Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

She caught herself mindlessly staring into the void, the autumn sun long since slipped beneath the horizon. 
Still in her work clothes Ministry’s presence clinging to her like a thistle-woven cloak. 
The only things she’d managed after coming home were:

– Taking off her shoes
– Washing her hands 
– And banishing the curse upon womankind—her bra.

As beautiful as it was, she no longer felt empowered by frilly unmentionables. It just made breathing harder.

She should eat dinner.
She should change. 
She should at least drink some water. 
She should do a lot of things. 
And her body was not gentle about reminding her about it. Alas, starting in the void was where she was at.

Today was her thirtieth birthday. In her current reality, it was just another long, exhausting day spent running in circles around outdated legislation, dead-end laws, and stubborn old stumps of wizards with ear hair so thick one surely should wonder if there is any space for an actual brain left in their thick sculls.

She should have celebrated.
Should have been with her friends. 
Should have had a feast. 
Her favourite plum cake. 
All the candles.

Instead, all she had was a half-dry slice of generic store-bought cake, her colleagues had surprised her with bits of confetti still clinging to her curls, and a stomach full of apathy. 

Thirty. 
She was thirty.

In the prime of her life. And as numb as one could be while technically still alive. Long gone were the days of determination and enthusiasm—of running headfirst into walls that turned out to be mountains of prejudice-stained tradition and stifling stagnation. Thus, her will to do something meaningful had faded into dust. 

This morning’s department meeting—the one that should’ve been a memo—was just one more match to the funeral pyre of her ambition. She was fairly certain half the Ministry couldn’t write to save their lives. The other half were simply too enamoured with the sound of their own voices, making everyone else miserable for prolonged, pointlessly pontificating periods of time.   It wasn’t just inefficiency. It was a waste. And look at her now. She didn’t even care. Not one bit. Not anymore.

She had managed to do some good.  She knew that.  Some laws had been rewritten to be more inclusive. Some archaic restrictions removed. Others, necessary ones, added. All of it done with sharp quills and sleepless nights and too much of her soul.  Every success had been paid for in pieces of herself. And she was tired of bleeding quietly in exchange for incremental progress.  Tired of watching her magic leak into parchment and policies—only to come home and collapse, a mere husk of the vibrant human she’d once been.

When was the last time she’d seen her friends for more than a few fleeting moments?

Well… Neville’s wedding came to mind, a couple of years back. To none other than Pansy Parkinson. 
Beautiful event. Beautiful couple. 
And damn—how could something that had once seemed so wrong turn out to be so unapologetically right? 
Neville Longbottom, gentle and caring, easy going, now almost a giant of a man still tended to his plants with at most care. Turning his late grans’ estate into something rivalling even the most luxurious botanical gardens in all of Europe. He had become one of the most sought-after magical plant suppliers in all of Britain and parts of good old Europe. 
If there was a plant believed extinct, or one so rare it was only whispered about in old herbology books, Neville probably had three of them growing somewhere in one of his greenhouses. 
Eventually, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of his “casual hobby,” he’d been forced to hire help. 
And it turned out—there were plenty of free elves who had no interest in ever returning to their old households. When offered to work under the young Lord Longbottom, they’d shown up in droves. He made them accept fair wages.  Vacation days.  Two days off every week, on a rotating schedule. (The horror.) With the help of his employees, his treasured plants were taken care of in par with his high standards (or pretty close to it if you’d ask Nevil himself) and that allowed young Lord the smallest sliver of free time. Not being as tied to strict watering and pollinating timelines anymore, Nevil started socializing more. 

He joined his friends for a pub night, attended some charity galas, the occasional Ministry event, if someone guilted him enough. And somewhere along the way—between the roses, the mooncalf manure and the absurdity of formal dining rooms —he met her.  Lady Longbottom.  Formerly known as Pansy Parkinson.

And with Pansy—Parks, as everyone still called her - came the full Slytherin Supreme package: 

Mister Blaise Zabini, whom Hermione had the rare pleasure of working with now and then, had become one of the most successful barristers in modern wizarding England (which, let’s be honest, was still archaic to the bone).  These days, he worked exclusively under retainer for young Lord Malfoy. Effortless swagger.  Bone-dry humour. Laid-back charm and that infuriatingly easy grin.  He was devilish in his overall suave manner— and would cut a person off at the knees, politely and with precision, if they so much as thought about standing against him, his clients, or anyone he considered family.

Theodore Nott - Ah, Theo. The reserved, quietly brilliant boy she’d secretly crushed on in Hogwarts. He too had spent almost as much time in the library as she had—hunched over ancient tomes, lost in notes, surrounded by silence.  She used to watch him from her favourite corner. Curled up in her favourite armchair. Notebook in her lap. Yes, that one too was her favourite. Sue her! Pretending she wasn’t completely taken with him.  He had always looked so serious, so far away. That haunted gaze. The way his chestnut curls would fall over his brow and those long, strong hands would push them back with effortless grace. Long fingers. Perfectly manicured nails.

Did she mention he was beautiful?  Yes, not just handsome - beautiful.  Full blown gorgeous.

She did?  Well. He was.  Still is. Only now… the reserved demeanour is gone. Theo has become chaos incarnate. Handsome-as-sin, mischief on two legs, always on the move, always smirking like he knows the next five steps in a prank no one’s realized has started.  Apparently, burying one’s tyrant of a father, a cruel, controlling bastard of a Lord Nott did wonders to one’s general predisposition to life. Theo, it seemed, was catching up on all the joy he’d missed. And he was doing it with gusto.  And, lest anyone forget— Theo had now officially joined the Brotherhood of Inherited Nightmares™ as the current Lord Nott.

And then… 
Draco Malfoy - The young Lord Malfoy himself. (Fuck her life—how did she, simply Hermione, end up surrounded by all these bloody lords? He’d become elusive, rarely seen. Took over the title from Lucius, who—according to official records — “retired early.” In reality? He likely stepped down to salvage what was left of the Malfoy name— handing the reins to a son who had long since outgrown the shadow of his father. And did Draco rise? Oh, he did.  Draco Lucius Malfoy had spent the better part of the last decade doing gods-know-what, but somehow—miraculously—he’d managed to rebuild the family name.  Strengthened their businesses,restructured their public image,restored a lineage once scorched by scandal.

Hermione hadn’t seen him in years. No surprise there. She’d spent her own days buried in parchment, lost in the Ministry’s endless cycle of drafts, votes, revisions, and soul-splintering meetings. She imagined his days had been just as busy or, more likely, even worse. 

And let’s not even get into the gossip rag shite they called the press these days. (Or any day, really.)Most Eligible Bachelor. Most Charming Smile. The bubbliest bum, and-what-the-bloody-hell-ever-else ratings they dreamed up. Lord Malfoy was at the top of every single one.

About a year later came Ginny and Blaise’s nuptials. To everyone’s surprise— except those who’d really been paying attention. Ginny had always been chaos in motion— a firecracker with opinions, wild hair, and zero tolerance for bullshit. She didn’t walk into rooms; she claimed them. And woe unto anyone who tried to talk over her or underestimate her, especially when she was carrying a wand or a fruity drink.

Blaise?  Blaise smirked.  Stirred his drink.  And watched the room rearrange itself around her gravity.

Their courtship, if one could call it that, had looked more like an escalating series of dares. Arguments that turned into dinners. Dinners that turned into all-night debates. Debates that somehow ended with a ring and a press release. He had never once tried to tame her. And she had never tried to fix him. And that, apparently, was the secret recipe for unholy matrimony.

Hermione still remembered the ceremony. 
Ginny wore a white iridescent glitter gown (the exact radiant shimmer of a trout’s belly) — because, of course she did—striding down the aisle like a goddess and a Bombarda personified, all wrapped up in one fiery, unapologetic package.

Blaise looked like sin in charcoal robes, bored out of his mind right up until the moment she reached him at the altar. 
Then he smiled. That smile that said I see you; I know exactly what you are, and I still chose this. Naturally, there were fireworks:  Literal (credit to Weasley Wizards Wheezes) and otherwise (credit to Ginny, mostly)- Ginny hexed the batty old officiant halfway through his speech—for stalling, obviously. Blaise, without missing a beat, slipped the terrified man a bulging coin purse and his personal business card—in case he ever found himself in legal (and any other kind) trouble. Obviously.

He called her Ginevra, darling, in that silk-slick drawl. She pretended to hate it. Rolled her eyes. Snarked. Threatened hexes. But secretly? She liked it very much, that the one person who she loved the most — and who loved her just the same— called her by the name (her given one) no one else dared to use.

Ginny and Pansy became fast friends. Which surprised exactly no one—and terrified everyone. It was like mixing oil with fire every time they were in the same room. No one ever knew if they were about to launch a style intervention, start a charity fundraiser, or cause a literal (mostly accidental) fire.

Harry—her best friend—went underground. Literally. Well… almost.

He evolved into some kind of off-grid wizarding gentleman.  Messy man bun. Neatly trimmed beard. Swanky moustache. Tweed waistcoats. Button-down shirts with sleeve garters. Yes, tweed pants too. With leather suspenders to secure his wand holster because “Obviously, Hermione!” he’d said completely seriously. Fancy dragon-hide lace-up boots. All he was missing was an ebony cane with a bronze knob, a pocket watch on a waist chain, and a pipe. (And she suspected the pipe was coming. Or maybe a cane?) His dating life was a mystery to all. Let’s just say… there were signs. The kind of signs that included suspiciously good moods and a certain glow about him that no amount of wand-lighting charms could explain. 
He’d meticulously renovated Grimmauld Place— wards, floorboards, batty old portraits and all, became a “Hermit Uncle Harry” to every Weasley-adjacent child and almost a father to Teddy Lupin, who was now in Hogwarts. (Merlin, how did that happen?) And then, because why not, he took up magic carpentry, of all things.

Was he good at it? 
Well… Her charmingly sweet, little coffee table had a leg that went limp depending on the weather, so interpret that as you will.

He sold all his creations, mind you. Mostly thanks to Pansy’s meddling — after the giggle fits, she and Ginny would collapse every time they saw a new Potter Original. Pansy found it absolutely hilarious to “bless” the rich and clueless with a temperamental piece of magical furniture made by the secretive Mr.Potter himself.

And Harry? 
Harry made a bank. Because even after he’d literally died for the wizarding world (and possibly beyond), the public still wanted a piece of him. Any piece - a rickety coffee table, a shelf that shifted moods,a wand-carved rocking chair that screamed if you sat in it before noon. It didn't matter. If it had his magic in it, someone would pay a fortune just to say they owned it.

“Win-win, yeah?” he’d shrug nonchalantly, when asked about his accidental business endeavours.

Ron… well.

He was somewhere out there. She wasn’t entirely sure where, or doing what. And, to be honest, she didn’t have the mental capacity to follow up anymore. No love lost there. His relentless energy for all things new, flashy, and immediately fascinating had taken him on what he called his “never-ending world explorations.” Which really meant he was chasing distractions across continents.

Meanwhile, she was just trying to remember how to breathe in her own kitchen.  Tough luck, that.

Hermione herself felt she had given enough. More than enough, really. She’d had entirely too much excitement for one short life and, at this point, she just wanted to be. Go to work she at least liked, meet up with friends, read all the books she loved, but never get to, bake some cakes…

She was shit at baking, but unrelenting in her quest to master the art of Victorian biscuits and Italian meringue. She even bought a candy-red KitchenAid Artisan stand mixer—convinced it would help her tame sourdough, only to learn that “flip and fold” wasn’t a wand movement, but some maddening Muggle ritual involving overly sticky dough and wrist strength.

So, to recap: She was still shit at it. But the process—the fussy, precise, oddly meditative process—was soothing in its complex simplicity. Some might call it resource mismanagement. And sure—she had enough self-awareness to admit that most of her creations were probably a hazard to anyone’s health. O-kay? But that was totally beside the point. She called it therapy.

Now she was newly thirty, tired beyond reason after yet another uphill-battle day at the Ministry, and couldn’t even summon a half-ounce of will to resurrect the sourdough starter that had been “resting” in her fridge for nearly two years. It had once been lovingly named Persephone. And now it had been endlessly stuck in an underworld, no spring in sight.

A lone tear slipped down her cheek. Of desperation, maybe. Or regret. Or resentment. And sure, as hell, pure and overwhelming exhaustion at its core. With a shaky exhale, Hermione stood from her favourite chair. The one Madam Pince had given her as a thank-you, after she’d helped restore the precise order of the Hogwarts Library post-war— reshelving centuries of scattered knowledge from where it had fallen during the final battle. 
Perks of being a war hero, and all that.

She had spent countless hours in that chair. Studying. Rereading. Losing herself in deep dives on magical theory, wand lore, or the migration patterns of magical beasts or whatever else that needed to be learnt or had just struck her fancy at any given time. 
Dreamingly gazed at blissful unaware Theo… She was demure like that. Now it creaked beneath her as she rose, like it, too, mourned the version of her it had once known.  After all those years spent mentally footing the war effort of the eventual winning side, all she had wanted was to be her own person again.

Not a symbol. 
Not a soldier. 
Not a saviour.

Just… Hermione. 
Just… to foolishly step in what turned out to be a bear trap disguised as a prestigious Ministry career.

It was time to chew her own—figurative—foot off, if that’s what it took to escape certain death - Hermione took a long breath. Reached for a sheet of parchment and an old, temperamental quill. She muttered a curse under her breath as ink immediately stained her fingers— just one more indignity of stupid old-timely wizarding stationery, she used to love so much as a child.

Then, with her jaw set and a silence that had taken years to build, she reached for the parchment. She didn’t bother with Ministry protocol, didn’t triple-check the phrasing, didn’t soften the blow with polite formalities.  She simply wrote it—in careful, steady strokes. No ceremony. No flourish. Just finality.

Her resignation.

Addressed to a world that no longer felt like hers, to a system that had used her up, bled her dry, and burned her to the ground, to a cause that had taken everything and still demanded more.

A quiet sewering. Not with fury nor resentment — with the kind of determination that only exhaustion could forge.

Effective immediately.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

The alarm went off. Automatically, she reached toward the bedside table, fingers closing around the bottle of anti-anxiety meds and the water glass beside it—charmed to self-clean and refill every morning by 7 a.m.

Merlin, bless the soul who came up with this medical miracle. 

It was her lifeline, her saving grace, and the reason she was still semi-functioning. After the thoughts that kept racing too fast, her pulse that spiked at random, breath that caught too many times to count, the cold sweats, and the compulsory need to cross the street every time a stranger in dark clothing came her way—this was what kept her tethered. 

She’d started the medication when she was fifteen. Her parents had noticed—of course they had. The headaches. The stomach problems. The way she flinched at loud noises and stopped sleeping unless she passed out from sheer exhaustion. They didn’t know everything, of course. But they knew enough to book an appointment. Quietly. Kindly. Without asking too many questions. Even though she hadn’t been able to share all the whys behind her issues, the general characteristics of anxiety were easy enough to explain away by listing her physical symptoms and mental struggles. 

The doctor had been gentle with kind eyes and a steady voice. Eventually, she’d given it a name. “Hermione,” she’d said, “from what you’ve been able to share so far, I’d say we’re dealing with complex childhood post-traumatic stress disorder—C-PTSD. I’d like to start you on these meds and reassess in two weeks. I’d also strongly recommend therapy—long-term.”

She’d nod like she understood. And she did. She just didn’t know how to do anything with that understanding yet. 

She stayed on the medication for a while, took the pills like clockwork—until the war came for her, and everything collapsed. Once her parents were gone—obliviated and tucked away in another hemisphere—refills became impossible. Between the camps, the forests, the running and the hiding, she ran out. And even if she hadn’t, she couldn’t have afforded the mental space to care. Not then.

But she remembered. She remembered the difference.

So, after the war, when the dust began to settle and she was legally an adult—technically free, but deeply fractured—she walked herself right back into that same clinic and made another appointment. No parents this time. No polite justifications. Just her and the knowledge that she didn’t want to try surviving without them again. 

She’d tried therapy. She really had. Sat on the couch, answered the intake questions, even filled out the anxiety scale. But that had been a catastrophe waiting to happen.  She couldn’t vaguely recount everything she’d lived through without slipping. Without saying too much and risking the kind of fallout no ward or charm could contain. It was too risky.  The cost of breaking the statue of secrecy was too high and she wasn’t ready to pay that price. So, she’d smiled politely, said thank you, and never went back. 

That had been years ago. Since then, the meds had kept her steady. Not cured, not healed per say, just… upright. Now, she simply went through the motions. Took the pills, drank the water and watched the glass refill itself the next day. It was easy, these days, to mistake that for progress. But it wasn’t. She wasn’t falling apart. She just couldn’t be half-arsed to care anymore.

The war had ended. The Ministry had been reformed. Lives had been saved. And she was tired—so bone-deep tired she barely recognized herself in the mirror most mornings. The fire was gone. And the fight, with it. All that was left was function.

Then the reality settled in. It was a Wednesday morning, nearing 8 a.m., and she was still tucked in bed—not already halfway through her rushed, frantic routine, not scurrying to get to work.

A dry laugh escaped her. Something close to a sob, really. What now?

She hadn’t had a proper lay-in since… she couldn’t even remember. How did that work exactly? What did people do when nothing was planned? 

She’d been meticulous, of course. Spent hours organizing her work files, annotating, adding margin notes, colour coding—everything so the next poor soul wouldn’t have to spend weeks just figuring out where to begin. She’d sent it all off with her resignation letter. And she had no intention of setting foot in the Ministry again - ever, if she could help it. It was all done.

So again—what now? Did she just… go for a walk? Get one of those overpriced, frothy Muggle coffee concoctions served in biodegradable cups with pretentious names and far too many modifiers? Did she sit in a park like a retired pensioner, watching ducks and second-guessing her entire life? Did she go to the post office? She had no letters to send. Not really. But that didn’t stop her brain from suggesting it. Because that’s what people did, right? They posted things. Went on walks. Bought coffee. Existed.

She wasn’t quite sure how to do that part. Not without a cause. Not without a fire to put out or a deadline pressing in. 

Just… a Wednesday.

She spent another hour staring at the ceiling, willing herself to feel something other than tired. Eventually, she decided enough was enough. Idly vegetating was making her uneasy—too still and too quiet.

Up she got. Teeth brushed. Comfortable clothes on. The largest teacup she owned filled to the brim.

And then… nothing.

She hit the proverbial wall. Again.

Time check: 9:17 a.m.

Shit.

Why was this so hard?

Huffing in frustration, she sat down at her round hardwood desk by the window—her favourite spot, really. The view overlooked a small, neat courtyard tucked behind a row of shopfronts. From her second-story flat, it looked almost peaceful. The storefront directly beneath her apartment remained frozen in time—shuttered since the war. She wasn’t even sure what it used to sell. Something beige, probably. She’d fallen in love with the building when she was flat-hunting years ago. Small, slightly crooked, Number 29 Diagon Alley had charmed her from the first visit. In the end, she’d bought both upstairs flats—leased one and moved into the other.

Her dad would’ve approved. He always said, “Ten percent to savings, ten to investments, and the rest you earn your peace with.” She wasn’t sure she’d found the peace part yet. But the real estate was solid. And maybe the only thing that still tethered her to reality. The best part about her apartment? Most of the windows faced the back of the building, flooding the space with light throughout the day. It was quiet there—removed from the buzz of Diagon Alley, tucked just far enough away to feel like a secret.

Two separate back entrances led to the upstairs dwellings, with a narrow set of stone steps winding toward each flat. Between them, a third door—the old delivery entrance to the shop below—sat unused, gently sealed with aging wards Hermione was mildly intrigued by. From the alley side, you’d never know anyone lived above it. Just another forgotten storefront with dust on the display glass and a fading charm on the sign. No lights in the windows. No sign of life. Her tenant was a quiet witch who spent most of her time painting, and left little offerings of jam jars and lavender sprigs outside her door like it was the most natural thing in the world. She reminded Hermione a bit of Luna—moonlight personified. Ethereal. Whimsical. Sometimes overly kind in a way that made Hermione feel seen and uncomfortable all at once. The kind of person who saw too much and never made a fuss about it.

Sitting in the chair by the window—the one with the worn velvet cushion and faint scorch mark from a misfired heating charm last winter. Hermione sipped her tea without tasting it, aching the world as if it might explain itself. Outside, the light had shifted. Soft gold spilling across the courtyard bricks.

Someone—probably the elderly witch from the other side of the courtyard—had tended to the flowerboxes again. The blooms were almost offensively cheerful. Pansies and violas in deep purples and bright yellows, trailing ivy spilling like lace over the edges. They fluttered gently in the breeze, utterly unbothered by the fact that the world had nearly ended not that long ago. She stared at them for a long time.

Seventeen purple. Three lemon yellow. Twenty-one white. Twelve sparkling blue. She’d counted the flowers…

The tea had gone cold, and unproductivity was something Hermione simply could not cope with. She sprung out of the chair, leaving the half-empty mug on the table, rushed to grab her handbag, stepped into her worn-in Birkenstock Bostons, and shrugged on her camel-coloured trench coat with barely a thought. And then she was out the door. No idea where she was going. Only that she’d drawn the line at counting flower blooms like a Victorian ghost in a modern shell. After a brisk walk along Diagon Alley, she realized today was not a day she wanted to be seen. Not recognized. Not stopped. And absolutely not talked to by anyone who might mean well. She didn’t want to explain why she wasn’t at work. Didn’t want to smile politely while someone asked about her next “big project.” Didn’t want to answer questions she hadn’t even answered for herself yet.

So, she turned away from the familiar storefronts. Slipped down a narrow side street near the apothecary, tapped her wand to the bricks, and crossed the boundary that separated magic from Muggle.

On the other side London swallowed her whole in the best way. Anonymous. Fast-moving. Full of strangers who didn’t care. So, first things first:  If she were one of those hipster people. If she were the kind of person who just… floated through her days with artfully messy hair and a leather-bound notebook full of pretentious thoughts. If she were the kind of woman who wore minimalist linen in muted tones, never seemed to rush, and spent her mornings journaling about gratitude in ethically sourced cafés. If she were that person—Hermione Granger, post-Ministry, at peace with herself and her curated houseplants—then the first thing she’d do was obvious: Get herself one of those specialty-this-or-that coffee drinks. From a Muggle café with exposed brick walls, artisanal lighting, and a chalkboard menu that made you feel like you needed to pass an entrance exam just to place an order. She couldn’t walk into the first café she saw, that much she knew. It needed to feel right, or at the very least, tolerable. Not too bright, too loud, nothing with cheery quotes or acoustic covers of happy songs.

She walked aimlessly for a while letting the noise of the street blur around her. Passed a bakery that smelled like cinnamon and expectation, passed a chain coffee shop that felt too fluorescent, too easy. Eventually she stopped in front of a narrow storefront with ivy creeping down its side and a small handwritten sign in the window. It didn’t scream for attention. Inside, the lighting was soft. No one was performing productivity. No one noticed her at all. That was good. She stood there for a moment longer, hands deep in her coat pockets, as if her body hadn’t quite gotten the message that it was meant to move. Then—quietly, without ceremony—she stepped inside. Warmth greeted her. Not cozy—just… warm. The kind that smelled faintly of dark roast and overachievement.

There was a line, because of course there was. Three people ahead of her. Each with very specific needs. “I’ll get the oat flat white, half pump of hazelnut, extra dry, extra hot.” 

“Can I do the single-origin espresso flight but sub the Guatemala with the Peruvian dark?”

Hermione blinked. She was an Earl Grey person. Splash of milk. Teaspoon of honey. Predictable. Quiet. Hers. And coffee? That was for emergencies only. Triple espresso. No sugar. No milk. Functional. Brutal. Necessary.

This wasn’t that. This was… a scene. By the time she reached the front of the queue, she’d read the menu three times and understood none of it. Hermione panicked.

“Morning, love,” the barista said, glancing up at last. Thick Scottish accent. Hair scraped into a defiant bun. An apron dusted with what looked like cocoa powder or cinnamon. She raised an eyebrow, pen poised over a notepad.  “What can I get you?”

Hermione stared at the chalkboard behind her. There were words on it. She knew that, but they weren’t registering in any meaningful way.

Hermione cleared her throat, trying to sound composed. Normal. Like she ordered coffee in places like this all the time. “Do you… have any specials?”

The barista leaned her elbow on the counter, eyes gleaming with something like amusement.  “Aye. Got a single-origin Tanzanian pour-over that’ll make y’see the face of Merlin.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh.”

“Or the iced lavender honey flat white, but that’s mostly for girls in linen who speak in lowercase.”

Hermione had no idea what that meant, but it felt vaguely insulting. Or aspirational. Hard to tell. She straightened her shoulders just a fraction. “Well,” she said, calm and deliberate, “let’s try the Tanzanian pour-over, then.”

The barista’s brow arched ever so slightly “Bold choice, love.” She wrote the order with a flourish, handed Hermione a stamped loyalty card, and pointed toward the end of the counter.  “Name?”

“Hermione.”

A flicker. Just for a second. Then the barista nodded again. “First time trying Tanzanian?”

Hermione blinked. “Is it obvious?”

“Only to people who know what Tanzanian coffee tastes like.”

Hermione smiled thinly. “Then I suppose I’ll find out.”

The barista moved with casual precision—measured scoops, a slow, spiralling pour, the scent of dark roast unfolding in the air like a spell. Halfway through, she spoke—just loud enough to carry over the soft gurgle of the kettle. “D’you want it to go, love?”

Hermione looked up. The question was innocuous. Offhand. But it landed like a weight in her chest. She could say yes. Let the paper cup be her shield. Walk the streets with purpose, as if she had somewhere to be, someone to be. She watched the steam rise. Felt the sting of her indecision. “No,” she said. “I’ll stay.”

The barista didn’t look up—just nodded once, like that was exactly what she’d expected and after a few awkwardly quiet moments—hands folded, eyes fixed anywhere but on other people—Hermione reached for her steaming cup.

She held it carefully, as if the heat might give her something to hold onto. Then, almost absently, she glanced at the barista’s name tag.

Sorcha. Of course it was.

“Thank you, Sorcha,” Hermione said, her fingers curled around the too-warm cup, steam rising into her lashes.

The woman glanced over her shoulder, a cloth in one hand, mischief barely restrained in her eyes. “Anytime, love,” she replied, voice lilting. Then—cheeky wink, full power—and she turned back to her counter like she hadn’t just casually dismantled Hermione’s emotional armour with a single eyelid.

Hermione took a seat in the quietest corner she could find. The kind of spot that felt like it had been waiting for her. She set the cup down, stared into the dark swirl of her coffee, then looked out the window, and exhaled the breath she did not know she was holding. She sipped her drink and braced herself for the unknown. It wasn’t like her usual triple espresso—sharp as a knife and twice as mean. This was… smoother. Still strong, still bitter—but with a softness underneath it. Almost floral. A little bright. Something she couldn’t quite name.

It didn’t punch her in the throat. It… unfolded. She blinked. It was pretty good. Not comforting, exactly, but interesting. Surprisingly tolerable. Which, from her lately, counted as high praise.

Hermione shifted in her seat, took another delightful sip, stretched her legs under the table, and caught her reflection in the window’s glare.  That’s when it hit her. The hair—messy but effortless. The mock-neck sweater, in just the right shade of “forest academic.” Wide-leg trousers. Soft wool. Whispering “I have opinions about indie presses.” Her coat, casually draped. The bag—leather, worn, intentional. The fountain pen. The notebook. The coffee.

Oh, Merlin! She looked like one of them - the very kind of hipster person she’d been observing from the corner of her eye for the last half hour—artfully undone, sipping niche beverages and writing things with serious expressions. She was one knit beanie away from starting a podcast. Hermione Granger, war hero, Ministry reformist, accidental hipster. She nearly dropped the coffee. Horrified, she sank lower in her seat.  Well, that’s what you get when you bolt out of the house like you’re cursed, don’t glance in a mirror, and throw on the first thing that matches your emotional damage palette.

She yanked her traveller’s notebook onto the table like it owed her an explanation. Opened it halfway and shrank into the page. No dramatic scribbling nor sweeping manifesto, just… something to look at that wasn’t her reflection. A place to disappear for a while…

It was hours later by the time she made it home. The sky had begun its long slide into dusk. Her arms were full—an overstuffed shopping bag crinkling with the weight of old comforts - Muggle books. Notebooks. Tiny bottles of custom ink. Sticky tabs in far too many colours. Three new fountain pens—none of which she needed. But there’d been something oddly grounding in the smell of paper and fresh books. Something steadying about the predictable logic of dotted pages.

Her steps up the back stairwell were slower now. Measured. Tired, but not heavy. She reached the landing. Shifted the bag in her arms and froze. The wards. Her wards—subtle, woven tight, charmed to her signature. Something was off. It was barely perceptible—like a single out-of-place note in a familiar melody—but it was there.

Frayed. Shifted. Breached.

Her heart stuttered and for a split second, her body didn’t move—every instinct screaming in parallel, overlapping and contradictory. Then— Bag dropped. Wand drawn. Breath shallow. Hands steady. Fight-mode activated. Because Hermione Jean Granger didn’t play defence anymore. The door wasn’t wide open, just… unlatched. That was enough. She moved in silence—wand up, breath held, back to the wall. One step. Another. A creak in the floorboard near the kitchen. She didn’t call out, didn’t ask. If someone had gotten through her wards, she wasn’t giving them the dignity of warning.

She rounded the corner like a ghost with teeth. “Expelli—” and stopped. Flat.

There—standing sheepishly in her kitchen, holding her red kettle like he belonged there—was Harry bloody Potter.

Hermione didn’t lower her wand, she didn’t even blink. They stood there—frozen, breath caught. Her wand still raised. Him holding her red-with-white-polka-dots kettle in both hands like it was a bloody peace offering.

And then— “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Harry.” She dropped her wand arm and scrubbed her face like she could erase the last fifteen seconds from existence

Harry blinked. “What?”

“You scared me!” she hissed, stalking into the kitchen. “Don’t ever sneak into my flat again. Ever. Please.”

He had the audacity to look offended. “I knocked!”

“And...?”

“Well, what was I supposed to do? Sit on the stairs like a lost puppy while you meander around somewhere, Godric only knows where?”

She huffed. Which, in truth, came out more like a snort. “I almost hexed your eyebrows off,” she muttered. “Amongst other things.”

He held up the paper bag. “I brought biscuits.”

“Oh, well—congratulations. You’ll be very well-fed while I hex your kneecaps.”

He just grinned. The bastard. And turned back to making the tea like this was any normal afternoon.

Hermione sighed, scooped up the bags she’d dropped in the hall, removed her coat and shoes—because yes, shoes off in the house was basic human decency, thank you very much—and slipped into something that felt vaguely like a routine. She washed her hands at the sink. Then stepped forward and hugged Harry from behind—arms sliding around his middle, her chin resting lightly between his shoulder blades.

“Really, Harry. What are you doing here?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

They sat by her coffee table and it seemed to be having a good day, as it was pretty stable today - all legs touching the floor evenly. Two bone chine coffee cups Hermione had kept from her mum’s kitchen as a nostalgic keepsake, filled with aromatic vanilla rooibos tea, Harry's favourite, so she always had some in her cupboards. Hermione sat back on one of her floor cushions, waiting for her tea to settle a bit and looked at her friend fidgeting on her plush sofa, sitting on a very edge of it. 

Having reached some kind of conclusion in his head, he took a deep breath and with almost a nod to himself looked at Hermione. “Are you okay, Mini?” 

The nickname slipped out, soft and familiar. She used to roll her eyes at it—Mini, like she was a pocket-sized sidekick. But these days it did feel almost accurate. He’d grown taller, broader—bigger, in that quiet, unshakable way men sometimes did when maturing, when life had tried to break them and failed. Now, next to him, she did feel small. Not in strength—but in weight. In exhaustion. In the way someone feels after giving too much of themselves for far too long. She furrowed her brow and glanced at him, confused by the sudden concern. He didn’t usually fuss. Her friend was worried—that much was clear. What wasn’t clear was why, all of a sudden, he seemed so very concerned. She furrowed her brow and glanced at Harry, a question in her eyes. 

“Yes and no, Harry. You know how it is…” She took a careful sip of tea—still too hot, of course—and winced as it singed her tongue. With a sigh, she set the cup down.  “Look, it’s been a decade of the same. I just—had to walk out. So, I sent my resignation last night.” A pause, deep breath.  “I’ve been trying to remember how to exist without fifteen things screaming for my attention at once.” She shrugged “And failing. Spectacularly.” The quiet settled around them for a while.  “I just… I just can’t…” Her breath caught. Something stung behind her eyes. 

“I’ve bled for this world, Harry—figuratively and quite literally. As you know all too well.” A sniffle. Her fingers toyed with the teaspoon. “And there are scars to remind me of that daily.” She kept her eyes down.  “I can’t keep running into closed doors. Being questioned by closed-up minds. It’s just… I don’t know. Too much. Or not enough. But I can’t keep going like this.” She exhaled, weary and final. 

“Let someone else do something worthwhile for a change. I’m done.” Quiet tears traced down her cheeks. She didn’t bother wiping them away.

Harry stilled. His fingers tightened slightly around the teacup, but he didn’t speak. Just watched her, gaze soft and unreadable. A flicker of surprise. Something like grief. Something that looked an awful lot like understanding. Then—slowly—he stood. Rounded the coffee table. Sat down beside her on the floor. And pulled her into a hug. A solid, wordless kind of hug. No explanations. No questions. Because that’s what Harry did. He didn’t fix things. Didn’t force them. He just was. He listened. He stayed. And it was his quiet, steady presence that undid her completely. A single, shuddering sob cracked open her chest. Then another. And then there was no stopping it— the full-body, breath-stealing collapse of it all. Years of holding it in. Years of fighting. Of pushing. Of managing. Now—just this. Her living room floor. Harry holding her. And nothing left to hold herself together for.

Eventually, the sobs ebbed—slow and ragged, like waves that had lost their strength. Her breathing steadied and her grip on his waistcoat loosened. She didn’t speak, and neither did he. Not for a long while. They just sat there on the living room floor, tucked between silence and steam. The tea had long since gone cold. Again. Her morning cup still sitting on her round desk by the window. 

But the air felt clearer. Her chest, a little lighter. And when she finally pulled back—eyes red, face damp—Harry only reached for the biscuit tin, opened it without a word, and nudged it toward her. She took one. Nibbled the corner. And for the first time in a long time, she felt she could breathe again.  “It does get better,” Harry said softly, looping an arm around her shoulders and giving her a gentle squeeze.

“Not all at once. But it does.” 

“Promise?” she whispered; her voice raw from the wreckage.

He shrugged. “I could teach you some carpentry spells, if you want.”

She blinked at him. He looked almost serious.

“It helped me,” he added. “Doing something with visible, touchable results. Something real. Something I enjoy and can do on my own terms.”

Hermione let out a laugh—dry, slightly unhinged, but real. “I’m glad you found your thing, Harry. But thank you—no thank you.” She rested her head on his shoulder with a quiet sigh. “Can you imagine? All that dust… and all this hair.” That earned a proper chuckle from Harry—low, familiar, and unguarded. Harry’s chuckle faded into the quiet between them. They stayed like that—shoulder to shoulder, heads tipped together—until the shadows in the room shifted and all the biscuits were polished off.

Eventually, he stood, hugged her again, said something soft and simple, like he always did and then he left. 

The flat was quiet again. Too quiet. Hermione didn’t turn on the lights. She curled back into her armchair by the window, the cushion still holding her shape from earlier.

Harry’s voice echoed anyway. “So, what now?”

It had been three days since Harry left her flat with a kiss to the crown of her head and a handful of crumpled biscuit wrappers in his pocket. Three days since she’d cried until her lungs gave out and promised absolutely nothing to anyone. Three days of sniffing candles in shops she had no business being in and wondering—existentially—what kind of person buys decorative pebbles. Three days of avoiding mirrors, dodging her own reflection in windows, and ignoring the question that lingered like smoke.

So, what now…

She couldn’t answer it. Instead, she’d rearranged her books by colour, alphabet, and then mood. She’d deep-cleaned her bathtub at midnight. She’d contemplated getting a dog. She’d wandered through Muggle London until her feet hurt, bought herself a single overpriced croissant, and nearly cried in front of a florist without knowing why.  Three days of sniffing candles in shops she had no business being in and wondering—existentially—what kind of person buys decorative pebbles. 

The flat was spotless by now, thanks to her late-night cleaning bursts and restless energy keeping her up. She still had no plan, no ideas of where to go from there, and the question still lingered unanswered.

She bought seven more houseplants, with no clue how to properly take care of them. Repeatedly imagined what it would be like to have a dog in her apartment, laying lazily on the couch, or running around chasing its own shadow. The thought of a companion was pretty instant and the list of breeds she mentally “tried on” was growing by an hour. She baked too hard cookies, runny in the middle pies, and cinnamon buns that turned out too dry. Bone dry, some may say. Maybe she should adopt one of those mini piggies, they were supposedly very intelligent, she thought, discarding yet another uneatable creation of hers. 

Days went on, relentlessness driving her through the motions. She had turned to Neville for help, to try and save her house plants that were in different stages of despair. He had shown up the next morning with Pansy in tow. He did whatever magic he usually did to revive her plants, some were over watered, others needed more light and one of them he took home with him, telling Hermione it needed intensive care for it to have even a slight chance of it surviving. 

While he whisper-talked to a mostly limp spider plant, she and Pansy had some tea. Pansy updating Hermione on the latest goings and doings of their friends. Apparently, Theo had found rhinestones and glitter glue. Ginny had cut micro bangs (“again,” Pansy said with a long-suffering sigh). Blaze bought another winery. Luna had “found” a few new supposedly extinct plants on her father’s estate. And Pansy was thinking about turning one of their light-flooded corner rooms into a painting studio or something else that would benefit from all that natural light. She mentioned Draco, too. Briefly. Said he was too busy for his own good again. He’d become something of a shadow in their circle—present in name, important to half of them, but always just out of reach. Wrapped up in whatever life he was leading. Close enough to be missed yet distant enough to never become known by the rest.

“Oh, and Hermione, darling—mark your calendar. Tuesdays, noon. Standing tea meetings for the foreseeable future.” Pansy had tossed it out as casually as one might announce a weather report, already shrugging on her coat like it was non-negotiable. And knowing Pansy it truly was just that - non-negotiable. 

After they left, Hermione discovered her Birkenstocks were missing again. With a sigh, she made a mental note to hide her cozy footwear before Pansy’s next visit. It wasn’t the first pair to vanish in her friend’s not-so-secret crusade to turn Hermione into the “style icon” she apparently had the potential to be. Honestly, the woman was like a fashion-forward magpie with a vendetta against comfort. 

When the last edible remnants vanished from her kitchen—down to the questionable tin of beans and the emergency chocolate chips—she could no longer avoid it. Groceries. A priority, apparently. One that had to be dealt with sooner rather than never. Because, as it turned out, a steady diet of tea, dry biscuits, and existential dread wasn’t sustainable. Not even for her.

She bundled herself into a light autumn coat and an oversized, aggressively fluffy shawl—the kind that could double as a blanket, if need be. Solovair lace-up boots—scuffed, well-loved—clomped over her knee-high, fine wool socks, the lace-knit barely peeking above the hem of her skirt. The whole ensemble leaned dangerously close to cosy librarian chic, and frankly, she was fine with that. Let the world underestimate her as it had many times before. She twisted her hair into a messy bun—functional, no-frills—with a few stubborn strands escaping the effort. Not too unlike what Harry had been wearing lately, if she was being honest. Except hers was less “charming dandy/carpenter” and more “burned-out thirty-year-old professional with errands to run.”

It took her the better part of the day, and by the end of it, she remembered exactly why she’d avoided shopping for so long. Blessed be the ways of magic folk and their feather-light and floating charms—because without them, she’d have had to borrow a wheelbarrow from Neville just to haul everything back to her flat.

While lost in the thought about yet another notebook she absolutely should not have bought and that “old library” scented candle she loved and already had a backup to a backup in her candle drawer, that still had found its way into her shopping bag, she had almost missed it. 

Passing the sleeping beauty of a storefront beneath her apartment, something caught at the corner of her eye—something in the once dusty window that hadn’t been there this morning. A crooked sign in bold red letters. Enough to make her stop mid-step and double back.

For sale. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

The last few months had felt like her life was on fast-forward—with a faulty remote and no pause button in sight.

After spotting the For Sale sign in the downstairs shop window, she’d done what any perfectly rational person would do: she panicked. For two days. Straight. She repainted her flat’s window frames in a frenzy that left her floor splattered with sage green regrets. She baked pastries—none of them edible. She tried journaling, with structured prompts and color-coded headers. It quickly devolved into a written argument with herself. Then came the lists: pros and cons, potential business ideas, a letter to her ten-year-old self. That last one broke her. The letter. Not the child.

By day three, no amount of deep breathing or over-steeped tea could tame the buzz in her limbs. So, she did the only thing that made sense in the moment: she contacted the owners of the shop downstairs.

A few more days. Several sleepless nights. A highly professional, completely unamused goblin solicitor. And then—just like that—the money was transferred. Keys in hand. Papers signed and Hermione Jean Granger, newly thirty, recently unemployed, had just spent the majority of her savings on a commercial property. 

She now owned a one whole building, gutters and all, on Diagon fucking Alley. 

Standing by the front door of her new acquisition, Hermione tried to remember some of the wisdom her father had bestowed on her. Something about property ownership and long-term investments. But what the hell did she know? Well OK, she knew pretty much of quite a lot, but this was certainly not one of her many areas of expertise.  

She needed help. 

Not just any help. Not well-meaning friends with tea and glitter glue. She needed someone who wouldn’t flinch at ledgers. Who would scoff at bureaucracy and then dismantle it with a dry quill and devastating precision. Which, regrettably, led her to Grizzak Ironledger.

She’d met him during one of her Ministry initiatives—the sort meant to improve transparency and interspecies cooperation, which had been met with the usual enthusiasm of a gnome at a pixie parade. He hadn’t been impressed by her policies, her politics, or her polite smile. But he had begrudgingly admitted she had a head for numbers. And a better grasp of goblin contract law than most humans alive. They’d exchanged exactly two letters since then. One in which she asked if he’d be willing to recommend a financial consultant. The other, which arrived three days later, was simply: 

“No. But I suppose, if it comes to it, I could look at your books, if only to save you from yourself. – G.I.” That had been years ago. Now, she stood at the edge of full-blown panic, staring at the peeling gold lettering on the old storefront window and thinking, 

“I wonder if he’s still bored enough to be bribed with rare tea and fresh chaos.” She really hoped so. 

Grizzak Ironledger, however, did not agree to help. 

He declared—in clipped, scowling tones—that her finances were a “cry for competent intervention” and that allowing the project to proceed without his oversight would constitute “wilful fiscal negligence bordering on self-sabotage.” And with that, he promptly appointed himself Executive Financial Advisor, drafted an internal ledger system on enchanted parchment, and commandeered the largest room in the back as his office. 

Hermione had tried to suggest a formal contract—twice. He’d scoffed both times, muttering something about “redundant paperwork” and “having already filed the terms under common sense.” 

Which, frankly, left Hermione a bit confused. Because while Grizzak clearly was running a full-blown financial operation (complete with ledgers, subcontracts, and a terrifying tea budget), she… wasn’t. She still didn’t know what she was going to do with the space. Not really. She had the keys, the deeds, the cranky old goblin for a self-appointed financial advisor —but past the initial cleanup and necessary renovations, there was no solid plan. No branding. No merchandise list. No vision board. Just a lot of dust, a lot of receipts, and a lot of Hermione pacing in front of the display windows, muttering under her breath while vanishing decades’ worth of spiderwebs.

It was chaos. Controlled only by the goblin’s strict accounting schedule and sheer disdain for indecision.

Alas, Hermione was all in, at least until the place was spruced up enough to actually do something with it. But she still had plenty of time. Wright? Surely, she did. 

Grizzak worked in the largest of the back rooms, set up his own filing system—enchanted, fireproof, and possibly cursed—and spoke only when necessary. Which was frequently. And always with contempt.

“Your expense categorization is a disgrace,” he muttered one morning, rifling through receipts like they personally offended him. “You’re tracking paint swatches and parchment costs in the same column. I’ve seen toddlers with better column logic.”

To her credit, Hermione only hexed his quill once. 

Weeks passed. Permits were filed. Renovation spells tested and retested. Grizzak oversaw all of it like a goblin possessed—with the solemn precision of a war general and the bedside manner of a cauldron fire. 

It was just past half ten in an ordinary gray Tuesday morning when Grizzak Ironledger emerged from the back office like a storm cloud in a waistcoat. His spectacles gleamed, his parchment was already unrolled, and his mood appeared to be somewhere between “barely tolerant” and “offended by your existence.”  

Hermione looked up from her notebook, mid-sip of lukewarm tea. She should’ve known better than to assume a peaceful morning.

“I’ve reviewed the updated projections,” Grizzak began, voice clipped and grave. “And you, Miss Granger, require an investor.”

Hermione blinked. “I—what?”

“You require an investor,” he repeated flatly. “Unless, of course, your strategy is to haemorrhage your remaining capital like a cursed fountain and die penniless in a pile of exceptionally well-organized receipts.”

“I am not haemorrhaging—”

He raised one gnarled finger and she stopped mid-sentence. “I have, of course, already arranged the preliminary meeting,” he continued, flipping open a tarnished silver pocket watch with a snap. “They’ll be here in approximately…” He narrowed one eye. “... six minutes.” 

There was a pause. A long one. 

“…You what?”

“I have spared you the indignity of grovelling for coin,” Grizzak replied coolly. “You’re welcome.”

“You scheduled a meeting. In my shop. With someone I haven’t even met—”

“I did not say you haven’t met,” he interrupted, folding the parchment with the elegance of someone laying a burial shroud. “I said I arranged a meeting.”

Hermione stood there, blinking. Mouth open. Brain buffering. Grizzak merely adjusted his cravat, smoothed his lapels, and gave her a look so dry it could’ve ignited kindling. 

“You’ve got five minutes to appear presentable,” he said, already retreating into his office. “Assuming, of course, that’s still possible at this stage.” 

Flabbergasted, Hermione clumsily brushed dust off her jumper, pinched some colour into her cheeks, and fluffed her hair with the urgency of someone halfway to fleeing the scene. She was still weighing the logistics of a dignified escape when the bell above the door gave a cheerful chime. 

Too late. 

Grizzak emerged from his office with the solemnity of a judge and the scowl of a disappointed accountant. He glanced at her—flushed, wide-eyed—and said absolutely nothing. Then, with the dignity of a goblin accustomed to running entire empires from behind a desk, he turned to greet the newcomer.

“Lord Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he intoned, not a shred of surprise in his voice.

Of course. Of course it had to be him.

Hermione blinked—once, twice—caught off guard by the sight of him standing in her doorway, elegant as sin and wearing what could only be described as a dangerously polite smile.

“Hermione,” he said, reaching out with that effortless aristocratic grace—like they hadn’t spent their school years flinging hexes and pointing insults across every corridor of Hogwarts.

“Lord Malfoy,” she replied—too stiff, too formal. But what else was she supposed to say?

How did one greet someone who had once made her life miserable… and now looked like he’d stepped out of a luxury fashion spread, riding in with investment paperwork instead of prejudice?

It took her a beat too long to realize he was still holding out his hand.

She blinked. Flushed. Then quickly extended hers to meet him, offering the most professional, no-nonsense handshake she could muster—like this was just another Tuesday and not a low-key existential crisis in the making.

“Draco, please,” he said gently, his fingers warm and steady as they closed around hers. Instead of a simple shake, he turned her hand slightly—precisely—and pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to her knuckles. He didn’t linger. Not really, but it was still a breath too long. Just long enough for hers to catch in her throat. 

Blaise Zabini walked in shortly after, kissed her cheeks like he owned the room, and reminded her—again—that she was still expected at dinner this Saturday.

He’d become a damn good solicitor. No surprise there. And it wasn’t remotely shocking that young Lord Malfoy had sent his father’s crusty old law team straight to Azkaban in a bespoke hand basket and put Blaise on retainer the second the title became his. 

Who would’ve thought that beneath all the polish and pureblood posturing was a decent, fair man—once he’d finally stepped out from under the long, choking shadow of Lucius Malfoy? 

She allowed herself a moment of quiet appreciation. Just one. It had been—what, a handful of years? Maybe more. 

There were laugh lines at the corners of his grey eyes now. A small crease between his brows—concentration, or maybe even worry. His skin was unfairly smooth. Dewy, her brain supplied. Yes. Dewy.

He was handsome. In a way that felt like a personal attack. The kind of handsomeness that made her want to bite his forearm in a sudden burst of cuteness-aggression and… scientific curiosity? Just to see what would happen. Hermione needed a minute. A full minute to mentally dissolve and reassemble herself.

She could hear Grizzak—her grumpy, self-appointed financial advisor—muttering through the proposals in the background, every clipped syllable punctuated by the sharp click of numbers aligning in a ledger only he could see.

She took a few steadying breaths. Quiet. Subtle. The kind of breath one takes when trying very hard not to combust from proximity to dangerously well-tailored aristocracy.

She was almost certain she pulled it off. Almost.

Because she completely missed the quiet flicker of amusement in Draco’s eyes—and the barely-there smile curling at the edge of his mouth as he watched her try to pretend, he wasn’t, in fact, slowly unravelling her brain with nothing more than presence. 

Grizzak and Blaise handled the negotiations. Hermione, for the most part, sat very still and tried not to choke on anything.

Apparently, she was opening her own bookshop-slash-stationery-slash-niche-tea boutique. That was news. To her.

Meanwhile, within twenty-six minutes, she’d spilled ink, choked on her water, and forgotten how to speak in complete sentences. All because of one Draco Malfoy—taller than she remembered, too well-dressed for a Tuesday, and unfairly composed. Thank Merlin, she trusted Grizzak implicitly.

The goblin was a financial predator with a vendetta against poor planning—sharp, relentless, and entirely immune to social distraction. She had no doubt he was securing the best possible deal on her behalf.

Which was good. Because she was busy trying not to visibly melt into her chair. Hermione was flustered beyond reason—but doing her damned best to project casual professionalism. 

Whether or not she succeeded? Well… that depended on who you asked. If you asked Hermione, she’d say she held it together. Barely. A passable impression of calm, collected professionalism—discounting the spilled ink and one near-choke on her water. If you asked Draco Malfoy?  He’d just hum, polite and noncommittal. Maybe raise an eyebrow. Because of course he noticed. The pink in her cheeks, the way she blinked too fast, the way her fingers fumbled slightly around the quill. And maybe—just maybe—he liked that.

With a nod from Grizzak and a final flourish from Blaise’s quill, the investment contract was sealed. They exchanged farewells. Polite, professional. Hermione managed to keep her footing, for the most part, anyway. Draco, for his part, left without fanfare—just the ghost of a smile, like he’d won a hand no one else realized they were playing. 

When she had stood by the front door of the shop weeks ago, dusty and uncertain, Hermione hadn’t known what she was doing—just that she couldn’t keep standing still. She’d expected a mess. Expected spirals. She hadn’t expected Grizzak. She certainly hadn’t expected this.  And yet—here she was. Investment secured. Business (allegedly) underway. And Draco Malfoy, of all people, walked into her life like it was the most natural thing in the world to drop coin and kiss knuckles before noon.

She exhaled. Long. Quiet.

Upstairs, a notebook waited—already aching to be filled with to-do lists she didn’t have titles for yet. So Fine. She had apparently just become a shop owner. Not just a location, but a full-blown concept. Whatever shape it took—that was a problem for tomorrow. Today, she had a brass doorknob to polish, an infuriating goblin to out-stubborn… 

…and possibly a new crush to deny until the end of time.

“You are most welcome, Miss Granger!” came the voice from the back of the shop—brisk, dry, knowing, and unmistakably Grizzak—just before a door shut with pointed finality.

Hermione sighed. Loudly. Right. She had some fountain pen suppliers to find, then.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Not long before opening day, Grizzak had informed Hermione—without preamble—that he had hired two employees to handle the day-to-day running of the place.

Nibs was the younger of the two, a house-elf freed under the very reforms Hermione had once steamrolled through the Ministry. To say she was enthusiastic about working for “Missy Hermione” was putting it mildly. She treated every task like a mission from the gods and had an unnerving talent for appearing exactly where Hermione least expected her—usually with a feather duster or a clipboard in hand. The day she discovered enamel pins, she’d gone pale with excitement, and a full-blown obsession was born. COFFEE, BECAUSE MURDER IS WRONG was today’s pin of choice for Nibs, the shop’s irrepressible Floor Manager & Curator of Muggle Curiosities.

Tibble was another matter entirely—an elderly library elf Hermione had, quite by accident, due to Grizzaks impeccable management skills (his own words) really, coaxed out of retirement. He had accepted the position of Assistant Curator of Magical Literature (his own, non-negotiable title) with the gravity of someone swearing an oath. He scoffed openly at the shop’s growing collection of Muggle romance novels, yet somehow managed to read every single one “for research purposes,” or so he claimed. Slow and steady, he was also comically blunt, often leaving patrons bewildered—but his book recommendations were flawless. The witches who followed his advice almost always returned, usually for the next scandalous Muggle romance series or the occasional murder mystery.

In truth, the shop was running far more smoothly than Hermione could have managed alone—and she was honest enough with herself to admit that was almost entirely down to Grizzak. The old goblin seemed to have an uncanny knack for anticipating what would be needed before anyone else thought of it. Hermione didn’t believe in Divination, but there were moments she found herself wondering if he might have a touch of the Sight. Every so often she caught herself bristling at the thought of being a side character in her own story. But then Grizzak would do something maddeningly efficient—secure a delivery before she’d even placed the order, schedule an appointment before she’d realized she needed one—and she’d remember how exhausting it was to do everything herself. If that meant letting him commandeer the largest back room as his office, complete with a shiny brass nameplate reading Grizzak Ironledger, CFO, so be it. Things got done. Without her bending herself in half to make them happen.

It was… refreshing.

She could spend her days actually enjoying the shop—watching the elves’ odd little working rhythms, dreaming up new inventory to amuse and delight her magical customers. The mechanical pencils with their absurdly tiny erasers had already caused a minor sensation. Half the customers marvelled at the cleverness of it; the other half seemed personally offended they hadn’t thought of it first. Hermione found the whole thing deeply satisfying. Witches could brew a potion to regrow bones, wizards could Apparate halfway across the continent—but put a small, replaceable stick of graphite in a metallic tube and suddenly the world tilted off its axis. The first shipment sold out in an afternoon and these pencils had to be restocked frequently. 

The tea selection was one thing Hermione mostly managed herself. Apart from the rooibos-vanilla blend she kept in stock purely because it was Harry’s favourite, and a specific Earl Grey she selfishly stocked for her own use (taken with milk and honey, to the scandal of any purist), most of the shop’s blends came from Neville's estate and had started as his garden elves sending their greetings Missy Hermione. Once Pansy had inquired about the two teas not from Neville’s estate, Hermione confessed the sentiment behind them—Harry’s rooibos-vanilla and her own scandalous Earl Grey. That was all the invitation Pansy needed to smirk, declare a branding emergency, and insist on a dedicated Golden Trio tea stand. Naturally, this meant one blend was missing. Ron’s “signature” tea—a slightly wrong English Breakfast drowned in milk and four heaping spoons of sugar, usually left to go lukewarm because he was too busy eating—was swiftly added to the line-up. Hermione had, of course, upgraded it to a proper, high-quality leaf blend. Quality first, sentiment second.

These three—Harry’s rich African rooibos, Ron’s refined English Breakfast, and her own scandalous Earl Grey—were sold loose by weight, displayed in tall amber glass jars with brass scoops. Pansy had insisted they deserved their own designated stand, complete with little placards describing exactly how each of the “golden trio” liked their tea prepared. Hermione had rolled her eyes at the idea. The customers, of course, adored it.

Neville’s estate other blends never arrived without first passing through Pansy’s sunroom—a light-filled, overdecorated shrine to glassware, silk cushions, and her own relentless sense of ceremony. He’d appear with a new blend elves had presented him with in a plain jar, and Pansy would settle herself as though presiding over a trial. One sip, a pause, and then her head would tip back as if receiving divine revelation. 

“That one,” she’d announce with regal finality, “is Crumpled Petticoat at Dawn.”

Neville would just huff a laugh. “You’re ridiculous, witch,” he’d say, kiss her temple, set the jar on the table, and retreat back to his greenhouse. By now, he didn’t even blink when a gentle chamomile blend left Pansy’s hands labelled “Moonlit Treason.”

She insisted all their teas be sold exclusively in Hermione’s shop— “scarcity is part of the charm, darling”—under the brand name she’d bestowed: The Greenhouse Oracle. Neville once told Hermione, with an amused shrug, that to him it sounded more like a pub quiz team than a tea company, but he went along with it anyway. And so, on the leftmost shelf, beneath curling gold letters spelling the brand name, Sunroom Prophecies stood in neat rows, waiting for customers to be seduced by names as impractical as they were irresistible.

The one particularly cheerful witch, clutching a tin of Moonlit Treason, once leaned over the counter and asked Hermione if there was “a prophecy in each cup.” Hermione had laughed… then glanced toward the back office where Grizzak was quietly sorting invoices and, just possibly, foretelling the next three months of her life.

Harry was a frequent visitor, often turning up with a slightly crooked shelf or a whimsical bookend he’d made from leftover wood. Hermione suspected half the time he came just to sit by the window with a mug of his favourite tea, the pair of them idly chatting about nothing in particular. They talked about repairs he was making to his own place, about the Ministry’s latest ill-conceived proposals, about what ridiculous name Pansy had bestowed on the elves ' latest blend. With Harry, conversation was easy. It always has been.

The days Pansy visited the store were always a riot—part performance, part social call, and part thinly veiled marketing exercise. If Theo came with her, the chaos doubled. He was, in fact, the main reason The Last Shelf on The Left now stocked those absurd “paint-by-numbers, but with crystals” kits. He’d first spotted one in a Muggle curiosity shop and spent an entire afternoon alternately mocking it and admiring it. By closing time, she’d given in and ordered a trial batch. They’d sold out in two days. Now they were a permanent fixture, much to Theo’s smug satisfaction.

Draco, on the other hand, arrived in measured bursts. Sometimes he came alone, his visits announced only by the cool jingle of the shop bell. Other times he appeared alongside Blaise, the two of them striding in fresh from a meeting at Gringotts, Draco’s gaze flicking over the shelves as if assessing their worth. He never stayed long, but long enough for Hermione to feel the air shift ever so slightly—subtle, but enough to make her wonder what exactly had brought him through the door that day.

As time went on, his visits became more frequent and closer to the closing time. Once Grizzak ushered them out because he needed to close the shop for the night and they were messing with his concentration or something. As their conversation was flowing and none of them wanted it to stop, she invited Draco upstairs for some tea. Their tea nights became a tradition, the conversations often continued via the owl mail. When Hermione got frustrated with how long it took for her to get an answer she started researching and tinkering and this her two-way journal came about. Draco was first to get one and their conversations flowed more freely. The tea nights became later and later, their floos got connected, because she did not feel too good about him going out that late just because she kept him with her chatter. Chatting itself evolved to long glances, lingering touches, blushing cheeks, outrageous flower arrangements, small gifts, rare chocolates, old books, beautiful cufflinks and delicate pendant on a fine silver (actually platinum) chain. Ornate glass paperweight and monogrammed fountain pen. 

Small gifts turned to hugs and kisses on the cheek. Later on, chaste kisses turned to passionate ones and slowly Hermione's private oasis that was her flat became a safe and secret harbour for them both. There was no rush, no drama. Well ok, there were small squabbles here and there mostly about one’s tea drinking habits and proper etiquette of book handling. But all and all they were content, comfortable and happy. Late nights turned to early mornings. Hermione cleaned out a few drawers in her dresser and some space in her wardrobe. Draco’s toothbrush and other toiletries on her bathroom counter, new “proper” tea cups - the fancy bone china ones with dainty silver spoons and teapot holding just enough liquid for two cups at any given time. Oh, and of course, the bedding got an upgrade, because “your bed is too soft Hermione. I need a bigger pillow. And the blanket is too short.”  After every whispered complaint she came home to a new something or the other - brand new mattress that was somehow too big for her bed frame so that too needed replacing, fluffier pillows, massive down blanket and silky-smooth satin bedding with all the thread count. She did protest, but in reality, there was no point, as it felt too good to miss out and Draco was very convincing where his comfort was concerned, or his taste buds or his hair products and that one specific soap that he needed to keep his skin from feeling chalky - imported straight from (insert some super fancy and well-known soap manufacturer in France). Term - high maintenance, came to her mind, but something's got to give, and by the end of the day getting small luxuries was not that bad of a deal.

By the time spring gave way to summer, they spent every night in her flat. Most nights they had dinner together, those times one of them had other plans for the evening. They met in the bed and shared breakfast became their tradition. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

POV: Theodore Nott

He had to let it go.
Merlin knew he’d told himself that enough times. It had been years—years of the same rhythm: waiting, longing, understanding, waiting again.
He’d mastered the art of quiet endurance, the kind that leaves a man hollow but dignified.

Things had been good once. Easy, even—until life, with its endless interruptions, began to wedge itself between them. Meetings. Revisions. Reports. Drafts. Endless emergency meetings, budgeting meetings, expansion meetings, board meetings—each one a brick in the polite, professional wall that rose between them.

Even the smallest things had become barriers. A morning tea. A folded newspaper. A glance that lingered too long. Everything once simple had turned deliberate. Careful. Measured.

It should have been easy, after the war. They’d survived the impossible—surely love should’ve been simple by comparison. But nothing was simple. Not for them.

He’d spent half his youth at Malfoy Manor. Narcissa was the only mother he’d ever known—soft hands, warm eyes, a voice that could quiet storms. She’d taken him in when death claimed his own mother before he was old enough to remember her scent. Lucius was also there. Proud. Exacting. Occasionally terrifying, but predictable in the way thunder follows lightning. For all his sharp edges, Theo had learned to read the man’s moods, to slip between his silences and his sighs, and somehow earn a kind of wary fondness in return.

The Manor had been his refuge—its marble halls and clipped gardens the only place that ever felt remotely like home. Malfoy Manor had been a sanctuary then.
Still was, in a way. It could have been more—so much more—if only…

The love was still there—Godric, help him, it always had been. It couldn’t be any other way. Because Draco bloody Malfoy had owned his heart since the day peach fuzz first dared to grow on his chin.

They had grown up together, then grown together, and now… they were just friends. As if that were even possible. As if his heart didn’t twist itself into knots every single time they met. As if love like that could just evaporate, tidy and convenient, like steam off a potion gone cold. But Theo had learned, the hard way, to be honest with himself about what kind of relationship he wanted. And let’s be real—no one wanted to be an afterthought. Not him. Not anymore. 

Blame it on being an only child, or on still being a bit of one at heart, but he needed to be needed. To be seen. To be cherished—not just desired in the dark when the world was quiet and no one was looking. And as long as Draco remained locked tight in his carefully polished façade, all dusted pride and duty, there was no room for more. No room for them. So Theo had done the only thing he could—walked away before the wanting hollowed him out entirely.

Seven years.
That’s how long it had been since he’d told himself it was over. Since he’d called it quits, at least out loud. But his heart? His heart had never got the message, it seemed. Draco had tried—damn, he had tried. He’d reasoned, bargained, made promises wrapped in silk and good intentions. But when Theo had asked for something simple—stay with me, just for a day, let the world burn without us—Draco couldn’t do it. Not because he didn’t want to. No, that would’ve been easier to hate. It was because of that sense of duty, the spine of steel hammered into him since birth. Because pride was bred into his bones, and duty ran thicker  than blood. Because being a Malfoy always came first. And Theo had learned, painfully, that loving a man like that meant living in the echo of everything he owed to everyone else.

“I am expected back in the office in one hour, Teddy. I really have just enough time to change and grab a quick lunch…”

With a bittersweet smile and a lingering kiss to his cheek—one that said too much and not nearly enough— Theo walked on, knowing damn well he’d left his heart with Draco, and would never get it back.

“I’ll go check on that lunch, then.” 

With resignation, he nodded—just one practiced dip of the chin—and crossed the threshold. The lunch was being handled by the elves, of course. Nothing needed checking. But he walked to the far end of the corridor anyway, boots muffled by generations of rug. Past the study, past the drawing room. To the window at the end of the hall. Where the garden bloomed with absurd devotion, untouched by the frost still clinging to his chest. He stood there, watching nothing in particular, while downstairs,the cutlery clinked and footsteps moved toward the door. He didn't turn back. He’d done that before.

That had been the day Theo decided to save himself. Or at least… the parts still left to be salvaged.

It wasn’t a grand decision. No slammed doors or shattered vases. Just silence—heavy, aching silence—and a truth too sharp to swallow any longer. He loved Draco. He always would. But love, real love, couldn’t thrive on breadcrumbs and longing glances across rooms where duty lived between them. He’d asked for something simple—choose me, just for a day. Draco couldn’t do it. 

And Merlin, did that shatter him. It wasn’t about anger. It wasn’t even a disappointment anymore. It was the realization that if he stayed—if he kept staying—he would become nothing more than the echo of a man. A placeholder. A flicker in someone else's life while snuffing out the fire on his own. So he drew the line. Not out of cruelty, nor to punish, but because, for once, he had to say I matter. I deserve more than this ghost version of love.

Draco had listened, quiet and grim, understanding far too well but unable to meet him halfway. Because he truly didn’t have anything else to give. Not then. Maybe not ever. And Theo—Merlin bless him—he didn’t scream, didn’t sob, didn’t fall to pieces right there. He simply nodded, kissed Draco one last time, like a memory already fading, and walked away.

The weeks that followed were a fucking swamp. Tears that caught him off guard. Anger that showed up wearing his own face in the mirror; mornings he didn’t remember standing up. Nights spent trying to drink the phantom ache out of his bones. But the line held. He’d saved himself. And it broke him. Because it had to. That’s the cost of choosing your own worth over someone else’s shadow.

They remained friends—how could they not? There was no version of the world where he could erase Draco Malfoy from his life. But the part of him that had once dreamed of forever? That part had been buried in the quiet of that final goodbye. And so he turned—full tilt—into life. Into heat. Into pleasure and sharp laughter and devil-may-care flirtation. If he couldn’t have roots, he would have wings. If he couldn’t have love, he’d have wine and warm skin and no expectations.

Because when your heart lives in someone else’s pocket, there’s no use pretending you’re free to give it away again.

Malfoy manor was still home as it always has been. Not in the nostalgic, once-upon-a-boyhood sort of way. But in the real way. The lived-in, breathed-in, bled-in way. 

He might hold the deed to Nott Manor, but it would never be more than a monument to his father’s cruelty and control. Marble halls, ancestral portraits, and a silence that pressed against the lungs like old velvet. It was an inheritance, not a refuge. 

But this place—Malfoy Manor—was stitched into his bones. He had his own quarters here. His own blood had been spilled on the bedrock beneath the foundation—years ago, in a moment of boyish belonging and ancient magic—to lock him in with the wards. A permanent place among them, whether he stayed or not. That was the thing about home. It didn’t always ask for your consent. Sometimes, it simply claimed you.

His own bloody house-elf who still insisted on laying out fresh robes every Friday morning. And the people who mattered lived within these walls. Narcissa with her ever-perfect posture and bottomless compassion. Lucius with his clipped wisdom and grudging fondness. And Draco… 

The Manor hadn’t changed. Not really. It still smelled like bergamot and old parchment. Still echoed with Sunday waltzes in the music room and rainy-day duels in the atrium. It was just… emptier now. Colder around the edges. Not because the people were gone. But because he was no longer held here. Not fully. Not the way he once hoped to be.

Theo exhaled as he reached the hallway’s end, hand trailing along the balustrade like he could coax warmth from the stone. He paused before the familiar archway to the drawing room. The scent of lemon biscuits and strong Earl Grey curled out to meet him. Today was Tuesday. Tea day, and Narcissa—his mum—was already waiting for him.

“Mummy, I’m home!” Theo swept into the drawing room with his signature flourish, arms wide like he expected applause.

“Theodor, darling,” Narcissa intoned, rising with the grace of a woman who hadn’t rushed for anything since the late eighties. She kissed him on both cheeks—perfectly symmetrical, precisely timed.

“We haven’t seen you around here in far too long. Care to explain where you’ve been hiding, love?” Her tone was mock-stern, but the soft tilt of her head and the crinkle at the corners of her eyes betrayed her delight.

Theo pressed a hand to his chest in exaggerated dismay. “Out in the wilds of my own ancestral gloom—neglected, unloved. I barely made it out alive. I’ve returned to civilization for tea and maternal affection—preferably in that order.”

“Ah, that...” Narcissa replied dryly, waving him toward the divan. “Sit, sit, you ridiculous boy. I had Bimby steep the Darjeeling you like, and the lemon biscuits are still warm.”

He collapsed onto the cushions with the languid elegance of a lounging cat, one ankle resting over the other. “You spoil me.”

“Someone has to, darling,” she said, pouring the tea with unhurried precision. She passed him his cup, then raised her own and fixed him with a look just this side of interrogation.

“Look what the cats dragged in.” The voice, clipped and smooth, came from the doorway. Lucius Malfoy stood there, cane in hand, expression unreadable but eyes sharp as ever. The good old patriarch of the house Malfoy or was it an ex-patriarch? Theo never quite figured out whether there was a formal retirement ceremony for heirs and their looming fathers. Likely he’d missed that particular lesson in Proper Pureblood Upbringing—off chasing fairies or hiding from his own father in a broom cupboard. Lucius walked in with the stiffness that marked his off days. The cane wasn’t just for show today. It would rain later—Theo would’ve bet his vaults on it.

“Wait—what?!” Theo jolted upright, nearly sloshing his tea. “Lucy, do we finally have a cat? Is it fluffy? Can I see him? Can I name him?” He was halfway to the door before Narcissa could raise an eyebrow. 

The name Lucy—sacrilege to most, endearing to exactly one—had been Theo’s invention before he could properly pronounce Lucius. And once spoken, never revoked.

Lucius sighed—the long-suffering exhale of a man who had long since surrendered to the chaos that was Theodore Nott.

“Oh, for Salazar’s sake, Theodor—do calm yourself and stop being ridiculous. The cat is metaphorical.” Lucius lowered himself into his usual armchair by the fire—plush, commanding, and positioned with surgical precision for both warmth and gravitas. The flames danced as they always did, enchanted to ease the ache from old joints and older mistakes. “It’ll be a hot day in Azkaban before I allow one of those creatures to roam freely under my roof,” he huffed.

“Oh, bollocks! That’s so unfair!” 

“Language, Theodor, darling,” Narcissa said mildly, her tone halfway between a scold and a lullaby. “There really is no need to be cussing, is there?”

Theo pouted and flopped back into the divan like a man denied the very heart of life itself. 

“But how is it fair, Mummy? All I’ve ever wanted is a fluffy little baby cat-thing. It could live in my pocket. I’d feed it biscuit crumbs and take it everywhere with me.” He punctuated the plea with a mournful nibble on a lemon biscuit, looking more twelve than thirty-two.

Lucius sniffed, unmoved.
“And that, dear boy,” he said, voice clipped and perfectly dry, “is precisely why you are the last person who should be trusted with one. Merlin forbid you ever meet a pygmy puff—our world would never recover.”

This was an old dance. They’d gone through it so often, it might as well have been marked on the calendar—a ritual as regular as tea or rain.Some arguments just looped through time, as inevitable as solstice, taxes, and death. And yet—even now—Lucius wondered, more often than he’d admit, why he always ended up having this conversation with the boy who wasn’t his son. Only… he was, wasn’t he? If not by blood, then by bond. There had never been a moment’s hesitation in claiming him. Not truly. And sometimes—on slow, aching days like this—he caught himself regretting all the times he’d said nothing while Theo’s father had carved cruelty into a child not much older than the one he was raising under his own roof - a boy cherished. Protected. Loved. It was a dark and cold shadow to live under. But Lucius Malfoy, for all his pride, never once corrected Theo when he called him Lucy.

With a glint of mischief in his eyes and a grin that spoke of every button he knew how to press, Theo settled back into his seat. He crossed his legs at the knee, lifted his teacup with an exaggerated flourish—pinky out, of course—and cooed across the rim with mock innocence: “Am I your good boy, Lucy?”

“For all that’s still good in this world, do stop, Theodor darling,” Narcissa cut in, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. The teacup clicked just a little too crisply against its saucer. “I adore you as the second son I was never blessed with—but don’t make me regret it this afternoon. My nerves are not what they once were.” She took a sip, unhurried and exact. “I really have no desire to be handling a broody husband tonight, and absolutely no time for all the complaining about you I’ll be forced to endure if you keep going on like this.”

Theo, of course, gave her his most tragic, wounded expression—the one with the lashes and the pout—and then promptly ruined it by stealing another biscuit with all the grace of a cat who knew he’d never truly be kicked off the furniture.

“Well, you both are as fun as the gargoyles propping up the roof of my ancestral dwellings,” Theo huffed, lifting his nose with mock offense. “But speaking of actual fun…” He placed his nearly empty teacup with exaggerated care onto the side table, then began patting down his pockets.

Lucius sighed. Loudly. With feeling. “Here we go again.” whispering under his breath, as if bracing for an oncoming curse. Because this was part of the ritual, too. The punishment for his past wrong doings, surely. Or just a particularly twisted karmic joke.

Years ago—Merlin only knew why—Theo had looked Lucius dead in the eye and declared that his life was “criminally devoid of joy” and in need of “urgent intervention.” Since then, he had taken it upon himself to deliver said joy like a door-to-door salesman for chaos. And the so-called “fun” had never once ceased arriving. Or exploding. Or catching fire. Or involving experimental potions, magical creatures, or one extremely regrettable afternoon with enchanted juggling knives. Lucius kept his cane within arm’s reach, just in case.

“I happened to stumble upon this charming little boutique—The Last Shelf on the Left—absolute treasure trove, that one” Theo began, hand diving into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket with theatrical flair. “A proper breath of fresh air for wizarding London, if I've ever seen one. Honestly, mummy, you’d love it. The teller there even has some strong opinions about parchment texture and proper scent of black ink.” he mused “Truly, a man after my own heart.” 

From the folds of his jacket, he produced a tightly rolled bundle, wrapped in black silk paper and sealed with a wax crest shaped suspiciously like a smug raven mid-wink. With an exaggerated groan—as though it weighed the same as Lucius’ ego—he extended it toward the older man.

“Here you go, Lucy! I truly believe this is it. I had the other part set up in your study, so whenever you're ready…” Theo reclined back into the divan with a pleased sigh, one ankle elegantly over the other. “I see years—decades, even—of that quiet little fun you pretend not to enjoy.” He sipped his tea with an infuriatingly innocent blink. “You’re welcome.”

The tea was drunk, the biscuits devoured, and the conversations had. Lucius scoffed precisely seven times—Theo had kept count—and Narcissa quietly basked in the company of the one person who brought her the most unexpected kind of joy. Theo had spilled his tea twice and nearly spilled it another three, a personal best he seemed rather proud of.

Eventually, Lucius retreated to his study, muttering something about the decline of fashion discourse and the slow death of proper conversation. He left them to it, having no interest whatsoever in the finer points of next season's colour, the predictions surrounding its undertones, or the spirited debate on how it would affect Theo’s and Narcissa’s complexions. 

“All right then,” Theo said, suddenly straightening in his seat. The mischief drained from his features like someone drawing the curtains. “Now that the tender ears have left the room—shall we get to it?”

Narcissa didn’t smile this time. She placed her teacup down with the quiet precision of someone bracing for impact. Her voice, when it came, was soft. Almost reverent. “How is that other son of mine, Theodor?”

Theo stood, instinctively, and moved to the window. It had become something of a ritual, this part of their Tuesday tea. He would rise, turn away, and look out over the garden—never at her. Not for this.

“I haven’t seen him coming or going,” she continued. “Not for weeks. Is he running himself into the ground again? Chasing deadlines instead of rest? Or is it…” she hesitated, “something else?”

Theo’s fingers curled around the windowsill. The garden outside was a riot of green, perfectly manicured. It looked nothing like the inside of a man unraveling. Slowly turning back to face Narcissa, Theo suddenly froze mid breath, his gaze stuck to the doorframe on the unmistakable silhouette of the prodigal son approaching in determined steps. 

His demeanour changed instantly, a devilish smirk returning, the serious person that stood in his place nowhere to be seen. Theo’s devilish smirk curled slow and easy, like a drawl made flesh. “Oh would you look at that!” he purred, sauntering back toward the divan as if nothing of consequence had just been said. “Look who’s finally decided to grace us with his presence.”

Draco paused in the doorway, immaculate as ever—robes crisp, jaw set, eyes shadowed with the kind of tired that sleep couldn’t touch. There was a brief flicker of something in his gaze when it landed on Theo—something unreadable and far too quick.

Narcissa rose, smoothing her skirt, composure folding over her like a silk veil. “Darling,” she said, her voice brightening like the sun through drawn curtains. “We were just talking about you.”

Theo made a show of dusting off a cushion beside him. “We’ve saved you a biscuit. You’ll never guess what colour next season is predicted to be—though I am taking bets.”

Draco didn’t move at first. Just looked at them—his mother and his… whatever Theo was pretending to be today. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t quite land. Then, with the weight of someone who’d walked too many corridors alone, he stepped forward and crossed the room. “I’m guessing it’s the same shade as my inevitable nervous collapse,” he said dryly. “With undertones of familial meddling.”

Theo beamed. “So close. It’s called Midnight Withholding — supposed to be very fashionable in elite circles.”

Draco sat. Narcissa poured the tea. And just like that, they were three again. But only two of them were pretending it didn’t hurt.