Author's Note: Hey everyone! This piece was written for the Dramione RomCom Fest. It's loosely inspired by the movie The Holiday―while it follows the basic premise of the movie, the individual character lines will diverge. This story is fully written and will be shared in five parts. I hope you enjoy!
A massive thank you to my alpha and beta on this piece, Kyonomiko and Persephone_Stone, respectively. And a huge shout out to NuclearNik and QuinTalon for coordinating such a wonderful fest!
"You think we should what?" Hermione's voice caught in her throat, her heart plummeting into her stomach as she whirled on the spot. Her eyes flickered to her boyfriend.
Surely she had misheard.
Cormac's crooked grin was reassuring as he ducked his chin to meet her gaze. Hermione dragged her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying the flesh as she held his stare. At last he sighed, smile faltering just slightly.
"We should break up."
The words danced around the back of her mind, elusive and confusing. A knit formed between her brows. "But why?"
"You know why." He had the gall to lay a hand on her hip, standing steady even as Hermione flinched out of his hold and stumbled back a step. "Things haven't felt right between us for a while now."
Her heart slammed against her ribcage. "What are you talking about? Cor, things have been great; we've been talking about moving in together and―" Shaking her head, she clapped a hand over her chest, taking a deep breath.
Cormac's smile turned pitying. "We both knew this wasn't a long-term thing, Hermione."
Hermione gaped at him. She had known no such thing.
"But what―" she spluttered, tears stinging her eyes. "I don't understand―"
He clapped a hand to her shoulder, strong fingers curling around her skin. "I have to run. We'll see each other around, yeah?"
A harsh breath choked from her lips, but before she could respond, he was gone. For several long, painstaking minutes, Hermione stared at the spot on the tiled floor where Cormac had stood, lips parted in surprise.
At last she stumbled to the sofa, blinded by the confused, silent tears leaking from her eyes.
She and Cormac had been seeing one another for the better part of five months, and she thought everything had been going well—great, in fact. He was a far cry from the pompous prat he'd been at Hogwarts; he'd grown up, and become an important fixture in Hermione's life.
Swiping angrily at her tears, she drew in several shuddering breaths as she buried herself beneath an afghan on the sofa.
She didn't need him. Hermione Granger didn't need a man and it was as simple as that. She had a prominent career as Head Cursebreaker at the Dublin branch of Gringotts, she had her close friends, and she had plenty of other hobbies to keep her busy.
But still. Merlin knew even Hermione Granger was allowed to be blindsided.
Sniffling, she rose to her feet, wrapped in a blanket cocoon, and dug out a pint of ice cream from the icebox. Then she collapsed back into the sofa and flipped on the television, staring blankly at the muted pictures that flashed past.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me." Pansy Parkinson folded her arms, stifling the urge to roll her eyes. "Tell me you're fucking kidding."
A panel of buyers stared her down, stony-faced. The lead buyer―Herbert Howes―cocked a brow and leaned back in his seat. "Miss Parkinson, this is almost identical to your collection last season. We can't purchase this."
She bit down hard on her tongue. "The craftsmanship here blows away that rubbish you just purchased from―"
"Miss Parkinson."
Pansy fell silent, drawing in a deep breath and thinning her lips. "What do you suggest I change for next season?"
Howes and Co. was her biggest buyer, her most lucrative contract by far, and if they weren't interested then she had spent the last several months working her arse off day and night for nothing.
Howes' expression softened and he rose to his feet. He paced towards the selection of perfectly accessorised mannequins behind her, dragging the fabric of the nearest dress between his fingers.
"The clothes are beautiful, Pansy. There isn't any doubt as to the effort you've put in," he said, fixing her with a hard stare. "But the designs are stiff and the Parks line needs something fresh. Breathe some life into the brand and we'll be back next season. Go out and experience some new things."
Fresh. She mouthed the word to herself, a frown pulling her lips downwards. Howes and his two partners rose and left the room, leaving Pansy in stark silence.
The nervous energy she'd been carrying for weeks sunk from her shoulders as she cast a glance back towards her arrangement of garments. Parks was the only thing she had anymore; the only means by which she had to prove her worth. Ten years ago she had uprooted her life to chase a pipe dream in New York City. And she was so close to achieving it.
She chewed on her bottom lip, eyes skirting over the impeccable lines of a fitted knit trouser.
"Bloody fucking fresh," she groused to herself.
With a wave of her wand, her lovingly constructed pieces secured themselves inside individual garment bags. Her eyes stung. The bright warehouse lighting high above flickered, and with another wave, the room fell dark.
If Howes wanted fresh infused in her designs, she would give him fresh.
Collecting her garments, Pansy Apparated home.
One blasted week. Less than a week if she were to be pedantic about it.
Hermione had just landed on her feet again following Cormac's less than ceremonious exit from her life when the Prophet had blasted his new fling all over the cover. The girl on his arm was blonde and perky and barely out of Hogwarts. Hermione's lip curled at the thought.
This was the reason Cormac hadn't seen her as long-term material?
And all along she had believed his words about being in a place where he wanted to settle down. If anything, the article made it sound like the exact opposite: a Quidditch star sowing his wild oats.
Hermione knew she was a good person, but it was difficult to remember that when the papers described her as "washed up." Never mind the Order of Merlin, First Class buried in her drawer somewhere.
And she was only twenty-nine, for Merlin's sake.
But if Cormac wanted to sleep around with twenty-year-olds, she didn't care.
She was tired of the sympathy in her co-workers' stares, the subtle references that she should perhaps take some time off. The last thing she needed was more time to brood at home, debating her own inadequacies well into the night.
Not that she'd been doing that with any regularity.
On a whim the night before, a few tumblers of Firewhisky in, she'd registered herself for a wizarding network home exchange.
It was one of the many reasons she didn't drink Firewhisky―she so rarely did anything impulsive, otherwise―but for some reason she hadn't cancelled the listing yet.
Maybe there was some merit to the idea of taking some time off. But that didn't mean she needed to leave the country or offer her carefully kept cottage to some stranger. More than likely no one would ever respond, anyway.
Even if she were to take some time away from work, she would be perfectly content at home. She could catch up on personal reading and deep clean the kitchen and―
Hermione released a sigh, deflating at the thought.
Maybe she did need a vacation.
Pansy slouched at her desk, side-eyeing her sketchbook.
Fresh. She had no idea how to infuse fresh into her newest collection. After similar rejections in meetings with two other buyers, the situation had grown dire. Maybe Pansy had been falling back on the same ideas, relying on her ability to create a well-constructed garment.
She blew out a breath, her fringe ruffling along her brows with the puff of air. She tapped the end of her quill on the desk.
Life experiences. Pansy had been through plenty of those, for Merlin's sake. She shouldn't need some codgy old man to tell her she needed to see the world.
At only eighteen she had left behind her home, her family, and all of the expectations therein to pursue something for herself. She hadn't seen most of her friends since.
Pansy grappled for a small device in her drawer, eyeing it for a moment. She had enrolled her studio loft in the wizarding network home exchange as a dare from a friend who suggested she ought to take a break from work.
But her work was all she had, and Pansy had always insisted she didn't need a break.
The device had never activated, anyway. She tapped it awake with her wand, eyeing the projection that sprung up above it.
"Life experiences," she whispered to herself, flipping through the catalogue of home exchange options. There was a long-buried part of her that longed for home, but she wasn't ready to face Britain again just yet.
A small cottage buried in lush greenery caught her eye as she was about to set her wand down and forget the whole thing. She peered closer, enlarging the projection. This one hadn't been in the catalogue the last time she'd drank too much wine and browsed the possibilities.
"A short Apparition trip into Dublin," she read, wrinkling the bridge of her nose. She huffed a breath, sinking back into her seat again. She didn't actually want to leave New York.
But as she eyed her sketchbook once more, Howes' words drifted through the back of her mind.
Breathe some new life into the brand.
Releasing a great, aggrieved sigh, Pansy tapped on the device and a small speech bubble popped up in the projection.
Pansy spoke aloud. "Is your cottage available for home exchange next week?" She hesitated, scowling at nothing. "I might be interested."
Her words drifted into the speech bubble and vanished. Leaning forward in her seat, she waited until the bubble began to vanish entirely, the device falling dormant.
At last the response came through, the bubble popping up once more.
It could be. Where are you located?
Pansy clicked her tongue, folding her arms as she said, "I have a studio loft in New York." Tapping the device again, she forwarded the listing to her own property.
Several minutes later, the response jumped up. It looks wonderful. I believe I would be interested in an exchange.
With a flicker of anticipation, Pansy spoke into the device again. "Brilliant. Shall we arrange the details?"
It had taken no fewer than four Portkeys to hop across the world from Dublin to New York City. Even when Hermione arrived at MACUSA's International Travel Office, she still wondered whether she had made a mistake.
Her team had assured her they wouldn't blow up the bank while she was gone, but it offered little cause for relief. Hermione didn't even know what to do with herself anymore when she wasn't focused on work. Maybe she had become a bit of a workaholic over the years, but that was perfectly acceptable in modern society.
As she registered her visit in America, Hermione found herself gazing around.
Witches and wizards in posh suits and couture dresses bustled past, their accents heavy and abrasive. Despite herself, she smiled at the idea of exploring another culture―both Muggle and magical.
When she left MACUSA's New York headquarters, emerging into the streets of the city, she was caught by sensory overload. It was pure chaos, between the loud hum of chatter and horns blaring on every corner, and the wafting fumes from the ubiquitous taxis mingling in the air with the noxious scents of deep fried food. Compared to Dublin, or even London, New York was a wild metropolis in a class all its own.
Hermione would have the next two weeks to spend exploring, so she double-checked the address of the home exchange and made for the nearest Apparition point.
As she landed in the loft where she would be living, Hermione's jaw fell open.
The space was open and airy, with hardwood floors and large windows overlooking a bustling district. It was clean and sparse, with modern furnishings and decor. And it was large enough for Hermione to wonder about the owner. They hadn't spoken about anything but the details of the situation, as they wouldn't actually meet one another.
She enlarged her bags, allowing them to drift towards the bedroom before venturing further into the loft.
In quintessential New York fashion, the space appeared to be a former warehouse turned into a living space, also doubling as a workshop. Eyes wide, Hermione peered around the workshop; bolts of fabric in a wide range of colours, patterns, and materials rose along one wall, overlooking large workbenches for cutting and sewing.
Around the room mannequins wore classy, casual, and couture clothing.
"Beautiful," Hermione breathed to herself as she fingered the silky fabric of a coat on the nearest doll.
Evidently, the loft's owner worked in fashion design.
Hermione's cottage wasn't small or bland by any means, but it had nothing on the glossy sheen of this loft. She moved around the room, inspecting each garment, before arriving at the far wall.
A number of framed awards hung in crisp white frames, and at the centre was a large, unmoving photograph of several people, each dressed in their black tie best, at what looked to be some sort of extravagant event.
Peering closer, Hermione eyed the beautiful gown on the woman in the middle―taking in the straight, shoulder-length black hair with a sharp fringe―and her breath caught in her throat.
The blood drained from her face, mouth falling open.
She hadn't seen Pansy Parkinson since the Battle of Hogwarts, when the girl had suggested they hand Harry over to Voldemort. But the evidence lay plain before her.
Pansy had moved to New York, and Hermione was in her home.
Pansy scowled to herself. Of all the bloody luck. She had been so relieved the arrangement had gone smoothly that she hadn't thought to inquire more about the cottage's owner.
It didn't ruin the situation outright, but it did put a damper on things. Pansy didn't care for the idea of living in Hermione Granger's home; Merlin knew the woman probably didn't tolerate anything out of place.
Pansy might have been tempted to leave a few surprises for old time's sake, but the magical contract required they leave one another's homes exactly as they found them.
She hadn't seen Granger or either of her sidekicks in the decade since she had left London after the war.
But the proof was bare before her in a collection of photographs—some Muggle and some magical—along the mantle.
Regardless, it didn't need to affect her stay. Provided everything went well, she would have no need to interact with Granger whatsoever. A cursory exploration of the cottage had told Pansy all she needed to know.
The home was moderately-sized and humble, but it wasn't inadequate, and thank Merlin it was tidy. The decor wasn't to Pansy's taste at all, but it wasn't dreadful.
Setting her bags to unpack into Granger's closet, Pansy browsed the cabinets for something to drink. Her own personal bank account was connected to her home exchange device so anything she used would be automatically tracked and accounted for. She would go into Dublin the following day to look around and pick up some things she would need for the two week stay.
Gazing around the small sitting room as she took a deep swig from Granger's best bottle of vino―and sneering at the floor-to-ceiling wall of books―Pansy sank down into the sofa.
She blew out a long breath. Bloody life experiences.
Hermione stood in Pansy's kitchen, acquainting herself with the appliances, when a sharp rap sounded on the door. Startled, she froze on the spot, eyes flitting towards the door. She wasn't certain on the protocol of dealing with her counterpart's visitors, and she drew her wand before edging towards the door.
Another sharp knock, followed by a muffled male voice. When she listened closer, Hermione was surprised to realise the voice carried a British accent. After the thick American tones she'd heard all day, it was a welcome relief.
The man knocked a third time. "Pans, quit bloody moping and open up. You know I'll disarm your wards―"
Tightening her grip, Hermione reached for the door handle and swung it open.
Her next breath caught in her throat; her hold on the wand faltered.
She found herself staring into wide grey eyes, a messy shock of pale blond hair peeking out from beneath the man's Muggle baseball cap. Of any and all visitors Hermione might have anticipated, Draco Malfoy certainly wasn't one of them.
"Holy shit," he breathed. He wore a leather jacket with a t-shirt and ripped jeans, shoulders tight with tension as he dragged a hand along the coarse stubble on his jaw. "You are not Pansy."
Surprised beyond comprehension, Hermione shook her head with a thick swallow. "I am not."
She tried to recall the last time she had seen Malfoy out and about. It must have been several years, at least. But Hermione had been in Dublin for nearly four years now and she rarely made it back to London.
Ignoring the oddity of the situation and the look of utter confusion on Malfoy's face, Hermione pressed on. "Pansy and I arranged a home exchange on the―"
"Wizarding network," Malfoy muttered, shaking his head. "She could have bloody told me."
Deciding to throw the woman a bone, Hermione offered, "It was short notice; I've only just arrived. And neither of us realised who the other was." A flush crept into her cheeks at the way Malfoy still stared at her. He had never looked at her with a shred of curiosity before, or really anything other than animosity. "I certainly didn't know, at any rate."
Her flush darkened with sheer embarrassment for the situation. "Sorry―this must be a difficult way to learn she's gone, if the two of you are―"
Malfoy's low snort interrupted her. "We aren't." He peered into the loft, as if expecting Pansy to jump out and announce the whole thing had been some sort of lark. "We work together―sort of."
"Oh," Hermione said, offering a stilted nod. "In the fashion industry?"
The bridge of his nose knitted. "I'm a photographer."
"Right," she breathed, twisting her face into a semblance of a smile. "That sounds nice. At any rate, Pansy will be staying at my home for the next two weeks at which point you'll…" Trailing off weakly, she nodded.
Malfoy leaned on the doorframe, his eyes darting between Hermione and the interior of the loft. "I have to pick up some photos. I know where they are―won't be but a few minutes."
"Oh," she huffed, stepping back from the entrance. She still held her wand, and when his gaze darted down, she hastily stowed it into her pocket. If Malfoy had any thoughts of attacking her, he would have done so already.
But he only eyed her as he edged into the loft. "Where's home, then? Pans wouldn't go back to London with a knife at her throat."
"Dublin," Hermione said. "I work in Dublin."
Malfoy's head tilted in curiosity. "I wouldn't have guessed that." Then his lips twitched, reminiscent of the old smirk she remembered from their school days. But the gesture didn't carry any malice; if anything, a hint of amusement shone in his eyes. "Some brainy, important job no doubt."
Hermione squared her shoulders. He didn't appear to be outwardly belittling her, but it was instinct. "I'm the Head Cursebreaker at the Dublin branch of Gringotts."
Malfoy blew out a breath, at last turning away from her and making his way towards Pansy's desk. "Doesn't surprise me you've done well for yourself." His words struck a chord, the veiled compliment catching her off guard even as he added, "Why are you in New York?"
He shuffled through several stacks of paper before withdrawing a large yellow envelope and peering inside.
Hesitating, Hermione watched him as she toyed with a response. "Everyone needs some time away now and again. And when Pansy messaged me about the home exchange―let's just say it came at a good time."
"Noted," Malfoy murmured, flipping through a stack of photographs. In spite of herself, Hermione looked closer.
"Those are beautiful," she said. He had been polite enough; surely she could reciprocate. "Did you take those photographs?"
He gave a noncommittal hum. "Pansy's last collection. She does the hard work; I just get the angles right."
Hermione rather thought the images were more artistic than that, judging by the creativity in composition and lighting, but she didn't think it was her place to say.
"If it were up to me," Malfoy went on, duplicating the file with his wand, "I wouldn't be taking pictures of models in pretty dresses, but it's New York."
Although she didn't quite understand his meaning, she could follow well enough. He returned the original yellow envelope to Pansy's desk before making his way back towards the door.
Reaching for the door he froze, turning back towards her. "Two weeks?"
Hermione nodded the affirmative.
Malfoy clicked his tongue several times, dragging a hand along his jaw once more. "This is going to sound insane, but Pansy and I were supposed to go to the Yankees game tomorrow night. That is, before she fled the country without letting me know. If you don't have anything else to do, you should come along."
Hermione stared at him, brows raised. But when he glanced away with an uneasy chuckle, she thinned her lips with a swallow. "You know what, Malfoy? I don't have anything else to do."
A wry smile spread, slow and crooked, across his face. Hermione couldn't quite understand why her pulse escalated at the sight of it.
"Perfect," he clipped, "I'll come by around four."
He edged back out of the loft, catching her stare once more on the way. "Enjoy your first day in New York, Granger."
She felt a little breathy as he Disapparated, and whispered to herself, "Thanks. I think."
By the time she broke into the second bottle of Granger's wine, Pansy's sketchbook was half filled with rough designs that she just knew Herbert Howes would have called stiff.
"Blasted fresh," she muttered to herself with a deep swig. Halfway through the first bottle Pansy had fixed herself a plate of charcuterie from Granger's fridge, and she picked at a wedge of cheese as she scribbled down an image of a dress with an outlandish cut.
Rolling her eyes, Pansy scowled at the page, half tempted to rip it out.
And she might have, if not for the fact that she'd learned to set her ideas aside instead of throwing them out. One of her best garments had come from scraps of other designs.
Raking a hand through her hair, leaving it dishevelled, she took another large sip of wine.
So consumed was she in cursing under her breath―cursing Howes, cursing her sketches, cursing the entire bloody fashion industry―she nearly missed the knock at the door.
Except for moments later, another knock sounded, this one even louder. Scrambling to her feet, Pansy fumbled for her wand. Her head spun a little, and she wished she hadn't made such quick work of the wine.
A gruff male voice called, "Hermione? Where are you?"
"She isn't here!" Pansy called back through the wooden door, hovering on the other side with her wand in one hand and the wine in the other.
An awkward silence followed. After a delay, Pansy realised how it might have sounded. Rolling her eyes, she swung the door open, pointing her wand between the eyes of―
"Potter," she choked, lowering her wand.
Harry Potter's eyes widened―vibrant emerald green behind round black frames―beneath a messy fringe of dark hair. His face was the same—a face that still haunted her dreams, despite being unmistakably ten years older.
"Parkinson?" Potter asked, his brow knitting. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Pansy refrained from rolling her eyes again. Potter's sudden and unexpected appearance had thrown her completely off her guard, and she despised the feeling. She sucked in a tight breath. "Obviously, Granger didn't tell you she was going on a home exchange."
Recognition dawned on Potter's face as he grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut. "She did," he muttered, tilting his head back, "only I forgot and thought it was next week. How long?"
"Two weeks," Pansy clipped, eager to close the door and return to her miserable drunken solitude. "I can't say it was nice to see you, Potter, but if you'll excuse me―"
His shoulder impeded her ability to close the door, and when she glanced up at him, his eyes were narrowed. A frisson of unease swept through her and almost subconsciously, Pansy clenched her wand a little tighter. She hadn't seen the man since she'd tried to throw him to the wolves a decade prior.
"Did Hermione know it was you she was switching homes with?" he asked, brows low on his forehead.
"No," Pansy allowed, managing to lift her chin. "Neither of us knew."
"Small world." Potter gave a bit of a chuckle, and if Pansy wasn't mistaken, his gaze swept the length of her. "You've only just arrived and you're into Hermione's best alcohol, eh?"
"If you call this the best." She gave a flippant shrug, taking a deep swig of wine. "Mediocre I'd say."
"Not the best, Hermione's best." A grin spread across Potter's face, and to Pansy's surprise, she found herself snickering. "Anyway―I won't bother you further. I hope you enjoy your stay in Dublin." Potter's expression faltered as he backed a step away from the door. "And Parkinson―it's good to see you again."
Leaving her blinking stupidly in the doorway, Potter made his way down the steps. Pansy gaped at him, her skin prickling. She ought to simply let him go and call it a strange experience.
"Potter!" she called, a grimace crossing her face when he turned back to face her. Emboldened by the alcohol, she stepped out onto the step, folding one arm across her front in the chill of the night.
He paused, cocking a brow.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Pansy asked, infusing her tone with as much boredom as she could manage.
"Did you misunderstand?" he asked, turning back towards her. "I meant just what I said―you left England a long time ago. Didn't really know what happened to you."
Despite herself, Pansy dragged her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing on the flesh. "Why would you care?"
The words she didn't dare speak hung between them. At last, Potter climbed the two steps back onto the stoop, standing several inches taller than Pansy. His presence felt altogether too overbearing.
But when he spoke, the words were soft. "We were young, Parkinson. I don't hold anything against you from the war. Not anymore."
For several long moments, Pansy stared at him, caught in his bright gaze, pale green in the yellow glow of the exterior lights. She forced a swallow, whispering a quiet, "Right." When he turned to leave again, Pansy cursed herself as she called his name again.
He swivelled his head back towards her once more.
Worrying her lip, she brandished the bottle. "Want to raid Granger's alcohol stash with me?"
His eyes skated over her once more, leaving her feeling raw and vulnerable. She scowled at him, about to withdraw the invitation, when Potter jumped the steps and took the bottle right out of her hand.
He took a sip and flashed her a grin. "That sounds excellent."