492Obligatory Note: Welcome to my new WIP. This was going to post on Valentine's Day, but since I have two fics posting that day, I decided to post earlier. This is a little bit different than my norm. This is guaranteed to be slow updates because they will be bigger updates. Fortuitous will update once a month, the last being in January. There are 12 chapters outlined, some of which will be longer than others once we get into the dramione portions. It's also a mild burn. There are also dual POV's.
Thank you to MykEsprit, for your help in both Hermione and Draco's career and being one of the best friends I have in the fandom! Thank you to Maloreiy for combing through this and offering invaluable advice!
Note added on the 17th of March, 2019. I realised there was a continuity error with Neville that is now fixed. I also saw that the very first scene - the only one that was not edited by Maloreiy - was switching tenses throughout. These are both now fixed.
I was in the middle before I knew I had begun.
Jane Austen
Chapter One: February
Hermione
Hermione Granger didn't believe in fate. Not really. Sure, it's easy for her thoughts to get away from her, and she'd briefly ponder a plane of higher existence, or that there is such thing as soulmates. Of course she'd step back and tell herself that it's only a trope used in fiction to lure readers in.
Love at first sight and soulmates are a bunch of garbage.
The Three Broomsticks was quiet on the first of February. There were heart shaped sugar cookies on the counter and Luna had already decorated for the upcoming holiday. Hermione took the pumpkin pastry the blonde slid to her and made her way to the back of the room.
Settling into her normal seat, she pulled her blue notebook from her bag. Hermione patted her pockets for her pen, but it was nowhere to be found. "Bollocks." she muttered. She'd just bought that one! Really, why did she bother buying nice pens when she always lost them?
"Have you lost something?" a voice came from behind her.
Hermione didn't glance back, but she could hear the humor hidden in his tone. "My pen," she replied, digging through her messenger. "I'm always losing them. Bloody ridiculous."
A low chuckle sounded just from above her head. "Does it happen to be blue?"
She nodded. "Favorite colour. Wait, have you seen it?" Before Hermione could get a glimpse of his face, there was a subtle tug on her hair. Had he just…?
"You tucked it into your hair." he said, his pale fingers sliding against hers as he passed her.
He wore a black jogger paired with jeans, and his hood was pulled over his head. She'd never even gotten a peek at him.
"Thank you!" she called after him as the bells above his head sound.
No, Hermione Granger doesn't believe in fate one bit, but in hindsight, she could have believed in something.
February.
Last year at this time she'd been hoping her boyfriend was planning a romantic date for Valentine's Day. And this year..she was sitting in an isolated corner of the Three Broomsticks with her laptop flipped open in front of her. Sitting on the screen was a piece penned by Rita Skeeter.
Skeeter, whose popularity was surprisingly high despite her intelligence being quite the opposite, was her rival from another magazine.
"Maybe you should go home, and sleep," Neville told her, placing her usual order down in front of her. One that she hadn't even ordered. The entire shop staff knew that once she was going, she wouldn't take a break.
Even if it was a much-needed one for caffeine.
Hermione glanced up, brushing a mess of curls out of her face. Most of them sat atop her head in a loose bun, but a few always escaped to plague her. "It would be for the best, I'm sure," she readily agreed with a shrug, guiding her cursor to minimize the tab. "I think I'll stay if that's okay."
Neville chuckled, leaning against the table with his hip propped against the edge. He wore a black apron that had a logo of three brown broomsticks. "Do you really have to ask? You know, Hermione, most adults have a tab in the pubs they frequent, not coffee shops."
Her lips curved as she broke off a bit of the scone. "I would say my addiction is a tad more healthy, wouldn't you?"
His biceps strained against his shirt as he folded his arms over his broad chest. "I might say that if you had any form of a regular sleep schedule."
"I slept yesterday," Hermione defended quietly, not that it really counted when it had only been three hours before she dragged herself out of bed. "I have insomnia, Neville. It's rather rude to critique a customer's life, isn't it?" Even she could not hold a straight face as she said it.
Her barista-turned-friend laughed again before moving away from her. "I'd better get back before Luna creates a new menu."
Hermione laughed as he moved back behind the counter, and she put her earbuds in her ears once more. Tapping her foot against the lower rung of the tall stool, she read through Skeeter's article once more.
She was the most vapid woman Hermione had ever met, with an obnoxious voice that seemed to grow more shrill each time they ran into another. The blonde - it had to be a fake blonde, and Hermione was too smart not to realize this article had come shortly after Hermione pointed out her roots - had an annoying habit of calling her darling. Except it sounded like 'dahhling,' and hearing it from her was similar to nails on a chalkboard.
She hadn't given Rita much of a chance from the moment she met her. Nor had Rita given her one; with her tendency to point out errors like the know-it-all she was, the journalist instantly loathed her. As it turns out, the woman did her own editing and was quite proud of it. She certainly didn't need 'a still-wet-behind-the-ears-kid' to tell her how to edit her articles.
Hermione had been hired by Xenophilius Lovegood as an assistant just as she was still finishing her degree. Nowadays, Luna's father liked to flit around the offices at the Quibbler, but Hermione handled the editing. She was more hands-on than she truly needed to be. Instead of delegating tasks, she enjoyed marking up articles herself.
When she was still attending university, Hermione hadn't had a single doubt that she would graduate with full honours, but it had been naive to believe she'd instantly find a job. She'd been living on Harry's couch until the Quibbler took her in five years ago, and she couldn't see herself ever leaving the career she'd made.
Mr Lovegood took a chance with her, one that she appreciated immensely as she started from the bottom and worked her way up. He'd given her a well-earned promotion when he stepped back from the magazine, and she was all too happy to do everything she could to assure he would not regret hiring her. Hermione was grateful to the man, more than she could accurately describe, as she knew he'd originally wanted someone with experience.
Breaking off another piece of the pumpkin scone, Hermione relished the taste of it as she scrolled. As per normal, the article was riddled with errors, grievous typos. Once upon a time Hermione had actually seen the word 'cunt' printed. She assumed Rita had done some work on her mobile for her typing to autocorrect from 'lint' as she'd claimed.
Feeling vindictive at 2:38 A.M, Hermione copied the article into her word processor, editing it to completion by fifteen after, and then sent it to Rita Skeeter's email address. Of course, she was well aware that what she was doing was just shovelling wood into an already-burning fire. Yet it was hard to feel guilty. Skeeter singled her out each chance she got, only because Hermione already earned more than her.
I noticed you missed a few things, Rita. I'm sure it was a simple mistake, so I thought I'd lend a helping hand!
Leaning back in her chair with a sense of victory and a mischievous smirk on her face, Hermione sipped the pumpkin spice frappuccino. Let Skeeter comment on what she described as the bland, clinical editing of the Quibbler again. She wasn't typically so rude, but it had been twenty-four hours since she'd last slept, and she would have to get at least four hours before starting her day at seven o'clock.
Stumbling out of bed-rolling was more like it-Hermione slammed her palm down on the top of her alarm clock. The screaming sound that Fred had put on it just wouldn't stop no matter what she did or what buttons she pressed.
"Mother-" Hermione broke off, finally tearing it out of the wall.
It didn't stop.
Dragging her fingers through her hair, and then getting them tangled in the stubborn mass of curls that she was putting off brushing, Hermione finally just stomped on her alarm clock. It wasn't the first to be destroyed, and it wouldn't be the last.
It was just that six was too early when she'd only fallen asleep at three, and her sleep had been restless.
Going for a two kilometre run each morning was Ginny's idea. Hermione wasn't sure why she'd gone along with Ginny's New Year's resolution, given that she hardly saw her anymore, but she couldn't bring herself to quit. Somewhere, her sometimes-friend was also dragging herself out of bed to exercise after her husband left for work.
Hermione pulled a jumper over her head, putting her phone in the front pocket and slipping her earbuds into her ears. Her mother had warned her over and over again about the dangers of running when the sun hadn't risen yet while loud rock music blared in her ears.
How will you hear if someone sneaks up behind you? her mother always said worriedly.
It was those memories that made Hermione turn around and grab her pepper spray from the table in the hallway of her flat, though she rolled her eyes while she did it.
On January first, just the jog down the stairs had left her winded. Considering her diet was mainly scones, sugary drinks, and microwaveable foods, it wasn't a shock. They had started out with walking one kilometre, gradually working toward two, and then Ginny stopped meeting her in the mornings.
It didn't upset her. Not having to play nice with her ex-boyfriend's sister was a load off her shoulders.
Plus, she could walk when she needed to take a breath. Ginny has been all for pushing her to the limit and not stopping.
It was worth mentioning that on January first, she had not been able to run for more than twenty seconds. She could make it through the entire first kilometre now, which made the initial burning in her muscles worth it.
Going on a run though, it woke her up well. There was something nice about seeing her little neighbourhood in London coming to life in the early morning hours. She waved to the elderly couple that owned a brick two-level every single morning. And there was a man that was usually walking with his dog, an extremely large breed. Hermione was not ashamed to admit that there were two treats in a sealed bag in her pocket, just in case she came across Fluffy and his owner, Hagrid.
She made her way down to the park, the song switching as she hopped over the ledge and onto the beaten path, narrowly avoiding a patch of ice. The pond in the middle of the park was frozen over, though with spring approaching, it would likely thaw soon.
Hermione rounded the corner, her trainers meeting the concrete. She saw Hagrid waving wildly to her, Fluffy's leash slipping from his grip as a large St. Bernard rushed toward her.
"Oh! Should not have done that, should not have done that," Hagrid muttered sheepishly as she was taken down by a blur that weighed at least ninety kilos.
She'd busted her arse more than once just running, so she certainly didn't stand a chance at staying on her feet with Fluffy launching himself at her.
Draco
Draco removed his bloodstained gloves, tossing them into the bin for biohazard waste. Rubbing his wrists, he glanced to the middle of the room. An eighty-six year old man had died on his table. He knew it happened sometimes, that it was a statistical improbability for every patient to survive, but it still bothered him every time and at that age, it hadn't been good odds going in.
A sheet covered his body, and within minutes he would be taken to the lower levels of the hospital.
Outside of the room, Draco knew the man's family was waiting for any kind of news. They would say how they wanted to know the details, whether it was good or bad, but that was what they always said.
Draco picked up the clipboard that sat in a black container screwed into the wall.
"Ollivander," he mumbled to himself, waving off the surgery resident behind him as she attempted to urge him to get on with telling the family that their oldest member had coded, and that they hadn't been able to revive him. His mouth set in a grim line before he snapped without turning to face her, "Ms Bell, I understand if you need to step out of the room."
He could remember the first time he'd lost someone in surgery, their life quite literally slipping from his hands. Sure, the bint - Katie, he reminded himself; human resources would have his arse if he let that slip. As a resident, she'd been in several surgeries, working just as hard as anyone else to keep someone alive. Somehow, he was certain she hadn't been through many where the patient didn't make it.
Dropping the clipboard into the plastic basket with a clatter, Draco slipped the white jacket over his shoulders. He looked over to Katie again - her face had drained of colour as she looked over the sheet covering Mr Ollivander. She definitely hadn't lost many, that was for sure.
"The good news is that we'll know if you can stay in surgery by tomorrow morning." he told her, his voice flat.
She glanced up. The doctor expected for her eyes to be brimming with tears, but all he was met with was her clenched jaw.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Katie hissed, ripping the crimson stained gloves from her hands. "Fuck." She'd missed the waste bin. "I'm not a new girl," she continued, retrieving the gloves and depositing them properly. "I just – I just cared is all. I met his family in the corridor hours ago when he was still smiling and making plans for the weekend."
He understood, really he did, but she needed to put her bleeding heart away.
"Put them in biohazard," he reminded her as he brushed past. Pushing the two double doors open, he could see the family jumping to their feet through the square window.
It happened much like it always did - in silence. The signs were there, the quiet regret etched into his face, his own remorse, and his silence. "We did everything we could," he said solemnly.
A young woman choked on a sob as she looked him over, and she turned into the chest of a man who wrapped his arms around her. A large diamond on her left hand reflected beneath the fluorescent lights. Her husband rubbed circles in her back in an attempt to calm the loud sobs that wracked her body.
"What happened?" the man asked, his tone hard and accusing.
Of course it was. And being the straight-to-the-point kind of man he was, Draco replied calmly, "His heart couldn't withstand the operation."
The petite brunette continued to clutched his shoulder, shaking her head as the man stepped forward. "Stop." Her voice was shaky at best. "My grandfather was weak, and we knew it." The woman tried to say more, but her husband wouldn't have it.
"Isn't it your job to save patients?" he yelled, his chest knocking against Malfoy's as he stepped forward swiftly. His eyebrows drew together in confusion when the doctor didn't stumble backward.
Sliding his hands into his pockets, Draco narrowed his eyes. "I'm sorry for your loss," he told the woman pointedly, his voice clipped. She nodded her head.
"What the fu-"
She grabbed Draco's forearm, giving it a squeeze. "Did he suffer? Could you tell me that at the very least, Dr -" she glanced down at the hospital issued badge, "Malfoy?"
He fell silent. In the moment, lying always seemed like the easiest way out. Except that he would get slammed with a lawsuit and potentially lose his license. Soothing fears was not part of his career description.
"I'm sorry," Draco repeated, taking in stride the glare that the husband shot his way while the woman folded in on herself.
She didn't ask him anything else, and for that, he was selfish and grateful.
Because truly, he couldn't imagine telling her that her grandfather had been revived, and then he'd died on the table. There had been recognition in his eyes, eyes that had seen decades, and then he was gone.
No one ever needed to know the ugliest sides of an operating room.
Hermione
Her desk wasn't decorated like the majority of coworkers. At one point there'd been a photograph of her with Ron, but she'd dumped it in the trash when she found the messages between him and Lavender.
Her office was plain, with glass windows and a glass door in the front. She kept it meticulously clean, and the semi-annual bring-your-child-to-work day was the bane of her existence.
The small pitter patter of their feet and their widened eyes at the offices at the Quibbler were impossible not to be taken with. Their fingerprints on everything though? Hermione could live without it.
The only personal touches in her office were a dozen mugs in the bottom left drawer, most of them Halloween themed, and an insulated tumbler. Also, there was a bottle of Moscato in the mini refrigerator behind her desk.
At the moment, she considered yanking it from the freezer cubby and filling her tumbler to the brim with wine.
It was February, obviously, and Valentine's Day was only a handful of days away at this point. She'd already preread an article written by Seamus detailing exactly how to Get Your Man, a piece that was accompanied by a short explanation on the best gay pubs in London.
Seamus had also written a funny little line for only her to see, where he'd told her that she should visit The Shrieking Shack to get herself a good shag.
"Treat yourself, he says," Hermione muttered under her breath, the corners of her vision growing blurry.
The rest of the article was good to go after she removed his advice on her abysmal dating life. At least his work only ever contained one or two errors.
Dean's was decidedly more...racy.
It was hard not to think about the sodding holiday when romance articles kept falling across her desk.
"Ten Tips to the Perfect Blowjob." She had a habit of reading things out to herself - they always made more sense that way, even if this wasn't a topic she regularly heard in her own voice. . "Tie up your hair, and slob on his knob," she read out loud, gasping for air as she began to laugh.
So that piece would definitely be scrapped, even though it'd made her burst into laughter. Undoubtedly, that was the sole point since Dean Thomas knew that she'd never put that in the magazine.
Marking the thousand-word article up - did it really take so many words to detail the best way to slob on a knob? - made her feel less gloomy about being alone on Valentine's Day, and possibly happy she didn't have to worry about dating etiquette.
Giggling to herself, Hermione slid her pen back into her bun and reached across her desk for her mug. The coffee in the company break room wasn't as good the Three Broomsticks, but Neville had ushered her off to work with not one, but two pumpkin scones. Biting into one, she dropped Dean's article into the completed basket and reached for the next.
The second she saw Parvati Patil's name, she groaned out loud. It was only half-past ten o'clock, but if she edited all of this in one sitting, she had no doubt she'd be there until midnight.
Not that she had any plans beyond going to the coffee shop a block from her flat, and taking advantage of their high-speed internet.
Still...she'd rather work on her own manuscript than fix Patil's shoddy writing.
The edge of her desk was cool as she braced her hands against it, pushing herself away and making her way to the bathroom with her jumper slung over her shoulder. Her contacts case was in her hand, and her regular glasses were sitting on top of her head.
It was far too late for anyone who wasn't a workaholic to be in the office, she hoped. Warily, she eyed the light that had been left on in her boss's office.
She still checked under the stalls for a pair of feet, just in case, before facing the mirror. Leaning over the counter, she held each eye open as she removed her contacts, placing them back in their container.
Blinking, she brushed her hair out of the way before donning her practical, thick black framed glasses.
Her curls were frizzy, the humidity and rain of that afternoon causing her hair to be even larger than normal. Reaching for the hair tie that should have been on her right wrist, she groaned as she was only met with bare skin. Right, because she'd actually snapped it across the coffee shop that morning when she'd had this exact thought and attempted to wrap it around her mass of hair.
Hermione pulled her jumper over her head, letting it slip to her mid-thigh. It was a size larger than she needed, but she found comfort in the baggy fabric and the way it made it easy for her to curl up on the sofa in her office. Pulling her hair out from the collar, and then detangling it from the delicate chain of her necklace, Hermione gripped the rail of her office door. She kicked her trainers off before clutching Patil's work to her chest and collapsing onto the sofa to sink her fingers into editing.
Hermione should have just drunk the fucking wine. An estimated hour and a half to edit was far too hopeful considering she hadn't even finished. The bloody snippet could have stayed under a thousand words, considering it was only about the most eligible bachelor.
Clearly, that kind of conciseness was too much to expect.
She had read only two hundred words of what read as bad erotica, complete with stars twinkling in his eyes and every woman in London debating his sexual prowess.
Hermione tried not to be too harsh as she made notes on why the word loins would be scrapped from all occurrences.
Hermione
There was a text waiting for her from Ron when she rolled out of bed. With a timestamp of two a.m.
Hermione deleted it without reading it. No doubt it was because he was drunk, and he was blabbering about their break up. It was the last thing she wanted to deal with.
She didn't bother with her morning run, which was likely a mistake as it was easier to give up entirely if she skipped even one day. Still, it was freezing and she had ideas to get down in writing, she told herself.
She had the day off, so bunding her laptop, mouse, and charger together - it was fully charged, but just in case - Hermione slid it all into her black messenger bag.
Hair still slightly damp from her shower, she pulled the hood of her jogger up and slid her mobile into the front pocket. "Laptop, notebook, red pen," Hermione ticked off each item on her mental checklist, looking around the apartment to see if she'd forgotten anything. Her manuscript was already in the bag, but she couldn't shake the niggling feeling that -
"Earbuds," she muttered in her silent flat. She turned quickly and banged her toe against the corner of the end table beside her couch, letting out a low hiss. They weren't even there and she hobbled around the room trying to find them.
Finally grabbing her earbuds from the bathroom - God knows why she would have left them there - she hurried out the front door.
It was as a harsh, biting gust of wind hit her, and as her feet met the cold concrete, that she realized she'd forgotten her shoes. "Of all the things I could forget," she mumbled under her breath, unlocking her front door.
"Mornin'!" her neighbour called.
Grimacing to herself, Hermione waved to Michael. He was polite enough, but she wouldn't describe him as pleasant to talk to. "Good morning, Michael," she replied, hurrying out of the freezing cold. She hobbled on one leg, leaning against the wall as she slipped her trainers on, her index finger hooked in the heel of the battered shoes.
On the way out, she snatched her extra coat from the rack, a heavy wool one. Wrapping the belt around her, and tying it in the front, Hermione hurried down the staircase before her neighbour could call out to her again.
One of the best things about her local coffee shop was that while the rest of the world was submerged in hues of reds, and pinks, and absolutely drowning in a sea of hearts, within those hallowed walls, it was still Halloween. Ron used to give her shit about it, about how girls should like the most romantic day of the year.
Well, clearly she was a bit different from other women. Being accomplished in her field and working toward even bigger goals looked perfectly fine on her.
Raindrops fell, and the sky was overcast with deep grey clouds rolling in. It brought on an ominous feeling, like a cloak wrapped around her shoulders.
The coffee shop was a five-minute walk from her flat, and come spring, large lush trees would be hanging over the sidewalk. She could clearly imagine the beautiful flowers that would burst to life from the fronts of the iron-gated homes she passed.
Luna called out to her as soon as she stepped inside, "Hermione!" The blonde motioned to a package on the countertop. "Just pulled it out a few minutes ago."
Hermione grinned, snatching the scone for herself. "Thanks, Luna. Any plans for the upcoming holiday?" she asked, taking a small bite as she slid her debit card against the counter. At this point, with her coming to this coffee shop for so long, the baristas kept her rewards card under the counter, just swiping it whenever she came in. It was easier with how forgetful she was.
She'd probably signed up for several different individual cards before the owner, Rosmerta, told her to forget about it with a wink.
Luna charged her card, flippantly tossing it back to Hermione instead of sliding it across the counter. "Neville and I are volunteering at an animal shelter later today." She shrugged, grabbing the largest cup from under the counter.
A smile graced the brunette's lips. "Isn't that what you do every Wednesday though?" she asked.
There was a wispy way that the woman carried herself, each movement flowing fluidly into the next. And more than once, she'd caught Luna dancing from behind the counter, or even when she was sweeping - and one particularly disastrous time while she was mopping. "Yes, but I think he's surprising me with something."
"An animal?" Hermione asked, bracing her elbows and leaning over the counter.
She shook her head, drizzling caramel over the whipped cream in the drink she handed to Hermione. Gripping the edge of her side of the counter, Luna grinned ear to ear. "Not quite, but maybe. Neville's asking me if I'd like to move in with him."
"How do you know?" Hermione said excitedly.
Luna gave a shrug of her shoulders again. "I just do, Hermione. Plus -" she looked behind her to make sure no one was listening to them, "I overheard Neville going through a mental checklist this morning. 'Puppy picked out, check. Collar, check. Key to our new flat to put on said collar, check.'"
Hermione burst into giggles. "Are you excited?"
The blonde nodded. "Be quiet about it though. He'll be here soon, and he would be so upset to learn the surprise was ruined."
"Of course, Luna." She smiled. "I'll be over in my usual spot."
A gentle wave of Luna's hand as she shooed her off. "See you in an hour when you need another drink."
Weaving between the tables, she made her way to the ones that sat above the rest. The window seat in the corner was her favourite spot in the shop, subtly nicknamed Hermione's Nook because she could sit with her back to the wall, and no one could see what she was typing so madly.
While she'd grown confident in her creative prowess, or at least enough to possibly consider handing it over to a publishing house, that wasn't to say that she needed anyone to see this. She'd already decided the story was weak. The heroine wasn't the brilliant hero she'd started out with, and she recognized that once she'd met the love interest, Hermione had accidentally written her character as a woman who read as if she'd lost her brain.
Using the advice Mr Lovegood had passed to her - to just write it even if she knew it wouldn't work because otherwise she would always be thinking about it - she penned the awful side plot. What was meant to be an arc fell flat, and the climax turning from a battle to a love triangle.
She groaned under her breath.
It wasn't what she set out to do.
Pressing the button at the top of her red pen, she got to work. While she enjoyed editing, that was a far cry from editing one's own work. The wheels were already turning in her head as she noted the scenes that needed to go before she could easily make the mistake of saying oh, no, I meant it this way.
It was the exact excuse the employees of the Quibbler used, and she'd be a hypocrite to not treat herself the same way.
The hero was the best in every way, a perfect alpha male, and it would make the targeted readers swoon. Yet that wasn't really what she wanted. Reading it sounded cheesy, and she wanted to throw the whole thing into the nearest trash can. But then someone would find it, and her name was on it because at one point she'd been confident enough in it to include her name, number, and address if it were ever lost.
She could tear out that page and chuck it into the Thames.
Biting down on her bottom lip, Hermione set her pen down. She brought her cup to her lips, the chilled taste of pumpkin meeting her taste buds, and she relaxed, just a bit. She'd been considering it for some time, that maybe fantasy writing wasn't meant to be her niche. Although it was her favourite to read, perhaps it would not be her best writing.
Now she had only to convince herself there was nothing wrong with that.
The door chimed, and naturally, she glanced over, expecting to see Neville arriving for his shift. No one else would be here so early. Realizing it must speak volumes of how much she was here to know their busiest times and the times they were dead slow, Hermione went back to minding her own business.
Until it wasn't Neville. Not even close.
He had to be new, judging from the wide-eyed look Luna shot her from behind the counter. While she couldn't hear the exchange from so far away, it was all in the body language. Dragging his long fingers -long and elegant, they resembled a pianist's - through white blond hair, he scanned the overhead menu. The man would glance down at his arm only to realize there wasn't a watch there. He must have forgotten it at home or lost it.
Hermione gripped her pen, opening a fresh page as she wrote down a small blurb about him. It was a simple thing really, just the perfect observation of a stoic stranger.
Ron used to tell her how it was weird that she picked up on the smallest details of strangers, but they made for good ideas.
Had he lost his watch on the way here? Perhaps it had been stolen, though with the way she could see his back muscles contort through his jumper, Hermione would have pitied whoever jumped out of an alley at him.
Draco
His flat was mostly in boxes. On the sides, Astoria had written what each contained. Walking in after a sixteen hour shift that had turned into twenty hours, he tossed his keys on the coffee table. Grumbling expletives under his breath - breath that should not have been visible, but decidedly was - he grabbed the pamphlet on the table.
Bugger, the office wouldn't open for another two hours, and he didn't feel like calling the twenty-four hour maintenance line for them to fix his central heat and air. Gritting his teeth and rubbing his palms together, he searched for the box labelled winter.
"Fuck off, Tori," Draco growled under his breath upon realizing the bitch had kept his space heater. Considering she would never need it, nor would she even turn it on herself, it could only be for the reason of inconveniencing him. Maybe she hoped he'd freeze to death.
He grabbed his keys and walked out the door. At least his fucking car would have heat.
He'd visited the Three Broomstick once, just before his last shift, grabbing a hot tea to go before he made his way to St Mungo's.
It was a quiet establishment, tucked away from the busy street as citizens rushed past. There was an interesting air to it - from the staff behind the counter, to the quietness of it.
Settling into his car, Draco shifted it into gear without waiting for it to warm up. All he wanted to do was sleep. There was a busy weekend ahead of him, his schedule being inconveniently shifted up now that he would need to have maintenance in his flat to fix his heat. He would be lucky if he managed six hours of sleep before meeting Astoria at noon.
Divorced for nearly a year and he would never be able to get the awful wretch out of his life.
He parked in front of the coffee shop. Early morning at the Three Broomsticks wasn't busy. Still empty, the windows lightly frosted, there was only one woman sitting at a back table.
As Draco tiredly opened his door, his foot landed in a puddle and icy water slid down into his leather shoes, soaking his sock. "Bugger," he grumbled, before sighing in resignation. Shoving the door open further, he double-checked that his wallet was in the front pocket of his trousers, and not about to tumble into the same puddle - because that's how his day was going.
The bell jingled above his head, and the brunette woman in the corner looked up, her eyes widening seemingly in recognition. Draco made his way to the counter and leaned against the railing that would guide the line had there been one.
The blonde girl he remembered from his last visit bustled to the counter, beaming at him.
"You were just here yesterday!"
He blinked. Was it really only just yesterday? His shifts at the hospital were blurring together. "Yes, I guess I was."
She tapped on the screen of the register. "You look exhausted." She said it so cheerfully. Too bloody cheerful when it was five in the morning. "Same thing as last time?"
Draco stared at her. "You remember my order?"
"Like it's hard?" The blonde laughed. "Earl Grey. You like it blended stronger than normal is what you said, correct?"
Dumbfounded, he only nodded and watched her move away. Well, perhaps he'd like this coffee shop more than he'd thought. Luna, he took the time to actually peek at her name at the top of his receipt, had a sharp memory. If she always remembered his order and if his talking to her wasn't always necessary, he would definitely be back.
She returned with his tea in a to-go cup, already sealed with his name written across the styrofoam. The young woman was a bit cheeky since she'd forgone his given name by scribbling Dragon below the lid. He could have made small talk by saying by revealing it was his nickname from his mother, but he was thirty four and didn't need to cute background stories.
"Here," she said, sliding him a muffin. "You look like you need it." Luna grinned and thanked him when he slid a bill toward her as a tip. "You don't have to –"
He shook his head, lifting his cup to his mouth. "It's fine," Draco insisted.
"Luna, do you have a pen? Preferably red. I've left mine at home."
Draco turned to leave, but instead found himself running directly into the brunette that had been sitting in the corner. The lid popped off and he winced when hot liquid splashed over her. "Fuck," he muttered, slamming the muffin down on the table and quickly moved toward her. Fuck, she surely had burns, and the hospital was only a few minutes away.
She flinched away. "I'm fine," she gasped, setting her paperwork on the counter. She checked her clothes quickly. . "My, um, paperwork took the brunt of it. Thanks for that."
Draco ignored the not so subtle accusation. "Are you okay?"
Her lips were set in a scowl. "Ugh, it's all over my paperwork!" He momentarily thought her eyes were the colour of whiskey, a sight he was familiar with as he stared down his glass.
"Did it hit you? Are you hurt anywhere?" Draco continued, but he didn't reach for her again. God, did she even hear herself?
"Shit, I'm going to have to redo it all."
"But are you-" he cut in.
"Yes, I'm fine!" she snapped.
He exhaled harshly through his nose. "Glad to hear it!" Draco rarely raised his voice, not unless he was arguing with Astoria, but for fuck's sake this woman had gotten right under his skin.
"I can't believe this."
He probably would have been pleasant, had she not glared at him. "Glad to hear it then." Draco snapped. "Are you going to replace my drink, or what?"
"What?" She scoffed. "You should have watched where you were going. It's not as if I snuck up on you."
Hermione
Beside her initial note blurb, she'd made a chart. On the positive side, if she were using him for character inspiration, he was attractive. That was the only thing so far to make it into the left side. On the right side, labelled Cons/Flaws, there was a list: prat, rude, bad attitude, chip on his shoulder.
Really, he had the makings of a flawless young adult genre male if she were into that. Which she wasn't.
But after he dumped his tea on her, Hermione was cross with herself. She'd overreacted.
Fucking surprise.
Two weeks later and he always visited the Three Broomsticks now. He probably believed she was stalking him since she was always sitting in her corner, laptop flipped open, and her hair tied into a knot that sat atop her head.
On Valentine's Day, she was greeted by Luna telling her today was the day Neville would ask her to move in. "That's lovely. Does he realize you'll be redecorating his flat once you officially live there?"
Her friend laughed, sliding a familiar drink across the counter. "The angry blond came by this morning. He asked me if I knew your order, which I do, and he paid for it. Also, he asked me to give you this."
Hermione took the check from her extended hand, reading over it curiously. "He came by already?"
Luna nodded. "He mentioned how holidays always made for the longest shifts." She shrugged. "But he wanted to be sure you got that. I told him you never missed a day of coming in."
Somehow, she was pretty sure the tall stranger already knew that. "Draco Malfoy," Hermione read aloud. She squinted at the scratchy handwriting at the top of the slip. Tilting her head to the side, she made out, "I'm sorry for ruining your paperwork. I hope this is enough to cover the damage to it or your clothes."
Sure, there was a stain that would no longer come out of her jumper, but printing off her manuscript was easily done at work. He didn't know that though. Luna winked at her before Hermione made her way to her table.
Opening the notebook, she sighed and penned in the positive column: possibly thoughtful?
Draco
The move to London and his transfer from the St Mungo's in Wiltshire had not been spur of the moment. Neither was his divorce from Astoria. The latter had come following the realization that while once upon a time he was sure he couldn't live without her, he just couldn't live with her anymore.
His parents were disappointed when they didn't attend counselling; Mother harped about the importance of their child having both parents. In a nasty argument over tea, Draco let loose the irritation that he'd let fester for too long. Scorpius still had his parents, both of them, and it was far better to split than to expose him to what a relationship shouldn't look like.
Astoria and Draco didn't agree on much. They fought constantly behind closed doors, but in the end, they both recognized that the wellbeing of their son was their top priority. Unfortunately, he was not old enough to choose - not that Draco wanted to thrust on him the option of which parent he would like more - and without legal interference, Draco told her it would be best for her to keep him the majority of the time. With the long shifts that came with being a surgeon in the trauma unit and the few hours he had to himself each day, it wouldn't make sense to fight for taking him. He would pay for childcare easily, but someone else would be raising his child instead of the mother.
Draco collapsed on a bench at the nurse's station, sliding to the end of the wall where he would be out of the way. Already three minutes late, he hurried to pull his mobile from his white coat and flick to Astoria's name. She answered on the third ring, her features coming into focus.
"You're late." Astoria's voice was clipped, and she knelt down to the floor, smoothing her dress in the same moment. "Daddy's calling. Would you like to talk to him?"
It still grated on Draco's nerves - the way she assumed Scorpius didn't want a thing to do with him. His stomach lurched each time he wondered if she was filling his head with falsities. "Hi." Draco grinned as a high-pitched squeal of his son pierced the air and tiny fingers covered the lens before the hand was snatched away by Astoria.
"Daddy!" Scorpius yelled, and several heads waiting to speak to a nurse turned towards the sound.
Draco turned the volume down. He really couldn't forget such an easy thing as headphones again. "What are you doing?" He rested his cheek against his palm, elbow resting against the countertop.
"Colouring." Scorpius wasn't so used to mobiles that he could flip the camera himself, but he did prop it up against something so he could hold up the drawing. It was a stick figure, and there were pops of colour across the paper. "Ms McGonagall said to draw your hero."
A nurse stood by Draco, shuffling through paperwork, and sliding him the chart of a patient. "It can wait," she murmured. "He sounds adorable."
Well, he was. Draco tilted the screen so she could see Scorpius. "And who is your hero, Scorp?" Draco asked.
There was a light huff in the background. "You. Duh." The four year old snorted and rolled his eyes. "Can't you see it? Here," he pointed to the drawing, "here is your doctor coat, and your...steffo - scope."
Draco clapped a hand over his mouth, chuckling as Scorpius attempted the word again. Try as he might, he still could not form the word, but it certainly didn't keep him from trying. "Stethoscope," Draco said.
"It's not nice to laugh." Scorpius pouted, giving his best glare.
"I would never laugh at you," Draco murmured. "Are you having a good day?"
His head bobbed, thin blond hair falling into his face. "Mummy let me have a pastry before dinner." Scorpius whispered, eyes darting to the side.
Draco snorted. "Was it good?"
Another nod. "She said I could have it if I promised to eat my veggies." Draco already had an inkling where this was going. "But I crossed my fingers behind my back."
Draco flipped the chart over, seeing the surgery that was scheduled in an hour. Returning back to the call, he was smirking. "Crossing your fingers won't work with your mum."
Grey eyes shot open. "What?"
Draco sniggered. "It's true," he said with a shrug. "Your grandma told me the same thing. It's magic."
"So..." Scorpius trailed off, bringing the phone close to his face. "Mummy is a witch then?"
An agreement was on the tip of his tongue. "Hang on, Scorpius," he murmured, laying the phone down. His profile was still in view, and then Katie's, as she came to the counter. "What is it? Surgery isn't scheduled for another hour." An hour which he had planned for a short lunch break and seeing his son.
His surgical resident glanced down at his phone, biting her lip at the sight of the wide eyed little boy. "It's been moved for later. We have a patient being taken to OR 1." She paused. "I'm sorry, Dr Malfoy, it can't wait."
The apology was a knee jerk reaction, a bad habit he'd yet to break her of no matter how many times he said she needn't apologize. Draco nodded, running a hand through his hair. "Time for me to go, Scorp." Not wanting to hang up until the last possible moment, Draco kept his mobile up while he followed Katie. "I'll see you this weekend."
"Is someone hurt?" The question made Katie freeze mid-step as Draco hurried past her. "Will they be okay?"
Draco said, "Yes." His son was four. While he didn't feel optimistic about the injuries that led to surgery from Katie's face, he could fake contagious positivity. "This weekend, Scorp," he promised, finger hovering above the red button. "Love you."
"I love you too."
Draco hung up, his smile wiped from his face as he removed his coat. "Forgive me for the delay, I won't be able to talk to him again until my next two shifts are completed. What is it?"
She gave a curt nod. "It's a thirty year old man; he was the victim of a stabbing," she said, watching him as he undid the fastening of his watch.
Dr Malfoy cleared his throat, his eyes narrowing. "Dr Bell, he is the victim of a stabbing. Unless he's already dead, in which case there's no need for surgery." At her silent fuming, he continued, "Continue."
Beside him, Katie removed her necklace, her wedding ring, and her own watch, setting it in the bin. "No allergies. Medical history only includes a prior surgery to remove his appendix."
Dr Malfoy pressed the timer, the countdown beginning from two minutes and they started scrubbing their hands. Taking extra care to scrub the sides of his fingers, and the fronts and back of his hands, he asked, "Is he coherent?"
She smirked, probably would've snorted if she weren't preoccupied. "He's complaining of shortness of breath. Other than that, he's scared, but he won't admit it." That little bit of humanity sneaking into her voice had her falling silent. "Paramedics told us he made jokes on the way to the hospital."
He nodded, moving to scrub his arms as he kept his hands lifted. "He'll be fine. What's his name?" Draco didn't always like hearing the name. Yet London wasn't Wiltshire, and he knew close to no one here.
"Fred Weasley."
Hermione
She was on her way to the Three Broomsticks when Ron called her, out of breath and yelling into the phone while Molly's shrieks could be heard in the background. "Ron, I can't understand you." Hermione said, stepping farther away from the street as a car sped through and nearly covered her with water.
She probably should have just taken her car, but the coffee shop wasn't far from her flat, and she did enjoy the walk. She could see Neville just inside the glass as he wiped down tables.
"Fred was taken to St. Mungo's. Mum is still - well you hear her, don't you?" Ron asked, his tone sharp and clipped.
His mother sounded on the edge of hysteria.
"What happened?" Hermione tucked a piece of hair behind her ear as the wind ripped through the street. A car door shut near her as the headlights flashed in time with the lock.
It was the blond man whose name she couldn't recall as there was so much screaming in her ear. He looked to her, eyebrows raised before he tightened his jumper around him and made his way into the shop.
She should go thank him, and give him the check that was still folded up in her handbag.
"The shop was robbed; Fred was stabbed."
Hermione turned on her heel and sprinted back to her flat.
She met Ron and Harry in the hospital lobby, throwing her arms around Ron's neck. "Is he okay?" Hermione breathed, squeezing his arms. "I know you didn't know much yet when you called."
Ron nodded. The rims of his eyes were red, and his hair was pointing in different directions. "He's going to be okay." He mumbled, pulling her in for another hug. "His surgeon told us he was still making jokes as they gave him an anesthetic."
Hermione smiled. "It sounds like he was still himself then. Have they caught who robbed the joke shop?"
"Not yet," Harry interrupted. "That's where I'm heading now. Hermione, stay with Ron?"
Hermione hugged Harry, nodding. "Of course. I'll be here as long as you are." She nudged Ron in the ribs. "Let's visit the gift shop. Fred would appreciate it, don't you think?"
He mumbled in agreement as he followed her, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "What if he's not okay, Mione? What if he –"
She shook her head. "What did the surgeon tell you? Didn't he talk to the family?"
"Doctor said he'd be fine..that he may need physical therapy," he uttered brokenly.
They weren't in a relationship anymore, but Hermione slid her hand into his for comfort. "You're understandably worried, but Fred will make a full recovery. Worrying means you suffer twice. For right now, just help me find something he would like."
