Chapter Text
The night air was cool against her skin. Her cigarette glowed in the darkness.
This rooftop terrace was her only solace. Never mind that smoking was banned here. No smoking, no pets, no alcohol, the sign read. There were many security cameras but Hermione had found a spot that was out of their line of sight. There were a few benches that faced the water and large potted trees that she could sit behind and smoke in secret.
The rooftop of her apartment building was sprawling and well-manicured. There were several water features and gardens, blooming with jasmine this time of year. Even a BBQ area.
She’d moved in a year ago. Money was no obstacle. She had plenty after the war. Being a war hero would do that.
She’d tried to live normally after all of it, but too much had happened. Too many had died. Every night she’d wake up in a cold sweat, screaming silently, images of the lifeless bodies of those she’d loved lying still, side by side in the Great Hall. The anguish in their faces, their lives ripped away from them. The way George had looked at the body of his twin. The way Harry had looked, his glasses askew, his eyes closed. The horror and sorrow that had gripped in her that moment.
Haunted.
Harry was much stronger than she was. They had mourned together after the war but unlike her, he was able to slowly move on. He and Ginny had married, had children. He’d even become Head Auror. The man never stopped working.
Ron also never stopped working. He was always by Harry’s side. They were respected, even feared. The unstoppable duo, fighting crime long after Voldemort’s defeat.
And her. The ‘brightest witch of her age’ she’d been called. She felt bitter. Everyone had expected so much of her. But she’d been unable to rise up to it, it was all too much. She’d retreated into herself, paralysed by an inexplicable anxiety. The war was over, they had won. But she never felt joy in the aftermath. Whatever had driven her during the war, to help Harry find the Horcruxes, to destroy them, had disappeared. Leaving her … empty. She still had the memories: breaking into Gringotts as Bellatrix Lestrange, escaping on a bloody dragon, withstanding torture in Malfoy Manor, hurling curses at Death Eaters while the world around them collapsed. Sometimes she wondered if it had been someone else, someone much stronger, braver.
She certainly didn’t feel like that person now.
She took another drag from her cigarette, hugging herself.
That’s why she’d run away.
It was cowardly, she knew. But she needed to escape from all that attention, all that celebrity, as if surviving the war was noble. It had been luck. She wasn’t any better than Lupin or Tonks, or any of the scores of witches and wizards that had died so horribly.
Muggle London was much the same. Untouched by war, although there were traces of it. She’d taken a job at a local bookstore and spent her days lying in bed, unable to face the outside world. She’d adopted a cat, one that reminded her so much of Crookshanks that it hurt sometimes. She’d named him Remus and together they slept most of the day. She had no energy to go out, except for work.
At night, she’d come up to the terrace. It was usually empty at night. A few neighbours sometimes held parties, and whenever this happened, she’d stub out her cigarette angrily, casting a quiet spell to dispel the smoke. Although the terrace was common property, it always felt like they were intruding. Which was ridiculous, as they had every right to enjoy the terrace and its beautiful view over the river without the smell of cigarette smoke in the air.
She held her head in her hand, breathing in deeply, feeling the breeze wash over her senses. It was peaceful out here. It dulled the ache inside, even if momentarily.
Grief. That’s what she felt. She grieved for the fallen and for something else too. She’d lost herself. That bright young girl she’d been, fearless and brave, was gone. And Hermione didn’t know who she was anymore.
Suddenly, she heard the door to the terrace open. Inwardly, she sighed, turning to stub out her cigarette.
She heard footsteps but they didn’t approach. The figure lingered in the doorway, fumbling for something in their pockets. The sound of a lighter clicking. The man cursed. More clicking. A sigh. Then: “Incendio.”
Hermione stiffened. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted in the air towards her. A wizard, here? Smoking Muggle cigarettes?
He hadn’t seen her, which was no surprise given where she was hidden. She couldn’t make out his features in the darkness but she heard him sigh again. He began walking, towards the balcony. He stood silently, taking in the view.
She remained still for a few minutes. Then, relit her own cigarette. At the sound of her lighter clicking, he turned.
“Who’s there?”
She didn’t reply but just sat there in the darkness, hoping he’d go away. She could pass for a Muggle, it’d had been five years since she’d last appeared in the Daily Prophet. No one knew where she’d went, not even Harry or Ron.
Besides, this was the only time she could smoke. She wouldn’t ever smoke in her apartment, not in front of Remus. She may get cancer but she’d be darn sure her cat wouldn’t.
More footsteps, this time closer.
“I’m just having a smoke, same as you.” She had to say something, otherwise it would be strange.
“Where- oh.”
She turned to find him next to her and she blanched when she saw his face. His expression mirrored hers. A mixture of shock and disbelief.
“Malfoy?”