Song Suggestion:
Bad Blood by Taylor Swift
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August 23, 2003
Why hadn't she remembered how thick his accent was?
Years later, at the age of twenty-six and only a year or two away from retirement from professional Quidditch, he still looked the same.
Rugged, yes, as that came with his Bulgarian athletic background; but somehow still charming, and that was always what made him good-looking. Always stoic and serious, Victor Krum sat across from Hermione, sipping a mug of butterbeer.
"The IQA should be honored to have you join as our Welfare officer, Hermione," his Bulgarian accent was thick and melodious, wrapping around his words like a familiar cloak.
She smiled as she delicately added two sugars and a tiny bit of milk to her coffee, the swirl of the spoon in her cup a comforting ritual.
They sat outside a quaint coffee shop in Diagon Alley, the warm summer sun casting dappled shadows on the cobblestone streets. They had just announced her position in the paper that weekend, and the buzz of excitement had reached him.
Of course, the truth was that the position had been created specifically for her over eight weeks ago. Hermione had initially hesitated, wrestling with her own doubts, but then she had contacted Harry. He and Ginny had invited her over for dinner, their cozy home filled with the warmth of friendship and support. Over a hearty meal, they had convinced her not only to accept the position but also to start therapy before taking on her new role. It was a transformative step towards healing, and she knew she was on the right path to making a difference in the magical world once again, despite what she'd have to face.
"I appreciate that, Victor. I am eager to get started," Hermione replied with a sense of determination in her voice.
As they spoke, a chubbier, older wizard ambled by the coffee shop, his basket filled with copies of the Daily Prophet. "Paper, get your paper!" he called out cheerfully, his voice carrying through the bustling Diagon Alley.
Hermione, trying to avoid any unwelcome distractions, turned her attention to her surroundings. They sat on the cozy patio of the coffee shop, its wrought-iron furniture bathed in warm sunlight. Around them, parents and children bustled about, the air filled with a palpable excitement as families prepared for the upcoming wizarding school year.
September of this year would mark Hermione's twenty-fourth birthday. It struck her that eleven years had passed since she had been in the shoes of the youngest children, eagerly shopping for their school supplies. Time had a way of moving swiftly.
Victor smiled at her, his expression oddly warm, and Hermione couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't married yet as she looked down and away from gaze. It wasn't as though he lacked options; he had legions of witches throwing themselves at him, especially given his status as a Quidditch legend.
"It would have been nice if they put you in the Bulgarian stadium instead of Britain's," Victor quipped with a wry smile as he raised his hand in an attempt to get the attention of the wizard selling the Daily Prophet.
Hermione, avoiding looking at whatever headline graced the paper, focused her gaze into her coffee. She watched the dark swirls mix with the cream, the steam rising in delicate tendrils. It was a soothing distraction.
Victor, undeterred by the lack of response, opened the paper and glanced at it briefly. "Would you like to see today's paper?" he offered, extending it toward her.
She shook her head grimly, her eyes meeting his with determination, making sure not to look down at the open pages in front of him. The truth was, the last time she had allowed herself to look at the paper had been in February, a painful memory etched in her mind. Six months had passed since that day.
After that inadvertent glance at the newspaper, she had hastily retreated to her favorite pub, seeking refuge in alcohol. She had drunk until she couldn't see anymore, until the world became a blurred mess of colors. Fortunately, the bartender knew her well, and it wasn't long before both Harry and Ron had shown up to make sure she didn't attempt to Apparate on her own. In the ghastly state she had been in, she would have splintered herself into oblivion. Those had been dark times, and she had come a long way since then, though the scars remained.
For the next hour or so, they talked about the intricate changes happening in the world of Quidditch, delving into the specifics of the teams and the nuances of the sport. Victor shared insights about the new players on his own team, some of whom faced the infamous curse and they discussed the overall well-being of the team.
As the conversation flowed, they delved into upcoming charity events, press tours, and the logistics of accommodations for the team during their travels. Victor, with a mischievous glint in his eye, gave her insider tips and anecdotes about his teammates, prompting Hermione to chuckle at some of the colorful personalities he described. He couldn't resist teasing her about how she had despised Quidditch when they were younger, a sentiment she hadn't entirely abandoned. Her response was a sly, "Who says I'm fond of it now?" It wasn't a lie; she had accepted the position primarily for the welfare of the players, not for the game itself.
But then the conversation veered toward Britain's team, and her mouth began to dry.
Forcing herself to maintain an outward appearance of composure, Hermione listened with unwavering focus as Victor delved into discussions about the team he wasn't officially a part of but had played with frequently, even training alongside them on several occasions.
As he began sharing insights about various players and their distinctive personalities, Hermione's heart quickened its pace in response to the rising tension in her chest. Her grip on her coffee cup tightened, knuckles turning white as she concentrated on keeping her emotions in check.
Then, seemingly without warning, Victor mentioned his name.
It was a name she had hoped to avoid, a name that had now become the "He Who Must Not be Named" in her life. The mere utterance of his name sent a jolt through her, and she felt the pressure in her chest swell, threatening to explode like a dam holding back a flood of memories and regrets.
Somehow, Hermione had managed to maintain her composure throughout her entire meeting with Victor, feeling grateful to have him as an ally in her new career path. She Apparated back to her cozy flat, hoping for some peace and quiet after a long day. However, as she stepped into her living room, her breath caught in her throat, and she had to stifle a scream.
Her living room, the sanctuary she cherished for its tranquility, was currently hosting a scene that was anything but peaceful. The young witch, now one of Hermione's closest friends, still seemed to lack the decency to take her passionate escapades with her boyfriend to the privacy of her own bedroom.
There, on the living room couch, a brunette witch and a dark-skinned wizard were engaged in an amorous embrace. Their bodies pressed closely together, hands exploring with a fervor that left no room for subtlety. The air seemed to crackle with a palpable intensity as they shared heated kisses and tender caresses, their chemistry undeniable.
A pang of jealousy ignited within her as Hermione's face flushed with embarrassment and irritation as she discreetly averted her gaze, retreating to her bedroom to give her friends some much-needed privacy. It seemed she would need to have another conversation about the appropriate use of shared living spaces.
Studying the Quidditch player cards for all of the international teams, Hermione meticulously examined each one, save for a single card that had caused her roommate to ignite it in flames – a dramatic, if effective, disposal method. She invested considerable time in creating a comprehensive chart, meticulously detailing the players from every nation and each team. Understanding their personalities, studying their statistics, delving into their wants, needs, and backgrounds were essential components of her mission to ensure the welfare and well-being of these athletes.
The cards that pertained to players classified as magical creatures, victims of a relentless curse that condemned them to transform into wolves, found a distinct place in her organizational system. They were carefully separated into a different stack, a reminder of the unique challenges they faced and the extraordinary efforts required to support and protect them in the demanding world of professional Quidditch.
A knock on her door disrupted Hermione's prepping, and she couldn't help but roll her eyes in response. It wasn't as if she was going to wait to be formally invited inside.
"Min," Her roommate drawled, known for her habit of invading personal space, sauntered into the room. Her gaze immediately gravitated to the array of documents and files scattered across Hermione's desk.
"Yes," Hermione replied, turning toward her roommate. While she was no longer entirely irritated by her intrusive ways, a faint vexation still lingered in her expression.
Her long, dark hair, always worn in a sleek and fashionable style, was half up, half down in a sort of braid, her mascara was running, probably from the activity Hermione had walked in on earlier, and her lips were meticulously glossed. She was wearing a silk black robe, and her hazel-green eyes studied Hermione with an overly worried gaze.
"How was your date with Victor?" came the inquiry, with Pansy's hands placed assertively on her hips.
Rolling her eyes, Hermione shifted her focus back to organizing the scattered files on her desk. "It wasn't a date, Pans," she clarified with a hint of exasperation. "It was just his way of welcoming me into this career field. You know, if you hadn't contacted the papers about this, he wouldn't have known until I started."
Pansy let out an exaggerated sigh, her drama practically tangible. "We both know why I had to," she replied cryptically and muttered under her breathe, "I was hoping he'd quit." They both knew she wasn't referencing Victor.
Hermione's tension mounted, her thoughts racing, but before she could respond, Pansy abruptly rushed over to her. With surprising tenderness, she began to comb Hermione's hair with her fingers. "Blaise hasn't mentioned anything about he contacting him regarding this, but it's good that both parties are aware prior to..." Pansy's voice trailed off as she carefully chose her words but Hermione interrupted as she released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "He could have died from surprise, and I wouldn't have cared at all," she lied, her voice carrying a weight of unspoken emotions.
"Mhmm," Pansy responded, her tone tinged with both curiosity and concern. She couldn't help but sigh, the weight of unspoken emotions lingering in the air. "How is therapy going, Min? Are you prepared?"
Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, the memories of her therapy sessions flooding her mind. With a determined nod, she replied, "Yes, I'm prepared."
Pansy stopped playing with Hermione's hair and moved to her bed, sitting down with her legs crossed. Hermione studied her roommate with a weariness that suggested the toll therapy had taken on her, while Pansy watched her cautiously, searching for signs of progress.
"What's the last thing you did at therapy?" Pansy asked, her brows furrowing inquisitively.
Hermione began picking at her nails, her breaths heavy with the weight of the topic. "I wrote him a letter," she admitted, her voice filled with a complex mix of emotions.
Pansy's brows perched in surprise as she processed the revelation. "A letter?"
Hermione stood and joined Pansy on the bed, crossing her own legs as she sought to explain. "Yes, I didn't mail it, of course. It's just an exercise," she clarified, her gaze fixed on a distant point.
That sad, pathetic look hung in the air once again, a familiar expression that Pansy couldn't help but reserve for her best friend whenever this topic arose. It was a gaze that always made Hermione uncomfortable, prompting her to avert her eyes, unable to bear the sympathy that was often accompanied by it.
Pansy, known for her self-absorption, materialism, and relentless pursuit of social status, was not one to easily empathize with others. She thrived in a world driven by ambition and appearances. Yet, beneath that facade of calculated ambition, there existed a fierce loyalty and protectiveness when it came to her friends.
For Pansy, "Min" was more than a friend; she was the closest confidante in her life, perhaps the only one who truly understood her. Their bond was unbreakable, forged through shared experiences and a mutual trust that ran deeper than any superficial connections they maintained with other young witches.
As for those other young witches, the ones with whom Pansy partied, frequented clubs, and indulged in shopping sprees, she regarded them with a distinct lack of trust, for they were mere acquaintances compared to the unshakable friendship she shared with Hermione.
"You can't even utter his name, Min," Pansy pointed out, her concern for her friend evident in her voice, "How are you going to be in the same building as him, the same room, the same events? Potter, if you ask me, isn't so wise. He's a silly wanker for thinking this was a good idea. I knew we should have just handed him over to Vol-." She paused, letting her frustration simmer. Pansy regarded Hermione with a thoughtful expression before posing another question. "Have you even told Ron yet?"
Hermione struggled to suppress what felt like a maniacal, sad laugh. "And risk him needing therapy too?" she replied, the irony not lost on her.
Pansy's face contorted into a pout, a rare sight, as she considered Hermione's response. "You're right, of course," she conceded, "He won't want to hear it until you can at least say the bloke's name without looking like you're going to have a heart attack."
"I'm so pathetic," Hermione groaned, sinking into the comfort of Pansy's lap. Her exhaustion was palpable, and she yearned for a moment of respite. "I'd kill for a glass of wine right now."
Pansy chuckled at Hermione's predicament; her voice tinged with amusement. "I'm not dealing with that mess tonight," she teased, feigning exasperation, but laced with a bit of truth, "You better not lay a finger on any of my wine."
Drinking made her feel even more pathetic, a temporary escape from the thoughts that often turned dark and upsetting. When her mind ventured to places, she'd rather forget, she'd resort to alcohol, sometimes drinking until she passed out. It was a way to numb herself, to momentarily silence the memories that haunted her.
She swallowed hard, lying on her back and staring up at the ceiling, trying to push those thoughts away. In an attempt to change the subject and redirect her focus, she asked, "When do you think he'll pop the question?"
Pansy gently propped Hermione's head down and then laid beside her, their eyes fixated on the ceiling. She took her wand out and conjured a few fake suns and stars to illuminate the darkening room. "Not sure when Blaise will finally have the guts to ask me," Pansy replied with a hint of playful annoyance. "I found the stupid ring in his loft weeks ago."
A flicker of excitement touched Hermione's voice as she inquired further, "Are you excited?"
Pansy pretended to contemplate the question for a moment before her face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "Of course, I'm excited! Our wedding will be the wedding of the century. Bigger than..." She caught herself mid-sentence, a reminder of the unspoken subject that always lingered in the background.
Ignoring the momentary lapse in Pansy's restraint, Hermione continued the conversation, maybe therapy was working. "Ron waited almost three months before he proposed to Gabrielle. Harry and I basically had to plan the whole thing for him because he just kept losing his nerve. He's probably just waiting for the right moment."
The memory of Ron's proposal was etched in Hermione's mind. It had been a beautiful moment, but it was clear that the creativity behind it was mostly her doing. Ron wasn't known for his imaginative flair and had initially believed he would simply pop the question at a random, spur-of-the-moment opportunity.
Among their circle of friends, it seemed that everyone was either married or in the process of getting married. Those who had already tied the knot had started families, with kids or expecting little ones. Ron and Gabrielle had a nine-month-old daughter named Rose, while Harry and Ginny had two boys, James and Albus, and were eagerly anticipating the arrival of a baby girl. The reminder of their friends' growing families couldn't be escaped, and it added a layer of complexity to the topic of marriage.
"Since we can't get incredibly drunk tonight, well, because I have work tomorrow and I can't expect to babysit you," Pansy remarked, pausing for a moment, "I was thinking we do a muggle movie night."
Hermione's face lit up with a smile as she stood and made her way to the living room. "Okay, and takeout, please!"
Pansy responded by playfully throwing a pillow at her. "Don't take advantage of my feeling bad for you," she quipped, her tone teasing. "It's your turn to buy!"
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SEPTEMBER 8, 2003
Designer women's business robes and clothes had become a norm in the wizarding world, a concept that would have been deemed utterly hilarious by Hermione years ago. After all, the wizarding world had been deeply rooted in tradition, resistant to change.
However, their generation had experienced a wizarding war, a muggle war, and the ultimate triumph of defeating the dark lord himself. Their generation had ushered in a wave of modernization, transforming the world.
They still referred to Hermione as the "brightest witch of her age." Of course, they would, at such a young age, she had achieved so much. Yet, today, as she stood in the elevator of the enormous Quidditch colosseum, smoothing down her slightly too short pencil skirt (courtesy of Pansy's influence), she was gripped by fear and apprehension.
In a year or two, when her contract was over, she planned to return to the Ministry with the determination to keep making changes and improving their world. But at this moment, the daunting prospect of facing her seemingly irrational fear was pressing down on her.
He was just a man, she reminded herself, just a person, nothing more.
Yes, she hadn't seen him in years, yes, she could barely utter his name, and yes, his face still haunted her nightmares. But he was just a wizard.
Just a handsome, famous quidditch player.
Perhaps Heartwell had been right. Maybe she did need more therapy sessions.
Maybe the progress made in the last few weeks hadn't been enough to quell her overwhelming fear. Hermione understood that therapy wasn't a quick fix for deep-rooted issues but she had faced far worse challenges than this.
Get it together Hermione!
He's nobody.
Not anymore.
He means nothing to you.
As the Golden Girl, a vital member of the Golden Trio, she had bravely fought alongside Harry Potter and had emerged victorious against Voldemort himself. It seemed absurd that encountering a former lover could stir up so much fear and panic within her.
Counting, she watched the floor numbers climb inside the elevator:
10,
12,
13,
14,
15,
16,
With a sudden ding, the elevator doors opened, and her heart sank as they revealed an unexpected sight.
As the elevator doors opened, revealing the unexpected visitor, she stared blankly.
Staring and in disbelief she couldn't help but blurt out, "What are you doing here?" That was rude, but then again why did the man before her require kindness?
His eyes glistened, and he flashed her a crooked smile, a smile that had always been equal parts charming and sly. She noticed that his hair was longer now, with a different, more wavy texture. The well-fitted suit he was wearing accentuated his already good looks.
"Granger," he greeted her, his tone tinged with a mixture of surprise and amusement. "When I heard you would be joining us here at this location as part of the IQA, I just could not believe it. I had to write to Rita Skeeter myself." He paused, his expression mischievous. "In fact, I had to blackmail the old fly to tell me who her source had been."
Hermione, unimpressed by his theatrics, walked past him and rolled her eyes as she spotted the reception desk, where a young blonde witch waved to her. "Miss Granger!"
Theodore Nott continued to follow Hermione, seemingly unfazed by her lack of reaction. "And when I found out it was none other than the famous publicist, ex theatre actress, and author, Ms. Pansy Parkinson herself," he continued, "I contacted HQ immediately until someone confirmed it."
The young receptionist greeted and introduced herself to Hermione warmly, passing her a file and directing her to her office down the hall and on the right. Hermione thanked her and followed the directions. However, to her dismay, Theo persisted in following her.
"Granger," he remarked with a trace of amusement, "A hello, how are you would be nice. We used to be friends, you know."
Hermione's heels came to a halt, their clacking on the floor silenced as she turned to face Theodore Nott. Her lips curled into a sly smile, her voice betraying no emotion as she retorted, "Used to. There's that part that matters." Her face remained stoic, but the undercurrent of anger simmered beneath the surface. Theo, on the other hand, appeared composed. There was once upon a time when she used to trust Theo, she used to rely on him.
"I'm the Statistician and Data Analyst for IQA," Theo stated firmly, emphasizing their forced partnership. "We're co-workers. I'd like us to be civil." There was no apology in his words. It had been years, why would she even still expect one?
Besides that, maybe she needed to just let it all go, feign friendliness he didn't deserve to know she was still hurt. Because if Theo knew, he'd tell him. And that was the last thing she wanted. For him to know.
Regardless of their problems, Theo was now someone she was apparently going to have to work closely with.
"Fine. Good Morning Theo, I look forward to working with you," was the curt response she managed to muster. Theo, undeterred, slipped his hand into his trouser pocket and maintained his calm facade as he suggested, "Let me escort you to your new office."
Her new corner office at the Quidditch Colosseum in London, as the IQA Welfare Officer, was a space that exuded both professionalism and a hint of wizarding charm.
At least, that's what she thought as she studied it and Theo lingered in the corner watching her. The scars on her back from his knife to it, still lingered. Nothing was in the past. Those kinds of wounds lasted and lasted.
The office was strategically located on a high floor, affording her breathtaking views of the city. Large, arched windows adorned both walls, allowing an abundance of natural light to pour in.
From her vantage point, she could see the bustling streets of London below and catch glimpses of the River Thames winding through the cityscape.
The room itself was spacious, furnished with polished oak furniture that included a sizable executive desk with neatly stacked parchments and a high-backed chair upholstered in deep blue velvet. A plush, emerald-green carpet adorned with a discreet magical pattern lay underfoot, muffling the sounds of the bustling office outside.
A magical quill rested in a pristine inkwell, always at the ready for jotting down notes or important welfare updates.
"We have a meeting with the team at noon," Theodore Nott began, his voice crisp and professional. However, he hesitated for a moment, his face displaying an unusual emotion that Hermione hadn't seen before. He continued, "However, if you'd like to have individual meetings with each of the team members or," he paused again, clearly choosing his words carefully, "any member in particular before that team meeting, just let Tammy, our receptionist, know, and she will get them up here for you."
Hermione felt a twinge of discomfort at his suggestion, and an unsettling sensation of unease threatened to rise within her.
See him on purpose? Call upon him on purpose?
Put herself in a room with him alone, surely, he couldn't be serious.
Maintaining her composure, Hermione nodded curtly in response to Theo's words. "Thank you," she replied, her tone measured and professional.
As he studied her apprehensively for a moment, Theo continued, "You've changed. I mean I have seen what you've done these last few years. You've always had backbone even before, but darn, looking at you now, even I'm intimidated by you. I am happy you've joined us, and I look forward to working with you. I hope any past resentments can be put behind us, I am sorry for it all, you know how things ended." With that, he turned and left her office, leaving Hermione to collect her thoughts in solitude.
Band-aids don't fix holes, his apology was just for show, and he'd always live like that. Everything was always a show.
Frowning, Hermione settled into her chair behind her desk, her thoughts occupied by the paperwork Tammy had handed her.
She meticulously began filling out various employment-related documents, her quill moving with precision across the parchment.
However, despite her focus on the task at hand, Theo's suggestion lingered in the back of her mind like an unwelcome presence.
Nausea kept threatening to rise within her, and her heart pounded rapidly.
She couldn't help but worry about the upcoming meeting.
What if she threw up in front of everyone the moment, she laid eyes on him?
That thought alone was enough to make her stomach churn with anxiety.
No there wasn't any way she could risk the first time seeing him be in front of other people.
Gryffindors were brave, they didn't cower at the prospect of seeing their ex.
That was silly.
Merlin, you're Hermione Granger, you can do this, she thought to herself.
Summoning every ounce of courage, Hermione pressed the button on her desk, and Tammy answered promptly. "Miss Granger."
Her throat felt dry as she steadied herself, taking a deep breath before speaking into the reception mic. "Can you send player number seven up to my office, please?" The words came out with a hint of tremor, but she managed to convey her request clearly.
"Right away, Miss," came Tammy's swift response.
The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed louder than usual, each second echoing like a hammer pounding at her composure.
It had only been two minutes since she made the request, and the anxiety was already gnawing at her.
Hermione forced herself to look away from the clock; she couldn't afford to be caught staring at it like a mindless idiot.
She shifted her attention back to the employment paperwork in front of her, her quill hovering over the line that requested her middle name.
For a brief moment, she drew a blank, her mind racing.
Then it came to her: Jean.
"Fuck," she muttered under her breath.
Her mind wandered to the people she wished were there with her—Pansy or Harry.
With a frustrated scowl, she imagined Pansy's reaction. She could picture her friend whirling on him the second he walked in like a madwoman, unleashing a torrent of curses and insults that would make even the toughest wizard cringe.
Alternatively, she could envision Harry's response. He'd confront him with that trademark calm demeanor, his green eyes locking onto his stupid blue eyes as he delivered a quiet, cutting remark that left him feeling like the complete arsehole he truly was.
Indeed, Hermione couldn't help but imagine how he who must not be named would respond in this scenario. He would likely maintain his annoyingly stoic and collected demeanor towards them both, addressing Harry as "Potter" with a touch of condescension. But Harry, ever unflappable, would remain unfazed, refusing to let his provocations get under his skin. Pansy would probably just hex him.
Hermione couldn't help but giggle to herself as she played out the imaginary scenarios in her head. It was a brief moment of amusement that allowed her to momentarily forget her anxiety.
But then, just as her laughter escaped her lips, a voice interrupted her reverie. "There's that laugh that haunts me," the rich and velvety voice remarked, almost playfully.
Haunts. Me.
Haunts, her, she gulped.
Startled, Hermione's mirth evaporated instantly.
She had let her guard down and forgotten to be cautious of his presence.
Her heart sank as a chill swept through her body, causing a sudden coldness to grip her. She felt her heart, what was left of it freeze at the sound of his voice.
Her heart was stone now; no room to feel. She refused to show an ounce of emotion.
Raising her chin defiantly, she turned to meet his gaze, forcing herself to confront the man who had just entered her office, Merline, curse him he'd only somehow managed to get better looking.
He stood before her, looking every bit as captivating as she remembered. He was clad in a Quidditch training uniform, with the number 7 prominently displayed on it. His platinum-blond hair was perfectly styled, and his stormy gray eyes held an undeniable air of confidence that demanded attention.
His well-defined jawline and cheekbones added an alluring symmetry to his face, while his lips carried a subtle hint of intrigue, curving slightly in a way that suggested a mixture of confidence and hidden emotions.
His athletic physique was evident in the way the uniform clung to his form, showcasing his strength and agility. As he met her gaze with those penetrating gray eyes, there was an unspoken challenge.
In that moment, all the fear that had once gripped her vanished, as though it had never existed. The haunting sadness that had plagued her for years dissipated, replaced by a fierce and burning anger coursing through her veins. It was a potent emotion, one that she hadn't felt in a long time, and strangely, it calmed her.
Summoning her resolve, she uttered a name she hadn't spoken in years, a name she had avoided like a haunting specter. It was a name that held a complex history but addressing him by his first name was something she couldn't quite bring herself to do yet, not when they were far from being on good terms.
"Malfoy," she said, her voice firm and steady, the tension evident in the words that hung between them like lingering bad blood.