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“Where’s the harm in one date?”
Hermione turns to face her boss, eyeing the older woman warily. “You’re incorrigible. We’ve been over this.”
Maeve simply grins.
A sigh slips through chapstick-covered lips as Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose.
This job was really only ever meant to be about rent money.
She’d happened upon it accidentally, mindlessly stepping inside a cluttered bookstore on her lunch break, in search of additional reading her thesis advisor recommended. But Flourish and Blotts left her captivated, with shelves stretching from floor to ceiling so stuffed full of books that Hermione just stood there ogling them, jaw agape and eyes wide. The books defied every law of physics she’d ever known, as if the sheer magic of the shop itself was simply determined to hold them in place. It wasn’t until Hermione turned to leave, whispering her awed thanks to the sweet woman behind the counter and granting the store one last parting glance, that she spotted it. A job posting tucked away in the window, explaining that the owners were looking for an additional set of hands to assist them.
Hermione applied on the spot.
Neither Ms Flourish—Maeve, the Irish woman who rang her up introduced herself as—or Ms Blotts—call me Aggie please dearie, she told Hermione in her soft, southern English accent with a firm pat to the hand—were bothered by the fact that she was a student. They didn’t begrudge her the ratty notebook shoved beneath the register or the stack of program materials she kept tucked beside her chair. Without saying as much, they seemed to understand and appreciate that Hermione’s Master’s of English Literature program appeared to be designed for the sole purpose of destroying her will to live. And her bank account.
She couldn’t help but fall in love with them. They took her under their wing, constantly shoving homemade meals in her hands on her way out the door or insisting she just pop up for a quick cuppa—which almost always turned into an entire meal, complete with fresh-baked dessert, as if they already knew she was going to say yes—before she walked home. It was endearing, the way they welcomed her into their home so freely. Maeve and Aggie traded Hermione story for story; how Aggie met Maeve met in exchange for tales of the last five years Hermione spent in Glasgow, the early days of Flourish and Blotts in turn for Hermione’s stint at a boarding school in the Scottish highlands, reminiscence of family and friends long gone for anecdotes of the parents Hermione had lost in a house fire when she was just sixteen.
And so of course, despite the fact that the job was only meant to be a means of making sure Hermione meets her monthly rent payments on time, it becomes so much more. Which, of course, comes with its own set of complications.
Namely, the fact that Maeve—despite all of her wonderful qualities—is bloody nosy.
“Christ, leave the poor girl alone,” Aggie chides from the backroom.
Maeve stomps her foot. “I will do no such thing.”
Hermione has to bite her lip to keep from smiling.
“I know it in my very bones that you and my grandson,” Maeve turns to Hermione, waving a finger in her face, “would be perfect together.”
Hermione hums. “How unfortunate for him that I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”
Aggie comes around the corner, snickering with a cardboard box tucked under her arm, and Maeve frowns at her.
“She’s never going to say yes if you keep bothering her,” Aggie warns.
“Well,” Maeve retorts, “I’d stop bothering her if she just said yes.”
Hermione tilts her head back and laughs.
“Bloody menace,” Aggie murmurs, but there’s no real heat in it.
Maeve steps closer to her wife, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Never said I wasn’t.” She turns back to face Hermione and levels her with a pointed look. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong, though.”
Hermione waves a lazy hand. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.”
The afternoon falls into an easy rhythm, Hermione and Aggie pulling stock from the backroom as Maeve mindlessly reorganises the display cases to suit her liking. An old seventies rock station croons through the wireless, swirling around the store, and Hermione sings along quietly, using her hand as a microphone when no one’s looking. The unpacking moves quickly between the three of them and with an unsurprising lack of customers for a Thursday, Hermione tugs her schoolwork from her bag. She has a swiftly approaching deadline for nearly two hundred pages of procrastinated reading for her Female Writers of the Twenty-First Century course, and gratitude washes over her once more for Maeve and Aggie’s willingness to let her study on the clock.
“Right, then.” Aggie comes to a stop before her, smiling fondly. “We’d better be off, poppet.”
Hermione blinks slowly, looking from her book to her watch. Christ, it’s almost three. She stretches her neck from side to side and breathes an involuntary sigh of relief when it pops.
“You sure we can’t convince you to come along?” Maeve asks once more and Aggie elbows her, exasperated.
Hermione huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Not a chance. Go on,” she urges. “Have fun with your grandson.”
Before Maeve can make a smart remark—one Hermione can practically hear rattling around in her head—Aggie claps a hand over her wife’s mouth. Maeve wiggles her brows in lieu of speaking and Aggie sighs.
“I haven’t the foggiest why you continue to put up with us.”
“The shop discount,” Hermione replies without missing a beat.
Aggie snorts. “I should offer you an extra fifteen percent just for dealing with this one.” She moves towards the door, tugging Maeve along. “Have a good night, love. Don’t forget to lock up when you leave.”
“I never do,” she replies cheekily, not missing the muffled laughter that escapes Maeve at her retort.
The bell above the door jingles loudly as the pair exits, a burst of chilly air filtering through the entrance in their wake, and Hermione draws her cardigan closer around her. She pulls her stool up to the counter, reaching for the volume dial on the radio on a shelf below her and turning up the music. A familiar song unspools through the speakers and Hermione opens her book once more, settling in for the rest of her shift.
It passes in the blink of an eye.
She’s still bent over her copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem and thoroughly engrossed in the words of Joan Didion when the light grows dim, sun sinking into oblivion over the hazy Scottish horizon as twilight breaks around her.
And if Flourish and Blotts closes half an hour late, there’s nobody around to notice.
Hermione traces the rim of her tumbler mindlessly, eyes unfocused as she watches the condensation drip down the curved glass. Hog’s Head is crowded—a local favourite on Thursday nights—and the sound lulls her into a sedated state, eyes half-lidded and heavy. Her elbow finds the counter, her cheek the palm of her hand, and she lets the exhaustion of her day wash over her.
A loud laugh startles her out of her reverie and Hermione squints down the bar, watching the boisterous group of men warily. A quick examination proves them harmless and her gaze wanders again, carelessly drifting over those who occupy the seats around her. A curly head of hair bent over a glass of dark liquid catches her eye and she tilts her head, watching him absently. He’s cute—thick, chestnut curls and long lashes she can spot even from several seats away and the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. There’s something almost familiar about him, something she can’t quite put her finger on, but she dismisses it as a side-effect of the Old Fashioned she’s already finished.
Hermione turns back to her drink, fingers tapping out a tattoo on the tacky surface of the bar. Ginny is nearly—she checks her watch and sighs heavily—twenty minutes late. She leans forward, pressing her forehead to the backs of her hands where they rest on the counter. Maybe if she just closes her eyes for a minute then Ginny can wake her when she—
“Ahem.”
The sound of a throat clearing startles her and she glances around with a wide and wary gaze.
Standing next to her, with dimples sinking into his cheeks and humour in his blue eyes, is the man from down the bar. Hermione blinks once, then twice, before tilting her head in confusion.
“Hi.”
He grins. “Hullo.”
Oh.
Oh.
Hermione’s stomach flips. He’s fucking Irish.
“Hi,” she replies dumbly and he dips his head back, a melodic laugh tumbling from his lips.
“I think we covered that already.”
The tips of her ears grow hot, cheeks pinking, and Hermione tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. “So we did.”
His smile broadens. “I’m Theo.”
“Hermione.”
“Thought so,” he replies and her brow furrows as she looks up at him. “I’m here with a message actually, like a bloody owl—”
“An owl?” Hermione interrupts. “Owls don’t carry mail.”
Theo waves a hand. “But they could.”
“They could not,” she scoffs. “You’re thinking of carrier pigeons.”
“No,” he shakes his head emphatically, “I’m thinking of owls.”
Hermione makes a frustrated noise. “Except owls don’t carry mail.”
“Not yet.”
She blinks, bewildered. “I— is that a threat? Do you have some sort of plan to breed genetically engineered owls for the sole purpose of delivering mail?”
“If that were the case—which I can neither confirm nor deny—then it’s certainly not something I would divulge to a complete stranger in a bar.” Theo winks and her palms grow clammy. “What kind of business strategy would that be?”
“Probably about as effective as attempting to train an owl to deliver letters when you’ve got a perfectly good parcel delivery system in place,” she quips.
He laughs loudly. “Well, for tonight, I’m the postman and I’m entirely at your service.”
“At my service? I don’t recall asking for your assistance.”
“That’s because you didn’t,” he smirks with a shrug, taking a lazy sip of his drink. “I received my assignment from a third party.”
Hermione shakes her head as she studies him with a searching look. “Are you— do I need to call Aberforth over here?”
Theo snorts. “Please don’t. He hates me.”
“Because you enjoy bothering women in his bar?”
“Am I really bothering you?” he asks, amused.
She pretends to think for a moment. “You’re not not bothering me.”
“Probably because I don’t bother women—I’m a perfectly respectable gentleman, thank you very much.”
Hermione raises a brow. He ignores it.
“Aberforth is a long story, though. It involves a goat. And lots of vodka.” Theo pauses, leaning closer. “Probably better told over a drink.”
Hermione grins despite herself. “I thought you had a message for me, mister postman.”
“Ah, yes.” He clears his throat. “It’s from your roommate—”
“My roommate? Why didn’t she just text me?” she interrupts him, voice laced with suspicion.
Theo shrugs. “Said her phone died.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. Of course it did. Ginny is many things—a brilliant best friend, a kick-arse football player, a lovely roommate—but Christ, she can’t keep a phone charged to save her life.
“Well, what’s the message?”
Theo’s cerulean gaze grows mischievous. “Ginevra asked me to inform you that—and I quote—you took too bloody long at work and she’s not getting any younger.” The dimples press further into his cheeks. “And then she went home with one of my mates.”
She sighs, the rush of air disrupting her bangs. “You know she’d kill you if she heard you call her that.”
Theo snickers.
Hermione pauses, her eyes narrowing. “But how do I know you’re telling the truth? For all I know, you’ve got Ginny unconscious in the back alley and a knife in your coat, just waiting for the perfect moment to shank me—”
“To shank you?”
“—or worse. Maybe this bloke you mentioned—”
“Blaise.”
“—maybe Blaise has her all tied up and he’s holding her hostage until you,” Hermione gestures vaguely, “convince me of whatever it is that you’re trying to convince me of.”
“If anyone’s tied up, it’s Blaise,” Theo offers, barely concealed glee in his tone. “And it’s most certainly not against his will, the kinky bastard.”
Hermione chokes.
“You know,” he continues, ignoring her spluttering. “Ginny mentioned something about you being a little paranoid, but I really thought she was joking.”
“One can never be too careful,” Hermione replies primly. “I’ll have you know there are plenty of horrible people out there.”
Theo hums. “Oh trust me, I heard the full story.”
Hermione blanches. “All of it?”
“You mean the story of how you took a self-defence class with a retired cop missing an eye and a leg when you were in grade 5 and he scared you shitless?” Theo snickers. “Yeah. I heard all of it.”
“Oh my god,” she groans miserably. “I’m going to kill Ginny.”
“Was the man’s name really Mad-Eye?” he asks incredulously and Hermione nods, lips pressed together in a firm line. “Fucking hell.”
Hermione scowls. “It was educational.”
“I’m sure,” Theo nods, his voice strangled with mirth. “My evening certainly was. But, just to put your pretty little mind at ease, Ginny told me your safe word—”
“It’s not a bloody safe word, it’s—”
“—is Crookshanks.”
She buries her head in her hands with a groan. “And now I’m going to have to make a new one,” Hermione grumbles, the words muffled by her palms.
“Don’t trust me to keep your secret?”
Hermione looks up at Theo sideways, tipping her head to scrutinise his lazy grin. “I don’t trust anyone who thinks owls provide a reliable mail service.”
He bursts into laughter.
Warmth blooms in her chest at the sound. “But thank you for passing along her message,” she says sincerely. “I would’ve sat here for at least another half an hour if you hadn’t said something.”
“Just fulfilling my sworn oath,” Theo replies cheekily.
Hermione cuts him a look. “I didn’t realise they swore in owl breeders nowadays.”
His smile widens and he opens his mouth to reply, but the moment is interrupted by a shout from across the bar. One of Theo’s friends, a pretty blonde woman wrapped in a green overcoat, beckons from the doorway.
“I didn’t mean to keep you from your friends,” Hermione blurts out as her stomach sinks at the sight.
Theo shakes his head, the apples of his cheeks tinting pink. “I’m happy to be right here.”
“Then… would you like to sit?” Her voice wavers ever so slightly as she gestures to the barstool but thankfully Theo doesn’t comment on it.
Instead he settles in by her side, elbows and knees nearly touching hers as they twist to face one another, and she finds herself unable to stop staring. Hermione drinks in the details she’s been too distracted to properly notice until now: the beauty mark above his lip, the faint scar that bisects his eyebrow, the smattering of freckles stretching across the bridge of his nose.
She wants to count them, mapping the delicate lines of his features until she has every facet of him memorised; the beautiful chestnut-haired boy with a ridiculous sense of humour and a laugh she’d like to hear for the rest of her life, immortalised in her memories.
Theo raises a hand, ordering a drink from the bartender—decidedly not Aberforth, much to her amusement—before turning to look at her, a serious expression on his face. “I just have one question.”
“Okay,” she exhales softly, mind racing with the possibilities.
Theo smiles and her chest aches with the beauty of it. “What’s a Crookshanks?”
Hermione presses her forehead to the cool surface of the wooden counter, eyes falling shut as a headache blooms behind her eyes.
But the hangover she suffers is well worth every second that she spent with Theo. They talked into the wee hours of the night, so far past last call that Aberforth had to kick them out, shooting a disparaging glare at Theo’s retreating back as they shuffled out the door, snickering with their heads bent together like a pair of scolded teenagers. And then they lingered there on the sidewalk, iridescent in the moonlight as they avoided their inevitable parting for far longer than Hermione wanted to acknowledge.
It catches her off guard, this intense pull to be around him. But Theo’s—Christ, he’s really kind of wonderful. Studying philosophy with the intention of getting his Master’s and going into teaching, he lives in Edinburgh—only in Glasgow for the weekend to visit some family. He’s an only child, raised by a single mum and—from what Hermione can tell of the brief, but very fond, mentions of them—some rather incredible grandparents. Theo enamours her. The musical lilt of his Irish accent as he tells her about his life. The way he talks with his hands, gesturing so emphatically it brings tears of laughter to her eyes. His unwavering gaze locked on hers, so blue Hermione suspects she might drown in it. Her overwhelming affection for him is unanticipated and inexplicable and Hermione wants to kiss and kill Ginny in equal measure for injecting him into her life.
Because she means what she said to Maeve. She isn’t looking for a boyfriend.
For a variety of reasons. Completing her Master’s is exhausting, the final leg of her program excruciating in its intensity. She’s considering leaving Glasgow once she’s done with school, unsure of where she would go but toying with the idea of a change, even though she hates the idea of leaving behind the friends—and family—she’s found here. And despite what Maeve and Aggie seem to think, she’s really not that much of a catch. Hermione has baggage. Loads of it. Heaping, towering piles that could fill the undercarriage of a commercial jet.
But.
But.
She can’t stop thinking about him. Recollections of Theo’s dimpled cheeks, creased by a crooked grin, flit across her mind with startling frequency. She wants to run her hands through his thick, curly hair and ask him about his favourite books and kiss the furrow away that appears between his brows when he’s distracted by whatever wandering path his mind takes him on.
The bell above the door jingles, jostling Hermione out of her thoughts, but she doesn’t rush over. Customers are funny about Flourish and Blotts, many wanting to find their way through the labyrinth of shelves all on their own. She doesn’t think anything of it when no one calls out, simply returning to the stocklist she’s been updating and quietly humming along to the radio.
Hermione doesn’t know how much time passes while she works. It’s not until a lanky figure approaches the till out of the corner of her eye that she glances over, catching sight of curly brown hair and dimpled cheeks, and all the air leaves her lungs in a rush.
“Theo,” she whispers, spine straightening as a smile stretches across her features.
It’s as if he has materialised out of thin air, the contents of her thoughts bringing him here, to her.
His answering grin is breathtaking. “Hermione.”
“What are you doing here?” she questions, disbelief written across her features.
“I’m looking for a book,” he drawls, leaning against the counter. “Heard about it from this girl last night.”
Hermione hums, reaching up to tuck an errant curl behind her ear, blush snaking up the back of her neck. “Oh, really? What could she have possibly recommended to convince you to go out in search of a bookstore on your weekend with your family?”
Theo barks out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Well, you see, she blinked up at me with these big, brown doe eyes and told me it was her favourite book. It was very convincing.”
A wave of red-hot colour floods across her face. Theo’s grin deepens.
“Yeah, she did a lot of that too,” he says softly, placing a copy of The Last Unicorn on the counter.
She traces the cover with a reverent finger. “She made a good choice.”
“I thought so,” he replies quietly, but she can feel his eyes on her the whole time.
Hermione clears her throat. “Is this all?”
“No, actually,” Theo coughs, setting another book beside the first. “I picked up a gift for my mum while I’m here.”
Hermione can’t help the grimace that crosses her face at the sight of the distinct black and white cover.
He snorts. “I take it you’re familiar?”
“You aren’t?”
Shaking his head, Theo picks the book up and turns it over to read the summary. “No, I’ve just seen the author’s name on her shelf before and thought she’d like it.”
“Do you hate her?” Hermione asks bluntly.
Theo blinks. “My mum? Not particularly.”
“Then do not,” she grabs the book from his hands, placing it firmly to the side before flicking the spine with a thinly veiled look of disgust, “ever give her this book.”
“What the hell did it ever do to you?” he snickers, reaching for it.
She smacks his hand away. “Don’t.”
“Does it bite?” Theo chortles.
“I actually might prefer it if it did,” Hermione hisses.
“Atonement,” he reads, twisting his neck to read the harsh block letters along the spine. “It’s really that bad?”
“Yes,” she says decisively. “It really is.”
“All right, I’ll take your word for it then.” Theo raises his hand in supplication, tone thick with amusement. “You’re the expert, after all.”
“I think more people would do well to remember that,” Hermione replies airly and he chuckles.
“Oh!” Maeve coos from the top of the stairs, interrupting them. “You two have already met!”
Hermione’s brow furrows and she glances at Theo, only to find her own confusion reflected in his features. “What?”
“Aggie,” she calls over her shoulder. “Get your arse down here. You owe me a tenner.”
Theo takes a half step forward towards the stairs. “Christ, gr—”
“Hermione, allow me to introduce my grandson,” Maeve announces proudly, cutting Theo off.
Hermione’s eyes grow wide. “This is your grandson?”
“Theo,” she gestures widely, “meet Hermione.”
He nods impatiently. “I know, grandma. I actually met her yesterday.”
Maeve grins and Hermione knows her well enough to recognize it for what it is—a dangerous expression. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, a leanbh. I think you might know her better as Miss Granger.”
Theo chokes. “She’s Granger?”
“I can’t believe she was right,” Aggie wheezes, coming down the stairs to stand beside a beaming Maeve. “Oh, the look on your faces right now.”
“Well I can’t believe you never even mentioned his bloody name!” Hermione exclaims, gesturing wildly.
“That was on purpose,” Maeve chirps.
“You’d have just looked him up,” Aggie cuts in, wrapping an arm around her wife. “Both of you would have. Just a few taps on those phones of yours and then the whole blind part of the date would be ruined.”
“I—” Hermione cuts herself off, narrowing her eyes. “Is that why you wouldn’t accept my Facebook request?” Maeve tilts her head back, cackling, and Hermione groans. “Oh, you sneaky witch.”
“Someone had to be since you were so adamant that you didn’t want to go on a date,” Maeve rebuts with a hint of petulance.
Hermione glances over at Theo, amber meeting sheepish indigo. But he just smiles.
“Does this mean you won’t let me take you to dinner?”
“I’m really not looking for a boyfriend,” Hermione blurts, the words spilling out of her with an unintentional sort of honesty before she sinks her teeth into the soft skin of her bottom lip, promptly shutting up.
Theo hums. “That’s awfully presumptuous of you.”
She gapes at him. “Wh—”
“I didn’t say anything about wanting to be your boyfriend,” he adds as if she never spoke, the corners of his lips twitching. “But if you’re asking—”
“I wasn’t,” Hermione interrupts, face flushed.
Theo shakes his head. “I don’t think I believe you.”
“There seems to be a habit of that here,” she grumbles, glancing at her bosses.
“Maybe,” he muses. “But I still think you jumped to that conclusion awfully fast.”
“Because it’s the logical conclusion.”
“And, I mean, if that were the case—”
“Which it’s not.”
“—right, of course. Which it’s not. But if it were—”
Hermione groans.
“—I’d have to insist you at least buy me dinner first.”
She presses her lips together to keep herself from smiling. “You really are her grandson, aren’t you?”
Theo beams. “The one and only.”
“Fine,” Hermione sighs heavily, feigning exasperation in place of the fondness that’s crept up her spine, slotting between her vertebrae. “One date.”
The expression on his face melts into something more sincere, something genuine, and her heart clenches. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she grins, “but you’re paying.”
The way his laughter rings around the shop, resonating in her chest, leaves her feeling distinctly off-kilter, but Hermione doesn’t question it. Doesn’t think about the excess of reasons she should say no, doesn’t think about the fact that she could lose the only family she’s really come to know if something should go wrong, doesn’t think about the fact that he lives in another city entirely.
Instead, she remembers the way his cheeks flushed after a shot of whisky and the look in his eyes when she told an unnecessarily long and ridiculously convoluted story and the fact that he’d gone out in search of her favourite book just to buy it for himself. Instead Hermione thinks of every little bit of Theo Nott that she’s gotten to know in the last twenty-four hours and how utterly enamoured she is by him already and how badly she wants to know more—wants to know everything.
Hermione feels an unfamiliar twinge of hope unfurl beneath her sternum and it takes her breath away. It’s just one dinner, she tells herself. And if it goes well, then—
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Theo offers, holding her gaze with unwavering certainty as Hermione sinks into an endless sea of sapphire.
Well. Then Edinburgh isn’t really all that far away, now is it?