Hermione Granger was happy. She was in a bookstore. She would be in the bookstore all day. She would be in the bookstore tomorrow. In fact, she would be in the bookstore for all of the foreseeable future because she worked there.
When the war ended, Hermione joined the other survivors looking through rubble and bodies for the remnants of their lives. In between shards of glass and bone, she found the fractured porcelain pieces of what had been - what could have been - but piecing it all back together made her fingers bleed. She tried with Ronald, she really did. But one evening, as Ron sobbed himself back to sleep in her arms after yet another nightmare, he choked out the words they'd both been thinking.
"I can't do this right now, 'Mione."
"I know," whispered Hermione, pulling him closer into her chest.
"I wish I could."
She ran a hand through his messy hair, drawing comfort from the glimmer of the familiar spectrum of reds and oranges moving through her fingers.
"It's not your fault, my boy. It's no one's fault. We were always better as friends."
Ron was silent for a moment and then he pulled back so that she could see his watery smile. "I did always have the emotional range of a teaspoon."
"Oh Ronald," said Hermione, breaking into some mixture of laughter and tears as her best friend took her into his arms. And then they spent their last night together and it was bittersweet but mostly sweet.
The next day, Ron resigned from the auror training programme and joined George at the twins' shop. When Hermione visited, it made her feel as if some balance had been restored to the universe to see two red heads among the throngs of laughing children who frequented Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. It took only about a week for her to follow in Ron's footsteps. She didn't join the jokeshop of course, but she handed her resignation letter to the very confused Head of the Department for Magical Creatures and a few days later, started working at Flourish and Blotts. It was not the type of cutting-edge, world-changing work that Hermione or her professors had ever seen her doing. In fact, it was mostly stocking shelves, but she had less nightmares, she breathed easier and sometimes, when a bright-eyed 11 year old walked in, she was reminded that they would never see Hogwarts shrouded in the shadow of death and fear and grief, and that was all she needed for now. It was enough.
Six years after the war and Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of their generation, spent her days reading in Flourish and Blotts and her evenings reading with Crookshanks. And she was happy. Today, they had received their pre-Christmas shipment of books and Hermione had given up on trying to shelve the seemingly endless boxes. She flopped onto her seat behind the counter, batting away Crookshanks who had decided that the Santa hat on her head (management demanded she wear it) was the perfect prey, and opened what promised to be a fascinating treatise on Elvish runes. Within minutes, Hermione had fallen so deep into the author's theories that she only just heard the bell at the door tinkling, announcing that a customer had entered. Glancing up distractedly, Hermione felt her heart stop in her chest.
A blonde woman stood stiffly by the fireplace, eyes empty as she watched her black haired sister lean over Hermione. Pain. Pain like claws ripping through her insides. The sound of her own screams. The feeling of blood, slick and warm, on her forearm and the distant thought that the knife would probably leave a scar. And still the blonde woman's eyes stayed empty.
Hermione shook her head, trying in vain to erect a wall between this moment and the disjointed memories threatening to engulf her. Slowing her breathing just like the Muggle psychologist she'd seen for a year had taught her, she reached for her wand. Narcissa Malfoy had not noticed her reaction. The older woman did not appear to have noticed Hermione at all, she had already made her way to a shelf somewhere near the legal section. Narcissa's understatedly elegant outfit probably cost more than Hermione made in a year and she wore it with a haughtiness that wouldn't let you forget it. She'd cut her hair, soft blonde waves just touching her shoulder, and the bags under her eyes that Hermione remembered so vividly from the Manor, were gone. She looked - beautiful. Unbothered. It made Hermione sick.
Eyes scanning the shelves in front of her, Narcissa's eyebrows furrowed imperceptibly. Only months of experience told Hermione that this was the look of a customer who could not find the book they were looking for. Finally, Narcissa looked up towards the desk, no doubt about to call for help - and right into Hermione's stare. Hermione considered it a compliment that the usually unreadable witch flinched.
Seconds ticked by, each one lasting a lifetime, with neither witch able to look away from the other. Heartbeat building to a dangerous crescendo in her chest (all crashing cymbals), Hermione tore her eyes away from the icy blue, gritting her teeth together and tightening her grip on her wand. She'd been pardoned, Hermione reminded herself, had never taken the mark and had saved them all with her stupid, selfish act. She had every right to be here and with any luck, she would leave soon. Inhaling deeply, Hermione looked down, trying to find her place on the page in front of her.
A figure approached her line of sight carefully. Hermione tried to ignore the woman she could see just over the edge of the book.
The elegant clearing of a throat, "Miss Granger."
Hermione looked up. Up close, she could see that the older woman's cheeks were still a little sharp, that there were still shadows, albeit lighter ones, under her eyes. Poor thing, thought Hermione bitterly, peacetime has been hard on her.
"How nice to see you," continued Narcissa, filling the empty space. She removed her tan gloves and flexed her long fingers, waiting. When Hermione did not respond, she continued, "You work here?"
"Do you need something, Mrs Malfoy?" Hermione asked, meaning to sound rude but only succeeding in sounding uncomfortably shrill.
"Yes, I'm looking for a book-"
"Obviously."
A delicate eyebrow arched but the older witch continued as if she had not been interrupted. "Keating's Purity Rites. I can't seem to find it on the shelves."
"We don't leave books like that on the shelves, Mrs Malfoy," said Hermione, happy that this time her voice sounded sufficiently acerbic. "But I can fetch you a copy from the back."
Narcissa did not break eye contact, did not take the bait. Voice impassive and perfectly polite, she simply replied, "Thank you, Miss Granger."
Hermione walked into the storeroom uncomfortably aware of the eyes on her back. Shutting the door behind her, she allowed herself to slump against it breathing shakily and squeezing her eyes against the ache rising in her throat. Images of manic dark eyes, the harsh gleam of a blade and the indifferent set of Mrs Malfoy's mouth flashed behind her eyelids once more. Hermione found herself reciting the calming mantra she had come up with a few weeks after the war as she had shivered on cold bathroom tiles - yet another night hunched over the toilet bowl, unable to sleep. It's not happening, it's not happening, it's over and you survived and she's dead and we won it's not happening it's not...
When the shaking subsided and her breathing evened out, Hermione opened her eyes. She had only been in the storeroom for a few minutes but the strain and deep tiredness in her shoulders felt like the product of hours of hard labour. Still repeating her mantra under her breath, Hermione found the book within seconds, it's gold-leafed cover ostentatious amongst the other books. Steeling herself mentally, she left the dusty safety of the storeroom and made her way back to the till.
"That will be 15 galleons," said Hermione, gaze fixed stubbornly on the countertop.
"Of course."
"Would you like a bag?"
"Yes please"
"Here you go, Mrs Malfoy."
"Thank you, Miss Granger." And the damned witch had the audacity to sound sincere. Hermione looked up, surprised. "I have needed this book for quite some time now."
No doubt for some evil pureblood ritual, thought Hermione. But Narcissa's gaze was surprisingly intense and so she bit back her retort and simply nodded her acknowledgment. Taking the bag and her receipt, Narcissa turned and walked towards the exit. As she opened the door, the blonde witch turned back to Hermione, hesitated a moment and then -
"By the way, Miss Granger," she said with something that Hermione could have sworn was a smile, "I like the hat." And then, with the tinkle of a bell and flurry of snow, she was gone.
Momentarily stunned, Hermione snatched the ridiculous thing off her head and flung it to the floor, where a delighted Crookshanks made quick work of it.
"You could have given me a warning, you know. That's what kneazles are supposed to do," she said accusingly to the ginger cat, who now lay flat on his back, legs splayed comically, covered in red and white fuzz. Taking her seat behind the counter once more, Hermione tried to find her place in the book she had been reading before her morning had been rudely interrupted. A dull pain had settled just behind her temple, making concentration almost impossible. Huffing in frustration she set the book down again - and then she saw it. There on the counter, innocuous, taunting, lay a pair of elegant brown gloves made of a material that probably cost more than Hermione made in a year.
Fuck.