16SUMMARY: AU. One evening, Hermione meets a man in a deserted London apartment building. He leaves her speechless, but she never learnt his name. She must look for him... or lose him forever. CDHG.
Futhermore, Isobel is completely my character. I made her up, she is not canon. In this, GoF never happened, and Hermione didn't know of Cedric at Hogwarts.
Editors – No Sound But The Wind
We can never go home.
We no longer have one.
I'll help you carry the load;
I'll carry you in my arms.
The kiss of the snow,
The crescent moon above us;
Our blood is cold
And we're alone…
But I'm alone with you.
NO SOUND BUT THE WIND
December 17th, 1998
Hermione is 19 years old, Cedric is 21 years old.
Snow fell on her scarf, softening the dark crimson. She huffed, digging her hands deeper into her coat pockets, tucking her chin in and shuffling her feet faster toward the warmth that awaited her. Her hair fell in wild tendrils around her face, and she blew it away. The cold stung her cheeks, almost like a slap, but she went on.
The night was dark, but she felt no sense of danger. After the past few years, she had been surprised at her easy lapse back into normality. Her friends weren't so lucky, however, and she had to deal with their extensive safety precautions when in their presence. The thought of them brought a small smile to her face. She had left them in the bar, slightly drunk, but happy. They deserved that, at least.
She supposed that she ought to be worried for herself. The city was almost deserted, something she thought she'd never see. London was normally quite busy – no doubt there was always someone around doing something extraordinary. But she had to shake herself; it wasn't those times anymore. In fact, she was sure the empty streets were indicative of the tentative relief that had settled over England as a whole.
Muggle London, that's where she was. She should be more scared, but couldn't quite muster the feeling. Her coat wrapped around her like a glove, and her body thrummed with each hasty step she took on the wet, icy path. The trees almost looked dead, but it was not an ominous sight. The snow layered on the branches served to give life to them, brightening their being and making the dark silhouettes come alive in the moonlight. She looked up at the sky, its navy blue almost black thickness not at all suffocating. She breathed deeply, the air racing through her lungs and out again in an exhale. A snowflake landed on her cheek, but she ignored it. She felt safe, something she had missed since she had turned eleven.
Sighing contentedly, she turned onto a street with softer light, light that flickered and reminded her of the home she had had for the last eight years. Having only just left, she already felt detached, separate – no longer a part of the rules, the friends, and the world. Her heart slowly clenched at the thought, but she did not want to acknowledge it. As she turned left down her front path, she pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind. They were only to come out at times like tonight – times with the friends who would understand.
Home leered at her as she turned the key. Her hands felt cold, fingertips numb and clumsy. The lighting in the lobby was much too bright, something she squinted against and cursed at the same time. Her boots, softly hitting the floor, resonated throughout the vacant room. Anna's head of dark red hair cascaded over the reception desk, a familiar sight. She smiled slightly to herself, and went to the lifts. Her apartment building, sophisticated and very expensive, had no stairs. It had been the first thing she'd looked for when she was searching. She felt she'd done her fair share of climbing stairs in her lifetime.
Residing in a Muggle apartment complex had its advantages. Even though she was a witch, she'd always thought of herself, first and foremost, as a Muggle. She supposed it was the familiarity of all the electronic appliances, and the automobiles. She was lying to herself, she knew. Muggle life was simple and uncomplicated. Something being a witch was not - especially a witch with her history. She could escape when she was home. On a night like this, after seeing those who remained in that world, she realised how much she had isolated herself from her old life.
It was cold in the lobby as she waited.
After waiting for exactly twelve minutes according to her watch, she concluded that the lifts weren't working. It wasn't too much of a problem; she wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere. Leaning her back against the wall was fairly comfortable despite its practicality – or really, lack thereof. She heard a key turning in the entrance door and perked up. It must be another tenant.
Strangely, she'd never thought much of the others sharing the building with her. She had never cared to know them, and supposed they didn't care to know her either. It hadn't bothered her at all since she'd moved in – she had just presumed that's how things were around here. Don't bother me, I won't bother you. It was exactly what she'd needed, and she had been extremely thankful. It wasn't often that you encountered a nineteen year old female, alone and with little possessions, moving into a rather expensive and extravagant apartment of upper-class London. Maybe they had asked questions, but she had never cared to hear them.
A man walked in, looking quite ordinary and quite wind-swept. A Muggle, then.
She turned back to the lifts, hoping that they would miraculously work and she would be rid of the responsibility to make idle conversation with a Muggle who knew nothing about her, not even her name. Counting the seconds since he had last heard any sounds from the man, she jumped when his voice seemed only feet away from her.
"Hello."
And that was all he said. He stood, next to her, staring at the arrows that should light up above the lifts. She looked to him then. She had never seen him before, and suddenly wondered why. She had been wrong with her first impression. He was not ordinary. He was certainly no David, but he was definitely something. His cheeks were flushed a light pink, and his wide face held a pair of grey eyes. They seemed to burn in the light of the lobby, and she looked away from them. His hair, blondish-brown, was thick and wavy. Its disheveled style seemed unintentional, and she wished that her hair could look so effortless. His attire was plain at first sight, but upon closer scrutiny she could see knick-knacks that made it so utterly him. She did not know his name, his occupation – everything about him was unknown – but she knew his outfit was something so very personal.
"They aren't working." she said. She heard the weakness in her own voice and struggled for a reason why. He was a Muggle. She wanted loneliness. She needed to forget him. But there was something so unique that she felt the urge to ask, to question, to inquire.
No.
She would not go back to that person. The past years of her life had shaped her into someone she had always imagined she would be. She was strong, ambitious, stubborn and brave. She had fought long and hard for the freedom she now had, and for the life she was going to live. If this man thought he could ruin what she had so carefully built for herself, then he was sorely mistaken.
His silence unnerved her.
"I believe my sister has your scarf." he said, still looking intently at the lifts in front of them. She frowned, staring at the soft navy blue carpet below her encased feet. Its authenticity was not lost on her, and she wondered why she had never noticed its ancient attractiveness earlier.
He held in his rough, long-fingered hand a briefcase. Something Muggles used endlessly, and something she was very familiar with herself. She had taken to using them, and knew how they were both a blessing and a curse. The way they could hold so much work, and yet – she did not want that work. She wanted it done, never to be seen again. It would then appear in her briefcase, and she would open it on a Friday night, furious and weary. In her apartment, surrounded by comfortable blankets sent by her mother, she would scribble down policy after policy, proposal after proposal.
She hummed in the back of her throat, something that had intended to be a sound of acknowledgement but came out as a rather frustrated garble. She saw him raise his eyebrow, moving his face to her for the first time. She looked away, and fiddled with the ends of her scarf. She would burn it in her fireplace, one of the few magical things in her apartment. Keeping it would only enforce the thoughts running through her mind at the present time.
An envelope seemed to slip from the coat that seemed to hang from his broad shoulders, dropping to the ground silently. He did not seem to notice, and she did not bother to notify him. Maybe then she would find out what he wanted. He was a Muggle – Muggles did not just stand there and stare at a pair of lifts.
She supposed she should not be thinking like that. For all intents and purposes, she was a Muggle. One that was surely thought of as eccentric, but one nonetheless. She did not just stand there and stare at a pair at lifts.
"What is your name?" she asked him, shifting her feet and rubbing her hands together. She sniffed unattractively, and thought she saw a smile quirk his thin lips. Crossing her arms across her chest, she waited for his answer. A few minutes later, and no reply, she gave up. This man was not interested in even polite small talk; something to pass the time until the lifts started working. She could have easily gone outside to a secluded alley and apparated into her apartment. But no, she was a Muggle, and Muggles didn't do those things. Instead, Muggles stayed in lobbies and talked to handsome strangers. The nerve of him.
"What is yours?" he asked. She huffed.
The lift doors opened, the light dinging to life. He strode forward confidently, and she quickly crouched to snatch the envelope. She would return it to him later.
Shoving it into the inside of her coat, she hobbled in behind him, and they stood side by side once more as the doors closed. She pressed the button for the fifth floor, and waited for him to press one. He did not, and the lift started moving. The lift music was infuriating, and she almost commented on it twice before stopping herself quickly both times. It would do no good to encourage this man.
They both walked out of the lift, and her stomach dropped in disappointment. She had hoped he would stay, the doors closing him in as she watched his expressionless face for the last time. She should remember not to hope next time.
He walked beside her, his left arm brushing her right as they did. She clenched her fists by her sides, and willed herself for control. She had practiced it endlessly with her two best friends; this unknown was not going to make her crumble now.
She stopped in front of her door, and she rummaged through her many pockets for her keys. He was waiting, standing in front of the door to the right of her own. She tried to ignore his stare, and finally found her keys. Inserting the right one into the lock, she twisted and click. She was home.
She turned her head to him, and he was opening the door on her right. Her mouth parted in surprise, and he grinned a boyish grin at her. Nodding his head, he opened his door.
"Goodnight, Hermione Granger."
There was no sound but the wind from his slammed door as Hermione stood in the corridor, staring at the man's own apartment door. Right next to hers.
June 2nd, 1999.
Hermione is 19 years old.
As much as Hermione willed herself to stop it, she could not. Catching him was becoming both a want and a need, now. An obsession. She would leave for work at different times each morning, sometimes in the afternoon, in the hopes that she would run into him on his own way to the office. She would arrive early, late and sometimes on time – but to no avail. Sometimes she wouldn't go to work at all, and yet he did not emerge. It was like he didn't even live there – like that one night in December had been a dream. Or that he had simply stayed the night at a friend's apartment.
She really needed to stop.
Computers were handy things. She was glad that growing up in a Muggle household meant that she knew how to work them, at least to the extent of browsing the internet. In her desperation, she had gone and bought one from an electronics store. The assistant hadn't even bothered explaining all of the models to her – he had seen her richly coloured, cleanly pressed clothes and presented her with one of the most expensive ones. Hermione hadn't cared. She bought it, and carried it home rather expertly. It was a sleek laptop, silver and very attractive. She had called someone for the internet, and the next day they had arrived, done their thing, and left. She was connected.
A whole new world was presented to her, but she chose to ignore it for the sake of her search. She had shamelessly applied to several dating sites, in the hopes that when typing in his description, his name and number would appear and she would have her answers. She was not going to call him, or contact him. She just needed to know his name. Hermione needed to know who could stump her so badly.
Her brilliant idea turned out to be not-so-brilliant, and she hadn't touched the computer since.
Just a name. That's all she wanted.
March 11th, 2001.
Hermione is 21 years old, Isobel is 20 years old.
She marched into the bookstore, brushing pollen from her hair and pulling her cream shirt down over her washed jeans. Her skin, a light olive colour, made her shirt look stark against her. She had thrown it on in her haste, and only now took the time to inspect it properly. It had been a present, received in the mail anonymously. After performing all sorts of charms on it, she had concluded it was harmless. She had never thought she would wear it, but here she was – wearing it. The thought almost made her shiver, but she held back the feeling. She was sure who had given it to her, but the lack of a name still nagged at her.
Perusing the bookshelves for nothing in particular, she mused. It was better to forget the incident. It hadn't scared her that he knew her name. She was a war heroine, after all. She was best friend of Harry Potter and her name almost preceded his in fame. Her work, something she had been dedicated to at first, had earned her prizes and commendations. She had adored it to begin with, but it soon grew tiresome. Her mind was giving her a name, giving her respect – the perfect future. It was just lacking something.
The books were all Muggle, and she willed herself to be interested. After the world she had come from, the tales and stories told by ordinary authors paled in comparison. She missed the feeling of being so lost in a book that she would stay up for hours in front of the fire, turning page after page. Books, although lovely, were no longer her excitement. She did not know what was.
A hand touched hers. She saw chipped red nail polish, thin fingers, and porcelain skin. It was suddenly gone, and she looked up.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise-" The girl stopped. She frowned at Hermione's shirt, and reached a hand forward to rub the sleeve. Hermione took a step back, cautious.
The girl looked up, her straight black hair swinging as grey eyes came into view. Hermione gasped, her eyes widening.
"It looks better on you than it did on me." Hermione looked down at herself, and saw the shirt clinging a little to her ample curves and the slight tightness of the material across her breasts. She didn't think she agreed with the girl. She took another look at her and saw the slim figure, high cheekbones and regal posture. Although the girl's curves were small, her face certainly made up for it. It was angular, shaped almost like a marble sculpture – picture perfect in everyway. Hermione was usually comfortable with her body, having grown used to it throughout her years at school. Now, though; she doubted she would look at herself the same way again.
"Excuse me?" Hermione choked out, and cleared her throat the rid of the scratchy feeling. She was hoping the girl was only implying that she had had the same shirt. Somehow, Hermione knew that was not the case.
"When did you get it?" she asked, seemingly unperturbed. Hermione stared at her, mouth open, as she skimmed over some more modern novels, moving over to the classics. She looked to be muttering to herself, and Hermione took a moment to ready herself for a verbal onslaught.
"September." she rasped, and cleared her throat once more. The feeling wouldn't go away.
The girl made a noise in the back of her throat, like a hum. She was still searching the book titles for something, and Hermione wished she could carry off that kind of nonchalance. This girl seemed to represent everything Hermione wanted to be, in one person. Her envy increased, but she pushed it away.
"I had wondered why he stole it. Now my question is answered. Aha!" The girl grabbed onto the spine of a brown leather book, and pulled it from the shelf. She quickly flicked through the aged pages, seemed satisfied, and closed the book with a thunk. She took one fleeting glance at Hermione and turned to the counter.
Thinking quickly, Hermione reached out and grasped onto her pale forearm, and her head then snapped back. She looked down at Hermione's tanned hand pointedly, and Hermione released her. She just wanted to ask, just needed to know-
What was his name?
There was a moment of stillness and silence, and then the girl shrugged, turning back towards the register. Hermione followed behind her, and she heard the woman behind the counter exclaim something she would remember for a long time to come.
"Isobel Diggory! You haven't been here in months!"
The shrill voice seemed to echo in her ears, as well as the apologetic reply.
Diggory.
The black hair whacked Hermione's face as the girl passed her, bag in one arm, and extracting a crimson scarf much like her own to fend off the early spring breeze.
"Wait!" she called after her, hearing the chime of the shop door. She raced out to meet the girl – Isobel – in the street. She planted herself in front of her, and Isobel stopped short, staring at Hermione with a raised eyebrow – something that was quite familiar.
"You're his sister." Hermione panted out, searching Isobel's features for some sort of familiarity. A smirk came across her face, but she ignored the other girl and continued on, staring into the only thing she knew they shared. "Where is he?" she exclaimed, and thought she heard her hysteria creeping into her voice. Hermione was close, and knew that his sister, the one who had the same scarf that was hanging off a chair in her apartment right now, could give her the answer she needed.
Her curls whipped around her face with a burst of warm breeze, and she saw Isobel's thin face grin widely at her through them.
"Goodbye, Hermione Granger."
Isobel apparated as Hermione opened her mouth to say something. Why would she apparate in the middle of a Muggle street? Hermione looked around in panic, but the stores were empty, as was the street. It was early spring, and people didn't seem to want to shop. Hermione guessed they were outside, soaking in the warmer weather in fields of wildflowers or by the local lake. She always travelled the extra miles to come to this secluded, country-side road. The bookstore held all her favourites, and she continuously missed the fresh fragrances of nature – scents that were absent where she lived. Having grown used to the clean air of Hogwarts, she needed to get away from the fuel fumes of London every once in a while.
She sighed, and made her way back to the bookstore. She would add to the list when she got home.
December 31st, 1999.
Hermione is 20 years old.
The millennium had not been as spectacular as everyone else had imagined. She was not so surprised herself, but she thought that it was her cynicism getting in the way. Everyone had drunk themselves silly, and she had remained too sober and too alone in a chair by the window side. She supposed she had brought it upon herself, but she did not do anything to become noticed. She had simply sat and watched the snow fall gently onto the dying grass, yellowed with sickness. A glass was cradled in her small hands, and she stared into the dark red contents, swirling and inhaling the addictive aroma.
"Come on, Hermione! It's New Year in five minutes!"
The yell didn't brighten her mood, or make her stomach churn in excitement. She sighed, pushing herself up from the comfortable chair and moving away from the chill emanating from the window. The piercing breeze left her, and her cheeks were suddenly darker and her arms no longer showed goosebumps. Her black dress fluttered against her knees, and she wondered why she had let Ginny have her way with her. She got the distinct feeling that, married, Ginny was trying to live through her. Maybe it was because she had married so young – Hermione knew that her friend hadn't had a proper chance to play the dating field.
Hermione didn't want to play. She would be perfectly content in her friend's position; happily married, with a child on the way. It was something of dreams, and something she imagined with very few. Ron had been the man once, but after the war it hadn't lasted. They had both accepted it, and begrudgingly gave up the comfort of being with someone so close. She felt she could rely on Ron, despite their incompatibility as spouses. He was something of a rock, there at all times. Unfortunately, tonight, he was another girl's rock. She didn't know her name, but did not think it was last longer than a month. Ron, like her, had trouble finding someone who could keep up with him. It was only after graduation that she realised how fast-paced she had become, and how only family and close friends had kept in touch.
She walked out onto the porch, and was met with excited grins and drunken exclamations. She smiled a small smile, making her way to her best friends. They hugged her close, and she relished in the feeling of warmth and safety. Shouts sounded around her, and she squinted up into the night sky, the lights of the Twins' fireworks lighting up her eyes.
Loneliness washed over her, and she sagged against Harry, who was yelling joyously to the guests.
As she shook her head to rid the thought, Hermione couldn't help but realise that, Muggle or not, another lonely soul should have been there with her.
July 22nd, 2000.
Hermione is 20 years old, Cedric is 22 years old.
One year, seven months, and five days. And still no sign of him.
She turned the keys, struggling with the abundance of bags in her arms. Her briefcase smacked against the door frame, and she cursed, jerking her head back to get her bushy hair out of her eyes. Her skirt was black, and much shorter than she was used to. She was tired of hiding behind an asexual mask, and had decided a few weeks ago that a new wardrobe, a sexier one was in order. Unfortunately, she was sacrificing practicality for fashion – something she thought she would never do – and now paying the price. She finally burst through her apartment door, and dumped all of her bags on the ground. She shoved them aside with her heeled foot, closing the door behind her. Brushing her curls away from her face, she nudged off her shoes and flexed her feet with a satisfied groan.
Forgetting her briefcase for the first night in what seemed like years, Hermione went into her kitchen and fixed herself a sandwich. She couldn't remember when, and if, she had ever cooked something substantial in her kitchen. Mostly she just used the microwave and toaster to satisfy her hunger pains. She shook her head at her own pathetic excuse for a kitchen, dropping crumbs all over her floor as she crossed to her lounge.
Sinking herself down onto the comfortable couch, she stretched her neck. With a flick of her wand, pulled from her jacket pocket, the fireplace came alight. She had charmed it so that ash and smoke would not appear. It gave the illusion of a real fire, but only provided warmth and light. Sometimes she wondered if she would ever get back to using her wand for more important things. She gazed down at the piece of wood, dark brown and dull.
Her life was content. She was satisfied with her Muggle eight to seven job, her profligate apartment. Or was it a penthouse? She was satisfied with her loneliness, and satisfied with her isolation. Hermione was satisfied with life.
Sighing, she wiped her mouth free of sandwich remnants and got up from the lounge. She remembered that she had to talk to Anna about how much more she had to pay to avoid a roommate. They were getting insistent. She liked her apartment, large and cavernous, fit for three people but only housing one.
She walked over to her door, dragging her feet. They were sliding because of her black tights, and she knew she should probably take off the tights, but was too exhausted.
Snatching her keys from the table by the door, she opened it, turning to lock it from the inside. Testing the lock, she suddenly felt a short, sharp pain on her backside. Whirling around, she heard the click of a lock, and stumbled out into the corridor.
His door had just been sealed shut.
She growled, fists clenched by her side, dropping the keys. She stalked to his door, six feet away, and slammed her fists against it.
Hermione screamed, hoping to beat down the door with her force, but only came away with red palms. She shrieked, and she heard raucous laughter from behind the door.
"Better luck next time, Granger!" she heard through the laughter, and growled again. Leaning her back against his door, she breathed heavily. This had to be the first night he'd been here since she first saw him. He was unusually bold.
Well, who was she to know? He could be a bold person generally, for all she knew.
She whacked the back of her head against the door repeatedly, drowning in the sound of his deep, rich laughter.
May 1st, 2001.
Cedric is 23 years old, Isobel is 20 years old.
"Well, you've really done it this time, Ced."
He paused in his writing, but soon went back to the letter. He had some people he needed to contact, strings he needed to pull to irk her even more. He smirked to himself. He really was having fun with this.
"I understand your infatuation, I really do. But I don't think you realise what this is doing to her." His sister really was insufferable. She was not like him at all, didn't even look like him. "I saw her a couple of months ago."
That got his attention. His head snapped up at the comment, and he narrowed his eyes at his significantly shorter sibling.
"What did you do?" he said through gritted teeth, standing and shoving the letter he had just put in an envelope under his owl's beak. The creature looked at him with disdain but took it, flying through the open window.
"I didn't do anything!" she exclaimed, hands flying everywhere. He snorted. When his sister said she didn't do anything, she normally did. She seemed to forget he wouldn't fall for her antics. He'd done it the first few years of their lives – never again.
"Well, that just means you did. Now I'm going to ask you again – what did you do?" he ground out. She rolled her eyes and huffed. He wondered how she had ever learnt such behaviour, because it certainly wasn't from their mother. From her swotty Ravenclaw friends, no doubt.
"Fine, I talked to her a bit." She snapped, turning her back on him and placing a new book in the bookshelf, its shelves covering the wall of their study. He wasn't meant to live at home, but found the study was too alluring to leave. He suspected his parents didn't even know that he had bought an apartment. "She seemed… enamored with you."
He nearly choked on his own tongue. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Really?"
"Oh, don't sound so pleased. She has no idea who you are."
He grinned with pleasure. So it was all going to plan.
"That's the point, little sister." He took the new book from its place on the shelf, and turned to the first page. He walked back over to his armchair. It wasn't really his, but he was the only one that used it, so it might as well have been.
"How, in Merlin's name, could that be the point? How can she fall in love with you if she doesn't even know your name?" His sister's hair, straight as a pin, almost curled with the static she created with her words. He could see her normally pale cheeks flushing with frustration, and cherished in the fact that he was the only person who could get her into such a state.
"I'm trying to read." he said insolently. Isobel growled in warning, but he ignored her, turning the page. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her attempt to distract herself with scrutinizing the shelves. Three minutes later, and he could see her jaw twitching with the effort to stay silent.
"Why did you steal my top?" Isobel's word vomit cut through the silence of the room. And he had just been getting into his book, too.
"It looked horrific on you, anyway. I thought I would do you a favour." He said absentmindedly, turning a page with interest.
She made a face at her brother, tugging on her hair with impatience.
"Yeah, well, I told her that and she didn't seem to believe me."
Cedric stopped reading, and closed the book with a snap. He looked to his sister, who was perched on a table across the room.
"You did what?" he asked aggressively with wide eyes. Isobel opened her mouth to answer, but he cut across her. "Just shut up. Why? Why do you have to ruin everything?"
Isobel looked offended, and he could see her bristle at the insult.
"I didn't do anything," she said waspishly, "I was just being a nice person and complimenting her on her attire. She didn't even know me," Isobel's face seemed to take on a thoughtful expression. "Well, that was until Mrs Derbshire felt it imperative to scream my name across the shop," Her face brightened. "But if she's average, then Hermione won't even know your last name. There's no way she could put the pieces together." Her eyes rolled in relief, and she ignored Cedric's steadily clenching fists and twitching jaw.
"Isobel," he said in a falsely sweet voice, "Just what part of 'she's a flipping genius' do you not understand?"
She seemed to whiten in fear, if that were possible. Cedric threw the book at her, but her quick reflexes aided her in ducking just before it could hit her, instead smashing into the wall behind.
He looked to the ceiling as if to ask 'Why me?' before advancing on his sister.
"Just because you were in Ravenclaw does not mean that anyone who wasn't is stupid," He stopped to calm himself, only feet away from his cowering sister. "God, sometimes I wonder if they sorted you correctly. You're so dense."
He retrieved his book from the ground and walked back over to his armchair.
"I am not!" his sister retorted childishly. He rolled his eyes and sat down wearily, opening to the page he had stopped at previously.
There were a few minutes of blissful silence, and Cedric thanked the higher beings for granting him that one wish-
"I'm sorry if I think Ravenclaws have more intellect that Gryffindors, Ced. I mean, that's what the Hat says-"
"Isobel," he said loudly, still reading. "Shut. Up."
There was silence once more, and he relaxed his tense muscles.
"You know, I think you should tell her soon. You're a lot more pleasant when she's around."
Isobel hopped up from the ground, ignoring her brother's glare, and glided gracefully out of the room.
April 30th, 2001.
Hermione is 21 years old, Cedric is 23 years old.
To see a world in a grain of sand
And heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
I see a future in you.
I hope you like it.
She grinned at the piece of paper, and placed it in the drawer filled with all of his gifts. Except the cheesecake.
She'd eaten that.
February 13th, 1999.
Hermione is 19 years old.
She had been invited to her parents' for Valentine's Day. She felt inevitably lonely. After all, everyone knows that when your parents invite you to celebrate Valentine's Day with them, it's bad. It's also bad when they celebrate that day a day early so they can have their own Valentine's. And who knows what they will do on the actual day? Hermione shuddered at the thought.
As she pulled up to her parents' house in her flashy BMW, a gift from her father after graduating. He'd been adamant she learn how to drive after the war, and she had agreed. Hermione knew that being able to drive was handy. After all, you couldn't go out and apparate all over Muggle England.
Locking the car, she turned to her childhood home and smiled. Despite wanting to live alone, it was a nice feeling to be back. It had been a refuge for her between her Hogwarts years. Dumbledore had placed protection after protection on the house, and she used to feel so safe. Now her own wards surrounded the property – after all, they were stronger. Not to mention Dumbledore was dead and any spell he had created gone with him.
She sighed, knowing a long afternoon of love life questioning awaited her.
And she was right, the first thing her mother had popped out was exactly that.
"Oh, Hermione! It's so nice to see you. I do so wish you had a boy with you, though. You know you deserve it, after all the hard work you're doing, and all the hard work you've done. Oh, I'm so proud of you!" Her mother continued to coddle her, and Hermione rolled her eyes. She'd seen her mother last week.
Taking off her coat and dark red scarf, Hermione hung them up on the rack near the door. She walked through, smoothing her turtleneck jumper out over her wide hips.
"Hermione!" Her father strode into the hallway, and she greeted him with a smile. His awkwardness with her long forgotten, his arms wrapped around her and squeezed. She laughed at her father's affection, protesting weakly but eventually giving in.
"I hope you've been treating yourself well." he said, nudging her chin after he pulled away. She gave a small smile.
"Of course, Dad."
"Good, because I don't want you to get all hung up on that Weasley boy."
"Dad!" Hermione exclaimed, punching her father playfully on the arm, "I've told you already, we both agreed it would be best to stay friends."
"Still." He protested, and her mother told her to make herself at home. As Hermione moved to the lounge room, her mother told her how she wished Hermione would just live with them.
"You know I can't, Mum." Hermione said, sitting down on the brown leather couches, accepting tea from her mother.
"But darling, I don't understand – you're not rooming with anybody, and you won't tell anyone where you live. I just don't want you to be alone." Her mother pleaded with her, and Hermione shook her head. She understood her mother's confusion, but she just needed to be alone. She needed to be away from everything that had happened in the past year or so. The war had been too much – the breaking point. Now she needed to recover in silence and in private.
"After last year, Mum, I just need space." Her mother looked offended. "It's not you, really. I just need some time to… get things together. You understand, right?"
"Of course she does," Her father came in, sitting down next to her and putting his thin arm around her shoulders. She wondered how he kept so slim at his age, and gave credit to his dedication to be healthy. She supposed it came with the profession – an unhealthy dentist probably wasn't giving a practice a good image. "We both understand, but it's been months now."
"I'm going to need a little more than a few months, Dad."
She excused herself to go to the bathroom and washed her face. She missed her parents, but did they want a broken Hermione living with them, or a whole Hermione living alone in isolation?
At lunch, her parents decided to bother her about her love life. She guessed this was their plan all along. After all, not many parents invited their child over for a day-before-Valentine's-Day lunch.
"So tell me, are you interested in anyone? Because I know a boy down the road, your age, who's just delightful-"
"Mum, really, it's okay-"
"I think you would like him. He's smart, attractive… he's not a wizard, but that doesn't bother you, does it?"
"No, Mum, but I think you-"
"Excellent. Shall I introduce you? Maybe next-"
"Denise! I think your daughter is trying to tell you something." Hermione grinned gratefully at her father, and he winked in return. Only Thomas Granger seemed to be able to divert her mother from one of her rants. Hermione had tried to acquire the skill, and upon asking her father one day when she was eight, he had said that her mother was just an especially determined woman, who needed to right coaxing to deter. It was apparently something that came with age.
At nineteen, Hermione still hadn't mastered it.
"What is it, Hermione?" she asked, smiling at her only daughter.
Hermione gulped, taking the plunge.
"I think I might… be interested in someone." She winced at the excitement that crossed her mother's face.
"Oh, Hermione, that's wonderful! What's his name?" Denise inquired, and Hermione really didn't want to tell her.
"I… don't know."
There was silence, and only the clattering of her and her father's cutlery against plates. Her mother was unnaturally still.
"Please tell me you've spoken to him. You should know not to judge a man on their looks alone. If I had done that, I don't think I would have married your father."
Thomas raised an eyebrow and smirked with amusement.
"Mum!" Hermione exclaimed, aghast.
"I don't want you going off with some attractive young man and he turns out to be horrible. I will not have it, Hermione Granger."
Hermione rubbed a hand over her face.
"Mum, really. I've met him, spoken with him, seen him – I said I might be interested because he intrigues me. And… it's been a long time since I've met someone who has."
Her mother seemed to brighten at this, and went on about how she was expecting to meet him sometime soon, after she found out his name.
If I ever do, Hermione thought miserably.
October 3rd, 2002.
Hermione is 23 years old, Cedric is 25 years old.
Cedric Diggory.
Oh, she had him now.
Well, supposedly she'd had him for roughly seven and a half months - since she'd learnt his full name. But he must have been prepared to provide her with it because she had exhausted almost every possible resource to find out who he was friends with, where he worked, and where he seemed to live when not at the apartment. It had taken her all this time to get one measly address, and even then she wasn't sure he lived here. Yet, she knew he did. Where did one go when they had no other place to? The childhood home. And for him, that just happened to be near the Weasley's house. She never realised she was such a lucky person. But then again, it wasn't really luck – he'd orchestrated the whole thing. Everything had gone according to his plan. He had controlled everything, paced everything. He'd probably expected her to come to his house and demand to see him from the very beginning.
Hermione wasn't at all fussed if this was his plan. Because of him and his plan, she was chasing after someone she knew would be a perfect husband.
She was going a bit far, but it was true. She had this feeling. She was already in love with him, she'd admitted that. How, she did not know. Her usual rational and logical manner flew straight out the window when he was concerned. Her whole life revolved around him now. The next glance, the next note, the next noise coming through her walls – they were all so incredibly important that living without them seemed inconceivable. Yet, Hermione could not wait until the secrecy and the distance were gone, and she could be with him, if he actually wanted her. Many times, she had debated whether this was all just a game. Then she figured that if anyone was daring enough to play a game with Hermione Granger, it was only Draco Malfoy. And Draco Malfoy wouldn't dream of smacking her bum.
Then she'd just asked herself, why? Why the secrecy? Why not just outright tell her his name and be done with it?
She almost snorted at her own stupidity. Even Hermione knew that she would not have given him the light of day had he done so. The reason she had become so intrigued in the first place was because he was a mysterious handsome man with no name. He must have known her history with mystery if he knew she couldn't resist one. She got the feeling that he knew a lot more about her than he let on. She wasn't necessarily surprised, because it was fairly easy to find out things about her. She was definitely featured heavily in the Prophet, and so there would be an abundance of information there.
But personal details – like how he had once sent her a note with the writings of her favourite poet, or a package containing a large piece of strawberry cheesecake, something she had so rarely because it would only take her exactly forty-six seconds to eat one piece. How did he know those things?
He had to know someone she did. He definitely went to Hogwarts. She'd been to visit the school to talk with Professor McGonagall. The teacher had offered her the position of Transfiguration professor for when the school reopened. Hermione had not been sure – after all, she wanted isolation for a while now.
As she'd been in the Headmistress's office, the woman had been sending off a letter. She had caught his name on his lips as she spoke to the owl. It flew off.
"Cedric Diggory?" she had asked.
"Yes, he's been owling me since his graduation. Always after the latest advances in Transfiguration. Lovely boy."
It had amused her faintly that the Professor still thought of Cedric as a boy – which he was not – and she had restrained from asking anything further.
If he'd graduated from Hogwarts, then there was a large possibility that he knew someone she did. But she couldn't know that unless she asked someone, and now wasn't the time.
Standing on his parents' front step meant that pondering those things would have to wait until later.
October 3rd, 2002.
Cedric is 25 years old, Hermione is 23 years old, Isobel is 21 years old.
"CEDRIC DIGGORY!"
He jumped at the sound of the scream, and wondered who would be yelling his name in bloody murder – a day after his birthday, no less.
He raced down the stairs, footsteps pounding against the wood. Isobel was by the window, laughing as she peered out into their front yard.
"She's here, and she's working up a storm." His sister's tinkling laughter rang throughout the room, and he shoved her aside roughly to rake his eyes over the front yard.
There Hermione stood, shrieking at the top of her lungs and looking toward the second storey of his house. He almost started laughing himself, but thought better of it when he saw her face. It was red with the effort of shouting so much, and looked so damn determined that he had to appreciate the site.
"Diggory, you will come out now and you will explain yourself. I have had enough! After all these years, I think you owe me an EXPLANATION!" The last word was screeched out, and he cringed at the desperation hidden beneath the layers of disdain. Maybe he'd dragged it on too much. He wanted so badly to just blurt it out, but he wasn't a Gryffindor – he wasn't brave. And then what? Would she laugh in his face and reject him? Or even worse, would she look at him with pity for not returning his feelings?
See, this is why he'd gone all James Bond mystery man in the first place. It avoided all these complications.
He thought his wooing efforts were pretty good. He'd learnt everything there was to know about her – from the media and from people in contact with her. Thank Merlin for the Weasley twins. So maybe she was… enamored with him, as Isobel had said. He still didn't know how to go about snatching her for himself.
"You're going to have to tell her now. Definitely." Isobel confirmed when she saw Hermione throw a hex at the house. The wards absorbed her spell, and her shrill growl filled the air. He grinned. She was so alluring when she was angry. He made a vow to do this more often.
He saw her run up to the front door as Isobel put her chin on his shoulder to see. He swatted her away, but she returned and so he gave up. He saw her pounding on the door with her fists, something very familiar from a night years ago.
He stood up straight, leaving Isobel gazing out the window in amusement, and moved to the front door. Giving himself a moment, he pushed his shoulders back in preparation.
And flung open the door, pulled her to him and snogged her senseless.
He liked to think that she enjoyed it, but by the way she pulled back after half a minute and gave him a slap told him otherwise.
She enjoyed it.
She turned her back on him, and he saw the adorable frown on her face before she apparated away.
"Well that was quite a show."
He turned to see his sister, eyebrow raised – an expression learned from him, damn it. He snorted, pushing his way past her.
"You can't run from it forever!" she yelled after him as he bounded up the stairs, stopping only to glare back at his sibling. She was gone.
February 14th, 2002.
Hermione is 22 years old, Cedric is 24 years old.
We will see each other soon, Hermione.
She stared at the note in surprise. She knew it was him, knew it was his writing, She'd seen it before, on the note left with the shirt he'd stolen from his sister. It could only be him, and Hermione refused to accept that anyone else could be sending her a note like this on Valentine's Day.
She didn't have time to ponder the note – she was already late for work. She supposed it didn't really matter, given her high position. But it was still no good to set a bad example. Scrunching up the paper and putting it in her pocket, she locked her door behind her and took the lift down to the car park. Quickly jumping in her car, she looked around quickly before casting a cleaning charm on the windscreen. She didn't have time to clean her car, and so thanked magic for its usefulness. Driving quite recklessly through the morning peak hour traffic, Hermione arrived at work only twenty minutes later than she had intended. Normally she got there about forty-five minutes late, so today she made good time considering.
"Granger, get your butt in here!"
She sighed to herself, dumping her coat on her chair and opening her suitcase.
"I'm sorry I'm late, sir. I-"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I don't want to hear it. I've got a very important client coming in today, and I want this report done by lunch time, do you hear me?" Her boss – she still had one, yes; he just happened to be one above her as CEO – demanded, and left the room before she could affirm his question.
The report was done by eleven o'clock, and Hermione spent the rest of her time playing freecell on her office computer. Occasionally she would look out the window at the marvelous view of London with its busy streets and flashing lights, and occasionally she would pull out the crumpled parchment to read those seven words once more.
Just how soon was soon?
Hermione didn't think she could take the tension of waiting anymore. She had waited long enough.
Time lulled. One game of freecell would seem to go on forever, and others were just a blur of cards that disappeared in seconds. Her mind was blank, and she wasn't thinking about much else.
Red four on black five… move the red nine to the top, and close the gap with the king of clubs. The queen's beneath a black two, so where's the ace for that?
"We're deeply considering your offer, Mister Diggory. However, there's the issue of-"
Diggory?
Hermione rose from her chair, blinking away her mindless stupor to see him, conversing with her boss, right across the hallway.
That bastard.
"Muggles, you see. We're a Muggle company, primarily. Do we really want all that exposure?"
"May I recommend a selective information leak? Or even a charm to avoid chances of a snitch?" He smirked at his own pun, but her boss didn't pick up on it. She smiled to herself.
So this was soon. She leaned against her door frame, watching them talk, analyzing the way he gestured and the way ran his hands through his hair when he was agitated. The way his brow creased when he was puzzled, and the way his eyes crinkled with the grins he gave.
"Cedric, m'boy. You are only young. Your offer is greatly tempting, but I suggest tweaking it a little," They were walking toward her, and she shot up. She couldn't go into her office and close the door – they would notice. She couldn't walk away; she had left her heels under her desk. She couldn't go back and get said heels because her blistered feet wouldn't allow her usual nimbleness. As they drew nearer, Hermione supposed she looked like a deer caught in headlights. "Making it more user friendly, you know?"
His name was Cedric, she realised – Cedric Diggory.
It was such a nice name.
"Ah, Granger!" She jumped as her boss said her name, and his eyes flew to hers, unsurprised and amused, "Report done?"
"Yes, sir." She mumbled the answer, trying to ignore the stare of the man opposite.
"Brilliant. Fetch it for us, if you will." It was an order, and Hermione obeyed, trying not to feel self-conscious about her shoeless feet. She shuffled awkwardly across her office to her desk, and opened the drawer with the report inside. Picking it up, she walked back over to them and handed her boss the many pages that had been so easy to do.
He handed them straight to Cedric, and she nearly cried out in protest. She might have taken more care had she known he was going to be assessing them. Hermione wanted to whack her head against the door frame.
"These are very well-written." And that was all he said, his hands flipping through the pages gently.
"Granger's a right genius, she is. As you can see, everything is detailed in there-" He took Cedric's arm, and led him away from her and down the corridor.
She watched him take him away, and suddenly felt very insignificant as she stood, short and pathetic in the doorway of her office, with no shoes on and freecell clearly visible on her computer screen.
October 4th, 2002.
Hermione is 23 years old, Isobel is 21 years old.
She wondered how his sister had tracked her down, but shook off the thought when it brought on ones of her involvement in the press. She shouldn't wonder, because it was obvious how.
"Look, I know he loves you." she had said, and Hermione had scoffed in disbelief. Isobel had given her a stern look. "My brother, scared as he is of you, does love you."
"So why won't he tell me himself?" Hermione had demanded.
"Like I said," She had paused here. "He's scared. Just make things easy for him. He'll blurt it out eventually."
Her black hair whipped behind her as she trotted down the pathway of her parents' house. She'd come here in desperate need for comfort, but was just about to leave. Her mother was questioning her more than she was consoling her.
Her pillow seemed awfully friendly right now, at three o'clock in the afternoon.
December 17th, 2002.
Hermione is 23 years old, Cedric is 25 years old.
The night was cold, and snow fell steadily onto the streets of London. Her crimson scarf flew around her in the winter wind, and she hurried to get inside her apartment, hands stuffed in coat pockets to keep warm. There was a feeling about this night, something she couldn't fathom. She did not know whether it was good or bad. She knew it was significant.
The keys turned the lock, and she hastily shut the door behind her. Rubbing her arms to create warmth, she walked past a sleeping Anna – a well-known sight when she stayed out with friends on such nights as this. It was soon becoming tradition. Every December was like a celebration month - Christmas, New Year, and the anniversary of the end of the war.
This night represented both the death of an old life and the birth of a new one. She had been eighteen at the time, but it had been a wonderful death. A death filled with the fall of Voldemort and the victory of the Order of the Phoenix. She remembered the first thing she had done when he was gone was sleep. She hadn't slept well, if even at all, months before the battle had occurred. To put her bushy-haired head on that plush Gryffindor pillow had felt heavenly.
And now, on the same night five years later, she felt that exact urge. She was tired. After a night of watching her friends become less and less sober and more and more drunk, she just wanted to rest.
As she reached the lifts, for her apartment building had no stairs, she saw the light above them off. It was meant to be on. It was always on.
She sighed wearily. The lift was broken. She closed her eyes in exhaustion.
She thought about apparating discreetly, but she was too tired to attempt it. She instead imagined her bed; feather-filled pillow and soft sheets. Warm fire and leftover spaghetti bolognaise made her muscles ache and her stomach churn with hunger. She felt her hair on her face, but could not move her arm, heavy with fatigue, to brush it away.
The door to the lobby opened, and she turned to peek at who had entered. She became a little more awake at the sight of him, and quickly turned back to the inactive lifts.
He came to stand beside her and did not speak for a few moments, before-
"Hello."
His voice was deep and rough, and she felt it run through her bones. There was silence once more, and she fidgeted with her coat buttons. She inhaled sharply, and smelt stale alcohol on her scarf. Her friends must have spilt their inventive drinks on it. She reminded herself to berate them the next day.
"They're not working." She stated after a while, sighing.
"I know." He said.
There was no sound but the wind beating against the lobby doors.
What could she do? He didn't want to talk, just like when they first met. With a start, she realised it was four years to the day that she had first seen him. Or was it? Had she seen him at Hogwarts? She couldn't recall. Surely she would have noticed him.
She could not wait any longer. She had spent these last years searching for him, pining for him, wishing for him to come to her. Her life of isolation had lasted longer than she ever thought it would, because of him. Her parents had given up, her friends had given up, and everyone in Wizarding Britain had given up. Even Rita Skeeter seemed to avoid stories about her these days. Was that saying something? Did she care? She didn't think she could leave without saying something.
She turned to him then, defeated. She felt tears threaten to spill from her eyes.
"I've waited four years for you."
He looked at her, searching her face for something she did not know
"I've waited longer."
She bit her lip.
"I wanted to be alone." She croaked.
"I wanted to be alone with you." He said, as if he were talking about the weather.
"Can you be serious?"
"Can you?"
She hated that. Answering a question with a question. She had always pestered Harry and Ron about it, and when Cedric did it she didn't say a thing. He was the only exception – for everything.
The silence was deafening, and Hermione felt like she was suffocating, sinking deeper and deeper to the place she had been in just after the war, after she had lost Ron as a confidant. She had been alone then, and she felt the feeling return. It was then that she realised she had never really been alone as long as she had lived in her apartment. He had been there, and she hadn't known it. Regardless, the feeling of fulfillment and right had been present, and so she had bought it. Moving in had felt like something she was meant to do, the path to ultimate isolation. Now, she knew – she knew that it had been a step to recovering from the complete loneliness she had once felt. A step that had led her to him.
"I love you." She spoke timidly, and he turned his head to her.
"And I, you." He replied softly.
His hand was out, offering her a choice. She looked at it, and at him. She looked at herself, and realised that she was wearing almost the same outfit as the one she had had on exactly four years ago.
This time, she made her decision. She placed her small hand in his, and he grasped it tightly.
They stood there, waiting for the lifts to work once more.
Tonight, she would follow him into his apartment, and they would be alone. Together.
I do hope you enjoyed this. I decided this would be a nice break from my story. Tell me what you think!
The poem is "Auguries of Innocence" by William Blake.
To clear things up, here are the birthdays:
Hermione Granger – September 19th, 1979.
Cedric Diggory – October 2nd, 1977.
Isobel Diggory – February 23rd, 1981.
PheeCullen