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Hermione Granger was alone—and gloriously wasted.
Not her usual brand of wasted, either. This wasn't the respectable two-glasses-of-wine-while-annotating-legislation wasted. This was hair wild, blouse rumpled, tights ripped, mascara smudged to panda-levels of wasted. The sort of wasted that made her look less like the brightest witch of her age and more like the human embodiment of a seven-magnitude earthquake.
Contrary to popular belief—or perhaps precisely what anyone who'd seen her temper would expect—Hermione did not make a habit of stumbling out of bars looking like she'd lost a duel with tequila. She was usually as clean and swotty as they came.
Gold star. Model employee. Poster girl for Ministry efficiency.
So clean and swotty, in fact, that her boyfriend—no, her ex-boyfriend—of five years had dumped her, after announcing Lavender Brown was pregnant with his child. He "couldn't do this anymore," as if this—her loyalty, her love, her bloody laundry skills—were some unbearable heavy burden.
And do what exactly? She thought bitterly, exhaling smoke into the damp alley air. Be adored and taken care of by someone other than your mum?
They'd lived together since the end of the war. She'd cooked, cleaned, kept house and even washed Ron's ghastly, smelly socks and briefs. She'd thought marriage and red-haired babies were in the cards.
Meanwhile, she'd built her career with surgical precision—finishing her final Hogwarts year, grinding through internships, and landing her dream post in the Care of Magical Creatures Department. The Order of Merlin, First Class had practically gift-wrapped her reputation. She and Ron had been paraded as the Golden Couple.
The sky, it seemed, was the limit.
No. Apparently, with Ronald Weasley, infidelity was the limit.
Ron, of course, had sauntered into the DMLE with Harry through a fast-tracked programme courtesy of Kingsley Shacklebolt. Lavender, once thought dead at Greyback's hands, resurfaced after a year in a muggle speciality trauma ward.
Miraculously, she survived, secured a desk at the DMLE, and—apparently—Ron's bed. Not the one in their flat, mind you. No, her boyfriend of five years had developed a troubling habit of frequenting other beds, even those he had no business being on.
Hermione had noticed the way Ron spoke about her. She'd felt the tiny flare of jealousy, but swallowed it down. If Ron didn't complain about her working alongside Zabini, Nott, or even bloody Malfoy, she wasn't going to throw a fit over Lavender.
Clearly, she should have.
She leaned her head against the cool brick, watching the smoke curl into the night. Midnight.
Five hours since Ronald Bilius fucking Weasley had shattered her life like a dropped goblet. Five hours since she became officially single. Five hours since Lavender Brown's unborn spawn secured more commitment from Ron than she'd ever managed. Marriage.
"Hey pretty," a voice slurred.
Hermione turned. A man lurked a few feet away, with all the charm of a troll who'd lost a fight with a cheese grater. He looked like Filch and Mrs Norris's regrettable offspring, or possibly the unfortunate result of goblin–troll crossbreeding (no slur intended, of course).
She was drunk, not desperate.
"No thanks," Hermione snapped, rummaging in her bottomless bag for another cigarette.
But the pest persisted. "Wait, I know you." His grin widened, showing too many teeth. "You're the one who got dumped by Ronald Weasley."
Her stomach clenched. Oh. Right. That.
Ron, in all his infinite wisdom, had thought it clever to tell the Daily Prophet before breaking up with her. Announcing his engagement and upcoming fatherhood, apparently, as if it were the crowning achievement of his career, splashed across the front page with a grinning photograph and a headline that screamed, "Weasley Heir on the Way!"
Hermione, meanwhile, had been too neck-deep in drafting amendments to merfolk legislation to notice the world around her. The whispers in the corridor, the pitying glances from interns, the sudden silence whenever she entered a room—she'd dismissed them all as Ministry gossip being its usual insufferable self.
In hindsight, it all made perfect, horrid sense.
Dumped by Ronald Weasley. As if she weren't Hermione Granger, war heroine, Order of Merlin, bloody champion for magical creatures' rights.
"You have five seconds to get out of my sight," she said, new cigarette dangling from her lips as she flicked her wand to light it. Her wand wasn't necessary when she had spite, booze, and a smattering of boxing lessons on her side.
"I'm not scared of you," he sneered. "You're just a discarded mud—"
BAM!
The man was airborne, smacking into the far wall before collapsing in a heap.
Hermione blinked. "Did I… do that?" She checked her wand. Still in her hand, no trace of residual magic.
"Sorry," a smooth, familiar voice drawled. "My wand seemed to have slipped."
She spun, stomach dropping, and of course—of course—it couldn’t be strangers. Draco Malfoy, pristine and bored as if public hexing were just part of his nightly skincare routine, and Theodore Nott, grinning like he'd been handed front-row tickets to the world's best farce.
"Great," Hermione muttered, dragging on her cigarette. "The Slytherin peanut gallery. Just what this night was missing. What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded, as if they'd barged into her flat instead of existing on a perfectly public street.
Theo tilted his head, grin positively wicked. "What does it look like, Granger? Self-care. Some wizards drink, some shag, some get facials. We hex creeps in alleys. Clears the pores, evens out the skin tone—highly recommended."
Hermione snorted. "Touching. Do you hand out pamphlets, too?"
Malfoy's mouth curved, pale eyes glinting under the lamplight. "And judging by your state, Granger, I'd say you could use a little of all three. Although congratulations—you've clearly mastered one already. You smell like someone mugged a distillery and emptied it straight down your throat."
Hermione exhaled smoke in his direction, unimpressed. "Careful, Malfoy. Insults lose their sting when they sound like they were drafted by Witch Weekly's health column."
Theo laughed outright, leaning against the wall like he'd paid for front-row tickets. "Oh ho ho, this is rich. Gryffindor's Golden Girl, drunk, bitter, and throwing shade in an alleyway. Best Saturday night’s entertainment I've had in ages."
Malfoy's smirk sharpened. "Yes, well, watching Granger fall apart in public does wonders for my stress levels. Call it preventative medicine. The epitome of self-care."