Chapter Text
“You look beautiful, Hermione,” Harry smiled as he offered her his hand.
“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione nervously smiled back as she placed her trembling hand in his and stepped up to the altar.
Turning, Ron met her gaze and his mouth fell open. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “You look great.”
“You too,” she replied, her voice shaky.
“You may all take your seats,” Arthur Weasley announced.
Hermione focused her attention on Arthur as he began his speech but his voice was nothing more than a muffled mess that was being drowned out by the pounding thuds of her heartbeat. Her vision was rapidly pulsing and no matter how many times she wiped her hands, a layer of sweat continued to cover her palms. All day Hermione had been filled with anxiety.
“I threw up the morning of my wedding day,” Molly had told her. “It’s normal to be nervous.”
The only thing was, Hermione wasn’t nervous.
She was terrified.
The idea of getting married was something she had dreamt about for most of her adolescence. Like many young girls, she had planned the entire day out more times than she could keep count. It would take place outside so that she could feel the warmth of the sun kiss her skin and the sounds of birds chirping would beautifully intertwine with the strums of a guitar as she made her way down the aisle. The ceremony itself wouldn’t be anything extravagant, only her closest friends and family would be in attendance and her father would walk her down the aisle.
It was a beautiful fantasy that she had conjured in her head, but it remained just that - a fantasy.
Today, Hermione stood inside a cathedral and hundreds of people, who she barely knew, watched as ‘The Golden Girl’ married ‘Harry Potter’s Best Friend’. There were no birds chirping, no guitar, and her father was nowhere to be seen. Instead, her dress was too tight, too scratchy, and far too flashy. Her hair was so heavy it was causing her neck to cramp, and the pins to hold it in place were stabbing at her scalp. The heels that Molly had insisted on were pinching her toes, and a rash had already formed on her wrist because of an allergic reaction to the bouquet.
Everything was wrong.
Hermione knew she shouldn’t be so particular about seemingly insignificant things and that she should just be grateful to be alive. The odds that they would defeat Voldemort and live to tell the story were low, but they had done it. They had destroyed all of the Horcruxes and they had done the one thing that a majority of Wizarding England had deemed impossible; they had killed Voldemort.
She should be happy.
She was marrying the boy that she had been in love with since she was fourteen; she had returned to Hogwarts to complete her schooling, and she had secured a job at the Ministry. And yet, she was miserable. The high from being a “war heroine” wore off quicker than a polyjuice potion and all the things that Hermione had wanted and worked so hard towards no longer brought her joy.
Terror replaced the excitement and happiness that should have been present on her wedding day because she knew that the second she spoke those two words and swore herself to Ron, it meant that she would lose her identity. Hermione Granger would no longer exist. Instead, she’d be reduced to ‘Mrs Weasley, The Golden Girl’ or ‘Mrs Weasley, Harry Potter’s Best Friend’s Wife.’
Hermione didn’t want to hurt Ron, he had done nothing wrong. Sure, the fire between them that once burned so fervently had gone dull and as of late he seemed to be more interested in Quidditch than his fiancé, nevertheless, he didn’t deserve to have his heart broken. But Hermione couldn’t do it. She had known for weeks that something was off but it wasn’t until now, as she stood before their friends and random strangers, that she truly realised this wasn’t the life that she wanted, not anymore at least.
So when Arthur asked Hermione if she took Ron to be her husband, three words no one expected to hear fell from her lips.
“I do not.”
8 Years Later…
“The next time that I see you, I expect a full review,” Hermione said as she handed the young girl the book.
“Oh, I will,” the young girl exclaimed. “I’ll see you around Miss Hermione!”
“See you around, Claire,” she smiled.
As Hermione began sorting through the stack of returned books, she felt her phone vibrate in her back pocket. Retrieving the device, she glanced down at the caller ID before answering.
“Hi dad,” she said. “Yes, I have a few more things to do at work and then I’ll head over.” Spotting her boss, Hermione turned, tucked her head and whispered, “Yes, yes, I know. Okay, I really can’t talk right now. I’ll see you soon. Okay. Bye, love you.” Quickly hanging up, Hermione shoved her phone back into her pocket, straightened her spine, and focused her attention on the books in front of her.
“Hermione,” Polly, her boss, nodded.
“Hello, Polly. How has your day been?”
“Aside from the fact that my husband thinks that since there are a few sips left that it’s okay to leave a practically empty milk carton in the fridge and the fact that I spilt coffee on my skirt during lunch, it’s just splendid.,” she replied with a tight smile before walking off.
Polly had never been the friendly sort and always seemed to be annoyed by something, usually her husband. When Hermione first started her job at the library, she was excited to make friends. That excitement quickly died when she met her coworkers. Polly, surprisingly, was the warmest of them all. Hermione was okay with that though. She didn’t take the job for the social aspect; she took it because it was safe, and simple, and she’d be surrounded by books all day.
Hermione left her job at the Ministry a few weeks after she had walked out on Ron on their wedding day. Seeing photos of herself running out of the cathedral plastered on the front page of The Daily Prophet each morning grew old. Hermione also discovered that the job she had accepted was not the one that was being asked of her.
She was meant to be an analyst within the Magical Law Department. But instead, they had paraded her around like some sort of token they had won. What fantastic publicity it was for the Ministry to have two out of three of the Golden Trio working with them. Harry didn’t seem to mind as much but she could see that even he had become irritated.
Unlike Hermione, his name carried a lot of weight. He could refuse interviews and when he spoke to Minister Shacklebolt and said that he was there to work as an auror and not as a quick photo op, Shacklebolt listened. Whereas when Hermione had done the same regarding her job, she was disregarded.
It wasn’t an ideal way to leave, and it pained Hermione to do so, but one day she left and never returned. No notice, no letter, nothing. The only people she informed of her departure were Harry and Ginny. She wanted to start fresh and free herself from the constant watchful eye of Wizarding England. Everyone expected so much from her. And even more so, it felt like they couldn’t wait for her to misstep and taint her ‘Brightest Witch Of Her Age’ status.
Hermione never thought she’d want to escape the magical world, but that’s precisely what she did. She packed her things and moved into a small flat in the Muggle town that she grew up in. She applied for a job at the public library where she spent most of her childhood and she embraced the simplicity of it all.
Running around and fighting evil for years wore her down, and all she wanted was the luxury of just existing, with no one needing or wanting anything from her.
About a year after settling into her new life, she travelled to Australia and sought out her parents. She had done extensive research on reversing the effects of an obliviation. It was painful to see them again and have to introduce herself due to their lack of memory; it took months just for them to remember their first names but after two years, the memories finally returned.
Hermione feared that they’d be angry with her for wiping their memories. She didn’t know how she’d handle losing them all over again if they shut her out. But to her relief, they were understanding and were just glad to have her back.
Thanks to a last-minute cloaking charm on the house that Hermione cast before leaving for the Horcrux hunt, her childhood home was never placed on the market, allowing her parents to move back in upon their return. They reopened their dental office and everything went back to normal.
Normal.
That was a concept that Hermione had been unfamiliar with since she was eleven and first met Harry and Ron. There was constantly something that they were having to investigate or run away from. In the past, Hermione thrived on the immense pressure but as she got older and reflected, she realised it was far too much responsibility to put on three young children. Sure, she had crushes, got asked to dances, and even experienced some heartbreak, but her youth in general had been stolen from her.
So now, as an adult, Hermione decided to be selfish.
Everything that she did was for herself now. She deserved to be selfish with her time and energy. Of course, individuals like Rita Skeeter didn’t agree with her choice and labelled her as an abandoner. She even went as far as to say that Hermione didn’t play that viral of a role in the war, she was just a pretty girl that tagged along.
It’s just gossip, it’s what sells, Hermione had told herself.
At first, it was hard for her to not take things personally. For some time she became obsessed with seeing what new articles were being published about her. It was infuriating to see her name being dragged through the dirt and all of her hard work and sacrifices being minimised. She had given all of herself and never once expected anything in return, but because she separated herself from the Wizarding world, they reduced her to nothing more than some arm candy. Hermione couldn’t stand it and even considered visiting Rita, but she talked herself out of it.
Once Hermione unsubscribed from The Daily Prophet and truly cut ties with the Wizarding world she finally found what she was looking for - quiet.
She spent her days working at the library, her afternoons at home curled up in a blanket with a book, and on the weekends she’d visit her parents. There was no longer any chaos or destruction, just simplicity.
***
Arriving at her parent’s dental office, Hermione approached the front desk.
“Hello Hermione,” the receptionist said, her red-stained lips pulled into a wide smile. “I’ll let your dad know that you’re here.”
“Thank you, Victoria,” Hermione replied before taking a seat in the lobby. Reaching into her bag, she retrieved her book and relaxed back into the chair.
Just as she removed the bookmark and began reading, someone asked, “Is it worth it?”
Looking up from the page, Hermione locked eyes with the elderly woman sitting across from her.
“Pardon?”
“The book,” the woman elaborated. “Is it worth the read? Romeo has been nagging me for quite some time now about reading it. A rather persistent one he is.”
“Oh, yes, I would say so,” Hermione replied. “If I’m being honest, this is my third time reading it.”
Something flashed in the woman’s eyes, leaving her with a look that could only be described as slightly devious. Hermione shifted in her seat as the woman got up and claimed the chair next to her.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Er, twenty-eight,” Hermione hesitantly answered.
“Are you single?”
Hermione’s eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed at the question. She had never met someone who was so forward. She had only just met this woman a minute ago and her personal space was already being invaded.
“Because if you are single, I think I have someone you’d quite fancy,” the woman continued. “He’s a tad rough around the edges but he has a soul that only comes around once in a lifetime. I think you two would be a perfect match.”
Was she being serious? Hermione couldn’t believe what she was hearing. How would this stranger know who would be a perfect match for her? She knew nothing about her aside from the book currently within her grasp.
“I–” Hermione began, but she was cut off when her father stepped into the lobby and called for her.
“Oh, I see my favourite patient and favourite daughter have met,” her father said. “I thought you weren’t due for a cleaning until next month, Ruth.”
“I’m not,” the elderly woman replied. “But it was either come here or attend bingo night.”
“I thought you loved bingo.”
“I do, but last week Phyllis won.”
“And that’s a problem because?” he asked.
“Do you have money to pay for my bail? Because I’d most likely end up in jail for smacking the smug look off of that old hag’s face.”
Hermione did her best to suppress her laughter as the image of the seemingly harmless woman sitting beside her smacking someone at bingo played out in her head.
Hermione's dad cleared his throat and said, “Right, best that you didn’t go then.”
“Precisely what I thought,” Ruth replied. “Now, please tell your daughter that she must join me this weekend for some tea.”
Hermione shook her head. “Oh, I–”
“I think that’d be lovely,” Hermione’s mother interjected as she appeared by her husband’s side. “Ruth bakes the most delicious biscuits.”
“Mum, I really don’t think that–”
“It’s settled then!” Ruth clapped her hands together. “I will see you Saturday at ten,” she said as she turned to face Hermione. “Your parents will provide you with my address.”
Before Hermione could kindly decline with some made-up excuse as to why she couldn’t attend, Ruth shot up to her feet and followed Hermione’s mother back to a room.
What the bloody hell just happened? Hermione asked herself as she slumped back into her chair.
“Do you ever wear anything other than black?” Ruth ridiculed as she motioned for more tea.
Picking up the teakettle, Draco filled her cup and said, “I thought you’d be delighted that I’m always dressed properly.”
“Dressed properly for what, a funeral?”
“Yes.”
“And who is dying, might I ask?” she queried as she brought her cup up to her lips.
“You,” Draco replied as he leaned back into his seat. “At least that’s what you’re constantly saying. You have looked awfully pale as of late,” he teased. “Has the time finally come? Do you see the light?”
Removing the napkin from her lap, Ruth snapped her wrist and smacked Draco in the arm with the end of the cloth.
“Prat,” she scoffed, which caused Draco to laugh.
If someone had sat Draco down six years ago and told him he’d be spending his Sunday mornings having tea with his Muggle neighbour, he more than likely would’ve hexed them.
After the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco turned himself in and paid the price for the part he had played as a Death Eater. He spent three years in Azkaban, during which they granted him the opportunity to finish his studies. Draco knew that the only reason he was allowed to do such was because it would be good publicity for the Ministry and the Minister himself.
Minister Shacklebolt, a man with a ‘heart of gold’ for offering the malicious Death Eater an education. Shacklebolt was even more nauseating than Saint Potter, Draco had decided. The reasoning behind it all didn’t matter to Draco though. He had his sights set on a specific career and he was going to take whatever opportunity he could to work towards it.
No one expected Draco to complete school, let alone take eight N.E.W.T classes and score an Outstanding in each. When the time came and they released him from Azkaban, Draco applied for a Healer position at St Mungo’s. At first, everyone thought he was joking. It wasn’t until he showed up for the third day in a row to check in on his application that they finally took him seriously.
During his interview, the Master Healer, Felicity, asked Draco what made him want to go into the specific profession.
“My mother,” Draco had answered.
During the Battle of Hogwarts, Narcissa made, what Draco deemed to be, the daftest decision ever – she saved Harry’s life. Her false statement regarding whether or not Harry was alive resulted in her life being ended. Draco held her in his arms for what felt like hours as he screamed for someone to help, but no one did.
No one paid any mind to the fallen Death Eater.
Guilt ate away at Draco for not being able to help his mother at that moment but at the same time, he knew it wasn’t his fault that she had died. It was Harry’s. It was Saint fucking Potter’s and his stupid little Gryffindor friends’ fault. On that day, Draco vowed to do everything that he could to make sure he’d never be in a position like that again. The next time one of his loved ones was hurt, he would be able to save them.
After some time, and a subtle threat or two, they offered Draco a job at St Mungo’s. He started as an apprentice Healer and quickly worked his way up the ranks. In just one year, Draco specialised in three different skills. Potions and Plant Poisoning, Spell Damage, and Trauma. He was on track to become the youngest Master Healer that St Mungo’s had seen in over a century and surprisingly; the patients loved him.
His rather unceremonious approach when speaking with them gained their respect. Patients appreciated Draco’s honesty regarding their condition, and if something was going to hurt, they knew they could trust him to inform them of such.
Draco’s career as a Healer and overall future were looking bright, and for the first time, he proved he was capable of achieving things on his own merit and not with the help of his father. If any other witch or wizard were in his position four years ago, they most likely would’ve stayed put and continued on with their career at St Mungo’s, but Draco sought more than just a career - he wanted a life and preferably one where he wasn’t constantly being berated for the mistakes he made as a scared child.
While the patients adored him, the same couldn’t be said for the rest of Wizarding England. Nearly every day, whether he was picking up his morning coffee or just simply walking down the street, someone would spit in his direction. The past that he tried so hard to move on from and grow from was always being thrown in his face. It didn’t matter that he had saved hundreds of lives as a Healer because the only thing everyone else seemed to remember were the few that he had ended as a Death Eater.
So, immediately following the party that his coworkers had thrown for him to celebrate his one-year anniversary of working at St Mungo’s, Draco turned in his resignation letter. He bought a home in a quaint village in North London and slowly, but surely, became accustomed to the Muggle lifestyle. Draco had always pinned Muggles to be rather lazy, and he quickly discovered he was right for believing so, but it was just what he wanted. There was no longer anything being asked of him. No one was telling him who he could and couldn’t be, and most of all, no one knew who he was.
It was his fresh start, a way for him to truly build the life that he had dreamt of.
While Draco no longer worked at St Mungo’s, his reputation as a Healer remained intact, and every once in a while he took on special cases, most of which he’d travel for. When he wasn’t working, he simply enjoyed the quiet that surrounded him. He didn’t bother with making any friends or getting chummy with any of his neighbours, except for Ruth that is.
Less than twenty-four hours after Draco had moved into his new home, Ruth waltzed right in and made herself far too comfortable. She didn’t even bother introducing herself before telling Draco that he would be fixing various items in her house.
“You’re quite tall,” Ruth had said as she looked Draco up and down. “This means that you can replace the bulb in my living room.”
His first impression of Ruth was that she was loud, had no sense of boundaries, and had seemingly never heard of something called manners. Several times Draco tried to get rid of her, but Ruth was like a cockroach - she’d just keep coming back. Eventually, Draco waved the white flag and changed the woman’s damn light bulbs. He didn’t know how it had happened but not far after, Draco was having tea with her every Sunday morning.
Draco still found the Muggle woman rather annoying, but slowly, he grew to love her.
Ruth, in some ways, patched the hole that had been in Draco’s heart ever since he had lost his mother. She also acted far too much like Narcissa as well. One time Ruth dragged him to one of her infamous bingo nights. She proudly paraded him around the community centre, gushing about how handsome he was and that he was a very rich ‘travel nurse’, whatever the fuck that is. But the primary way in which she resembled his mother was that her major concern was regarding his love life.
“I mean honestly, do you really have no desire to settle down?” Ruth asked before taking a sip of her tea. “You aren’t getting any younger. Your good looks won’t last forever, Romeo.”
“Ruth,” Draco sighed. “Must we have this conversation again? You’re a lovely woman, but we’re just friends.” A cheeky grin crept its way across his lips as he bit into a scone.
“Such a smug little shit,” she replied as she rolled her eyes. “Trust me when I say, you wouldn’t be able to handle a woman like me. I’m entirely out of your league.”
“Don’t forget to mention age preference,” he mocked. “I like an older woman just as much as the next bloke, but I cap it off at forty, which means you’re about thirty years too old.”
A knock on the door interrupted Ruth before she could curse Draco for the snide remark. Waving her hand, she said, “Go answer the door.”
“Oh, do your legs suddenly not work?” Draco questioned, sarcasm lacing every word.
“Like you said, I’m practically ancient. You wouldn’t want to risk my frail body collapsing on the journey over to the front door, now would you?” she smirked.
“You’re an impossible woman, Ruth.”
“And you’re taking far too long to do a simple task. Now, hurry. Who knows, my next breath could be my last.”
Getting up from the table, Draco made his way over to the front door. “It better not be more packages from that online website of yours,” he warned. “You really need to stop-” Suddenly, Draco’s breath hitched, his stomach dropped, and his head spun as he stared at the individual standing before him.
She was slightly taller than he last remembered, her chest and hips had filled out, and she seemed to have finally discovered the ancient tool called a hairbrush. But other than those few factors, nothing about her had changed. Draco felt like he had been transported back in time and was at Hogwarts again as he stared into her golden brown eyes.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Granger?” he asked as he clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes.
“I could ask you the same thing, Malfoy,” she replied just as sharply.
“In case you forgot, I’m the one who answered the bloody door. So why don’t I save us both from this misery and end this conversation here,” he sneered before slamming the door shut.
Just as he had turned to walk away, there was another knock on the door. Letting out an aggravated groan, Draco turned back around and yanked open the door.
“Did you lose your common sense over the years?” he ridiculed. “When someone slams a door in your face, they’re telling you to get lost.”
As he went to, once again, shut the door on her, Hermione pressed her palm against the mahogany wood and pushed it back open.
“It seems like you’ve misplaced your pureblood manners,” she retorted.
“Only when speaking to you.”
“Good to see that you turned out exactly like I thought you would,” Hermione said. “Now, if it doesn’t pain you too much, can you tell me which house Ruth Langford lives in? Clearly my mum gave me the wrong address.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Draco muttered as he dragged his hand down the length of his face.
“What on earth is taking so long?” Ruth called out from the other room.
Hermione’s eyes widened as she recognised the voice.
There was no way that Draco bloody Malfoy was the man that Ruth had said would be a ‘perfect match’ for her. The only thing that they had in common was the fact that they both attended Hogwarts. Other than that, they couldn’t be any different. Draco was sour whereas Hermione was sweet. He was fire, and she was water.
Hermione saw herself as a passionate and vivacious individual who was logical, fair, and ethical. As for Draco, he appeared to still be the same stoic and judgemental boy she knew at school, who clearly still held prejudice against anyone whose blood wasn’t pure.
Even their physical appearance attested to their blatant differences. Where Draco’s edges were sharp, Hermione’s were rounded. His eyes were cold, piercing, and uninviting, and Hermione’s were warm, kind, and gentle. His stature was broad and domineering whereas her frame was petite and delicate.
Coloured ink covered nearly every inch of Draco’s left arm. Various types of flowers bordered the dark mark on his forearm, and a dragon and snake intertwined along the muscular curves of his upper arm and reached his shoulder.
Hermione decided that perhaps there was one additional thing they shared in common. While there was no ink that graced her skin, she was marked on her left arm.
Hermione’s eyes travelled up to Draco’s neck. The collar of his shirt covered a majority of it, but she could still see enough of the black lines that crept along the side of his neck to recognise the marking - it was just like Sirius’s.
“I didn’t realise you were prone to seizures, Granger.”
The sound of Draco’s voice caught Hermione’s attention and caused her eyes to rip away from his neck and snap up to meet his glare.
“What’re you talking about, Malfoy?”
“You were just staring out with a blank expression. It’s a common sign that someone suffers from petit mal seizures,” he explained.
“I don’t suffer from seizures,” she replied with annoyance.
“Then stop fucking staring at me.”
“I’m not, nor was I ever, staring at you,” Hermione argued.
“Right,” he scoffed.
“How long does it take to answer the damn door-oh!” Ruth’s shoulders relaxed as her lips pulled into a mischievous grin. “Hermione, you made it.”
“Hello, Ruth,” Hermione smiled. “You have a lovely home.”
Ruth waved off the compliment. “Please, there’s no need to flirt with me. Save your charm for Romeo,” she winked, which caused both Draco and Hermione to shift uncomfortably. Ignoring the suffocating tension in the air, Ruth motioned for Hermione to step inside.
“Come, join us. Draco will pour you some tea.”
Following Ruth and Hermione back into the living room, Draco said, “She has two hands, she can pour it herself.”
Turning, Ruth smacked Draco on the back of the head. “Don’t be a blighter and pour the pretty girl a drink.”
Hermione made no effort to mask her laughter as she took her seat. Draco scowled at her as he picked up the teakettle and filled her teacup.
“So,” Ruth exhaled as she turned to face Hermione. “Tell me about the book you were reading the other day. Have you finished your third read yet?”
“Third?” Draco let out a mocking chuckle. “Please, it has to be at least your hundredth time reading ‘A History’. Hate to break it to you, Granger, but if you’re still struggling to comprehend the material, you might as well just give up already, because you’re clearly never going to.”
“And what makes you so certain that ‘A History’ is the book that I’m currently reading, Malfoy?” Hermione challenged.
Draco leaned forward and said, “Because it’s the only bloody book you ever carried. For someone who yearns to be the brightest in the group, you certainly waste a lot of time on useless information.”
“It is not useless information!” she argued as she also leaned forward.
“You’re the only one who thinks such. There’s a reason that you were able to continuously check the book out from the library and it’s not because Madam Pince had a soft spot for you.”
“You loathsome little-”
“Am I missing something here?” Ruth interrupted as she looked between Draco and Hermione who were both leaning across the table with murderous looks in their eyes. “Yeah, I’m definitely missing something here,” she continued. “Do you two know each other?”
“Yes,” Hermione replied.
“Unfortunately,” Draco said at the same time.
“Are you going to tell me how or does your generation thrive on being vague?”
Hermione and Draco leaned back into their seats.
Crossing her arms, Hermione said, “We went to school together.”
“What a small world,” Ruth exclaimed. “I mean, what are the odds that you both went to a private boarding school in Scotland and ended up here in Heathgate? Were you also friends with, oh what’s his name again?” Ruth asked as she glanced over at Draco. “The boy that you brought over last month?”
“Theo,” Draco answered.
“Yes, Theo! Were you also friends with him?”
Hermione shook her head. “The only thing we shared were a few classes over the years.”
“And thank Merlin for that,” Draco scornfully added. “I would’ve pitched myself off of the astronomy tower if I shared anything in common with a person like you.”
“A person like me, huh? Feel free to elaborate on what exactly a ‘person like me’ is,” Hermione prompted.
“A pertinacious braggart who thinks that having a bleeding heart is a personality trait and automatically makes them better than everyone else.”
“That’s rich coming from the egotistical twat that actually believes he’s better than everyone solely because of the purity of his blood.”
“Purity of what now?” Ruth asked.
“Nothing,” they both replied.
“You haven’t changed at all,” Hermione continued. “You’re still the same pompous bully that made mine, Harry, and Ron’s lives a living hell for years.”
“Gods, do you hear yourself?” Draco mocked. “Tell me, Granger, do you ever grow tired of this victim complex of yours? I didn’t do shit to any of you. You don’t even know the first thing about living in hell.”
“You called me a mudbl-” Hermione cut herself off as soon as she remembered a Muggle was also in attendance. “You know what you called me.”
“The fact that being called a name by a stupid teenage boy was the worst thing to happen to you only testifies to my statement that you don’t know shit. Your naivety doesn’t make you a good person, Granger. It makes you a foolish one.”
“Spoken like a true Malfoy man, your mother must be so proud.” The words fell from Hermione’s lips before she could stop them. She knew as soon as they were out that she shouldn’t have said them, but it was too late.
As Draco’s eyes darkened, Hermione discovered another way in which they were different. She was the prey, Draco was the predator, and he was ready to go in for the kill.
Hermione was one of the very few students at Hogwarts that was never intimidated by Draco, until now. Her heart was pounding so rapidly that she was certain that, at any moment, it was going to burst from her chest. She felt all the blood drain from her face as Draco slowly stood, placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. Everything about him was threatening. His posture, the look in his eyes, the tightness in his jaw. Not even Voldemort himself induced the amount of fear that Draco was triggering within her as he stared her down.
“Get. Out.” he commanded. There was a roughness in his tone, a harshness that seemed to scrape against the ears.
“Malfoy I-”
Hermione flinched as Draco slammed his fist down onto the table, causing all the dishes to clatter and the tea in her cup to spill out onto the tablecloth. His jaw clenched so tightly that it looked like it might break. “I said get the fuck out!” His words were clipped and punctuated, each one emphasising his vexation.
Hermione looked over at Ruth, who seemed unaffected by the outburst.
“I’m sorry,” Hermione apologised as she got up from her chair. “I’m so sorry,” she said once more before stepping out and closing the door behind her.