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Chapter Text

The elevator doors slide open with a mechanical sigh, and Hermione steps inside without looking up from her phone. She presses the button for Level 10 — her floor, same as always.

She’s dressed like every other junior associate in the building: fitted black pencil skirt, silk blouse, heels just sensible enough for a twelve-hour day. There’s a faint coffee stain near her sleeve cuff from an early morning phone call that should’ve been an email, and a barely-contained twist in her hair that’s already starting to frizz.

She’s headed to her office at Gryffindor & Co., the mid-size law firm occupying half the tenth floor and all of her waking hours.

Hermione’s already mentally revising the wording of a client memo, thumb hovering over the keyboard, when she senses movement on her right.

Every morning, the lift fills with the usual suspects. A woman from HR at the accounting firm on Level 7, perpetually clutching a takeaway coffee. A cluster of junior associates from some marketing agency on Level 8, gossiping about deadlines and weekend plans. Occasionally, there’s that intern from the finance office on 9, shuffling awkwardly in his too-big suit. Familiar faces. Predictable routines.

But not him.

He’s already there.

She hadn’t seen him in the lobby, which means he must’ve come up from the basement—probably from the building’s underground parking garage.

Hermione glances up, registering him fully for the first time, and her thoughts stutter. How have I not seen him before? He’s the kind of person you notice. The kind you remember.

Because—bloody hell—he’s fit.

He’s new. Definitely new. She’d have clocked him otherwise. Tall, broad-shouldered, ginger hair slightly tousled but in that intentional, rugged-looking way. He wears a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, no tie, collar slightly undone. Confident, but not showy. Professional, but not stiff.

He stands to her right—close enough that she notices the shift of his weight as the elevator glides upward, but distant enough that she can’t justify turning to look. He’s still, composed, facing forward like he has somewhere important to be. Which, to be fair, so does everyone else in this building.

Not that Hermione’s looking.

She’s not.

Just… taking in her surroundings like any normal, observant adult woman.

She returns to her phone.

Sort of.

He shifts slightly, and she catches a whiff of something clean and warm—maybe cedar and citrus. Hermione blinks hard and types Please see attached documetn before realizing her typo.

Damn it.

The elevator dings at Level 6. He doesn’t move.

He’s going higher.

Hermione’s floor is Level 10, same as always. She knows most of the people who get off between 6 and 9. But not him. And while there are a few others still in the lift—people she recognizes from the upper floors—none of them catch her attention the way he does.

Level 7. Still no movement. She dares another glance. His jaw ticks, like he’s thinking. Or maybe smirking.

Not at her—he hasn’t looked her way.

Not even once.

Level 9. A few more people step off.

The elevator hums.

And then—

Ding.

Level 10. Her floor. 

She steps out, heels clicking briskly. Doesn’t look back.

Definitely doesn’t wonder if he looked at her.

~

It happens again. Thursday morning, ten past eight.

She’s early, but not the only one.

The elevator doors slide open to reveal him already inside—tall, ginger, absurdly good-looking. Just like before. Maybe even better than before. And this time, she notices something new.

Freckles. Not just a few—a constellation. Scattered across his cheeks, nose, the edge of his jaw. Even dipping below his collarbone, just visible where the top button of his shirt is undone.

She has no idea how she missed them before.

They make him look slightly younger. Softer, in a way. But not in a bad way. Not at all. It’s disarming. Something about the contrast—broad shoulders, long limbs, sharp features paired with freckles—does something strange to her breathing. Like her body hasn’t caught up to her brain yet.

And he’s tall. She’s guessing over six feet. Closer to six-five, if she had to wager. Which she absolutely isn’t. Obviously.

She steps in from the lobby, brushing a stray curl from her cheek, and presses the button for Level 10. The other buttons already lit are 11 and 15. There’s an older gentleman standing near the corner, briefcase in hand, who must’ve also gotten on before her. She doesn’t recognise him or know which floor he’s going to—but it does confirm that the hot ginger is either headed to 11...or 15.

He doesn’t glance up. Headphones in—wired ones, of all things. A slim white cord runs from his ears into the pocket of his blazer, the faintest pulse of drum and bass just audible in the quiet. He’s tapping his fingers lightly against his upper thigh, in time with the beat.

He’s wearing slate grey trousers today, a crisp blue shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, and a darker blazer slung over his shoulder, as if he only put it on halfway out of obligation. Still, he looks sharp. Sharp in that low-effort, high-impact sort of way. Like he didn’t spend long getting ready but somehow got it exactly right.

She’s definitely sure now—he must’ve come from the basement parking. That’s the only way he’d already be in the elevator before her.

The elevator hums as it begins to climb. He nods to the rhythm of whatever he’s listening to, fingers still tapping against his thigh. Not a twitchy tap. Just a rhythm kept without thinking. Like someone used to syncing thoughts to music. Or someone who needs a beat to think straight.

Business or marketing , she thinks. Has to be. Definitely not legal—he doesn’t carry the frantic, paper-clutching energy most lawyers do in the morning. He looks like he actually slept. And somehow, also has time to work out. Because of course he does.

She studies him sideways, careful not to be obvious about it. His hair is a little messy in the back, like he towel-dried it and left it alone. Blonde eyelashes catch the light—they’re actually really pretty—and his mouth is soft at the corners, resting somewhere between relaxed and amused.

The doors open at Level 7. A woman gets on, heading to Floor 14. Hermione shifts slightly to the right, ending up closer to him than before.

Close enough to see the faintest dimple in his cheek.

Close enough to smell him again—clean, citrus, something woodsy underneath. A scent that lingers just long enough to make her wonder what brand it is. Or if he always smells like that. Or if it’s actually his cologne, or just something borrowed from a flatmate with taste.

She doesn’t look at him again. Not directly.

But as the elevator climbs toward 10, she finds herself listening to the music bleeding faintly from his headphones and wonders—just for a moment—what kind of person still chooses wired over wireless. What else he’s particular about. What other small, deliberate decisions he makes without thinking.

And what his name might be.

~

It’s quiet when she steps into the elevator. Just her.

Monday morning. Nine sharp.

Technically, she’s late. But she has court in the afternoon, which means she'll be working overtime anyway—nothing new there.

She drove in today. Needed the car to get to the courthouse later, which meant battling traffic, which meant being slightly behind schedule. Again, nothing new.

For once, she’s the first. No music bleeding from headphones, no telltale pulse of citrus cologne in the air. Just the hum of the lights and the soft shuffle of her heels against the elevator floor.

She exhales, shoulders relaxing slightly. It's already been a morning—tight deadlines, a partner in a foul mood, and her email inbox multiplying like it’s training for a marathon. She taps the button for Level 10 and leans back, fixing her gaze somewhere above the floor numbers.

The doors open again at the lobby. A few people file in—two from Marketing, she thinks, and one of the receptionists with her usual cloud of perfume. Hermione steps aside automatically to make room.

Then—

Just as the doors begin to slide closed, a hand darts through the gap.

The elevator jerks slightly, then springs open again.

He walks in.

Tall. Ginger. Freckles. Same disheveled precision as before—like he got ready in five minutes and still somehow looks better than most people do with effort. He’s in a white shirt, dark blazer fitted just right, and slim trousers that make it abundantly clear he knows how to dress for his build.

“Sorry,” he says, offering a quick, crooked smile as he steps inside. “Didn’t mean to play chicken with the doors.”

It’s the first time she hears his voice.

Low. Warm. With a bit of a playful tilt to it—like he could make you laugh without trying too hard.

It lands somewhere between charming and maddening.

Hermione doesn’t react. At least, not visibly.

Internally, her brain short-circuits for half a second.

He turns, presses the button for Level 11.

Level 11. Of course.

The new startup floor.

The old firm on 11 moved out six months ago—she remembers the building-wide email.

And she hasn’t seen any of the usual crowd that worked up there since. Just new faces. One, in particular.

WZLY , she thinks. That has to be it. The startup with the weird name and the sleek new logo on the hallway sign. The kind of place where they drink cold brew on tap and have weekly brainstorms on whiteboards shaped like clouds.

It suits him, honestly.

He slips his headphones into his pocket as the doors slide shut. No music today, apparently.

He doesn’t look at her. But his presence shifts the entire elevator. Like everyone suddenly notices him.

Hermione doesn’t say anything. But now she knows where he works.

And what his voice sounds like.

It’s not much.

But it’s something.

~

The office is too quiet at this hour.

It’s nearly seven. Most of the lights on Level 10 have already dimmed to their energy-saving setting. The floor is empty—save for the soft click of her heels and the occasional sigh from the printer that refuses to shut up.

Hermione exhales and adjusts the strap of her bag on her shoulder. She’s tired. The kind of tired that settles behind your eyes and makes your thoughts feel like they’re wading through molasses. Everything aches in that quiet, post-adrenaline way. Court went long. Her inbox still isn’t cleared. She can’t remember if she had lunch.

She just wants to go home.

She reaches the elevator and presses the button, blinking slowly against the flickering glow of the floor display.

A soft ding. The doors slide open.

He’s already inside.

Tall. Ginger. Freckles.

Still unfairly handsome.

She pauses for a beat—just long enough to register the lightness in his expression, the relaxed posture, one hand tucked into his pocket. No blazer this time. Just a black button-down, sleeves rolled up, the collar open and slightly rumpled, like he’s been working just as late as she has.

His hair looks softer without the day’s structure. A little flatter. Like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. There’s a takeaway coffee cup near his feet. Nearly empty.

He looks up—and sees her.

They lock eyes.

Then he smiles.

It’s subtle, but warm. Not the generic, polite smile you give a stranger in passing. This one has intention behind it. A flicker of recognition. A quiet hello , without words.

Hermione steps in, heart doing something strange in her chest. Like it missed a cue. Like it’s paying closer attention now than it has all day.

She notices he’s already pressed P .

Parking.

He drove today.

She reaches out and taps M for the lobby, trying to ignore the flutter building under her ribs. The doors slide shut behind her.

They don’t speak.

The elevator begins its slow descent, humming softly in the stillness.

No headphones. No crowd. No distractions.

Just the two of them. The quiet of after hours. The low glow of the panel buttons. The faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air—something deeper than last time. Amber and spice and something sharp and clean. Like a storm about to break.

She wonders if he always works late.

If he noticed she does too.

She wonders if his day was long. If he’s tired. If that smile meant I’m glad it’s you.

They don’t speak.

But the silence doesn’t stretch in that awkward, get-me-out-of-here way. It expands slowly, comfortably. Like a pause with potential.

They both know they’ve seen each other. Not just in passing. Not just in the elevator.

Seen.

And somehow, the quiet between them feels less like absence and more like anticipation.

The elevator glides to a stop with a soft ding.

Hermione steps out onto the lobby floor, the soles of her heels muted against the polished tile.

She doesn’t look back at first.

She tells herself she won’t.

But as the doors begin to close—slowly, steadily—some part of her, unbidden, turns.

Just a glance.

He’s still standing where she left him. Hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, head tilted ever so slightly—like he was waiting to see if she’d look.

And then—he smiles.

Again.

This one is softer. Not a hello. Not a sorry-for-almost-missing-the-elevator kind of smile. No, this one feels... personal. Like it’s just for her.

Not loud. Not cocky.

Just warm.

The doors slide shut before she can even think to respond.

She stands there for a moment, staring at the closed metal. Lips parted slightly. Heart thudding a little too fast for her own liking.

Hermione Granger doesn’t believe in workplace distractions.

She doesn’t daydream about strangers in elevators. Doesn’t count the freckles on their face. Doesn’t wonder what their voice might sound like first thing in the morning.

And she definitely doesn’t smile at elevator doors like a complete idiot.

Except... she kind of just did.

She adjusts the strap of her bag and walks out into the evening air, cheeks warm, pulse annoyingly fluttery.

She doesn’t know his name.

But she’s starting to think maybe she’d like to.

~

Friday.

The workday is finally winding down, and the tenth floor is emptying with the usual Friday afternoon urgency—half the office pretending they don’t have weekend plans, the other half pretending they do.

Hermione stands by the elevator with Harry—another associate at Gryffindor & Co., her best friend, and ex-flatmate from law school—as they wait for the lift to arrive. He’s adjusting his perfectly knotted scarf in the reflection of the closed doors, already half-done for the day in that way only Harry can pull off.

Harry always looks put-together, but not like he’s trying too hard. Slim-cut trousers, a navy jumper over his collared shirt, coat folded over his arm. There’s a glint in his eye that suggests he’s seen everything in this office and made judgments on most of it. He’s quick, unbothered, and rarely wrong. His hair is artfully messy and almost certainly intentional, and he has the energy of someone who’s always in on a secret—especially if it’s about you.

“Did you see McLaggen trying to flirt with Patil from Compliance this morning?” Harry asks, eyes gleaming. “Honestly, I thought she was going to staple him to the kitchenette wall.”

Hermione snorts. “I was there. She told him, ‘this isn’t a bar and I’m not your bartender.’”

Harry gasps. “Parvati is so iconic.”

The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and they step inside. Hermione presses M , Harry leans back against the mirrored wall like he owns it.

"Anyway," he says, still grinning. "I’m asking you this as a friend, not a colleague—would you let me set you up with someone?"

Hermione blinks. “Absolutely not.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That was a very fast no.”

She rolls her eyes, adjusting the strap on her bag. “Because it’s always weird. And awkward. And you know it never ends well.”

Harry hums. “Even if he’s dark, gorgeous, and very well-dressed—and kind of the strong, silent type?”

Hermione gives him a side glance. “Silent type?”

“Barely speaks at all,” Harry says proudly, like this is a major selling point. “But when he does, it’s very meaningful.”

She considers it for a fraction of a second, then shakes her head. “Yeah… no. Doesn’t sound like my type.”

She doesn’t say what her type is. She doesn’t need to.

Harry shrugs, but his smirk says he’s clocked something. “Fine, fine. But when you get bored of your ‘not-my-type’ phase, let me know.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

The elevator starts to glide downward.

Hermione nods absently at whatever Harry says next, but her thoughts are already drifting. To someone tall. Ginger. Unreasonably handsome. Who presses floor 11 and taps mindlessly to the rhythm of whatever he’s listening to. Who smiles like it’s meant for her and wears his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow like it’s a personal attack.

She tells herself it’s a relief. Simpler this way.

“So that’s a no on the setup?” Harry asks again, half-teasing, half-hopeful.

“Hard no,” Hermione says.

He sighs dramatically. “You’re cruel.”

The elevator dings. Lobby.

They step out into the warm Friday air.

Hermione adjusts her bag and tells herself she’s not thinking about tomorrow. Or Monday. Or whoever might be in the elevator next.

They head in the direction of the tube, weaving around other office workers spilling out of buildings, jackets slung over shoulders, everyone moving a little lighter than usual.

Harry glances at her sideways. “Okay, if the strong, silent type isn’t your thing… what is your type, then?”

Hermione keeps her eyes forward. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on.”

She hesitates, then shrugs. “Someone with a warm smile.”

Harry hums like he’s filing that away for later. “That’s vague and suspiciously wholesome. You’re definitely hiding something.”

Hermione just smirks and keeps walking.

She doesn’t say anything else.

But the image of a crooked, soft smile under freckled cheekbones lingers all the way to the station.

Chapter Text

It’s been a week and a half since she last saw him.

Not that she’s been keeping track.

Not that she’s been thinking about the redhead from the elevator every time she presses the button for up and the doors open to someone who isn’t him.

Okay—maybe a little.

She hasn’t seen him since that late evening ride. The one with the silence and the smile. The one that left her standing in the lobby like she’d just walked out of a scene from one of those ridiculous romance films she claims to hate.

Today, it’s raining.

Not a polite London drizzle, but a full-blown, grey-skied, shoe-soaking downpour that’s soaked half the city and frizzed the other half’s hair into oblivion. Typical spring. Hermione’s pinned her curls back into something resembling order—a high, tight twist that screams function over fashion.

Still, she put on lipstick.

A long-wear matt in nudish pink. Professional. Subtle.

Just in case.

The elevator chimes.

She steps in.

And there he is.

Tall. Ginger. That same straight, slightly-too-long, perfectly messy hair—flatter today from the rain, a few strands curling behind his ears and falling over his forehead. The kind of haircut no office professional would typically get away with, unless they were a professional footballer. Or rugby player. Or just… looked like that.

He’s juggling a tray of four takeaway coffees and his phone in his free hand.

His shirt’s open at the collar again, blazer damp at the shoulders but still somehow sitting right on him. Like the rain tried its best and he just... ignored it. Unbothered.

He glances up—and smiles.

That same smile. Crooked. Warm. Easy. The kind of smile that could make someone forget how to form a sentence.

She pretends not to notice. Presses the button for floor 10.

He shifts slightly to make space for her without saying a word. Coffee and something earthy—maybe the rain, maybe his cologne—fill the space between them.

They don’t speak.

They never do.

But when she dares a glance sideways, he’s still smiling.

And her stomach does something incredibly stupid for someone who’s 27.

~

The sign by the lifts reads: Elevator B out of service. Apologies for the inconvenience.

Hermione sighs. Inconvenience is right. With only one lift running, the wait times are longer, the cabins more crowded, and personal space? Nonexistent.

When the elevator finally arrives, it’s already half full. She steps in, clutching her tote closer to her side as a tide of bodies presses around her. Someone hits the button for ten before she can reach it, and she mutters a soft “Thanks,” trying to squeeze into a spot near the back corner.

And that’s when she sees him.

Of course.

He’s right beside her. Headphones in—again—and looking as unbothered by the crowd as ever. A dark green jumper today, instead of a blazer. Collar open like usual.

And loud music. She’s so close today she can actually make out bits of the lyrics, shouted, crass, and unapologetic.

She can hear it bleeding from his headphones—raw, fast, distinctly guitar-heavy. It’s not polished, not modern pop. It’s jagged, pulsing. British punk, if she’s not mistaken.

Is that… Sex Pistols?

Or maybe another band from that era. It’s hard to tell through the tinny headphone leakage, but she catches something that sounds suspiciously like a late-70s shout chorus and nearly snorts.

Internally, of course.

Because—honestly?

He’s either an old man trapped in a twenty-something’s body… or a teenage boy with a Spotify playlist full of rebellion and noise.

Either way, it’s oddly charming.

She glances sideways. He’s standing relaxed, shoulder brushing the elevator wall, one hand holding the strap of his bag, the other tapping absently at his side. His knuckles are a bit scraped—like maybe he plays a contact sport or forgot to be careful moving something heavy. There’s a faint smudge of ink on his thumb. A coffee stain on the hem of his sleeve, barely noticeable.

Little things.

The kind of details you wouldn’t normally notice unless you were… well. Paying attention.

She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

This is absurd.

She’s pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, running on three hours of sleep, holding in a laugh over some tall redhead who listens to punk rock like it’s still 1979.

The elevator jolts slightly as it climbs. She stumbles half a step—and for a moment, her elbow bumps his.

The lift stops again. Floor by floor, one after the other. It’s packed today, which means it’s stopping at every level. Which, unfortunately, means more time for her to stand here, accidentally cataloguing every tiny thing about him like her brain is storing it for later.

He glances down at her. Just a flicker.

And then, the smile.

She’s officially doomed.

Because Hermione Granger has come to terms with something today.

She has a schoolgirl crush.

On a man whose name she doesn’t even know—and who listens to punk like he’s an edgy middle schooler.

~

It’s nearly eight-thirty by the time Hermione leaves her office.

Level 10 is silent—half the lights already dimmed, the air heavy with end-of-day stillness. Her heels click softly against the tile, the only sound in the corridor. Her blouse is wrinkled, her curls have long escaped the twist she pinned them in this morning, and she’s hit that precise kind of exhaustion where even thinking feels like effort.

All she wants is to go home.

To crawl into her flat, change into pajamas, curl up with Crookshanks, and finally watch the latest episode of that office thriller show she’s somehow two weeks behind on.

The elevator arrives with a soft chime.

She steps in—and freezes.

He’s already inside.

Leaning casually against the back rail, one foot crossed over the other, his phone in one hand, his blazer folded neatly over the other arm. Relaxed, but not sloppy. The kind of ease that suggests confidence, not carelessness.

No music leaking from his earbuds this time.

He looks up as she enters and smiles.

It’s instinctive now, that smile. Familiar. Effortless. Like they’ve somehow reached a silent agreement that this is what they do. A greeting with no words.

It hits her harder than it should.

She nods back. Polite. Controlled.

She presses the button for M—lobby.

The elevator hums as it begins its descent.

They don’t speak. They never do.

And yet the silence between them isn’t awkward. It never is. It’s just… charged. Quiet. Comfortable in the strangest way. Like they’re both pretending this is just a normal end to a normal day, and not the latest in a string of strange, lingering not-quite-moments.

She wants to speak.

She really, truly does. Just a simple “Hi,” maybe. Or “Long day?” Something ordinary. Something real.

But her mouth doesn’t move.

Because he’s tall, and handsome, and smiling—and let’s face it: men who look like that are almost never single.

He probably has a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or a whole domestic situation with someone equally attractive who makes him green smoothies and kisses his forehead on the way out the door.

And honestly? She’d rather keep the fantasy.

Ruin the illusion and what’s left?

A stranger with a nice face. And no smile.

So she stays quiet.

She glances sideways, just once.

He’s reading something on his phone, thumb scrolling slowly, earbuds still in but clearly not playing anything. There’s a crease between his brows—focused, but not tense. Calm. He looks like someone who’s had a long day too.

She wonders what he does to unwind.

If he has a cat or if he’s more of a dog person.

If he watches dumb shows too.

Ding.

The doors slide open.

Hermione steps forward.

She walks out into the lobby, pulse too loud in her ears.

Just before the doors close, she thinks—next time.

Maybe.

~

She’s running late.

Not dramatically late. Just enough that she’s power-walking through the lobby with her coffee in one hand, her light brown trench coat only half-done up, and the faint dread of having to wait seven minutes for the next elevator settling in her stomach.

The lift is just about to close when a familiar hand darts out and stops the doors from fully closing.

The doors slide open again.

And there he is.

Holding it for her.

She still doesn’t know his name. At this point, calling him “tall, dreamy, punk-loving, and handsome Ginger” feels a bit long-winded. But accurate. Painfully accurate.

He’s standing just inside, coffee tray in one hand, that same easy half-smile already in place. A few of the usual suspects are there too—the HR woman with the sharp black bob from Level 7, one of the loud marketing interns from 8, someone from Facilities holding a plant.

But it’s him she notices first.

Always him.

“Made it,” he says.

It catches her off guard. She hadn’t expected him to speak—not to her, not first. Her heart does something ridiculous.

“Barely,” she breathes, stepping in and smoothing a hand down her coat. “Thanks.”

He shifts to make space beside her. Casual. Unbothered.

“Didn’t peg you for a late-riser.”

She turns to look at him properly now, surprised again. He noticed that?

She raises a brow, glancing sideways. “Is that your polite way of saying I look dishevelled?”

“Not at all,” he says, grinning. “You just seem... punctual. Alarm-type energy.”

She huffs a quiet laugh into her coffee. “Statistically, everyone’s late sometimes.”

“Fair enough,” he says, smirking. “Still feels like a significant data point.”

Her lips twitch. “Says the man with four coffees. Are those all for you?”

“Unfortunately, no. I have coworkers. They depend on me.”

She glances at the tray—names scribbled on the lids: Percy, George, Fred, Ron. Four cups. Four names.

She finds herself wondering—just a little too intently—which one is his.

“That’s noble of you,” she says.

“Some call it noble. Some call it a caffeine bribe.”

She smiles into her cup. “Bribery. Strategic.”

“Exactly.” He grins—and it lights up his whole face.

Ding.

Level 9.

Hermione shifts as someone steps out, and suddenly there’s just a little less space between them.

Not much—but enough to make her hyper-aware of the fact that he always smells good. Clean. Warm. Something woody and citrusy beneath the rain. Enough to make her brain slow down just a touch.

And she’s just here, in her wrinkled coat and probably smelling like damp paper and end-of-week stress.

Ding.

Level 10.

She steps forward, toward the door, then glances back—just briefly.

“Good luck with the bribery,” she says.

He smirks. “Thanks.”

And then she’s gone.

But the smile stays with her all the way to her office.

~

That afternoon, the elevator is mercifully quiet.

Hermione leans against the mirrored wall, coat folded over her arm, the last of her post-lunch coffee still warm in her hand. The office is settling into its usual mid-afternoon lull—subdued chatter, sluggish inboxes—but she’s surprisingly alert.

Across from her, Harry eyes her over the rim of his iced tea with narrowed suspicion.

“You’ve been weirdly cheerful today,” he says, like he’s accusing her of a crime. “What’s going on?”

Hermione glances over, casual. “Nothing’s going on.”

“Right,” he says slowly. “You’ve been in a good mood since nine. You let McLaggen have the last almond croissant in the breakroom without a single protest.”

“I wasn’t in the mood for croissants.”

“You’re always in the mood for croissants. And you even offered to help Thomas with his contract review. That’s not normal behaviour.”

“I felt like being helpful.”

Harry tilts his head. “No offence, but you never feel like being helpful. Especially not out of kindness.”

She narrows her eyes. “Did you want help on your Snape file or something?”

“Don’t change the subject.” His eyes light up with triumph. “You’re clearly thinking about someone.”

Hermione blinks. “What?”

He grins. “You’ve got that dazed little smile going on. The one you get when you’re mentally organising your calendar—or imagining someone shirtless. I can’t tell which.”

“I’m not—” She exhales, adjusting the strap on her bag. “I’m not thinking about anyone.”

Harry sips his tea like he doesn’t believe a word of it. “Alright. No judgment. I just didn’t realise someone had finally passed your incredibly high standards.”

He pauses.

“Not since Krum, anyway.”

Hermione doesn’t respond.

Which is, of course, enough of a response.

Viktor had been her boyfriend during law school—a quiet, thoughtful presence during an intense couple of years. But it hadn’t lasted. They’d grown apart slowly, naturally. Different cities. Different lives.

Harry eyes her sideways, intrigued but not pushy. “Is he someone I know?”

Hermione keeps her voice even. “Doubt it.”

Harry shrugs, already turning back toward the elevator doors. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

Ding. The elevator chimes.

As the doors slide open, Harry steps out first but shoots her one last look over his shoulder.

“You’re glowing, by the way.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, trying not to smile.

“Shut up, Harry.”

~

The elevator chimes open at the lobby just as Hermione and Dean step through the glass doors.

He’s in the middle of asking a question about contract language—something from a file he’s helping draft—but Hermione only half hears it. Because there, already in the elevator, standing with one hand braced casually against the side rail, is the hot Ginger from WZLY.

Today, he’s in a charcoal-grey blazer and a loosely knotted necktie. His hair is messier than usual, like he’s been running his hand through it all morning—less polished, but still aggravatingly good-looking.

She expects the smile.

That familiar, easy curve of his lips.

But it doesn’t come.

His eyes flick over her—land briefly on Dean—and then away again. No nod. No smile. Nothing.

Hermione’s stomach does something odd and weightless.

She steps in next to Dean, pretending not to notice. Pretending she didn’t just feel that absence like a missed step.

“—and I know you said to flag anything that smells like misrepresentation,” Dean is saying, “but this one’s a bit grey. If the client technically disclosed it, just not where anyone would expect it...”

Hermione forces herself to focus. “Was it in a footnote?”

“Page twelve,” he mutters. “Between two exhibits. Practically invisible.”

She hums. “Then yes. Flag it. Hidden transparency is still a problem.”

Dean nods, grateful. He’s a few years behind her in the firm—not a junior, exactly, but still in that liminal middle. They don’t work together often, but she likes Dean. He’s thoughtful, unpretentious, and doesn’t ask questions just to show off. She genuinely enjoys the occasional after-work drink with him and Parvati—especially when Harry tags along and gets tipsy enough to flirt with the bartender.

The elevator hums upward.

Dean glances over, noticing her awkward grip on her coffee and overloaded files.

“Want me to take one of those?” he murmurs, nodding toward the stack.

She shifts her weight, then passes him a folder with a quiet “Thanks.”

He tucks it under his arm without fuss.

She glances once, subtly, across the lift. The redhead’s eyes are on his phone now, thumb scrolling, jaw tight.

No music leaking from his headphones.

No acknowledgement at all.

Maybe he didn’t see her.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe he thought Dean was—

No.

She squashes the thought before it finishes forming.

It’s absurd.

Almost as absurd as being affected by a stranger’s silence.

But then, so is having a schoolgirl crush at twenty-seven.

Ding.

Level 10.

Hermione steps out first, coffee in one hand, her face carefully neutral.

She tells herself not to care. It’s probably nothing. Maybe he’s having a bad day. Maybe he’s distracted.

Still, she misses the smile.

More than she’d like to admit.

She doesn’t look back.

Not today.

~

Hermione glances both ways down the hallway before stepping toward the elevator.

It’s past eight again. The office is dark except for the glow of the emergency lights and the printer that won’t stop whirring even though no one’s used it in hours.

She’s done. Exhausted. And—more importantly—her feet are killing her.

Her heels, once a good idea, are now instruments of pure evil. She’s been in them since 8 a.m.—one more minute and she might commit a crime.

So she slips them off.

Just for the elevator ride. Just for forty-five seconds of peace.

She holds them loosely in one hand, bare feet pressed onto the cold floor as she presses the button.

And then—like clockwork—an intrusive thought.

Please don’t let the hot Ginger from eleven be in there.

The doors slide open.

Of course.

She nearly groans.

There he is...

Leaning against the back wall, blazer jacket draped over one arm, earbuds looped around his neck. Hair messy. Shirt sleeves wrinkled and unbuttoned even further down.

He looks up. Sees her.

And smiles.

The smile she wasn’t sure would come again.

Her heels dangle uselessly in her hand, and there’s absolutely no way to style out this situation. She steps in barefoot, head held high, silently begging the elevator to just malfunction and send her into another dimension.

He glances down at her feet.

Then up at her face.

And—smiles wider.

“Long day?” he asks, voice warm.

She nods, deadpan. “You have no idea.”

She’s exhausted, yes—but apparently even years of professional ambition can’t override the thrill of being acknowledged by a man with a face like that. And now he’s talking to her, and she’s so flustered it’s a miracle she remembers how to stand upright.

Her cheeks are warm, but not in a mortifying way.

Maybe just... flustered.

Lightly toasted.

“No judgment,” he says, tilting his head. “Honestly, I was this close to walking out in my socks.”

She glances at him—and notices the tips of his ears are pink.

Just slightly.

Like maybe he's a little flustered, too.

She snorts despite herself. “At least you don’t have to pretend they were a fashion choice.”

He grins at that, eyes crinkling.

The elevator hums beneath them as it descends, blessedly empty aside from the two of them.

He doesn’t comment again. Doesn’t make it weird. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, perfectly unbothered.

Ding.

Lobby.

She steps forward, and just before the doors open, she quickly slips her heels back on—silent, swift, and slightly wincing.

Pride is pride.

And before the doors close behind her, she hears him say, almost like an afterthought:

“Maroon suits you.”

She turns—but the doors are already sliding shut.

Her toenails are painted maroon.

She didn’t think anyone would notice.

She didn’t think he would.

She’s smiling before she even hits the street.

Chapter Text

The fire alarm goes off just after 2 in the afternoon.

Not the soft, annoying beep of a low battery.

No—the alarm. Shrill. Blinking lights. Everyone filing out of their offices with varying degrees of confusion and irritation.

Hermione was about to head into a debriefing with McGonagall when it went off.

“Probably someone burned popcorn again,” she mutters under her breath as she joins the herd of solicitors and interns making their way to the emergency stairwell.

Harry is nowhere to be seen. She swears he was just behind her. He probably fell behind while texting Draco. 

The hallway is cramped, full of rustling coats and muttered complaints. She walks carefully down the narrow stairs in heels—different heels today, mercifully less offensive than the last pair—as people chat around her in bursts.

Just ahead, Cormac is laying it on thick with Parvati, who looks one eye-roll away from filing an HR complaint. Dean walks alongside Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet, all three laughing. Probably at Cormac’s latest attempt.

Halfway down between floors, she hears another laugh—deeper, warmer. A group of four men a few steps below.

One unmistakably attractive redhead, and three others who look… well, alarmingly like him.

Two are identical, grinning and nudging each other like kids on a school trip. The third is broader, with glasses and a more serious expression. And then there’s him.

The hot redhead from floor 11.

He’s taller than the rest of them, with that same messy layered hair that definitely wouldn’t pass a corporate dress code, a constellation of freckles across the back of his neck, and black trousers that look just slightly too fitted from behind to be entirely fair.

Today, he’s in a light green dress shirt, sleeves rumpled, holding a phone and laughing at something one of the twins says.

He looks up—spots her instantly.

And waves.

Like it’s nothing. Like they do this all the time.

Like she isn’t suddenly very aware of having been caught barefoot in an elevator just days ago.

Her stomach flips.

She gives a small, instinctive wave back and hopes her face doesn’t give anything away.

He grins and keeps walking with his brothers, because that’s clearly what they are. 

Same hair colour. Same energy. Same height gradient, like they’ve been arranged by age or chaos level.

He’s still the tallest. 

And definitely the best-looking.

“Hermione,” a voice says behind her, shaking her out of her endless thoughts about the beautiful man with cornflower-blue eyes.

She turns.

It’s Harry. Fellow lawyer. Ex-flatmate. Best friend. Professional meddler.

He follows her gaze down the stairwell, then quirks an eyebrow.

"Who was that?"

She keeps her voice even. "Just… someone from upstairs."

"Upstairs?" He tilts his head. "You said that like it was capitalised."

"I didn’t."

"You did. It had a vibe."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "He’s from one of the startups. WZLY, I think."

Harry glances down again, watching the redheads disappear around a landing.

"You’ve definitely got a type."

Hermione arches a brow. "What type?"

Harry shrugs.

"You know—tall, fit, good posture... the exact thing you said you weren’t looking for."

She hesitates. Just long enough.

Harry grins, far too pleased with himself.

"The warm smile."

“I don’t have a type,” she lies.

He hums. “Sure you don’t.”

Hermione looks forward again, focusing on the stairs, ignoring the warmth creeping into her cheeks.

Because he waved.

Like they’re friends now.

Like it’s something they do.

A simple, easy flick of his fingers. Friendly. Familiar.

Like they’ve known each other longer than two elevator rides.

“He works for WZLY, huh?” Harry says. “Draco mentioned they’ve been scaling up fast. Think one of them tried to poach someone from his father’s firm.

Draco’s father, Lucius Malfoy, ran Malfoy & Son—a prestigious business consultancy that handled corporate mergers, branding, and high-profile investments.

If a startup was bold enough to poach staff from Malfoy & Son, they either had insane confidence… or were just plain insane.

Hermione hides a smile. “Interesting.”

Harry watches her for a second longer, then glances down the stairwell again—towards the hot redhead and his brothers who were now turning the corner.

He bumps her elbow gently. “He’s cute.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Harry.”

“What? I’m gay, not blind.”

She huffs a laugh despite herself and keeps walking, cheeks warming.

Because, yeah.

He is cute.

And he did wave.

~

The next morning, Hermione steps into the lobby, coffee in one hand, a thick folder tucked under her arm.

The air is still damp from last night’s rain, and the crowd around the elevators is the usual mix: the woman from HR with the sharp black bob and perpetually pinched expression, a gaggle of marketing interns already gossiping, and a man from the Accounting firm she vaguely recognises but has never spoken to.

Muscle memory kicks in. She presses the button, shifts her coffee, checks the time.

The doors slide open.

And there he is.

The hot redhead from eleven.

Already inside, standing casually near the back, one hand in his pocket. Today he’s in a light grey dress shirt, a navy tie loosened just slightly at the collar. His hair’s rumpled, the way it gets when he’s been running his hands through it too much—and somehow, it only makes him look better. 

Their eyes meet.

Hermione steps in, giving a polite nod. "Morning," she says, aiming for casual.

He clears his throat. “Morning.”

It’s... slightly too loud. Slightly too fast.

Then, like he needs an excuse to not say anything else, he adjusts his earbuds—and this time, there’s faint music leaking from them again. Raw, fast. British punk, if she had to guess.

She shifts to the side as the HR woman gets on, the marketing interns clustering behind.

Her heart does a small, silly stutter. 

Was he always this awkward? 

Or—

Was she the reason he was acting weird?

Had she said something odd last time? 

Had she smiled too much? Been too... obvious?

She mentally cringes. Maybe she'd read too much into it—the smiles, the glances, the friendly teasing. Maybe he’d been polite, and she’d made it into something bigger in her own head.

The thought settles uncomfortably in her chest.

She catches a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye—standing a little too stiffly, staring firmly ahead like the elevator walls are the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

And there it is: 

The faintest blush creeping up the tips of his ears.

Definitely not from the cold.

The elevator hums upward.

Ding.

Level 7. The HR woman steps off.

Ding.

Level 8. The interns spill out, chattering noisily.

The cabin thins out, quieter now.

Ding.

Hermione steps off at Level 10, folder and coffee balanced carefully in her arms. 

She tells herself not to overthink it.

Not to be ridiculous.

Not everything has to mean something.

Still...

She doesn’t look back.

But the flicker of doubt lingers.

Maybe it really was just one-sided after all.

~

The elevator dings as Hermione and Dean step in, files and folders tucked under their arms.

It’s a little past noon—the building buzzing with that peculiar lunchtime restlessness.

Hermione balances her coffee in one hand and shifts her briefcase into a more manageable position with the other, already mentally reviewing their upcoming appearance.

Xenophilius Lovegood’s civil hearing.

Witness lists. Filing errors. Cross-examination strategies.

Everything should be straightforward—

After all, Remus Lupin himself—the firm's kindest and sharpest partner—had suggested she take lead on this file. 

McGonagall was retiring soon. The higher-ups were watching. Grooming her, quietly but unmistakably, for partnership.

If she could just focus.

Dean’s beside her, adjusting his tie and muttering under his breath about traffic and parking enforcement conspiracy theories.

She’s about to tell him he sounds paranoid—affectionately, of course—when she notices him.

Near the back of the elevator.  

The hot redhead from eleven.

No blazer today. Light grey dress trousers, his white dress shirt sleeves rolled, and no tie.

There’s a faint flush to his cheeks—clear enough that Hermione’s brain, professional and rational as it normally is, scrambles to tell itself it's probably nothing.

Probably just the warmth of the crowded elevator.

Probably not because he saw her.

Definitely not.

And yet.

He glances up.

Meets her eyes.

And for a split second—that warm, crooked smile flickers into place. 

Small. Quick. But real.

Hermione’s heart skips embarrassingly.

She forces herself to play it cool, nodding politely before turning her attention back to her coffee like it’s the most fascinating beverage ever brewed.

Dean, oblivious, keeps checking his watch and frowning at Google Maps.

The elevator hums downward, packed tighter now with late lunchers and interns balancing salads and takeout bags.

Hermione catches it—the way the hot redhead shifts slightly, like he might say something. His hand half-lifts from where it’s tucked into his pocket.

But then he glances at Dean, at the crowded car—and whatever he might’ve said seems to evaporate.

Hermione tries not to overthink it.

The elevator is packed. Dean’s practically pressed into her side.

It’s not like he’d strike up a conversation now.

Still— there’s a tiny, ridiculous part of her that wonders if she somehow scared him off.

If she was too friendly.

If she imagined the way his smile softened when he saw her.

The elevator slows.

Lobby.

The hot redhead steps off here, slipping into the tide of lunch-hour traffic like he belongs in it—easy, casual, a hand already tugging his phone from his pocket.

Hermione watches his back for just a second longer than necessary.

Dean doesn’t notice. 

Or if he does, he doesn’t comment.

The doors close again, the elevator sliding down toward the parking level.

Hermione exhales a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and tightens her grip on her coffee.

Professional.

Focused.

Unbothered.

She repeats it like a mantra in her head.

Because today she has bigger priorities.

Like winning Xenophilius Lovegood’s case.

Not getting distracted by a stranger’s smile.

Even if, right now, it’s proving harder than she thought.

~

Spring has finally arrived.

The rain’s still hanging around—because London—but the air is warmer, the sky brighter, and the people in the lobby are suddenly more tolerable now that no one’s carrying umbrellas like weapons.

Hermione sips her usual coffee, eyes bleary, heels clicking toward the elevators like muscle memory.

It’s a morning like any other.

Ordinary. Predictable. Safe.

And she tells herself she likes it that way.

Especially today.

No court hearings. No urgent client calls. Just filings, client memos, and a few contract reviews—the kind of day where she might, if the gods were merciful, actually leave the office before dark. Maybe even before seven.

Almost the weekend.

She presses the button.

The elevator dings open.

And there he is.

Of course.

Elevator Guy. WZLY Guy.

The hot redhead with the rugby-player haircut, the punk-rock music bleeding from his headphones, the smirk that borders on cocky—and the ears that turn pink when he’s flustered.

No blazer. No coat. 

Just a pale-blue button-down and a dark navy tie, slightly loosened at the collar.

His hair’s wind-ruffled as always, and his shirt clings just slightly across his shoulders.

Only today, he looks... different.

There’s a flush to his face, and he’s gripping his coffee like it’s anchoring him to Earth.

She steps in.

He doesn’t move.

There are a few others in the lift—familiar faces from Marketing and Finance, the HR woman from Floor 7 who always looks like she’s collecting material for a gossip blog.

"Morning," Hermione says, casual.

He looks at her—and visibly braces himself.

"Hi. Morning. Uh—yeah. Hi."

His voice cracks a little.

The tips of his ears go pink almost instantly.

She hides her smile behind her cup, warmth curling in her chest.

There’s a pause.

A beat too long.

And then—

"Okay," he mutters under his breath, like he’s giving himself a pep talk.

Then, louder—directly at her.

"This is probably a terrible idea."

Hermione blinks, caught somewhere between amusement and curiosity.

He barrels forward before she can reply.

"I don’t usually do this. I mean—ever. But if I don’t say something now, I’m just going to keep getting nervous every time you walk into this elevator."

He shifts his weight, rolling his coffee cup between his palms.

"I know we’ve, uh... said hi before. A couple times. But I—I realised I still don’t know your name."

He laughs under his breath, half-embarrassed, half-hopeful.

"And I really want to."

Someone coughs behind them.

Neither of them turn.

He presses on, quieter now, but somehow steadier.

 "I’m Ron. I work at WZLY—product strategist. I’m twenty-seven. I drink way too much coffee. I’ve got six siblings. I love classic punk rock way more than is socially acceptable. I’ve got a bulldog named Pig. And..." 

He breathes out a crooked little smile.

"I think you’re the most interesting person I've never properly met."

It’s quiet now.

Painfully so.

Even the HR lady is pretending not to breathe.

A few people who were supposed to get off on earlier floors are still awkwardly lingering, blatantly eavesdropping.

Ding.

Level 10.

Hermione steps out slowly, heart tapping at her ribs.

She turns just before the doors slide shut.

"Hermione," she says.

His eyebrows lift—hopeful, relieved, completely undone.

"My name," she adds, lips curving. "It’s Hermione."

And just before the doors seal shut:

"Nice pitch."

Chapter Text

Hermione barely makes it to her office before someone’s knocking.

She’s just set her coffee down, trying to replay the elevator scene in her head without combusting, when the door swings open without waiting for permission—because of course it does.

Harry walks in, eyes wide, cheeks flushed with the kind of giddy energy that means he’s already been talking. 

“What—was—that.” 

Hermione blinks. “Good morning to you too.” 

“No, no, no.” He points at her. “Don’t pretend nothing happened. I just got a message—a message, Hermione—from Pansy at floor 7 that a hot scrumptious man professed his love for you in the elevator.” 

Hermione groans, dropping into her chair. “He did not profess his love.” 

Harry raises a brow. “Pansy says—verbatim— ‘‘it was a full rom-com monologue. I think he blacked out mid-sentence. It was beautiful.’”

“I’m going to die,” Hermione mutters into her hands.

Harry grins like Christmas came early. “Who is he? What did he say? Is he single? Are you going on a da—”

Hermione lifts her head. “His name is Ron.” 

Harry squints. “Ron?”

“The tall redhead from eleven. WZLY. Warm smile.”

Realization dawns. “Ohhhh. That one. The cute guy.” 

She glares at him. 

“I’m observant,” he says, unapologetic. “So what happened? Tell me everything. Every word. I want cadence, hand gestures, facial expressions—was there stuttering? There had to be stuttering.” 

Hermione presses her lips together, then slowly—reluctantly—smiles.

“He said he didn’t know my name but wanted to. Over dinner. Or coffee. Or a walk. Or anything that’s not between floors.” 

Harry places a hand over his heart. “I am swooning. That’s it. I’m calling Draco—this is the new standard.” 

Hermione’s face is warm, her cheeks sore from smiling. 

Harry leans across her desk, all faux-seriousness. “Please tell me you said yes.” 

“I didn’t say no,” she says, smirking. 

Harry gasps. “Hermione Jean Granger.” 

“Don’t middle-name me.” 

“I’m proud,” he says, dramatically wiping an imaginary tear. “My girl’s getting her elevator man.”

Hermione shakes her head, but she’s still smiling when he leaves. 

And when she looks at her inbox a few minutes later, her focus is shot to hell. 

~

Hermione is halfway to convincing herself the elevator thing is going to blow over quietly when Harry appears at her office door again, this time already mid-sentence.

“Lunch,” he says. “Now. I’m starving and Draco says I’m unbearable when I’m low on carbs.”

She grabs her coat. “That’s not just a carb thing.”

"Rude.”

They step into the corridor, mid-banter, headed for the lifts. Hermione’s just about to suggest they try the café with the decent soup when the elevator doors ding open.

And then—

Ron.

He steps out like he’s on a mission.

Same rolled sleeves. Same freckled face. Still too tall, still unfairly charming. But this time he’s looking around the corridor like he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing. His eyes lock on hers the second he spots her.

“Oh—hi,” he says, looking slightly breathless. “Sorry. I—uh—I know this is weird.”

Harry takes a step to the side, eyes flicking between them like he’s trying to breathe this moment into existence.

Ron runs a hand through his hair. “I just realized... I never asked for your number.”

Hermione stares at him for half a second. Then laughs—quietly, caught off guard.

“You came all the way down here for that?”

“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I figured I’d feel like a complete idiot if I didn’t. And also a coward. Which I already sort of was until this morning.”

Harry, bless him, is beaming.

Hermione reaches into her bag, pulls out a pen, and scribbles her number on a small slip of paper from her planner. She folds it once, then hands it to him.

“There,” she says. “Now you can stop panicking every time the elevator door opens.”

Ron looks down at the paper like she’s just handed him coordinates to buried treasure.

“Thanks,” he says. Then, glancing up, adds with a lopsided smile, “So... what is Gryffindor & Co.?”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. Harry cuts in before she can answer, grinning like he’s won something.

“We’re a legal firm. Hermione’s about to be a partner soon. She's terrifying.”

Ron nods solemnly, mock-serious. “Yeah. I figured that much.”

Hermione shoots them both a look, but she’s still smiling.

The elevator dings again. Ron steps backward toward it, still holding the paper carefully between his fingers.

“I’ll text you. Or call. Is calling too much?”

“Weirdly charming,” Hermione says.

He flashes that crooked grin—the one that ruins her—and slips back into the lift.

“Cool. ‘Weird’ I can do,” he says just before the doors slide shut.

As soon as they’re alone, Harry grabs her arm.

“You are living in a rom-com,” he breathes, delighted.

Hermione huffs a laugh, a little dazed. “I really am.”

And she can’t stop smiling.

FIN