Chapter 13: The Unscheduled Meeting
The Leaky Cauldron’s forgotten cousin was the kind of place where the dust had settled into a permanent haze, a soft focus blurring the edges of everything. The posters—The Clash, The Smiths, Bowie in his Ziggy Stardust phase—were yellowed and curling, their corners held by ancient, crumbled Spellotape. Hermione slid into the cracked red vinyl booth, the material letting out a sigh as it accepted her weight.Across from her, Lachlan smiled. It was an easy, open expression that crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. He was a curse-breaker for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, with sun-bleached hair and a faded denim shirt. He’d asked her out three times over the last month, each invitation casual and low-pressure. Tonight, after a week of meticulously avoiding a certain Slytherin by working late in obscure Ministry archives and taking her coffee in distant, impersonal cafes, she’d finally said yes.
“I have to admit,” Lachlan said, signalling to the elderly witch behind the bar for two more pints, “I thought my next move was going to be a singing telegram. ‘Please go out with me’ set to the tune of a Hogwarts school hymn.”
Hermione laughed, a real one that felt unfamiliar on her tongue.“That would have been a hard no.”
“See? Instincts were correct.” Their fresh Butterbeers arrived, floating gently to the table.He tapped his glass to hers. “To not needing musical bribery.”
The conversation was effortless. He told her about a recent job disentangling a hex from a talking parrot that had started reciting exclusively scandalous limericks. She described, in broad strokes, a theoretical ward-alignment problem she was stuck on, careful to omit that the flaw in her sequence had been pointed out to her in her own bed at dawn.
“Base-seven progression, you think?” Lachlan mused, wiping foam from his upper lip. “That’s clever. Nasty to calculate, though.”
A warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the Butterbeer. It was the warmth of being seen for her mind first, of a shared language that wasn’t fraught with subtext and a complicated, painful history. For two hours, she didn’t think about platinum hair or grey eyes or the silent, empty corridor outside her bedroom door.She just was. Hermione Granger, on a date, with a nice, handsome man who made her laugh.It felt like a victory. A step onto solid ground after months of quicksand.As Lachlan went to settle the tab, Hermione gathered her light jacket. The pub was a little busier now, the low hum of conversation a pleasant blanket of sound. She glanced toward the bar, and her breath hitched, sticking in her throat like a physical object.
Draco sat alone on a stool, his back mostly to her. He was still in his work clothes—dark, tailored trousers and a grey linen shirt rolled at the sleeves. One elbow rested on the sticky wood, a glass of amber firewhisky cradled loosely in his long fingers. His head was bent slightly, the overhead light glinting coldly off his hair.He looked utterly isolated. A statue of polished marble in a room of worn clay.
Her pulse thrummed a frantic, traitorous rhythm.What was he doing here?This wasn’t his kind of place. His kind of place had low lighting, imported wine, and murmured conversations over cauldron-seared scallops.
Lachlan returned, sliding his wallet into his pocket.“Ready? I was thinking we could—”
Draco chose that moment to turn.It was a slow, deliberate pivot of his shoulders. His gaze swept the room and landed on her with the force of a physical impact. His eyes, from across the smoky space, were not warm quartz.They were flint. Cold, hard, and utterly unreadable.He didn’t smile.He didn’t nod. He simply looked at her, his expression blank and closed, and then his eyes flickered to Lachlan, standing beside her, holding her jacket. A microscopic, almost imperceptible scan—from Lachlan’s sun-bleached hair to his scuffed boots—before returning to her face.
Then he turned back to his drink.Dismissed.
Her stomach dropped, a freefall sensation that left her dizzy. The cozy warmth of the evening evaporated, replaced by a chill that started in her bones.She felt inexplicably caught.Exposed.
“You okay?” Lachlan asked, his voice laced with concern.“Fine,” she said, too quickly.She forced a smile. “Just… thought I saw someone I knew. It wasn’t them.”
The walk to the apparition point was a blur. Lachlan was charming, talking about a new bakery in Diagon Alley, but her responses were automatic, hollow. All she could see was that flat, dispassionate stare.It was worse than anger.It was nothingness.
At the corner, Lachlan leaned in, his intent clear.Panic, sharp and sudden, lanced through her. She turned her head at the last second, his lips brushing her cheek.
“I had a really lovely time, Lachlan,” she said, her voice impressively steady.“Thank you. I’m… I’m a bit tired. Raincheck on that coffee?”
Disappointment flickered in his eyes, but he was gracious.“Of course. I’ll owl you.”
She disapparated with a sharp crack, landing in the silent, sleeping townhouse.The darkness felt heavy. She climbed the stairs, her hand skimming the banister. As she passed Draco’s closed door, she paused.No light spilled from the crack beneath it.He wasn’t back.
She changed for bed, the mundane ritual failing to calm her racing thoughts.The cool sheets were a relief. She stared at the ceiling, replaying that moment at the bar. The casual way he’d looked through her.It shouldn’t matter.They had no claims.No promises. Only a pattern of nights she had let become a routine.The quiet click of the front door opening echoed up the stairs. She held her breath.Footsteps, measured and light, on the treads. They passed her door without hesitation.A few seconds later, the soft snick of his door closing.
Silence reclaimed the hallway.In the dark, Hermione understood the new, terrible truth. His indifference tonight had cut deeper than any of his sharp, clever words ever had. It wasn't the sight of him that had unmoored her. It was the sight of him seeing her, and seeing nothing at all.