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Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor had been around for ages.
Like most stores in Diagon Alley, the Parlor had been destroyed during the war, and there had been rumors. Rumors of death eaters raiding the store, dragging Fortescue out of his own parlor and into the forest had been the primary theory, Ron had said. It was later confirmed that Fortescue refused to give information about Harry, the wand, and the last diadem.
Voldemort had killed him for his defiance.
The guilt never left Harry.
.
Florean Fortescue is a sweet man, a kind one, Hermione thinks. He had offered Harry his help on his assignments, schoolwork, and general spell theory, which is more than anything she could ever ask for when it comes to his well-being when they were children—giving him a sundae every half hour only sweetened the deal. Mr. Fortescue helped Harry stay alive and kept him from being hunted. Naturally, she went to him first.
Mr. Fortescue had taken pity on the poor muggle that appeared before him dirty and tired.
He offered Hermione a spare room in the upstairs of his shop. She didn’t tell him about her mishap at the Department of Mysteries and how she’s really from the future because she needs to stay as far away from the current war in order to come up with a way to get back to her own time—when the war is over and all that is left to do is to live.
“Why don’t you try mint?” Hermione asks after a moment and dips the strawberries in the chocolate ganache.
“Mint?” Mr. Fortescue asks with a quizzical brow, “Why mint?”
Mint reminds her of her parents, the toothpaste, and the fresh and crisp taste of spearmint coating the insides of her cheek when she takes a deep breath out of her home and on the way to Hogwarts.
“It pairs really nicely with chocolate,” she offers and places the chocolate-covered strawberries on the tray, “Remember that lemonade drink we tried? Tastes like that, just with chocolate.”
Mr. Fortescue makes a sound, “I’ll have to go to the muggle shop, do you think you can man the store while I go to Muggle London?”
Hermione wanted to object. She knew muggle London better than anyone, but on the off chance that she could see her parents—before they had her stumbling in her tracks. With her luck, she may as well run into them, swallowing her retort she nods, “I will woman the store, Mr. Fortescue.”
He chuckles, “Hermione, I told you to call me Flo.”
“I know,” she smiles.
.
The ice cream parlor is bright and wondrous. Small in size, but loud in personality. Hermione quite liked it. She doesn’t really make the ice cream, but serving, and making the cute decorations to go on top of sundaes while searching for a way back take up quite some time. On a Thursday morning, the shop is slow, children are in school, adults are at work and Hermione is prepping for the lunch rush and afternoon flow.
The bell rings as the door opens.
“Welcome to Florean Fortescue’s—” Hermione drawls out after putting the strawberries to the side and looking up to see a very windblown Auror, “—what are you doing?”
“Hi to you too, kitten,” Sirius pants slightly and runs a hand through his dark hair. He crouches low until he’s pressed up next to the window, “I must say, I love the skirt—your legs are gorgeous.”
“Sirius, what’s going on?” she nearly hisses and puts the ice cream scooper down. She huddles to the side, tossing her apron to the back chair and fixing her blouse. “Is someone outside?”
“Kitten, go to the back—”
“—if you don’t tell me what this is about, I will hex you bald, do you hear me, Black?” Hermione leans over and narrows her eyes at him, “Spit it out.”
Sirius pauses and tightens his grip on his wand, “I was chasing down a lead in the northern area of London. It led me back to Diagon Alley, but he caught part of my magical signature, and he started to switch his methods.”
“And you led him here!” she scowls and grabs her wand from her holster on her upper thigh. “Merlin, Sirius, you’re an Auror and you led him to one of the most populated areas in Wizarding London.”
“It was the closest developed area!” he replies defensively and grabs her hand—yanking her down next to him.
Her knees brush his as she watches the street from the window warily. “Why the parlor—”
“Because,” Sirius exhales exasperated and nearly rips out his hair in frustration, “Remember when we first met and you said that I should try the strawberry with white chocolate and pistachio, and I told you that nut-flavored ice cream is disgusting. Then we fought and you shoved the spoon in my mouth, and I almost died by asphyxiation.”
“You did not almost die—”
“—then you had to give me CPR or whatever the hell they call—”
“—ice cream melts and you’re such a—”
“—and then you kissed me, and I didn’t want to stop.”
Hermione clamps her mouth shut at the sudden confession.
“You were so cagey when we first met,” he confesses, “I didn’t trust you, but Flo said that you were a muggle, and you were attacked when you got here. These dark wizards, kitten, they are monsters. You know it,” Sirius says, and his fingers interlace with hers, “And you’re all alone here—defenseless. I had to be here to protect you. Even if I tried to lead Nott and Rosier away with a false trail, they would never be able to resist coming to such a populated area. But if it was just you and me…”
Her eyes shine like two topazes, she gives him her utmost undivided attention, and his heart beat is more prominent when the silence rings.
“...if I got here—I mean, now that I am,” Sirius continues softly and squeezes her hand, “I can give you a fighting chance. I don’t want you to get hurt, not like before—sweet girl.”
If Sirius wasn’t so sweet and so wrong, she would’ve melted at his feet.
“I can take care of myself, Sirius,” Hermione tells him calmly and ignores the way he shakes his head as if in denial, “I’ve been doing this for a long time. Did you call for reinforcements?”
“Twenty minutes ago,” he says and notices a flash of black from the left, “They’re getting closer. Use the back entrance and head down Sunset Ave.”
She rolls her eyes, pats his hand comfortingly, and shifts to the balls of her feet. “How many people?”
“Three at most,” he furrows his brows, “Hermione—”
“A triangle for a fox’s tail,” she murmurs to herself and misses Lord Black startling violently at the Auror phrase. She grabs her wand and stands up straight—the joints in her bones clicking in place. She sets some wards on the parlor before straightening her skirt. “When you open the door, rush directly to the bookstore and cover the angle upwards. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Sirius looks at her as if he’s never seen her before, “What—”
“We have three minutes, go!” Hermione ushers him towards the door and grabs him by the collar, “Just trust me, Sirius.”
He runs.
.
Perhaps the non-verbal spells were overkill.
But to be fair, Hermione rationalizes, that she could’ve done the spells wandlessly too.
So, really, it’s only a matter of perspective.
Sirius had been in position, in the alcove of the bookshop and the protruding sign from the left. She had meant for him to give her cover as she does—whatever the hell she’s supposed to be doing, Sirius had thought.
Hermione in her blue robin blouse, pastel pink skirt, with white socks, and trainers, walks out of the ice cream parlor with her wand smoking.
In hindsight, it made a flabbergasting picture, and Sirius could only stare at her with anxiety churning in his stomach.
But then Hermione shoots offensive spells at Nott and Rosier with a speed that only warlocks could throw. Non-verbal, so the dark wizards couldn’t expect nor hear the spells that were blasting towards them. She’s quick on her feet and managed to herd them into a corner until they were blasted unconscious by her last bombarda.
Rosier and Nott barely had a chance.
Sirius stares.
.
“Did I miss something?” Mr. Fortescue glances at the two dark wizards tied with a thick rope next to his shop.
Hermione watches Sirius nervously and Sirius—looks like he’s been hit on the head with a sledgehammer.
“Well—"
“I think,” Sirius starts off and narrows slate eyes at the length of her legs—wand holster strapped to her thigh and purses his lips, “That we both missed something, Mr. Fortescue. Isn’t that right, kitten?”
“Well,” Hermione leads again and smiles sheepishly, “I didn’t survive this long without picking up some tricks.”
Sirius chuckles despite himself and tugs the collar of her blouse until she’s hovering underneath his chin with a yelp—Mr. Fortescue makes a sound of disapproval, and he searches his eyes curiously, “You’re a bit of a mystery, aren’t you, kitten?”
She flushes under the weight of his gaze and huffs, “All the best people are.”
“I’m starting to realize,” he says softly.
Hermione steels herself for questioning when the Aurors start appearing one by one—Sirius doesn’t let go of her hand.