A/N: Hey everyone! Thank you so much for your patience over these past couple months as I worked on this fic. As this fic does start a couple years after the first one ends, the structure will be *slightly* different. It will be alternating between the present and the past, so even though it's different, I hope you still enjoy it! I wasn't supposed to post until tomorrow technically, but I'm impatient so I'm dropping it just a little early. Love you all, and hope you like it!
~.~.~
Chapter One: Broken
Now
The bells above the door tinkled merrily, greeting Hermione as she unlocked and nudged it open. The chilly morning air followed her inside and she shivered slightly, closing the door quickly behind her and pausing to let the semi-permanent warming charm of the store sink into her goose-pimpled skin.
It was one of her favorite things that she had picked up from the other storefront owners in Diagon Alley, the warming charm that only kicked in once it got below a certain temperature outside. It was quite clever really, and it made the cooler months of the year more bearable when she had to sit by frosted windows and watch the snow drift past lazily.
She dropped her bag next to her desk behind the front counter of the shop, before shrugging off her thick, forest green peacoat to hang on the chair she occupied for much of her days here.
A small smile graced her lips as her eyes flitted past the date, realizing that it was just a couple days away from the bookstore's two-year anniversary.
Two years.
She dropped into her chair behind the counter, pulling forward the stack of parchments that contained the receipts she needed to go through from the previous day, orders she needed to prepare, and any other paperwork she may need to complete throughout the day.
She grabbed her favorite eagle feather quill, but slowed as she pulled the quill towards the papers, simply staring at the order on the parchment in front of her, not really seeing it.
Two years.
She couldn't believe it had already been two years since she and Blaise had opened the shop together, couldn't believe that meant it had been nearly two and a half years since the end of the Second Wizarding War.
After the war, she, Harry, and Ron had thrown themselves into helping where they could. She had originally wanted to work at the ministry, in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but she realized that it would be a long time before she would be able to do any good there. The only open positions at the time were a handful in other departments, such as the Department of Magical Games and Sports, which she really had absolutely no interest in.
So she had put in her name, which now held apparently quite a bit of weight to it, and she was on the shortlist of interviewees that they would bring in as soon as a position opened up within the DMLE.
Once she realized it would be quite some time before she could begin making a difference in the ministry, she decided to throw herself into other endeavors.
The past couple years had been a blurry haze of assisting to establish charities, non-profit organizations, and attending events and trials for the ministry, all in the name of rebuilding what had not only been lost in the last war, but also to change the conditions within the wizarding world that had allowed for such widely accepted views of pureblood supremacy and prejudice against all those who weren't a witch or wizard.
And of course, in between all that, establishing and opening her bookshop in Diagon Alley.
The Beloved House of Ataraxia had initially been just a fanciful dream she had never thought would come to light, or at least not for quite some time.
But one night, a couple months after the final battle, she and Blaise had been talking about where they saw the future of the wizarding world going now that Voldemort had well and truly been defeated, and she had abashedly confessed her dream of owning a bookshop that carried not only wizarding books, but muggle stories as well, with a section dedicated specifically to the families and friends of muggleborns, who were trying to learn more about this world and how to navigate it now that they'd found themselves a part of it.
She had blushed and muttered that it was silly, simply a dream she had had since she was eleven and first visited Diagon Alley, upon seeing the difficulty her family faced in trying to figure out how best to support her in this new aspect of her life.
But Blaise had simply smiled, told her that it was a lovely idea and that he hoped she would someday be able to do it.
Five days later she'd received an owl with a deed for this storefront with both her and Blaise's names on it, causing her to choke and splutter on the tea she had been drinking when she had opened it, only narrowly missing the parchment itself as she spit her tea out on the table next to it instead.
She had responded immediately, telling Blaise she couldn't accept it and that purchasing this store when she had zero knowledge of running a business was too much. But Blaise had, in his flippant, casual way, told her that it was already done, and he knew enough from his family about running a business for the two of them and that he would teach her the ins and outs so that she could be the heart and soul of the business with himself as more of a financial backer and investor.
She had finally, begrudgingly and emotionally, accepted.
After the war, the process of rebuilding had been difficult throughout their world. Many places, like Diagon Alley, had had a good portion of their buildings and stores destroyed, towns had homes reduced to rubble, and even if the buildings survived well enough to be used again, many of the owners were no longer alive to return to them. This storefront had been one of them, specifically that of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor.
Florean had been one of the many storefront owners of Diagon Alley on the long list of casualties from the war, and given his love for knowledge and history, Blaise and she had both felt this would be a wonderful repurposing of the store.
Because along with improving muggle/wizarding relations, they had decided that they wanted this store to be a love letter to all that those who had died in the war had fought for, a beautiful ode to the brighter future they had envisioned, where those in the wizarding world could live together in peace, regardless of blood status.
One of the first things they had done at Ataraxia, had been to install plaques along the brick storefront with the names of all those who had fallen, as well as a plaque commemorating the memories of the unknown casualties as well, such as the many muggles lost to Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
The past two anniversaries of the final battle, they had worked with the ministry to host events remembering the war and the fallen, and she intended to do so for as long as she could.
They also had established programs for Hogwarts students who had lost parents or caregivers in the war, to provide them with the books and school supplies they'd need for the school year, free of charge.
Hermione was endlessly thankful for Blaise and his dedication to her vision, as well as any help she needed to give to the community in every way she could.
Truly, she was just thankful for Blaise.
The past two years had only deepened their friendship, and if she was being honest, he had become one of her closest friends.
Almost as if the direction of her thoughts had summoned him, the soft chiming of the bells sounded as Blaise himself slipped into the empty store.
"Granger," he smirked at her, sauntering over to lean against the front of the counter. His smirk widened as he took in the quill in her hand, completely ink-free and betraying any hope she had of pretending she had already started on her work for the day.
She rolled her eyes and dropped it, "I've only been here for ten minutes, Zabini."
He laughed, a warm, hearty sound tumbling from his dark lips as he graced her with a genuine smile.
"Yes, well, for you that's practically thirty minutes behind schedule."
She shook her head but didn't bother trying to hide the small smile that tugged her mouth to the side.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence today?"
His smile faltered slightly, and he straightened his posture.
Wonderful, something unpleasant then.
While Blaise had established Ataraxia with her, he only really visited when he had a free day or something he needed to discuss, which wasn't always that often. Having quite a bit of family, and therefore connections, in Paris and Italy, both nearby wizarding communities that were heavily affected as well by Voldemort's ideologies, the ministry happily filled the vacant position in the Department of International Magical Co-Operation with Blaise. From what she had heard from her friends in the ministry, Blaise's charm and intelligence had quickly made him an asset.
The man before her sighed and glanced through the door, another tell that warned her she wouldn't like what he was about to say.
"Madizza and Magillard have again declined our assistance in establishing any programs for muggleborns and their families."
"Meaning, they're still not going to do it at all."
He nodded, a flash of annoyance lighting in his eyes as he did.
Hermione let out a sound of frustration. The past two years, they had been trying to work with the two prominent wizarding shops in Place Cacheé and Luogo di Meraviglia, France and Italy's equivalents of their own Diagon Alley, to establish similar programs to that at their shop, with the goal of improving muggle-wizarding relations within their communities. They had politely declined, many still unwilling to change their stance on non-wizards, despite everything that had been experienced during the war.
"All of those non-wizards harmed by Voldemort and his followers, and still, they don't see the importance of working to change how the wizarding world treats them." She snapped, pulling her stack of papers closer to channel the angry energy into something at least semi-productive.
Blaise placed a gentle hand on top of the parchment before her, before she could ruin the order with splotches of messy ink.
"I know, Hermione." He said her name softly, not chastising, but with understanding. "We will convince them, show them how important it is to change these views, to change the stigma and what's considered normal." He sighed. "We just have to remember that it's only been two years, and we're working to undo decades, centuries even, of prejudice. Unfortunately, it may take longer for some than others to see the importance."
She glared up at him, angry at the bigotry that shouldn't have been there to begin with.
"I changed," he said, giving her a small smile. "Theo changed. Even Draco, and Narcissa…" His voice trailed off at the mention of her former lover, and she coughed, her cheeks burning with an awkward flush. He cleared his throat, continuing. "My point is, you've already changed the minds of many people – people who had been raised entrenched in much worse hate then those you're trying to convince now. We will convince them."
She nodded, staring down at the paper in front of her so that her curls tumbled forward over her shoulders to hide her still pink cheeks, though she didn't really see any of the words on the paper. He was right. Hopefully. Though the flush on her cheeks was attributed more to the mention of Draco than from her anger, now.
She hadn't seen Draco in months. Hadn't spent a significant amount of time with him in much longer than that.
Hadn't really had a decent, honest conversation with him since they separated.
And she had been left trying to figure out what that meant for her.
She had understood. Of course she understood. She had talked it over so many times with Andromeda, she was surprised the older witch had never become fed up enough to snap at her to shut the hell up. His entire world had been turned upside down, and despite him being cleared of all charges at his trial, there were too many still that couldn't forgive him so easily.
Too many had been harmed by his family, his father, the Death Eaters. Too many of their peers at school had been on the receiving end of his bullying and harassment.
And he had understood all of it, carried it like his own personal cross to bear after the war. And she had hated that she couldn't help him carry it, but she understood that it was his to carry. He had to find his own way to make atonement and find peace for who he had been before he changed his path, before he began making the right choices.
She understood that.
She understood, and would never hold it against him, that he had to learn how to begin healing from his trauma on his own.
But it didn't make the feelings she had for him disappear, didn't make her love him any less.
Which only made it that much harder to handle, only made it that much more difficult when they saw each other and interacted.
And, of course, that didn't stop the two of them from losing themselves in each other on particularly difficult days, when they had a bit too much to drink.
No one knew that last part, of course.
Hers and Draco's… hookups? She still didn't quite know what to call them, but, they were just theirs.
She had no idea if he had spoken about it, but she hadn't told anyone.
Not even Ginny, or Andromeda, or Blaise. Definitely not Harry or Ron.
She didn't know if they'd understand.
Hell, she didn't even fully understand.
She knew it probably wasn't the healthiest coping mechanism, but two years later and it didn't seem to matter. She still loved him with every fiber of her own broken pieces.
The two of them had tried seeing other people in the two years since they had broken up, but neither of them could seem to make anything stick.
She knew why she couldn't seem to pursue anything more serious than casual dating, but she had no idea if the reason was still the same for him.
They didn't exactly talk much in the heated, passionate moments they shared, more and more rarely over the time apart. They definitely hadn't broached the subject of how they felt for each other, past the obvious, lingering physical attraction.
She had enough to focus on without becoming a crying, blubbering mess, begging him to take her back. No, she would not let herself lose that much of her dignity for anyone, regardless of how she felt for them.
Besides, he had been the one to say he needed time and space, so the quaffle was in his hands. Or whatever quidditch metaphor Harry liked to use for these kinds of things.
She glanced up and realized Blaise was staring at her, that knowing glint in his eyes and the slight uptilt of his lips that always made her feel as though he could see into her very soul and knew exactly what direction her thoughts had taken at the mention of her ex.
She cleared her throat, tucking the strands of hair that she had used as a veil back behind her ears and sitting up straighter. She met Blaise's gaze with a hardened ferocity that dared him to say what he was thinking.
He simply pushed off from the dark wood of the counter, heading back towards the door and continuing their conversation. "Don't worry, Granger. I'm nothing if not persuasive." He flashed her a wicked grin that had her rolling her eyes as he left, though she couldn't help but smile anyway as she watched her friend stroll down the cobblestone street, hands in his pockets as if he hadn't a care in the world.
Her smile faltered only slightly as her gaze fell upon the dark windows of one of the still abandoned stores he walked past. The store that she had caught her own reflection in when she was disguised as Bellatrix, sending her into a spiraling panic attack while on their way to Gringotts to steal Hufflepuff's cup.
She's dead.
Her hands tightened into fists on the smooth wood surface before her.
She can't hurt you. She's dead.
Four deep breaths, in and out.
The wooden bookshelves, the tomes resting peacefully in their place, the dust dancing in the sunlight shining through the windows, the deep maroon carpeting of the store floor, the parchment before her.
The soft feather of her quill, the smooth surface of the desk, the rough edges of the ripped parchment, the cuff of her cotton peacoat.
The chatter of patrons beginning their days on the street beyond the door, the soft hooting floating over from the nearby Owl Emporium, the ticking of the clock on the wall behind her.
The smell of fresh parchment, and the scent of leather binding from the books filling the shop.
She raised a slightly shaking hand to her mouth, dipping a finger in to grace her tongue.
The last bit of flavor from the apple she had eaten on her way in for breakfast.
She let out another long, shuddering breath, forcing herself not to glance back at the window that had prompted this new direction to her thoughts.
Things had gotten slightly easier over the past couple years – she didn't find herself spiraling nearly as often, but sometimes if she was reminded of something when she wasn't prepared, the trauma came back full force like a hurricane and swept her off her unsteady feet.
It would take time; she had been told. Time to heal from the post-traumatic stress that she now found herself struggling with after the war.
Time.
Time to put back together the pieces of her broken self.
And she hated it.