Author's Note: Much love as always to mcal for reading this chapter at the eleventh hour before posting. And another burst of love to all of you for reading! All your support so far means more than I can properly express :)
The faint tick of the second hand's echo cut through the bookstore office. Hermione read the note for the tenth, eleventh, twelfth time that morning. She'd read it at least double that amount the night before. Since reading those six simple words, Hermione's heart had been tied in a knot.
He wanted to meet.
The tell-tale tinkle of the chime above the front door carried to the back of the store, and Hermione knew that meant Penelope had arrived. Any moment, her lead associate would head to the office to ask what needed to be done before the shop opened. Yet Hermione couldn't think beyond the slip of parchment laid out on her desk.
"Morning," came Penelope's greeting, but Hermione didn't look up. She hadn't even bothered to hide the letter.
Hermione heard more than saw Penelope step inside the office. The slight wobble of the cloak rack under the weight of a new addition, the padding of feet against the floor as they drew closer. The footsteps stopped right in front of Hermione.
Thick muscles lined Hermione's throat as she forced a swallow, then handed the parchment to Penelope without saying a word. There was no need to explain who it was from. The widening of Penelope's eyes confirmed that she could make that deduction herself.
"Only took him six years," Penelope said once the shock seemed to wear off and a slow smile formed in its place. "Surely you're saying yes."
She reached out the parchment, and Hermione took it back into her grasp.
"I haven't decided yet," Hermione responded honestly. The knot in her heart tightened. "Last week, I alluded to the potential of us meeting, but when his reply didn't react to that part of my letter, I accepted that meant he wanted us to stay pen pals."
"Or maybe he just needed time to think about it? After all this romantic build up between you two, he's bound to be nervous."
A blazing heat scorched Hermione's cheeks. "We're simply two people who enjoy sending letters to each other and are now considering developing that friendship in real life. Nothing in our letters has been romantic."
"Mhm, sure," Penelope challenged, smile shifting into something mischievous. "As if I didn't catch you blushing while reading his letter last Saturday. The content may not be romantic, but the feelings certainly are." She paused, snorted, then briefly shook her head. "I don't know who you're trying to fool here, Hermione, because it isn't me."
Silence filled the air, punctuated solely by the continual ticks of the clock. Hermione stared at the time before promptly standing from her chair.
"The store opens in less than five. We can finish this conversation later."
The steady beating inside Hermione's chest thudded against her ribcage twice for every step she took. She was already starting to second guess her decision to share the letter with Penelope, but she needed to tell someone. Penelope just happened to be the first person Hermione saw who knew about the situation.
She swatted through the fog in her brain and tried to remember everything they needed for the day without fixating on the letter she had furtively tucked into her pocket before leaving the office.
"The Gershman family said they'd be here right at nine, so we should double-check that we have their hold ready. You know how impatient the father gets. Best not to start the day on a sour note."
The sound of Penelope's footsteps followed closely behind as Hermione rounded her way past the display tables towards the front counter.
"Hermione."
"If possible, suggest that children check out the books in the fairy tale section. Those books haven't been selling much lately, and we're starting to have an abundance in the storeroom."
"Hermione."
"Oh, and Yolanda Regus came out with a book on Friday. It will likely sell fast. We should keep an eye on it to make sure we always have enough on display."
"Hermione."
The interruption was sharper this time — more insistent.
Hermione stopped her babbling and let out a sigh. With a slow turn on her heels, she shifted to face Penelope. "Yes?"
Penelope's head was tilted to the side with her arms folded flat against her chest. She assessed Hermione with a critical gaze. "You can try to ignore our conversation, but you can't ignore that letter."
"I'm not ignoring it," Hermione swiftly defended. "He needed time to think, and now, so do I."
She slipped behind the front counter, but her intent to focus on work didn't last long. She had just managed to unlock the currency drawer when Penelope's voice brought her to a halt.
"Remind me when you and Ron broke up?"
It was as if Penelope's question was a specialised Petrificus Totalus, designed and customised with Hermione Jean Granger as its sole intended target. Forcing movement to her muscles, Hermione turned to blink at Penelope.
"Last August," she answered, hoping her voice sounded more level than it did in her own ears.
Penelope raised an eyebrow. "What a coincidence. That's shortly after the letters with your pen pal resumed."
Sometimes, Hermione really hated working with a former Ravenclaw.
Hermione opened the currency drawer, purposefully avoiding Penelope's gaze as she confirmed they had enough Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts to start off the day. She pushed the drawer closed and magicked it locked.
"Ron and I weren't right for each other."
She could still feel Penelope's eyes tracking her movement while Hermione checked the books on hold.
"Oh, I quite remember. No one is denying that," Penelope added. "Then again, when was it that you and Ron started officially dating? A little bit under two years after the war, wasn't it?" Hermione's spine stiffened as she already anticipated what Penelope would say next. "It does make me wonder, was that before or after you and your pen pal ceased communication?"
Hermione whipped around. "Do you have a point?"
"You know my point."
The nine dings of the clock half a block up Knockturn travelled down the alley. Neither Hermione nor Penelope moved. Through the window, Hermione caught a glimpse of Mr Gershman already waiting to enter. He'd have to wait.
A fire burned inside Hermione's chest with the ardent flare of emotions she'd concealed for so long. The twists and turns of her stomach sent crashing waves through her body, while her mind battled with what to say, what to confess. She sucked in a breath, then stared straight into Penelope.
"There are many reasons why Ron and I didn't start dating until then. We agreed it best not to date right after the war while he was in Auror training and I was at Hogwarts. Then, I spent the first year after graduation working countless hours learning from George and trying to start the bookstore. Whether or not I had feelings for my pen pal back then is unrelated," she said, even if she didn't entirely believe that last part.
The second half was harder to justify. Hermione choked on her words as they pushed past her lips. "As for our break up, that— That was more complicated. But what it boiled down to is that I realised that my feelings for Ron didn't match what I thought I should be feeling after dating for three years."
Penelope's critical gaze softened. "Because you felt more strongly about someone else?"
Hermione let that question go unanswered.
Mr Gershman knocked against the window then motioned towards the locked front door, yet the "Closed" sign stayed firmly in place.
"Hermione." Penelope's voice was hesitant. Cautious. She stepped forward. "Why are you really questioning if you should meet him?"
Doubts drifted in Hermione's mind — the same ones that had been hazing her confidence all week.
She rested her hand on top of the pocket where his letter laid and gave the fabric a subtle squeeze. "What if he doesn't feel the same?" she faltered.
Penelope gently chuckled. "I find that highly unlikely."
"I don't." Hermione quickly countered, replaying every possibility that had tumbled through her mind since he had ignored that part of her letter last Saturday. She couldn't help it; it was how her brain operated. "He has a son. A young one. That child didn't come from nowhere. He was with someone else. Recently. I don't know anything about the mother. He never writes about her. But that leaves enough of a chance that he's not over her. Or isn't looking for a relationship. Or just— never felt that way about me." She forced a deep inhale. "After all, he was the one who cut things off."
A small smile crept up Penelope's lips. "He's also the one asking to meet you now."
That sentiment hung in the air for several moments before the slow buzz of excitement started to form inside Hermione's stomach like a swarm of invisible pixies. Despite all her reservations, that was the piece of evidence that gave her the greatest slice of hope. Regardless of whether or not he felt a romantic connection, he wanted to take that leap and go beyond the exchange of letters. That had to mean something.
"Do you want to meet him?"
Hermione nodded. She really did.
"Then that's your answer," Penelope stated simply. "Is there a possibility he doesn't like you like that?" She shrugged. "Sure. There's always a possibility. But that's the worst case scenario. There's also a possibility that he does like you, and you'd be a right idiot not to meet him and see what happens. Better to find out instead of continuing to pine after him through pieces of parchments."
The pound of Mr Gershman's knocks once again filled the bookstore, and Penelope pulled out her wand and flicked the front door open.
"I'll deal with him," she said in a whisper as the first customers of the day entered the store. "You have a letter to respond to."
As Hermione sat behind her desk, quill at the ready to pen her response, the doubts cleared from her mind. Worst case scenario, he didn't feel the same. It wasn't what she wanted, but she could live with that. She was well-versed in staying friends with people she once had feelings for. But after losing him once, she knew she wanted him to stay in her life — even if that meant as friends.
With the stroke of her quill, she wrote six words in return.
I'd love to. How about Friday?
...
Every storefront he passed, Draco glanced at his reflection in case a hair or anything else had gone astray in the handful of hurried footsteps since the last window. The patter of pixie feet danced inside his stomach. He hadn't been this nervous since the end of the war.
Lanterns illuminated the brick-lined path as Draco hastened down Knockturn Alley. Scorpius had questioned at least ten times why Grandma was visiting again so soon, each of which Draco had artfully evaded from a complete answer. It had taken an extra half-hour to get Scorpius to fall asleep — he had insisted that Grandma and Daddy tuck him into bed — and now Draco was running a few minutes late. Surely she'd understand his tardiness, even if he hated not being punctual on their first date.
Merlin, he hoped this was a date.
Draco tightened his grip around the bouquet of a dozen new quills he had spent half the afternoon selecting under Solomon Scrivenshaft's guidance. It was too late to back out now. Eight dings had already rung from the nearby clock, and the dessert cafe was only a few stores away.
He froze in front of the cafe door. Somewhere inside, among the diners, sat his pen pal. Within a matter of frantic heartbeats, Draco would soon see the face he's spent the past six years trying to imagine. He would finally be able to tell her anything. Everything. Without concern that it would be deemed too personal. Or having to wait for a response. She'd be there, right in front of him, holding a real conversation like any other witch and wizard.
Peeking through the pane of glass, Draco scanned his vision through the cafe, paying attention to the tables, not the patrons. On their table, she'd have a book. Which one, she wouldn't say. She had teased he'd know it was her when he saw it. Yet that didn't stop Draco from trying to get a glimpse of her before stepping through the threshold and diving headfirst into new territory. He didn't consider himself a shallow man — after all, he'd fallen for a witch he'd never laid eyes on — yet that didn't stop him from sending one final prayer to the founders that she was pretty.
Table by table, Draco was met with disappointment. Either there were multiple people at the table or there was no book. He was starting to wonder if she was somehow running even later than him. Until finally, he caught sight of a book on the edge of a two-person table with one seat empty. Draco's stomach somersaulted. Its owner was currently blocked by the waiter filling her water glass. He counted the seconds, anticipation thrumming through every inch of his body. When the waiter finally moved aside, Draco held his breath.
And then his heart stalled.
She was pretty.
Very pretty.
But she was also Hermione Granger.
Draco stumbled backwards, struggling to find his footing as the bouquet of quills dropped to the ground. Wildfire emblazoned every ridge of his brain, struggling to make sense of what his eye showed him. Surely this was a trick. A mirage. His tangled nerves had caused him to see the one witch who never failed to make him frown instead of the one who made everything feel okay. Because those two people couldn't be the same. It couldn't be her. It couldn't.
He scanned the cafe again. There had to be another single witch with a book. Surely it wasn't out of the ordinary for Granger to be alone with a book. This was a coincidence. A cruel, crazed coincidence. Somewhere else in there was his pen pal. Or she was still running late. Those were the only two explanations he would accept.
Draco waited five more minutes, agonizing apprehension lining his every thought.
No other witch with a book showed up.
Gruelling dread swirled inside Draco like a summer storm. He still refused to accept it. But there was only one way to know for sure.
He stepped inside. Chatting filled the cafe, but Draco didn't register a single word. The only noise he heard was the rush of blood pulsing in his ears. He affixed his lips in a stern line, trying to play as nonchalant as his body allowed as he stepped into the dining area toward the counter to order. And then, just when he was a reasonable distance away, he cast a seemingly casual gaze towards Granger, who was — unsuccessfully — trying to hide behind a menu.
Slow, measured footsteps led the way as Draco approached her table, all while his heart remained lodged inside his throat.
"Granger."
The menu fell to the table, and sharp brown eyes dug directly into him. He glowered right back.
"I wonder," he growled, "what are the odds that, of all the people in Wizarding London, we would run into each other for the third time in two weeks?"
Granger sneered out something in return, but Draco didn't listen. He was too busy examining the book on the far corner of the table. A cold wave washed over him the second he read the title.
It was a transfiguration textbook. The same one he'd seen her read in the park last Saturday — the day he'd received his pen pal's essay defending the four branches of transfiguration.
The frantic fog of desperate hope vanished, sending a tsunami of reality in its place.
It was her.
His whole body numbed, yet he didn't leave. Didn't want to leave. It was like he was witnessing an experimental potion go catastrophically wrong and knew he shouldn't look but couldn't tear himself away. Except, Draco was the witness, perpetrator, and victim all at once.
He motioned his head towards the book. "Big Friday night plans, I see."
Granger reached across the table and slid the book next to her. "Go away, Malfoy. I'm waiting for someone."
"I didn't stumble upon you waiting for a date, did I?" The question pushed past Draco's lips before he realised what he had asked.
"As a matter of fact, you did."
Fuck.
Draco tried not to fixate on her response, but Merlin it was fucking hard. He allowed himself one glance — just one — to survey Granger's appearance. That one glance was a mistake. Her curls were relaxed, less bushy than usual, and she was wearing a nicely fitted blouse that didn't reveal much but left enough to the imagination to confirm one thing: she had put extra effort into her appearance that night. The thought stabbed at him.
It would have been a date.
Instead, he glared into the eyes of a witch who held nothing but disdain for Draco Malfoy and the man she perceived him to be.
Torment tickled Draco's memory of the two sentences he held more precious than almost anything. The two sentences that had given him hope that one day, others could see him differently. That he could see himself differently. Now, staring at the witch who had penned those words, the past six years felt like a lie.
Yet he still didn't leave.
Chair legs scratched against the tiles as he pulled out the seat, but it quickly collided back into the table with a swift swish of Granger's wand.
"What do you think you're doing?" she spat, straightening her spine.
"Don't worry. I'll leave as soon as your date arrives." Draco ignored the vice grip around his heart as he slipped into the seat before she could stop him a second time. He glanced at his watch. "8:17 already? He must be late."
Her sharpness faltered. "I'm sure he has a perfectly valid explanation."
Oh, he does, Draco wanted to retort, yet his lips remained pressed together.
The cafe's door opened, and a new patron stepped inside. Granger perked for a few moments, but when the wizard joined someone else at a different table, she deflated.
"What's his name?"
Granger jolted her attention from the door. "Excuse me?"
Draco inhaled. "The wizard. The one you're waiting for. What's his name?"
A sour expression painted her lips. "I don't see how that's any of your business."
Snatching the book from its place, Granger cracked it open and looked down at whatever random page she had opened to. Evidently, her tolerance had run dry. His time was up.
Draco blew out a short, derisive huff. "Just trying to have a civil conversation," he grumbled just loud enough for her to hear.
She snapped her head up from the book. "Since when do you and I have civil conversations?"
Piercing, unkind eyes cut in his direction, and with one biting, sneered out question, the crushing weight of the situation fully hit Draco. For years, they had freely written to each other with so much more than civil conversation. When his mother had fallen ill with a serious case of Black Cat Flu, she was the one he had written to express his concerns. Not an old Slytherin housemate. Her. Same with the time he had been rejected from a potions apprenticeship. Or whenever he needed a place to talk about the day to day struggles of being a single father. And all the celebrations in between. She was the one he wanted to share them with first. But with the veil of parchment removed, so was the illusion that they could ever turn their relationship into something more.
Raging resentment flared behind her amber gaze. In many ways, he wondered if he deserved it.
"Just tell me one thing," he said, his voice an eerie calm compared to the thunderous roar inside his chest. "Will you ever be able to see me as anything other than our past? Or am I, to you, so far gone that I am incapable of change?"
With each second that his questions went unanswered, his anguish swelled to an excruciating peak. Granger blinked at him several times before scrunching her forehead in stern concentration, as if he were some ancient rune she was trying to unlock the hidden meaning of. Finally, after several agonizing moments, her answer came.
"I don't know."
It wasn't a no. But it wasn't the yes his pen pal had promised.
Yet, even as she said it, something seemed to brew behind her eyes, as if there was more behind that answer than she was telling him. But for now, Draco had heard enough.
He got to his feet, gaze never leaving Granger for those final few seconds.
"I think you'd discover a lot of things if you really knew me," Draco resolved, stiffening himself further upright. He gave her one last look over, then deeply exhaled. "Enjoy your date."
It took him no longer than ten minutes to get home. Green flames licked his shoes as Draco landed in the fireplace of the townhouse's parlour, where Narcissa sat in one of the wingback chairs.
Motherly concern flashed across her features. "What happened?"
His chest cracked.
"Mother, she—"
Draco closed his eyes, tried to find the words, then shook his head instead.
"We should have stayed pen pals."