Chapter Text
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That was a waste of three hours, at least forty-five pieces of parchment, and approximately four thousand breaths. Hermione closes the file she was studying, tucking it back into her briefcase. Normally, she would have argued her point, but Agatha Gladstone, her superior, made it clear that the next time Hermione felt the need to interrupt a meeting where her only job is to take notes and fetch tea, she could kiss her internship in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement goodbye. Ms. Gladstone is not known for offering second chances, so Hermione bit her tongue to the point where she feels like she’s swallowed sandpaper from all the words she’s held back.
It’s a familiar situation. She suffered from it daily when she was at Hogwarts. Teachers either tolerated her thrusting her hand in the air to answer questions (or at times, ask more of them) or they pretended not to see her. Either way, she never got to express enough of her pertinent thoughts to feel like she was really understood or fully learned what she could’ve gleaned. Somehow, she expected that problem to go away once she was an adult. No such luck. The good news is that she’s no longer in a meeting. That means she’s free to talk.
“Ms. Gladstone, I was wondering why-” Hermione begins, but before she can say more, Ms. Gladstone sighs heavily.
“Of course you were.” Ms. Gladstone doesn’t stop walking. “You’re always wondering why, Granger.”
Experience has taught Hermione that it’s best to just agree with the humbling character assessment and move on. “Yes, ma’am. In any case, I was wondering why you didn’t mention the suggested addendum to the law about monitoring children whose names have appeared on the Hogwarts roster. Surely, that issue is important-”
“Because you’re the one who suggested it. Am I right?” Ms. Gladstone’s already narrow lips press into a thin line. Hermione knows the warning signs. She’s on a slippery slope. But this is too weighty an issue to let go.
“I was the one who suggested it, yes, but-”
Ms. Gladstone indicates the pin on Hermione’s robes. “What does your badge say, Miss Granger?”
“Oh.” Hermione glances down even though she has it memorized. “Hermione Granger. Intern – Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”
“That’s right.” Ms. Gladstone nods vigorously. “Notice the word, ‘intern.’ As in, you are not a full-fledged member of the department. Which means you are only here by the grace of Minister Shacklebolt. Said grace is dependent on what I report to him about your productivity levels and your ability to play well with others. In other words,” she over-enunciates, “if I don’t like you, then you’re out.”
A sharp reply along the lines of how she’s willing to be unlikable if it gets people to consider the fortune of those who can’t look out for themselves is on the tip of Hermione’s tongue, but she thinks better of it just in time. If she loses this job, she won’t get another opportunity. Not in this department. The only reason she’s been allowed to make as much of a nuisance of herself as she is right now is because of her role in hunting down the Horcruxes.
Her scores on her N.E.W.T.s were impressive, but that wasn’t what this brave, new, post-war government was looking for. She wants to do something good with her life. Specifically, making sure that no other child is treated the way Harry was after the death of his parents. Or beyond that, preventing another Voldemort from slipping through the cracks. The only way to do that is to be a good little soldier, biding her time until she has enough clout to make her voice heard. It takes all of her self-control to do it, but she makes herself respond with a simple, “I understand.”
Ms. Gladstone mutters something less-than-complimentary under her breath, but she doesn’t continue her lecture. Hermione follows her down the hallway and back toward their offices. Well, Ms. Gladstone’s office. Hermione has a cubicle next to the two other interns, Marissa and Daniel. Neither is there, presumably having left for the day. Hermione quickly gathers her files, notebooks, and books, then tugs on her coat.
It’s five o’clock. The workday is over. Even if she didn’t have a watch to rely on, she’d know it the moment she entered the atrium. Dozens of Ministry employees are making their way out, talking to coworkers or just staring straight ahead, exhausted after a long day at the office. As Hermione passes the lift, she hears her name being called and turns around. Harry and Ron are standing off to the side, both in the robes that have been assigned to trainee aurors.
Harry rushes over with Ron close behind. “How’d it go today? Did Gladstone let you get a word in edgewise?”
It’s kind of Harry to ask. She knows this is a sensitive topic for him. When she mentioned the changes she was suggesting, he was barely able to look at her. The past has scarred the three of them, and so many people she’ll never know. But she can’t help thinking that Harry came away with the most damage.
“She wasn’t particularly inclined to accept outside suggestions.” That’s the mildest way she can think to put it. Harry doesn’t need to worry about her work on top of his.
“You know how she is.” Ron glances around, not quite meeting her eyes. “The old bat can’t stand any ideas that she didn’t come up with herself.”
At another time, Hermione might defend Ms. Gladstone for the sole reason of not wanting to admit she might have made a mistake with taking this internship. Right now, she just wants to leave. “I’ll see you later.”
“Wait.” Harry steps in front of her, blocking her path. “It’s been a long week. We’ve barely seen each other. Let’s go for a drink.”
Ron gives his agreement, but Hermione shakes her head. She knows Harry is making an effort to include her since it’s usually just Ron and him. Either that, or he’s still trying to seal the cracks in their friendship that formed when she and Ron decided to return to a platonic relationship instead of continuing a romantic one. It was an amicable split, but it still feels awkward to spend time around him two months later. Add that to the research she really should get done, and she has her answer.
“I’m really sorry, Harry. I’ve got to go to the library tonight and start revising that addendum.” She can tell that he’s hurt, but trying not to show it, so she adds, “Some other time. I promise.”
“Sure.” Harry smiles, but it’s strained. He indicates Ron. “Are you up for going out, at least?”
Hermione doesn’t wait to hear the answer before walking toward the security checkpoint. By now, she’s easily recognized, so it’s not as big a hassle as it was in the past.
Once she’s out on the street again, she considers her evening plans. She should probably stop and get something to eat, but with how much research she has to do, she doesn’t have time to waste. The library is only open until eleven, which, for most people, would seem plenty late, but for her purposes, she would prefer it to be twenty-four hours. It used to be. But that was before Voldemort took over the Ministry. Now the hours have been scaled back to help recover from the lack of patronage the Magical Library of London has suffered from since. Merlin knows if it’ll ever return to its past glory.
Well, she reasons to herself, the sooner she gets to work, the sooner she can go home to eat, shower, and sleep. So, removing her wand, she focuses on her destination and apparates. It’s an uncomfortable process, but over the years, she’s gotten used to it, so she only gasps for breath for a second after arriving.
The library has four storeys. It’s leaning a little to one side, as many buildings in the magical sector do. In a nod to Roman architecture, it’s circular, similar to the Pantheon. Several columns line the fourth storey. It’s constructed of grey bricks, and the roof is copper. She imagines that, in its day, it was quite the architectural feat. Now it looks like it could use a bit of renovating.
When Hermione walks in through the arched double doors, she stops for just a moment, allowing the scent of old tomes and parchment to envelop her. It’s comforting in a way that she’s never been able to accurately describe to her friends. The ground floor is all general fiction and children’s books. What she wants is on the third storey: government documents.
Usually, she has this section mostly to herself. Today is not the exception. She’s able to collect a stack of books so tall that it reaches to the tip of her nose without receiving any strange looks. She stumbles toward one of the tables in the quiet section and sets them down with as soft a thud as can be managed. Now, to cross-reference cases of childhood abuse with the laws that are far too lax surrounding the monitoring of magical children.
Time always has a habit of slipping away from Hermione when she’s intently studying a subject. She doesn’t notice the sun setting. She doesn’t notice the lamps being lit. And she doesn’t notice that she’s the only one still in the quiet section until she looks away from the books, eyes strained, and sees her watch. Ten forty. She sighs. Ginny will have a few choice words for her when she returns to their flat.
It’s unfair to the librarians to expect them to stay late, putting away her books, so she swiftly stuffs her papers into her briefcase and stacks her books. She’s not in the mood to carry such a heavy load, so she uses a hover charm and starts back up the familiar aisles.
Just as she places the final volume back on its shelf, she hears a crash, followed by a muffled, “Oops.” Maybe it’s paranoia, but Hermione draws her wand. Better to be prepared than to walk defenseless into a situation you know nothing about. Walking as softly as she can, she approaches the next aisle over.
A book returns cart is lying on its side, and an impressive number of hardbacks are littering the floor. Knelt next to them all is a woman with caramel-colored hair swept back into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. She’s wearing librarian’s robes, but the collar is a little askew.
Without much thought, Hermione asks, “Are you alright?”
The woman’s head turns in the direction of the voice, eyebrows shot upward. When she sees Hermione, her expression returns to something more relaxed. “Oh. Yes. Just clumsy,” she says in a heavy American accent. As she rights the cart, Hermione comes over, crouching next to her.
“Here. Let me. It might go a bit quicker if we work together.”
“Thanks.”
Hermione’s reply about how it really isn’t any trouble dies on her lips as the librarian meets her gaze. That’s interesting. She’s never seen eyes that color blue before. Similar to sapphires, surrounded by thick, long lashes. The librarian has a heart-shaped face and creamy skin. Her lips are full, and her nose is narrow, just a little too small for her face. Somehow, the slight imperfection makes her even more fascinating to look at. It occurs to her that she’s staring as if the librarian has a third eye, so she drops her gaze.
“No trouble.” Hermione rapidly returns to adding books to the cart.
“You’re working late,” the librarian observes. “Most people are out of this section by ten fifteen, ten thirty at the latest.”
“Yes, well…” Hermione searches for a decent explanation besides giving her whole life story. “…I was in the middle of something, and I didn’t realize that it was so late.”
The librarian’s lips curve up into an easy smile. “I have the same problem when I’m reading. What were you studying?”
“Oh.” It’s a fair question, but Hermione wasn’t expecting it. “Cases of child abuse and neglect in relation to the laws that are supposed to prevent them from occurring. I’m an intern with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and-” The librarian probably doesn’t care. “Anyway, there’s a lot to sift through.”
“Huh.” The librarian picks up a particularly thick book. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the laws here. I might need to do some reading.” She straightens, adjusting the collar of her robes. “Thank you for your help, Miss…”
“Hermione.” Hermione stands, feeling a bit foolish. “Hermione Granger.”
“Hermione Granger.” The librarian nods. “I’m Rhiannon Wallace.”
“Nice to meet you.” Hermione hears Rhiannon repeat the sentiment, but most of her focus is on trying to figure out what to do next. She could ask if Rhiannon needs help putting the books away, but Rhiannon is a librarian. That’s a large part of her job. And anyway, it’s past eleven o’clock by now. She needs to head home.
“Well, Hermione, I guess I’ll see you later.” Rhiannon begins pushing the cart away. “Get home safe.”
Again, Hermione knows she should say something, but she can’t find the words. Instead, she watches as Rhiannon rounds the corner. She’s tall, at least five feet nine. And she’s slender in a way that reminds Hermione of a dryad from Greek mythology. If she were the type to sketch, she’d want to sketch Rhiannon. It’s a strange thought, so she doesn’t examine it. Instead, she makes her way out of the library to the lift and, once she’s outside, disapparates.
Ginny is sitting on the sofa when Hermione lets herself into their flat. Her legs are crossed, and she’s studying the notepad where she writes notes after each Quidditch practice. It’s become a habit of hers since being recruited by the Hollyhead Harpies. Ron teasingly gives her shit for it, but Harry seems to accept it without question.
“You didn’t have to stay up, you know.” Hermione removes her coat and hangs it from a hook by the door.
Ginny gives a noncommittal shrug. “I figured I’d wait for you to come in and then interrogate you about your night.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Hermione places her briefcase on the coffee table. If she takes it to her room, she’ll stay up all night, going over her notes. “I went to the library and lost track of time.” She starts to mention Rhiannon, but thinks better of it. Ginny wouldn’t find that interesting, and really, she shouldn’t either. It wasn’t as if it were a groundbreaking moment.
“Are you sure that’s all that happened?” Ginny narrows her eyes at Hermione. “You can trust me, you know. I’m not going to tell Ron or Harry.”
Hermione suppresses a sigh. Since the breakup, Ginny has insisted that Hermione needs to get back on the metaphorical horse. She’s even gone so far as to try to set Hermione up a few times with men that she thinks would be a good match. Hermione has found all of Ginny’s choices to be handsome enough, but dull conversationalists. That might be too harsh an analysis, but she isn’t interested in dating right now. She’s got too much on her plate with work.
“That’s all. I promise.”
“So you didn’t meet someone?” Ginny presses. “No surprisingly fit bookworm?”
“Hardly.” Hermione kicks off her shoes. “Just a librarian.”
Ginny sits up a little straighter, a gleam in her eyes. “Was he tall, dark, and handsome? Or was he bookish but adorable?”
Hermione shakes her head. “It was a she, not a he.” She almost adds that Rhiannon was tall, but from Ginny’s expression, she can tell that Ginny has already moved on.
Bidding Ginny goodnight, Hermione heads down the hallway to brush her teeth. Tomorrow morning, she’ll shower. Right now, she’s starting to feel her long day, so the sooner she can get to bed, the better. She needs to be up early to begin drafting another document about why this law needs to be adjusted, after all. And possibly stop in at the library again after work.
Maybe she’ll run into Rhiannon again and… what, exactly? Become friends? She’s got enough of those, and besides, you rarely remember the name of someone you spoke to for five minutes at work. She’s just another patron, and Rhiannon is just a librarian. That was a random encounter that’ll fade into the background. Tomorrow, she won’t even recall Rhiannon’s name. Honestly, Hermione isn’t even sure why she’s thinking about Rhiannon now. It must just be because she was desperate for social interaction after so much time studying on her own. Content with that explanation, she lets herself into the washroom.
Rhiannon’s alarm clock rings at ten a.m. She silences it without getting out of bed, instead staring up at the patched plaster ceiling. The blackout curtains she bought when she was told she’d be moving to the late shift at the library do a poor job of blocking out the light. She supposes she could’ve used a charm to adjust the opacity, but that didn’t occur to her until recently. Maybe later today if she has time before she leaves. But first, breakfast.
The flat Rhiannon lives in is small. It’s a studio layout. The only separate space is the lavatory; her bedroom, kitchen, and living room are all one large room. That’s fine. She’s purchased room dividers to separate the space, and it’s not as if she has guests except for Aphrodite.
Rhiannon goes through her morning routine: dressing, brushing teeth, and most importantly, selecting a book to read. Then she steps around the Japanese-print room divider into her kitchen. Good. She’s back.
“Good morning, Aphrodite.” Rhiannon reaches into the cabinet with a cooling charm on it, removing a few leaves of arugula. She places them on a plate with “Aphrodite” spelled along it in a cursive scrawl. “You didn’t throw a party while I was gone last night, did you?”
Aphrodite squawks. “Worst of times!”
Rhiannon laughs, stroking the parrot’s red feathers. “That’s sweet of you, but I know you have fun flying all over London while I’m away. Which reminds me, I’ve got a new line for you. Are you ready?” She doesn’t get a reply, not that she was expecting one. “Clocks slay time.” She repeats it a few times, hoping that Aphrodite will pick it up, but it doesn’t happen. “So you’re not a fan of Faulkner. Got it.”
In the past, Rhiannon considered it a little sad that her social life mostly consisted of talking to her pet, but she’s accepted it over the past year. It’s not that she doesn’t like people. Just that she’s never been good at small talk. If she’s asking you a question, it has very little to do with politeness. She’s genuinely curious. Of course, not many people are willing to carry seventy-five percent of the conversational load, and that’s what she requires until she’s comfortable with her companion.
One of the best aspects of being a librarian is that she gets to process new materials, and if she finds a book that piques her interest, she can check it out before anyone else. Last Friday, she picked up a copy of the newest Warren Albright novel. He writes the most charming stories about the pets witches and wizards keep, having them solve mysteries or otherwise aid their owners. Is it hard-hitting literature? No. Is it entertaining? Oh, yes. So entertaining, in fact, that Rhiannon barely remembers to check her watch.
“Oops.” She closes the book, shoving it into her handbag next to her bag lunch. If she’d read for another five minutes, she would be late to work. “See you later, Aphrodite.”
Aphrodite caws, but she doesn’t say anything. That’s fine. She’s only eleven months old. It takes years for parrots to learn to repeat what they’ve heard at appropriate intervals.
The library isn’t busy when Rhiannon signs the log and settles behind the checkout desk. That’s to be expected. It’s two thirty in the afternoon. The lunch rush is over. The next wave of patrons will come through a little after three o’clock, when school lets out for the smallest witches and wizards. That suits her just fine. It always takes her a few minutes to acquaint herself with where the librarian taking the shift before hers left off.
While Rhiannon goes through the cards from the books that were checked out this morning, she can’t help overhearing one of her coworkers murmur, “I don’t know, Eloise. After the last time, I don’t think you should give him the benefit of the doubt. If he was interested in you, then he would’ve shown it.”
“He’s one bitten and twice shy,” Eloise insists. “The last girl he dated really did a number on him, so he doesn’t want to jump into a relationship.”
The first coworker, Karen, sighs. “It’s been four months. If he hasn’t defined the relationship by now, then it’s safe to assume that he’s just stringing you along. He wants all the benefits without any of the responsibilities of having a girlfriend.”
Without her permission, Rhiannon’s mind skips down a path that she resolutely closed off when she moved to England. Eloise’s position is familiar. That’s where she was with Christine. Unlike Eloise, Rhiannon didn’t have anyone in her life advising her that Christine didn’t want a girlfriend so much as someone who would bend over backward for her. Rhiannon was lonely and desperate for someone to notice her, so she broke her own rule: don’t fall for the girl who makes it clear that she’s just experimenting. It never ends well.
Luckily for her, a patron shows up then with a stack of books to check out, so thoughts of how stupid she was at nineteen have to be tucked away neatly before she has a chance to go too far down that rabbit hole.
It’s a slow afternoon, even after the kids are out of school. Most people assume that librarians sit around reading when they’re not actively helping patrons. That’s not true. There are roughly three dozen jobs that are waiting to be done. When she’s not checking out books or accepting returns, Rhiannon is double-checking the list of people with overdue books and writing out messages to be sent the next day via owl. She stays occupied until the clock shows that it’s six pm. Time for her break.
The library has a staff room, but Rhiannon rarely eats in there. If the weather is warm enough (and not rainy; that’s always a possibility in London), she prefers to take her lunch break outside. From what she’s read, after Voldemort was defeated, memorials to the deceased heroes who fought against him and his Death Eaters popped up all over the magical sectors of the United Kingdom. One such memorial is behind the library. A garden with two large stones marked with the names of those who died in the Battle of Hogwarts. She used to wonder if it was disrespectful to sit on one of the benches, eating a bologna sandwich, but then she saw a few other people doing something similar, and her guilt decreased.
It’s late, so the sun is setting, but the streetlamps are lit, so she feels safe enough to sit in her usual spot. Halfway through tonight’s meal (corned beef), Rhiannon looks up and almost chokes. She’s not alone in the garden. A woman with a cascade of wild, curly brown hair is examining the list of names. That looks a bit like… The woman turns sideways, and Rhiannon is sure of it. Hermione Granger.
Rhiannon didn’t move to England on a whim. Even if she had, she would’ve been aware of the country’s history. Voldemort’s defeat made the papers internationally. The pictures were limited to images of Harry Potter and Voldemort, but other names were included in the articles. Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley.
Last week, when the kind woman who helped her pick up her books introduced herself, Rhiannon made the connection. Unless there is an abundance of Hermione Grangers in England, then she met the one who was instrumental in defeating Voldemort. She had the good sense not to mention that at the time, but she’s wondered since. It’s a little creepy, but she was even curious enough to look up old newspaper clippings to confirm her suspicions. It was the same Hermione Granger, just older and seemingly having changed her hairstyle to something that worked with her natural texture instead of against it. Same warm, lively brown eyes. Same smile.
What does she do now? It would be weird to just sit here and watch Hermione, right? But if she’s here to remember her dead friends, then she wouldn’t want to be interrupted. Rhiannon is still trying to figure that one out when Hermione turns all the way around, freezing where she was tucking her wand into the pocket of her robes. Well, there goes the whole “Don’t watch her like a creep” idea. The only way to salvage the situation is to get up and talk to her.
It’s not that she doesn’t want to talk to Hermione, Rhiannon thinks as she stands. She does. But she doesn’t have books to discuss right now, and it seems unlikely that Hermione will want to talk about the people who have died. That leaves her scrambling for what to say. By the time she reaches Hermione, she’s still got nothing. Fortunately, Hermione offers her a slight smile and asks, “Rhiannon, right?”
“Yes.” Rhiannon does her best not to sound as surprised as she feels. Most patrons don’t remember the librarians even if they’ve been introduced ten times. That’s fine. Librarians aren’t supposed to stand out. Her role is to assist and not distract. Of course, right now, she’s the one who’s plenty distracted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You’re not.” Hermione looks back at the memorial. “I was just taking a walk to try and clear my head.”
“Long day?” Rhiannon mentally pats herself on the back. That nearly sounded normal. Not at all like she’s struggling to talk to a pretty witch.
“Frightfully so.” Hermione shudders. “I was drafting notices for other departments all day, so I barely got to work on the newest petition for an addendum to the laws surrounding the monitoring of children who show signs of magic. I came straight here to start it after I left my job, but I couldn’t focus.”
“You’ve been staring at the words for too long.” Why did she say that? When Hermione looks at her questioningly, Rhiannon knows she’s going to have to explain. “I get that way after I’ve spent all day writing return notices. When I get home, I can’t concentrate on what I’m reading. It’s irritating.”
“Isn’t it?” Hermione chuckles. “I’ve tried to explain it to my friends, but they don’t quite get it. Don’t misunderstand; they’re clever and are even occasionally inclined to read for fun, but burnout from reading too much is foreign to them.”
“I used to have the same problem with my friends in America before-” That’s too personal to get into with a near-stranger. Rhiannon looks at the memorial, hoping it’ll cover her slip of the tongue.
“What about your friends here?”
There’s no good way to answer that. She could lie, but for some odd reason, Rhiannon feels compelled to be honest, even if it won’t paint her in a flattering light. “Afraid I don’t have any. Or at least, not beyond saying hello and goodbye at work.”
Hermione’s brow furrows, making a fine line stand out on her forehead. “How long have you been in England?”
“A year.” And now she sounds even more pathetic than she did before. Rhiannon shrugs. “I don’t get out much.”
“Neither do I.” Hermione glances toward the street. “I think I’ve had long enough to reset. I’d better get back to it.”
“Right.” Rhiannon glances down at her pocket watch. Her lunch break is over. Will it make Hermione uncomfortable if she follows her? Best to say it so she won’t think she’s being stalked. “I’ve got to get back to the checkout desk.” She begins walking, keeping her head down.
“So you’re not handling the return cart today?” Hermione asks, following just beside her.
That’s mildly humiliating, being remembered as the librarian who knocked over two dozen books. “Not today. We rotate out who does what. Unless you’re assigned to a certain section, that is. I’m still an assistant, so I do a little of everything.”
They continue to talk as they make their way back toward the front doors. It’s polite. Unimportant. And somehow, it feels less stunted than most casual conversations Rhiannon has. Finally, they part ways, Hermione going to the lift and Rhiannon returning to her station. Just in time, too, because she has around twenty books waiting to be checked back in.
No matter how much sleep she gets the night before, when Rhiannon works the late shift, she gets sleepy at around nine o’clock. It goes against her body’s internal clock, keeping the hours she does now. Eventually, she’ll either get used to it or be scheduled differently. For now, she gives her shoulders a slight shake whenever she feels her eyelids beginning to droop.
At ten thirty, one of the other librarians announces that the patrons need to bring their books to the checkout desk or place them on the returns cart since it’s nearly time to close for the night. The next fifteen minutes are chaotic with so many people coming forward and wanting to check out materials quickly. Rhiannon does her best to keep a welcoming smile on her face and remembers to ask if the patrons found everything they needed. That’s all well and good until five minutes before closing, when she hears footsteps approaching the checkout desk after she’s already closed the box holding the cards from books that have been borrowed. It’s annoying, but she forces her customer service smile back in place.
“Did you find everything you were looking for?” she asks automatically without looking at the person’s face.
“No, but that was my own fault. I didn’t ask for help.”
Rhiannon’s gaze immediately snaps to the face of the person who’s speaking. Hermione looks a little sheepish, as if she’s gotten caught stealing a cookie. She places the books on the checkout desk.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Rhiannon flicks her wand, and mercifully, she has enough concentration left that the cards slide out of the books, forming a neat stack in front of her. With another flick, the date prints itself across them. “We would’ve been more than happy to assist.” Merlin. Maybe she should just obliviate herself on the spot and save them both the trouble of having to muddle through this exchange.
“I know, but I have this issue where I don’t ask for help unless I absolutely have to.” Hermione’s lips quirk up just a little at the corners. “Call it a personality flaw.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be the only one.” Rhiannon replaces the cards in the drawer and performs a spell to write off a receipt. “There you are. These will be due back on the first of November. If you need more time, bring your receipt in, and we’ll renew them.” Which Hermione probably already knows, she realizes belatedly.
“Thank you.” Hermione begins placing books into her handbag one at a time. It must be enchanted if it’s holding that many of them. “I’m sorry to make more work for you, especially when you’re about to go home.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Rhiannon thinks about mentioning that there’s always one who waits until the last minute, but that might make the situation worse, so she stays silent.
“Goodnight, Rhiannon.” Hermione shifts the strap of her bag further up her shoulder.
“Goodnight, Hermione.” Rhiannon makes herself study the box of cards instead of watching Hermione leave. When she hears the doors swing closed, she knows she’s safe.
Even though the library closes at eleven, the librarians on the late shift stay until eleven thirty to tidy up in preparation for the next day. When Rhiannon finally leaves, she can barely keep her eyes open. Instead of apparating, she walks to her flat. It’s on the same street, which was the reason she chose to live there. Well, that and the rent is reasonable.
Aphrodite is out when Rhiannon lets herself into her flat. A wry smile crosses her face. Her parrot has a better social life than she does. At some point, she’s going to have to extend her circle to include more than casual acquaintances. The problem is that so far, she hasn’t met anyone she particularly wants to get to know better. Her mind drifts back to warm, brown eyes and messy curls. Well, that’s not entirely true. She shakes her head. Hermione has friends, so she probably isn’t keen to get to know a random librarian. And the likelihood of Hermione having any other interest in her is negligible at best. No. It’s best not to even imagine the what-ifs. That won’t end well for anyone.