Only You (Hiatus)

Eight

Hermione woke slowly, wrapped in white hotel sheets that still smelled faintly of detergent and sea air.

For a few seconds she lay still, staring at the ceiling, her mind blank in that soft way that came just before waking fully. Then memory slipped back in. Music. Warm light. A crowded bar. Draco Malfoy sitting at the counter like he belonged there.

That, more than anything else, was what lingered.

Not the words they’d exchanged, or the awkwardness of it all, but the ease. The fact that he’d been… civil. That he’d smiled, just briefly, at something Nikki had said, or maybe at something Síofra had teased him about. It hadn’t been sharp or smug. Just human.

Hermione frowned slightly and pushed the thought aside.

She showered, dressed, and made her way downstairs to the breakfast room, where the hum of quiet conversation and clinking cutlery greeted her. She ordered without overthinking it and soon found herself with a fluffy bacon and cheese omelette, golden and steaming, and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice that tasted like actual oranges.

It was indulgent. Comforting.

She ate slowly, watching the harbour through the window, letting herself enjoy the simple fact that she had nowhere urgent to be except somewhere she’d chosen.

After breakfast, she walked through town toward Tír na nÓg, the morning air cool against her skin. The shop looked just as inviting in daylight as it had the first time she’d seen it, the window displays catching the sun just right.

Síofra was already inside when Hermione arrived.

“Hermione!” she called brightly the moment the door opened. “You’re right on time. How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Hermione said honestly. “A little nervous, but good.”
“That’s exactly how you should feel on your first day,” Síofra declared. “Come on, I’ll show you around properly.”

She started at the front of the shop, explaining which displays were rotated weekly and which stayed more permanent. From there she led Hermione through to the back rooms.
“This is where we hide when customers get overwhelming,” Síofra joked with a grin, gesturing to a small, cosy space with a kettle, mismatched mugs, and a table scarred from years of use. “You can make tea, have lunch, work on crafts if you like. No pressure. This isn’t a factory.”
Hermione smiled, immediately liking the space.

Beyond that was a storage room, shelves stacked neatly with boxes of stock and supplies. Síofra explained the system, simple but effective, then brought Hermione back out to the main floor.

“And this,” she said, patting the side of the till, “is our till. Its a little temperamental. But you seem sensible. I think you’ll manage.”
She showed Hermione how to use it, talking her through each step, then stepped back. “How are you feeling so far?”
“I think I’ve got it,” Hermione replied, surprised to find it was true. The nervous edge she’d woken with had softened into something steadier.
“Perfect,” Síofra said. “Then your first task.”
She handed Hermione a small stack of books. “These need to go out on the shelves. Everything’s organised by genre, so take your time.”

Hermione nodded and carried the books toward the shelves, already slipping into focus. As she worked, slotting each book into place, she could hear Síofra behind her, setting out new pieces of art along the back wall, humming softly to herself.
It felt… right.
Hermione let herself breathe.

The morning settled into a gentle rhythm.

A few customers wandered in, drawn by the open door and the quiet warmth of the shop. Hermione helped where she could, answering questions about books and incense, pointing people toward displays, watching closely when Síofra stepped in to handle anything more complicated.
One woman lingered over the folklore shelves, fingers trailing along spines as though she were afraid to choose the wrong one.
“They’re grouped by era as well as theme,” Hermione offered softly. “If you’re looking for something older, the myths tend to be a little further along.”
The woman smiled, relieved. “That explains why I’ve been standing in the same spot for five minutes.”
Hermione smiled back and returned to her work, finding that the interaction hadn’t drained her in the way she might once have expected. The shop encouraged quiet conversation. Nothing felt rushed.
A man came in next, asking after a specific crystal Síofra carried only intermittently. Hermione checked the shelves, then the stockroom, and returned with an apologetic shake of her head.
“We should have more next week,” she said. “Síofra keeps a list if you’d like me to add your name.”
He thanked her and left, and Hermione felt a small spark of satisfaction at having handled it correctly.
By late morning, the sun had shifted, casting long, slanted light through the front windows. Síofra glanced at the clock and hummed.
“I’m going to nip to the bank before lunch,” she said, grabbing her coat. “Won’t take long. You alright here?”
“Yes,” Hermione replied easily. “I think I can manage on my own for a bit.”
“You'll do great,” Síofra said with a grin. “There’s soup in the back if you get peckish. Don’t forget to eat.”
Hermione nodded, amused, as Síofra swept out the door.
The shop felt different without her. Still calm, but quieter in a way that made Hermione more aware of herself. She took a moment to straighten the counter, then returned to the shelves, adjusting a stack of books that had shifted.

The bell chimed.

Hermione looked up, expecting another customer.
Instead Draco Malfoy stepped inside carrying a medium-sized cardboard box.

He paused just inside the doorway when he saw her, a flicker of recognition crossing his face before it settled into neutrality.

“Delivery,” he said.
“You can leave it by the counter,” Hermione replied.

He crossed the shop and set the box down carefully, sliding a folded receipt toward her.
Hermione picked it up and began entering the details into the till.
“You’re doing deliveries now?” she asked, her tone even.
“Yeah.”

She glanced briefly at the box before returning her attention to the screen. “It’s… different.”
A small pause.
“So is this,” he replied.
She didn’t respond to that.
The till drawer clicked shut.
He looked around the shop, taking in the shelves, the artwork along the back wall, the quiet order of the place.

His gaze returned to her.
“When are you leaving?” he asked.
Hermione didn’t look surprised. “Why would I be?”
His jaw tightened slightly. “Because you’re Golden Girl Granger. People notice when you’re not where you’re supposed to be.”
She held his gaze, expression unreadable.
“People worry,” he added, not unkindly. Just factual.
“That sounds like their problem,” she said evenly.
Something shifted behind his eyes. Not anger. Recalculation.
“You don’t just… disappear,” he said.
“I’m right here,” Hermione replied.

Before he could answer, the bell chimed again.

Síofra stepped back inside, cheeks flushed from the cool air and bank envelope tucked under her arm.
“Oh! Perfect timing,” she said brightly, spotting them both. “Drake, you’re here.”
“Just finished a delivery,” he replied.
“Excellent. Then you can both stop pretending you’re not hungry.”
Hermione blinked.
“I made soup,” Síofra continued, already heading toward the back room. “And I refuse to eat alone. First days deserve proper lunches.”
Draco shifted as though preparing to decline.
“No,” Síofra added lightly, not looking at him. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
He exhaled quietly.
“…Fine.”
Hermione moved toward the back room without comment.
For a brief moment, as he followed, the air between them felt unsettled in a way it hadn’t before.
Not hostile.
Just aware.