Sunday night, it snowed again. Hermione had arrived home from work, dropped her bag on the floor, and immediately set out to making tea. She shrugged off her snow-covered scarf and jacket as it steeped, and retrieved her wand from her bag. Bringing it to her head, she muttered her counter-spell. "Revelare Verum Sui."
Once the tingling sensation had passed, she shook out her honey brown hair and gave a content sigh. It was ever so tiring to wear a face that was not her own every day.
She picked up her tea, and walked to the full-length mirror that stood in her bedroom. She stood before her reflection and smiled. When you spent your days disguised as someone else, it was easy to forget what you really looked like. She fluffed out her curly mass of hair and spent a few minutes looking at her reflection, enjoying being able to look like Hermione Granger once more. She set her tea down on her bedside table so she could throw her hair up into a careless bun on top of her head, and when she picked up her mug of tea again, her eyes fell to the nasty scar on her left forearm.
She had tried all kinds of potions, spells, and ointments for it after the war, but Bellatrix had used a very rare type of cursed knife that had caused irreparable scarring. At first, she had taken to using a glamour that made it unnoticeable to anyone but her—sort of like a notice-me-not charm. But once she began to disguise herself day to day, she tweaked the spell so that it also completely diminished the scar's appearance in the same way that the spell did away with her freckles. She didn't particularly enjoy seeing a different face when she looked in the mirror—it was slightly disturbing—but not having to see Mudblood carved across her arm was a definite perk.
She crawled into bed, putting her wand in its usual spot in her top drawer, and pulled the covers up around her waist. She snuggled up with her cup of steaming hot tea, and looked around her silent flat. It was times like this that she really missed Crookshanks. He had been living with her parents in Australia while she was on the run, and had fallen victim to the same massacre that killed her parents. She liked to think that he had probably died trying to defend them—he was always such a loyal, fierce thing—and that gave her a tiny modicum of comfort, but not much. She'd debated over getting another pet since becoming a permanent resident of France, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. The only practical pet to have would be a cat since she often worked long hours. But she didn't want just another cat. To be honest, she wanted Crookshanks—and he was gone.
She took a deep breath, promising herself she would not get emotional tonight. She had already spent plenty of time mourning for her losses, she didn't need to get worked up tonight for no reason. Besides, she had a long day ahead of her tomorrow—The Drowsy Poet was hosting a book signing for a famous local author. It was sure to be a busy day since Florence was out of town visiting her older brother until Tuesday.
After setting her alarm clock, she pulled a novel from the tall stack of books on her bedside table, and set into reading until she calmed down.
She didn't even make it half way through the first chapter before thoughts of Draco Malfoy filled her head.
She slammed her book down onto her lap. Damn that Malfoy! Another cup of tea—that's what she needed. Throwing her covers back, she set out for the kitchen once more.
She leaned against the kitchen counter as the water boiled, staring off into space with her arms wrapped around her torso. What am I doing? She wondered.
Hermione was a practical woman, she was a logical woman—she was a smart woman. Hell, she'd been the brains behind the operation to take down one of the darkest wizards in history. And yet, none of her actions recently involving Draco Malfoy were practical, logical, or smart. The practical, logical, smart course of action would have been to flee. She should have avoided Malfoy from the very second he stepped into her store. She should have let Florence help him with whatever literary inquiries he had. At the very least, she should have been as aloof as possible. But no, what had she done? She had listened to him, looked into those steel gray eyes of his, she had answered his questions, she'd joined him for tea—she had even gone as far as to reciprocate when he flirted with her!
Now he would be coming back again this week, she was sure of it. And then what would happen? Hermione knew better than to fool herself into thinking she could participate in some kind of friendship with Draco Malfoy under a false identity. She was a terrible liar. She wouldn't get very far before he was bound to figure it all out.
Maybe I should just tell him who I am, came a niggling thought into her head.
Wait, what?
Hermione was shaken from her thoughts by the sound of the kettle whistling. She took the kettle off the stove and slipped the tea strainer under the lid. Staring at the kettle while her tea steeped, she wondered at herself. Why on earth would she reveal who she really was to Draco Malfoy, of all people? If she was going to be honest about her identity, it certainly wasn't going to be to the ferret, of all people.
But he's certainly not a ferret anymore, is he?
Hermione sighed, really wishing her inner voice would shut up.
While it was true, this new, older, kinder, happier Malfoy held a definite appeal—it just wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be right to go back to being Hermione Granger like this. If she was going to be herself, if she was going to be Hermione Granger, she owed Harry and Ginny—probably even Ron, and definitely the rest of the Weasleys—an explanation first. A letter, at the very least. She glanced at her book-covered desk, on which sat a pad of notebook paper and a few dozen pens, and was suddenly overcome with anxiety.
No, she didn't want to be Hermione Granger. She was perfectly content with being Joan Spinner. She liked this life—she wanted to keep it.
She poured herself a cup of tea, deciding that, in the end, her hands were bound. She would tolerate Malfoy whenever he showed up in the future, help him continue to educate himself on Muggle literature—if that's what he wanted—and he would eventually go home to England, or Paris or…wherever. Malfoy was still the same flirtatious, rakish, heart-throb he'd always been. That, at least, hadn't changed. He had always been an avid pursuer of women—she'd heard the rumors back at Hogwarts. So logically, all Hermione needed to do was ignore his pursuits, and he'd lose interest…right? If she stopped flirting back and stopped admiring his arse when he walked away—eventually he would disappear, leaving her to her quiet life once more.
Hermione felt quite pleased with her plan as she retreated back to bed with her fresh cup of tea.
Yes, this would be easy, she decided.
That irksome little voice in her head disagreed.