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Radiant was the only word that could describe Hermione tonight. A very special kind of magic must have guided her hand, for her make-up had never looked this amazing. And Parvati had been right, this dress did bring out the gold tones in her eyes.
Exhaling and wiping her hands on her shiny, sheer tights, she went to the living room to look through her clutch handbag one last time. One by one, she took out the shrunk contents. Wash bag with deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste – check. Fresh knickers, sneakers, and a change of clothing – check. Wand (the only thing she couldn’t shrink) – check. It wasn’t that she expected Ron to invite her to his flat after their very first date, but… you never knew, right?
Now, all she could do was wait. She sat on the sofa, bolt upright, with a book on her lap. But, unsurprisingly, she couldn’t take in a single word. The hands on the clock moved so agonisingly slowly that she could have screamed. Only four minutes now! Three and a half! Two and three-quarters! Hermione almost burst with excitement.
Every time she mused about where Ron would take her, a wave of adrenaline rushed through her stomach. Maybe the National Gallery? Or even the Tate? Although he might be more of a Natural History Museum person – she could practically hear him say, “Wicked!” when he saw the T. rex. Either way, it would be perfect. Strolling together, looking at the exhibits, talking about anything and everything, just the two of them, finally…
He had to be here any second. The book trembled on Hermione’s nervously bouncing legs. Would he come by Floo? Probably! She better put her book away so as not to give him an opportunity to tease her right from the start.
One minute past seven. Hermione chuckled to herself. Ron had never been the overly punctual type, so she should give him a few more minutes. After all, what were a few minutes when she had waited for him for years?
Until now, the timing had never quite worked out for the two of them. After the battle, Ron had needed space to grieve his brother, and Hermione had had a hard time coping with everything that had happened, too. When the worst had been behind them, everyone had found apprenticeships and other ways to further their education, forming new social circles. Only about a year ago, when Hermione had taken up her Ministry job, had the old gang started spending time with each other again.
At eight minutes past seven, the doorbell rang. Tripping over her own feet, Hermione hurried down to the door of her building. But it was just the postman delivering a package for her ever-elusive Muggle neighbours. She really had to put a notice-me-not charm on her doorbell.
She dropped the parcel off in front of her neighbours’ door and trudged back up the stairs, the clacking of her high heels echoing through the corridor.
Had she got the time wrong? She’d been so giddy when Ron had asked her on this date, she may have misheard. He may have said “half seven”. That was probably it. Even though her diary said seven.
He may have been held up at work. A last-minute emergency that required the attention of an Auror. And because of… reasons, his colleagues couldn’t take that one.
Or what if something terrible had happened to Ron? He may have—
The doorbell rang again. Propelled forward by sheer anxiety, Hermione ran down the stairs and wrenched the door open. Endless relief and gratitude washed over her when she saw Ron.
His eyebrows shot up, “Wow, you look really hot!”
“Oh, er…” she looked down her front, at the subtly shining fabric of the sheath dress hugging her figure, feeling the heat rise in her face. Ron wore jeans and a button-down shirt that could have benefited from an ironing charm. “Thanks,” she giggled.
“Too bad it will be pretty dark where we’re going. Come on, I got us a taxi.”
Once they were inside the car – a minicab that smelled faintly of cigarettes – Hermione asked, “So, are we going to a play?”
Ron chuckled, his gaze sinking into her eyes. His handsome face and the sound of his laughter made butterflies explode in her stomach. She inched her hand closer to his.
“A play?” he said, “What makes you think that?”
“You said it would be dark where we’re going.”
“Right. No, I meant in the pub. I thought I’d honour your Muggle roots and take you to a really brilliant Muggle pub that I found. You’ll love it!”
“Ah,” made Hermione, smiling brightly. It was her own fault, really. She shouldn’t just have subtly hinted at the places she’d like to go to on a date. Ron wasn’t exactly a master of picking up on subtle hints. Anyway, being out with Ron was the only thing that mattered.
The pub had a neon sign over its door, which was… unusual. Ron opened the door for her and inclined his head gentlemanly, making her smile. Where Hermione had expected a rustic wooden decor, she was greeted by more neon lights glaring at her from a row of arcade machines that stood against the wall of the pub.
Once she’d gotten used to the brightness, she also spotted a number of cosy-looking booths on the other side of the establishment. Round tables with circular, upholstered seats – perfect for hand-holding, getting closer to each other, maybe even kissing… Excitedly, she went to the last booth, tucked away in the corner.
Ron took his seat opposite her, grinning. “Isn’t it great? They restored all these old arcade machines, and you can use them! I’m so looking forward to crushing you at Street Fighter !”
“Or maybe I will crush you!” Hermione laughed, even though she had only a faint idea of what Street Fighter was. “Let’s get some food first, shall we?”
While they ate, Hermione asked, “So, how is work?”
Ron shrugged. “Oh, you know, the usual. Although we had an interesting case the other day. There was a lady who kept nifflers. Like, a lot of nifflers! They kept getting out and nicking stuff, as they do. You should have seen her place, it was crammed to the ceiling with all sorts of things her nifflers had stolen.”
“Sounds like her pets were getting a bit much for her.”
“Oh yeah, absolutely! It wasn’t really an Auror job, but she didn’t know who else to call. We got Creatures Regulation to sort it out.”
“She called you herself? She must have been pretty overwhelmed then…”
“Who has that many nifflers anyway? I thought crazy old ladies got cats.” He gave her a cheeky look.
“Very funny, Ron! I still only have the one.” Hermione quickly subdued the irritation that had flared up inside her. Ron said things like that sometimes. But nobody was perfect, were they?
“I’m just glad you didn’t bring that monster to our date. Aren’t you afraid he’ll tear up your flat, though?”
“No, he’s very well-behaved when there aren’t any Death Eaters around.”
“Right… Why do you live in a Muggle place anyway? It’s kind of depressing.”
Hermione shrugged, looking at her half-empty plate of food. “I just felt like getting some distance between me and the Wizarding World for a while after the war. I haven’t gotten round to finding a new place yet.”
“Your block of flats reminded me of another case we had a while back. There was this bloke who was totally off his rocker. His ex stole his wand or something, and this bloke was absolutely losing it. At first, he was calm, but the longer he talked about his ex, how he had stolen his wand and what he might do with it, the more upset he got. And then–” Ron grinned in disbelief – “He started crying! A grown man, in front of strangers! Absolutely blubbering! It was tough to be there.”
“Because you felt for him?”
“No, because it was bloody embarrassing!”
Hermione chuckled uncomfortably. “He was in a very upsetting situation. Imagine someone stole your wand. They could use it to commit crimes and pin them on you.”
“I’d be angry, but not crying! I’m an adult.”
“Adults can cry.”
“Yeah, women. Not men, though.”
Hermione blinked. “Don’t you think—”
“Let’s go play a game, yeah?”
Hermione got up to follow him to the arcade part of the pub. Ron made a beeline to the machine that had the words Street Fighter stamped across its top, complete with drawings of muscly cartoon men balling their fists, scowling at each other. He threw a few coins into the slot and took his position at one of the joysticks, putting the fingers of his other hand on a row of buttons next to it.
“Hurry, before it starts.”
Hermione, confused, took the other joystick. The game began. She had no idea what to do. She frantically moved the joystick and pushed the buttons, making the figure on the screen duck and jump and kick and throw punches, none of which quite landed.
Ron yelled and jumped with glee while he eviscerated her. Beaming, he said, “Told you I’d crush you!”
Hermione laughed. “I suppose you were right. Can you show me how it works?”
Ron explained the types of attacks and which button triggered which one. They played another fight — Hermione didn’t lose quite as abysmally.
“Here, I’ll help you so you can get a feeling for it.” Ron started a one-player fight and came to stand behind her, reaching around her to put his hands on hers. He pushed the joystick with her hand on it in all directions and pressed her fingers down on the appropriate buttons.
The life bar of the fighter the machine controlled got shorter and shorter as Ron helped her fight, jostling her with his arms pressed against her shoulders. His breath smelled like chips.
When the fight was over, Hermione quickly stepped aside. “Wow, that was…” Her cheeks hurt from smiling. “I need a drink. I’ll get a white wine, do you want another beer? We can talk a little more.”
“Oh, thanks, you’re the best! Just put the beer here, I want to see how many blokes I can beat this time.”
Hermione got the drinks and went to stand behind Ron, watching his astounding dexterity with the joystick and buttons, listening to him groan, or laugh triumphantly, depending on his performance on the machine.
“You’re good at this,” she said, making herself smile, when the next level was loading.
“Yeah, told you.” He took a quick sip from his beer before exhaling deeply to mentally prepare for another smackdown.
After four fights in the game, Hermione made a renewed attempt at getting Ron to sit back down with her.
“I’ll just fight this one bloke, then I’ll come. I promise,” he said.
So, Hermione walked back to their booth alone. She sat and watched Ron from afar, sipping her wine. He’d come back to her when he was done. It was his date too, he was allowed to have fun.
Her mind wandered to the last time she’d shared a booth like this with a man, years ago. Only the upholstery had been brown leather and the pub hadn’t had any arcade machines. She’d drunk white wine then, too… And her companion had sat with her all night long. What an unlikely pair they’d made, and yet, how fitting it had felt that destiny had thrown them together, of all people.
There’d been a lot of silence at first. Hermione had been afloat for months, desperately trying to flee from the emptiness inside her. The war had been harrowing, but her role in it had been so instrumental that the sudden peace had left her without a calling. She’d fought one way or another since she’d been a child. Once the fight had been over, there remained – nothing.
After she’d recovered from the surprise to see him in a Muggle pub at all, she had walked over and sat down hesitantly on the outer edge of the seat. He had groaned quietly, but hadn’t chased her away – that alone had told her how wretched he had felt. The way he had sat there, in a corner of the pub, sunken and sullen, with hunched shoulders and a dark look on his face, had been such an apt expression of how she herself felt, she had to at least attempt to talk to him.
As it turned out, they had both happened upon this pub while aimlessly walking the streets of London. Neither of them knew how to pick up their lives after the only thing they’d known how to do had disappeared overnight. It had become quickly apparent how similar their lots were – only that he’d had to look back on almost thirty years of fighting in the name of the Greater Good.
“It doesn’t matter much how long it has been,” he had said. “The feeling of being superfluous is the same.” She had put her hand on his, and his eyes had sunken into hers.
Hermione jumped a little when Ron plopped down on the seat opposite hers, sighing. “I can never get past that one fighter. Eh, I’ll try again in a bit.”
“Right. I’m sure you’ll be able to do it.” Silence settled, and Hermione racked her brain for a conversation topic. “Something interesting happened at work the other day,” she finally managed. She told him her story, unable to shake the feeling that he wasn’t really listening. He laughed in the wrong places and, once she had finished, said, “That’s bonkers!” when her story had not, in fact, been ‘bonkers’.
Making puppy dog eyes at her, he asked, “Can we play another fight? Together? I can… assist you again.” He looked deep into her eyes.
“Um, yeah…” Hermione laughed, casting her gaze down. What was wrong with her? She should be jumping up and running to the machines at the prospect of being so close to Ron again, between his arms, his chest at her back. “Can we sit and talk for a little while longer? Why don’t you tell me something?”
Ron leaned back, blowing air through his lips. “I already told you something.”
“I’m sure other stuff has happened in your life lately.”
“I don’t exactly catalogue my life for later retelling,” he grumbled.
“You could ask me questions, too.” Irritation scratched at her mind again. It was more difficult to push it away this time.
“I already know everything about you,” he laughed. “What on earth am I supposed to ask you?”
You don’t know everything , Hermione thought. Not by a long shot.
“Oh, I just thought of something!” said Ron, perking up. “How’s Parvati?”
“She’s fine.”
“I can’t believe she’s with that bitch Pansy Parkinson!”
“Don’t call her that. She’s been through terrible times!”
“Serves her right, though, doesn’t it? I can’t believe you’re defending her. She was basically a Death Eater!”
“Draco actually was a Death Eater, and he only suffered for it! It was horrible, what Voldemort made him do. Voldemort was killing and torturing his own followers just as much as his enemies. Draco didn’t have a choice, and neither did Pansy.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Ron rubbed his face, sounding defeated, and Hermione instantly regretted her outburst.
“I’m sorry, Ron. I know this is a difficult topic. Let’s talk about something else, yeah?”
“Right. So… does she tell you? Parvati, I mean? About Pansy?”
“Yes, of course. They seem quite happy together, and they recently started therapy to work through their experiences during the war.”
Ron chuckled. “You girls with your therapy.”
“It can be very helpful,” Hermione said pointedly.
Ron dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “I know, I know. But I meant more, like… does she tell you about the two of them? You know?”
It took a while for Hermione to understand what he was talking about. “Ron! That’s none of my business!”
He grinned. “Right. But aren’t you curious, though? Or are you too pure and innocent to think about such things?”
Hermione scoffed, uncomfortably shifting in her seat.
Ron was still caught up in his musings. “I mean, do they…” he demonstrated his idea by use of his forefinger, middle finger and tongue.
Hermione exhaled in exasperation. “Maybe it’s a good idea for you to go play your game now.”
With a bright smile, he jumped up, then looked at her with big eyes. “Aren’t you coming? I thought you wanted to learn the game. You know… with me?”
“Um, yeah. In a bit. You can warm up the machine for me.” She grinned.
Ron gave her a bemused look before jogging back to the game.
Hermione looked after him, a knot in her stomach. The truth was that she had been uncomfortable being trapped between his arms. His hands had been so sweaty… But it was probably just the heat from the machines. That had to be it. She should go to him.
But she remained in her seat. Ron thought she’d never been with a man…
She took another sip of her wine, trying not to compare the feelings she was having about Ron right now with the night all those years ago… a long night of talking, of sharing her deepest woes with her unlikely companion, of them finding comfort in each other. At the end of the night, it had only seemed natural that he would accompany her home. That they would end up in each other’s arms, desperate for the only kinship they had found in a long time.
Their night together had been a moment stolen, a beautiful dream. His last soft kiss and whispered words had become a precious, bittersweet memory that Hermione kept deep inside her heart.
After that, she’d only ever caught glimpses of him in the newspapers. Secretly, she had saved every snippet that mentioned him. Had scoured the wedding announcements with dread in her heart. But then, Ron had come back into her life. And he seemed like such a reasonable option, one that their friends very much encouraged. She’d be damned if she let that opportunity slip through her fingers. He may be a bit coarse, but Ron was… there.
It was time to take a more proactive approach. Walking up to Ron, she said, “I’d like to show you a really nice pub, too.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, brilliant, next time.” His eyes were glued to the screen, his hands never still.
“I actually meant now.”
“Just this fight, yeah?”
She exhaled. “I would prefer if you came with me right now. This is a date, after all. We’re supposed to interact with each other.” Guilt gnawed on her conscience. She could be interacting with him right now if she had taken him up on his offer… she was supposed to want to be in his arms, and yet… But it would all be fine once they were in a quieter place and he wasn’t so distracted.
“I’m almost done.” He wiggled the joystick and tapped the buttons like a maniac.
Finally, he groaned, hanging his head. “I almost had him this time. Maybe—” He turned to Hermione, who cut him off, so anxious was she to get him into another, more favourable setting.
“You’ll get him another day. Come on, we can apparate to a small alley next to the pub.”
Ron seemed sullen when they entered the pub Hermione had chosen. He went towards the bar, studying the chalkboards advertising their drinks. “I don’t recognize any of those brands. Don’t tell me this is one of those weird places where they only have artisanal beer or whatever it’s called?”
“I don’t actually know. But I’m sure you’ll find something you like. Should we sit over there?”
“Fine.”
After interrogating the bartender about “normal” beer for a few minutes, Ron made a choice and followed Hermione to the table she had indicated. He stared at his beer glass, absent-mindedly turning it around and around. Then, he took a sip and made a face. “Just as I thought,” he grumbled. “And it was bloody expensive, too.”
Hermione took a nervous sip from her wine, willing her happy anticipation from earlier this evening to come back.
“You could have just let me finish my game, you know.”
With more venom than she had intended, she said, “Why did you take me out if all you wanted to do was play? You can do that any day. Why today?”
“I thought you’d like it, too.”
“What about me, in the fifteen years we’ve known each other, made you think I like video games? I have not talked about them once, ever.” Her voice had risen.
He matched her sharp tone. “Maybe it’s because you grew up with them, okay? I never had cool stuff like that! I never had anything cool as a child, you know that! Only now, after twenty-six years, do I finally have money to spend, can I finally do something I always wanted to do. And the first thing you do is shit all over it! Do you know how that makes me feel?”
Hermione wanted to shout back at him about how he twisted the situation in his own favour, how her expectations of a date were perfectly reasonable. But then she’d be a hypocrite. He had wanted her to be at the machine with him. She knew that he’d been ramping up to something more intimate. But the moment she’d finally been physically close to him, she’d recoiled.
Maybe she could save this somehow. Just talk to him, make him understand. If he came around, this would all sort itself out. Calmly, she said. “It’s not my intention at all to dampen your enjoyment. It’s great that you found something you enjoy so much. But, as I said, you can play every day. When you realised I wasn’t interested, why did you keep going?”
Ron shook his head and exhaled, looking just as lost as Hermione felt.
She swallowed. “Why did you ask me out, Ron?”
“I… everyone kept telling me what a good idea it would be. How good we are together. And I could kind of see it, so… I thought it was worth a shot.”
Hermione leaned back, exhaling. Their friends had been teasing them about always ending up sitting next to each other when they did something as a group. Had made little remarks and given them suggestive looks. It had made Hermione see Ron in a different light. There had been that wild, crazy kiss during the battle, before the world had exploded and everything had turned to shit. There had been a reason they had kissed.
Hermione had worked on reigniting her youthful fancy, of rekindling those feelings that had made her kiss him. But when she looked at him now, all she could see was someone whom she had barely anything in common with. Whose touch made her shrink away. Someone who took her for granted so much he couldn’t even bring himself to ask her about her day, let alone her life.
The worst thing was that it was her fault as much as his – maybe even more so. After all, Ron was just being himself. She had convinced herself that he’d discover his sensitive side once he was with her. Had his behaviour tonight really been the reason she’d started getting fed up with him?
Over the years, she had painstakingly collected arguments and built her case in favour of pursuing a relationship with Ron. In the stretch of one night, her case had collapsed like the fragile house of cards it had always been. She almost laughed at herself. How blind could a person be? The very fact she’d had to come up with reasons to be with him was the perfect sign they weren’t, and had never been, right for each other.
It was on her now to somehow get them both out of this mess. Forcing her voice to be steady, she said, “Listen, Ron, thanks for taking me out tonight, but I don’t think we’re going to work out.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
The incredulity in his eyes turned into anger so quickly, tears shot into Hermione’s eyes. “Yes.” She swallowed. “I’m so sorry, Ron.”
“You were making eyes at me and laughing at my jokes and, and… leading me on all this time to bait me into taking you out, and now you’re discarding me because you’re miffed at me for some reason?”
“Ron, I—how can you think that? I didn’t lead you on! I was so happy when you asked me out!” She impatiently wiped her cheeks. “We just realised that we’re not as compatible as we thought. And it makes me really sad, but…” She lifted her shoulders helplessly.
“Yeah, right, try explaining it away,” he scoffed. “I should have known, you did the same thing at the Triwizard Tournament when you suddenly went out with Krum!”
“What?”
“Yeah, the minute I don’t do exactly what you want me to do, you sulk and push me away. Everything is fine when we’re with Harry, Ginny and the others, but as soon as we’re alone, you suddenly have all these high expectations.”
Now, it was tears of anger and confusion that burned in Hermione’s eyes. The tornado of retorts that whirled around in her mind utterly overwhelmed her, leaving her at a loss for words.
Ron looked pissed off. “Couldn’t you have told me you wanted to end the date before we came here? I could have kept playing!”
Hermione hung her head, A bitter laugh escaping her. “You can go back there now, can’t you?”
“Yeah, and I will”
“Great.”
He ripped his jacket from the back of his chair, muttering, “Barmy,” loud enough for her to hear.
His parting remark pierced through her heart and made the last thread of hope to end this date in a dignified manner evaporate. If he could be this cruel to her at the drop of a hat, had they even been friends at all these past years?
Hermione took her glass to the bar, feeling stupid sitting at a table by herself. Her hand shaking, she downed a big gulp of wine.
Someone approached the bar next to her, putting a few empty glasses on it. Hermione chanced a look at the person who was conscientious enough to tidy up after themselves.
His eyes met hers, making her almost choke on her wine. Snape greeted her with a nod, but she was too stunned to reply. Judging by the glasses he had brought back, he must have been here a while, and with others. How loud had her argument with Ron been, how noticeable his exit? If Snape had witnessed any of it, Hermione was ready to be swallowed by the earth.
“Did he take you to a playground?” asked Snape without looking at her.
“He—no, he didn’t.”
Snape slipped onto the bar stool next to her and ordered a whisky. His silence pressed in on her.
“It was an arcade, more or less,” she finally conceded.
“How long did it take your rose-tinted glasses to shatter?”
She let out a humourless laugh. “Hours.” She shook her head. “How can it all just be… gone? I thought… I—” She exhaled, too embarrassed to admit the amount of self-deception she had engaged in. “We don’t function together at all. It’s so obvious. How did I not see it before?”
“Hours is a very short time to be disabused of a deeply-ingrained idea. You should count yourself lucky.”
“Yeah, that’s me. The lucky one.”
“Many keep up a charade for years, just to avoid facing the fact of how utterly wrong they are about the other person, and themselves.” He downed his whiskey and got up.
Hurriedly, Hermione said, “Another drink? I’ll buy.”
“What are you doing, Granger?”
She exhaled. “I don’t want to go home yet. I just… want someone to talk to.”
He scoffed, “Believe me, you don’t want that person to be me.”
“What if I do? At least I know you’ll be honest.”
“Ah, yes, my most prized quality.”
Hermione looked down, speaking quietly. “It was what I needed last time.”
He didn’t reply.
Taking a breath, she faced him. “Let me buy you a drink. If you really wanted to leave, you would have been through that door without another look.”
His eyebrows rose ever so slightly, but he slid back onto the bar stool. “Two lime sodas,” he told the bartender. When he put a ten-pound note on the bar, Hermione put her hand on his, arresting it. He froze.
“Put that away,” Hermione babbled, trying to dissipate the sudden heaviness between them, “I said I’d buy, didn’t I?”
He pocketed his money silently; and silently, they sipped their sodas.
“I thought you wanted to talk,” he said after a while. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“I suppose I just didn’t want to be alone. What brought you here tonight, anyway?”
“My colleagues from the Potioneers’ Society like to come here every once in a while. The discussions are enjoyable, so I join them when I can.”
“Did you… recommend this place to them?”
“I may have.”
Another silence settled, but Hermione attempted to dissipate it. “So, you work for the Potioneers’ Society now?”
“Not as such. I’m a member, like most other potioneers in Britain. We exchange ingredients and information about where to collect or buy the highest-quality ones, discuss brewing protocols and review each other’s publications. The Society publishes a journal, too.”
“That sounds great,” said Hermione, a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “Although I’m a little surprised you remained in Potions. I thought you’d finally do something with Defence Against the Dark Arts.”
He snorted, “And become an Auror like the Golden Boys?”
“More like Mad-Eye Moody, in your case.”
He raised his eyebrows at her, making her blush, but she didn’t look away. Curling his lips, he said, “Perhaps… But my primary motive for wanting to teach you how to defend yourself against the Dark Lord was the fact that I had unique insights into his operation. Now that the threat has passed, I’d rather stick to my passion.”
“Oh… I can’t believe I never made that connection… I—”
“You thought that I was there to teach half a roomful of aspiring Death Eaters how to torture and maim.” Quieter, he added, “It was what you were supposed to think.”
Hermione nodded, staring wistfully at the bubbles clinging to the slice of lime in her glass. “I’m glad you can live the life you wanted.”
It took a long moment before he spoke again. “I heard you work at the Ministry.”
“Yes. Although I did get my mastery in Spell Metaphysics.”
“But you didn’t enjoy the field?”
“Oh yes, I did. But, to quote my mother, ‘ Passion is for leisure; it takes a career to pay the bills .’ Or, another favourite, ‘ An employer doesn’t care whether you feel fulfilled, only whether you’re qualified.’ And you know how Spell Metaphysics is… very theoretical, few paid positions. I do miss it, though.”
He considered her for a moment. “Are your parents back in Britain then?”
“No, still Australia. They loved it so much they wanted to stay.”
“Then why do you keep living by your mother’s aphorisms?”
Hermione shrugged, feeling uneasy. “Ingrained patterns and all that… I assumed you understood that kind of thing.”
He exhaled, his nostrils flaring. Just like years ago, when they had occupied a booth only a few feet from where they sat now, Hermione noticed how finely cut his nose was, how beautiful with its sharp corners and angles.
“Is your incessant need to fulfil others’ expectations the reason you went out with Weasley tonight?”
Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. “Harsh.”
“Didn’t you say you needed my particular brand of honesty tonight?”
She exhaled. “I’m starting to doubt that decision.”
“You may console yourself with the knowledge that you’re not the only one hoping that someone they had very little in common with would miraculously come around.” He let out a derisive laugh.
Bracing herself for impact, she quietly asked, “You’re talking about Lily, right?”
“Bold move, Granger.”
“You are, though, aren’t you?” She stared at his profile until he faced her, his deep black eyes cutting into hers.
“Yes.” To her surprise, a smile played around his lips. “You look terrified.”
“And that’s funny, is it? I’ll have you know that you were the one breaching the topic in the first place, so you have no reason to chastise me for continuing it.” Hermione exhaled. “Why did you say it, then, if you don’t want to talk about it?”
“You seemed so crestfallen despite having done the right thing tonight, letting him go. Letting go of… what he stood for.” He looked at the bar, working his jaw, all hints of mirth gone.
“What he stood for…” Hermione repeated with a small, humourless laugh. “That is exactly what it was.” She looked up, a thought having crossed her mind. “Lily… stood for something too in the context of your life, didn’t she?”
“Your acute mind is terribly annoying.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He gave her a dark look before directing his gaze back at his soda glass. “Lily… she had become a symbol over the years, rather than a person. Only today did I understand that.”
“What happened today that gave you this realisation?”
“I have been… seeing someone for the past years.”
A lump grew in Hermione’s throat, getting rapidly bigger. Swallow as she might, it wouldn’t go away. She forced her face to remain neutral, even though her heart felt like ice.
He continued, “A specialist, one might say, who assisted me in… coping… with some experiences.”
The ice melted. “A therapist?”
A muscle in his temple jumped. “Something of the sort. Today, with his help, I have realised that I don’t need her any more. It feels like an incredibly cruel thing to say, but it’s true. Even the symbol she had become is not necessary any longer. I…” He shook his head again.
“You’re free,” Hermione said quietly.
His jaw clenched and he nodded. The corners of his mouth drew downwards before he inhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of his nose. With a hollow feeling in her stomach, it dawned on Hermione that he was biting back tears. Slowly, she lifted her hand and put it on his back, just for a second.
He put his face in his hands, murmuring, “I need to get out of here.” But he remained seated, his breathing still laboured.
“Come on,” Hermione said, “Let’s get you home.”
He took his hands away to look at her. “You don’t have to—”
“I don’t think you should be alone. It’s your choice, of course. Just say the word and I’ll be gone.”
He got up wordlessly, taking his jacket from the back of the barstool and walking out. Hermione followed him. He rounded a corner into the alley. She remained at its entrance, unsure of what to do.
“Are you coming or not?”
She hurried up to him. The moment she had threaded her hand through his proffered forearm, he turned, apparating them away.
They arrived in almost perfect darkness. Hermione breathed deeply, the nausea from apparating side-along quickly dissipating. She straightened up, inhaling the clean air. “It smells wonderful,” she said. “Where are we?”
“In Snowdonia. There is a forest over there, that’s where the smell comes from. This is my cottage.” He gestured at a vague shape that was somewhat brighter than the surrounding darkness.
Lighting up his wand, he looked down at Hermione’s feet and said, “Your shoes are impossible.” He held out his arm again.
After a short hesitation, Hermione took it. He held it close to his body to allow her a stable hold while he led her along his uneven, gravel-covered garden path. The inside of the cottage smelled like herbs and earth, with a faint note of citrus. It smelled like him.
“Um, could I change somewhere? I brought some other clothes.”
“Right there.” He pointed straight ahead.
To Hermione’s surprise, the indicated room was not, as she had expected, his bathroom, but his bedroom, although the bed itself was hidden behind airy white curtains. A wooden wardrobe with flowers carved into the door and two matching nightstands completed the set. The bed seemed just wide enough to accommodate two people. Only one of the nightstands had a lamp and books on it, though.
Hermione unshrunk the clothes she had brought, and changed, shrinking her dress, high heels, and tights to store them in the clutch instead. It was a relief to be wearing loose clothes and to have her heels touch the ground. While she was at it, she pointed her wand at her face to remove her makeup.
When she went outside, everything was dark. Taking a steadying breath, she called, “Severus?”
His voice came from the entrance of the cottage. “I’m outside.”
After making her way through the dark corridor, she found him sitting on a bench in front of his cottage, a small lantern basking him in its soft glow. “I never took the time to enjoy this place.”
Hermione slowly sat down next to him, eyeing him. “You’re not… dying, are you?”
With a dry laugh, he replied, “No. Quite the opposite.” They sat quietly for a moment before he continued. “It’s been a good seven years since the war ended, and only now do I feel like I’ve stepped out of my masters’ shadows. The newspapers kept saying I had two masters, but they were wrong. The most unforgiving master, the one with the fiercest hold on me, was the one I had built up myself.”
Hermione nodded quietly. She wanted to comfort him, but what could one possibly say that properly acknowledged the vastness of his sacrifice for the Greater Good? At the last second, she stopped her hand, which had moved almost of its own accord to take his. After a while, she asked, “Do you feel okay about letting her go?”
Severus took a long breath. “It feels like being on a highwire without a net, walking out without seeing how long the wire is, or where it leads. And there’s no one there to catch me if I fall.”
“Someone will be there to catch you.”
He turned to face her. She stammered, “I mean, you have your therapist, and there are probably some people from the Potioneer’s Society you’ve become a bit closer with, right?”
“Xanimus, my—the healer I work with, has encouraged me to build my social circle back up. He thinks that I have my less, ah… palatable tendencies under control well enough. While I do have some colleagues at the Society whose company I enjoy, they remain mere colleagues. I don’t seem to have the hang of building a social circle.”
“You’re doing fine right now. And you do seem more palatable.”
He replied with a single quiet, almost amicable snort of laughter.
Hesitantly, Hermione said, “You know, I never told you this… or anyone, for that matter.” She swallowed. “After the battle, I went back to the Shrieking Shack to get you.”
“Why would you do that?”
“When Harry told everyone where your true loyalties lay, my heart broke for you. You had worked towards that goal your entire life and never saw it fulfilled – or so I thought. Even worse, no one except one person even knew what you were fighting for, and how much it had cost you.
"And then, you were forced to kill that person. The incredible cruelty of that… words can't describe how deeply sorrowful it made me feel for you. You must have felt so alone…” Once again, she had to consciously stop herself from touching him.
"The very least you deserved was to lie with the other fallen. When your body wasn't in the Shack, I was terrified someone had taken you away. But then I learned you were still alive…” She shook her head slowly. “I was so incredibly relieved."
"Is that why… you came to sit with me in the pub that day?"
Hermione took a moment to think before replying. "When I saw you that night, you looked just as lost as I felt. My friends… they dealt with the end of the war differently than I did. In my darker moments, I felt like adversity had forced my friends and me to stick together during school and the war itself. But as soon as the adversity was gone, everyone suddenly realised I didn’t actually fit in with them. Somehow, among all the terrible grief, I ended up by myself. But there you were, by yourself as well. Something drew me to you."
He took a few audible breaths as if fighting for words. Eventually, he adjusted his seat, angling himself towards her. “Hermione… that night when we met… I always wondered whether it wasn’t a terrible mistake to go away.”
She shook her head, smiling, allowing herself to access the memory she had hidden away in her heart. “Neither of us were in any state to… commit to anything.”
“Did you ever tell anyone?”
“No. But not because I was ashamed. That night was like a moment fallen out of time – ours, utterly and completely. I wanted to keep it like that. Anything that anyone could have said would only have tainted it.”
He looked at her for a long time, the corners of his mouth turning up. “And tonight, our paths crossed again."
"They did." Hermione smiled, too.
"Listen, I know it’s late, but would you like to watch a film together?”
“A… a film? You watch films now?”
“Something else Xanimus recommended. It does help put my mind at ease.”
“I see. Sure, why not.” Still a little bemused, she followed him into the cottage, where he led the way into the living room. With a few wand movements, a screen unfurled and now hung in the air at a comfortable distance from the sofa. Severus pulled open an inconspicuous drawer at the bottom of his bookshelf and selected a DVD, which he put into a player that was hidden there as well. Above Hermione’s head, a small projector whirred to life.
“That’s quite the setup you have there.”
He inclined his head, then sat next to her and pointed his wand at the DVD player. A menu appeared on the floating screen.
“It’s… an animated film,” said Hermione. The wonders didn’t cease. He had changed. Hermione’s heart warmed with the slow realisation that he seemed much more put together, calmer… happier.
“Yes. One of the best and most beautifully drawn ones to ever exist. Would you mind if we watched it in the original Japanese with subtitles?”
“No, not at all.” She settled back, curious.
The film was indeed beautiful. Full of its own kind of magic, with a story told subtly and full of wonder. It was about two girls living in the countryside with their father. Their mother was in a nearby hospital, recovering from a long illness. It was when the older girl frantically tried to find a phone to call the hospital because something seemed to be wrong with her mother that tears started welling up in Hermione’s eyes.
She didn’t remember having that kind of deep, unconditional, simple love in her life. Somehow, she’d always had to fight for it, and only gotten morsels in return. She had pushed these thoughts away whenever they surfaced, especially in regard to her parents. But the film pierced right through her defences.
Trying to pass it off as scratching an itch on her face, she attempted to surreptitiously wipe away the tears, but Severus turned to look at her. Chuckling awkwardly, she said, “Sorry, it’s silly,” and sniffled.
It struck Hermione how soft his expression was. From the pocket of his black trousers, he took a neatly folded cotton handkerchief and gave it to her.
“Thank you.” She wiped her cheeks and they continued watching the film.
Something in the air had shifted. His quiet gesture had seemed so tender… Hermione adjusted her seat, and it just so happened that her arm now touched his. He didn’t move, didn’t make even the faintest attempt at breaking contact.
Finally, Hermione’s heart broke open. Her tears flowed silently – out of grief for herself, who had deprived herself of joy because she had been so afraid to step out of line. They flowed out of gratitude for Severus, who finally, after a dire, thankless existence, had found his way to peace. And they flowed out of relief for the children in the film as they reunited with their mother, who was all right after all.
It was then that she knew without a doubt she had fallen incurably in love with Severus all those years ago, and that she was in love with him still.
Attempts at hiding her tears were futile now, so she just used the handkerchief with abandon. Severus lifted his arm and put it around her. She nestled against him, sobbing quietly. It felt so good to finally let go, to finally be where she belonged.
The end credits rolled, accompanied by a joyful song. Eventually, the projector ceased its whirring and the room fell dark.
Neither of them stirred while the seconds ticked past. Hermione’s tears had dried. Severus still held her, and she sunk into his warm body, savouring every subtle rise and fall of his ribcage as he breathed, every one of his heartbeats.
He moved his other hand, gently brushing his fingertips over her hand. She lifted her fingers to interlace them with his. Sitting up, she turned to him, barely able to make out his face in the darkness.
The tip of his nose touched hers, and Hermione tilted her head. His lips found hers slowly, softly, indulgently. The wordless promise he had left her with six years ago unfolded between them, and Hermione knew that they would keep it.
Breathlessly, Hermione broke their kiss. “Severus…” she whispered. He replied with a pleasurable hum.
They stayed with their foreheads touching one another, processing this pivotal moment.
Eventually, Hermione took a deep breath. “I want to keep kissing you all night…” she whispered.
He nodded against her forehead before breaking contact, chuckling quietly. “But we should begin properly this time.”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to join me on a date tomorrow?”
“I would love that.”
“I will not, for anything, leave you again.”
“I won’t let you.” She breathed deeply, inhaling his scent, basking in the knowledge that she finally knew where her path led her. “But first, we should get some sleep.”
A candle flickered to life on the mantelpiece, and Severus stood up, holding Hermione’s hands. She said, “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”
“Me neither.” A glimmer of mischief flitted over his face. “You like arcades, I seem to recall.”
Hermione laughed. “Don’t you dare!” She threaded her arms under his, hugging him. He returned the embrace. So they stood, neither wanting to let go.
Severus kissed her forehead, and Hermione took a step back, sighing. She turned towards his fireplace to take some Floo powder when a thought crossed her mind. Looking over her shoulder, she said, “One condition: You have to be on time.”
“I always am.”