Another poster smirks at her. Hermione resists the urge to rip it from the wall.

It's been four months since the release of Draco's novel, and Hermione has yet to see the interest die. She wishes it finally would.

It has become a habit to ignore all things Draco Malfoy. Even thinking of him as her ex-fiance has been tucked away into a corner of her mind where she can pretend that he had never proposed in the first place.

Hermione ducks her head and keeps her eyes down to avoid being noticed and identified. Speaking to strangers when they recognised her had been a usual occurrence, but it didn't happen often. Now? Men and women are asking her out, asking her if Draco really meant the things he said, asking her what she thinks of the book, asking her if any of it is true…

Hermione has stopped smiling politely and excusing herself now. She sometimes has the energy to fix them with a stare that silences them, but – more often than not – she walks away as though she hadn't heard them at all.

Hermione wonders if any of her friends have read the book. Are there people close to her who support her public humiliation?

Flourish and Blotts is empty at midday, save for the handful of people perusing the shelves. A display is set up near the window, smirking and charming – which she ignores.

The winding staircase leading to the second floor is stained a kind of chestnut colour, reddish and warm. She notices it now because she is so intent on discouraging any conversation. She has considered Polyjuice, transfiguring her face temporarily or even using Harry's invisibility cloak.

But those options pose problems in and of themselves. And it isn't fair that Draco's absolute disregard for her privacy results in her trying to hide away from simply existing. It isn't fair.

A man's shoulder brushes hers, and Hermione recoils slightly. They have both tried to reach for the same book, or at least the same shelf. He is much taller than she is, and he smells vaguely of sweat overlaid with a heady cologne. It isn't unpleasant, but it is unwelcome.

Taking two steps back, she plasters a polite smile onto her face and mumbles sorry, hoping against everything that this man doesn't recognise her and won't ask her about the fucking book.

The man apologises too. And when he doesn't move, Hermione reluctantly meets his gaze.

"My apologies," he repeats softly, stepping back and never once looking away from her face. Hermione waits, trying to read him. She has to be cautious.

"It's okay," Hermione says, still unmoving. She's trying to understand what it is in his eyes that has told her to protect herself. He hasn't shown any indication that he's recognised her. But the quirk of his lips – she doesn't trust that quirk of his lips.

"Which book were you reaching for?" he smiles, breaking their eye contact and turning back to the shelf. Hermione studies him. Brown hair, a bronzed skin tone, a long nose, an elegant neck. By the way his fingers skim the spines of the books, Hermione can tell he enjoys reading.

"The Potioneer's Guide to Home Potions for Hobbyists and Alchemists, please," she tells him. Hermione hates that anything she and Draco did together has stayed with her. Potions turned out to be a guilty pleasure for her, and lately, without a space to practise it, she has taken to reading more and more about it as she thinks of moving out from Harry and Ginny's.

"Are you a potioneer, hobbyist, or alchemist?" the stranger quirks an interested eyebrow. Hermione isn't sure how to answer, and she isn't sure she wants to answer.

The man seems to pick up on her reluctance, and he smiles broadly, disarming Hermione with the generosity of his natural joy.

"I'm sorry to bother you," he laughs, dismissing his question and relieving Hermione of the expectation to answer. "I just don't know of any other potioneers who do it as a hobby." His sentence goes up at the end, framing it like a question. He narrows his eyes at her, sliding the copy of the book she asked for off the shelf. "Do you know any Potions Clubs around here, or is that reserved as a school activity?"

"You're not from here, are you?" Hermione asks, her ears piquing with interest at the slight accent that softens his rs and slurs his ths. She still doesn't trust him.

"Ah, yes, what gave it away?" He laughs, looking down at his body as if he's wearing a sign that declares his differences.

"I have a friend who speaks a little like you," Hermione smiles, holding the book to her chest like a shield. "I wish I could help you with a potions club, but I just work on my own. Thank you for the book." She moves around him to descend the staircase.

"Are you still with him?" The question freezes her on the spot. Her heart thumps hard against her sternum, and blood rushes to her ears and face, warming her skin and breath. Her mouth goes dry.

She's heard many things, but everyone always assumes – rightfully – that she had left him. Not a single soul had ever asked her if they remained together.

Hermione glances back at the man, and he looks relaxed and casual as if his question is just conversational.

Without giving an answer, Hermione leaves him, purchases her book and returns to the office.

A coffee waits for her on her desk, and Hermione knows it's from Harry. He's made an effort this time, making it a mocha by adding hot chocolate, a bit of cream and sugar. He knows her eating habits have been odd, and he tries to remind her to eat even when he isn't physically present to do it.

By now, it's common knowledge in the Ministry that Hermione is currently head of a small department – tentatively dubbed The Department of Magical Policies and Policy Making – and everything Harry delivers is set on her own personal desk.

Hermione is very proud of her desk and office and her new coworkers.

It has been awkward being in charge of others and their work ethics. But Hermione and Kingsley have chosen wisely, and the three witches and two wizards are responsible and kind, and they all get along well.

When the end of the day arrives, Hermione gathers her things and makes for the door. The lights are already off, and in the darkness, she almost walks headfirst into a bouquet of flowers – or rather, a man holding a bouquet of flowers which scatters some petals about their feet as they yelp, say sorry and dance around each other.

"Are you Hermione Granger?" he asks, bags hanging heavy beneath his eyes. He must be tired, and she must be his final delivery.

"I am," she says, feeling sorry for him and taking it immediately. She places three Sickles in his palm before he can deny the tip.

He smiles tiredly and searches her face. "Thank you," he says, "have a good day, Ms Granger."

In the passing light, as Hermione makes her way to the Atrium, she sees the colours pop in the dark. Red carnations and green ferns are the only plants she recognises off the top of her head. The other pink one looks like a very precise rose, its petals placed in perfect balance amongst themselves like it was manmade. Purple bunches of flowers speckle between, and a red flower that looks like a variation of a lily is nestled happily in the centre like an exploding star.

They smell of spring and sunshine perfumes the air behind her as she walks. She hopes they survive the Floo, and it doesn't cross her mind to check the card. She'd received two congratulatory bouquets already; one from Harry and Ginny, the other from her father.

She places the bunch in a vase on a desk tucked into the corner of her bedroom – the spare bedroom she now resides in. Then she readies herself for the evening so she can unwind and relax.

A towel stops her hair from dripping water down her back and into the neck of her pyjamas. Sighing contentedly, she settles into her chair at the desk and retrieves the book she had bought earlier.

Ginny and Harry are already in the kitchen, laughing and singing as they dance around while whatever they're cooking cooks. The smell alone makes Hermione's stomach growl appreciatively, though she is aware the flavour would never fill her palette the way the smell does.

A loose petal flutters onto the book as if by magic, and Hermione looks at it, realises she hasn't opened the card and reaches for it.

It isn't signed.

But Hermione recognises the handwriting.

Congratulations, Granger.

She can hear him say the words as if he's right beside her. Her mind conjures the delight for what he has left unwritten. I'm so proud of you.

Her hands are shaking. The words blur as she reads them over and over again.

Hermione lets the card fall from her fingertips and wipes the tears from her cheeks. She won't thank him for his flowers. She has been fine! Why did he– why would he–

Pulling a piece of parchment from the pile on the corner of her desk, Hermione takes her quill and presses the nib onto the off-white surface. It leaves a jagged line where her hand shakes.

Draco,

Hermione stares at his name. Written in her hand, it looks different and familiar instead of cold and distant as it has been to see it printed on the cover of books and posters. A tear splashes across the tabletop, dampening the paper where it has exploded and splattered.

Someone asked me today, for the first time since your the that day, if we are still together. And I wanted to laugh at them because it was so absurd.

I want to tell my best friends about it, but I can't. Their pity pains me. Their sorrow is unbearable. I already carry the weight of your deeds on my shoulders. Why must I manage how they treat me as well?

So here I am, writing you a letter I may burn once complete.

I don't know why you haven't written to me. Or why you haven't even tried to approach me. I don't understand. I can't believe it was all a lie. It felt so real to me. What did I do? How could you do this to me?

I hate you; I hate you so much it hurts. And I want to talk to you about it, of all people! Don't you see how sick that is? You made yourself the centre of my life, and I let you. And then you imploded the sun and left me in darkness to fend for myself.

What a masterful plan you've concocted and executed, my love.

She sobs audibly, her hand shaking on my love. Hermione misses him with every fibre of her being. She continues scrawling.

What am I supposed to do, Draco?

Who am I meant to turn to?

Are you hurting as you have hurt me?

I don't know if it'll make me happy to hurt you, but I don't want to know the alternative. And if you aren't hurting, then does that mean it was all, in fact, a lie? And if you are hurting, why haven't you come to me?

Draco.

I miss you, Draco.

I hate that you've sent me flowers. I know you. I am aware each one means something.

I don't think I care to discover their meaning because, in the end, it doesn't change what you've done. It isn't an explanation. They're just flowers, Draco.

Disposable. As I was to you. Wasn't I?

Hatefully yours,
Hermione