Chapter Text
December 20th, 2003
The sound of her footsteps was slightly muffled by the light dusting of snow that had stuck to the cobblestone overnight. The early morning air was crisp and cold, and the city felt totally still, as if she were the only one yet awake.
When she had set out that morning, she’d had no real destination in mind. Truth be told, she had no plan or agenda for her time in Edinburgh beyond just…being somewhere else for a change.
She’d woken up yesterday morning with the startling clarity that she simply couldn’t spend another holiday at the Burrow. As much as she loved her chosen family, their boisterous brand of affection and near-suffocating concern over her work hours and lack of a love life made her feel almost as claustrophobic as the cramped living quarters did.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she’d fired off an owl with her regrets and proactive reassurances that “yes, she was absolutely fine, just in need of a change in scenery” and “no, she wasn’t just saying that so no one would worry”.
She closed the letter with lots of love and a promise to have presents delivered by messenger before Christmas Day.
She hadn’t provided any details about where she was going.
Mainly because at the time, she’d still had no idea.
Even now, as she ambled down the worn stone sidewalks of High Street in Old Town, Hermione still wasn’t sure if she’d come to Scotland to chase a feeling or run from one. Maybe it was a bit of both.
If she was being truly honest with herself, an undercurrent of panicked discontent had been building in her for a while. After the war, she’d worked hard to build a structured and fulfilling life. She’d stuck to her five-year plan to the letter, achieving a record-breaking number of NEWTs and then progressing through the ranks at the Ministry at blazing speed. Her work schedule was set in stone, and her team at the Department of International Magical Cooperation was a well-oiled machine. Lobbying for new international magical standards for causes such as the ethical treatment of magical creatures, the humane harvest of potion ingredients and legal protections for giants, werewolves, and other beings. She was an authority on numerous social justice issues, and sat on the boards of at least six different non-profits. All of these commitments were color-coded and time blocked in an enchanted planner that she bought at the beginning of each new year.
She wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened, but at some point, she’d started dreading the annual shopping trip she took to replace that planner. The regimented routine that had once brought her comfort began crushing her under the weight of responsibility and expectation. The wizarding world had high hopes for their Golden Girl– speculation mounted with each promotion about how soon she’d stage a run for Minister. To her coworkers and colleagues, her advancement seemed to be a foregone conclusion. As soon as she’d passed one piece of legislation, questions immediately arose about which one would be next. Which systemic wrong would the Brightest Witch of Her Age set her sights on and inevitably resolve?
Her friends had hopes for her too. True, they just wanted her to be happy. But that happiness came with its own set of expectations. Harry and Ginny were worried she worked too hard at the expense of her love life, and just wanted her to find someone that made her as sickeningly happy as they made each other. Ron would never admit it, but he still felt slightly guilty for ending their extremely short-lived post-war relationship. He was eager to see her paired off too, so he could feel better about his own recent engagement to Susan Bones. Molly was desperate for Hermione to experience the “joys of motherhood”, and kept heaving wistful sighs whenever she saw Hermione playing with George and Angelina’s new little one, Roxanne.
Everything and everyone in her life seemed focused on who she had yet to become, leaving very little space for her to just…be.
She’d popped unannounced through the Floo into the Headmistress’ office yesterday afternoon in a whirl of anxiety over her impulsive decision to leave London less than a week before Christmas. Ever unruffled, the older witch had listened to Hermione’s disjointed rambling without comment before pulling a battered tin from the depths of her desk and offering her a gingersnap.
Minerva was one of the few people in her life that seemed to implicitly understand the invisible strain she lived under. While Hermione had spent the first decade of their relationship viewing McGonagall as an imposing, near-omnipotent professor that she was terrified to disappoint, something had changed between the two witches in the years since the war. Perhaps Minerva saw something in Hermione that she recognized in herself, or simply observed that she needed a sounding board that would listen without judgment. Either way, she had become one of Hermione’s most trusted supporters, and one of her dearest friends.
As she munched silently on her biscuit, McGonagall offered an elegant solution to her problems. Hermione would, of course, stay at her flat in Edinburgh for the duration of the holiday. As luck would have it, Minerva had explained in her clipped Scottish brogue, she was required at Hogwarts over Christmas this year. So really, Hermione would be doing her a favor by keeping an eye on the place. The flat would be empty otherwise and she’d have to ask a neighbor to check in on it in her absence.
And that had settled it. Scotland at Christmas sounded perfect. Minerva would accept none of her thanks for her generous offer, but did give her a rare smile and a firm pat on the head when Hermione had jumped up and impulsively hugged the Headmistress around the middle.
In her no-nonsense style, McGonagall had summoned two houselves from the Hogwarts kitchens and asked them to visit her flat and pack for an extended stay in Edinburgh. The elves, significantly less wary of Hermione now that her legislation had passed giving them the same rights and protections as wizards in the workplace without attempting to unilaterally free them, were eager to assist. They returned in mere moments with a handsome trunk she was sure was not her own before hustling Hermione back through the Floo to accompany her to McGonagall’s flat.
Within moments, she’d been deposited in the cozy, well-stocked apartment and left to her own devices with a “Happy Christmas, Miss!”
She had nowhere to be, and not a single person who expected her to do a damn thing. With the comfort of that knowledge, she had fallen asleep before dinner and slept straight through the night.
As the sun slowly rose over the charming patchwork of rooftops and chimneys that made up the skyline of Edinburgh, it became easier for Hermione to appreciate all the ways that its inhabitants had decorated for the season. Garlands of fresh pine hung over many of the archways leading to the intricate network of side streets and closes that made the city so unique. The eclectic painted wood storefronts of the many shops along the Royal Mile were dressed up with festive window displays, wreaths with bright red bows and berries sat cheerfully on colorful front doors. Lamp posts were alternatively wrapped with tinsel or trimmed with ribbons. Twinkling lights draped artfully across the awnings and eaves of buildings of different heights and widths, stacked nearly on top of each other in the most delightful jumble over the course of hundreds of years.
Taking a deep breath for the first time in ages, Hermione shoved her hands deeper into the pockets of her favorite slightly-too-large woolen peacoat and grinned to herself behind the thick knit scarf she’d hastily wrapped around her lower face and neck. With gentle snow flurries still falling, she felt like she was living inside a snow globe. Edinburgh was made for Christmas, and right now, it was all hers.
-
By the time the rest of the city began waking up, Hermione was certain she had already walked almost every inch of it. Pulling off a glove to check her watch, she was shocked to see that it was just past 8AM. She felt lighter than she had in years– as if she’d already been away for weeks instead of a mere 12 hours.
As she completed her walking tour and approached Minerva’s flat, the most delicious combination of fresh bread and vanilla wafted from a small shop on the corner marked with a simple sign reading “BOOKS”. It was tucked so unassumingly against the ostentatious colors of Victoria Street that she hadn’t even noticed when she’d passed by earlier. On cue, her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten anything since the gingersnap biscuit in McGonagall’s office yesterday, and after seeing most of Edinburgh on foot this morning, she had more than earned her breakfast.
“Good mornin’, miss!”
A thickly bearded man with a broad Scots accent greeted her the moment she pushed open the door to the nondescript little shop. He was fiddling with a complicated-looking espresso machine behind an enormous wooden bar. Surely something of that size couldn’t have fit through the tiny doorway she’d just ducked through. She did a double take. The man behind the counter smiled as if he was used to this sort of reaction.
“What can I get ye, lass?”
Caught unprepared, Hermione stumbled over her words “Oh, um.” She cast her eyes around for a sign or display of some sort and upon finding none, she finally confessed. “I’m so sorry, I’ve just arrived in town for the holiday. I’m afraid I have no idea what you serve. Do you have a menu?”
“Na, dinnae need one.” He shook his head, bright blue eyes twinkling as if he was in on a joke she wasn’t. “Ye’ll find we’re pretty well suited to gettin’ whatever ye’ need here. Now, how do ye’ take yer coffee?”
Bewildered, Hermione found herself answering in spite of her confusion, “Erm, with cream. And a dash of cinnamon. Thank you.”
The strange man nodded with a satisfied expression, “And for breakfast? What suits yer fancy?”
She hesitated. Surely she couldn’t just order whatever she wanted. He waited expectantly. “Well…” She hedged. “I smelled something heavenly when I was walking by. Could I possibly try whatever that was?”
He grinned good-naturedly and immediately started preparing her drink. “Aye, o’course! Ye were smelling th’ wee apple tarts I made this mornin. Go on an’ find a seat, first order is on the house.”
Turning away from the counter for the first time after stuttering her thanks for the incredible generosity, Hermione had to stifle a gasp. Beyond the enormous front bar, the walls of the small store were lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases of all shapes and sizes. A long, narrow hallway lined with books led away from the entry and deeper into the shop where she assumed the seating must be. She ran her fingers along the spines of the nearest books as she made her way down the hall, feet padding softly on overlapping Turkish rugs that acted as a haphazard carpet strewn on the wooden floor. She felt like she had died and gone to heaven. What WAS this place?
The rectangular room at the end of the hallway immediately reminded her of the Gryffindor common room for several reasons. For starters, it centered around a large stone fireplace complete with a roaring fire that already crackled merrily in the hearth despite the early hour. Surrounding the fireplace was a mismatched assortment of overstuffed velvet armchairs and comfortable-looking couches. Several small tables were pushed against the bookshelves along the walls. On one she spotted what appeared to be a chess board, and near another was a deck of cards. The space was lit exclusively by a collection of vintage lamps which cast the room in an inviting warm glow.
In all, the room had a cozy, lived-in, and well-loved appearance that immediately made it feel familiar. But the most obvious similarity to Gryffindor Tower was that this room was significantly larger than it should have been, given the space that it occupied. It was at least 4 times as large as the front of the shop and Hermione knew that this building was surrounded on all sides by others, defying all laws of physics.
Her eyes narrowed. She knew an undetectable extension charm when she saw one. But there had been no other indication that this was anything but a normal bookstore. The shops surrounding it were muggle, and she’d seen no obvious signs of other witches or wizards since her arrival. Surely an enchanted bookshop couldn’t just exist openly between a muggle pharmacy and a tailor.
She whirled around just as the bearded man stepped from the hallway to join her in the back room. Did he know? Maybe he’d inherited the space without realizing there was anything unusual about its dimensions. She couldn’t just ask him. She’d barely escaped the Ministry and the last thing she wanted was to be hauled back in for violating the International Statute of Secrecy.
“Wha’ do ye think?” He gestured around the unusual room as he placed her coffee and the delicious-smelling pastry on one of the nearest end tables.
Now that he was no longer behind the counter, Hermione could get a better look at him. Dressed in muggle trousers and a thick wool sweater, he had a thick head of hair that rivaled her own. Except his locks were so dark they were almost black and much sleeker than her riotous curls. He had a very pronounced brow that would have given him quite an intimidating appearance if it wasn’t for the kindness of his eyes. While several inches taller than her, he was still of average height, but solidly built with broad shoulders and a muscular frame. A Beater’s build, if one were in the wizarding world. Which, quite frankly, she was still unsure about.
“It’s absolutely wonderful.” She answered honestly. Despite her questions about the origins of the little shop, the fact remained that she was itching to explore it further. It didn’t matter if the shop was magical or muggle, it was perfect. She’d had no real plans for her day, but now with the promise of a good book and a cozy place to read it, she couldn’t see herself leaving anytime soon.
“Are all of your books available for purchase?’ She gazed longingly at the packed shelves, unsure how she’d possibly choose just one.
“Aye, if ye want tae keep them.” He said casually, putting his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “But, as long as yer here, jus’ borrow anything ye like.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “Really?”
He chuckled. “Aye, lass. But if ye find’ a wee bookmark in one, it means someone else is readin’ it too. So dinnae take that one home wi’ ye.”
He pulled a beautiful plum-colored leather bookmark from his pocket and held it out to her.
“Thank you…I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. I’m Hermione.” She held out her hand, and the man’s blue eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled and shook it.
“Ian. I’m the one they’ve left in charge around here. It’s a pleasure, miss. Stay as long as ye like.”
Shrugging out of her coat, she tossed him a smile over her shoulder as she turned to inspect the nearest shelf. “That’s a dangerous offer, Ian. You may never get rid of me.”