Chapter Text
Hermione Granger pulled the collar of her coat tighter against the sharp wind as she trudged down the sidewalk. London always seemed colder in November, and the chill bit into her cheeks. Her breath was visible in the fading light of the late afternoon, and the streetlights were beginning to flicker to life, casting long, thin shadows across the pavement.
Her shoulder bag weighed heavily against her, filled with textbooks, thesis papers, and her laptop. The familiar pressure made her gait just a bit lopsided. She glanced at her watch; she had a little time before heading back to her flat and was already running through her mental grocery list. Bread, eggs, maybe some milk. She could stretch the soup for another few days, but it wouldn’t hurt to grab a few extra things.
The grocer was just down a quiet side street, not far from the university. It was a small, tucked-away shop wedged between a florist and a closed-down pub that still had “For Lease” signs in the windows. Bickford’s Grocer had always been there, for as long as Hermione could remember, though that didn’t mean much—she’d only been in London for the past eight years, focused entirely on her doctorate in applied mathematics. The place felt stuck in time, with its hand-painted sign and worn wooden door. A rare constant in an ever-changing world.
The bell over the door gave a jingle as she stepped inside, and the warmth of the shop wrapped around her, chasing the cold away. The shop was narrow, cramped even, with shelves lined neatly with cans of soup, loaves of bread, jars of jam—the essentials of any busy academic’s diet. The dim lighting made everything look just a little more worn than it already was, but Hermione liked that about it. She liked the way this place felt untouched by the rush of the outside world.
“Afternoon, love,” The old woman sat comfortably behind the counter, her slight frame swallowed by a cardigan that looked as ancient as the shop itself. Wiry gray hair clung stubbornly to her scalp, pulled back into a neat bun that made her weathered face seem even sharper. Lines etched deep from a lifetime of winters softened when she smiled—warm, inviting. “Cold out today.”
“It is,” Hermione agreed, rubbing her hands together for warmth as she moved toward the shelves. She grabbed a basket and started her usual circuit of the store, her thoughts swinging between the mundane task of shopping and the weighty intricacies of the thesis that consumed most of her waking hours—The Role of Adaptive Mesh Refinement in Predicting Vortex Patterns Against Solid Barriers.
It was a working title.
She was on track to complete it before her thirtieth birthday, so long as she stayed disciplined—so long as she stayed busy.
And right now, routine mattered more than ever. Keep your head down, stay busy—her mantra for the last few years. Between research, lectures, and her role as a teaching assistant, there wasn’t much time for anything else. But she didn’t mind. Structure was soothing. Predictable. Numbers didn’t change on a whim, and problems always had solutions, even if they weren’t immediately obvious. In a world that felt increasingly chaotic, her research was the one thing she could control.
London, on the other hand, had changed. Over the years, disappearances had steadily upticked, and an overall oppressive atmosphere gripped the city. Crime was always on the rise; even the quiet streets she had walked alone as a young woman didn’t feel safe anymore. The city felt different now—more on edge, more dangerous. But for Hermione, these things had become part of the background noise. Her world revolved around deadlines and data, theories and proofs. The rest was peripheral.
She grabbed the milk from the refrigerator, letting her mind wander to the pile of assignments waiting for her in her flat—not just her own, but those of the students she helped supervise. Some of them were brilliant but disorganized, struggling under the weight of expectations. Hermione could relate. She’d been there once. Now, though, she was the one offering advice and guidance, even as she navigated the final stretch of her own academic journey.
As she made her way to the counter, a murmur of low conversation caught her ear. Mrs. Bickford was speaking to a young man at the register. He was tall, his tousled black hair looking as though it hadn’t seen a brush in days. His long black coat was wrapped tight around him despite the warmth of the shop, as though he were trying to disappear into it. His eyes flicked toward the window every few seconds, his fingers drumming restlessly on the counter. There was something about his posture, taut like a spring, that set off warning bells in Hermione’s mind.
Mrs. Bickford wasn’t her usual warm self either. She stood a bit too stiffly, her smile absent.
Hermione’s first instinct was to turn away, to give them privacy. But something stopped her. What if he was here to rob Mrs. Bickford? She moved a little closer, pretending to browse the display of chocolate bars near the counter. Her ears strained to catch snippets of the conversation, and she discreetly found her cell phone in her pocket, ready to call for help if things escalated.
Despite her efforts to eavesdrop, she could only make out a few indistinct whispers followed by Mrs. Bickford’s quick and sharp response: “Not here. Later.”
Hermione turned her attention back to her basket, putting the chocolate bar she’d been pretending to examine into it as she discretely released her phone. What on earth were they talking about? Mrs. Bickford’s response made it seem as though she knew the man, so perhaps she didn’t need to worry. But something still felt off. Not my business, she reminded herself.
Resolving to move on with her night, she made her way to the counter once the man left, gently placing her items down and pretending she hadn’t noticed anything strange. Mrs. Bickford’s warm smile returned, but Hermione couldn’t help but notice the way the older woman’s hands trembled slightly as she rang up the total.
“That’ll be one pound sixty, dear,” Mrs. Bickford said, her voice as cheerful as ever.
Hermione handed over the money, her fingers brushing against Mrs. Bickford’s as she took the change. For a moment, their eyes met, and Hermione saw something there—something she couldn’t quite name. Fear? Determination? It was fleeting, but it made her uneasy.
“Careful out there tonight,” Mrs. Bickford said as she handed over the bag. “Darkness comes earlier these days.”
Hermione nodded, murmuring her thanks as she turned toward the door. The bell jingled again as she stepped outside, the chill of the evening air cutting through her coat. The sky had turned a deep gray, the last traces of daylight slipping behind the tall buildings that lined the narrow street. She started walking, her footsteps quickening as the wind picked up.
Halfway down the street, she noticed them. Two men standing near the corner, their faces obscured by the dim light of the streetlamp. One of them was the young man from the shop—the one who’d been whispering to Mrs. Bickford. The other was taller, his coat pulled tightly around his body, hands buried deep in his pockets. His hair was a ruddy shade in the dim light. Both wore the same style of long drapey coat—more like cloaks than the sort of jacket most people wore this time of year. They weren’t looking at her, but their presence made her stomach knot. She quickened her pace as she walked past them, ducking her head against the wind.
As she passed the alley next to the grocer, a loud crack echoed from behind her, like a whip slicing through the air. Hermione froze mid-step, her breath catching in her throat. A gunshot? She whirled around, her heart pounding in her ears.
The two men were gone.