An Apple A Day (only 1 ch)
Hermione strolled through the streets of Salem with a renewed spring in her step. Even here, in the muggle part of town, the magic buzzing around her felt different than it did back home—more energized, less defined, younger. Ley lines thrummed beneath her feet and the magnetism crackled in her hair, causing her curls to expand wildly about her face. The air was crisp, clean, and held the promise of cool weather to come. Sporadic splashes of color framed the cobblestone street, the trees struggling to cling to the greens of summer as their months-long slumber threatened to overtake them.
The other Healers back home at St. Mungo's thought she was barmy to travel so far, to agree to stay in the United States for a month. We're better established here, with hundreds of years of research under our belts. She nearly scoffed in their faces as she kindly let them know that perhaps their ancient and outdated methods and antiquated experimentation was the exact reason they couldn't find a cure for this infantile disease overtaking the population.
After reaching out to the Head of Giles Corey Memorial Hospital in Salem, Massachusetts, she knew she needed to take her theories and ideas abroad. Hester Cobbs was far younger, more progressive than her own boss, and shared a mutual interest in picking Hermione's brain. And so, she found herself in muggle New England, staring at the doorway to a quaint-looking cafe.
She pulled the door and stepped into the warmth of the eatery, the smell of fresh coffee and baked goods bringing along a nonsensical bit of joy. Having thought she would miss the charming autumn of England, she felt a sense of peace as she unraveled her scarf from around her neck and peered into the glass pastry cases.
A young woman eyed her from behind the counter, one brow raised as Hermione scrutinized a sugar plum danish with far more interest than any one baked good deserved. "It tastes better than it looks," the young woman assured her, peeling a bit of black varnish from the corner of one fingernail.
Feeling silly and a little more than drunk on the energy running through her in this foreign place, Hermione let out an embarrassed giggle. "Of course. I'll take one of these and a cup of spiced cider, please."
The girl nodded, already pulling a paper cup from a stack by the till. "I dig your accent," she stated, eyeing her from under her lashes as she poured piping hot cider into the cup. "I've always wanted to visit London. One of the town's residents is British."
"It's fascinating and pretty in its own right. But I'm thrilled to be able to visit somewhere so fresh and exciting."
"Well, you came at the right time then," the girl mentioned, lifting the pastry out with a pair of tongs before handing it to Hermione, "Salem is gearing up for Halloween."
With a glance out the door at the early decorations adorning some of the shop fronts across the way, Hermione tilted her head in that direction. "City seems to be pretty keen on witches."
"Yeah...a bunch of people were hanged for witchcraft a few hundred years ago and the city has capitalized on this fact since," the girl said, rolling her eyes and handing Hermione her takeaway cup as well.
Her nonchalance surprised Hermione, who planned to visit the site of the hangings while in town to commemorate the lives lost in the witch hunt. While some may have been wrongly accused, she knew from tracing lineage that a handful had been ancestors. She gave a curt nod to the young woman and made her way out of the store's warmth and back out into the nippy air.
Though it was a few days shy of October, each shop Hermione peered into seemed to pay homage to their history. Clutching her takeaway cup of apple cider in an attempt to warm her hands, she peered into store fronts. She had yet to make it into the wizarding section of town, but was fascinated by the sheer amount of allusions to the city's sordid witchy past.
Ron's instructions had been to go to a small shop called The Good Witch—his cousin would be expecting her. Hermione had travelled across the Atlantic with an anxious hesitance, knowing that her business with Giles Corey Memorial Hospital would likely keep her stateside for a weeks. Ron had contacted a cousin—a distant, black sheep of the family that he still occasionally exchanged owls with right under his mother's nose—and like that, Hermione had somewhere to stay. "Autumn is a little eccentric, but she's never met a stranger. It'll be a little like living with Luna Lovegood."
Rounding the corner, she narrowly avoided running face first into a severe looking man. Stepping around him, she mumbled, "Oh I'm sorry—" Her feet came to a grinding halt just as her apology did. No. It can't be. Her lips fell apart as her jaw went slack and her eyes widened. No one's seen him in ten years! Yet there he was, in the flesh—a specter from her past, a pariah in wizarding England. Unloading...apples?
Draco Malfoy was in the back of a large box truck, lifting wooden crates onto a pushcart while a thin wisp of a woman spoke to him animatedly, her hands waving about. Malfoy was clearly just being polite in listening to her as his smile—strikingly handsome?—didn't quite meet his eyes or slow his work.
Looking beyond the truck, she saw that he was parked in front of an open-air farmers market. Her brow pinched together and her head went into an involuntary tilt as she tried to riddle out the scene before her. Feeling her stare upon him, his face turned toward her briefly before it snapped back up into a double take. The sudden draining of all color from his face and the way his smile died must have startled his female companion because she turned quickly to find what could have spooked him so.
Feet skipping to a start, Hermione took off at a brisk stride past the truck, tripping over pebbles in the street. She felt his eyes on her, burning holes into her face until she got out of his line of sight. Her heart was racing violently, her face scorching with a blush of indignant uncertainty. No one had seen him in a decade, and yet, the Fates would be so cunning as to bring them to the same small part of the world so far from the confines of home.
Blood rushed behind her ears, humming loud enough that she must have missed his calls for her until—
"Granger!" he barked out, grasping her shoulder from behind.
She spun around and yanked her arm from his clutches, more surprised than frightened. It occurred to her that she had walked off in a direction that must seem absurd to him as she looked around where they stood. Alone in a tight alleyway in a city she had only been in for mere minutes, Hermione found herself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy.
The wizard crossed his arms over his chest, his face stoney as he blatantly gave her a once-over. "Did the Ministry send you? I have followed every condition of my probation to the T. The American Aurors—"
The laugh that bubbled up her chest really couldn't be helped, not in such a ludicrous moment. He raised an eyebrow, the hard set of his jaw weakening some as he watched her. "Merlin, Malfoy. I'm not here to arrest you! I'm not even in law enforcement!"
His shoulders relaxed visibly at her admission, though his apprehensive guard was still raised. He ran a hand through his hair and gestured around them. "Then what are you doing here? Did Potter ask you to spy on me?"
"Should he have?" she inquired, her laughs dying to a smug smile. "What are you doing here?"
His eyes scanned her face, looking for signs of deception. While under his perceptive stare, Hermione took a moment of her own to drink in his features. In the years past, he'd matured. The angles and edges suited him far more now, with hints at crow's feet branching from the corners of his eyes and a softer set to his mouth. The haunted countenance he'd worn so readily in his teenage years had melted away and he seemed comfortable here in Salem, save her sudden intrusion. His hair was neat though it had begun to fall over his forehead from his work and his combing through it, pointing her attention toward his eyes. Grey—she dredged this memory up from the dark recesses of her mind—but darkening to the strangest green toward the irises. The olive shade of his button-down shirt brought out the odd hue, one that reminded her of sea spray on a stormy summer afternoon.
After what seemed like an eternity, he finally spoke, his voice laced with consternation. "I own and operate The Orchards of Eden—an apple orchard on the outskirts of town."
Her eyes flickered down to the embroidered design over his heart—a Celtic-looking pattern woven to look like the yggdrasil and sporting the name of his company. "You," her voice faltered as confusion settled in, "moved to the United States to grow apples?"
"Is that a problem?" Malfoy was growing defensive now as he glowered from his looming position over her. "It wasn't an issue when you purchased that cup of cider from Croft's Cafe."
Hermione, who had completely forgotten the paper takeaway cup in her hand, looked at it as her cheeks flushed pink once more. At the bottom of the cup, the same tiny tree. "Proud to pair with The Orchards of Eden. Homegrown, locally sourced."
"I guess I'm just shocked," she admitted quietly, embarrassed by the judgment in her voice.
He dropped the protective set of his arms and shoved his hands into his pockets. "That makes two of us then. If you aren't here to spy on me, then why are you here?"
After a decade of not hearing his haughty drawl, his voice was akin to running one's fingers over the finest silk. Deep, sultry, wholly appealing now that he wasn't spewing hatred from his lips. "I-I," she stuttered and forced herself to look away from his seaspray eyes, "I've been doing some research on a new ailment that has been plaguing some of the population of wizarding England back home. Thought maybe the American Healers could bring a new perspective. I'll be spending time at Giles Corey Memorial."
"You're a Healer?" his voice held no mocking, only sheer curiosity. "I would have thought you would be one of the Ministry's leading lackeys by now. Or the Minister."
Rolling her eyes, Hermione huffed a laugh. "Please. The corruption and scandal that rocked the Ministry after the War—what with all of the victims and survivors being mishandled by our own government—I was pleased to accept an internship from St. Mungo's following my seventh year at Hogwarts."
A grin spread across his face, causing a mischievous little light to flicker in his eye. "Typical Granger. Returned to school after you won a bloody war!"
"Received top marks and everything."
The pair simply smiled at one another, soaking in the preposterousness of the moment.
