Chapter Text
Hermione groaned squeezing her eyes shut tight against the sunlight streaming through her windows. She desperately wanted to roll over and fall back asleep but knew her body wouldn’t allow it. She flopped onto her back with a huff and looked up at her ceiling. Images flashed in front of her eyes.
She and Ron had finally broken up in spectacular fashion. They had been out at dinner. She made a comment or he did. It was hard to say how the argument started. Suddenly that spark was roaring faster than fiendfyre consuming them entirely. Hissed barbs escalated until they were shouting as they left the restaurant. She returned the ring, he apparated away. She did the same.
Hermione had stayed away from the papers, from everything, for days. She was currently on research assignment from St. Mungo’s which gave her the freedom to work from anywhere. Eventually she hoped to move to clinical testing and would need to get back to the hospital for that, but for now, she could wallow if she wanted to. And she had. Her trash can was filled with wine bottles, ice cream, and pizza boxes – the holy trinity of breakup recovery. She eyed the bit of parchment on her table. She certainly had the food and beverage part covered, but to complete the cliché she’d need a long bath and a good book. The parchment informed her that such a book had finally arrived for her at Flourish and Blotts.
It was tempting. Sooo tempting. But it was also a trap. She’d been underground for days. Her home was unplottable and the press weren’t allowed in St. Mungo’s even if she was going there. The only chance Skeeter and her ilk had to catch Hermione was either outside the hospital or in public places…like the very public bookstore in Diagon Alley that she was known to frequent.
She groaned again, pressing a pillow over her face in frustration before throwing it across the room. It caught the corner of her dresser and fell to the floor with a soft thwump that was followed shortly by a firmer clatter of something. Sighing, the witch pulled herself out of bed to see what she had knocked over.
It was a unassuming watch she’d received from George as a gift. She winced at the thought of her almost brother-in-law and the broad wink he’d given her when he explained that this was no ordinary watch. After the war, the Golden Trio had been absolutely mobbed by the press and they weren’t the only ones. Ron had enjoyed the attention, but Hermione and Harry had craved normalcy and quiet. Hermione set up elaborate wards around her home while Harry spent a fair amount of time venturing into the muggle world where he could be just another bloke. The watches from George offered another option – they had a sophisticated glamour charm that was very difficult to detect and held up remarkably well against the usual counter charms the press was inclined to cast at random passersby in hopes of unmasking a valued target. George had assured Hermione that secure locations like the Ministry and Gringotts had access to a countercharm to prevent misuse, but for the everyday, they offered what she often craved – anonymity. Of course, dating Ron, she didn’t make much use of her watch. He refused to wear his and since it was known she was dating him, if they were out together it would either look like he was cheating on her or it would be obvious she was trying to hide. But now…
She popped the watch around her wrist and hurried to her mirror letting out a squeak of surprise. She met her eyes at a slightly higher spot than usual. Rather than chocolate, they were now hazel green. Her hair was a rich auburn with more subtle waves, though she was amused to see the glamour did not hide her serious bedhead. Her skin was paler than her usual olive tones with a splash of freckles on her face. Admittedly, she hadn’t slept well and hadn’t really been in the sun since she was avoiding public spaces like the plague. It didn’t make you look perfect all the time, it just made you look different. She liked that.
Freshly showered, she considered her closet. She didn’t have many sets of wizard robes. She mostly wore St. Mungo’s robes for work and shucked them for most everyday occasions so she was left with mostly formal options not really appropriate for a quick trip to the bookstore. Her usual comfortable muggle jeans and jumpers were out as well. Ron or one of the Weasleys might recognize her.
Finally she settled on a pair of sleek black skinny jeans and converse shoes. The jeans had a few artful rips in them across the thighs and knees. Ginny had insisted she buy them the first time Hermione had taken Ginny to a muggle mall. She paired it with a gray tank top and then transfigured an old leather jacket into a longer maroon version that extended down to her knees – not robes, but a bit of a nod to Tonks’s auror attire. She tugged on her collar once in the mirror and nodded before grabbing her wand and disapparating.
She was right about the vultures. They had certainly camped out in front of the bookshop, wands at the ready. Casting a subtle protego – she trusted George’s spellwork but better safe than sorry – she pressed through the throng into the shop. The young witch behind the desk looked at her eagerly before her face fell and she went back to staring out into the street, her eyes eager. Hermione was suspicious.
“Expecting someone?” She asked innocently.
The witch nodded, but her eyes stayed on the street. “oh yes umm someone is supposed to pick up a book today and I want to be ready…to umm help her…them.” She fumbled.
Hermione cursed. How could she have been so foolish? The book was under her name. She’d destroy her disguise completely if she walked up to the counter to pick it up in full view of the press at the windows. For all she knew the shopgirl had worked it out with the press and would sell her out in a heartbeat.
She pushed further into the store. She’d made it this far, and she did love the bookshop. Not like she couldn’t find another book to read while she wallowed. Her browsing took her into the “Classics” section towards the back. Her increased height from the glamour was a nice bonus as she read the spines on the top shelf, though they were still out of reach. A green title looked interesting. She dropped her eyes to the floor and turned around. Why wasn’t there a stepstool or ladder? She didn’t want to have to walk back to the front to ask for help. She went up on her tiptoes experimentally to test her new reach. Just short. She huffed.
Suddenly the book floated off the shelf and down to hover in front of her eyes. She blanched. As a child some of her first bouts of accidental magic had been like this – calling books from high shelves beyond her 5-year-old reach – but she was an adult now. She could control her magic and shouldn’t be having accidental outbursts over a book.
“Are you going to take the book or should I return it to the shelf?” a dry voice inquired.
Hermione jumped and spun around, wand in hand.
“Oh so you are a witch then? I did wonder how a muggle might have found their way into the Alley, but then, why would a witch need a ladder?” The woman’s accent was decidedly posh, her tone scathing. Her chocolate eyes raked down Hermione’s body, chronicling every inch.
Hermione blushed and took the book out of the air. “Thanks yes, my friends” her heart stuttered painfully at the thought of Ron, “had to remind me a few times.” She shrugged, having decided long ago, even before a permanent reminder of her heritage was etched into her arm, that she would never flinch from or apologize for who she was. “Old habits die hard.”
The other witch nodded, her dark curls bouncing around a pale porcelain face, before she turned back to the shelf. Hermione flipped through the book. Unlike muggle books, wizarding ones didn’t always include a summary on the back. It was frustrating when some of the so-called “classics” could be filled with total pureblood prejudice rubbish but she never knew going into it. She glanced at the other witch again. The dark curls cascaded down her back to her robes – clearly tailored, expensive – the kind of thing Pansy Parkinson would wear. The reminder of her old nemesis gave her pause – the woman was roughly her age in appearance, but she was quite certain she’d never seen her before. There were of course a number of explanations for that – she could be a few years older or younger than Hermione or have gone to school abroad. An elegant finger reached out to stroke a few spines that seemed to almost shudder in response. A pointed chin jutted to the side considering.
Hermione took a breath. “Excuse me. I’m sorry to bother you, but have you read this?” She held up the green bound title.
The witch’s eyes stayed on the books. She nodded once. “I’ve read all of them.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “All…all of them? Is it part of a series?”
The chocolate eyes flashed to her again then returned to the shelves. “No,” she said in a bored tone, “I’ve read all of them.” She gestured vaguely to the wizarding classics shelves.
“Really?” Hermione took a step closer. “I just…that’s amazing. I didn’t think anyone really read them. No one is ever back here.”
The witch shrugged. “Everyone has read these.” She looked back at Hermione’s shoes. “Well, I suppose not everyone, but in certain circles it is an integral part of wizarding education.” She pulled a book off the shelf and flipped it open.
“Was it part of the curriculum at Beauxbatons?” Hermione could only assume the witch must have gone to school abroad. “Hogwarts spent zero time on literature. It’s a wonder the British population can write coherently at all.”
The witch turned again and arched a brow. “I attended Hogwarts. The study of literature is usually handled by tutors or at least it was – along with music, dance, art…it’s fallen out of favor of late.” The witch frowned in displeasure and then started slightly as if remembering something. She continued smoothly. “My family is rather traditional so my sisters and I were educated accordingly with a tutor before Hogwarts and then had lessons in the summers as well. In my family it was vital to improve one’s mind with reading.”
Hermione snorted then clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. The witch scoffed and turned to leave. “No, wait. Please! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean any offense it’s just…you reminded me of something.”
The witch turned, sharp chocolate eyes on Hermione as she hurried to the shelves. The muggle classics only occupied two shelves but were conveniently next to the wizarding titles. She quickly found the right book and began skimming through the pages. Finding what she was looking for, she turned the book to the other witch and pointed with her finger.
“I’ve always thought pureblood society reminded me of this book, and the way you said that just now about your tutoring and the reading. It sounds exactly like Mr. Darcy’s definition of an accomplished woman.”
The other witch leaned forward to read:
A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, all the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address, and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved.
All this she must possess…and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading…
The dark-haired witch chuckled as she finished the page. “An astute observation.” The chocolate eyes trailed back up to meet Hermione’s altered hazel ones. “And this is a muggle book?”
Hermione nodded. “Yes, by Jane Austen. It’s one of my favorites, Pride and Prejudice. It is definitely one of the muggle classics.”
The woman tucked the book under her arm. “Then I suppose I’ll have to broaden my horizons.” She took two steps back to the wizarding classic shelves, her arm just brushing with Hermione’s as she passed.
Sharp eyes skimmed the titles until she raised a hand to tilt one off the shelf. She handed it to Hermione. “That one” she nodded to the one Hermione had looked at initially, “is full of pureblood propaganda. This one is a wonderful love story set in the renaissance in wizarding France.”
Hermione accepted the book, her eyes eagerly inspecting the plain cover. “Oh, thank you that sounds perfect. I was going to read The Immortal Consequence, but I can’t pick it up just now.”
The stranger arched a brow. “You aren’t able to get a book in a bookshop?”
Hermione blushed slightly. “Oh I mean of course I could. It’s just I special ordered it and am waiting, just, yes well this sounds excellent. Thank you for the recommendation.”
“Likewise.” The witch swept by the Gryffindor in a haze of (probably very expensive) perfume as she headed to the front of the shop to pay.
Hermione tucked herself into one of the armchairs and lost herself in the mystery woman’s book.