"When sky blue gets dark enough
To see the colors of the city lights
A trail of ruby red and diamond white
Hits her like a sunrise"
"Neon" – John Mayer
At the two-week mark, Hermione began to realize that not only had she been hasty in her assessment of how quickly she could expect to find work, but that she may have been hasty in her assessment that she'd be able to find work at all.
It was yet again Friday, and nearing the part of the day where she knew not to expect to receive any owls, at least from any business that was above-board enough to operate during normal business hours, and she was camped out on a park bench near her parent's old neighborhood, having stopped to get her bearings after checking back with the shop keeps she'd left her credentials with the week before.
It was almost February, and the air was biting at all of the exposed skin she had available, but for all its effort and bluster, she barely felt it.
The tears of frustration gathering in the corners of her eyes, however—those felt like small ice shards. And between the cold and the oncoming storm of her emotions, her nose had begun to drip in a most unbecoming fashion.
She sniffed violently to try and clear her sinuses with little success.
She hadn't expected to hear back Monday. No owls had come, and she hadn't yet received any calls on her inexpensive muggle mobile phone. She'd even made sure to go and purchase minutes in the event that someone tried to reach out to her: so far, no dice.
It was taking everything in her to try and keep her chin up. Hermione wasn't usually the sort to be taken over by despair, but she was well aware that February's rent was going to come due, and after that a succession of bills and expenses. She had every confidence that she could afford the first month... but if she didn't have something lined up quickly, March would be all but impossible to make it through.
She'd lived frugally, and had been something of a spendthrift in her own expenses, yet living in London was not without its sticker-shock. The witch winced, thinking that it was entirely possible that she'd end up staying with the Potters in spite of her protests to the contrary.
Things were feeling desperate. She knew that, at least in the muggle world, it could take anywhere from weeks to months to line up employment, but in the magical world employment sometimes felt closer to an old-fashioned gentleman's agreement than a contractual arrangement. She'd had high hopes that any one of the jobs she'd applied for might glance at her credentials, her impeccable CV, hell, even her name alone, and offer to employ her... Or at least she'd held out that hope until that morning.
It had finally been long enough that she'd felt confident that it would be appropriate to drop around some of the stores and poke her head in—just to inquire about their needs and if they were still giving her application any consideration.
A couple of the establishments had made sympathetic noises and expressed that they simply hadn't gotten to her name in the pile yet. Some of them had told her they'd filled their positions.
The blow had fallen when she visited Flourish and Blott's.
Of all of the places she thought she might be hired, she knew the ancient booksellers were most likely. She was known there by name, and not because she had had a part in the war, or because she was Harry Potter's friend. She was known there for her purchases and as one of their best customers.
Yet, when she'd stopped in to call on her favourite clerk, she'd been met with a rather harried expression, and a pitying cluck of his tongue.
Didn't she know? Hadn't she already heard?
She'd expressed her confusion. No, she didn't know. She hadn't heard.
Mr. Thimble wrung his hands together with worry. He looked sincerely regretful, but he'd eventually pulled himself up, looked her in the eye, and delivered a hard truth: She'd not be employed at Flourish and Blott's.
Hermione twisted her mouth, trying to maintain her friendly smile in the face of the rejection. "I... I appreciate your consideration, Mr. Thimble. I admit I was hopeful when we spoke last—you'd mentioned that you'd consider an interview—"
Cecil Thimble shook his head, his expression grim. "I regret giving you false hope, Ms. Granger. I know I made it sound like it would be a possibility. And I have to admit, we'd have loved to have had you. Your credentials are impressive..."
The witch wrung her hands in her jumper, then hastened to smooth the knit fabric out again. "May I ask what the problem is?" Her voice was hesitant, but smooth. "If there's a problem, I should like to know before I continue my search."
Mr. Thimble looked around the shop, and seeing no-one within ear shot, indicated that she should follow him into a dusty back alcove.
He cleared his throat once they were alone. "I'm so sorry, Hermione. I hate to be the one to tell you."
"Tell me what, Mr. Thimble?"
"Cecil, please," he begged. "If I won't have the pleasure of working with you as my employee, then hopefully I'll be able to keep your business—you're one of my favourite customers, you see? And I hope you'll continue to be... my hands are tied, you understand?"
Hermione was beginning to grow frustrated. "I'm afraid I don't. What am I to understand?" She kept her voice from growling with a gargantuan effort, and even then, only just.
"It's your official file at the Ministry: I can't offer you employment. You have a strike against you."
"A strike?" she repeated, hoping she didn't look as dumbstruck as she knew she sounded.
"Yes," he said, reaching out and patting the young woman on the shoulder sympathetically. "Some nonsense about an 'Incident of Ill-will," he continued. "Mind you, I'd employ you anyway, but... well..."
"What is it, Cecil?" She ground out, this time not managing to keep a hint of venom out of her voice.
His mouth twisted in a wry grimace. "In order to employ someone with one of those on their record, I have to pay employment insurance to the Ministry—it'd cost me more than I'd be paying you: you're too expensive."
"Em-employment insurance?!" She stuttered, stupidly, "Who ever heard of such a thing—?"
"It's a farce, alright," Cecil agreed, his eyes hard. "I know you well enough, Hermione. You're a good sort. And you'd be an excellent employee: that I know. But I can't afford you. I don't think anyone could for what they charge per month to insure that you don't reoffend,"
"Reoffend!?" Hermione almost shouted, but looked around hastily when Mr. Thimble gestured for her to watch the volume of her voice. A few customers had looked their way at her outburst.
"Quite. I don't know what you did, but—"
"I didn't do anything, Cecil! I swear!" Hermione urged, almost begging.
Cecil grasped both of her shoulders and met her panicked brown eyes with his warm and kind grey ones. "I believe you, Hermione. But I'm just telling you so you'll know. Someday, if this nonsense is put behind us, I'd love to have you as part of the team: but while this is on your record don't expect a job anywhere that works within the Ministry's purview. You've got someone out there working against you." He looked around, again seeming as if he expected someone to report on what he was saying. "I know you're muggleborn, Ms. Granger: you're in a better position than most. You might still be able to find a job outside of our world. Not everyone is so lucky..."
So far as she could tell, her blighted record was working against her in every case, and Cecil was simply the only one that pitied her enough to tell her the full truth of the matter.
She stared down at her pristine, white plimsolls and rubbed the toes against each other thoughtfully. Part of her wished they'd be dirty and soiled. That they'd scuff up and turn muddy. Even if only for the afternoon. It seemed like the orderliness she insisted upon was rather silly today of all days.
After her stops in Diagon Alley she had wandered all over London by foot, trying to spend as much time out and about as she could, just so that she'd feel as if she was getting something accomplished. In the end, she'd found herself in her parents' neighborhood—the one she'd grown up in—feeling tired, like her feet were ready to blister, rather numb from the cold, and worst of all: hungry as a hippogriff.
The young witch swallowed and glared down at her feet, furrowing her brow as if by simply looking like she was thinking hard, she could force a solution to come to her.
There were still the muggle jobs...
The mobile sat, heavy in her pocket. It hadn't rung once.
Yet, it would seem that the world she had been born and raised in may prove to be her saving grace, even as it had plagued her during school.
She couldn't take her mother up on that offer she had made—it would feel too much like admitting defeat. That would be true failure. Hermione scowled.
The sun was falling on the skyline, painting the sky a dusty rose pink, edged with trimmings of lilac. The park's trees stood black before it, providing a lattice-like foreground that created a decorative lace edge along the horizon. Though it hadn't been anywhere approaching warm before, the temperature was quickly approaching zero, and even her warming charms weren't proving to be equal to the task of keeping her from freezing.
It was with the utmost reluctance that she rose from her park bench and began to meander along the lane that would take her to her apparition point. There was little sense in staying out any longer. Anywhere she'd applied to in the muggle world would be closed now and wouldn't call, and even if they did, she could just as easily take the call from her flat as she could take it while out and about.
Across the way from the park were a street of cozy eateries. The kind that had impeccably well-designed themes with inviting fonts, and menu-boards that sat out before the doors to advertise the daily specials.
During the summers, wrought-iron café chairs and tables were usually set up behind rope partitions and she and her parents used to dine outside, waving hello to passers-by whom they knew from around the block.
Though it was a part of London, it felt thoroughly residential and homey. People knew one another by name and face and reputation. Few were anonymous or mere strangers in a crowd.
That being said, it wasn't that much of a surprise when Hermione heard her name being called from behind.
The witch winced and tried to ignore it. She was old enough now that it could easily be a case of mistaken identity. As long as she didn't turn around and acknowledge that it was her, they might assume that they had gotten the wrong person.
That all would have been well and good, even probable, if the person hailing her hadn't been her own father.
A hand descended on her shoulder to spin her around. Dangerous really, she reflected distantly, to confront a war veteran by coming up and touching them from behind. Though she knew the hand when she felt it. And it must have registered somewhere in her distracted brain whose voice it was that she was hearing, for she managed to restrain herself from hexing her father when he turned her by pulling on her shoulder and drew her into a hug.
"Sweet pea! Why didn't you tell us that you'd be in the neighborhood!" He didn't allow her time to answer, he'd already begun dragging her back to one of the restaurants that she'd passed. In the large front window, Hermione realized that the person seated at the front-most table was her mother, who was waving to her with a bit of a reluctant smile.
She just managed to contain her wince. They'd not parted on good terms a month and a half before.
As they entered the restaurant, she felt herself grin as the warmth washed over her. She'd not realized just how cold she had been, traveling outside all day. Between the constant walking and her warming charms, she'd had some sort of false sense of being comfortable. Hermione realized now that it was more a function of her emotional numbness. She simply hadn't registered the temperature in her fugue state.
Margaret rose to greet her daughter, drawing her close and pecking her on each cheek before she waved for one of the staff to bring up another chair. It seemed that her parents hadn't been served their meals yet, but had ordered an assortment of starters to gnosh on with a bottle of wine. They had always rather fancied themselves as gourmands. It wasn't out of the ordinary for them to sample every single starter on the menu.
Quickly, her father set out to pour Hermione a glass of a dry, white wine and to hand her one of the small plates so that she could begin to graze from the selection.
The witch didn't need telling twice, she dug in, piling the plate with a couple of savoury puff pastries, what looked to be ribs from a rack of lamb with mint sauce, and a couple of chunks off of the cheese board they'd ordered. The wine she sampled but set back with a small grimace. It had been since Christmas night with Snape that she'd last had any drink, and it seemed that she'd lost her desire for it. Nothing like waking up with one's ex-professor to put someone off the sauce.
'It'd have been far better to have woken up with him after having been with him stone-cold sober,' she thought to herself with no little regret. It was almost a certainty that then it'd have never happened to begin with, however.
She stifled a grimace in remembrance. He'd never have been interested in her otherwise, of that Hermione was certain.
"What are you doing in these parts without giving us a ring, Hermione Jean?" Margaret asked over the rim of her glass. "We'd have invited you out to begin with if you'd have only let us know,"
Hermione nibbled at one of the pieces of lamb and shrugged. "I was just taking a walk to clear my head, I wasn't intending on staying long."
"Well you came all the way here, didn't you?" her mother needled. "This is a long way off from the east-side, did you poof your way here?" she asked, waving her fingers a bit mystically.
Hermione couldn't help but to grimace this time. Magic seemed so fatuous to her parents. Like going off to study Greek comedies, or any number of rather unimportant academic pastimes that those with too much money and too little sense engaged in.
"No, I walked here."
"From your flat? That's rather far east as well—"
"From Diagon Alley. It's not far from there..."
Her father looked at her critically. "I suppose not. And perhaps it's a pleasant enough walk. In the summer. It's freezing out today,"
His daughter shrugged, her face drawn. "Yeah... I lost track of time."
The Doctors Granger looked at one another, sharing a concerned frown. It was Margaret who spoke eventually: the official mouthpiece for the couple. "How long have you been out, Hermione? Didn't you work today? Last I checked, you kept normal hours."
It was a sign of how drawn and exhausted she was that Hermione didn't think twice before mentioning her tragedy. She should have known better... if she already had an alternative lined-up she'd have known better...
But this simply wasn't her day. In fact, the run of poor luck had continued for the past fortnight, unabated.
"I was made redundant." She almost whispered it. Like it was a confession to a priest from her youth... something so shameful that perhaps by uttering it as quietly as possible it would take away the sting.
No such luck.
"You were sacked!?" Her father cried, his face stricken. Where Hermione had felt the need to be as quiet as a dormouse, her parents apparently felt no such compunction.
She looked into their horrified faces, her own falling with the pain she'd been trying to lock behind a door for two weeks. "It wasn't—" she began hastily, before she heaved a sigh, her shoulders stooped with defeat. "... I was. Yeah. I was sacked."
Suddenly, the glass of wine looked more inviting than ever. She went to take an enormous gulp of it but nearly spat it back out again.
Her parents had truly abominable taste in whites. A red would have been far superior. She glowered at the glass as if it had offended her.
"Whatever for, sweet pea? You've never done a thing wrong in your life!"
To this, Hermione actually felt herself giving a reluctant grin. Leave it to her father to see her as the perfect angel. "That's not exactly true, Dad, but... I didn't do anything wrong at work. I know that much."
"So they didn't give you a reason?" Her father was clearly offended on her behalf, but when Hermione glanced up at her mother, she saw the calculating look that spelled trouble.
"Not really, no..." the witch fibbed, not wishing to explain the strike on her record when she barely understood it herself. It would only make her parents hate her world even more. There was no reason to invite their ire on her behalf.
"Anyway," Hermione started again, fidgeting with the menu as she examined the dishes, "I was in Diagon Alley looking for employment. I'm not going to let knotgrass grow under my feet,"
"I'm sorry?"
She winced, regretting her choice of idiom. "I'm not slacking off, Dad. I'll have a new job in a few days, I can feel it." It was another lie, but she couldn't possibly envision telling them the truth. Her father would be too angry on her behalf, and her mother would be worse: victorious in her assessment of the unsuitability of the magical world for her daughter's future.
She'd have interviews for St. Andrews, or with prominent MPs, lined up for her within the week.
She suppressed another wince. Hermione had never wanted to work in Whitehall... even setting foot there for the sake of a tour or to meet up with her family who held sway in the House of Lords was borderline unbearable.
Her mother gave her a pitying look, shaking her head slightly so her bouffant swayed precipitously atop her head, "You just say the word, dear, and I'll," she snapped her fingers, "I'll have something lined up for you that quickly."
Hermione could barely contain a snarl. Oh, it had been delivered with enough sympathy, and even without a hint of the contempt she knew her mother was feeling for her choices, but she recognized the offer for what it was: defeat. Margaret Cavendish-Granger saw this as a rather handy checkmate, but Hermione still had a way to beat a hasty retreat. She still had a few fighters on the field.
"I'll manage, Mum."
The witch was proud of herself. Rather than revealing her hand, she was able to offer her mother a somewhat watery grin.
"I'm well-qualified, and I've heard back a lot of good things already, it's only a matter of time."
'Lies. Lies, Lies, and more Lies.'
When had she become so okay with lying?
Probably when she'd started withholding the fact that a hero and villain of the war was living quite comfortably in Nottingham and visiting his aging mother in her Ministry accommodations while wearing an entirely asinine disguise. After keeping Severus' secret from his own mother, and his very existence a secret from both her best friend and the Ministry, anything else seemed rather trivial.
Then again, lying to her parents wasn't exactly a new phenomenon. She'd never been unfailingly honest with them when it came to her life in the wizarding world. If she had been, they'd probably be even more adamant that she leave it in her rear-view mirror and pick up where she left off in the muggle world.
The waitress came over to their table and left with their orders, leaving an awkward silence in her wake. Hermione's mother practically bored holes into her with the strength of her gaze. Clearly, she didn't believe what she was hearing.
At length, Margaret straightened in her seat and made to refill her wine glass. The woman swirled the liquid around under her nose, made a small face, and then quirked her eyebrows a bit primly before sipping this glass at a more sedate pace than she had the first.
"Just as well, dear—we'd be very happy to welcome you back home while you look. Wouldn't we, Robert?"
Hermione's father started for a moment at being addressed before he seemed to pick up the thread of the conversation once more. "Oh.. oh! Certainly. We'd be glad to have you back with us, little pea,"
Hermione wrinkled her nose a bit. Sweet pea was bad enough, though she'd come to cherish the nickname at least a small bit. Little pea, however, was far worse and far more condescending. Her father had always treated her a bit like his little porcelain doll. Especially as he'd rarely seen her past eleven. Hermione would perennially be a young child to him: capable of inspiring either delight or disappointment, but rarely, or possibly never, garnering genuine respect for all that she was and had grown to be.
She didn't know whether that was better or worse than how her mother saw her. On one hand, Robert Granger didn't push her as hard to do things that she had explicitly stated she didn't want to do. On the other hand... it was largely because he saw these things as being too grown-up for her anyhow. He'd have been more supportive and enthusiastic about signing her up for riding lessons than for either introducing her to members of parliament or planning to walk her down the aisle: after all, those were things adult women did. Not his little girl. Not his Hermione.
Not for the first time, she wished she had a sibling. Someone else that her parents could focus on. It'd be easier to be the problem child than to be the sole heir to all their sundry expectations.
"I'm planning on keeping my flat," she stated baldly, her voice brooking no argument.
She should have known better than to think she could deter them so easily.
"Dear, be reasonable: with these rates you'll be scraping the bottom of the barrel within just a few months—"
Month, Hermione thought to herself with distaste. But best not to let her mother know that she was on such a shoestring.
"Now I'll speak to Stephen on Monday—it'd have been better if you'd told me from the start! I can't get anything done over the weekend for you—and I've got the line for the rector at St. Andrews,"
"Mum—"
"Shush! It won't be until next term that they can fit you in, I wouldn't wonder, but he'll help you with choosing a direction, or Stephan can place you as a clerk for the meantime,"
"MUM!" Hermione all but shouted, glancing around wearily at the other patrons. There were only very few, and they seemed to be minding their own business. Still, she coloured up to her ears at having to raise her voice.
"Now, sweet pea, don't yell,"
She rounded on her father, giving him a glower that she was sure hadn't been in her repertoire before she'd been keeping Snape's company, "I wouldn't have to if you'd just listen! I've got my own interviews lined up," she fibbed again, "I'm managing on my own. Mum—" She glanced at the older woman, who was now barely restraining a prim sneer in her direction, "I'm not going back to school.
"Thank you very much for reaching out on my behalf, but I could have spared you the trouble." The witch breathed in a deep breath. "I'm simply not interested in starting all over from scratch. That part of my life is over now,"
"You were always so studious, Hermione, whatever happened to that?" Margaret almost moaned, her brow creased in all too evident frustration.
"I still study," she replied, defensively. "I still research. I don't need someone to hand papers to for me to direct myself—"
"Why, Maggie! I bet she's found herself a young man!" Robert cried, delighted.
Hermione's mouth dropped open in shock, and she tried to find words to fend off this newest turn in the conversation, but could hardly speak, only managing to shake her head mutely for a few seconds. "Dad, no—"
"There's no other explanation! Mags, remember at Christmas, she was so eager to get away—who were you meeting with, little pea?" Robert grinned at her, undeterred, "Please, you can tell us—"
"It's not the lorry driver, is it?" Margaret asked, her voice barely containing the all too obvious distain she felt.
"Now Mags, we discussed this," Robert clucked. He turned back to his daughter, "If you love him, it doesn't matter in the least if he's in transportation—"
"STOP!"
Hermione had finally had enough, she pushed back her chair and stood abruptly, fishing in her bag for a twenty pound note she could not afford to part with that she tossed down between the two.
She drew in a deep breath and fixed them with her blackest sneer, twisting her lip and leveling off her eyebrows like she had seen Severus do thousands of times before.
"I left Christmas because of you two. Because you wouldn't leave me alone about my choices. Imagine my surprise that you've still not learnt your lesson." She fetched up her coat off of the back of the chair and arranged her bag about her shoulders. "My address will remain the same. You know where to find me."
She tried to stomp over to the door, but wearing the soft white trainers she was partial to made it impossible. At the exit, she turned and pinned her mother with the grim set of her features once more.
"Don't call Stephen. Don't contact the rector. You'll only embarrass yourself. This is my life, and my decision, and you're to butt out."
The small bell over the door chimed happily as she departed.
"She's always buzzing just like
Neon, neon
Neon, neon
Who knows how long, how long, how long
She can go before she burns away"
"Neon" (reprise) – John Mayer
A/N: (at time of posting) Hey guys. I want to tell you all how much I appreciate you all, and thank you for reading and reviewing. I'm going to try to keep up posting as quickly as I can, but today our basement flooded and it's been a lot to deal with, particularly as my husband's work computer might have been destroyed. We're a single income family, and he earns our money by working out of his home office and by gigging (he's a guitarist for a local band). The flood primarily affected his workstation and his guitar equipment... So, I don't know if I'll be able to keep up the exact same posting schedule I have been, but I'll do my best.
Otherwise: I would be appreciative of prayers, if you're inclined to do so. Thank you all so much.