Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Song Link: https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=d3vCkD7qVi8&si=VJIGn-XYnWHQqvBC

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.

Chapter Text

Song Link: https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=avv2IIdDnnk&si=nXh776_v3r-_TbyS

Music has a way of transporting you. It can be to a place you’ve never visited before, or it can be to somewhere familiar that now only exists in your memories. In Rhiannon’s case, listening to Alanis Morissette always brings her back to being seventeen.

It was a difficult year; her final one at Ilvermorny. She had kissed a boy before (which was akin to trying to perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on an octopus), but that year, she kissed a girl for the first time. Until then, she had been ninety percent certain that she was a lesbian, although the word itself sounded foreign to her. That provided the remaining ten percent of assuredness.

Of course, rumors abounded, and so life became more complicated. She occasionally wished she were different, but by the time she turned eighteen, she had accepted herself. A large part of that process was accomplished with her No-maj music turned all the way up, dancing alone in her dormitory.

She’s in a similar position this morning. It’s seven a.m. She has work in another thirty minutes. Breakfast is over. The dishes have been washed and put away. She’s fully dressed. Aphrodite has been fed and is now cleaning her feathers. There’s nothing left to do with her time, so she’s turned up the volume on her boombox (a No-maj… no, Muggle item, complete with batteries), and is listening to her tunes.

All good things must come to an end, and eventually, she has to pop out the cassette and leave for work. The weather has turned chilly recently, or chillier than it normally feels to her Louisiana constitution, so she’s going to apparate instead of walking. Checking once more that the window is open in case Aphrodite wants to get out, she removes her wand from her pocket and concentrates on the library.

Today, she’s been assigned to processing new materials. That’s done on the first floor… no, that’s not what they say in Britain. It’s the ground floor, she reminds herself. Whatever you call it, the room is in the back, tucked away behind the checkout area. That’s where she heads, unfastening her cloak as she goes.

Another librarian, Damien, is also working on processing. He’s a nice guy… chap. It should be chap or bloke (Merlin, she has a lot to learn). Damien is short and so thin that a gust of wind could blow him over. He has a slight stutter, and his posture is folded inward, like he doesn’t want to be seen. Mercifully, their library manager took pity on Damien and assigned him to jobs that are exclusively behind the scenes so he barely has to interact with the public.

“Hi, R-rhiannon.” He looks up with a bashful smile as she settles into the seat across from him. “I thought I saw your name on the r-roster when I looked this morning.”

“Hey, Damien.” She picks up a self-refilling quill and begins writing down the information of the book at the top of the pile by her place. “Yeah, they’ve got me in here today to liven things up.”

He laughs, and the sound reminds her of an unoiled door hinge. “It’s r-really a party with both of us.”

She likes Damien. He won’t expect her to chat while she works. They’re both here to do the job and do it well. Some of the other librarians give him shit for being so shy, but it doesn’t bother her. Had she not been forced by her teachers at Ilvermorny to join the debate team, she might’ve been in the same boat as him.

The final two librarians assigned to this task, Kate and Evangeline, show up late. When they arrive, they’re deep in conversation. Rhiannon tries not to listen, but she can’t miss that they’re discussing the men they’re seeing. They both ignore Damien, but she knows it’s only a matter of time before she’s brought into it.

Sure enough, within five minutes of them sitting down, Evangeline concludes, “We’ve all been there, Kate. Dating a bloke who can’t be arsed to so much as send a Patronus back after you’ve contacted him. Right, Rhiannon?”

In the past, Rhiannon would panic whenever she was asked about her love life. Now she’s decided to take it as it comes. Be honest, but don't announce, “I’m exclusively interested in women,” unless it comes up organically. She isn’t ashamed, but she knows from experience that people tend to react to that news with confusion if not disgust or hostility. She likes her job, and she would prefer to keep it separate from her personal life.

“Can’t say that I have.”

Kate smirks. “What? Haven’t you ever gone out with a man before?”

What Kate really means is, “Have you dated anyone?” so Rhiannon chooses to answer it as if that’s what was said. “I’ve gone out with someone before, yes.”

Conversation moves on, saving Rhiannon from having to discuss her romantic misadventures. Poor Damien looks more uncomfortable by the minute, so eventually Rhiannon asks what everyone is planning to do after work to save him from a nervous breakdown. A little before eleven, a stack of materials is processed and ready to be taken up to the third storey. No one is eager to take responsibility for all those books. Kate and Evangeline won’t do it. Damian might very well have a coronary incident if he has to talk to anyone. So Rhiannon volunteers.

Since it’s so close to her lunch break, she doesn’t rush. Instead, she walks through the aisles on her way back from dropping off the books to the librarian in charge of the section on law. As she passes the quiet section, she finds herself unintentionally surveying the patrons. It only occurs to her as she walks away what she was doing. She was looking for Hermione. Of course she didn’t see her. It’s the middle of the day; she’s noticed over the past three weeks that Hermione only comes in after five o’clock. Not that she should’ve noticed at all.

The afternoon is much the same as the morning. Damien has an asthma attack when he uncovers a particularly dusty tome, and has to excuse himself. When they run out of new materials to process, they move on to repairing books. That’s a task that always miffs Rhiannon. She knows that the books enduring wear and tear is just part of being lent out. However, there’s a difference between accidentally cracking a spine and pure carelessness. One book has spaghetti sauce spilled on it, and she has a hell of a time scourgifying it. Then there are the books that have to be trashed because they’re in too rough a condition to fix.

By the time the clock shows it’s five thirty, Rhiannon has had enough of the Magical Library of London. She doesn’t want to sit around gossiping, and after seeing what’s become of the books, she doesn’t want to deal with the patrons. So, she collects supplies and puts them away, pulls on her cloak, and signs the work log on her way out the door. She should apparate, but she’s so hot under the collar that walking seems like it would do her good.

Rhiannon has just passed the returns slot when she sees her. Hermione is digging in her bag, removing books. There’s no reason to stop and talk to her. She probably just wants to return her books and get on with her research. But if she looks up, then she might wonder why Rhiannon hasn’t said hello. So, Rhiannon takes a deep breath and comes closer.

Hermione looks away from her bag, the expression of deep concentration on her face fading away into a smile. “You’re here early, aren’t you?”

“Late, actually,” Rhiannon explains. “I got switched to the first shift.”

“Oh.” Hermione’s brow knits. “Is that permanent? I mean, I’m sure you hope it is so you can keep more normal hours.”

“I’m not sure if it’ll stay that way.” And Rhiannon isn’t as happy as she should be about the change. She’s gotten used to the late shift… and a few of the patrons she sees during those hours. But she’s not about to say that. “Did you just come by to drop off books, or are you in for another long night researching?”

“Another long night, I think.”

Hermione continues, explaining something about her job and the law she thinks needs to be altered, but Rhiannon barely notices. What does catch her attention is the tremor in Hermione’s hands as she places the book in the slot. That’s strange. The book isn’t that heavy, so it’s not a strain. Low blood sugar, maybe? It would make sense, considering the time of day. Given how long it would take her to leave the Ministry of Magic and make her way here, it seems unlikely that Hermione has taken the time to stop and eat. How many nights a week does she skip meals, Rhiannon wonders? More importantly, what does she do about it?

“Is everything okay, Rhiannon?”

Hermione’s words draw her out of her internal debate. Rhiannon smiles, hoping that it comes off as friendly instead of odd. “I’m fine.” But Hermione isn’t. It’s taking things too far to do it… But if this were her coworker, she’d say the same thing. “I was about to try to find a café and get dinner. You could come too, if you haven’t eaten yet.” There. That nearly sounded confident.

Hermione hesitates, hand still in her bag. Rhiannon internally kicks herself. Shit. What if Hermione thinks she was coming onto her? That’s not how she meant it. She couldn’t have made the situation worse had she tried.

“I haven’t.” Hermione lowers her hand. “Had dinner, that is.” She smiles sheepishly. “Actually, I didn’t take my lunch break today either.”

Rhiannon considers scolding her, but they don’t know each other well enough for that. Instead, she nods. “Alright, then. Problem solved.”

The problem is not solved, she realizes as she begins walking down the steps leading to the street. Despite living and working in the area, she hasn’t visited any of the cafés nearby, so she couldn’t say which ones are decent and which are a waste of money, not to mention calories. Hermione comes to stand next to her, and Rhiannon makes a split-second decision. Now’s not the time to explore magical London’s cuisine. The first place they come to will do.

As it turns out, that’s a brightly lit little hole-in-the-wall restaurant with a cheery yellow and white awning and a sign out front in the shape of a loaf of bread bearing the words, “Dewdrop Café.” Rhiannon pulls the door open, trying to seem more sure of herself than she feels. For better or worse, the decision is made. Hermione slips past her into the café, and the light catches her curls, making them shine.

Rhiannon releases a silent sigh. Right. Small talk with someone she barely knows and who happens to be the most attractive woman she’s encountered in months. That’s… terrifying. She could’ve sworn she used not to be this awkward, but that was before Christine. Before she was outed. Before she switched continents to avoid her past. Well, there’s no avoiding this. She has to stop running, and maybe, possibly, with any luck, make a friend.

As Hermione slides into one side of a booth, it takes all her effort not to collapse. Rationally, she knew she was hungry since she skipped lunch, but she hadn’t noticed that she was roughly two steps from dropping on the spot. Ginny would turn into a terrible nag if she knew Hermione let it get this bad. Harry would worry. Ron would… well, he probably wouldn’t notice until she was literally on the floor. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he would’ve missed the signs. And somehow, a stranger picked up on them.

No, she mentally corrects as she steals a glance at Rhiannon. Not a stranger, but also not a friend. Hermione isn’t sure how to classify Rhiannon. They’ve run into each other at least three times a week for the better part of a month. They say hello at the library, maybe exchange polite questions about the other person’s work. That’s all. And for some reason, Hermione has found herself looking for Rhiannon every time she enters the library and feeling a bit disappointed if she doesn’t see her.

She still stands by her analysis from that first night three weeks ago. If she were inclined toward art, she’d like to capture Rhiannon’s image. Rhiannon looks away from the window suddenly, meeting Hermione’s eyes. Hermione looks down, pretending to find the woodgrain of the table fascinating. She probably seems like some sort of freak, skipping meals until she’s about to pass out and staring at the poor woman who was kind enough to do something about it.

Fortunately, a waitress shows up then to collect their drink order and hand them menus. Hermione resolutely does not look at Rhiannon as she asks, “What do you suppose is best here?”

“Oh.” Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rhiannon shrug. “I…” She sighs. “…I have a confession to make. I’ve never been here before. I picked it at random, so I have no idea.”

Hermione looks up, taking in Rhiannon’s smile. It’s uncertain, and her cheeks have taken on a slight rosy tinge. It suits her, making her seem softer, more human, instead of like a creature from mythology or Botticelli’s muse.

“Actually, I have no idea what half the items on the menu are,” Rhiannon admits, indicating the thick paper with the specials written on it in neat cursive.

That makes sense. Rhiannon is an American, so there are bound to be some differences in cuisine. Maybe… Hermione leans closer, indicating the first item listed. “The toasties are just toasted sandwiches. Do you have something similar in America?” What a stupid question, she thinks to herself as soon as the words leave her mouth. Of course they have toasted sandwiches!

Rhiannon’s full lips quirk up at the corners. “Yes, but we don’t call them toasties. There isn’t a specific name for them. I’m fond of a grilled cheese, myself.”

Good. Then she didn’t make a fool of herself or embarrass Rhiannon by infantilizing her. “I’m more of a tomato and pesto sort of girl.” Hermione moves further down the list. “The black pudding is a classic, but I don’t care for it. It’s a sort of sausage. The toad in the hole is sausage in a Yorkshire pudding, so I won’t be getting that either. Fish and chips is self explanatory.”

“Hm.” Rhiannon taps the menu with her index finger. “See, in America, the cafés tend to serve burgers with fries. Maybe soups and sandwiches. Of course, where I’m from, practically every little diner has crawfish on the menu.”

“Crawfish?” Hermione tries to keep the disgust out of her voice. “Please tell me they taste better than the name would suggest.”

Rhiannon chuckles. Her laugh is much deeper than Hermione would’ve thought, considering how soft her voice is. “They do. But maybe it’s something you have to grow up eating to appreciate.”

Hermione means to agree and possibly mention a few region-specific foods, but instead, what comes out is, “Where are you from? What state, I mean?” She should’ve offered something about herself, she realizes, but curiosity got the better of her. She has at least a hundred questions about Rhiannon, and that seemed like the easiest one to start with.

“Louisiana. It’s about as far south as you can get.” She laughs quietly. “My accent was so thick when I started at Ilvermorny that no one could understand me. I was the only witch from my state that year. Even the other southern students in my house couldn’t figure out what I was saying.”

Hermione tries to recall what she knows about the American magic school. It’s considerably newer than Hogwarts. A priority is put on Indigenous People's magic, such as herbology. They sort their students into four houses as Hogwarts does. While she’s going over her memory, the waitress comes back with their drinks and takes their orders. Hermione barely notices what she’s requesting. She’s too invested in the conversation. Once the waitress is gone, she asks, “Which House were you in?”

“Horned Serpent. From what I’ve read, it’s a little like Ravenclaw. On the nose for a librarian, if you ask me.” Rhiannon cocks her head to the side. “You were in Gryffindor, right?”

“Yes, I-” It occurs to her then. “How did you know-”

“I… might’ve looked you up. Your name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it before. It came back to me after a while, and I was curious, so…” She rubs at her forehead. “I just sounded like a creep, didn’t I?”

“Not at all.” If the situation were reversed, Hermione wouldn’t have hesitated to go down a rabbit hole searching for information. Which isn’t so far from what she’s doing now. It’s clear that this bothers Rhiannon from the way she’s not quite meeting her eyes, so Hermione decides to move the conversation along. “Rhiannon is Welsh, isn’t it?”

“I think so, but I don’t have any ties to the country.” At least Rhiannon looks a little less unnerved. “My parents named me after a song by a No-maj-” She shakes her head. “Sorry. Muggle band.”

“Fleetwood Mac,” Hermione provides. “My parents listen to them, too.” And she wouldn’t have guessed that Rhiannon was No-maj born. She idly wonders what else they have in common.

“It was kind of an omen,” Rhiannon continues. “They named me after a witch, and then I turned out to be one. That was nearly the last thing they were expecting, but they adapted to it.”

Again, Hermione knows she should say something about herself (at the top of the list is her parents’ reaction to her being a witch), but instead, she finds herself asking, “What made you decide to move to England?”

As soon as Hermione says it, she realizes her mistake. Rhiannon looks down, studying the nicks in the table. It’s subtle, but her shoulders are rising and falling just a little too rapidly, as if she’s struggling to take even breaths. Before Hermione can apologize, she speaks.

“I was in a tough situation at home. The only way to make it better was either for a lot of people to release a long-held belief or for me to leave. So I left. I wanted somewhere far enough away that I wouldn’t run the risk of encountering anyone from my old life, but where I would understand the language. England fit the description, and after the war, they were much more willing to accept new witches and wizards. I managed to find a job and a flat, and…” She makes a vague gesture.

“I’m sorry.” Hermione starts to reach across the table and cover Rhiannon’s hand with hers, but she remembers herself just in time. They don’t know each other well enough for the gesture to come off as comforting instead of overly familiar. “That was none of my business.”

“It’s alright.” Rhiannon smiles again, but this time, it’s forced, lacking warmth. “Fair is fair. I looked you up, so you should get to ask questions about me.” Hermione starts to tell her that she’s under no obligation to volunteer information, but before she can, Rhiannon asks, “Have you had any luck at work? You were trying to change a law, weren’t you?”

“Adding to one, actually. There aren’t many safeguards in place for the protection of magical children. They’re mostly left to fend for themselves until they receive their Hogwarts letters. We just assume that they’re being treated well, but there isn’t a system in place to check. It’s irresponsible! Think about the cases of neglect and abuse that we have on record. That’s nothing compared to the cases that go undocumented. I mean-” Hermione stops short. She’s rambling. Rhiannon has probably checked out of the conversation. “-That’s not very interesting, is it?”

“It is.” She must not look convinced, because Rhiannon repeats, “It is. Honestly. I don’t know anything about it, so I’m eager to hear more.”

Hesitantly, Hermione continues. “You were born to No-maj parents, so you know what it’s like. You go to the doctor for regular checkups. If they see something that looks like abuse, they report it. And you’re required to go to school somewhere. In the wizarding world, there’s no system in place to screen these children from abuse. No one to make sure that they’re learning to read and write. No one to make sure they’re eating enough. And on the other hand, no one to make sure that they’re psychologically fit.

“Now, don’t get me started on this world’s lack of mental health care! There’s nothing to be done for the survivors of the war. They still call an anxiety disorder ‘madness!’ For a society that can be so advanced, it’s also remarkably insular! I was shocked when-” Rhiannon nods, and it occurs to Hermione. “There I go again, rattling on without letting you get a word in edgewise. How much are you regretting inviting me along to dinner right now?”

“Not at all.” Rhiannon passes a finger over the rim of her glass. “Like I said, I don’t know anything about the laws here apart from avoiding the unforgivable curses. It’s fascinating to learn about it. And I agree with you. Not enough is being done to ensure the safety of magical children.”

Hermione bobs her head, but she doesn’t continue. That must not meet with Rhiannon’s expectations, because she leans closer.

“Hermione, you’re not boring me. I like listening to people talk about their passions. That’s always interesting.”

She should accept it and move on, curtailing the verbal vomiting, but Hermione can’t help it. She narrows her eyes at Rhiannon. “Always interesting? So you’d be invested in a conversation about stamp collecting or all the varieties of ferns?”

Rhiannon rolls her eyes, but her lips have quirked up just a little at the corners. “Fine. You got me. That would only be interesting for about ninety seconds.”

Hermione snickers, but before she can say more, the waitress brings them their food. After that, they’re too busy eating to say much. The soup (because apparently, that’s what she ordered even though she couldn’t recall it) is heavenly. She knows that she’s tasted better, but after missing lunch, she thinks that Molly Weasley’s clam chowder couldn’t compete.

It’s a peaceful meal. That is, until it’s time to pay. Hermione reaches into her handbag to extract the correct change, but Rhiannon shakes her head and insists, “I’ve got it.”

“I can-”

“No,” Rhiannon says firmly. “I asked you to join me. It just makes sense.”

Hermione thinks about arguing, but that seems like the perfect way to ruin what was a lovely dinner. “Fine. But next time, I’m paying.”

As Rhiannon pays, Hermione thinks about it. Saying you’ll cover the cost of the next meal is the polite thing to do. No one expects you to actually go through with meeting the other person again. But she wants to. Rhiannon is less of a mystery than she was thirty minutes ago, and yet somehow, with more information, she’s become increasingly intriguing. Hermione would like to get to know her better. Maybe she has room in her life for one more friend after all.

“I’d better let you get back to your research,” Rhiannon says once they’re outside on the street again. “Thank you for humoring me.”

“I think I’m the one who should be thanking you.” It feels like something else should happen, but Hermione isn’t sure what. “I meant what I said about doing this again. That is, if I didn’t completely put you off with the long-winded explanations.”

“You didn’t.” She really does have the warmest smile. “I’ll see you later then, Hermione.”

“See you later.” With a wave, Hermione begins walking back toward the library.

Despite having eaten a decent meal and getting six hours of sleep the night before, Hermione finds herself fighting to stay awake by eight thirty. Her spirit is willing to stay later, but her body is weak. So, she stands and collects her books to return. She could leave them with the librarian, but she’s sure they want to get out of here on time, too. So, she puts them back on their shelves and heads out to the lift.

It’s cold outside. Not so cold that she can see her breath crystallize in front of her, but cold enough that she shivers. Taking out her wand, she apparates straight into the flat she shares with Ginny.

“Crikey!” Ginny drops the teacup she was holding. It must be a sturdy one, because it doesn’t shatter. “Hermione. I wasn’t expecting you until at least eleven.”

“Sorry. Is Harry around here anywhere? Am I interrupting a date night?” She looks around for any signs that Ginny isn’t alone.

“No. He was busy tonight.” Ginny picks up the teacup and begins walking toward the tiny kitchen. “There’s leftover roast if you want it.”

“Thanks, but I had dinner with Rhiannon.” Hermione doesn’t realize she said anything odd until Ginny freezes in place.

“Wait.” She slowly turns around. “You had dinner with the librarian?”

Hermione nods. “Yes. I think she noticed that-” She was about to lose consciousness from hunger. Best not to say that part. “-I hadn’t eaten, so she invited me along. You know, she really is interesting. Her parents are both Muggles, or No-majes as they call them in America. And she was named after a song. She’s been here a year and…” No. Ginny is starting to glaze over. “Anyway, it was a nice evening.”

Ginny’s lips curve up into a smirk. “Should I be jealous that you’ve found another female friend?”

For some reason, the words don’t sit right with Hermione. Rhiannon is a nice person from what she’s seen. Of course, she wants to get to know her better, and that would qualify as forming a friendship. But she can’t think of her the same way she thinks of Ginny. Rhiannon is an enigma. There’s just something about her that’s different from any of the other friends Hermione has. But she can’t explain that to Ginny. It won’t make sense, so she settles for a simple, “Of course not.”

“Good.” Ginny begins walking to the kitchen again.

Hermione takes her time getting ready for bed. As she showers, changes into her pajamas, and brushes her teeth, she replays her time with Rhiannon. It was easily one of the best nights she’s had in months, even if it was a bit awkward now and again. How long should she wait before returning the favor? Would it seem odd if she invited Rhiannon to dinner sometime this week? She shakes her head and, flicking her wand, extinguishes the lamp.

It doesn’t matter. She shouldn’t be thinking this hard about the proper protocol. That’s not an issue that crosses her mind with any of her other friends. Again, that word doesn’t land right, and she’s not sure why. Well, it’s too late to examine that problem, so, pushing back the covers, she lies down. Maybe she’ll get a full eight hours of sleep tonight.

Chapter Text

Song Link: https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=BBBN6yUcef0&si=ja8a_7GDdDnGMtLY

Hermione leans closer to the mirror, mascara wand in hand. This is always the worst part of putting on makeup: trying to lengthen your lashes without smearing the mascara all over yourself. She supposes she could’ve used a WonderWitch product, but even three years out from their invention, she doesn’t trust a cosmetic made by George Weasley.

It’s a painstaking process, but eventually, she manages to coat her lashes without accidentally painting her nose or the areas surrounding her eyes. She stands back, examining her reflection. It’s an improvement, but she still feels like a little girl playing with her mother’s makeup, trying to be pretty. There’s no time to do anything to her hair, so she quickly sweeps the beauty products into her makeup bag and walks out.

Ginny is in the kitchen when Hermione returns from placing her makeup bag in her room. Ginny has Quidditch practice this morning, but it starts at nine, so she doesn’t have to leave anytime soon. A brief farewell is on the tip of Hermione’s tongue, but before she can get it out, Ginny’s brow knits, and she observes, “You’re wearing makeup.”

“Yes.” Hermione glances at her reflection in the window. “Is it too much? There’s no natural light in the lavatory, so I couldn’t tell.”

“No, you look great.” Ginny crosses her arms, examining Hermione more intently. “What’s the occasion? You never wear makeup to work.”

Hermione shrugs. “No occasion. Just felt like putting it on.”

“Uh-huh.” The corners of Ginny’s lips twitch upward for a moment, but then she returns to her solemn expression. “So, you’re not meeting someone? For a date, maybe?”

Oh. Well, now that Ginny mentions it, she supposes she failed to say anything. “No date, but I am meeting Rhiannon for lunch. She’s taking a long one since she needs to stop by the Ministry to renew her work permit for another year.”

Ginny’s eyebrows shoot up. “So, you put on makeup to meet your librarian friend for lunch?”

“No.” Hermione picks up her briefcase. “As I said, I just felt like putting it on.” Telling Ginny goodbye, she removes her wand from the pocket of her cloak and apparates to the entrance of the Ministry of Magic.

The process of going through security has become more arduous since Voldemort’s defeat, and it takes a while for her wand to be examined and her badge to be accepted. While Hermione waits, her mind wanders. Why exactly is she wearing makeup? It was a whim, but she can’t figure out what inspired it. She might’ve said it has something to do with going out for lunch instead of eating at her cubicle, but that doesn’t make sense. She isn’t interested in impressing the waitstaff at wherever it is she and Rhiannon end up. That would leave Rhiannon herself, but that can’t be right. Hermione doesn’t put on makeup for any of her other friends.

The moment Hermione reaches her cubicle, she hears her name being called (or more accurately, bellowed). She sets down her briefcase and quickly unfastens her cloak, draping it over the back of her chair before going in search of Ms. Gladstone.

Ms. Gladstone’s door is open, and she’s sitting at her desk, which is surrounded by papers. Without looking at Hermione, she tells her, “Granger, you have decent grammar. Check these proposed bills to make sure that they’re not gobbledygook. They won’t make it past the first reading if there’s so much as an I undotted.”

“Yes, of course.” Hermione picks up the largest stack of papers, hoping that they’re thicker than they look, and therefore, there are fewer of them.

“And bring me my tea!” Ms. Gladstone shouts after her. “How I’m supposed to draft these addendums without a cup of Earl Grey is beyond me!”

“Yes, Ms. Gladstone.”

Hermione hurries through to her cubicle, only stopping long enough to drop off the papers. On her way back out, Marissa, one of the other interns, shakes her head and mutters, “Better you than me, Granger.”

It’s not a helpful sentiment, so Hermione doesn’t reply. Instead, she scampers off to find the tea things.

When the tea has been handed off and marked “passable,” she’s able to begin sorting through the papers. How wrong she was, hoping that they were thick pieces of parchment. They’re a normal thickness, and there are roughly five hundred of them. There’s no way she’ll be able to go through all of them, much less check their grammar and punctuation, in one day. Normally, she’d skip lunch to get in an extra hour of work, but not today. Rhiannon would understand, and she’d never say a word about it, but she’d worry. And… Hermione sets down her quill, tapping the end of it against her desk as she thinks… she wants to see Rhiannon, beyond the time extended to them by the library, that is. She’s been looking forward to it all week.

Ms. Gladstone was right to have someone proofread her bills. Had she sent them out as they were, they would’ve been laughed out of court. For someone who’s made a career out of writing and passing laws, her lack of knowledge surrounding the basics of the English language is shocking. Hermione runs out of red ink after the first hundred pages and has to borrow Daniel’s (much to his amusement). At least the ideas and legal points included are good.

Between circling spelling errors and rewriting sentences in the space above the words, Hermione keeps an eye on the clock. At twelve on the dot, she closes the inkwell and sets down the quill. As she stands, Daniel pops his head around the side of the cubicle and asks, “Where are you off to, Granger?”

“To lunch.” She really would’ve thought that was obvious.

“You’re going to eat when you’re drowning in papers?” he asks incredulously.

“They’ll still be here when I get back.” She’s not about to get into her lunch plans with Daniel. He’ll have a million questions. So she tucks her wand away and walks toward the exit.

Rhiannon is waiting in the atrium, just as she said she would be. She’s still in the midnight blue robes the librarians wear, but today her hair is down. It’s long enough to cascade past her shoulders to nearly halfway down her back. It looks silky, like it would be soft to the touch. Hermione’s musings are interrupted by Rhiannon seeing her, and smiling.

“Let me guess.” She comes over to Hermione with a knowing expression on her face. “You’ve spent the morning pushing papers.”

“Correcting them, more like.” Hermione starts to explain her boss’s lack of basic grammar, at least in written form, but decides against it. Work can stay at work for now. “How did it go with immigration? Did you have any trouble?”

“None. It was just a matter of waiting.” Rhiannon motions to the pocket of her robes. “I brought a book, so I had a lovely time.”

Hermione opens her mouth to ask what book it was. However, before she can say a word, she hears her name being called. She turns to look at the person. Harry and Ron are just a few steps behind them. It’s unusual that aurors get to take lunch at a regular hour since they’re typically on a case.

Harry waits until he’s almost on top of them to say, “I thought that was you.” He glances at Rhiannon. She’s taller than he is, so he has to look up at her. “Hello. I’m Harry.” He indicates Ron. “This is Ron.”

“Oh.” Rhiannon holds out her hand to Harry. “Hi, Harry. I’m Rhiannon.”

Ron frowns as he observes Rhiannon. When he shakes her hand, he asks, “You’re a librarian?”

“That’s right.”

“Huh.” Ron takes a step back. “Guess they make them different than they used to.”

“Ronald!” Hermione considers elbowing Ron, but doesn’t follow through. She wouldn’t have hesitated before the breakup, but now, it feels too familiar.

“What?” Ron looks at Rhiannon again. “She doesn’t look like a librarian! No offense, Rhiannon.”

“Just because you say ‘no offense’ doesn’t mean it isn’t offensive,” Hermione insists.

Ron looks like he’s gearing up to make things worse. Harry must see it too, because he taps Ron’s shoulder. “We should be going. Just wanted to say hello on our way out.”

Yes, well, Hermione is starting to wish they had practiced some self-control.

Fortunately, when Harry said they were leaving, he meant it. He and Ron walk faster than Hermione and Rhiannon, so they don’t have to make small talk. It’s not that she doesn’t want Ron and Harry to encounter Rhiannon. Just… just… she can’t come up with a decent explanation, or at least one that doesn’t sound like a two-year-old shrieking, “No! Mine!” about a favorite toy.

“Any ideas about lunch?” Rhiannon asks once they’re safely out of the Ministry.

“Um…” Hermione tries to think of a decent place for a meal, but when Rhiannon looks at her, for some odd reason, her brain empties. That’s strange. “The Leaky Cauldron? I’m assuming you’re familiar with it.”

“I’ve been there a few times.” Rhiannon takes out her wand. “See you in a minute.” With a loud “crack,” she disapparates. Hermione waits for a few seconds before doing the same thing.

The Leaky Cauldron looks about the same as it did the first time Hermione saw it: old and rundown, but also inviting and warm. She lets herself inside, holding the door ajar for Rhiannon. Several seats are available, but since it’s only the two of them, Hermione heads toward the bar. Service is guaranteed to be quick, sitting there, and they have a limited amount of time at their disposal.

Sure enough, a member of the waitstaff comes over after only thirty seconds. He takes a notepad out of his pocket, along with a quick quotes quill. “Good afternoon, ladies. What can I get for you today?”

Hermione peers at the board with the menu scrawled on it in chicken scratch handwriting. “I’ll have the soup of the day and a water, please.”

“Sure.” The quill whizzes across the paper without the man so much as looking up. “And for you, Miss?”

“I’ll have the cheese toastie and a water,” Rhiannon decides.

“Yes, that sounds-” His gaze lands on Rhiannon. It’s as if the cogs in his mind have stopped turning, his expression goes so suddenly blank. Then, as quickly as he lost the plot, he regains focus, smiling at Rhiannon like she’s a sunset. “-that sound great. But what about I get the two of you butterbeer instead of water? On the house.”

Rhiannon looks at Hermione, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised. Hermione nods, but she doesn’t hear Rhiannon’s reply. Instead, she’s watching the bartender. He’s walking away, but every few seconds, he steals another glance at Rhiannon. It makes sense. She’s a beautiful woman. This isn’t the first time Hermione has noticed her garnering male attention, but it’s never seemed quite so annoying as it does now.

“Have you decided whether you’re going home for Christmas or staying in magical London yet?”

“Hm?” It takes Hermione a moment to realize that Rhiannon has spoken. Her focus was still on the bartender and his leering. “Oh. Yes. I think I’ll go home for a day or so, but for the most part, I’ll be here.” She almost asks about Rhiannon’s plans, but her mind throws on the brakes just in time. Of course Rhiannon is staying in London. She fled America, after all. And she hasn’t explained the full reason why. “What do you think you’ll do over the Christmas holiday?”

Rhianon gives a slight shrug of her shoulders. “Stay in and read, I suppose. Maybe work on teaching Aphrodite a few new phrases. She’s almost got, ‘Juliet is the sun.’”

Hermione chuckles. She has a few suggestions on what Rhiannon should teach her parrot next, chief among them, “What about, ‘Big Brother is watching?’ Or is that too ominous?”

Rhiannon laughs quietly. “Oh, Merlin. Can you imagine hearing that in the middle of the night when you get up to go to the lavatory?”

Now that she’s mentioned it… “Maybe not Orwell.”

“Here we are.” The bartender returns, bearing a tray. “Two butterbeers, a tomato soup, and a cheese toastie.” He slides Hermione’s items to her as if she’s not even there, but carefully sets down Rhiannon’s food. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.” He leans over the bar so that he’s nearly in Rhiannon’s face. “Anything at all.”

Godric. He couldn’t be laying it on any thicker if he literally had a butterknife. Rhiannon doesn't seem to notice his lecherous gaze, but Hermione sure as hell does. “Yes, we’ll be sure to do that if we ever get to eat,” she snaps before she can think better of it.

The bartender gives her a dirty look, but the only sign that Rhiannon has noticed something is amiss is the slight wrinkling of her forehead. As the bartender walks off, muttering under his breath, Rhiannon murmurs, “Is everything alright?”

“Fine.” Hermione pushes her sleeves up to her elbows. Before, she was chilly, but now she feels like she’s in a sauna. “He needs to work on his opening lines, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t follow.”

Hermione wants to say it’s obvious, but Rhiannon genuinely looks perplexed. There’s no backing out of it now. She has to say it. “He was flirting with you.”

“Oh.” Rhiannon’s eyes widen momentarily. “That’s… unfortunate.”

For a moment, Hermione feels the vaguest flicker of pleasure. Why? Other than the fact that the bartender was clearly undressing Rhiannon with his eyes. “Not your type, then?”

Rhiannon chuckles. “Hardly.”

“Not tall enough?” Hermione suggests, before she can stop herself. She’s not sure why she’s asking it. What does it matter?

“The wrong gender.”

Hermione freezes, spoon in the air. The wrong gender, as in…? She slowly turns her head to look at Rhiannon. Rhiannon is smiling, but it looks strained. Hermione’s uncertainty must be showing because Rhiannon sighs.

“I’m only interested in women, Hermione.”

Then it’s exactly what it seems like. That’s… not what she was expecting. It’s not as if Hermione didn’t know that the queer community exists. Magic has always been associated with women loving women and men who prefer other men. It was an open secret that Dumbledore was gay. There are even laws allowing for same sex couples to marry and be bonded. But somehow, she didn’t consider that Rhiannon might be a lesbian.

What is she supposed to do now? Say she doesn’t care, and it doesn’t change anything? That’s not true. This isn’t something you confide to just anyone, so it does change the nature of their friendship. And she cares about Rhiannon’s sexuality because she cares about Rhiannon. She could say that’s alright, but that might make it seem like she has a hidden moral objection, which she doesn’t. A random thought pops into her head, spilling out of her mouth without her permission.

“I guess I don’t need to warn you that Harry is taken, then.” As soon as she says it, Hermione wants to hex herself. That’s utterly insensitive.

Rhiannon snickers, drawing Hermione’s attention upward. “No, Harry’s girlfriend has nothing to fear from me. Neither does Ron’s.”

“Ron doesn’t have a girlfriend.” That’s not a topic that she wanted to discuss today, but here she is. “Actually…” Hermione forces herself to take a deep breath. Rhiannon trusted her with something important. She can return the favor. “…we dated for a year. It was mostly long-distance after I returned to Hogwarts for seventh year, and he went straight into auror training. When we saw each other again, we had both changed so much that the pieces didn’t fit anymore.” That’s not the whole story. The pieces never entirely fit, but she thought she could force them into place with enough effort and patience. “It was amicable. We’re still friends. But it’s not the same as it used to be.”

Rhiannon doesn’t say anything immediately; instead, she studies her butterbeer. “I’m sorry you went through that, Hermione. Even if it’s friendly, a breakup still hurts.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Hermione turns back to her soup.

They exchange a few words here and there as they eat, but Hermione still has ample time to think. Her breakup with Ron wasn’t as painful as she would’ve expected. She loved him, but it was never in the right way. He never gave her butterflies like Viktor did. They tried to make it work, to be romantic, but even after losing her virginity, something felt off. Really, the writing was on the wall from day one.

That’s still on her mind by the end of the meal. Last time they went somewhere, Hermione paid, so Rhiannon insists on paying this time. The bartender keeps staring at Rhiannon, but it doesn’t bother Hermione as much as it did earlier. Finally, they let themselves out of the restaurant and back into Diagon Alley.

“How many more pages do you think you’ll get through today?” Hermione motions to the book-shaped lump in Rhiannon’s pocket.

“Oh, at least fifty.” Rhiannon smirks. “How many more pages do you think you’ll correct today?”

Hermione groans. “And I was having such a lovely break.”

“Sorry for the reality check,” Rhiannon teases. “But whatever you do, make time to eat a proper meal tonight. You’re no good to yourself or anyone else if you’re running on fumes.”

If it were anyone else, Hermione would roll her eyes, say that she knows that, and wish the person would leave her alone. But since it’s Rhiannon… this feels more like gentle concern instead of an unnecessary scolding.

“I will.”

Whenever they say goodbye, Hermione gets the feeling that something else should happen. Today, she knows what it is. Hesitantly, she reaches for Rhiannon. She can see the surprise on her face for a moment, and it’s enough to make her doubt her choice, but then Rhiannon’s arms encircle her in a hug. She smells like vanilla, Hermione hazily thinks to herself. Not the cheap, synthetic kind. Something rich and deep. It occurs to her that she’s been hanging on, sniffing Rhiannon for a little too long, so, feeling warm all over again, she backs away.

“I’ll see you later?”

Rhiannon nods. “I’ll send Aphrodite with a message later this week.” She apparates, leaving Hermione standing there, alone with her thoughts.

She can’t help but consider today to be significant, if for no other reason than trust being established. This still doesn’t feel like any of her other friendships, but maybe that’s because Rhiannon is so different from anybody else she knows. It doesn’t matter, she supposes. That can all be sorted out later.

When the clock shows that it’s five pm, Rhiannon is so tightly coiled that she feels a little like a jack in the box. She’s not anxious per se, but she’s heavy on anticipation. Maybe even excitement. So, she immediately begins putting materials from repairing the books away, ignoring the stunned looks from the other librarians.

“What’s going on, R-rhiannon?” Damian asks as she flicks her wand, and the pile of books in front of him floats toward the returns cart. “You’re in a hurry.”

“Everything is fine.” Rhiannon picks up a stack of checkout cards and begins sifting through them. “I just want to get out the door on time.”

Evangeline smirks. “What? Have you got a date? I thought that was against your religion.”

Rhiannon chooses not to respond. It’s the sort of barb meant to provoke her into revealing more about herself than she’s comfortable sharing. And this is none of Evangeline’s business.

It’s not a date. She’s meeting Hermione in Diagon Alley, and they’ll go into Muggle London to watch a movie… no, film. Out of Hermione’s close friends, only Harry is familiar with going to the movie theater (cinema), and he’s usually with Ginny in his free time. Rhiannon hasn’t asked about anyone’s blood status, and no one has volunteered it. Even if she did know who had ties to the Muggle world, apart from maybe Damien, she wouldn’t want to spend time outside of work with anyone she knows. Except Hermione, of course.

She was relieved when Hermione didn’t have much of a reaction to the whole “I’m a lesbian” confession. It’s not as big a deal here as it is in America, from what Rhiannon has seen, but it’s still not considered the norm. Many people consider it a moral failing. She was expecting there to be a major shift in the friendship after that, or even for it to end, but nothing happened. They still talk at the library. And tonight, they have plans.

If Rhiannon were a few years younger, she might wonder if she stood a chance with Hermione, but she knows better. Hermione is either heterosexual or deeply closeted. And she’s shown no interest in anything beyond friendship. That’s fine. Rhiannon genuinely likes her as a person. Even if she wouldn’t say no to something more, she doesn’t need romance.

She has to stay at work until five thirty, but she doesn’t wait a second longer to sign the log and leave. It’s cold out, so she apparates as soon as she’s out the door. It’s unpleasant, the feeling of being pushed through a narrow tube, not being able to take a breath. But she’s used to it. She passed her test on the first try, after all. And that was four years ago, when she was seventeen.

Hermione is in front of The Leaky Cauldron, pacing. For a moment, Rhiannon thinks something is wrong, but then she sees that Hermione is rubbing her arms. Oh. It’s the cold, then. As she comes closer, Rhiannon observes, “You know, you didn’t have to wait outside for me.”

“I know, but I didn’t want you to think I stood you up if you got here before I did and didn’t see me.” Hermione shivers. “It might work best if I side-along apparate you. That is, unless you’ve been to this cinema before.”

“I haven’t.” Rhiannon hates being side-along apparated. It always makes her nauseated. But there’s no good way to get around it, so she holds out her hand to Hermione. The world narrows around her again, but it’s not as bad as the other times she’s been in this position. Still, when they reappear in an alley close to the cinema, she has to take a few deep breaths to steady herself.

As they walk, they discuss their days. Hermione finally finished proofreading the stack of papers Ms. Gladstone assigned to her on Monday. And today, Rhiannon stepped out of her comfort zone and held story time for the infant to three-year-old age group.

“What are we watching tonight?” Rhiannon asks as they step into the lobby. It’s warm, if nothing else, and the smell of buttered popcorn brings her back to her childhood, going to the movies with her parents once a month.

“Um…” Hermione stands on tiptoes, surveying the movie posters. “…Two options. A new Disney film about talking toys, or the latest James Bond.”

As charming as the idea of toys talking is (and by charming, she means creepy), Rhiannon is inclined toward option two. “The Bond film, if you’re alright with it.”

They’re early, which is for the best since it takes a while to get their popcorn, drinks, and Maltesers in Hermione’s case. The auditorium is dark, and it smells like hundreds of people have spilled their drinks without wiping them up. Hermione confidently walks up the stairs toward a row in the middle, so Rhiannon follows.

“It’s been ages since I saw a Bond film,” Hermione confides as they sit. “I think I saw the last one the year before I started at Hogwarts. Even then, I knew they were sexist.”

Rhiannon can’t help it. She laughs, but it comes out close to a snort. “Thank you! When I’d complain about that to the other No-maj borns at Ilvermorny, they looked at me like I had started speaking Mermish.”

They don’t get the chance to say much more, because the film begins playing. It’s fine. Similar to every other Bond film: lots of action, pretty damsels in distress, and overdramatic villains. Rhiannon doesn’t think much of it until Hermione scoffs.

“What?”

Hermione motions to the screen. “That’s not how a bullet in the brain works. He’d have serious neurological degeneration. Not just lose his sense of pain!”

Rhiannon agrees and keeps watching. For two more minutes. Then she has to point out the obvious. “That doesn’t look comfortable. No way are they staying in that position for longer than two seconds.” She shouldn’t have said that, she realizes belatedly.

Hermione snickers. “I think it’s possible for them to stay like that, but it can’t be pleasurable.”

Then she didn’t say something too suggestive. But she won’t say what’s on her mind (specifically, “If that’s heterosexual sex, then I’m glad I’m a lesbian.”). Of course, then another explosion goes off, and she can’t not comment.

“He’d be dead.” Hermione says it at the same time Rhiannon does. A loud, “Shh!” comes from behind them.

“Sorry!” Rhiannon whispers, trying not to laugh.

Five more minutes pass in silence, but then Hermione shakes her head. “That’s it. I can’t do it. I’m really sorry, Rhiannon.”

For a second, Rhiannon is worried, but then she puts the pieces together. “You’re dropping ten I.Q. points every minute you sit here, aren’t you?”

“Oh Godric, yes.” Hermione stands, collecting her popcorn and drink. “I can wait in the lobby if you’re invested-”

“Nope.” Rhiannon slides out of her seat. “I turned my brain off coming into this, and I’m starting to worry that I won’t be able to turn it back on.”

Hermione clears her throat, but it doesn’t disguise her laughter. Rhiannon has to count backward from ten to keep from cackling. Fortunately, they’re able to slip out without anyone else shushing them.

Once they’ve thrown away their trash, the obvious occurs to Rhiannon. It’s only six forty-five. It’s not late enough to call it a night. Hermione must be thinking something similar, because she suggests, “Would you want to come back to my flat? It’s not as entertaining as watching Pierce Brosnan getting blown up and mysteriously surviving, but I have a decent book collection.”

Rhiannon starts to agree, but then it occurs to her. “Are you sure Ginny won’t mind having company?”

“No, she’s out with Harry.” Hermione starts walking toward the doors. “And anyway, she’s heard me mention you before, so it’s not as if I’m inviting a stranger in.”

That makes Rhiannon happier than she should be. It doesn’t mean what she could wish it did, but it’s nice to have a friend who doesn’t want to keep you in the shadows. In the past, when she had friends, they were uncomfortable introducing her to the other people in their lives. There was always something different about her, even if they couldn’t put their finger on what. But that’s not a problem in this case.

By the time they apparate to Hermione and Ginny’s flat, Rhiannon is wishing for a thicker cloak. Hermione flicks her wand, and the lamp ignites, revealing a small living room. A floral upholstered sofa is against one wall with a worn coffee table in front of it. A bookcase has been squeezed in on one side of the sofa, and a turntable is on the other side.

Hermione doesn’t say anything before making a beeline toward the bookcase. She selects a thick book with the dust jacket removed and holds it out to Rhiannon. “Have you read this one? I just finished it last week, and I’ve been dying to discuss it with someone!”

“I have.” Rhiannon takes the book, tracing over the raised letters on the cover. “It’s my favorite Stephen King. He didn’t lean hard into the gory and spooky aspects of horror, but he still made it frightening.”

“Exactly!” Hermione unbuttons her coat. “He didn’t need shock value, although shocking moments were abundant.”

“I thought it was a perfect blend of Christian beliefs and worldwide mythos about good and evil.” Rhiannon takes off her cloak, setting it on one of the armchairs.

“Here.” Hermione motions to the sofa. “Have a seat. I want to know what you thought about the character of Stuart Redman.”

Rhiannon soon finds out that when Hermione said she wanted to hear her thoughts on Stuart Redman, she really meant she wanted a debate. Rhiannon is never happier than when she can fully examine what she’s read with another person, so she eagerly joins in. The conversation moves on from The Stand to The Lord of the Rings. That’s a subject Rhiannon has strong views on, so after fifteen minutes, she finds herself in a discussion that’s one step down from an argument. Just when she’s about to point out just how much stronger an author Tolkien was than C.S. Lewis, the door to the flat opens.

Hermione looks up from the map of Narnia that was included in her copy of The Chronicles of Narnia. Rhiannon turns to look toward the door. A woman with thick, red hair is standing there, peering from Hermione to Rhiannon.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the woman says. “The aurors sent a Patronus to Harry halfway through dinner, so he had to leave. I thought-”

“It’s alright.” Hermione closes the book. “The film we were seeing was stupid, so we came back early.” She indicates the redheaded woman. “Ginny, this is Rhiannon. Rhiannon Wallace, Ginny Weasley.”

“Hi.” Rhiannon holds up her hand in a wave, feeling a bit foolish.

Ginny is watching her intently in a familiar way. It’s how girls (and a few boys) at Ilvermorny would look at her when they had an inkling that she swung in a different direction than expected. Rhiannon doubts that Hermione passed the word along to Ginny. She doesn’t seem like the type to run home and tell everyone, “I made a gay friend today!” Even if she did, it doesn’t matter. She might not be out waving a flag, but Rhiannon is beyond feeling ashamed. If Ginny has a problem, then she’ll just leave. Problem solved.

“Hey, Rhiannon.” Ginny smiles. It looks genuine. Either she’s a good actress, or she doesn’t have any hangups about what she’s figured out. “Do I need to take Hermione’s wand off her? ‘Cause it sounded like she was about to duel you.”

Rhiannon glances at Hermione. Her cheeks are still pinker than normal, and there’s a twinkle in her eye that gives away that she’s finding this funny. “No need. I could take her.”

“Hey!” Hermione scowls, but it looks like she’s having a hell of a time maintaining it. “I’ll have you know I defeated Death Eaters in a duel!”

“A year and a half ago,” Ginny interjects. “By now, you’re probably rusty. I’m putting my money on Rhiannon. Americans are scrappy.”

Rhiannon chuckles. She thinks she’s going to like Ginny Weasley.

Ginny drifts out after ribbing Hermione a few more times. Rhiannon hears the radio playing from a room further in the flat, so she assumes Ginny is getting on with her evening. She isn’t sure if it’s the right thing to say, but she’s curious.

“Ginny’s younger, isn’t she?”

“She is. By a year.” Hermione reaches for a photo album on the bookshelf. “She’s one of seven children. The only girl. Ron’s the next-youngest. I’m six months older than him. And he’s four months older than Harry.” She opens the album and offers it to Rhiannon. “This was in first year.”

The picture shows a much younger version of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Harry looks frail compared to the man she met earlier this week. Ron is still the tallest out of the three of them. And Hermione’s hair looks like she’s tried desperately to straighten it, to no avail.

“I was the oldest in my year,” Hermione continues. “I was born in September, so almost as soon as I started at Hogwarts, I turned twelve.”

“I was the youngest.” Rhiannon closes the album. “I was born in August, so I got in right under the wire.”

Hermione’s brow furrows. “You said you moved here a year ago.”

“Yeah. When I was twenty. Very freshly twenty, I might add.” Rhiannon would rather not explain the whole misadventure that led to her moving to England, but if Hermione asks, she will.

“Then we’re almost a year apart,” Hermione says, much to Rhiannon’s relief. She turns to another page in the photo album. “This was when Harry completed the first task in the Triwizard Tournament. Did I tell you about that?”

They go through the photo album slowly. Rhiannon makes a mental list of all the ways she would’ve improved on the pictures taken. It’s safe to say that the photographers weren’t professional. She’s not either, but it’s a hobby, so she can’t help analyzing each photograph she sees. That’s something she’s yet to tell Hermione. Actually, there are a lot of things she hasn’t told Hermione. But she will. Given the chance, she doubts that there are many secrets she’d keep to herself. Maybe that’s wishful thinking, making too much out of a few moments, but this feels comfortable. Like a friendship she was always supposed to form. She’ll proceed with caution, but unless she’s badly mistaken, Hermione is someone worthy of trust.

Chapter Text

Song Link: https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=YDVyFTf_F1c&si=bSLJZC0Nzx5H4AoM

December is a busy time of year for many people. Several holidays take place during that month, most notably Hanukkah, Christmas, and Kwanza. Rhiannon used to be a big believer in Christmas magic (the kind you get without the use of a wand, that is). These days, the holidays leave a bitter taste in her mouth.

It’s not as bad as it was last year because wounds do scab over with time, if not outright heal, but she still isn’t looking forward to today’s activities. It can’t be helped, though. Part of library work is public outreach. Tonight at six on the dot, Santa Claus (or Father Christmas, depending on who you ask) will appear in the Magical Library of London to meet the youngest witches and wizards and accept their letters about what they want for Christmas.

Since Rhiannon is the wrong gender for this role, not to mention lacking the necessary figure, she doesn’t play a major part in tonight’s festivities. Her job is to take pictures for the notice board in the children’s section. Or at least, that was the plan. She’s not sure how word got around that she’s good at charms, but it did, and so, now she’s stuck tailoring ol’ Santa’s suit because Arnold, the librarian wearing the costume, put on two stone since the last time he did the job.

It’s fine. She doesn’t mind altering the costume. It’s just that she wishes Arnold had had the presence of mind to try it on before there were only ten minutes left to go. Now she’s doing a slapdash job of fitting the costume to his body because she doesn’t have time to be more thorough.

“I’m sorry about this, Rhiannon.” Arnold’s face is nearly as red as Santa’s trousers. She wasn’t in the room when the disastrous try-on happened, but she can imagine that it was embarrassing.

“It’s really not a problem,” Rhiannon repeats for the sixth time in three minutes. “We’ve all had our fair share of wardrobe malfunctions.” She flicks her wand, and the fabric around the biceps grows wider… but now it’s too wide. Damn it.

“I don’t think the girls and boys particularly want to see Father Christmas’s pants this Christmas.” Arnold gives the trousers a doleful look. “I ripped the trousers clean down the middle when I sat down.”

“And they’re back together now,” she soothes. “No permanent harm done.” Except for her mental distress over seeing someone she works with in a state of undress.

Rhiannon has almost got the final detail fixed (the neckline needs to be widened to accommodate the shoulders) when Damien bursts into the staff room and stutters out, “R-rhiannon, someone is here to see you.”

That’s odd, but Rhiannon isn’t about to comment on it. Instead, she waves her wand, and the neckline stretches enough to be passable. “Sure. I’ll be out in a-” The words die on her lips as Hermione ducks past Damien into the staff room. Her hair is even wilder than usual, and her cheeks are pink as if she ran here instead of apparating. Either that, or she’s excited. It’s difficult to say. Not that Rhiannon is currently capable of saying much at all.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Hermione glances at Arnold, who is rapidly turning a lovely shade of puce at yet another person seeing him partially undressed. “I can come back later.”

“It’s alright. We’re just about through here.” Rhiannon manages to locate her voice. She holds out the shirt to Arnold. He takes it, muttering his thanks. Once he’s safely in the corner, redressing, she approaches Hermione. “What’s going on?”

Hermione’s fingers dance along the handle of her briefcase. “I just had to tell someone about it. You’re the only person who would really understand. Ginny would try to seem interested, but it wouldn’t mean much to her. Ron and Harry are out, and anyway, I don’t want to bother Harry with it until I’m certain.”

“Okay.” Rhiannon crosses her arms, bracing herself for whatever it is Hermione has to say. It can’t be that bad… can it? “I’m listening.”

Hermione takes a deep breath, then blurts out all in one go, “Gladstone submitted the change to the law that I suggested. The one about better monitoring of underage witches and wizards to screen them for abuse!” By the final word, she’s nearly squealing. Rhiannon can’t blame her. This is a major step forward.

“That’s wonderful!” Rhiannon’s smile is automatic, but when Hermione lets out a giddy giggle, she can feel it becoming genuine. “You’ve worked so hard on this. You should be proud.”

“It’s not a done deal yet,” Hermione insists. “I don’t want to be premature. It’ll take months if not years to make its way through the entire process to become law.”

“But it’s a good first step.” Rhiannon considers whether it’s too presumptuous for just a moment before saying it. “We need to celebrate. After I get done here, why don’t we go out and get a warm butterbeer? Or firewhisky, if that’s more your thing.”

“Butterbeer, preferably.” Hermione’s smile is still wide, making her eyes light up. “I’ll be upstairs in the biography section. The meet and greet is over at seven, isn’t it?”

“Right.” It still feels a little awkward since she hasn’t hugged many people over the past year and some change, but she reaches for Hermione. Hermione doesn’t hesitate, though. She never has. And, the same as every other time they’ve hugged, Rhiannon feels lighter somehow, like the heavy burden of her thoughts, past and present, has been lifted for a little while.

Hermione doesn’t stay for long after that. Arnold follows her out of the room, going to settle in on Santa’s throne (which just so happens to be a rocking chair). Rhiannon checks her camera one more time to make sure the flash is functional. It doesn’t hurt to take a test shot, so she tells Damien, who’s standing in the doorway, “Smile like you don’t have to talk to anyone else tonight!”

Damien smiles bashfully, but she can tell her joke landed. As she lowers the camera, he asks, “You’re friends with Hermione Granger?”

“Looks that way.” She’s not sure if she’s going to like where this conversation ends up.

“I wasn’t in the B-battle of Hogwarts,” Damien confides. “I wasn’t b-brave enough.”

“I don’t know if I would’ve been brave enough either.” She’s thought about it before, what she would’ve done had Voldemort chosen America as his target instead of Britain. She’d like to think she’d be part of the resistance, fighting the good fight. But it’s much easier to stand up to evil when it’s imaginary as opposed to when you’re looking it in the eye.

“She’s pretty,” Damien continues.

“She is.”

“And she seems nice.”

“Yes, she does.” Rhiannon is growing more uncomfortable by the second. She knows Hermione is beautiful, and she’s seen men notice her before. But if Damien is about to ask her to put in a good word for him, she’s going to say no. He can do it himself.

“You’re pretty and nice, too.” Damien glances around, as if he’s making sure they’re alone, before telling her, “The two of you are a good match for each other.”

What is she supposed to say to that? Laugh it off? Tell Damien he’s got it wrong? Nod and get on with her evening? He could’ve meant it as a comment on their friendship, but from the way he’s looking at her with sympathy, she’s almost certain he meant it precisely how it sounded. Well, she won’t lie. She’s done with denying a part of who she is for other people’s comfort. And Damien is a decent guy. He won’t make life difficult for her if she confirms that he’s on the right track.

“I don’t think she sees it that way.” She can’t just leave it at that. It’s pathetic. “I appreciate her friendship.”

Damien nods, but he doesn’t say a word. However, when she walks past him out the door, he pats her shoulder. Later tonight, she’ll examine what it means, having someone else know about her and offer support, but right now, she has several dozen little witches and wizards to photograph.

Despite tonight’s rough start, Arnold pulls off his Santa Claus act perfectly. He already had the long, white beard, so there was no need to grow one for tonight. The children place their letters in a large, red velvet sack and then sit in a chair beside Santa to whisper what they want for Christmas. Damien stays in the back the entire time. Evangeline, Karen, and Eloise hand out candy to the children. And Rhiannon photographs it all. If she were given the opportunity, she would’ve liked to have brought her own cameras, both No-maj and magical, but it’s not as if she’s doing this for fun.

Several children cry when they see Father Christmas, but most are happy. By the time the clock shows seven, the library’s supply of candy is low, and the children’s supply of smiles is high. Rhiannon walks toward the staff room to hand off the library’s camera and help Arnold get back out of his costume.

Getting undressed isn’t as arduous a task as getting dressed was. Arnold seems to have forgotten his mortification, and he bids everyone a happy Christmas on his way out the door. Damien offers to take the film to be developed, which Rhiannon is more than happy to let him do. The other librarians are settling in for a good gabbing session before heading home for the night, so there’s nothing else to do but head upstairs and find Hermione.

So many biographies of figures, both magical and Muggle, exist that an entire storey is taken up by them. Rhiannon has no idea where to even begin looking for Hermione, so she starts with the A section and makes her way through each letter. That is, until she gets to P. Then she sees her.

Hermione is holding a thick book. Her brow is furrowed, and she’s muttering under her breath. That’s unusual. Hermione takes the unspoken rule of quiet in the library seriously. When Rhiannon comes closer, she doesn’t look up, but she explains, “This biography is ninety percent horse shit.”

That’s so unexpected an exclamation that Rhiannon laughs. “Okay. Good to know. Care to tell me who the subject of this shitty biography is?”

Hermione doesn’t answer, but she holds up the book so Rhiannon can see the cover. Oh. It’s about Harry Potter.

“They make him out to be this tragic, wounded baby bird,” Hermione continues. “And, okay, sure, he’s had a tough life. He’s got more scars than the rest of us. But apart from a few times as a teenager, he didn’t walk around moaning and crying about how sad he is to be an orphan and the chosen one!” She closes the book more forcefully than necessary.

Rhiannon collects the book from her, looking it over. “It does say that this is an unauthorized biography, at least.”

“That’s something, I suppose.” Hermione pushes her sleeves up just a little. From how pink her face has grown, Rhiannon suspects she’s trying to cool off. “You know, the last time someone had the nerve to paint him in that light, I trapped her in a jar and gave her a good shake.”

Rhiannon frowns, placing the book back on the shelf. “I feel like I might’ve missed some important context clues along the way. You did what to who again?”

Two minutes later, they’re on the stairs leading down to the ground floor, and the story of Rita Skeeter, fake news journalist and illegal animagus, has been fully told. Rhiannon can only conclude one thing.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Hermione chuckles, giving a slight curtsey. “I’m a bit of a hothead from time to time.”

“No kidding.” Rhiannon pushes the door to the lobby open, letting Hermione slip past her. Not many patrons are out right now, and the lobby is completely deserted. As they step outside, she can see why. “Snow.”

“Tis the season.” Hermione removes her wand from the pocket of her coat. “Is The Leaky Cauldron alright, or did you have somewhere else in mind?”

For a second, Rhiannon can’t locate her voice. The snow isn’t that heavy, but already, several snowflakes have landed on Hermione’s hair. The streetlights are lit, illuminating her. If Rhiannon still had a camera, she’d feel compelled to capture the wild beauty in front of her. But she doesn’t, and she can’t keep staring all night, so she says, “The Leaky Cauldron is fine. I’ll see you in a minute.”

Hermione nods, and with a loud “crack,” disapparates. Rhiannon doesn’t immediately follow. She needs to sort through her thoughts first, and Merlin knows she struggles to think clearly with Hermione in the room.

She said she wouldn’t do this again. Not after Christine, and how terribly that ended. She wouldn’t fall for the straight girl. That was all well and good to tell herself, but it hasn’t saved her from the situation she’s in now. She likes Hermione. Really, truly likes her. She appreciates having her as a friend, as she told Damien. But… She sighs… There’s no point in denying it. Her feelings have gotten involved in a way they never should have. There’s nothing to be done about it, though. The only cure is to put distance between them, and she’s not willing to do that, to betray Hermione’s trust. So, she’s just going to have to live with this ache of longing and make the best of it.

Enchanting a bag to hold more than it should isn’t difficult after the first dozen or so times you do it. Hermione has performed that charm so many times over the years that she can practically do it in her sleep. Today, she chooses a tote bag that’s already large as her subject. In another ten minutes, she’s meeting Rhiannon outside of Flourish and Blotts. Together, they’ll go Christmas shopping. That’s a task that Hermione tends to dread, but she can’t dredge up any discontentment today. Many hands make light work, after all, and good company makes the mundane extraordinary.

Five of her allotted ten minutes are taken up by charming the tote bag and locating her cloak, hat, scarf, and gloves. Another three are spent in the lavatory, making sure that her hair doesn’t resemble a bird’s nest and applying a touch of color to her lips. As always, it strikes her as odd, the urge to put on makeup. The last time she went to that much trouble before seeing someone was when she was dating Ron, and she was trying to put her best foot forward. Funny that the habit would crop up again now.

Ginny is still in her Quidditch uniform when Hermione steps into the living room. She doesn’t comment on Hermione’s appearance, but she does indicate the bag before asking, “How long do you think you’ll be out?”

“I don’t know. A few hours, at least.” It’s unlike her, but this year, Hermione has been so busy that she hasn’t done her Christmas shopping. There’s only a fortnight left until the holiday, so she needs to get on with it. “Why?”

“No reason.” Ginny shrugs, seeming to become fascinated by her broom.

Trying not to laugh, Hermione says, “I’ll find somewhere to be until ten o’clock, so you and Harry can have time without anyone in the next room over, listening.”

Ginny’s eyes widen, eyebrows rising just a bit in badly feigned innocence. This time, Hermione has no luck not laughing. They’re adults. She knows that Ginny and Harry have an R-rated relationship. It’s disturbing if she thinks too hard about it, but she’s happy for them. It’s been ages since she was so desperate for someone that she’d do nearly anything to get them alone, including asking her roommate to take a hike. These days, the only reason she tries to get rid of Ginny is that Rhiannon is coming by. Admittedly, that doesn’t make much sense, but for some reason, she craves the time alone with Rhiannon. Without distractions or other people to worry about. Which reminds her, she’s got to get a move on.

Rhiannon is outside Flourish and Blotts when Hermione apparates, just as she said she’d be. Instead of her usual librarian robes, she’s wearing a pale peach-colored fuzzy jumper and jeans under an open black peacoat. Her gloves are fingerless, and her scarf is a patchwork of different yarns crocheted. A black beret is perched on top of her head, but Hermione wonders how warm that can really be since the tip of Rhiannon’s nose is pink, as are her cheeks.

“You’re about to freeze, aren’t you?” Hermione says by way of greeting as she hugs Rhiannon. She smells of vanilla, the same as usual, but there’s a hint of cloves beneath it.

“Afraid so. It doesn’t get nearly this cold in Louisiana.” Rhiannon hasn’t backed away, Hermione realizes. And neither has she. Usually, hugs don’t linger this long. It’s probably because Rhiannon didn’t want to be rude. Then she should be the one to end it.

Feeling a touch too warm, Hermione moves back. She surveys the street since, for some reason, she’s having a hard time looking at Rhiannon. Without staring, that is. “Where do you want to start?”

“Dealer’s choice,” Rhiannon says. “My shopping list is short.” She doesn’t volunteer more information, and when Hermione finally does look at her, she sees that Rhiannon’s smile is pained, the way it always is when she’s thinking about the past.

“Well, mine is long.” Hermione pulls open the door to Flourish and Blotts. “We might as well start here and work our way down the street.”

It’s a good idea except for one tiny detail. Hermione is a book lover. So is Rhiannon. That means, at least in Hermione’s case, that she gets distracted from her task and ends up jotting down titles that she’d like for herself. Rhiannon has the good grace to walk beside her, but Hermione sees that she’s tracing along the spines of the books, brow furrowed. Then she’s in much the same situation.

It takes a full hour, but eventually, they emerge from the bookstore. Hermione bought three books, and only one of them was for someone else. Rhiannon showed great restraint and bought two.

The next place they stop is the Quidditch supply store. Hermione has no idea what she’s looking for, but Ginny mentioned that she needed new gloves, so she goes to the sales clerk and asks what the best value for the money is. On their way out the door, Rhiannon confides, “I never did care much for Quidditch. I was always worried someone was going to break their neck.”

“You and me both.” Hermione places the gloves into her bag. “The only reason I watched was that Harry, and later Ron and Ginny, played.”

“Sounds like Quidditch is in the Weasley Family’s DNA,” Rhiannon observes.

“It is for the most part.” Hermione begins walking toward the owlery. Recently, Harry has come out of mourning for Hedwig and bought himself another owl, Ian. “I don’t know about Bill, the oldest, since it was before I was at Hogwarts and no one talked about it much, but Charlie, the second oldest, was a Seeker. Percy, the one after Charlie, didn’t play. Fred and George, the twins, were Beaters. Fred died in the Battle of Hogwarts. George hasn’t recovered, and I doubt he ever will all the way.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s what you’re supposed to say when you hear about the death of a friend or loved one, but something in the downward curve of Rhiannon’s lips makes Hermione believe she means it more deeply than the average person would. She hasn’t confided much about her past, but Hermione can’t help wondering… who has she lost? It’s etched on her as clearly as if she were tattooed, the pain of losing someone, either to death or to irreconcilable differences. That’s too dark a thought to consider, so Hermione suggests, “Maybe we should go into Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes next. It’s George’s shop. I always pop by to see what new products he’s come up with.”

On their way over to the joke shop, Hermione explains its history and a few of the products. Rhiannon laughs when she describes the pygmy puffs, musing that maybe her pet parrot needs a pet. By the time they let themselves into the shop, the mood is much lighter. That’s for the best, because George is working the floor, and when he sees Hermione, he immediately begins making his way over.

“Alright, Hermione?” His smiles have grown less easy since Fred’s death, but they’re still mischievous.

“Just a bit cold.” Without much thought, Hermione takes Rhiannon’s hand, urging her forward. “George, this is my friend, Rhiannon. Rhiannon, this is Ginny and Ron’s older brother, George Weasley.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” George bows just a little too deeply.

Rhiannon doesn’t seem to know what to do, so she smiles and asks, “George, I’m having a difficult time coming up with a present for one of my coworkers. He’s shy, and I don’t know him very well, but he’s been kind, and I want to remember him. Do you have any suggestions?”

George scoffs. “Do I have suggestions? Rhiannon, you are looking at the original peddler of the preposterous. If I don’t have what you’re looking for, no one does!” He indicates for Rhiannon to follow, and, still looking mildly perplexed, Rhiannon goes after him. That’s good. It’ll give Hermione a chance to sneak out of the store and go back to Flourish and Blotts. She couldn’t figure out a way to pull it off with Rhiannon close by.

Ten minutes later, Hermione is back at the joke shop, one copy of Morgan Le Fey: A Biography hidden away in her bag. Rhiannon had mentioned that a copy came in at work and she was dying to get her hands on it, but without fail, someone keeps beating her to it. It might not be the most original of ideas, giving a librarian a book for Christmas, but it’s a safe bet that she’ll like it. The good news is that Rhiannon is chatting with George, so she doesn’t seem to have noticed that Hermione popped out. She must’ve found what she wanted, because she heads over to the till. Hermione means to wait on her, but as she goes to stand next to the WonderWitch display, George comes over.

“I like your librarian, Hermione.” He’s still looking at Rhiannon, but it’s not in an inappropriate way, so Hermione doesn’t feel the need to snap him out of it. “She’s fun for a bookworm. I get why she’s your other half.”

Hermione nods, but she doesn’t say anything. She can’t put her finger on what, but something about George’s words doesn’t sit right with her. Before she can examine it, Rhiannon joins them, adding a bag from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to her handbag.

“Thanks again for your suggestion, George,” Rhiannon says, smiling. “I think the nosebleed nougats will be a hit with my coworker next time he wants to get out of a social situation.”

“Well, you know it has the WWW guarantee.” George pulls the door open for them. “If you’re not one hundred percent satisfied, too bad. I’ve already spent your Galleon.”

Rhiannon chuckles, but she looks a little concerned, so once they’re on the street, Hermione assures her, “George was joking. But the nougats do work. I can vouch for them.”

“Huh.” Rhiannon adjusts her scarf. “I never would’ve taken you for the type to try and ditch school.”

“I wasn’t, but I desperately needed to get out of a blind date Ginny set me up on a few months ago, so I was obliged to partake.” As soon as Hermione says it, a sense of wrongness settles over her. That date was another exercise in frustration, as all the others since the breakup in August have been. She just didn’t feel a spark with any of the men. Really, the last person she was excited to go out with was Rhiannon. It must be because the friendship is so new.

That’s still on Hermione’s mind as they go through the other shops on Diagon Alley. While they’re inside the apothecary, it begins to sleet. Hermione thinks about waiting around to see if there will be a break in the precipitation, but after fifteen minutes, she has to admit defeat. Unless they want to stay here all night, they’re going to have to go out into that awful wintry mix.

“What time did you tell Ginny you’d be getting back?” Rhiannon asks, removing a brass pocket watch from her coat.

“No sooner than ten.” And now she’s wishing she’d told Ginny to stow the shagging for one night. She supposes she could go back to the library, but with the bag so full…

“Would you like to hang out at my flat until then?” Rhiannon’s looking in her direction, but not quite meeting her eyes. “That is, if you’re comfortable with it. If not, I understand-”

“I’d love to.” Hermione realizes belatedly that her answer was too enthusiastic. But if Rhiannon thinks she’s strange, she isn’t showing it. Instead, she holds out her hand to Hermione, removing her wand from her pocket.

It’s never pleasant, being side-along apparated, but Hermione grew used to it when she was searching for the Horcruxes with Harry and Ron. Usually, she was the one leading them, but she was a passenger now and again. Rhiannon is much smoother than Harry was. Poor Ron struggled not to splinch his companions every time. He’s better now, but this is still more comfortable than she was expecting.

When the world goes back to a normal size, Hermione is standing in a studio flat. The room has been sectioned off by a Japanese-print room divider on one side and a rattan room divider on the other side. A jade green sofa is against the wall under a large window with blackout curtains tied back. The coffee table looks like it’s an antique that’s been stripped and re-stained. And two bookcases are against the opposite wall from the sofa.

“This is home.” Rhiannon drops her bag on the papasan chair set cattycorner between the bookcases. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to check on Aphrodite.”

Hermione removes her cloak, gloves, scarf, and hat, laying them on the sofa. She adds the bag to the chair next to Rhiannon’s. She wasn’t invited along, but she’s eager to see Aphrodite. She’s heard so much about her, after all.

Rhiannon steps around the room divider into a kitchen with an opalescent stained glass lamp sitting in the middle of a round table. A bird cage is in the corner on top of one of the cabinets, but it’s empty. Instead, a parrot with feathers of red, blue, yellow, and green is perched on the edge of the sink.

“There you are.” Rhiannon goes over to the bird and holds out her arm. “I was afraid you’d gotten caught in the yucky weather. Smart girl, staying in.”

Aphrodite squawks and hops onto Rhiannon’s arm. Her head swivels to look at Hermione.

“Aphrodite, this is my friend, Hermione,” Rhiannon says, smiling at the parrot. “Can you tell her hello?”

“Juliet is the sun!” Aphrodite announces.

“So you’ve finally learned that one, I see.” Hermione starts to reach out to stroke Aphrodite’s feathers, but then thinks better of it. “May I-”

“Of course.” Rhiannon comes closer.

Hesitantly, Hermione runs her fingers over Aphrodite’s head. “You’re a sweet girl. You remind me of my cat, Crookshanks. I had to leave him with my parents when Harry, Ron, and I went on that awful adventure. By the time it was safe to come back, he’d grown so accustomed to being with them that I didn’t have the heart to try and move him to a new place.”

“I bought Aphrodite about a month after I moved here,” Rhiannon says as Aphrodite flies off, settling on the back of a chair. “I had a little money left after paying rent, so I was going to get something practical. A tiny owl or maybe a rat. But then I went into the shop, and there she was. She wasn’t in a cage, so she flew right over to me, and I just knew.” Her smile is still there, but it’s softer somehow. “I had to eat beans and cereal exclusively for three months, but she was worth every Knut. She was my friend when I didn’t have anyone else.”

Hermione almost asks it. Why Rhiannon was so alone. But that seems far too personal. Instead, she looks around the room, gaze landing on a framed photograph of a hummingbird sipping nectar from a flower. “Did you take that picture?” She motions to it.

“Oh.” Rhiannon chuckles. “Yes, I did. Photography is my hobby. Well, that and reading.” She indicates for Hermione to follow her around the divider.

They don’t stop in the living room. Instead, they walk past the Japanese-print room divider into a room with a canopy bed, a desk with a chair, and three more bookcases. Rhiannon selects a portfolio and hands it to Hermione.

“These are my best work. I have others, but they’re mostly stashed in a box under the bed.”

Hermione looks through. The pictures are all different. Some are of people. Others are of flowers, waterfalls, or animals. And yet, they all have the same feel to them. Rhiannon’s style is to focus on the details, such as dewdrops on a flower or the irises of someone’s eyes. The pictures are light without being overexposed. Overall… “These are beautiful. How did you get into photography?”

Hermione doesn’t realize she’s said anything wrong until she looks at Rhiannon and sees that the same pained smile from earlier is on her face.

“Christine let me borrow her camera, and it sort of took off from there.” Rhiannon takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “She was my ex. Both my best friend and sort-of girlfriend. We were together from the time I was seventeen years old until the September after I turned nineteen. She made it very clear that she was just curious, but my feelings still got involved.”

Her expression grows distant, like she’s traveling back through time. “One Sunday, we were in her room when her brother walked in, mid-kiss. Christine panicked and told him it was the first time. That I’d kissed her out of nowhere, and she was so stunned, she didn’t think to push me away. Naturally, he told their parents, and Christine made it clear that she never wanted to see me again.”

She sighs. “I was nineteen and in love. I’d just lost the person I was closest to, so I went to my parents. I was still living at home, you see. When I told them what had happened, that it wasn’t a mistake and I wasn’t confused, they didn’t take the news well. My dad walked out, and my mom cried. I thought they’d come around, but the next day they confronted me. Said that if I wanted to stay with them, I’d have to go to a conversion camp. And I almost agreed. That’s the terrible part of all this.”

A tear slips down Rhiannon’s cheek, but she doesn’t seem to have noticed. “I can’t change, Hermione. This is part of who I am. I didn’t choose it. But I refuse to feel ashamed. They weren’t going to change their minds, and I’d heard my friends make enough jokes at the expense of queer people to realize that, when they heard what happened, they’d believe Christine’s version of events. So I left. Started over.” She sniffles, but a tight laugh slips past her lips. “Merlin. Here I am, crying about missing my parents a year later. I’m pathetic.”

“You’re not.” Hermione doesn’t think; she just acts, settling on the bed next to Rhiannon and brushing away a tear that’s snaking down her cheek. “You’re not pathetic or wrong or any of the other terrible things that people have said to you. You’re strong, and brilliant, and-” Beautiful. The word sticks in her throat. It’s not just that Rhiannon is pretty to look at. She’s kind and observant, considering other people when they’ve forgotten to consider themselves. It’s always sounded so silly to Hermione, saying someone is beautiful inside and out. But over the past two and a half months, she’s learned that it’s the most accurate description for Rhiannon.

Rhiannon chuckles, dabbing at her eyes. “I’m sorry. That was too much information. I promise I didn’t invite you back here so that I could cry on your shoulder.”

“It doesn’t matter if you did.” In a moment of bravery, Hermione takes Rhiannon’s hand. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.”

For the first time since Hermione picked up the portfolio, Rhiannon meets her eyes. Hermione can’t breathe, but her ears are working perfectly, so she hears it as Rhiannon murmurs, “You’ve given me every reason to trust you.”

The words are simple, but powerful. Hermione would imagine that, after the past, trust doesn’t come easily to Rhiannon. It’s a privilege to be her confidante. No, that’s not quite the right word. Neither is friend. She’ll go through her thesaurus when she gets home. It’s not important. What matters is that, as much as Rhiannon says she’s found someone to trust, Hermione has, too. In all her other friendships, she’s always felt like she was too intense, too much of a know-it-all, just too much. But this time, it’s like the pieces were always meant to interlock. It’s still early. They’ve only known each other for ten weeks. But maybe George wasn’t so far off when he called Rhiannon her other half.