever wish to employ, hers was not one haunted by those common atrocities of the very recent past. Not at the moment, anyway. No – something else was dismaying her.
Benjy Williams did not stare, did not even glance at her, as he walked up to the bar and stood at the far side of the barstool nearest hers. He waited patiently, without a word, for Tom, who was still alive and still the barkeep, to serve him. It was a busy day, after all – as they all were, during times such as these.
She couldn't help it. It was subtle, the irritated tapping of clean fingernails against a dirty bar glass, which he was supposed to notice, and he did.
"Can I get you another firewhiskey, love?"
The query sounded more polite, she thought, than it really should have. Perhaps it was the lingering remnants of his Australian drawl, combined with countless hours, she imagined, of social coaching he certainly must have undertaken as a professional Quidditch player.
Still, it was a surprise that he somehow sounded genuinely apologetic (neither simpering, nor leering), as though he had read her mind that he was invading her personal space.
She then realised that she had not yet answered the question.
"I'm not drinking firewh–" She started haughtily, then stopped abruptly and contemplated the diminishing liquid in front of her.
He had seen it before. Not just during the War. Either she had progressed to whiskey and had forgotten that she had; she had, and was in denial about it; or she hadn't yet, and now thought better of declining.
"It's alright, love." He said softly, and he meant it, in every sense possible, whatever the circumstances proved to be.
When Tom at last had a moment to acknowledge his presence, Benjy flashed two fingers at him and nodded once.
Two squat tumblers magically appeared on the bar, between Benjy and the proprietress of the sudden, exasperated laugh resonating beside him.
"I'm not stupid, you know."
"No, darlin', wouldn't imagine they'd call you the smartest witch of your age for nothing."
She rolled her eyes, ignoring his comment and how it made her want to blush, despite the fact that she had heard that line nearly too many times to count by this point in her life.
"I know who you are." She clarified her original positing.
"Mm, well, then I'm sorry…" A smirk played at the corner of his mouth. "Afraid I haven't a clue who you are, Ms. Granger."
Hermione glanced askance at the shaggy-haired wizard, whilst he took advantage of her admission to familiarity as an invitation to finally sit down on the stool next to hers.
"Or is it 'Mrs. Weasley' now?" Benjy briskly lifted one of the tumblers to his lips, but the mirth could still be seen in his eyes.
"Oh, please." She huffed. "I'm barely 20."
"Times change, don't they…" He mused aloud.
"You're one to talk of it, Mr. Williams."
She knew for a fact that he was only in his late 20s, and still a bachelor – not that she'd done research on him or anything of the sort, it was just… one of those random details, which happened to stick in her brain. In fact, she could probably sort all the Quidditch league players in order of their age, with reasonable accuracy, if someone asked her to.
He nearly corrected her 'transgression' (usually some variation on "Please, love… 'Mr. Williams' is my father…" would get him to a first-name basis faster than a Firebolt in freefall), but from what he knew of Ms. Hermione Granger's character, he would have been forthwith addressed as 'Benjamin', rather than 'Benjy', and that, arguably, was far worse than 'Mr. Williams'. So, instead he just smiled at her.
"Did you know…" He began, whilst her hand strayed to the other tumbler of whiskey. "That Purebloods once used to marry their daughters off at the ripe old age of 13?"
She was proud of herself for not choking on the first sip she took. (Or the second, for that matter.)
"Yes, I'm quite familiar with the history of magic; magical families included. And might I just say," she said, flames flickering quickly through her veins, "I've often thanked Merlin that I'm just a 'filthy little mudblood'."
She knew full well that the sentiment would draw furtive looks from the Leaky customers as their ears were still so sharply attuned to such hateful speech, ever ready to quash even the hint of lingering support for the defeated Dark Lord, or advocacy of the Death Eaters' ideologies. But she didn't care. She wanted to see Benjy Williams squirm.
But he didn't.
His eyes surveyed her intently, and he spoke softly and calmly.
"I'm on your side, darlin'…"
It was true, of course. She knew that he had been one of the many who came and fought and opposed Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts. Yet, it did nothing to change the fact that he was a graduate of Slytherin house; her bias against the green and silver-tongued serpents as yet unassuaged.
"Yes, it must feel good to know, in hindsight, that you picked the winning party."
"Not just that."
He was smart – maybe not book-smart, but intelligent enough; a simpler buffoon would have risen to the bait of argument, for argument's sake. Not he.
She dared to look in his eyes, then – really look – and she saw it. She couldn't explain it, but she had seen it often in her own eyes, or so she thought, when she looked in a mirror.
'Muggleness' was the best she had come up with, though the term was too indelicate and inane for her liking. But nevertheless, it conveyed something – a kind of appreciation or understanding; a tacit awareness or memories, at the very least – of things non-magical.
It was something a certain Ronald Weasley lacked.
Not that that was necessarily a good or a bad thing. It was just… a thing.
She set the firewhiskey aside and returned to nursing her other rather half-forgotten drink, which seemed disappointingly less potent.
"The War's over, Mr. Williams; I'm not looking for a new comrade-in-arms."
"Is that right, love…" His empty tumbler now joined hers. "So, you're not sitting alone in the middle of London's busiest pub waiting for your admirers to fawn over you?"
"Well, I certainly don't see them all lining up for the chance; do you?"
Her eyes narrowed reflexively, but she suddenly felt embarrassed, like she had somehow admitted something she didn't even know she was thinking. He had cornered her, trapped, and tricked her into it.
So she spat the accusation back at him. "So, is that what you're here for? Hoping to sign a few autographs?"
"Not today, love. My only signature will be paying the bar tab." Benjy shrugged simply. "I might pick up yours, too, though it's hardly a consolation for your efforts in defeating one of the greatest dark wizards of all time."
"Quite the knight in shining armour, aren't you…"
The sarcasm was palpable, but he answered honestly, as if it were a legitimate question.
"No, darlin'. I'm not."
He certainly wasn't; he was nothing at all like Ronald, who, so many years ago now, was quite literally a knight (albeit not in any armour, shining or otherwise), who helped Harry (and, well, herself) thwart Voldemort's earliest advances.
"What a shame." Hermione admitted truthfully. "The world could use a few more."
"It doesn't take knights to make the days safer, love."
She normally would have welcomed the excitement that flared in her at even so modestly clever a turn of phrase as that, but instead she felt rather disconcerted by the stimulation.
"He wasn't great, you know."
"Sorry?" Benjy tapped his empty glass on the bar and it dutifully vanished itself.
"Voldemort wasn't one of the 'greatest' dark wizards…" Hermione stated stiffly. "There's nothing great about what he did."
"I misspoke."
She gave a curt nod. "Yes, you did."
"I meant – if you'll allow it…" Benjy inclined his head deferentially. "That he was one of the most powerful wizards that ever lived."
"And died."
"Yes, love… That's the important part, isn't it." He spoke the words gently; he could tell (from far too much experience) that there would be tears in her eyes already, and thus, it would be his fault if they went so far as to spill down onto their owner's countenance.
"I don't understand how men get seduced by such monsters…" She loathed every part of the creature which Voldemort had become.
"Come now, darlin'…" Benjy gave her a sly smile. "You're no monster."
She had to laugh. It was absurd.
"I hope you're not suggesting that I'm seducing you, Mr. Williams."
"You're far closer to succeeding than Voldemort ever was, love."
She allowed herself the briefest of smiles – a genuine one – which he noticed, which she didn't altogether mind.
"What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Williams…"
Hermione could tell he was doing a quick calculation in his head.
"Shall we shift somewhere more private, hm?"
But what the summation was, she wasn't quite sure.
"I'm waiting for someone, actually." She glanced nervously at the Leaky door. "I said I'd meet them at the bar."
Benjy's eyebrow quirked at this new information. "And he's not clever enough to figure it out otherwise?"
"She…" Hermione cleared her throat. "She is clever enough. But…"
"But, Merlin, what would she think…"
His impish smile returned, as though it was the natural expression his face chose to wear. Hermione wondered, for a fleeting moment, if the witches who found (or lost) themselves in Benjy Williams' bed saw that very same smile bestowed on them, and whether or not it remained even when he was in the throes of slumber.
"Are thoughts really so dangerous, darlin'?"
"Of course they are." She shook any trace of reverie from her head. "The Wizarding Wars – and every muggle war – all started with thoughts. With wrong thinking."
"A change of seating is hardly an act of war, Ms. Granger."
She fixed him with a glower of admonishment. "But even the hint of a wrong impression often goes spiralling out of control. I think you've had enough experience with The Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly which attests to that."
"Fair point; I'll grant you that." He didn't need to look around the pub to know how many Quick-Quotes Quills were already scratching away as it was. "But can you imagine the headlines, love…"
Evidently Hermione could, and her cheeks reddened at the thought. She wasn't quite sure whether this would go over better or worse than any of the times the press had paired her romantically with Harry. Honestly, Ronald… it's ridiculous, and you know it. How many times had she said that… and how many more times was it necessary?
"I don't suppose you're trying to start the next War already, Mr. Williams…"
There was something very indecent about discussing the topic with such casual abandon. But she sort of enjoyed it… this acting detached from it, as though she was nothing more than an ignorant outside commentator rather than having been a first-hand observer and participant. She wouldn't dare dream of trivialising the circumstances with the Weasleys.
Maybe she needed this… A partial – and temporary – escape from the things that were.
"Darlin', if there's ever a War started for the sake of convincing every witch in this world that they're beautiful…" Benjy donned a look of sincerity, which made Hermione shiver. "I'd be the first man standing on the front line."
"Your crusade would be much better served by any Helen of Troy than a former 'bushy-haired know-it-all', you know. I rather seriously doubt that I would make the papers fly off the shelves any faster, even so much as paired with you."
"Au contraire, darlin'…" Benjy gestured subtly to indicate the full citizenry of the Leaky Cauldron. "People love happy endings."
A happy ending… The idea was entirely laughable. Hermione was sure her life couldn't be further from that fairytale notion.
"Provincial people prefer gossip, which a happy ending hardly makes." The corner of her mouth twitched tensely. "And cultured people prefer a more probable conclusion."
His eyebrow again raised itself aloft. "What, we aren't convincing enough for you, love?"
"First of all, 'we' aren't anything." She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "And secondly – no."
"Then I'll have to respectfully beg to disagree."
He suddenly shifted off his barstool and sank down onto one knee, grinning, intending to quite literally beg her pardon, and knowing full well how it would appear to those bearing witness.
Hermione looked – and felt – like she had been Petrified.
"What are you…" She growled at him, her eyes wide in alarm. "Why areyou doing this?"
Benjy casually turned his attention to the floor and protractedly fumbled with his untied shoelace. "Because there happened to be a pretty girl sitting here at the bar, looking like she wasn't having the best day that she could be. So I thought I'd buy her a drink while I try to figure out how to make her smile."
Hermione rubbed her left temple and exhaled her irritation.
"If you thought this would do it, Mr. Williams, I'm afraid you need a little more practise."
"Every wizard does, love."
The pub patrons had quieted down whilst watching the blond's antics, their conversations completely dissolving into a hush of anticipation as he retrieved something from his back pocket and stood, intimately close to – Good heavens, you're right, it is that Granger girl.
She found it hard to refrain from thinking that he smelled nice, the fresh air of a thousand Quidditch practises infused with his natural musk. He coaxed her hand from its firm grip on the bar counter, then wrapped her fingers around something – cold, hard, heavy – that he placed in her hand.
"Sorry," She scoffed loudly, even through her gritted teeth. "But no, thank you!"
A sudden wave of feminine gasps informed Hermione that she was (and indeed had been) at the centre of attention, and the victim of fallacious context.
She tried to shove back the short stack of galleons Benjy had forced upon her.
"I'm afraid I can't accept this –"
But Mr. Williams had already turned away, no doubt playing up his recent miserableness of existence to all the witches in the room for all their worth in sympathetic sycophancy.
These were desperate times indeed.
"Benjy –"She hissed at him (as it was, she knew, the best way to talk to a snake). "I don't need your money."
"Then it's not for you, love." Benjy whispered over his shoulder. "Buy your friend a drink for me, hm?"
She stood up and slapped his galleons onto the bar, to pre-punctuate her own proposal.
"Why don't you wait a few more minutes. Then you can buy her one yourself – and solve her problems. I would dearly love to see how you would make her smile."
"Sorry, love." He could feel the sharp edge of her words, so he turned ever so carefully to face her. "I've already helped my quota of witches today."
"Take your gold, Mr. Williams." She implored of him. "We won't be drinking."
"No?" He didn't think her a liar, but it was a strong assertion to make.
"No. It doesn't bring anyone back."
"No." Benjy agreed. "Not the dead, anyway… But it always seems worth a try."
He studied her chestnut eyes one last time, as though they might be a primer for whatever he was off to undertake next.
"Darlin', it's my estimation that a person who didn't lose someone in the War, either didn't have any friends – or any enemies."
It was an obvious statement but in the tone of it, it was neither intended to belittle her or make himself sound wise. She wondered whether he was saying it because it was a thing that he could not – or had not – said to someone else.
With a courteous nod, Benjy Williams left Hermione Granger alone in her wonderment.
His galleons remained on the bar.
"You look like you've seen a ghost." The redhead mused aloud, as she kissed her friend's cheek in greeting.
"No… Just a jester." Hermione sighed wearily, but gave a slight smile. "One that makes the fool I've got seem unequivocally valedictorian in courting my affections."
"That's certainly saying something." Ginny laughed.
LOVE-STRUCK SEEKER
B. WILLIAMS BLUDGERED
BY H. GRANGER'S REJECTION!
Or so read the bottom-right-corner of Witch Weekly's latest tawdry excuse for wizarding news. The article – if one were mistaken enough to call it that – decried the heartache of Puddlemere United's most formidable bachelor, whilst forecasting Benjy's persistent (but ill-fated) pursuit of the bushy-haired man-eater, immediately followed by his depressive downward spiral into unrequited ennui, the only cure for which would doubtlessly be a romantic rebound, which Witch Weekly owned the exclusive rights to, and would be sending one very lucky reader on an all-expenses-paid rendezvous with the Seeker extraordinaire.
Hermione realised there was nothing more appropriate to do except love Ronald Weasley all the more for – howsoever predictably – getting angry and jealous about it all.
Despite his blustery rage, Ron was actually quite chuffed to have found another perfectly-justified reason to hate Puddlemere United.