Even though it's the middle of the festive holidays, terminal two at Heathrow Airport bustles with thousands of people. Travellers arrive and depart, pulling with them masses of suitcases and screaming children. They keep their heads down, fixated only on their destinations and not paying much attention to anything else going on around them.
A petite woman with a flushed red face and a mass of brown, frizzy curls pushes a silver trolley loaded with far too many bags. A long padded ski case wobbles on top, and she pauses briefly to secure it again with a shove of her hand.
Once she's sure it won't fall, she lifts her head and scours the crowds in the hunt for her parents. They'd only been two steps away from her, not more than a moment ago. Where in Merlin's name have they gone?
"It's not like I need help or anything," she huffs, yanking the scarf from around her neck before she overheats. "I've got it. It's fine."
"Oh, there you are, Hermione." Her mother emerges from the sea of travellers, a smile on her tired face. "I was talking to your dad. He said it was better to get the car and pick us up from the drop-off section. He doesn't want to make you drag the trolley over to the short stay car park."
A small yawn escapes Jean Granger's mouth, and Hermione checks her watch. It's only ten past nine. Maybe the early flight was a bad idea after all. She sometimes forgets how old her parents are getting, and the energetic holiday has taken its toll on her mother. Perhaps this will be the last time they decide to go skiing over the festive period, and Hermione will finally be able to persuade them to stay at home for once.
But right now, in the middle of all these holidaymakers, isn't the best time to argue her point. Instead, Hermione nods at her mum then pushes the trolley in the right direction.
"Oh good. Listen, I don't mind driving you back to the house if you or Dad aren't feeling up to it. I did get my license over the summer, remember?"
"Nonsense! Your dad won't allow it. He loves looking after you."
Hermione purses her lips. She could remind her mum she's a witch and can more than look after herself. Hell, she's battled with more terrifying things than the mid-morning post-holiday traffic on the M25. But the crowds around them are too thick, and Hermione is too cautious about discussing magic in front of all these Muggles. It's never worth risking the International Statute of Wizard Secrecy, especially if she wants the promotion she's had her eye on for the past few months in the MLE department. It would be like committing career suicide.
It's frustrating that her parents treat her like a ten-year-old child rather than a fully grown adult with her own flat and life. But the holiday was a prime example of them being nowhere near ready to let go. Twenty-nine years of living mean nothing to Jean and Hugo Granger, even with magic by her side.
⁂
The curb at the front of the terminal is as busy as inside. Each traveller clamours for a prime spot on the pavement to flag down an available taxi or locate family members as they pull into the bay. Hermione slots herself in behind a group of five and engages the brakes on the trolley before leaning her head against the mountainous piles of luggage, covering her mouth with her hand to suppress a yawn.
Perhaps she can't handle the lack of sleep and energetic holidays anymore, either. Sitting behind a desk all day takes its toll, and she rarely has time to get to a gym or head out for a run once her long day is over, but she adores her job and wouldn't change it for the world.
Jean hasn't noticed Hermione's fatigue, or has and is unbothered by it. Her voice pierces through her daughter's peace, loud enough for the whole of South England to hear. "I saw that ski instructor slip you his number at last night's party."
"Were you watching me all night long?"
"Not at all, only when the handsome men were paying you attention. Sometimes, I don't think you realise how much of a catch you are, dear." Jean reaches across the luggage to push a wayward curl out of Hermione's face, tucking it behind the witch's ear. "There were hundreds of guys eyeing you all night."
Although Hermione's already flushed cheeks prickle with embarrassment, a shudder travels down her spine. The idea of any man ogling her so openly fills her with dread. It's one of the reasons she's remained single for so long. None of them came over to speak to her anyway, and she's pretty sure she wasn't standoffish enough to scare them all away.
She'd had several failed dates in school, including one with an international Quidditch star. Once Hermione graduated from Hogwarts, she'd been far too focused on her career to bother with such frivolities. Instead, she concentrated on her work in magical law and ensuring that those who don't have rights get some.
But even a strong-minded woman like Hermione Granger can't help but worry that maybe she's left it too late to look for love.
Of course, it had been flattering to get Pierre's phone number. Out of everyone she'd met over the past week, he'd been the most handsome. But there's no way she could even contemplate a relationship with him. He lives in the Alps, and despite the ease of magical travel, Hermione is far too busy to do the whole long-distance thing.
And that's the crux of the biggest problem—there's always some excuse. He lives too far away, she's too busy at work, he wouldn't get on with her best friends.
Still, Hermione believes the right man will come along eventually, and until then, she has developed a great coping mechanism to deal with her mother's constant interference.
Deny everything.
"I'm not sure what you think you saw, but he was not giving me his number," Hermione says as she rights herself, waving at her dad as he approaches in his silver estate car. She pushes the trolley towards a gap at the curb.
"I asked Pierre if there were any exercises I could do at home to improve my technique. He said I'm not leaning far enough into the valley when we're traveling downhill, and my plough stops could be deeper. Of course, he doesn't know what he's talking about." She scoffs. "I've been skiing for years."
Hermione busies herself packing the bags into the boot to avoid her mother's reply. Once she has returned the empty trolley to its rightful place, she yanks open the back door and settles into her seat. Jean slides into the front passenger side while Hermione fastens her belt, and the younger Granger does not miss the disparaging look flashing in her mum's eye as she glances at her in the rear-view mirror.
She doesn't believe Hermione's story.
As Hugo pulls away from the terminal, Hermione lets out a heavy sigh. Only two more hours, and then I'll be home alone.
⁂
Hermione apparates into her flat almost four hours later. Of course, as soon as they'd pulled into the drive outside her parent's house in Hampstead Heath, Jean had discovered a list of issues that only magic could solve. As she'd worked her way through the tasks, Hermione had cursed and grumbled under her breath. It's not like her mum and dad are bereft. They could easily have afforded a handyperson to sort it all out. But it's typical of Jean to try to drag Hermione's departure out for as long as possible.
Dumping everything in the hall next to the shoe rack, Hermione digs her wand out of her pocket. A quick warming charm sorts out the fridge-like atmosphere in the small Wandsworth apartment. The curtains and windows fly open with the next flick, letting in some much-needed light and air.
How do flats get this way so quickly? It's only been a week.
Her stomach growls as she reaches the kitchen. The budget airline didn't serve anything but overpriced croissants and lumpy looking porridge, and Hermione and her parents left the airport far too early to have breakfast. Although she knows nothing will be inside, she yanks the fridge door open and frowns at the barren shelves.
"Empty, of course. Like Old Mother Hubbard."
During working hours, Hermione thrives off lists, rules and schedules. But her home life is far more chaotic. She doesn't have time to do a food shop, and she barely manages to keep the flat at a liveable level of tidy. Everything has its rightful place, should she need to put her hand on it, but she has always had more important things to do than clean.
Hermione is more than prepared for this, though. She locates her phone, buried deep in her handbag and finds her usual food delivery app. The order is easy to place—a couple of presses of her thumb, and her regular chicken salad will be ready to collect from the sandwich place down the street in twenty minutes.
Just enough time to unpack.
She wanders through to her bedroom, raising her wand to summon her luggage as she walks. The phone now in her pocket vibrates, and Hermione dumps herself on the edge of her bed to check how long the delay on her lunch will be.
But instead of an alert from Just Eat, a text message from her best friend flashes on the screen.
'Apparently I'm annoying Ginny & she's giving me the night off. Haven't seen you for a while need to hear about your holiday. Leaky at 6?'
Hermione closes her eyes, trying to work out what day they're currently on. Her time away from her parents has sent her usually prompt internal clock asunder, and being stuck in that no man's land between Christmas and New Year's doesn't help.
At least they stuck to the Alps this year, and she doesn't have to deal with jet lag, too.
But she's pretty sure it's the 29th today. Hermione has no plans for the evening, aside from getting in some food for the rest of the week. She doesn't have to be back at work until the 4th. A smile spreads over her face as she responds.
'That sounds nice :) Looking forward to catching up'
Six o'clock should be plenty of time for her to sort herself out. And if she completes her tasks with time to spare, she might even treat herself to a nap. When Hermione goes out with her friends, she's never sure what might happen, so it's always best to turn up prepared.
Throwing her phone onto her bed, she twists her wand again. Her smile grows as her clothes inside the bags sort themselves out, piling on the foot of the bed if they need putting away, or tucking themselves into the dirty clothes basket.
Magic truly is a beautiful thing.
⁂
Hermione takes a long draw from her large glass of wine before rechecking her watch. It's only five past six, but her stomach twists with anxiety anyway. The boys are always late. She should be used to it by now, but there's always a tiny nagging voice deep inside her head questioning whether they'll show up. After almost twenty years of friendship, maybe tonight will be the night they have decided they're fed up with her and go elsewhere.
But her fears go unfounded as the small bell above the door jingles, and two young men bound into the pub, laughing as they walk. From her vantage point at the small round table nearest to the fire, Hermione watches them move through the thin layer of patrons, stopping every couple of steps to say hello.
Although they defeated the Horcruxes and killed Voldemort twelve years ago, the fame that comes with saving the wizarding world hasn't yet faded. But the trio takes the attention like champs and try their best to look like it doesn't bother them. At least outwardly, anyway.
The pair split once they get to the bar, Harry pausing to order drinks whilst the other wanders over to the table, a huge lop-sided grin filling his face.
"Hey you, sorry we're late."
Ron chucks his scarf on the back of the empty chair next to Hermione. His coat joins it before he sinks into the seat with a loud groan. She watches, amused as he wriggles in place until he's in his usual slouching position, his long legs extending far under the table.
"But you're not."
"Not what?"
"Sorry. You've never been sorry for being late."
"Yeah, you're right." He stretches with a yawn. "My nap ran late and I needed a shower once I woke. Fuck knows the last time I had a wash, maybe Christmas Day? You know what it's like this time of the year. Don't have a fucking clue what day it is, the hours blend into one. Did you have a good skiving trip?"
Hermione rolls her eyes. Ron has had years to learn all the Muggle terms she uses regularly, but there are some he can't seem to get a grasp of, despite her many attempts to set him straight. Once, she even wrote them all out for him, but he insists he lost the list.
"I went skiing," she snaps. "But yes, it was lovely, thanks."
Grin growing even wider at the tone in her voice, Ron turns more towards Hermione. "Good! I still can't work out how zooming around in the snow with two sticks strapped to your feet is fun. Muggles are fucking barmy."
"Says the guy who enjoys zooming through the sky on one stick?"
The pair settle into their familiar banter with ease. Sometimes, Ron and Hermione can spend weeks or even months apart, but it's like they only saw each other an hour ago. Being friends for so long means they're never short of conversation.
Harry joins them, placing two steins of beer on the table, followed by another glass of wine for Hermione. As they drink, they cycle through the usual questions about each other's families and how work has been before dissecting each other's Christmases.
A happy sigh escapes from Hermione's lips. "It's so nice going away for the holidays, but there's something so special about being at home you can't replicate abroad. Especially not on the Alps."
"Yeah? Must be shit being stuck in a luxurious resort for a whole week, not having to lift a finger apart from taking part in a sport you enjoy doing." A massive smirk plays on Ron's face as he continues, "Even with all those wait staff there to make sure you have a lovely time. How awful for you."
She bristles at his counter-argument. Hermione has never been one to show off her privilege but instead spends most of her life worrying it's far too much. It's why she decided to pursue a career in law to use the advantage she has in life to help other people. As she sits up more in her seat, she slams her glass on the table, wincing as red wine spills over her hand.
"You know I'd trade it all for a Christmas at the Burrow. I've never been, and I love your mum's cooking."
"Oh I don't know, 'Mione," Harry chimes in. "The larger the family grows, the more intense it gets. Especially when the board games come out."
Ron scoffs. "That's an understatement, mate."
"Oh please, how was your Christmas worse than mine? I spent a week third-wheeling with my parents, which meant sitting on the ski lift alone and having nobody to dance with at the parties aside from Dad. Not to mention the fact that the hotel messed up our booking, so I had to sleep on a fold out at the foot of my parent's bed like I did when I was ten years old."
Hermione didn't realise how annoyed she was at the infantile arrangements until the words came spilling out of her mouth. The wine has helped to relax her usually prim and proper manner, and she notices a slight slur in her speech as she finishes her ramble.
"Then my mum had the audacity to tell me hundreds of men were ogling me. Seriously? Well, none of them bothered to ask me out!"
Chuckling, Harry lifts his stein to his lips, taking a sip of the cool golden liquid. He waits until he's swallowed before saying, "At least you weren't relegated to the kiddie table!"
There's a small thump before he cries out, "Ow!"
"Shut up about that!" Ron glares at Harry before downing the last of his pint.
Hermione tries her best to stop the corners of her mouth tugging up into a grin as she questions, "The kiddie table?"
"Yep!" Harry continues, ignoring the warning from his best friend. "He was the only one without a date, so there was no space for him with the grown-ups."
A hundred thoughts about the whole set-up flit through Hermione's mind. Why wasn't the table magically stretched? How did Ron even fit at a tiny table? But the first question that slips from her mouth is, "But what about Charlie?"
Ron scowls. "Oh, Charlie had a holidate."
"A holi-what?"
"Some random he picked up at a bar to keep him company on Christmas day. Apparently, he had this whole 'no fuss, no commitment' deal with her."
Hermione wrinkles her nose in disgust then frowns at her empty glass. "That's gross. Why can't people grasp the fact that it's okay to be alone? Being single doesn't mean there's something wrong with me."
"Look guys." Harry interrupts, hauling himself to his feet before collecting their now empty glasses. "People aren't meant to be alone over the holidays. It's a life rule. Same again?"
Once they're alone, Ron turns to Hermione, a sullen look on his face. "Talking of, are you still going to the New Year's Eve party at the Ministry? Harry was telling me Mum is going to babysit, so he and Ginny want to make the most of a child-free night. He was talking about having pre-drinks at Grimmauld Place and even booking a hotel room so they don't have to worry about fucking up in the Floo system."
Groaning, she holds her head in her hands. Hermione had forgotten about the big event with all the fuss over packing and getting home from the airport. A tug of loneliness pulls at her heart at the thought of spending yet another social occasion by herself.
"I guess we should. I know the Minister will be attending, and I'd love a chance to catch up with him. But, ugh, being there with a load of couples will suck won't it?"
He throws her a smirk. "You're such a hypocrite! What happened to 'it's okay to be alone? There's nothing wrong with someone because they're single?'" he mimics, although not in a cruel tone.
"Oh don't act like you'll be happy being there with all your siblings and their partners. I bet your whole family was invited. Even Percy and his girlfriend."
"Fiancée."
"Seriously? Since when?"
"Christmas Day, in front of the whole family."
"Oh gross, I didn't think Percy would do something as public as that."
"Me neither. But I guess you're right. If Charlie brings another date, then I'll be the fifteenth wheel to my brothers and sisters." He pauses, and a frown creases his forehead, making him look like he's thinking. After a moment, his eyes light up, and he grins at Hermione. "Unless you come with me?"
Although her heart takes an excited leap into her throat, confusion fills Hermione's head. "Weren't we always going together?"
"Yeah, but I mean like a date."
"What?"
"Not anything romantic, of course." He hastens to add. "You can be my holidate. We'll stick together, have a dance. We can hold each other accountable for having a good time. But none of the other stuff Charlie does. Sex makes friendships messy."
Hermione weighs his words carefully. When they were younger, she was positive she would end up with Ron, and during their sixth year, it seemed like they were barrelling towards a relationship. But then the war happened. Instead, they spent an entire year hunting Horcruxes and making sure Harry stayed alive. After that, the magic had fizzled out, and they agreed they'd be better off as friends.
But there will be many people at the party who know Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Plus, there's always a risk the press will spot them turning up together. The last thing her career needs is an article in The Daily Prophet about her love life. Although, that'll be nothing new. Journalists have been speculating about the three of them for years, even after Harry married.
As long as Ron and Hermione are clear about the platonic nature of their date with their closest friends, colleagues and family members, she can't see there being any real problems.
Hermione shrugs. "Sure, why not. I've got nothing to lose!"
"Oh, Hermione!" Ron clutches his hand over his heart and throws his head back in mock dismay. "You wound me so."
"You know I don't mean it that way."
"Sure, whatever you say. But you have to promise me you'll resist kissing me on the chime of midnight, okay?"
Laughing, Hermione shoves his shoulder before replying, "That won't be a problem. It doesn't matter how many glasses of champagne I drink, I'll be able to resist you. But can you resist me?"
Their chuckles continue as Harry returns to the table. He throws his best friends a confused look and places their drinks before them. "What have I missed?"
"Nothing," Ron and Hermione reply in perfect unison, their laughter continuing until they can no longer breathe.
"You two are bloody mental."