written for: @silvermaze [happy birthday, lovely! xoxo]
crisp, clear day in early November when it happens.
Granger—all five and a half feet of her, smooth brown skin and chapped pink
lips and a thick cloud of hair pushed back off her face with a red cotton
headband—she steps through the jingling side door of the midtown Starbucks
Draco does most of his writing at.
It’s been…years, technically, since he’d last seen
her. Years. Years since he’d sold his first play, and years since her blog had
gone viral, and years since he’d stopped instinctively searching for her at
industry parties, in hole-in-the-wall Brooklyn diners, on crowded
fluorescent-lit trains hurtling around like pinballs beneath the city streets.
She looks almost
eerily identical to how she’d looked when he’d ended things. Black tights.
Knee-length sweater dress. Raggedy thrift store Burberry scarf. She’s got a
scuffed leather jacket on, and shiny brown Oxfords, and the antique seed-pearl
locket he’d given her for their very first Christmas together.
noticed him yet.
And he feels
a swift spike of adrenaline, electric and fierce, pummel him in solar plexus—an
urge to do something, say something,
act and react, because—
play had been a tragicomic exploration of classism at an elite, all-boys
Connecticut prep school. Hermione hadn’t reviewed it on her blog—hadn’t
reviewed anything Draco had written, ever—but she had, at the time, shared
without comment a snippet from a New
Yorker article about “pretentious Ivy League dropouts with Tempurpedic
trust funds polluting the Broadway shadows with their fourth-generation WASP
guilt”; and Draco had always known,
somewhere deep deep deep in his gut, that Hermione
had been the one to give him a
chance, back when they’d been dating. It had never been the other way around.
He wonders if he should’ve told her that. Before. During. After.
he blurts out, unable to completely mask his astonishment.
It takes her
less than a second to recognize his voice—and then she’s stiffening, posture
going ramrod straight and jaw visibly clenching, and when she finally turns to
look at him, there’s a wary spark of irritation in her eyes. They hadn’t parted
on good terms. It’s harder for him to remember that than it should be.
Malfoy,” she says, and it’s not—it’s not quite
a greeting. An invitation for further conversation. She states his name like
she’s making an observation. Like he’s furniture. Decoration. Unnecessary. It
stings, frankly, and he guesses that was her intention. “This is a little…down-market for you, isn’t it?”
for inspiration,” he immediately answers. He doesn’t blink. He’s afraid to. “The
people here. They’re—normal.”
She lifts an
eyebrow, glancing pointedly at the line beginning to form at the register. “The
people at the Times Square Starbucks are normal
to you,” she replies, in that same vaguely incredulous tone she used to reserve
for biweekly dinners with his parents. “Really.”
blush. He’s twenty-eight fucking
years old. Pretty girls with judgmental smiles and intimidation in their veins
didn’t get to him like this. Nott anymore.
“You know what I mean.”
says, somewhat dryly; somewhat bitterly,
if he’s being honest with himself. “I don’t think I do.”
descends, awkward and heavy. “How’ve you…been?” he tries, before wincing. “I
just—I read your critique. About Shakespeare and, and feminism. Last month. In
colors her features. “You did?” she murmurs, gaze flicking from the Adam Ant
sticker on his laptop, to the doubtless idiotic expression on his face, to the
slightly dry blueberry scone sitting on a napkin by his elbow.
“Yeah,” he sighs,
because of course he did. He’s read
everything she’s ever published. “Yes.”
opening her mouth like she wants to speak again—but ultimately, she doesn’t,
just studies him with a quizzical tilt of her head, the moment stretching on
and on and on, for so long that it doesn’t end
so much as it…fades.
here, then?” she eventually asks, clearing her throat. “Often?”
Blazer, shift dress, and platforms are all found at Savers!! Sunnies from Coterie and necklace from F21. I was super excited to shoot in this location which I happened upon randomly driving around in my neighborhood.
dex (dexter) the schnauzer shops entirely from thrift shops and dresses like a (hip) old man; mistaken for one too.
hes in his twenties, but can eat under the elders meal option at most restaurants. lives on a boat and works at a shady convenience store