Already beautiful people, Chapter 1. This chapter I will not lie has been rewritten like five times over the last 12 years. But here it is for the 5th time and I think I actually nailed it this time, but only time will tell. I love this little story of mine, with characters I do not own….. ;)

Why?

For fuck's sake, why do people always have to hurt me?

I let them in. I open myself up. I make myself vulnerable. And yet—somehow—I'm still never enough.

The thoughts clanged around in my head like loose gears, impossible to stop. A small sigh left my lips as I tried to shake the weight off.

Shake it off, Hermione. You're an incredible person. You're the brightest witch of your age. He's just another asshole. You can move on.

I repeated it like a charm, trying—failing—to believe it.

"Hermione? Are you okay? Do you want me to come in?" Luna's voice drifted gently through the door. Always gentle. Always her.

"No, I'm okay. I'll be out in a second," I called back, forcing some stability into my tone.

I looked up at my reflection and splashed cold water on my face. You are worthy of love, Hermione. Fuck them. All of them. Fuck her, fuck him, fuck the idea that this was ever going to be more than it was. You will not fall again.

That helped. A little. A version of me I recognized started to return.

So what do you do when you're a thirty-four-year-old witch, known across magical Europe for being "the brightest witch of your age," yet here you are—crying on your bathroom floor?

Merlin. Why am I crying again? This wasn't even a proper relationship.

That's what you get for being the sweet person everyone assumes you are, that cruel little voice in my head whispered.

I took a breath. Then another. The tears slowed. I cast a quick charm to reduce the puffiness around my eyes. The girl in the mirror still looked wrecked, but at least she could pass for functioning.

You know what? Fuck him. It was just a few dates. Barely that, really. I've lived through war, trauma, and heartbreak. I can survive a wizard named Denise, of all things.

I wiped my face, sighed again, and walked back into the hallway of the flat I shared with Luna.

She sat casually on a bar stool, mug in hand, dressed in her usual floaty softness. She glanced up at me with a look of immediate knowing, like she'd read every emotion in my aura the moment I stepped into the room.

Luna's been my godsend. Since the fourth year at Hogwarts, we've been inseparable. She's heard every story, dried every tear, and memorized every one of my failed flings with terrifying precision. I find it mortifying. She says it's endearing.

And Blaise? Blaise has been part of our orbit since that very same year. He and Luna fell into each other like stars colliding, and somehow, I fit right into the aftermath. Our trio has only strengthened with time. He's never once resented my closeness with Luna—if anything, he's become just as important to me.

They're the kind of couple that makes you believe in something real. Not perfect, not saccharine—but built on loyalty, honesty, history. They've been together since Hogwarts, and never really wavered.

After the war, Luna and I decided we deserved to live, to shake off the trauma and see the world. We traveled across Europe, hiked temple pyramids in Mexico, danced through Carnival in Brazil, and shouted spells from rooftops in New Orleans.

And then… we ran into Blaise.

He'd moved to the States after his mum's sixth divorce, trying to find peace, and after he and Luna decided for some absolutely ridiculous reason to spend some time "apart" and find "themselves". But one rainy night in New York City, he stepped out of a cab and into our lives again. He and Luna locked eyes, and that was it. The space between them vanished like it had never existed.

Not long after, we convinced him to return to England. The three of us settled in together. We took jobs at a tiny, underwhelming café, which we eventually bought, renovated, and transformed into a thriving nightclub.

With the profits, I bought a bookshop and coffeehouse—a dream I didn't know I had until it was mine.

By all accounts, I should be living the dream. But life's never that simple.

"What's up, love?" Luna asked, voice soft, concern etched on her face.

"I don't know," I muttered, flopping onto my favorite plush blue couch. "I feel like I've hit a snag. I do love my life, but... Ugh."

She walked over, folded herself into the chair across from me, and gave me one of those Luna-smiles—serene, knowing, mildly exasperated.

"Hermione, if you keep replaying every heartbreak like a cursed record, how are you ever going to let someone new in?"

I scowled.

She raised an eyebrow. "You didn't even like Denise. You were dating him just to be dating someone. That's not healthy."

"I know," I groaned. "But still—it fucking sucks. I thought maybe this time it would be different. It always starts fine and then… boom. Suck-a-bag-of-dicks territory."

Luna snorted with laughter, but recovered quickly. "You need to release it."

"Release what?"

"All of it," she said. "Write it down. Scream onto the page. Every awful date, every disappointment, every bruise. Get it out. That's how we move forward."

I raised an eyebrow.

She leaned back smugly. "I dare you."

So here I am, sitting cross-legged on my bed, laptop in my lap—because no, I'm not writing this on parchment with a bloody quill. That era is done.

Entry #1:

Someone, somewhere, once said, "Time heals all wounds." That person can absolutely go fuck themselves. Clearly, they never had their heart spun in a blender and served back to them with a cheery garnish. This is my journal. My venting space. My scream into the void. You, dear friend, are my lifeline. And as Luna demanded—I won't hold back. I'll tell you everything, even the things I've avoided telling myself. Let's start not with Ron. That mess comes later.

Let's start with Cormac.

I know—shocking, right? But he was the first. It began in third year. Ancient Runes. I was reading quietly at my desk when this shadow blocked my light. I looked up—and there he was, all smug grin and jawline, leaning toward me like he had every right in the world.

"You're beautiful," he said, just like that.

I laughed. Blushed. Maybe rolled my eyes.

"Well," he added, "when I see a beautiful girl sitting alone, I have to say hi. It's in my rulebook."

From that moment on, we passed notes, sat together, shared whispered conversations. One afternoon, he slipped a note into my lap, looking suspiciously sheepish.

It read:

Hermione—

I was wondering… we've been spending time together… maybe… How about it? I like you. You like me. Should we date?

God, this sounds so stupid. Just end me now. I don't usually do this. Girls usually ask me. Shit, that sounds conceited. Fuck. Why am I writing this? Bugger, make it stop.

It was so wildly, absurdly Cormac I nearly burst out laughing. But it worked. For a few months, it was perfect. Ron had a fit, of course. "McLaggen? Hermione, what happened to 'he's foul'? Is foul your new thing?" Harry just shrugged. "Let her live, mate."

For a while, he was my favorite. We had good moments—really good. Reading by the lake. Talking for hours. Feeling like I mattered. But good doesn't mean lasting. One Wednesday—our Wednesday—I walked to meet him, heart fluttering. Turned the corner. And saw him. His hands tangled in a blonde girl's hair. His mouth on hers. His arms tight around her waist. My stomach dropped through the floor. He looked up. "Hermione... it's not... babe—" I turned. Walked. Didn't stop until I was in bed. He apologized, of course. Harry and Ron glared him into corners. I went through the motions. Day by day. Until one day, it stopped hurting so much. Eventually, I realized it was all bullshit. That fairy tale love? Just a well-marketed lie as you can tell I absolutely was not an overly dramatic teen, but a very level-headed, bright young witch. I—

A knock at the door jolted me out of my immersion.

The door creaked open, and Luna peeked in. "How's the writing going?" I shrugged. "Just finished with Cormac."

She sat beside me, grinning. "That very handsome jerk. You okay?"

"Yeah. Actually… yeah."

"Wanna head to the club? What band did we book again?"

I blinked. "Death Cab for Cutie. Right. You love 'I Will Possess Your Heart.'"

She was already halfway out the door when she tossed over her shoulder, "Dress nice, okay? Blaise is bringing a friend. You never know."

I groaned and flopped back onto my bed.

Great. Worst timing imaginable.