Chapter Text
The pavement was still damp when Hermione stepped out, the kind of early spring wetness that never quite dried. She didn’t mind. It kept people inside, under awnings and inside their rideshares, which made the walk to her office far more tolerable. She could hear her own footsteps — the distinct cadence of low, clean heels that said I’m not rushing and I didn’t forget anything.
She passed the corner florist without pausing, though she always liked the way the scent spilled onto the pavement in the morning. Hothouse peonies and cigarette smoke from the shopkeeper’s break — two smells that didn’t belong together, but always had been. She catalogued them absently, the way she always did.
Her coffee order was ready when she walked in. The barista had long since stopped asking her name or what she’d like to order.
At her desk — second floor, small windows, policy division — she laid out her day. Not with color-coded stickies, just a tight line of bullet points in her notebook and a mental map of time blocks. She had a noon call with the East End grant liaison and a late-afternoon review with the signage team. No major fires. No meetings she couldn’t handle. She liked the steadiness of it. Liked the version of herself she became when things were clear and stacked. Predictable.
She had a dinner planned that evening — nothing formal, just Ron.
The day passed in a rhythm she didn’t have to think about. Call, notes, review, a quiet moment with the admin team where she actually laughed. She looked at the clock at five-forty and realized she hadn’t checked her personal phone since lunch.
The walk to the restaurant was short. Ron had picked it — some place with warm lights and dark wood and a menu that never changed. They’d been here before.
She was early, as usual.
Ron arrived two minutes late. He pressed a kiss to her cheek and sat across from her like he always did. Then, he said it.
“I think we’ve run out of steam.”
Before the server had even come to put water on their table.
Hermione blinked. Ron looked uncomfortable, but not nervous. Like he’d already practiced this, run through the lines in his head and scrubbed over them with more detailed precision than he was capable of. He wasn’t trying to be cruel, just efficient. For once in his life.
“I’m not saying we were bad,” he went on. “I just think — maybe we’ve started…coasting, y’know? It’s not your fault.”
Hermione folded her hands under the table, pressing her thumbs together until her knuckles clicked. “I didn’t realize we were a car.”
Ron winced. “You know what I mean.”
She did — that was the worst part. He was still speaking. Something about how things had changed, how they wanted different things now, how he’d started thinking about fun and spontaneity and not needing to schedule every moment of his life. He didn’t say you make me feel boring, but it hovered between them.
“I feel like I’m thirty going on fifty when I’m with you,” he finally said. His voice was quiet, as if that would soften the words.
Hermione looked at the wall behind him. She’d forgotten how loud the restaurant could be during dinner service. The clatter of silverware. The occasional burst of laughter from the bar. A glass being placed down too loudly.
“I see,” she said.
Ron sighed. “You don’t have to—”
“I said I see.”
He stopped talking. The server arrived then, finally. Smiling, blissfully oblivious. “Can I get you two started with something to drink?”
Hermione looked at Ron, then turned back to the server. “Just him, thanks.”
She stood, smoothed down the front of her blouse, and navigated around the server toward the exit. The tears never came. Hermione was hardly ever surprised.
Her flat was too dark when she got in. The hallway light didn’t flick on until she’d already kicked off her shoes, and even then it flickered like it hadn’t expected her.
It still smelled like him.
His jacket was still on the hook. The socks he always forgot to grab from the laundry basket were exactly where they’d been for three days. The framed photo of the two of them in the garden of his parents’ house — smiling and sunburnt — stared at her from the shelf above the radiator.
Her keys hit the counter with more force than necessary. The tequila was still in the freezer. Not hers — she didn’t usually like the taste. She hated how it burned, hated how it made her reckless. But it was there, so she pushed aside the bags of frozen veggies and pulled it out.
No glass. No toast.
She plopped down on her couch, flicked on the television, and quickly browsed away from whatever sports channel Ron had left it on whenever he was last over. She turned on the news — that always put her in a terrible mood. It was perfect.
She pulled out her phone, tapping one of the few pinned text threads she had on her phone.
hermione: ronald dumped me
said i make him feel 50
tequila happening
She stared as the three grey bubbles instantly sprung up. They disappeared for a moment, then appeared again. Hermione’s thumbs moved.
hermione: i didn’t cry. still might. we’ll see
She took another sip, hardly flinching from the burn. She and this bottle were going to become good friends.
Three days later, and Hermione hadn’t missed a single meeting. Her notes were flawless. Her inbox was cleaner than it had been in months. The only real indicator that something was off was the fact that her earrings matched her blouse too perfectly — like she’d tried. She didn’t mention the breakup. Not at work, not to the barista, not even to her neighbor when she bumped into her while grabbing mail.
She was fine.
She was so fine that when Ginny texted ‘We’re getting drinks, 8pm, you don’t get a vote’ and Pansy followed two minutes later with ‘Don’t embarrass me by saying no’, she said yes before she could think of a reason not to.
That’s how she ended up sandwiched between them on a too-small bench in a bar that smelled like bergamot and ambition, trying to pretend her two best friends weren’t about to start fighting over the cocktail list.
Ginny leaned over her menu, already scowling. “You know you can’t actually taste rose water. It’s just expensive soap.”
“It’s aromatics,” Pansy snapped. “Not that you’d understand anything that isn’t served in a pint glass.”
“Sorry, I forgot,” Ginny said dryly. “You grew up sniffing perfume samples in Harrods like it was pivotal to your survival.”
Hermione exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the rim of her glass. “Can we skip the class war tonight?” She muttered. “I’m really just trying to get drunk enough to stop hearing the sound of Ron saying ‘coasting.’”
That shut them both up.
Pansy gently tugged the menu out of Hermione’s hands. “Dirty martini,” she told the server, not looking up. “She wants it filthy.”
Ginny’s mouth twitched. “You’re a menace.”
“She needs it.”
Hermione took a sip of her current drink — something citrusy and far too sweet — and stared out at the bar’s back wall. She could feel both of them watching her.
“I’m fine,” she said, voice low. “It’s not like I was blindsided. I just…didn’t expect him to sound so…relieved.”
“He’s a fucking prat,” Ginny muttered as she sipped her beer. “Mum’s furious, you know.”
“She keeps calling,” Hermione finished her sweet drink. “Haven’t gotten the courage to answer yet.”
“Jesus,” Pansy huffed. “It’s like a fucking funeral in here.”
Hermione didn’t answer. Just reached for the martini and took a sip without ceremony. The brine hit hard — sharper than expected, but welcome. It made her eyes sting in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol.
“You don’t have to fix it, you know,” Ginny said after a while, voice low.
Hermione kept her gaze on the shelves behind the bar. “I’m not trying to fix it.”
“You’re trying to outperform it,” Pansy said. “Which is worse.”
That pulled a small, humorless breath from Hermione. “And what would you suggest?”
“Get under someone,” Pansy shrugged. “Or at least try to — make it hurt for him.”
Hermione snorted into her glass. “That’s healthy.”
“I didn’t say it was healthy,” Pansy said. “I said it would work.”
“I’m good for now, Pansy,” Hermione said, effectively ending the topic of her failed love life. “You coming to Draco’s flat on Saturday?”
“Of course I am,” Pansy sniffed. “You should wear something hot.”
“I already have my dress picked out.” Hermione said, looking at the olive in her martini.
“And wear those heels that make your legs look a mile long.” Pansy instructed.
Hermione stared at her, refusing to blink. “I’m not looking for a rebound at Draco’s flat warming.”
Pansy lifted one shoulder. “That’s your problem.”
Ginny rolled her eyes and reached for her drink. “Ignore her. Just wear what makes you feel good.”
Hermione exhaled slowly, then nodded. “I will.”
Pansy smirked into her glass. “That’s all I asked for.”
No one said anything for a while. The music from the bar’s speakers shifted — something slow, something with strings. Hermione let the olive roll between her fingers before finally eating it, her mouth twisting slightly at the salt.
Saturday wasn’t about Ron. It wasn’t about looking hot or proving anything.
It was just a party.
And she was fine.
Draco’s flat smelled like money and new paint.
Hermione stepped through the door just after eight, curls half-tamed, dress smooth against her skin, and heels absolutely not chosen for comfort. Ginny had whistled when she sent a picture in the group chat. Pansy had looked smug when she walked in. Hermione pretended not to notice either.
But it felt good.
“Darling,” Draco drawled from across the room, two rings on his fingers and a chilled glass in his hand. “You look like heartbreak and upward mobility.”
Hermione arched a brow, kissing his cheek before he spun her around to inspect her. He made a pleased noise.
“He’s an idiot, Hermione.”
Hermione’s lips twitched. “You don’t even like me.”
“I don’t like anyone,” Draco said cheerfully. “But I know quality when I see it.”
He handed her his drink without asking — something sharp and carbonated — and turned to flag down another. Hermione sipped it. She didn’t mention the breakup, but the signs were all over. She’d scrubbed her Instagram of anything related to Ron. She hadn’t blocked him, or even unfollowed him, but she’d needed to burn any evidence of how happy they had once been.
She hadn’t planned to stay long — just enough to be seen, to prove a point no one had asked for. But the drink was good, the lighting was forgiving, and she hadn’t had to explain herself once.
Someone laughed across the room — low and amused — and she turned, not because it mattered, but because the sound stuck out. By the windows, half-shadowed by one of Draco’s absurd plants, a woman stood with her back to the room. Black blouse, open collar. Dark hair twisted back, precise in a way that wasn’t vain. She wasn’t trying to be noticed, which made it worse.
“Who’s that?” Hermione asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
Draco followed her gaze, then shrugged. “My aunt.”
Hermione blinked. “Tonks’s mum?”
He looked vaguely offended. “The other one. My mum’s eldest sister.”
“Oh.”
“Try not to stare,” Draco added, waving at a group of new arrivals. “She bites.”
Hermione wasn’t staring — not really. She was studying — the sharp jaw, the slight tilt of her head. The way she accepted a drink without glancing at the person who offered it. Detached. Beautiful. Out of her league.
The woman didn’t turn around. Hermione told herself that was a good thing.
Pansy brought her another drink, while balancing a plate of hors d'oeuvres. “Impressive selections, Draco. I’m impressed.”
Draco lifted his chin haughtily, looking far too smug about being complimented on his choice of appetizers. Hermione rolled her eyes and sipped the glass of wine Pansy had just handed off to her. The quality of it surprised her.
“What is this?” She asked.
“You know I’m terrible with that stuff,” Draco wrinkled his nose. “Something my aunt brought, I’m sure — she won’t attend a gathering without having a say on the wine.”
Hermione took another sip, slower this time. It was dry, elegant, impossible to forget. They lost themselves in conversation after that, Hermione nursing more drinks than she should’ve and listening to Draco and Pansy sneer at one another. Others in their social circle meandered over — Blaise, Theo, and Daphne. A few years ago, Hermione never would’ve seen herself mingling with this crowd, but uni and her job roped her into certain circles by necessity.
“That mongrel had the nerve to dump you?” Theo raised an offended brow. “You’re a queen.”
“He never had taste,” Blaise said, a glass of bourbon in his hand. “The way he dressed…”
“…like a supply closet threw up on him,” Pansy finished, with the disdain of someone personally victimized by bad tailoring.
“He wasn’t that bad,” Hermione said, but the fight had left her voice. She was quiet for a moment, knocking back the last of her wine. “It’s not like I was dreaming of a wedding, or anything. Still…you don’t expect to be left for being boring.”
The silence that followed was subtle, but it held. Draco’s smirk dimmed. Pansy’s expression tightened, sharp where it had been smug. Daphne blinked once, then glanced away as if giving her the dignity of not reacting. Theo looked ready to murder someone on principle alone.
“I have several friends waiting to meet you,” Blaise shrugged. “All of whom are gainfully employed, marginally attractive, and absolutely worshipful of women smarter than them.”
“That’s…so many green flags,” Hermione said, thoughtful for a moment.
Draco tilted his glass toward Hermione. “That moron did you a favor, if you think about it. You’re free to upgrade.”
Hermione smiled faintly. “You all make it sound like I’m some vintage car changing hands.”
“You are,” Theo said darkly. “And he parked you in a garage with bad lighting and shit acoustics.”
That startled a laugh out of her. A small one, but real.
The mood was lighter then. Hermione took a spin around the room with Pansy and Daphne, but quickly gravitated back to the hightop table their group had unofficially claimed as theirs. She hesitated when she saw Draco standing near the window, head angled respectfully as he spoke to the woman with the open collar. His aunt. Daphne and Pansy flanked her, both taking the woman in from afar.
“She’s delicious,” Daphne sighed wistfully.
Hermione didn’t answer. She was too busy watching. The woman hadn’t moved much — just shifted her weight, reached for a glass, and tilted her head as Draco spoke. She was magnetic in the way expensive things were. Not flashy, but certain of their own value. Hermione’s gaze flicked away, suddenly self-conscious.
“I’d kill to age like that,” Pansy murmured. “That’s what money and silence buys you. And bone structure, I suppose.”
“Pansy,” Hermione warned, though it lacked bite.
The woman turned just enough to look past Draco’s shoulder, her eyes sweeping the room with unhurried precision. Her gaze caught Hermione’s for a second — no longer — before it moved on. Hermione felt it like a pin pressed to skin. Draco said something Hermione couldn’t hear, and the woman responded with a slight nod. Then — without ceremony, without pretense — she stepped away from the window, leaving her nephew behind.
She crossed the room like she didn’t owe anyone an explanation. Black blouse, pale collarbone, heels that didn’t announce themselves. When she stopped at the edge of their table, her voice was smooth and unhurried.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
Hermione blinked. “Me?”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of the woman’s mouth. “Yes, Miss Granger.”
Hermione went still.
“Draco speaks highly of your work,” the woman added, as if she hadn’t just caught Hermione staring like an idiot. “That’s rare, you know. His praise.”
Hermione tried very hard to recall how her voice worked. “Well — thank you. That’s…very kind.”
The woman extended a hand. Long fingers. Manicured, but not ostentatious. “Bellatrix.”
Hermione took it. Her skin was warm, and unbelievably soft. They stared at one another for a moment too long. Bellatrix was the first to let go.
“You wrote that piece in last month’s edition of The Guardian,” Bellatrix said, dark eyes still holding her gaze. “About equitable zoning reform.”
Hermione blinked, surprise coloring her face. “You read that?”
Bellatrix hummed noncommittally, her eyes still taking Hermione in with an unreadable expression. Hermione felt like she was being scrutinized under a magnifying glass.
“Have a good evening, Miss Granger. Enjoy the party.” Bellatrix said, cutting through the heavy silence that had developed between them.
Hermione felt the disappointment bloom in her chest as she watched Bellatrix turn away. She lacked the courage to do anything about it. Pansy stood to her left, her friend’s eyes on Bellatrix’s retreating form.
“That’s what you need,” Pansy said simply.
Hermione blinked a few times, her brain trying to catch up. “What?”
“That,” Pansy nodded her chin toward Bellatrix’s retreating form, as if it were obvious. “Someone like her. Someone decidedly exciting.”
“I—” Hermione paused, her brows furrowing. “I don’t even know her.”
“That’s easy,” Daphne appeared, nursing a new drink. “Bellatrix Black. Disgustingly rich, no one ever knows what she’s going to invest in next, and I’ve never seen her with anyone — ever.”
Pansy hummed, as if to confirm Daphne’s description. “I’ve been to several Malfoy events over the years, she’s hardly ever there. Draco said she travels a lot.”
“Looking to set up roots, if the rumors are true.” Daphne smirked. “I’m sure she’ll be all over the society pages by the end of summer.”
Hermione didn’t comment, but somehow she knew that the last thing the older woman cared about was London’s gossip pages.
“You should get her number from Draco,” Pansy said.
“It’s been less than a week,” Hermione shook her head. “I’m not ready — plus, it’s his aunt.”
Daphne and Pansy glanced at one another, as if trying to decide if they should say something. Hermione grabbed a drink off a passing server’s tray, still thinking about how ridiculous it was that Draco’s flat warming had catered service. Nothing surprised her about the man, though. He was elitism incarnate.
“Okay, we weren’t going to show you…” Pansy sighed, fishing her phone out of her purse. “But to hell with Ginny, and her prat brother.”
Hermione didn’t move. Her fingers were tight around her glass.
Pansy tapped a few times, then held the screen toward her. “Posted last night.”
It was Lavender Brown. In a booth Hermione recognized, all cheap fairy lights and flaking paint. Her legs were tucked over Ron’s lap, a cocktail in one hand, her other curled into his hair. He looked like he always did in photos — slouched, thoughtless, slightly red in the face. Hermione stared at it without blinking.
“She knew you two just split,” Pansy said, voice sharp. “A vulture, if you ask me.”
Hermione said nothing.
“I mean, she used to crash our hangouts,” Pansy continued. “That’s more than enough proximity to make this gross.”
Hermione exhaled — slow and controlled. It didn’t do much. “She’s not even his type,” she said finally, though it came out hollow.
Daphne arched a brow. “Clearly his type is whoever’s easiest.”
Hermione’s nostrils flared. She continued to stare at the photo, her lips pursed. She sat her drink down.
“Thank you for showing me.”
Pansy and Daphne both looked at her expectantly, as if waiting for her next move. Waiting for a reaction that never came.
Hermione went home soon after, excusing herself like she always did when she needed to get away to think. She took a cab home, far too drunk to trust herself to remain upright in her heels. As the cab navigated through downtown London, Hermione only had one thought playing through her mind on a masochistic loop.
He hadn’t even needed a week.