Work Text:
Tonight.
8pm at the usual place.
H x
* * *
He'd gone to the Quidditch tryouts in sixth year for her. Not to impress her, he knew she didn't exactly care for the sport; anyone who spent entire matches bent over textbooks the way she did had clearly been brought to the stands against their will. But she would cheer when Potter caught the snitch, and he thought maybe that would be like she was cheering for him too; perhaps she would notice him if he was flying next to someone she already cared about.
That plan had crashed and burned, quite literally, right into the goal posts.
But it was of no consequence in the end because she did notice him. Enough to invite him to Slughorn's party. He had wanted to make the best possible impression that he could, telling her about all of his family connections and the people he could introduce her to. She was destined for an incredible career, which was obvious to anyone, but she would likely need to network excessively to overcome her blood status. It was unfair, yes, but he would help her with that. It had never mattered to him, and he knew enough people to make sure it would never matter to her either.
The success of that plan had vanished, right along with her, halfway through the evening.
It had been his own fault; he'd been too much and come across too strong. He didn't mind.
* * *
The owl didn't wait; she wasn't expecting him to reply. She called, he came; a dance they'd performed effortlessly for most of their adult lives.
* * *
She'd spent most of eighth year preoccupied with Weasley; a shame.
Bizarrely, the general populace expressed actual shock when that whirlwind of mistakes eventually fizzled out.
But Cormac knew, contrary to the beliefs of Rita Skeeter's readership, that friends did not always need to become lovers to find a great romance. Weasley hadn't appropriately recognised her beauty or brilliance before a war thrust it in his face; someone that blind could never have been right for her.
Thankfully, the Slytherin's were expert party planners, and one game of truth or dare later was all it took for her to notice him again. They spent the final weeks of summer noticing each other: in the dark corners at the back of the library, in alcoves hidden behind ancient tapestries, along the banks of the Black Lake after hours.
The heat of Weasley's murderous stare traced his form almost as often as Hermione's fingers did, until the year ended, but she had been more than worth a few glares from a jilted ex.
They deserved some happiness after everything that had happened in the war.
She had long been the place where he'd fallen hard; he wanted nothing more than to be her soft place to land.
She'd gone abroad to see her parents after graduation, that's what Potter had told him in the middle of Diagon Alley; she didn't stay long enough to say goodbye.
"Will you be alright, Cormac? I'm sure Hermione meant to write," Potter had said, tugging on the back of his hair in that way he always did when he was uncomfortable; Hermione had taught him the tell.
"Yes. I'm fine. It's okay, I don't mind."
* * *
Her letter had arrived not long after the morning edition of The Prophet. He had plenty of time to prepare, to plan, to stew.
After all, everything had to be just so to spend the evening with Hermione Granger, especially this time.
* * *
She walked back into his life a few years later, in a Ministry lift. He'd been taking his time returning from a useless administration errand, and she was leaving the DMLE with Viktor Krum in tow.
"Cormac!" She had smiled at him so brightly, the lights highlighting the threads of gold that ran seamlessly through the chestnut brown of her curls.
She had pulled him into a hug he'd been unprepared for, pushing herself up against him more than strictly necessary, but he could think of no reason to pull away. She still smelled just the same, vanilla and jasmine.
"Hermione," he'd breathed. "I didn't know you were back."
She told him that she'd taken up a post with International Cooperation.
A throat had loudly cleared behind them.
"Ah, yes." She'd pulled away from him then and smoothed down her navy dress. "Cormac, you remember Viktor Krum. Viktor, this is Cormac McLaggen, we went to school together."
He'd extended a hand towards the scowling Bulgarian. "A pleasure."
The Bulgarian only narrowed his eyes, refusing to engage in the expected social niceties until Hermione gently insisted. She'd invited him back to join her for lunch later in the week and to come by her office at any time.
Krum had stayed in the lift even though she had gotten off. "You will not go to her office. You will not go to lunch. Herm-own-ninny is not for you."
Krum had spoken with all the confidence of a man who truly believed he was the right fit for a woman whose name he couldn't even pronounce. When he finally left the country and returned home, Hermione must have been relieved; no one deserves to hear their name butchered that much.
Cormac had had the pleasure of her company for over four months after that. No longer just noticing each other in corridors and corners, but mapping each other's bodies with fingers and tongues.
When she left for a six-month trip to MACUSA, he still bore her marks across his collarbone and shoulder blades.
"I think it would be best if we don't owl each other too much whilst I'm out there. I really need to be able to focus on work, and you'll have so much going on here with trying to get that promotion you've been talking about."
"I understand. I don't mind."
The marks healed; all evidence that she'd ever wanted him erased with them. Six months became eighteen.
* * *
Cormac let the water run down his body, almost hot enough to scald. Shampoo twice, condition once, a pea-sized amount of Sleakeazy's for good measure. He would be perfect.
Tonight, everything would go to plan.
* * *
She'd been back in England for three years, had been in an intermittent relationship with Oliver Wood for two.
He'd proven his worth at work and had been promoted to Deputy Head of Magical Games & Sports. She was to liaise with him directly on the upcoming Quidditch World Cup; their meetings always seemed to run late.
She'd brought wine, unbuttoned her blouse far below the confines of Ministry dress code. The deep red of her lipstick had smeared his cheek when he turned away from her lips.
"You're with Wood."
"No, I'm not."
He had missed her.
She tasted the way he remembered, writhed across the conference table in a way that seemed familiar, but then withheld his name the way a stranger would.
After the next interdepartmental Quidditch game, his ribs wore a corset of black and blue. It was a rogue bludger the referee had said, an unfortunate accident. He'd dragged himself to a toilet cubicle to cover himself in salve; they hadn't known he was in the room with them.
"McLaggen might be a git, but he didn't deserve that, Wood."
"Hermione -"
"Made the same decision she always does. He's her go-to when she's lonely or bored, has been since school, everyone knows that. I almost feel sorry for the bloke at this point."
"But -"
"No. You can't pull that shit again. I told you what she was like. McLaggen isn't the one deserving of your anger here."
What a strange thing it was to hear Ronald Weasley defending him. To hear that it was common knowledge that Hermione would always call for him. He looked down at the welts painting his torso.
I don't mind.
* * *
It had become a reflex over time, the process of selecting a shirt in the exact shade of blue she favoured, the one she'd said brought out the colour of his eyes, using a scent that she'd previously complimented, and rearranging his hair until it fell in such a way that might entice her to run her fingers through it.
* * *
She'd been really attentive whilst his bruises healed.
She'd invited him to go to a club with her friends.
He'd thought this meant she'd wanted to keep him this time.
As he'd waited for her by the dancefloor, he had been accosted by a tipsy Theodore Nott: longtime lover of Harry Potter himself.
"You shouldn't be here, you know."
"Hermione invited me."
Nott had laughed in his face then, really laughed. But then his green eyes went dull, and his face became serious.
"You poor fucker, you really don't know, do you? She has spent years using you, and you just don't see it."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"That is abundantly clear, mate." Nott dragged his hands across his face twice. "Look, you're not the blond she's looking for tonight, okay?"
"What-"
"Just, go down the corridor to the loos, that's where Hermione is. See it for yourself. Maybe then you'll finally get it."
As though he had been tugged on by invisible string, Cormac had started moving in the direction Nott had pointed him in.
He'd found Hermione by the toilets, just as Nott had said, in the arms of Draco Malfoy, though he couldn't quite tell where either one ended or began. Their lips were locked in a way that suggested they'd discovered a suitable alternative to breathing.
He shouldn't have been there. He'd made himself known anyway.
"Fuck off, McLaggen. As you can see, Hermione is busy."
"Hermione-"
Malfoy had pulled away from her then, turned around to face him. Hermione wouldn't look up from the ground.
"Are you deaf, McLaggen? Maybe this will help."
Malfoy had knocked him to the ground with repeated hits to the face, the Muggle way, before turning back to Hermione.
"I'm sorry that this fucker ruined our evening."
"That's okay," she'd said. "I don't mind."
* * *
She was waiting for him by the bar.
He hadn't been this close to her in four years.
She was still so beautiful, with her hair tucked behind one ear, the rest cascading down her back in careful waves. She looked less unruly than in her younger days, riotous curls weighed down. She looked like someone who had spent far too much time trying to impress at pureblood society galas, and perhaps that was true. Someone trying to become Minister for Magic likely would need to make an excellent first impression.
"Cormac," she said warmly, standing to place a soft kiss on his cheek. "I'm so pleased to see you."
"I'm glad you invited me. How have you been?"
They rattled through small talk for the next half an hour before she propositioned him for dinner, making it clear that she intended for dessert to be eaten at one of their homes.
"No, thank you Hermione. I'm afraid I can't stay much longer. I've got to get home, my fiancée is waiting for me."
Hermione's brow furrowed into a puzzled expression. "Fiancée?"
"Yes. We've been together three years now."
"You didn't say."
"You didn't ask." He shrugged. "We had an announcement in The Daily Prophet, I'm surprised you didn't see it. It was three down from one about Draco Malfoy becoming engaged to Astoria Greengrass."
Hermione's mouth set into a hard line.
"No? That's okay, I suppose it would be terribly difficult for you to notice anything that doesn't directly concern you." He rose to pull on his coat. "You won't be invited to my wedding, I hope you don't mind. Only, you've done a rather incredible job of ruining quite large chunks of my life, and I'd rather not entertain the possibility of you getting remotely close enough to taint another."
Hermione looked down at the bar, running her finger around the rim of her cocktail glass.
"Goodbye, Hermione. I do hope you'll find something to make you happy one day. Something that doesn't involve making someone else miserable in the process, at least."
Cormac McLaggen walked out of the bar and out of Hermione Granger's life.
It had hurt him a lot less than he'd expected, though he was aware that what he'd said may have hurt her.
He didn't mind.