TAGS: Post-War | Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | Pianist Draco Malfoy | Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger | Neighbors | Letters | Grief and Loss | Forgiveness | Eventual Smut | POV Hermione Granger | Alcohol/winos | Music | Healing | Happy Ending
CHAPTER COUNT: 4
AUTHOR NOTE: Thank you for reading! I post to AO3 first and share visuals on Twitter (xdarkofthemoon) and Tumblr (darkofthemoonfic). Would love if you said hi xx
Hermione Granger was never one to go through the motions. But the exhaustion of the last year had caught up with her. Not to mention the endless cycle of grief. The faces of those lost flashing behind her eyes at the most random of moments. Writing a memo about dragon's eggs would conjure her parents, and the blank stares on their faces after she'd taken their memories. Waiting for the lift would show Tonks and Lupin, their hands resting centimeters apart where they lay. Dead. The pale, blood-drained Lavender Brown, looking up at her from the stone floor when she walked across the pavement to her flat. Careful not to step on a crack.
The hardest thing to get used to was the monotony. Every day she woke, made a cup of coffee, and drank it while reading the Prophet. She got dressed and left for work. Took the same bus with the same passengers, give or take a few. Sometimes she'd see ghosts. Colin Creevey would board at the third stop and ride along with her. She made sure to arrive at the Ministry thirty minutes early so that she was less likely to have to talk to anyone. For lunch she ordered one of the same three things from the café. The meal would appear on her desk at noon. She would pick at it until it was finally time to leave.
Routine had become nearly essential. If she just got through the day, and kept things predictable, maybe she wouldn't think about it. If things were the same, she would be ready for the moments of horror and sadness and outrage. If she reviewed the reports on house elf mistreatment and proposed legislature the hours would pass quicker. If she pretended that things were normal, like everyone else seemed to, maybe they would start to feel that way.
She waited until her entire floor left for the day to go home. The last little wave goodbye from whoever had dallied. Some days it meant she was there long after the sun had set and she had to consult her bus schedule. For the most part, Margaret Sanderson left around 6pm and Hermione would begin her trip home five minutes later. And every day she wondered what song she would hear when she got there.
The first time she heard music coming from her neighbor's flat, it was a Tuesday in June. A month after the end. At 9 o'clock sharp. She'd only just gotten home after an ill-advised trip to the Leaky for drinks with her friends. The soft sounds of the keys was new. It wasn't in her routine and she found herself fascinated rather than shaken. The next day she was surprised to hear it again. And the next. Eventually, it became a part of her day — the best part of her day.
Because the sad melodies of whoever lived in number 9 filled the cracks in her heart, little by little. The trailing notes across the keys like an echo of her own sadness. A call and response. As if the person playing it understood her in a way that her friends didn't.
Ron had his family to grieve with. Still lived at the Burrow where he could hold his mum in his arms. Share memories of Fred with his brothers and sister. Harry was there more often than not. Though Hermione was welcome she rarely went as the months wore on. Seeing Mrs. Weasley tuck Ginny's hair behind her ears. Listening to Mr. Weasley give Percy advice. It hurt too much. The quiet banalities of being a family. The specific annoyance of your mother fussing. The cringe-inducing jokes from your father. All things that she never thought she would ache for. Just one last little chuckle from her dad. One more tut from her mum.
So instead she lived alone with her grouchy old cat and empty wine bottles. A fridge full of cold pasta and takeaway from the same rotation of restaurants. And her mysterious pianist neighbor.
Most days, even though she kept the same schedule down to nearly the minute, she found herself walking quicker to get home. Terrified that she'd miss the nightly performance. What if the bus was late? What if there was traffic and they stopped moving long enough that the entire route was thrown off, and she didn't get home until well after the notes had faded?
Sometimes it was just one song, played with a gentle hand. Others it was nearly an hour of music, as if they needed to keep playing just a little bit longer, to stretch out the notes a little bit further. Reaching for something in the sounds. Something that Hermione greedily took for herself.
It was the only time she was knowingly selfish.
With a yank of the corkscrew she opened a new bottle of wine and poured it. The flat was an untidy mess but she cleaned it up every Friday. It meant she went into the weekend with one less thing to worry about. The clock moved particularly slowly on Fridays. It was her favorite day, not only because work was over and she didn't have to put on a false smile for two whole days, but because the pianist usually played a longer set. So she tidied the flat with a few flicks of her wand, sending errant shoes to her closet and books back onto their shelves. Then she sipped her wine after letting it breathe in its glass instead of just guzzling half the bottle out of an oversized coffee mug.
Crookshanks narrowed his eerie golden eyes at her. She'd changed into her favorite navy jumper and a clean pair of jeans instead of her pajamas, so the cat was naturally suspicious. Even he knew her routines.
"Don't give me that look," she said to the creature, giving him a scratch under his chin. "I'm merely considering it."
Crookshanks tilted his fluffy head, as if to inquire further. Letting out a purr that was half growl.
Hermione sighed. "Dr. Walker said I should try. Even something small." Like introducing herself to her neighbor. There was only one other flat on her floor. One other tenant.
The clock struck nine, and she held her breath, casting her eyes to the wall she shared with the pianist. Whoever they were, they were considerate and quiet. She wasn't even sure if they'd lived there before she arrived or if they'd moved in at some point over the first few piano-free weeks she'd been a resident. That was three months ago. Hermione barely heard their footsteps on the hardwood floor and they never slammed doors or cupboards. They seemed to move through their day much like she did. Like the ghost of one's pre-war self. But she lived in a Muggle apartment building, surrounded by people who had never heard of her or Harry or Voldemort or any of it. She wondered what ghosts her neighbor had.
Therapy seemed like the logical thing to do once the war was over and the wizarding world slowly started to return to normal. She'd found a Muggle therapist and carefully crafted a version of herself that would allow her to share her trauma without talking about magic. On Wednesdays she left work an hour early for her appointments with Dr. Georgiana Walker, a young woman with a lovely office filled with lush plants and calming art. A small bubbling fountain in the corner.
"Have you made an effort to see your friends in the last week?" She'd asked two days before, in her warm timbre. Everything about Dr. Walker was warm. It was part of what drew Hermione to the therapist in the first place, after a few weeks of trying out different ones. She wore her hair in twisted braids, gathered high on her head. Clothes almost always a shade of purple — deep amethyst and plum. Or the dark, reddish-purple of a pinot noir. The pale lavender and lilacs of springtime, lovely against her dark skin. And her eyes were kind. Hermione always thought that you sense the truth of a person from their eyes.
Of course she hadn't made an effort to see her friends. She'd received an owl from Neville, asking if she wanted to visit him at Hogwarts over the weekend. He was shadowing Professor Sprout, taking over her first and second year classes as she contemplated retirement. A lot of their professors were — McGonagall had written an editorial for the Prophet about the importance of keeping Hogwarts a place of education and refuge for wizarding children. The need for more educators to join them in at castle.
But the one time Hermione had been back there, it no longer felt like home. Didn't feel safe even though it had been repaired and rebuilt. The protective wards restored. The Great Hall looked almost just as she'd remembered it from before, only the charmed ceiling had a certain haze to it that never seemed to go away. Her teachers bore scars and shared a haunted blankness behind their once cheerful smiles.
There were still missing stones in the facade. Pieces blasted apart by dark curses. The rebuilding team had decided to leave them as a reminder. Like the walls of the Victoria and Albert Museum in Muggle London, with its own reminders of the Second World War left in the masonry. The living wouldn't forget but the future might need reminding, she supposed.
How strange that one day, perhaps not long from now, there would be students who didn't know what caused the damaged walls. Who didn't feel the lingering sadness. The hollow guilt. The need to scream. How strange to be so lucky.
She'd left Neville's owl unanswered. Like most of the letters she received.
"I might try to have lunch with Harry one day next week," she'd said instead. Dr. Walker nodded solemnly.
"What do you mean when you say you might try? His office is near yours, right?"
She'd told Dr. Walker that she worked for a small, underfunded charity and that Harry was a lawyer. Ron managed a toy shop with his older brother. Neville was a teacher. Luna, a journalist. Ginny played football semiprofessionally. Her parents had suffered an irreparable accident that she felt responsible for. All half truths and easy enough to keep track of.
"It is but he's rather busy with a case. He might not have the time for it."
"What about the other things we've talked about to try to help your social anxiety?" Dr. Walker jotted a note and looked up at her. Endless patience and grace in the brown eyes behind her glasses.
You seem to take a lot of healing from your neighbor's piano playing. Have you thought about introducing yourself? Saying thank you?
"Maybe I could try one of the…easier ones," she'd said.
Now she sipped her wine and paced the flat. Walking circles around her mismatched furniture she'd bought secondhand. Crookshanks swished his tail, annoyed. Hermione had put on mascara and tamed her hair, pulling the front pieces back with a barrette she got in France with her parents one summer. It was more effort than she'd managed since Bill and Fleur's wedding last year.
At 9:02 the music started. Quiet scales to warm up. A little bit of Debussy. More of what she was beginning to suspect was an original work. A haunting melody that sounded like loneliness and felt like it was written just for her. She'd come to learn the subtle changes the pianist made to it whenever they played it. The way the notes had started to crest into new arrangements. Sometimes she would find herself humming it to herself. At her desk or on the bus or while she washed her coffee mugs the Muggle way out of habit.
For an hour the pianist composed and played, filling her apartment with the sounds. When they finished she closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of gratitude. Felt the fissures in her heart knit together by another stitch. She'd bought a more expensive wine that night, using the extra couple quid spent as a way to bolster her resolve. To do what she told Dr. Walker she would do. The last dregs of the bottle went down easily. With the remaining shred of her former Gryffindor courage she looked at herself in the mirror by the door. Her lips were a little stained from the wine but she thought that she looked, if not friendly, then at the very least almost normal. The music always soothed her. Took away the careful mask that she put on each day, just in case she had to talk to someone. It left her looking like herself once more.
Hello, I live next door, she practiced in her mind. A script she had workshopped over the last two and a half days. Hi — no, hello — My name's — no just say hello. It all felt inadequate.
The door to apartment 9 was only a few feet away from her own. Made of the same dark wood. The same brass number at the center. Same worn carpeting in the short and narrow hall. For a minute she just stared at the number, taking some practiced breaths. Hearing Dr. Walker's reassuring voice in her head. Repeating it, like a mantra. Just knock and tell them you love their music. Thank them. Or just say hello. Whatever you say, just knock.
So she did. There were a few quiet steps. The sound of the chain being removed and the deadbolt and another lock. Then the door swung open with a yawn.
But where she expected to meet someone new, perhaps a retiree who once taught piano, she was instead greeted by a face she hadn't seen since May. When he'd been across the Great Hall. Sitting with his family. Ashen and ostracized. Occasionally she'd read his name in the paper in the months since.
"You," she said, barely a whisper.
"Granger," he replied. When she didn't say anything else he added, "I didn't realize you lived here."
She took in his tall frame, dressed as casually as she'd ever seen him — he'd worn bespoke suits, the last she'd known. A somewhat rumpled black jumper and trousers were unexpected. Speckled black cashmere socks on his feet. The platinum hair was longer and artfully disheveled, like young film stars in Muggle magazines. But it was the dark smudges under his eyes that she lingered on. The way the shadows of grief and insomnia mirrored her own, though his eyes, cold like ice when they were in school, weren't what she'd remembered.
"You don't—I thought you lived at your," she paused, pushing the memories down her throat, "At the manor." A mirthless laugh peeled through her mind. Coarse black curls and jagged teeth.
He shook his head, lips pressed in a firm line. "No. No, I moved out."
Behind him was a much neater flat than her own. She tilted her head slightly to try to see details but he narrowed his gaze at her snooping.
"It's just that, you know, this is a Muggle apartment building—"
"Yes, I'm aware."
"Sorry. It's— You're probably the last person I expected to open the door."
"And you're the last person I expected to knock, so I suppose that makes us both fools," he drawled, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in the doorframe. Crowding the space. "Did you need something? Cup of sugar?"
"What? No. I—The piano," she started, but he cut her off.
"I didn't realize it was so loud. I'll try not to play too late at night, if it bothers you."
"No, not at all. I actually came by to introduce myself to whoever was playing and—I don't know, thank them," she said in a rush.
Malfoy arched a regal brow. "Really? Why would you do that?"
Hermione wrung her hands and looked at her feet. "Because I look forward to hearing it every day." She cleared her throat and made herself meet his eyes again. The blue so faint in the grey. "Thank you for playing. Have a nice evening," she said, then turned and went back into her apartment.
It was her nineteenth birthday.