Chapter 1: Sample box
Hermione is bad a running, that much is clear. In her defense, the use is going extinct, evolutionary wise. Like wisdom teeth or armpit hair. She's not at risk of being chased every day from the supermarket to her apartment or on her way to the coffee shop, although it is the furthest on her way to work that makes decent decaf tea.
So when she sprints from the train station to the Chess West building, recognizable for its two letters, CW, symbol of the over performing consulting firm, she almost blows out a lung or two. Can't blame it on the shoes either. She's not wearing heels and purposely selected the most comfortable shoes, short of being sneakers, she could find.
What she's good at however, is not wasting what she spends her salary on. Five dollars for a tea might be too much for some people. For her, it's more than that. She gets two packs of sugar, honey, three spoons, a stack of napkins, two lids and an extra cup holder with every purchase. They rarely overflow her desk drawer but definitely her kitchen one. It's worth it I. You never know when you'll need coffee merchandise.
So she protects her purchase with all her abilities, running slow enough to not spill it but fast enough that it won't get lukewarm upon arrival. She takes shallow breaths, avoiding her boobs from knocking down the drink all over her blouse. Not optimum for oxygen intake but necessary.
"New manager in the building, he..." Her coworker's text pings on her phone banner notification.
It's a tough choice. Losing a few second to unlock her screen and read the rest or giving her all to this sprint to make it to her desk in time.
She passes Deena, the receptionist, whom she offers her best smile to and squeezes through the elevator door.
Hermione swiftly drops her purse, deposits her cup on the desk and sits down, all while turning on her computer and typing her needlessly complicated required password as fast as she can. Three times before she remembers to enable the number key pad that's somehow resetting with every shut down.
Hermione has never received a bad grade. Nothing under a B. She's always done what was expected of her, without feeling the burden of it or making any sacrifices. Obedience comes easily. It aligns with her principles and strokes her natural proclivity for excellence. That, she thinks, died in higher education. She buried it right on her first job's tenth day, when her desk phone rung and she picked up to hear her supervisor's voice.
"Are you eating or drinking at your desk?" Frederique asked, neutrality in her tone. HR has drilled passive aggression into the culture, five years prior.
Hermione swallows. "No."
That's it. The moment when she knows she will not obey this time. They'd tell her to stop. To walk the mile of faded carpet to the overcrowded and neon lit break room to chew in front of other people she'd be forced to watch masticate as well. They'd place a neat sheet of paper on her desk, brought by no one in particular, to remind her of the company policy.
"Good," her supervisor approves. "We've been having trouble with some employees leaving crumbs on the floor and using their desk trash to throw away scraps. It's a health hazard. I certainly don't want aunts and I know you hate roaches."
She punctuates with a laugh. Hermione does her best - a habit - to try to remember when she ever mentioned her scale of emotions regarding insects. She fails to recall. She forces a chuckle and shoves a polite agreement in there. Maybe "oh yeah that's for sure." Or "Really? Wow, no. Mice would be horrible too."
"Mark is not here today. You're replacing him in the second floor conference room with our new client. Come get his research file in my office on the way. Hurry please, meeting's in two minutes."
Shit. Another obstacle between her and her rapidly cooling tea. She knows beverages aren't allowed in the conference room either. Expensive tech equipment and velvety chairs insurance apparently doesn't cover lemongrass flavored water. She grabs her cup, intent to down its contents on the way and sprints to the elevator. Who schedules meeting in the first thirty minutes of the building opening?
She furrows her drawers, looking for more appropriate shoes, in vain. Now she wishes she'd taken that advice about dressing every day as if she's meeting with clients because you never know. And it is true, you never know when Mark is going to be sick or hungover or feeling like not coming to work.
Her fingers snatch the file from her supervisor's who only looks up to check her outfit and yell at her from her desk that drinks are banned since the debacle of last year's Halloween.
Opening the file, the words jump at her, tea getting stuck somewhere between her throat and her sinuses before spilling out on the carpet, right in front of the conference room.
Client: EnchanTech
CEO and Founder: Draco Malfoy
What a little shit of a hypocrite. After despising and denigrating muggles all his life, there he is capitalizing on muggle technology, amassing even more wealth than he already has. The epitome of the self-made man, who has millions of generational wealth to invest in his own start up.
She puffs up her coils, reminding herself that, at least this isn't a totally bad hair day. He'lol have nothing to say about it. And she steps in.
—
Draco Malfoy has to pee. He's woken late and left his place in a hurry, not because he cares about being on time for people whose livelihood depends on his financial choices but because he wanted to be first at Cafe Mundo to get their lemon scone. Horrifyingly enough the owners refuse to deliver, even when bribed. They believe in equality over pastries and coffees. It even says so on their chalkboard sign and always welcome him with that sly smile and syrupy "happy to see you here."
Here and not in your mansion, they must be thinking. As if he would still live at his parents.
As if mansions are still a thing. He's sent his assistants get it for him before but they all always come back with a different pastry under the pretense of the bakery being out. Sometime they're back with the smallest scones. When he goes himself, the girl at the counter chooses the fluffiest one, as if to incentivize him.
So he has to act like all those other peasants and arrive early or get in line before all the fucking scones are gone. He gets two, one for the weekend when there's no way he's waking up early to hang out with the masses. By the time he makes it to the CW building, it's too late to look for the restrooms as the receptionist already almost bows to him, hushing him into the room with smiles, blushes and small talk about the important work he is doing, whatever that means.
When Draco Malfoy realizes who his philanthropic team lead advisor is, his head throbs. A literal fucking headache takes over him at the mere view of Hermione Granger.
He greets her with a nod that only worsens the pain as she attempts a reluctant smile, looking up from her folder, eyes bulging out of her head.
It would have a comical effect really if he wasn't so pissed. He was expecting a certain Preston Springs, whom he has taken the time to google himself. A sound guy who is part of a rowing club, goes on trips to Thailand and Bali and volunteers in Australia to rescue animals.
Four legged creatures are a no brainer. No controversy, no polemic. Now he has two problems. Granger is probably better than that guy at knowing what she's doing.
Two. She will most definitely push the most inane causes and controversial nonprofits onto him and he is going to hate it.
Where the fuck is Theo? Financial advisor by day, Liquor connoisseur by night. What a joke.
His friend finally arrives, suited up in a trendy mix of wizards robes and muggle suit. A hit in the fashion world and great representation of the now integrated world they thrive to represent, since they happen to be banking money on it every day.
He quickly tap his shoulder and takes a seat as the rest of the advisors and a few members of Malfoy's board as Granger does the same. She peruses over her folder, brows furiously furrowed and snaps it shut in poorly hidden frustration.
"Malfoy... Mr Malfoy," she corrects herself as pairs of eyes already stab her and Theo's body shakes under a light chuckle. "If that's alright with you, I will be leading the meeting today in the absence of Mr. Spring."
He could say no and watch her fume. Reschedule and pack his shit. His company's image his personal image needed expertise and say what you will about Granger but she has a history of getting shit done. This is business.
"No problem. Preston and I hadn't had time to go over his ideas so we can start fresh. I assume he left you a list of the different causes he compiled?"
She winces at how informal he is. She wants to keep the distance of last names and seventy inches of cypress boardroom table. He can't say he doesn't like to hear the Mister coming out her lips. She must be cringing.
Granger gives a furtive glance towards her coworkers before steadying herself. "He did but, in my opinion, those choices aren't necessarily the best for the approach you are looking for."
Draco hears the gasps from her team, even the silent ones only expressed through chests shooting upright and eyes refocusing on his reaction. "What do you mean?" He pretends.
He watches her rise to her feet and levitate the different flyers in the folder to the white board, magically holding there until she walks around the table in the type of pants only some people can pull off.
"Deforestation. Melting icebergs. Whale hunting," she lists with that annoying I'm-better-than-all of-you tone. "All of these are great causes companies should support and donate to. But not your company. You can go anywhere and find advisors with this same cookie cutter list."
Way to bash your colleague Granger. She stopps, realizing how it must have sounded. "Actually, is it possible we speak in private?"
What?
"Hum. Sure."
The others leave the room, save for Theo who only leans forward, attentive, a malicious smile on his face. "She's about to read you to filth," he whispers, amused.
Granger stands in front of the board, her cloud of hair obstructing two pictures behind her. "We both know you're here to redeem your company's image after that comment you made about Dean Thomas and how you plucked him out of the muggle slums. Or that other slip about you needing a project and what better than making sense of muggle nonsense. Or how you said your products are so easy, muggles could use them. Or..."
"We get it Granger, I need causes less bland and more pro muggle."
"You need causes that don't make you look like the kind of shit who cares more about nature and objects than he does actual human beings."
Theo lifts a finger. "Do you talk to all your clients this way or is this special treatment because we made fun of your hair that one time?"
She doesn't like that. He sees the twitch of her hand that almost reflexively shoots up to touch her curls and he gets secondhand embarrassment for a second. The same kind he always feels for his mother when his dad's advisors joke about her being a bad cook.
She ignores Theo and turns her body to Draco. "I can give you better options. You're one scandal away from people boycotting the new product you're supposed to launch in..."
Theo cut ps in, fired up after having been ignored. "Oh yes, because cancel culture is so powerful in real life."
"Get out."
She looks at him, asserting her command.
"Excuse me?"
She stares now.
"Get out," Draco hears himself repeat for her. Theo is going to resent him, although he'll pretend not to. He hates being talked to like a child by a chastising father but this time, he has it coming. He slowly rises and leaves. He won't be waiting behind the door either . Draco will probably have to knock on his door, beg him to open and beg for his forgiveness while Theo drains a firewhisky glass, lecturing him about the rules of friendship, business partnership and classic bromance titles he should read.
Hermione walks to him and sits in the now empty seat with that shirt, way too tight for a professional environment really. She doesn't seem to mind him glancing at it twice, trying to read the print. Something about persisting. She even walks around campaigning for some silly cause.
She points at his forearm and suddenly he's hyper aware. "Can I?" She asks, eyes still open wide like she can't believe she did that and lips parted in expectation. Did her lips get even more plump since Hogwarts or was it the dark lipstick?
"Yes." He's curious to know where this is going. She doesn't seem enraged. Maybe she's harnessed that very emotion into more mainstream behavior. She wouldn't slap him at her place of work, even if she has called him a shit within ten minutes of their encounter.
Her hands grab his sweater and slowly peel back his sleeve to point two fingers at the dark mark carved under his skin. He feels her shudder at the view and the hand that's holding his arm, presses just a bit harder.
"Do you find yourself leaving your arm out of the reflection when you inspect your outfits in the mirror?"
Yes, but he doesn't reply. It seems rhetorical.
"Do you voluntarily wear long sleeves, even at home?"
Sure but he's always cold. Some rare form of mild anemia. Thalassemia, his mom said, or something. Runs in the family.
"Do you avoid reading articles with the mark on it, as an accompanying picture?"
Maybe. That seems oddly specific. Her nails are that square form, Astoria swears by. Something about graves or tombs. He can't remember which ominous manicure jargon.
"What's your point, Granger."
She releases his arm, crossing hers under her chest.
"The truth is, people will forgive anything you do. They already have. Your privilege extends to you forever messing up and forever being absolved."
Zabini said something in that same vein before he drained his glass of rum, said bye to him and Theo a few months ago and stopped returning his owls, calls or messages on the app. Draco thought Blaise was being dramatic. He didn't known it was his friend's last attempt at salvaging their crumbling friendship. His friend's final goodbye.
"It's not my fault if..."
"It never is. But my point is, if you're having trouble absolving yourself, picking better causes might help. Causes no one else will touch because they're scared that their image will suffer the controversy. But your image has reached rock bottom and it forever bounces back. You actually could help."
Why did she make sense? He doesn't want her to. He also doesn't want to stare at her that way. At her lips, at her hair. He can't even remember how to make fun of it, or how he ever could find something bad to say about it, or that he had to pee.
—
"He said yes to donating money to the Werewolves Wisdom Foundation?" Lavender gasps over the phone, clearly doing her groceries as the store's cashier reminds customers of a fifteen percent discount with her amplified voice.
"And to Wizards and Witches of Color annual fundraiser. And to Muggle Awareness Magazine," Hermione lists, non to proud of her power of persuasion. "It's a start."
"It's a miracle you mean. How'd you do it? What did Preston say?"
She's complained about Springs so much, Lavender knows even his most annoying colloquial quirks.
"He'll see my notes soon enough."
They both ugly laugh before Hermione falls silent.
"What's wrong?" Lavender asks, the background noise quieting.
"I realized something. I peaked in high school. I did. Didn't I?" She swallows. "I was first in every class, I helped defeat Voldemort, I was invited to the ball by a famous and international quidditch player. Now look at my life. I'm positively pathetic."
It feels the same as realizing she spent her entire teenage years with two boys and no girlfriends, which she's desperately in need of, now as a adult. She reached out, far and wide to old acquaintances, gone to mixers, after works parties and random meet ups. Found Lavender, hyperventilating in the bathroom.
Lavender goes silent before she carefully crafts her words. "You're comparing your six months first job to a seven year period of extreme events. You're not being fair to yourself. We're all in this weird transition from war kids to barely functioning adults."
How did Lavender turn so wise?
"You're... not wrong I guess. Did you.. read a good self-help book or something? This was very insightful."
There she was, sounding like a jerk again, "Sorry I don't mean to say that you're usually not..."
"It's ok," Lavender laughs on the other end. "Actually I went to Alicia Spinnet's workshop and I read her blog. She tackles those types of conversations. She's pretty good. Did you know she's back at Hogwarts to develop a mental health program?"
No she didn't and she wishes she hadn't known. Now even Alicia Spinnet is doing more important and rewarding things than her.
"Remember that she's older. She's had a bit more time to rank up achievements," Lavender adds in a soothing voice, as if she followed Hermione's predictable anxious thoughts.
"I know. I have to go. Harry and Gin are here."
She hangs up, opens the door and takes a sip of her fresh tea that she went back to buy after work and, upon recognizing the silhouette entering, burns her tongue. For the second time today, she won't be able to enjoy her beverage. Three galleons down the drain.
Harry is standing there, an apologetic smile on his face and a bottle of champagne in his hands, accompanied by Ginny, mouthing something but most importantly Ron, her ex husband. Two years of dating, three years of marriage. Zero months of counseling, though she tried to convince him after what she didn't care to save what was unsalvageable.
"Come in," she smiles back, opening her door while frantically texting Lavender.
[19:28] I can't believe he brought Ron. We were supposed to catch up and celebrate Ginny's chiropractic office opening.
Ginny presses her hand. "Sorry, I tried to stop him. He's not staying anyway."
Hermione rushes behind the kitchen counter, pretending to rearrange the plates of amuse-bouche, safer behind the slab of fake granit. Her phone chimes.
[19:29] Girl, you're in for a long night. Tell him to go. Major boundary trespassing there.
[19:29] I can't. He's eating the appetizers already and Harry filled up the flutes. Ttyl. Good luck on your interview tomorrow.
Hermione swallows three sips, intently darting her eyes on Harry who sighs and puts down his own glass.
"Ok, it's awkward I know, Ron can you please tell Hermione what you wanted to say?"
Ginny finishes her drink in three sips while Ron leans forward, his hands almost all the way to the other side of the counter, reaching out to Hermione.
"I wanted to tell you that.. you were right and I'm finally seeing someone... hum a therapist I mean. And huh... I wasn't sure you would accept to see me otherwise so I crashed. I'm sorry."
"I'm glad you changed your mind," Hermione says, waiting for more. This couldn't be all. Why should she care that he's improving himself for someone else to benefit from.
"Also... I'm moving. To Barth... a liaison position in a detached department of the ministry. For
wizards with muggle parents...awareness, early services.. It opened and I got it, It pays more, for relocating costs. Even comes with a flat."
Why is he telling her that? Why in person?
[19:35] Fine. Be polite and suffer then. Say hi to Ginny for me. I'm going to bed early btw. Trying this new magic sex toy.
"Oh. Hum...Congratulations," Hermione automatically says, looking up from her phone.
Neither Harry nor Ron have bought into cellular technology yet. Harry doesn't like to be bothered. Ron doesn't want to learn.
Ginny squeezes her brother's shoulder as Harry empties his glass. He's going to need support, without his best friend.
"Thanks. I hum.. I thought that, since now I'm ready to go to counseling and I'll be earning more money... well we always said divorce didn't mean closing the door if we both felt like..."
"Oh my God..." the words escaped her mouth, tumbling down like rocks as a "oh shit," crosses Ginny's lips.
"Ron, what are you..This is wrong on so many levels I don't even... we're never getting back together."
It's harsh. There's disgust in her tone. She heard it. Harry winced. Ron looks like he's about to cry. "Sorry, that's not..."
What she meant? It is. A hundred percent. She's the bad guy now. The mean wrench.
Ron suddenly turns around, grabs his coat and leaves. Doesn't even slam the door, defeat in his gesture. He must be so hurt.
She looks at her friends.
"Bloody hell, Hermione. You didn't have to..."
"No," Ginny cuts in. "It's our fault Harry. He had no right to ambush her like that and assume she would come back running. We never should have let him come with us."
She grabs Hermione's hand. "I'm so sorry. He's just as immature as he's always been."
"I didn't mean to be that harsh. I feel terrible."
"You should," Harry argues, eating the sausage he doesn't know is meatless, wrapped in dough.
"Don't be a prick, Harry," Ginny counters. "You know she was right."
'Ok but we all know how sensitive he is. He's leaving in a week. I don't need him to be in his feelings for our last days together."
"You act like you're never going to see him again. He'll be an hour train away. You already bought your next three tickets."
Merlin Hermione is relieved not to have to deal with this nonsense on a daily basis. She finishes her drink, convulsively laughing now.
"Nope. Not anymore. Harry, Ron is an idiot and I forbid you to make me feel bad. Shame on you. Your fiancée is bossin' up. I'm on the brink of closing a major deal. We're running this shit and you and Ron can suck it."
Ginny's hand shoots up for an enthusiastic high five while Harry retreats to the couch, the entire plate of pita chips on his lap.
"Thank you," Ginny let out, chewing on the handful of chips she managed to snag in Harry's escape. "Finally some credit. Ugh, I'm going to need it. My competition, in the same building, is a Adrian Pucey."
"Really? I never thought he had the mental stamina to pursue anything else other than quidditch."
She saddled up on the stool next to Ginny.
"Me neither. He's some kind of social media sensation too. Hashtag Chiropractor Bea or something."
Hermione rolls her eyes. "I wish we didn't adopt every muggle fad. Social media is taking over the wizarding world even faster than it did the muggle one. You'll be fine. He might be eye candy but you are too."
Ginny glances at Harry behind her, seemingly oblivious. "I know. I already got Dean to book an appointment that he accepted to record so I can post it. Hashtag Tech genius gets his bones cracked by ex quidditch star. I haven't told Harry."
"I will definitely watch that. Better tell Harry before Ron finds out and snitches though."
"Tell me about it."
"I can tell you about how I'm now working with Draco Malfoy."
"No way!"
"He's going to spend his money to do good and he's going to hate it."
—
Hermione wakes up the next day to an early owl, repeatedly tapping on her window. She waves the window open to read the letter.
"Are you available to meet at my place? My Vice President wants to meet and discuss your ideas further. Lunch is on us. Theodore won't be there. I'm ready to sign. Draco Malfoy."
She looks at her calendar for the day. A meeting with a new post-secondary program offering scholarships to women studying in the magic technology field and a few hundreds emails to send to clients and fundraising teams before scheduling more meetings. She can take care of it at Malfoy's while they talk.
"I'm available at 13:00. Please send your address and I will see you there. Hermione Granger."
She finger detangles her hair while listening to her workout playlist and chooses her favorite casual chic outfit. If she wants to stay the team lead on that case, she'll have to look the part. Preston won't go down quietly. If she can have EnchanTech in contract before he finds out, it will be check mate for him.
Another owl.
"Wards are impenetrable and it will take too long to create you a customized portkey. You can transplant with someone however. Pansy, my Vice President will pick you up."
Shit. She isn't ready for her past to blow up in her face twice in less than twenty four hours.
"On second thought, are you able to meet at the office? I just remembered I have a meeting right before."
Another owl, rather frustrated now.
"Granger please stop lying, I will pick you up. Is your office address ok?"
Why does he insist on being at his place, on his terms? Power move?
Wealthy clients often don't want to travel but if he's going to come himself anyway...
Why not send an assistant?
Hermione ends her morning meeting with a few business cards and promises to follow up. She owls Malfoy to meet her there, bent on not having his number entered in her phone.
He quickly apparates behind her, wearing what must have been t
his most comfortable knitted sweater. When did he get so tall? Last time she saw him he was already sitting down.
He looks down, eyes judging her outfit. Or her body for that matter. No contempt or disgust in his eyes. No sour face.
"Hey," he says, wincing at the wind in his eyes. "Are you still ok to meet at my place? Do you need or want to bring a coworker with you? For safety concerns. Even if it might not be company policy. Thought it might make you feel safer."
Despite her better judgement, her heart skips a beat.
—-
He waits for her answer, hands in his pockets. Granger looks even better than last time, with her tight white shirt, skinny jeans and heels. Topped with a vest to hide the curves that she clearly intends to flaunt anyway. Shit. When did she become so...
"It usually is yes but I'm fine. The office knows where we're going. Why your place anyway?"
"I prefer talking business there, knowing my wards are sound proof. By the way, you know Pansy's not holding on to what happened in high school. No need to avoid her."
He remembers, a second too late that obviously it's Granger who holds grudges.
"I just rather like meeting the people who will make the decision in a more professional environment, at least the first time."
Nice save. She continues. "I also don't want to come empty handed. I'm heading towards Cafe Mundo to bring some snacks. Fine with that?"
She starts walking before he can answer, carrying on. "Why not send an assistant? I'm surprised you volunteered to get me."
He is too. He hasn't thought about it, just replied to get it over with. One might say too eager. One being Theo.
They enter the shop, falling in line.
"Well, I heard about the attacks against Muggle born wizards last week, not far from my neighborhood." A poor defense but he did hear it, he thinks, two or three weeks prior.
"Oh, I thought that was a hoax."
"Maybe but you can't be too careful."
"Sure. Thank you." She fidgets as they get closer to the register. "I'm curious though.., you thought I was safe with Parkinson?"
"Of course. Pansy is a National certified Master Duelist and a black belt in two different martial arts."
"Oh. Wow. Yes, please send her next time. And what type of security detail credentials do you possess?"
She offers him a half smile. Is she serious?
The customer in front of them finally pays, interrupting the conversation.
The register assistant offers them a toothy smile. "Hello, oh Mister Malfoy, nice to see you again. The usual? What can I get for you Miss?"
"You're a regular?" Hermione gasps under her breath before she switches to an upbeat tone. "I'd like the sample box please. Twelve pastries."
"I'm allowed to like pastries, Granger," he mumbles.
"But this is so not your style."
"Is this going to be all?" The customer service tone rises.
She catches him eyeing the inside of the box. "Am I meeting more than twelve people? Should I order more?"
"No. This is fine. Actually, let's sit before we go. You haven't eaten right?"
"Hum.. no but I'd rather not start with sweets."
"We have winter salads and bowls," the cashier interjected.
Draco needs a breather, some time to gather his thoughts. He lets Granger swipe her company credit card to pay for the box and drops galleons in the cashiers open palm for his scone and her hearty bowl. Integrating muggle technology and wizard currency is becoming smoother now. Still odd though. He likes the feel of coins, not plastic square.
They sit at a table facing the window, awkwardly aware of all the pairs of eyes on them.
She's better at ignoring it than he is. "Since when do you not eat eggs or dairy?" She asks, digging in.
"What?"
"Your scone doesn't have milk. This is a vegan bakery."
He freezes mid bite.
"How did you not know this if you come here so often? They use coconut sugars and coconut flour instead of all purpose flour and cane sugar. All their roast are fair trade too."
What the fuck is she talking about? What the hell are coconut sugars? He couldn't care less really, he only cares about the fact that he has unintentionally participated in the current madness of so-called health conscious consumption. Things Granger probably rants about all day and that he is supposed to hate and disagree with, on principle. Now she'll never let it go, let him forget. Could he forego the lemon scone for the sake of argument? Of pettiness and spite?
Not too long ago, he could have. Now this damn sugar rush is the only highlight of his day and he doesn't want to go back to days without at least one good thing.
"What did you do after it was all over. The war, I mean. Did you go back to Hogwarts?" He has to know. A sudden impulse to know more than every one of those people in this crowded bakery, to feel less like a stranger, to step into her world.
She stops mid chew. "Hum... no, I studied on my own and only went back for three days to take my NEWTs."
She doesn't say she went back home. Did her parents die in the war? How can he even ask that?
"You... stayed with your family?"
She coughs, swallows and coughs again. Not good. "What?"
"Nothing," he backpedals quickly. "Forget it. Just... everyone prefers keeping quiet about that time. Me included. I get it."
It seems like a dare to her. "I cast an obliviate on my parents. Later, I had to do it on my extended family. So I lived with Harry, we were roommates for a while."
Irreversible. She has no one but her friends.
"Sorry."
"I'm lucky. So many people lost family members. Dead," she spat the last word as if he'd killed them with his own wand.
If people are ready to forgive him, Hermione Granger will always hold him responsible. The shortness of breath takes him by surprise this time, his heartbeat accelerating, pounding in his chest.
Anxiety, panic attack. His weekly reminder of the piece of shit he will always be. His body shoots up and he hears himself mumble an excuse to go to the restroom and breathe, splashing water on his face, avoiding the mirror.
She can never understand, her, the righteous war hero, what it feels like to live on the other side of history. Fuck. This is a bad idea. Why bring her to his place? Why look for philanthropy? She isn't the answer to his problems.
She'll use him for his money like any outsider. Pansy told him. Theo warmed him. Astoria only laughed at him. Boohoo she sad. Grow up she yelled. He should send an owl to Blaise. Try again.
Outside the door, Granter is waiting for him, her sample box in her hands, looking up.
"This feels like a bad idea," she starts. "I shouldn't have pushed. You can contact Preston, spend your money however you feel is best. Keep the box."
And just like that she kicks the air right out of his lungs again.