Work Text:
This bar
Hermione practiced this dialogue in her head many times. For months, she had been changing words, weighing them carefully, stressing different syllables. She had no idea why.
"Hi, allow me to introduce myself.”
She always started the same way.
Hi, allow me to introduce myself.
Like every Friday, she sat in a crowded bar on Diagon Alley. She loved to observe people while doing work that didn’t require her undivided attention. It wasn't the best place to work per se, but since she graduated from Hogwarts, she's always gone to that one place. She didn't like change. She preferred the comfort of routine. When she was a teenager, she was driven by an adrenaline rush. The spectre of constant danger hanging overhead and panting, ruckling in the nape of her neck. Now she was a young woman. Who got through so much that it could make up three separate lives. And she wasn't even twenty-five years old. And to be honest, she had had enough. She used to be defined by knowledge and courage. But there was no trace of her former courage. All she wanted was peace. And peace rarely came with change. That is why Hermione walked the beaten track. Therefore, as every Friday at four o’clock, she ordered a black coffee, knowing that later she was getting a cream beer, closer to the evening, and sat at the same long, rough-hewn table. She didn't know why, but she liked its coarseness and imperfections. A texture she could feel under her fingers. She always ran over it with her fingertips, before she started taking the utensils out of her bag. Small rituals. Routines that made her move on to the next day with peace of mind. She rearranged the saucer with the cup and slowly reached into the brown bag, a shade slightly darker than her sweater. She took out a self-writing quill. A few years earlier, she had patented a significantly improved version of it. After the war, she had to occupy her head with something. Calm down somehow. But it turned out that patents are not worth as much as is commonly believed. That is why she got hired by the Daily Prophet.
Every day after work, she would come to the bar for coffee and correct the texts of the reportages that were to appear in the morning edition of the next day. But today was Friday. Today was the time for another ritual. So thick, leather notebook was the last thing that she took out of her bag. She's already lost count, but it seemed to her, that she brought it here for the first time about three years ago. Right after breaking up with Ron. And now the draft of her first novel was almost ready.
Hermione was a perfectionist. She knew she wouldn't turn to any publishing house until she felt like her work was impeccable. After all, her name was to be on the cover. And her name meant that a lot was expected of her. Sometimes she felt like she wasn't living up to the vision everyone thought she was. Sometimes she had no idea who Hermione Granger was.
The storyline of the novel came to her by itself. It was as if she had lived a someone else’s life, and now she had only written down her memories. It was as she had been dreaming of the plot, but Hermione hadn’t remembered her dreams for a long time, since her school days. When she woke up, she often had this strange sensation, like a vague memory that she was trying to catch, but it was just like smoke, leaking through her fingers. She didn't know what she was trying to capture. Situation? Shape? Colour? Feeling? She knew she remembered. She just didn't know what.
So when she wrote down the whole story and couldn't change anything else, she started correcting commas and periods. But when they ended, she began to look for more sophisticated synonyms for words that she thought needed to be replaced. And even so, it still wasn't perfect. She was still improving something. Though there was nothing left. She didn't know why she was delaying going to the publisher. Because she thought it wasn't perfect? Because the story, although made up, was too close, too private, too intimate to her? Because she wasn't ready to let it into the world? Was it because she was afraid she would lose her excuse?
Hi, allow me to introduce myself.
From her place, Hermione had an unobstructed view of the door. Old habits apparently never meant to leave her. The voice of Alastor Moody was still buzzing in her head. Constant vigilance. Years passed, and she didn’t turn her back to the entrance in any room. If she had sat with her back to the entrance in Luchino Caffe, the war’d have ended much faster. And much worse.
But from her place she also had a perfect view of the counter of the bar. As usual, Ernie Macmillan, who took over the business from his late aunt, was pouring a beer. Behind him there were a lot of rows of glass bottles of various drinks, of different concentrations and different shades. The wall behind the alcohol was covered with a mirror, which made it seem that there were many more bottles than in reality. From the ceiling there was a light of a warm orange-red hue. In combination with wooden equipment, it gave a cozy atmosphere. The long, shimmering table top stretched almost the entire length of the room. Like every Friday, with a glass of firewhisky in his hand, Draco Malfoy was sitting at it.
Hi, allow me to introduce myself.
I'm nothing to you, she finished in her mind.
The girl couldn’t explain it. But she couldn't deny herself the sight of him. She felt disgust for herself. Throughout the school, Malfoy was an asshole to her, a complete and indescribable asshole. It was only during the war that he was able to see the fanaticism in which he was brought up. But that didn't change the past. It didn’t undo words, nor gestures, nor pain. Still, her eyes unconsciously wandered towards him. She told herself it was his appearance. He was handsome as hell, with a long face and a hard jawline. Above average height. Always neatly dressed in carefully tailored robes or suits. In her plaid skirt, next to him, she felt as if she was still a student. Hermione secretly admitted to herself that she preferred him in suits. There was something comfortable in the snow-white shirts that wrapped around his shoulders. Familiar. She didn't know why it was familiar. But she didn't like change, so that was enough for her. His hair was longer than at school. Now bright strands fell on his forehead, giving him a somewhat boyish look. It rejuvenated him. And sometimes, when the universe was in full harmony with her, it made her look at the man at that rare moment when he looked ahead instead of in the glass. She could then see a fragment of his right eye. Merlin, she couldn't tell why, but there was something to his eyes. Just like her dreams. She had this strange feeling she couldn't name. She didn't know what she was trying to capture. Shape? Colour? But she could never look at them, because Malfoy had never, ever looked at her.
She knew that he was the owner of a potions store on Diagon Alley. She often passed his site, while going to the Flourish and Blotts. But other than that, he was a complete stranger to her. Not even an old enemy anymore. She had no idea who was this Malfoy, sitting in front of her. From what she could observe, fragments of his behavior changed. He no longer tried to put himself in the spotlight. He didn’t make superfluous comments. He was still proud, but he no longer exalted himself. And Hermione thought, if that had changed, what else? What can't I see? She always wanted to know everything. But there was no way to get that knowledge. She couldn't come up and say "hi, allow me to introduce myself" and get out of him what was wrong, what had changed. Why in his presence she always felt these buzzing tension and nervousness. She didn't feel them strictly negatively, but she hated the change, so that was enough for her.
Sometimes she just wanted to come up and say, "I know we don't know each other, but I'd love to know how many books you read, how many trips you go on. How many dogs or ambitious dreams do you have".
If only she had a little strength, she would have told him that she often noticed him, but she knew that it wasn’t the same for him.
But Merlin, if only she had her old Gryffindor courage, she would have told him...
She would tell him that she knows they don't know each other, but she would really like to know why he never leaves this bar.
He was always in the building before she came and left after her. She drank coffee there every day, except for weekends. And every day she saw Malfoy with an amber drink in his hand. She had the impression that she had never seen him outside of that place. That she could come in at nine in the morning and eleven o'clock at night, and he would be sitting at the counter as usual. And she couldn't understand. Was it a war? What happened? Why does he not leave this place and why does he constantly drink?
Hermione hated ignorance. But there was nothing she could do about it. He never looked at her.
With her eyes, she returned to the last word she had written, and then aggressively crossed it out. The problem remains the same. I am nothing to you.
Malfoy’s never looked directly at her. She was just a background for Harry. They didn't even introduce themselves. If it weren't for Harry, Malfoy wouldn't have known she existed at all.
I could look at you for a year and you still wouldn't want me. I've been looking at you for years and you still don't want me. But I’d really like to know, If you'll ever look back at me.
The girl practiced this dialogue in her head many times. Hi, allow me to introduce myself. I am nothing to you.
Hermione didn't remember Draco Malfoy. She couldn't remember when they danced together for the first time at the Yule Ball. She couldn't remember how they hid in empty classrooms and alcoves. She couldn't remember the stolen kisses, as delicate as the brushing of butterfly wings. She couldn't remember the hours they spent together patrolling the corridors. She couldn't remember the rough skin as she followed the scars on his torso with her fingers. She couldn't remember the look in his eyes, as she put his school shirt on herself. She didn't remember the love. She couldn't remember when, just before beginning of the war, he erased her memory of him to protect her. And himself. Hermione couldn't remember what a coward Draco Malfoy was. She didn't remember anything but that bar.
She put money on the counter and left.