PART III
"Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by every review of it"
Hermione stepped out of a lift at the ministry and clicked across the vast lobby. Opening the door she ducked into a gust of late September drizzle. The weather perfectly reflected her state of mind. She could not have felt further from the warm sun and soft air of Provence.
Clutching her robes to her, she hurried into the takeaway shop and picked up her dinner, before heading to the apparition point and then home. Opening the door she called out, but there was no response—Harry and Ginny must be out somewhere.
Good, it was time some of them stopped moping around the flat.
She moved to the kitchen, stowing her work bag and kicking off her heels, then padded to the living room to sit on the couch, stare out the window and eat directly from her takeout container. Well, 'eat' was a relative term. All she could seem to do these days was pick at her food.
Three weeks. It was three weeks that she'd been back in London. Since she'd seen him.
She could recite from memory the words of his letter—fingers brushing the softness of paper that had become almost like fabric, it was so well-worn. But no new words. No word at all.
And she hadn't reached out either. Some combination of hesitance and fear had held her back. Also she didn't know where he was. A birthday card from Astoria had mentioned him being in America, but hadn't specified where. Somehow it was fitting that they weren't even on the same continent.
Hermione sighed into the silence. Most of the time she tried not to give in to her feelings, but all by herself with no distractions, it was difficult. The time since she'd been home had been utterly awful. Aside from the world's saddest birthday celebration, (Hermione trying gamely to work up some enthusiasm over the cake Ginny had baked her, and failing so badly that they'd broken out the gin before 3pm) work had been fine and a good distraction—her presentation had gone well and the bill was proceeding through approvals rapidly. She expected to have something on the books by year-end. And the Aix herd journals had caused exactly the stir she'd thought they would—she'd been introducing them to all the crucial players in her field.
And she'd been forcing herself to get out and do things. Runs along the Thames, a film festival with a coworker, some live music she'd dragged Harry to. But Harry hadn't liked the band and the films had been weird and off-putting and on one of her runs her feet had somehow carried her to Green Park and under the canopy of 'their' tree. She'd stood there with tears rolling down her face for five minutes before she'd angrily snapped out of it and jogged home.
So her mental state remained poor.
She'd tried to talk to Ginny about it and showed her parts of the letter, but it was difficult with Gin so angry and resentful.
"He's being totally unrealistic about his effect on Theo and the investment," Ginny had bit out, her eyes flashing. "And the whole thing with this Jonnie person comes off a bit too neat."
Hermione opened her mouth to defend Draco, but then remembered she'd had the same reaction at first.
"Although," Ginny continued, her face softening, "the part you told me about Wickham seems to track, so I don't know. I want to be a sounding board, but I'm probably not the best person to be impartial." She'd squeezed Hermione's hand with a grimace.
Hermione of course hadn't shown anyone the section in the letter about Wickham and Astoria, but she'd told Ginny and Harry what she could about Wickham's financial dealings. She was worried because Ron had been spending so much time with Jack, going deep on the Spanish property project. It was all he could talk about at three successive Sunday lunches at the Burrow.
She'd talked to Harry and Ginny about saying something to him, but they concluded that it might not be well-received and may even backfire and cause Ron to stop confiding in them. And, as Harry pointed out glumly, Ron didn't have enough money for Wickham to get him into too much trouble. So they ultimately decided to just wait and watch the situation closely, while making sure to keep Jack out of their lives completely.
Magical London was fairly small though, so it was inevitable that they occasionally ran into him. Hermione took care to make their interactions short and unencouraging, until the first time he had tried on the old charm and asked her to lunch. She had declined flatly, a flash of hot anger coursing through her at his audacity. He'd stepped back in surprise, but then his face had shuttered and he'd bid her a polite, but cold, farewell. In subsequent encounters his manner had been similarly brusque. He seemed to know that she had turned on him, and she wondered how many people he'd had that experience with.
Hermione shook off thoughts of Jack Wickham and stowed her half-full takeaway container in the trash, then slumped off toward her bed, not looking forward to another night of disrupted sleep. She hadn't had a solid eight hours since a few days before she'd left France.
She lay down, numb, remembering other, sweeter nights very much in spite of herself. A tear trickled down her face to her pillow and she swiped it away. Fuck. She was glad Harry and Ginny had gone out, but nights on her own were obviously not good for her at this juncture. And she had used to so enjoy her time alone.
She tossed under her covers, annoyed with herself. A co-worker had invited her to a book reading tomorrow and she decided on the spot that she was going. Maybe it would be another failed attempt at distraction, but she certainly couldn't take another night like this.
She snuffed the lamp and exhaled into the darkness.
~oOo~
The bookshop was warm, lit by mellow candlelight and oil lamps. Hermione inhaled deeply the scent of parchment and melted wax and felt a tiny flicker of gladness in her heart. She was actually happy she had come out for the reading—even after Morag from Magical Artifacts had begged off, claiming she was too tired after a night up with her young baby.
Picking through the rows of spindly chairs, Hermione found an empty seat in the front, where no one ever seemed to want to sit, and dropped down with a sigh. She cracked open her copy of the book being featured that night, her eyes skimming a few of the poems and essays within. The author was a young witch, a very bright and funny writer, who had a way with little bits of verse. Hermione was looking forward to hearing her give voice to her work.
She looked around and, noticing the audience was almost entirely female, snorted softly to herself—she should have made Harry come with her. But then she wouldn't have wanted his presence to detract from the author's. Hazard of having an internationally famous best friend.
Of course, Hermione wasn't exactly anonymous either. She noticed some whispers and significant glances being sent her way and the two seats next to her remained empty even as the rest of the room filled. She didn't mind, and soon became engrossed in re-reading one of the essays as she waited. She was so caught up that she started in slight surprise when she felt someone drop into the seat next to her. A waft of a familiar soft scent accompanied the motion and she looked up to meet Daphne Greengrass's wide blue gaze.
"Hermione!"
"Daphne!"
Hermione leaned over to give Daphne a quick hug, noticing that she had a companion. The room seemed to tilt to one side and then right itself very quickly as she registered that Jonquil, no 'Jonnie', was sitting in the next chair over, looking on with a tentative half smile.
Oh my god.
Hermione knew her face registered shocked surprise (and maybe a touch of horror?), so she schooled it quickly, masking her agitation behind a barrage of questions to Daphne about how she was and what she had been up to since they'd last seen each other.
Daph answered with her signature calm and then she turned to her left. Hermione felt time slow down as Daphne introduced her to, "my good friend, Jonquil Avery."
The beautiful dark-haired witch—yes, she was even more exquisite up close and in person—smiled warmly and extended her hand across Daphne, saying, "Jonnie. So pleased to meet you."
Hermione watched her own hand reach out and shake the other woman's and heard her own voice murmur polite words. Her brain had gone into free fall, but she tried to maintain herself, noticing a copy of the author's book in Jonnie's lap and asking her and Daphne what they thought of it. There were a merciful few minutes where Hermione didn't have to speak while Daphne and Jonnie praised the work, but then the topic was exhausted and Hermione wondered desperately if it was time for the reading to start yet. She glanced at her watch. Five more minutes to go.
"So yeah, that poem on page 54 is why I dragged Jonnie out here tonight," Daphne said with with a gentle smile at her friend.
Hermione nodded, noting that Jonnie's face actually crumpled slightly at this statement. She glanced at Hermione and a faint flush stained her cheeks. "I've been going through a bit of a rough time. Bad break up," she said with a terse nod.
Of course Hermione remembered every word from Draco's letter, but didn't let on. Jonnie's stricken look actually tugged at her heart, though. This was another person in pain.
"I'm so sorry," Hermione said with real sincerity and Jonnie's eyes became a bit shiny as she nodded again. Just then the light dimmed in the room and the young author took the stage to a wave of enthusiastic applause.
Hermione settled back in her seat to listen, although she couldn't help her mind returning to the woman two seats down. She didn't look like someone who had recently been off fucking a friend-with-benefits. She looked heartbroken.
Hermione knew the feeling.
The author read for about thirty minutes and her wry words about love and humor and loss arrowed straight to Hermione's heart. She found herself breathing heavily, her pulse racing in the dim. Just when she thought she might have to get up and leave, the lights went up and a short break was announced. She glanced over at Jonnie and Daph, but Jonnie quickly excused herself to the loo, her face again reflecting what Hermione was feeling.
The audience got up and soon groups of witches had gathered in tight little knots, sipping glasses of wine and chatting animatedly. Hermione talked with Daphne for a few moments until Daph suddenly saw another friend across the room and waved, telling Hermione she was just going to run over and say hello.
"Come on and I'll introduce you," she said, tugging at Hermione's hand, but Hermione couldn't contemplate trying to make small talk at this moment.
"I'd really rather not," she said with a wince and a grimace. Daphne stopped and turned back, looking at her searchingly. "Really, I'm fine just here with my book," Hermione said, trying for a smile.
"OK," Daphne said softly, pressing Hermione's palm before she moved off.
Hermione sat back down. These situations were what made her feel the most foreign in her own life. Happy people chattering about happy topics, when all she could seem to do was sink in sadness. It was claustrophobic. She stood up, suddenly needing to get out of the warm room.
Pushing out into the crisp night was like coming up for air from under deep water. Hermione leaned against the wall of the shop, taking deep breaths.
"Hey," a quiet voice came from the darkness. Jonnie. Also leaning against the wall in the dark, a wisp of cigarette smoke wafting from between her fingers.
Oh god.
"Uh, hi," said Hermione's voice—again feeling like it came from somewhere other than inside of her.
"Sorry I ran out. I feel like such a weakling," Jonnie said, smiling, but with a quaver to her words.
Hermione's sympathy reasserted itself. "No, no—it's fine. I needed to get out of there too. That last poem? Whew. If you've ever made a stupid mistake in love." She felt a humourless little laugh burst from between her lips. "Yeah."
Jonnie also gave a pained laugh. "Yeah."
Hermione found herself moving closer. "Hey, may I have one of those?" she asked, gesturing at the cigarette.
"Sure, of course!" Jonnie dug in her bag and held out a silver case and lighter.
"A muggle lighter?" Hermione smiled.
"I like the sound it makes." Jonnie's dark eyes crinkled at the corners and Hermione felt a stab—she was so beautiful. And she seemed nice.
They smoked in silence for a few moments before Jonnie spoke up again. "So, I actually feel like I know you already." Her eyes swept up to Hermione's face, which Hermione knew registered surprise.
"Draco," Jonnie continued with a smile. "He's an old friend. Last time I saw him he mentioned that you were seeing each other. And he talked about you, uh, quite a lot. For Draco." Her smile widened.
Hermione almost dropped her cigarette. "Oh?" she managed to choke out.
"Yeah, I got the impression it was pretty serious." Jonnie's eyebrows were high. "You must be missing him since he's been off in America these last few weeks."
Hermione wasn't sure she was equal to this conversation. "Uh," she rubbed a finger between her eyebrows. "We actually, sort of, broke up?"
"Oh no, I'm so sorry to hear that!" Jonnie frowned. "Did he do something stupid? I really despair of him at times."
"No, I fear it may have been me who was… stupid." Hermione trailed off, feeling a waver in her voice. She regrouped. "But I've been trying to move on. Doing a shit job of it most of the time," she laughed shakily.
Jonnie nodded slowly, her eyes watchful. "I know the feeling. I left my ex a month ago—after four years of him treating me absolutely abominably—and a bloody poetry reading has the power to make me go to pieces."
She looked down and seemed so forlorn that Hermione actually stepped forward and touched her arm.
Jonnie looked up and took a deep breath. "Anyway, I'm really sorry about you and Dra—"
Just then the door to the shop opened and Daphne's head popped out. "There you two are! Are you ready to come in? She's about to start again!" She made little ushering motions with her hand and Hermione jumped to hurry inside.
The three of them threaded through the crowd back to their seats just as the lights went down again. Hermione turned her eyes to the stage, but her mind was far away from the proceedings.
In fact, it was reeling.
She looked over at Jonnie, who threw her a quick, grateful smile in the darkness. There was no way she had faked any of that.
But what the hell did that mean? That Hermione had been wrong about this too?
Hermione felt something drain out of her and something else surge through her—a confused mix of relief, remorse, and …shame?
If he had been telling the truth about Jonnie. And about Jack.
Guilt trickled in. And pain. A full moon tide of it—swamping her in a relentless wave—and it was all Hermione could do to stay until the end of the reading.
Leaping up the moment the lights flicked back on, she made quick excuses to Daphne and Jonnie, then apparated home and slammed herself directly into her bedroom, where she sank down on her bed and sobbed herself to sleep.