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On a Tuesday in June, Blaise Zabini and I are released from Azkaban on the condition that we spend an indeterminate amount of time in the Muggle world, without magic, and without any financial aid from our families. We are given a stipend of starting money in order to rent a small flat as well as a stocked-up pantry of goods. We are advised to get jobs, get lives, and forget about magic for a while.
So I spend weeks researching the "job market". I learn recruitment, branding, and the different Muggle jobs. I learn about LinkedIn, and the horrible task of writing CVs, and drafting cover letters, all to be put into a harrowing pile of rejected applications, utterly disregarded. Most, if not all, of this sickening information comes from an online library called Reddit.
I craft CVs for myself and for Blaise. My NEWTs become A-Levels, and my O's become A's, and my Potions becomes Chemistry. On paper, I look like the right kind of person for any kind of job – well-rounded, a volunteer in the sports clubs at school (Quidditch, now renamed Football). And, tagged onto the bottom of my CV, a short note…
Incarcerated for the duration of 3 years.
I heave a vicious sigh and hang my head.
"What's up mate?" Blaise asks me, looking up from his current read, 'The Hogfather'.
"This is so complicated. It's never going to work. How are we ever going to make money?"
Blaise frowns. "You sure we don't have access to our vaults?"
I laugh humourlessly. "You know what they said. No Wizarding perks at all. Complete rehabilitation until we can prove that we're upstanding citizens – which, if the Wizengamot stays on the side of Potter, will be never."
Blaise adorns an unbearable, pitying expression. "You remember what you said to me the day before we left Azkaban?" I shake my head but more so asking him not to repeat anything about those haunting days. "Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of our lives."
"I meant it."
My friend moves then – he shifts off the sofa and makes his way across the room to me. We've been staying in this small apartment for three weeks now, getting adjusted to life as Muggles – the electricity, food, and the inconvenience of being anything other than who we used to be. There are books scattered everywhere from Blaise's trips to the library, and crumbs on the floor in places where we've shared an unfortunately sized sausage roll from Gregg's, terrified of spending a penny over what we can afford. Too scared of the hoover, we haven't cleaned up much either.
This place is a bit of a wreck, but it's nothing close to Azkaban. At least here we are alive.
"We're not there anymore, Draco," Blaise says, a hand on my arm, steadying me. "We're out. Let's stay out. Keep looking. Let's show the world what us Slytherins are made of."
I nod once. "Okay."
0-0
"I found something," I say, looking over the computer screen at Blaise. He glances up from the sofa and grumbles something like coming before extricating himself. "There's a list of companies that will take people like us."
I dip out of the way to stop from blocking my friend's view. He yawns and squints his eyes.
"Tesco?" he asks.
I clear my throat and read the web page. "Supermarket giant Tesco is often touted as a great place to work… Blah blah blah… Inclusive recruitment policy that employs ex-offenders. This might be why we are getting so many rejections - the other companies don't like criminals."
Blaise scrunches up his face in dismissal. "And this place? A Muggle version of Diagon Alley?"
"No. It's more like… A Muggle version of one shop. Like Ollivanders, but for food, and electronics. And it's enormous."
"I think you mean giant," Blaise says, snorting. But then he plants himself on the corner of my chair and inspects the screen more closely. "How do we get in?"
0-0
"A supermarket?"
"Yes, Mother."
"Draco…"
"Don't. Please. I'm deemed a criminal in both the Wizarding and Muggle world, as determined by the Wizengamot and the Crown Court. That was my sentence. I'm not allowed to use magic. What else am I supposed to do?"
0-0
Job applications sent. CVs sent. One interview each and we're in. They don't ask us about time served. They don't ask us about the prison. They don't pry. They just say that they are happy for the help.
Time passes in a blur. We start in three days. Then it's two, and then it's the night before.
Blaise and I are watching television – something corny, like a gameshow that is only really fun for the audience and is tense for the players – when he turns to me and says something more tender and even more awful than the farce that we're watching.
"Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of our lives."
I push his face away, grinning. "You're a prick."
"And yet you love me."
"Debatable. You're my cellmate that got too attached."
Blaise hums. "I'm your true love. It was fate."
"I hope you find a friend at Tesco so I can get some of this attention off me."
Blaise curls into my side and I sigh heavily. I love him, it's true. He is my best friend in the whole world.
0-0
"This is where the shipment of bananas and other fruit will come in. These are the types of boxes that they'll arrive in. As you can see –" the small boy standing in front of us, performing a riotous, monotonous induction, places one box on top of another, "they stack."
Blaise writes down something in his small notebook. It was something they gave to both of us upon arrival at Tesco. I haven't made any notes so far.
The rest of the induction is just as thrilling. My favourite part ends up being the banana boxes and deliveries, whereas Blaise immediately wants to start scanning and pricing. The boy leading our session is surprised by our enthusiasm, and thankfully doesn't seem to know anything about our history.
I'm assigned to the delivery team for three days and Blaise is shown the markdown list. A woman called Sandra gives him lots of shoulder squeezes and tells him about her kids, and then she shows him the method to the madness of which items to mark down first.
"You see, everyone is waiting for prices to go down," she says, almost conspiratorially.
Blaise frowns. "Why?"
"Cost of livin', love. You must feel it too?"
Yes, Sandra. We feel it. In our small apartment that we can hardly afford despite our government-issued 'starting over money'. We feel it in the bills that come through the door, via email, via text. Yes, we feel it. And suddenly, this job feels a bit bigger than just a supermarket.
This place is a microcosm of capitalism.
In a split-second moment, I want to rush through the shop, magically marking down every single item to the cost that it actually takes to produce and sell the item, and not with any sense of a margin that is invented by the Big Man – wherever and whoever he may be.
But I can't. No magic. Live the Muggle life.
So, despite my fingers itching for a wand, we get on with it. I stack boxes, talk to delivery drivers and overwhelm myself in the world of work. Blaise makes his way quickly from pricing to tills and back again, dancing the lines of opportunity in this microcosm of the real world. We start to live and breathe Tesco, talking about others that work there, mentioning the recent inflation and whether our pay will go up. We forget about Azkaban. We buy discounted food, embrace social events, and life seems full again.
I work every hour that I can, taking pride in the movements of my hands, my feet, and my body. I am not bound to magic like I was. I am stronger for it.
I dream of Hogwarts. I dream of Voldemort, and the pain that he caused. Blaise calls them nightmares, but I suggest that they are merely memories. It was all real. I don't have the imagination to dream of anything aside from the horrors I've already seen and known.
I invite my mother to the shop, to see my life, and she gently refuses. She doesn't want to be the cause of my return to Azkaban if I accidentally perform magic because of her presence.
Her reasoning is flawed but somehow I can hold off on blaming her.
0-0
Two weeks into my new life at Tesco, something changes.
"I'm getting a new supervisor?" I ask, trying to clarify the changes with the small boy who seems to be my current boss. Fear creeps into my tone, terrified that I have done a poor job of being an imposter, that, somehow, they know that I am rotten inside. "Why?"
Rory gives me a half smile, his acne cracking under the lines in his boyish face. "Well, I was never meant to be your supervisor. Hermione was off – she's been holidaying in France. But anyway, she'll be here in a few minutes."
My heart races. It's so much worse than I thought. They aren't going to fire me – they're going to send me straight back. They're going to let the Dementors feed on me until I am a husk of who I am – who I was. I'm going to –
The door opens and there she is. She's not in robes. No. Hermione Granger is wearing the blue and red polo shirt I've come to revere, black skinny jeans, and converse. She is carrying a book in one hand, and a coffee in the other.
She looks up and freezes. "You're one of the ex-convicts?" Her tone almost betrays our connection, but Rory answers for me, slipping in detail about how well I'm getting on, how great I am with the other delivery team members, and how I'm an asset to the team. She stares back at him, bewildered. She doesn't ask questions. Eventually, when Rory says that he needs to get back to the shop floor, welcomes her back from leave, we are alone.
Silence befalls the room. With no power over each other in the magical sense, it is awkward.
"Hi," I say eventually. "I'm Draco Malfoy. I joined two weeks ago with my roommate Blaise – he works in pricing. We have little to no money, have no connection with our family or friends from before incarceration, and I am very grateful to be working here."
Hermione swallows. "I see. In that case – I'm Hermione Granger. I've been working here for three years. I came here after a traumatic ordeal that I no longer talk about with anyone aside from my therapist. I have no contact with my family. I have very little contact with my friends. And, as a general rule, I do not judge anyone who chooses to use the inclusivity initiative we have here."
A wave of gratitude rushes through me.
"Now that we've introduced ourselves," she says, "show me what you've learned so far."
0-0
My life becomes, swiftly and certainly, blissfully happy.
At work, I stack boxes, and I try not to think about how much easier everything would be with magic. I learn more of the delivery driver's names. I learn more about other members of staff too. Blaise and I have lunch together most days, and when I don't eat with him, I eat with Hermione. We have a work night out when I pass my probation, three months in. Blaise drinks to my health, and Hermione bestows upon me a kiss that almost surprises me.
At home at night, Blaise and I talk about things other than work. We talk about life before Tesco, but we don't reminisce about our old friends. No one reaches out to us. Most of the rest of our old friends are still in prison, or they've been given the same deal as us, forced to live their lives as Muggles until further notice.
No owls, no Patronuses. Nothing. I'm thankful for Blaise. I'm thankful for Hermione.
Six months go by, and she asks me over to her place for dinner. I'm pretty certain that I'm in love with her, but I have to be sure that –
"I'm not allowed near any magic," I say, looking away from her. "I can't go back there."
"There isn't any magic at my place," she says.
"Why?"
Hermione sighs and leans back in her chair. We're sat together in the staff cafeteria, midway through our lunch break. Blaise is due to join us soon and will be excited after his period of dashing through the store pricing up fruit and pizzas with today's reductions. I think soon enough that he will be getting a promotion to working on something bigger and better. He's excelled here.
"Magic never served me well," Hermione says. "You always said it was a gift I didn't deserve. I see it more as a curse. I lost my family. I lost so many friends. Just, for a little while, I needed to be away from it. Otherwise, I would have kept looking for a way to bring everyone back, change the past, or try to heal unhealable wounds."
I know, in that moment, that she isn't talking about curse scars. She's talking about the wounds that we inflict upon ourselves, and the heavy coat of grief that each of us wore after the war.
"So, no, there's no magic at my place."
"Then yes, I'd love to be there."
0-0
"Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of our lives," I find myself saying.
"Don't you mean today?" Hermione asks, eyes hardly open in the bloom of the morning glow. I can hear Blaise knocking around in the kitchen, whistling happily. It's a few hours before we have to be at work. "You get your pardon today."
I laugh. A nervous bubble is growing in my stomach. My pardon.
"Hermione Granger, today has no bearing on my life," I say. "Tomorrow we are getting married."
She hums in happiness and curls closer to me. "I suppose."
A crash sounds in the kitchen, as though Blaise has dropped another plate, expecting it to soar through the air as we used to make them do.
"I'll get that," Hermione says, smiling up at me. "You rest. Big few days ahead."
I pull her in for a kiss. "Big life ahead."
"Hush. I love you."
"And I you."
She kisses me once again - chaste, on the lips - and then departs my room, leaving me in a state of pure elation, excited for the days to come.