The headaches started in late July. It was just an ache in the beginning, an annoyance that plagued her when she was tired or overworked. Now it was a constant tension between her temples, a throbbing that spread across the bridge of her nose and turned her brain foggy at a moment's notice. There was no relieving it, no matter how many pills she took or how much water she drank. Maybe it's from too much reading, her friend Mark had said, sniggering. Maybe your hair's finally starting to eat your brain—we all knew it would happen someday. He had earned a punch in the arm for that one.
Hermione rubbed her forehead, squinting at the light that streamed in from the shop's front window. This was her least favorite time of day at the bookshop. Customers were few and far between, time dragged on, and it was when her boss thought was the best time for her to do the most menial task in the shop: reshelving.
Hermione groaned, trying to disguise it in a yawn when a customer looked up at her warily. Hermione smiled reassuringly at the woman, but it came out more like a grimace and the woman shifted uncomfortably before returning to the shelves she was browsing. Hermione sighed. Reshelving could take hours. The bookseller's where Hermione worked, Wheedles and Budgery, was an enormous, sprawling monster of a shop, with more volumes than a store twice its size could house. There were books shoved into corners, double-stacked on shelves, and piled in hallways; encyclopaedias tucked in the gaps between bookcases, novels teetering on the edges of tables, and first editions scattered across dusty high-backed reading chairs.
Hermione highly doubted that it was in accordance with fire code regulations, but when she had mentioned this to the owner, Mr. Craggins, on her first day, he had merely scowled menacingly and told her to get back to work.
She breathed in, tasting the print on her tongue as she started toward the first shelves on the second floor mezzanine. She always began there, in the Ancient Literature section, because the pages there smelled the best. The scent of the inks printed in Homer and Vergil saturated the still bookshop air and made Hermione grin like a fool. There was no coming between Hermione and books—her appetite for knowledge and the written word was voracious and untamed (rather like her hair, Mark had once said. He was punched for that one too.) She sighed as she began, heaving a heavy translation of the Iliad up onto its proper shelf, and let her mind wander as she moved among the stacks.
Hermione was far back in Classical Architecture before she was brought up from her reverie. "And what makes you think you are suitable for the job?" it was Mr. Craggins' rasping voice that floated up through the stacks towards Hermione, coming from the floor below. A male voice replied, low and slightly husky, and Hermione couldn't make out the words. She crept to the staircase, edging around the stuffed shelves and stacked volumes, and poked her head around the corner at the top of the stairs. Mr. Craggins was at the counter, shuffling papers and talking moodily to a tall man that Hermione could not distinguish behind the large pile of books on political theory stacked in front of him.
"This work is highly research-intensive, Mister…" the man did not supply a name, and after a moment of tension Mr. Craggins continued sourly, "I cannot let a stranger waltz in off the street to take this opportunity without references or credentials of any kind. The work of a researcher librarian is essential to—" the man cut him off, slicing across Mr. Craggins' speech in quiet, clipped tones. Hermione's interest grew and she leaned further around the books, wincing slightly as the floorboards protested loudly under her feet. There was the sound of shuffling papers, more hushed talking and a moment of silence from Mr. Craggin. Then, "I see" he said, exhaling loudly, and Hermione was overcome by curiosity. She craned her head around the corner of the staircase, trying to get a better look at the visitor and his mysterious papers, and clutched wildly at the nearest stack of books for support. Without warning the heap of Akkadian dictionaries gave way, and Hermione tumbled down the short curving staircase, coming to a halt in a sprawling heap with her nose an inch from the toe of a shiny, expensive-looking shoe.
She raised her eyes and was met with an icy grey stare. The man's face was smooth, filled with sharp angles and level planes. He had an aristocratic nose and an unsmiling mouth with full lips, and skin that was so pale it almost glowed in the afternoon sunlight streaming in from the window. His hair was shockingly blond, bordering on white, and swept back carelessly from his face. He couldn't have been much older than Hermione, yet he carried himself like he had years of experience that made him infinitely superior. Hermione stared unabashedly at the stranger before her and felt her jaw drop open slightly. A low ache began to build at her temples and she reached up absently to rub her forehead.
"Miss Doe" sniffed Mr. Craggins. "How kind of you to join us. I would like you to meet our newest patron here at Wheedles and Budgery, Mister…" he dropped off, exasperated, and Hermione heard him shift grumpily behind his counter.
"Malfoy" the man replied, and the corner of his mouth turned up with the barest hint of a smirk that was gone in an instant. "Draco Malfoy."
The effect was instant. His voice slashed through her mind, pulling on her memories and cutting at her consciousness, and the throbbing at her temples surged to a tempo that felt like it would beat its way through her skull. She gagged and barely managed to disguise it as a cough, pulling herself gracelessly to her feet.
"Pleasure," she choked out, extending her hand and pulling it away after barely grazing his fingertips. Her head spun, and she could barely breathe out the words. "Mr. Craggins, I'm…I think I'd better leave for the day."
"Miss Doe!" He fumed, "What about the reshelving? It cannot possibly be finished already! And Mr. Malfoy—"
She stumbled to the entrance, pulling her coat off the hook next to the door, all the while avoiding the grey eyes she could feel boring holes into her back. She barely glanced over her shoulder, blinking furiously at the black spots invading her vision.
"Tomorrow! I'll be in early!" she wrenched the door open and rushed out into the cool fall evening.
What. Was. That?
...
The tea shop was unremarkable, really. A faded awning and unexceptional window boxes adorned the building's façade, giving it an unmistakably forgotten air. The tarnished bell above the doorframe tinkled halfheartedly as the door opened to the late fall air, announcing the arrival of several crackling leaves and a particularly bushy-haired girl.
Dazed, shivering slightly from the bite in the air, her coat pulled tightly to keep out the chill, Hermione shuffled into Nora's Tea Room. She sat in her usual booth; the one by the window that faced the rather shabby pub across Bridle Lane, and soaked in the cheery warmth of the shop. Nora called from behind the counter, cheeks rosy with delight, a light dusting of flour covering her ample bosom.
"What can I get you love, the usual?" her voice carried across the crowded teashop easily and Hermione nodded her assent, smiling easily back at the older woman. When Hermione had moved into the small apartment above the Tea Room over a year ago, Nora decided to adopt the small, frizzy-haired brunette, fussing and coddling her way into Hermione's heart. She acted this way with all of her tenants, bringing up sweets after closing time and making sure each of them felt at home. There was only Hermione now, since Jenna had moved out in October to live closer to her parents, and Mark had left not long after to live closer to Jenna. The "Rooms to Let" sign now hung crookedly from the shop's window, rattling slightly in the fall wind.
Nora sidled over, mug and plate in hand, and settled herself in front of Hermione's small booth.
"There you are, poppet. I put in a slice of apple cake today, just a treat," she winked cheekily at Hermione, but her smile slipped as she caught the dazed look on the small woman's face. "What's got into you, love? Did something happen? Is it the headaches? Are you having…well, are you feeling alright?" Concern washed over her face as she set down the mug and plate with a small clink, reaching out to feel Hermione's forehead.
"I'm fine, I promise!" Hermione attempted a tremulous smile and pushed at Nora's hand, but Nora didn't fall for it. "Stress at work, I suppose…" She tried again, but it came out like a question.
"Love, you work in a bookshop! What stress is there to be had?" Nora stopped and squinted down her nose at Hermione. "Was that Mr. Craggins going after you again? I ought to have a word with him, you know. He never—"
"No, no Nora! It's nothing like that!" Hermione interjected, waving her hands. "Mr. Craggins is perfectly fine, I—I just had an off day, I suppose. There was this man and he…" at the suspicious look on Nora's face, Hermione quickly changed subjects. "And it's not just a bookshop! Wheedles and Budgery is a purveyor and collector of exotic and rare books, as well as a research center for—"
"'-lost manuscripts, arcane subjects and all things obscure.' Alright, alright!" Nora chuckled, cutting Hermione off before she could launch into a fully prepared rant about the importance of her work. "Just eat your cake before you go upstairs. It'll do you good, especially on a nippy day like today." She patted Hermione lightly on the cheek before shuffling back to her counter.
Hermione sighed. Nora had caught her in the middle of an episode in early September, when she had her first blackout. She had been coming through the shop after closing, carrying her shopping, and had just unlocked the door to the back stairs when it hit her. A sudden, throbbing stab at her temples had sent her reeling, and the shopping bags dropped from her hands as she collapsed against the doorframe. She had awoken in her bed upstairs with Nora and Jenna hovering anxiously above her, and had not been able to shake their concerns until some time had passed.
Now she sat in her booth, idly stirring her tea. The headaches were getting worse, that much was certain. She had never seen the black spots before, nor had a voice ever cut to the core of her head so easily. Sensitivity to noise was something she expected these days, what with the constant ache in her temples, but nothing had ever triggered it that badly before.
Malfoy, was it? He had a distinctly standoffish air about him, come to think of it. The way he looked down his straight nose with grey eyes that seemed to cut through the air, the way his lip had curled at the sound of her name, all of it screamed of unpleasant character. There was no question that he was handsome, with his aristocratic features, pale hair, and the way he filled out his suit…Hermione shuddered, mentally slapping herself. He probably knows it, too. She sniffed, and brought her tea up to her mouth. Definitely knows it. Cocky bastard. But he has to be pretty clever to make Mr. Craggins take him at Wheedles, especially without papers or recommendations…
Hermione groaned inwardly. That was certainly going to be a problem. How could she face him again after acting like such a complete nutter? She'd dropped to the floor, practically had a seizure, skipped out on her work and fled from the shop, all after only seeing his face! How would he view her, then? She flopped down in her seat, resting her head on the table. She would be a laughingstock. Mr. Craggins would never forgive her, surely. She'd be trying to make it up to him for the rest of her days.
She looked up, exasperated, to see Nora squinting over at her from behind the counter. Hermione quickly righted herself and tucked in to the cake, smiling up rather frantically at Nora between mouthfuls. Nora, thankfully, seemed satisfied with Hermione's enthusiasm and moved on to her next customer. Hermione practically inhaled the cake, collected her coat, and rushed to the back stairs without a second glance out the window.
If she had looked back, however, she would have seen a pale young man with shocking blond hair vanish into the darkness outside the window with a faint pop. Nora, on the other hand, did see. She shook her head, chuckling.
"Young Master Malfoy never was one for subtlety."
Hello, and welcome to Oblivisci! I should be posting about once a week until the fic is finished.
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