Chapter Text
The elevator doors slide open with a mechanical sigh, and Hermione steps inside without looking up from her phone. She presses the button for Level 10 — her floor, same as always.
She’s dressed like every other junior associate in the building: fitted black pencil skirt, silk blouse, heels just sensible enough for a twelve-hour day. There’s a faint coffee stain near her sleeve cuff from an early morning phone call that should’ve been an email, and a barely-contained twist in her hair that’s already starting to frizz.
She’s headed to her office at Gryffindor & Co., the mid-size law firm occupying half the tenth floor and all of her waking hours.
Hermione’s already mentally revising the wording of a client memo, thumb hovering over the keyboard, when she senses movement on her right.
Every morning, the lift fills with the usual suspects. A woman from HR at the accounting firm on Level 7, perpetually clutching a takeaway coffee. A cluster of junior associates from some marketing agency on Level 8, gossiping about deadlines and weekend plans. Occasionally, there’s that intern from the finance office on 9, shuffling awkwardly in his too-big suit. Familiar faces. Predictable routines.
But not him.
He’s already there.
She hadn’t seen him in the lobby, which means he must’ve come up from the basement—probably from the building’s underground parking garage.
Hermione glances up, registering him fully for the first time, and her thoughts stutter. How have I not seen him before? He’s the kind of person you notice. The kind you remember.
Because—bloody hell—he’s fit.
He’s new. Definitely new. She’d have clocked him otherwise. Tall, broad-shouldered, ginger hair slightly tousled but in that intentional, rugged-looking way. He wears a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, no tie, collar slightly undone. Confident, but not showy. Professional, but not stiff.
He stands to her right—close enough that she notices the shift of his weight as the elevator glides upward, but distant enough that she can’t justify turning to look. He’s still, composed, facing forward like he has somewhere important to be. Which, to be fair, so does everyone else in this building.
Not that Hermione’s looking.
She’s not.
Just… taking in her surroundings like any normal, observant adult woman.
She returns to her phone.
Sort of.
He shifts slightly, and she catches a whiff of something clean and warm—maybe cedar and citrus. Hermione blinks hard and types Please see attached documetn before realizing her typo.
Damn it.
The elevator dings at Level 6. He doesn’t move.
He’s going higher.
Hermione’s floor is Level 10, same as always. She knows most of the people who get off between 6 and 9. But not him. And while there are a few others still in the lift—people she recognizes from the upper floors—none of them catch her attention the way he does.
Level 7. Still no movement. She dares another glance. His jaw ticks, like he’s thinking. Or maybe smirking.
Not at her—he hasn’t looked her way.
Not even once.
Level 9. A few more people step off.
The elevator hums.
And then—
Ding.
Level 10. Her floor.
She steps out, heels clicking briskly. Doesn’t look back.
Definitely doesn’t wonder if he looked at her.
~
It happens again. Thursday morning, ten past eight.
She’s early, but not the only one.
The elevator doors slide open to reveal him already inside—tall, ginger, absurdly good-looking. Just like before. Maybe even better than before. And this time, she notices something new.
Freckles. Not just a few—a constellation. Scattered across his cheeks, nose, the edge of his jaw. Even dipping below his collarbone, just visible where the top button of his shirt is undone.
She has no idea how she missed them before.
They make him look slightly younger. Softer, in a way. But not in a bad way. Not at all. It’s disarming. Something about the contrast—broad shoulders, long limbs, sharp features paired with freckles—does something strange to her breathing. Like her body hasn’t caught up to her brain yet.
And he’s tall. She’s guessing over six feet. Closer to six-five, if she had to wager. Which she absolutely isn’t. Obviously.
She steps in from the lobby, brushing a stray curl from her cheek, and presses the button for Level 10. The other buttons already lit are 11 and 15. There’s an older gentleman standing near the corner, briefcase in hand, who must’ve also gotten on before her. She doesn’t recognise him or know which floor he’s going to—but it does confirm that the hot ginger is either headed to 11...or 15.
He doesn’t glance up. Headphones in—wired ones, of all things. A slim white cord runs from his ears into the pocket of his blazer, the faintest pulse of drum and bass just audible in the quiet. He’s tapping his fingers lightly against his upper thigh, in time with the beat.
He’s wearing slate grey trousers today, a crisp blue shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, and a darker blazer slung over his shoulder, as if he only put it on halfway out of obligation. Still, he looks sharp. Sharp in that low-effort, high-impact sort of way. Like he didn’t spend long getting ready but somehow got it exactly right.
She’s definitely sure now—he must’ve come from the basement parking. That’s the only way he’d already be in the elevator before her.
The elevator hums as it begins to climb. He nods to the rhythm of whatever he’s listening to, fingers still tapping against his thigh. Not a twitchy tap. Just a rhythm kept without thinking. Like someone used to syncing thoughts to music. Or someone who needs a beat to think straight.
Business or marketing , she thinks. Has to be. Definitely not legal—he doesn’t carry the frantic, paper-clutching energy most lawyers do in the morning. He looks like he actually slept. And somehow, also has time to work out. Because of course he does.
She studies him sideways, careful not to be obvious about it. His hair is a little messy in the back, like he towel-dried it and left it alone. Blonde eyelashes catch the light—they’re actually really pretty—and his mouth is soft at the corners, resting somewhere between relaxed and amused.
The doors open at Level 7. A woman gets on, heading to Floor 14. Hermione shifts slightly to the right, ending up closer to him than before.
Close enough to see the faintest dimple in his cheek.
Close enough to smell him again—clean, citrus, something woodsy underneath. A scent that lingers just long enough to make her wonder what brand it is. Or if he always smells like that. Or if it’s actually his cologne, or just something borrowed from a flatmate with taste.
She doesn’t look at him again. Not directly.
But as the elevator climbs toward 10, she finds herself listening to the music bleeding faintly from his headphones and wonders—just for a moment—what kind of person still chooses wired over wireless. What else he’s particular about. What other small, deliberate decisions he makes without thinking.
And what his name might be.
~
It’s quiet when she steps into the elevator. Just her.
Monday morning. Nine sharp.
Technically, she’s late. But she has court in the afternoon, which means she'll be working overtime anyway—nothing new there.
She drove in today. Needed the car to get to the courthouse later, which meant battling traffic, which meant being slightly behind schedule. Again, nothing new.
For once, she’s the first. No music bleeding from headphones, no telltale pulse of citrus cologne in the air. Just the hum of the lights and the soft shuffle of her heels against the elevator floor.
She exhales, shoulders relaxing slightly. It's already been a morning—tight deadlines, a partner in a foul mood, and her email inbox multiplying like it’s training for a marathon. She taps the button for Level 10 and leans back, fixing her gaze somewhere above the floor numbers.
The doors open again at the lobby. A few people file in—two from Marketing, she thinks, and one of the receptionists with her usual cloud of perfume. Hermione steps aside automatically to make room.
Then—
Just as the doors begin to slide closed, a hand darts through the gap.
The elevator jerks slightly, then springs open again.
He walks in.
Tall. Ginger. Freckles. Same disheveled precision as before—like he got ready in five minutes and still somehow looks better than most people do with effort. He’s in a white shirt, dark blazer fitted just right, and slim trousers that make it abundantly clear he knows how to dress for his build.
“Sorry,” he says, offering a quick, crooked smile as he steps inside. “Didn’t mean to play chicken with the doors.”
It’s the first time she hears his voice.
Low. Warm. With a bit of a playful tilt to it—like he could make you laugh without trying too hard.
It lands somewhere between charming and maddening.
Hermione doesn’t react. At least, not visibly.
Internally, her brain short-circuits for half a second.
He turns, presses the button for Level 11.
Level 11. Of course.
The new startup floor.
The old firm on 11 moved out six months ago—she remembers the building-wide email.
And she hasn’t seen any of the usual crowd that worked up there since. Just new faces. One, in particular.
WZLY , she thinks. That has to be it. The startup with the weird name and the sleek new logo on the hallway sign. The kind of place where they drink cold brew on tap and have weekly brainstorms on whiteboards shaped like clouds.
It suits him, honestly.
He slips his headphones into his pocket as the doors slide shut. No music today, apparently.
He doesn’t look at her. But his presence shifts the entire elevator. Like everyone suddenly notices him.
Hermione doesn’t say anything. But now she knows where he works.
And what his voice sounds like.
It’s not much.
But it’s something.
~
The office is too quiet at this hour.
It’s nearly seven. Most of the lights on Level 10 have already dimmed to their energy-saving setting. The floor is empty—save for the soft click of her heels and the occasional sigh from the printer that refuses to shut up.
Hermione exhales and adjusts the strap of her bag on her shoulder. She’s tired. The kind of tired that settles behind your eyes and makes your thoughts feel like they’re wading through molasses. Everything aches in that quiet, post-adrenaline way. Court went long. Her inbox still isn’t cleared. She can’t remember if she had lunch.
She just wants to go home.
She reaches the elevator and presses the button, blinking slowly against the flickering glow of the floor display.
A soft ding. The doors slide open.
He’s already inside.
Tall. Ginger. Freckles.
Still unfairly handsome.
She pauses for a beat—just long enough to register the lightness in his expression, the relaxed posture, one hand tucked into his pocket. No blazer this time. Just a black button-down, sleeves rolled up, the collar open and slightly rumpled, like he’s been working just as late as she has.
His hair looks softer without the day’s structure. A little flatter. Like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. There’s a takeaway coffee cup near his feet. Nearly empty.
He looks up—and sees her.
They lock eyes.
Then he smiles.
It’s subtle, but warm. Not the generic, polite smile you give a stranger in passing. This one has intention behind it. A flicker of recognition. A quiet hello , without words.
Hermione steps in, heart doing something strange in her chest. Like it missed a cue. Like it’s paying closer attention now than it has all day.
She notices he’s already pressed P .
Parking.
He drove today.
She reaches out and taps M for the lobby, trying to ignore the flutter building under her ribs. The doors slide shut behind her.
They don’t speak.
The elevator begins its slow descent, humming softly in the stillness.
No headphones. No crowd. No distractions.
Just the two of them. The quiet of after hours. The low glow of the panel buttons. The faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air—something deeper than last time. Amber and spice and something sharp and clean. Like a storm about to break.
She wonders if he always works late.
If he noticed she does too.
She wonders if his day was long. If he’s tired. If that smile meant I’m glad it’s you.
They don’t speak.
But the silence doesn’t stretch in that awkward, get-me-out-of-here way. It expands slowly, comfortably. Like a pause with potential.
They both know they’ve seen each other. Not just in passing. Not just in the elevator.
Seen.
And somehow, the quiet between them feels less like absence and more like anticipation.
The elevator glides to a stop with a soft ding.
Hermione steps out onto the lobby floor, the soles of her heels muted against the polished tile.
She doesn’t look back at first.
She tells herself she won’t.
But as the doors begin to close—slowly, steadily—some part of her, unbidden, turns.
Just a glance.
He’s still standing where she left him. Hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, head tilted ever so slightly—like he was waiting to see if she’d look.
And then—he smiles.
Again.
This one is softer. Not a hello. Not a sorry-for-almost-missing-the-elevator kind of smile. No, this one feels... personal. Like it’s just for her.
Not loud. Not cocky.
Just warm.
The doors slide shut before she can even think to respond.
She stands there for a moment, staring at the closed metal. Lips parted slightly. Heart thudding a little too fast for her own liking.
Hermione Granger doesn’t believe in workplace distractions.
She doesn’t daydream about strangers in elevators. Doesn’t count the freckles on their face. Doesn’t wonder what their voice might sound like first thing in the morning.
And she definitely doesn’t smile at elevator doors like a complete idiot.
Except... she kind of just did.
She adjusts the strap of her bag and walks out into the evening air, cheeks warm, pulse annoyingly fluttery.
She doesn’t know his name.
But she’s starting to think maybe she’d like to.
~
Friday.
The workday is finally winding down, and the tenth floor is emptying with the usual Friday afternoon urgency—half the office pretending they don’t have weekend plans, the other half pretending they do.
Hermione stands by the elevator with Harry—another associate at Gryffindor & Co., her best friend, and ex-flatmate from law school—as they wait for the lift to arrive. He’s adjusting his perfectly knotted scarf in the reflection of the closed doors, already half-done for the day in that way only Harry can pull off.
Harry always looks put-together, but not like he’s trying too hard. Slim-cut trousers, a navy jumper over his collared shirt, coat folded over his arm. There’s a glint in his eye that suggests he’s seen everything in this office and made judgments on most of it. He’s quick, unbothered, and rarely wrong. His hair is artfully messy and almost certainly intentional, and he has the energy of someone who’s always in on a secret—especially if it’s about you.
“Did you see McLaggen trying to flirt with Patil from Compliance this morning?” Harry asks, eyes gleaming. “Honestly, I thought she was going to staple him to the kitchenette wall.”
Hermione snorts. “I was there. She told him, ‘this isn’t a bar and I’m not your bartender.’”
Harry gasps. “Parvati is so iconic.”
The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and they step inside. Hermione presses M , Harry leans back against the mirrored wall like he owns it.
"Anyway," he says, still grinning. "I’m asking you this as a friend, not a colleague—would you let me set you up with someone?"
Hermione blinks. “Absolutely not.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That was a very fast no.”
She rolls her eyes, adjusting the strap on her bag. “Because it’s always weird. And awkward. And you know it never ends well.”
Harry hums. “Even if he’s dark, gorgeous, and very well-dressed—and kind of the strong, silent type?”
Hermione gives him a side glance. “Silent type?”
“Barely speaks at all,” Harry says proudly, like this is a major selling point. “But when he does, it’s very meaningful.”
She considers it for a fraction of a second, then shakes her head. “Yeah… no. Doesn’t sound like my type.”
She doesn’t say what her type is. She doesn’t need to.
Harry shrugs, but his smirk says he’s clocked something. “Fine, fine. But when you get bored of your ‘not-my-type’ phase, let me know.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
The elevator starts to glide downward.
Hermione nods absently at whatever Harry says next, but her thoughts are already drifting. To someone tall. Ginger. Unreasonably handsome. Who presses floor 11 and taps mindlessly to the rhythm of whatever he’s listening to. Who smiles like it’s meant for her and wears his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow like it’s a personal attack.
She tells herself it’s a relief. Simpler this way.
“So that’s a no on the setup?” Harry asks again, half-teasing, half-hopeful.
“Hard no,” Hermione says.
He sighs dramatically. “You’re cruel.”
The elevator dings. Lobby.
They step out into the warm Friday air.
Hermione adjusts her bag and tells herself she’s not thinking about tomorrow. Or Monday. Or whoever might be in the elevator next.
They head in the direction of the tube, weaving around other office workers spilling out of buildings, jackets slung over shoulders, everyone moving a little lighter than usual.
Harry glances at her sideways. “Okay, if the strong, silent type isn’t your thing… what is your type, then?”
Hermione keeps her eyes forward. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on.”
She hesitates, then shrugs. “Someone with a warm smile.”
Harry hums like he’s filing that away for later. “That’s vague and suspiciously wholesome. You’re definitely hiding something.”
Hermione just smirks and keeps walking.
She doesn’t say anything else.
But the image of a crooked, soft smile under freckled cheekbones lingers all the way to the station.