Spellbinder

Disclaimer: I did not create, nor can I make any claims to the ownership of the characters or magical devices in the following story. They belong strictly to J. K. Rowling and publishers. The plot, however, has been roving around in my head for quite some time now.

Author’s Note: Hi there, again! This is the second story I’m attempting to write, and it all came to mind one day when I was watching one of my favorite movies, “The Shop Around the Corner.” For those of you who haven’t seen it, it is what the more popular “You’ve Got Mail” is based on. This is completely AU, but only to a certain extent. Dumbledore did die. Snape did kill him. A final war did happen, in which Harry, Hermione, and Ron did collaborate with the others to kill Voldemort. Basically, the only thing that didn’t happen from Deathly Hallows is the epilogue. Obviously! How else would Draco and Hermione get together? I really hope you enjoy!

Summary: A book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face. It is one of the few havens remaining where a man’s mind can get both provocation and privacy.


Spellbinder

A blessed companion is a book. A book that, fitly chosen, is a lifelong friend. A book that, at a touch, pours its heart into our own.
~Douglas Jerrold~



“I’ll take these,” said a rather tight-lipped older woman, dressed conservatively in traditional robes of a dark eggplant color. She let the heavy books levitating next to her fall to the mahogany counter, causing the petite brunette at the register to began to cough as a large cloud of thick dust filled the air. “Good choices,” sputtered the young girl, waving away some of the grime in the air as she noticed the titles. “36 Galleons,” she informed the woman, who paid quickly and left with a flourish. She closed the register and smiled to herself, the book store on a busy day her second favorite place to be. Her first favorite, of course, was the same store on a very slow day.

Ever since Hermione Granger had decided to open Spellbinder Books, her life had been anything but incredibly exciting. Yes, owning one’s own business - which was prospering very well, thank you very much - was exhilarating. However, the unpredictable financial roller coaster of the economy was a walk in the park compared to fighting one of the most powerful and influential wizards ever to have walked the earth.

After the victory of Light over Dark during what was supposed to have been her seventh and final year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hermione had opted to take some much-needed time off. After the death of some of her closest friends, she desperately wanted time away from the Wizarding World. Who could blame her? Besides losing many of her wand-brandishing comrades, her mother also passed away after a rogue Deatheater attack on Muggle London. Her father was heartbroken, though he was a rather optimistic fellow who knew that life must go on for himself and his daughter.

After Annabelle Granger’s funeral, father and daughter set to work on organizing her personal effects. It wasn’t until a week later, while attempting to fetch some empty boxes in the attic, that Hermione realized what she was meant to do with the rest of her life. Annabelle had apparently been even more of a bibliophile than her daughter could ever hope to be. Mountains upon mountains of books were stacked on shelves lining the attic walls, stored alphabetically in numerous trunks, and categorized by genre as well. Martin Granger held a bittersweet smile as his daughter looked upon them with awe. “She had to do something while you were away at this magic school,” he said, fondly remembering his wife’s recent affinity for literature. “She would want you to have them, of course,” Martin said, placing a hand on his daughter’s shoulder as the tears welled up in her eyes.

So, it was settled. Hermione took her mother’s collection of books that had amassed quite beautifully into a well-rounded collection and set off for Hogsmeade. The tiny village had been torn apart by the war, and many of the town’s proprietors were severely wounded or dead. Yes, the Wizarding World needed to band together in a time like this.

She wandered the streets aimlessly, simply taking in the amount of destruction that had wreaked havoc on what was once such a happy place. Hogsmeade, she realized, was very much like herself: despite all that had happened to mar its beauty and ruin its future, Hogsmeade could be easily rebuilt. So could she. She could - no, she must - start over. Hermione remembered such happy times spent at Hogwarts, suddenly missing her fallen friends more than ever before. Just as her mother, they would want her to carry on in the world they fought so hard to protect.

That was five years ago.

The bell hanging from above the engraved door jingled daintily, breaking her out of her reverie. “Welcome,” she began to say with a smile, looking up from the hustle and bustle of the shop. Her smile faltered however, and no sound came out of her mouth as she saw the person standing before her.

She had no idea he was even alive, let alone an avid book connoisseur.

He looked almost ethereal standing there, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the stained glass panes, casting splotches of red, blue, purple, and green light all throughout his pale blonde hair. His prominent cheekbones and aristocratic-looking nose gave him a sense of importance, not arrogance, especially since he seemed to be dressed in Muggle clothing. A pair of light-wash denim jeans and a soft blue Oxford shirt seemed to have replaced the usual robes and Wizarding attire which were so commonplace.

How very odd.

In fact, Hermione couldn’t place her finger on what was more odd: the way he was dressed, or the way she reacted to it. Suddenly, she realized the actuality of the situation. Here he was, an old classmate whom she had not seen in five years. He may not even recognize her, she reasoned, eyes darting down to the sales receipt in front of her. The fact of the matter was that he came voluntarily into her shop, and she was responsible for making every customer comfortable. “Hello,” she said finally, lifting her gaze to meet his, a smile gracing her features. “May I help you?” Hermione offered from her position behind the counter, inwardly hoping he would ignore her and continue browsing.

“Actually, Hermione,” he began, the corner of his mouth sloping upward into a lopsided grin, “I believe you can.” Draco Malfoy was positively flabbergasted, though his cool demeanor would never betray him. After five long, very strained years, he was face-to-face with the girl who had saved his life. Literally.

After he had sworn never to take the Dark Lord’s oath, Lucius Malfoy was quite cross with his son. He had already been given the Dark Mark, his father reasoned, so why would he not verbally pledge his continuing loyalty to Voldemort after the final battle? The Dark Lord was dying, and Lucius thought it to be his duty to continue his work. Naturally, it was expected of Draco to follow in his father’s footsteps. Lucius was furious at his son for blatantly disobeying a given order, and raised his wand to the boy’s throat.

He squinted as a bright green light sped out of his father’s wand, prepared to feel the agony of the Aveda Kedavra curse invade his every sense. But soon, the light faded. And he was not dead. Panting for breath, Draco slowly opened his eyes to see an unconscious Lucius Malfoy at his feet and a very pissed off Hermione Granger, still seething with anger as she looked upon his father with disgust. It was only after several moments that she was truly satisfied with her deed. Her sad, soulful eyes finally turned to him. The witch opened her mouth to speak; what she would say was uncertain. “I’m sorry,” she had murmured, the two little words coming out perfectly clear despite the surrounding battle noise and the pounding of his heart in his ears. Almost as quickly as she had come and saved him from certain death, she was gone again, leaving him alone to pass out.

He awoke sometime later in the intensive care ward of St. Mungo’s, with a nurse informing him he had been comatose for almost eight months. The healing staff of the hospital was overjoyed at his awakening and did all they could to assist him in the rehabilitation steps necessary to restore him to his full health.

Narcissa had been overjoyed to have him return home. She was always a loving mother, though any public display of affection was harshly frowned upon by her husband. With her help and encouragement - and with the use of several pensives - he was able to become an even better Draco than before.

But enough about his mother.

The girl standing before him in a simple navy shift dress was most certainly not his mother. “You’re looking well,” she said quietly as he approached the front desk, a splotch of pink dappling the apples of her cheeks. “I’m feeling well,” he replied smoothly, inwardly jumping for joy that she had not asked him to leave immediately. A moment of almost obligatory silence passed between them before they each tried to speak at once.

“So how have you--”

“I didn’t know you--”

Insert nervous laughter here, thought Hermione, shaking her head as if to clear it from too many thoughts swarming around at once. “You first,” she said, leaning her elbows on the hard wood desk. He smiled at her, silently thanking her for the courtesy. “I didn’t know you worked here,” Draco admitted. Even though it was only his fourth or fifth time in the store in the past two years, he had never seen her.

“Oh,” she nodded, “I don’t.” He cocked his head to one side, examining her oddly. She looked down at her position behind the counter and laughed. “Well, that is to say, I do. Sometimes. When one of my girls can’t make it in, I’ll usually just take their place. I don’t mind. I love it here.”

“Your girls?” he asked, not completely understanding her. Hermione nodded and glanced at the clock behind her. As she turned, her velvety curls sprang about her shoulders, causing the scent of sandalwood and rosehips to be released and perfume the air. He smiled at the thought of her in a lab somewhere, making batch after batch of her own bath products. “They should be along any minute now, actually. I own Spellbinder’s,” she explained, just as two blurs of bright red and emerald green burst through the door. He turned to see two girls rushing in their general direction, bickering loudly with one another. “Right on schedule,” he heard Hermione whisper as she moved out of their way and stood next to him.

“I told you not to order that huge pasta dish at Fiorlani’s,” the redhead said to the other, smoothing her hands down her green dress before pulling her hair back into a messy knot at the nape of her neck. “You’re the one who insisted on having dessert,” the brunette responded, doing the same with her hair. “We‘re sorry to be late,” they said together, fishing their nametags out of their pockets.

“Quite alright, girls,” Hermione said. They weren’t late at all, though she had the sneaking suspicion that no matter how many hours they had to get ready, they would use every single second. “Jillian, Christine, this is an old schoolmate of mine,” she said, tip-toeing around the word friend as if it were a landmine. They weren’t necessarily friends, were they?

“Draco Malfoy,” he said with a polite nod of his head. Both girls look as if they were preparing to swoon. “I remember you,” said the brunette, looking at him with a scrutinizing eye. “Yes, a few months back. You came in looking for those poetry books by C.R. Whitney.” He laughed. “You, my dear, should be put to use by Ministry Intelligence with a memory like that.”

Hermione’s ears perked up. C.R. Whitney was her most favorite author to be published recently. His books were strictly fictional romance, occasionally historical. He also published several books of poetry ranging from dry political satire to erotic free verse.

“He’s just released a new book, you know,” she said, her excitement clouding her judgment. Hermione took him by the hand and led him to a display toward the center of the store. “I haven’t read it yet, but I was planning on beginning it tonight.” On the table sat over a hundred copies of the latest Whitney novel, The Devil Danced at Midnight. “We received them this morning, and already half our entire stock is gone.” She was smiling broadly as she picked one up, her hands gliding gently over the glossy cover. Hermione took note of the cover itself and looked up at him curiously. “I just realized…C.R. Whitney is a Muggle author.”

Draco followed suit and picked up a copy as well, opening the back flap to read a summary. “That is my understanding as well,” he said, looking down at her furrowed brow. Did she think he wasn’t aware? Once she informed him of the fact, was he supposed to drop the book as if it were going to bite him?

“Well,” she started, clearly at a loss for words, “please don’t mind me saying this, but I’m a bit surprised you would have a fancy for a Muggle…anything.” He held her gaze steadily as he spoke, the words feeling decadently sweet in his mouth. “People change, Hermione,” Draco said simply, gauging her reaction.

She searched his eyes for something, anything at all to give her some insight as to what was going on between them. He had obviously not known she was going to be there that day, so the meeting was purely by chance. What the bloody hell had happened over the past five years?!

Having enough of the intensity, Hermione looked around the bookstore and noticed that many of her customers had already been assisted by Jillian and Christine. She and Draco were the only two left on the floor. “I, um, better get back to work,” she said quietly, offering him a parting smile as she retreated to the spiral staircase near the side wall. “Keep the book,” Hermione called over her shoulder, placing her sandal-clad foot on the first step.

“Only if you’ll meet me for dinner some night this week,” he said impulsively, tucking C.R. Whitney’s latest masterpiece under his arm. “We can discuss it. You know…rousing debates. Like old times.” They both laughed at his reference to the fact that the two of them loathed each other for years.

“Yes, debates. Sounds…” What, fun? Spirited? Excellent? “That sounds lovely,” she finished, watching as he retreated out the door, the little bells nearly mocking her with their happy chiming. “I’m going to go look at next week’s incoming shipments,” she said distractedly.

“No,” Christine said with a laugh, “you’re going to go think about Mr. Tall-Blonde-And-Handsome. ” Jillian chimed in, brandishing a few hearts she had cut out of an old flyer. “Someone looks very much in looooove,” she called up to her, giggling as Christine made kissing noises.

“And you two look like Christmas ornaments,” Hermione said teasingly, swatting at them with the book in her hands. “Pish posh,” Jillian said as she waved her upstairs, suddenly turning quite serious as her appearance was called into question. “Red and green go quite well together.” She and Christine began to smooth down their matching dresses.

It wasn’t until she was in the loft that she truly thought about their words. “Maybe they do,” she said to herself. Maybe they will.


~*~