Chapter Text
She debated with herself for a solid ten minutes before deciding the only safe course of action was to work as far away from Battersea as humanly possible. Preferably in a neighbourhood where no one owned a penthouse, where apartments were drafty on purpose, and where delivery riders didn’t get propositioned by devastatingly attractive women with seemingly infinite disposable income.
So she biked to Camberwell, where the lighting was dimmer, the customers poorer, and the air significantly less scented with artisanal perfume. It was quiet, but she had a decent run of short trips: cheap kebab, cheap noodles, cheap chicken. No tips, obviously.
She smiled grimly through the pain as the cold wind sliced through the unprotected parts of her body. Still better than stepping back into that penthouse, where Miss Black had looked at her like she was something one might order from a catalogue.
Hermione was no virgin and no prude, but she was also not an escort, and she refused to accept money for whatever that woman had in mind. She had standards.
Or at least a sense of self-preservation.
Besides, she had considered sugar-babying once. Well, Pansy had tried to sell her on it; but the idea of sending foot pics to strangers or being called “princess” by men old enough to be her father made her want to ingest bleach. And if any of it resurfaced one day, her academic career would combust.
So she stayed far from Battersea and refused to think about anything else than food delivery.
She had just delivered a volcanic-hot pizza to a drunk student when her phone rang. Unknown number. She let it ring. People called all the time. If it was important, they could leave a voicemail.
They did.
She frowned.
Maybe it was important. Her mind immediately spiralled into catastrophe:
Her dad was sick. Her cat was dead. Her cat was sick. Her dad was dead.
Her mother had set herself on fire. Pansy had burned the house down. Pansy had burned the cat down.
She was failing all her classes. She was being expelled.
Her hands shook as she tapped the voicemail notification. Before she could press play, the unknown number called again.
She stared at the screen. Should she answer? Should she listen to the voice message first? Should she throw the phone into traffic?
She sighed and tapped the green button. “Granger, why are you not at work?” snapped a posh male voice.
Hermione frowned. Maybe they were talking about another Granger?
“Miss Hermione Granger, report in immediately,” the voice continued, as if hearing her thoughts.
She opened her mouth to object when another voice, one she recognised unpleasantly well, spoke behind him.
“Just let me speak to her,” said the second man. Then: “Miss Granger, this is Nicholas from Imperial Bird. I trust you received your contract and the important information from your flatmate. Please clock in as soon as possible. We will deduct the missed hour from your salary.”
The line went dead. Hermione stared at her phone. Right. Nicholas. The bossy waiter. The one who called her a wet dog.
She biked to the restaurant as fast as she could, parking her bike in the exact same spot the valet had pointed out the previous two nights.
Inside, the receptionist looked up and winked. “I knew you were pretty,” he said as she neared the podium, “but I did not realise that alone was enough to get you hired after two botched deliveries.”
Hermione blinked. He waved her toward the bar. There stood Nicholas, arms folded, expression displeased.
“Miss Granger,” he said, voice clipped. “You are now employed as Imperial Bird’s delivery woman.”
Hermione stared at him. “What about Seamus?”
She wasn’t sure why that was the first thing out of her mouth, but here they were.
“Seamus works when you do not,” Nicholas replied sharply. “Right now, you work. You should have your schedule in your mailbox. Did your flatmate tell you anything at all?”
“No,” Hermione said flatly.
He sighed in a way that implied she had personally ruined his evening. He thrust a small insulated bag into her hands. “Here. Address is on the receipt. Now go to the kitchen, tell them who you are, and change into your work attire. Then deliver that.” He looked at her. “And then come back for another delivery.”
Hermione nodded, mostly because arguing required energy she did not have. She went into the kitchen, told the first person she saw she was “apparently the new delivery person,” and was immediately dragged into a changing room.
Ten minutes later, she stood in front of a mirror wearing a warm, expensive-looking delivery coat in Imperial Bird’s deep green and gold, motorcycle-grade waterproof boots and insulated gloves.
Another waiter, mercifully not her ex-boyfriend, appeared at her side and gestured for her to follow. He led her to the back of the restaurant, through a staff corridor, and into a small, covered loading bay. There, gleaming under a fluorescent light, stood her new transportation tool: a motorcycle.
Hermione stared at it stupidly. She could barely ride her bicycle straight when the wind attacked her.
She pulled out her phone and finally opened her mailbox. Between reminders from tutoring clients, she found her work contract. She skimmed through it quickly. It was painfully official, straight to the point.
She was now hired as a delivery employee. Her schedule was fixed: every evening from six to nine on weekdays, and six to eleven on weekends. The wages were slightly better than she’d ever made with Uber Eats. The annex explained that she would be using the electric moped, an EAPC model, which required no motorcycle licence at all. Apparently, if it had pedals and a battery instead of an engine, the government considered it safe enough for the general public. She was, however, unconvinced.
She made the connection swiftly; Pansy sharing all her information with a mysterious caller the night before, the sudden job offer, and “her” signature at the bottom of the contract undeniably written by Pansy.
She felt both fury and relief settle uncomfortably in her chest. She could not deny that the money would help. The new coat she was wearing was warm and tailored, far nicer than anything she owned. And while she had never touched a moped before, this one looked more like a slightly overconfident bicycle.
Even so, a suspicion lingered. The whole ordeal felt orchestrated. Too neat. Too convenient. Too specific. Hermione refused, absolutely refused, to acknowledge the possibility that Miss Black had any involvement. She shut that thought down before it could take shape. This was Pansy’s fault, entirely. Completely. One hundred percent Pansy. And she would cling to that explanation with both hands.
The houses she delivered to that evening were large, detached places with tidy hedges and warm lights glowing through their wide windows. Riding the electric moped felt almost luxurious compared to her bicycle; she went faster, arrived less exhausted, and was not freezing to death. The restaurant gave her fewer deliveries than she expected, and after the fourth one she had time to sit on a stool near the kitchen while a waiter handed her a mug of tea to warm her hands.
She chatted with a man named Harry, who was elbow-deep in pots. He seemed to know who she was already.
“Ron has told me so much about you,” he said with a bright, crooked smile.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “We broke up more than a year ago.”
“Well, you know how he is. A bit clingy but very nice.”
It was, Hermione admitted, one way to put it. She decided that Harry was sweet, a little clumsy, and entirely too trusting.
When her name was called for another delivery, she left Harry with reluctance. It was nearly nine; her shift was almost over. She could go home, maybe even attempt Uber Eats to earn more, or she could go fight Pansy for forging her signature and altering the trajectory of her life.
The insulated bag handed to her was very light, suspiciously so. She lifted the flap to glance inside but immediately felt Nicholas’s silent, blistering stare on her. She muttered an apology and walked out into the cold.
It was only when she was outside that she checked the address.
Of course. Miss Black.
So much for avoiding her. She wondered if she should swallow her pride and thank her for the job, if Miss Black had been involved. She needed to confirm it before making a fool of herself. She told herself she should show more gratitude and less attitude. She also knew she would fail at both.
As usual, the ride was short and the building impossibly bright. When she entered, Horace greeted her with a wide smile, already pressing the lift button before she reached him.
“Hermione! How are you, dear?”
She pointed at her new coat. “I have been promoted to official delivery person.”
“Yes, I see that.” He looked as though he had more to say, but instead he nodded once and dismissed her.
She took long, steady breaths in the lift. She walked the familiar corridor with forced confidence and knocked once; though she knew it was pointless. Miss Black had been waiting for her.
The door opened slowly, and a wave of warm fragrance washed over her: spices, something distinctly French. Miss Black appeared in the doorway wearing an outfit that made Hermione forget her own name. It looked effortless, but she knew it wasn’t. The silky lounge trousers moved like water and the not-quite-buttoned blouse framed her chest in a way that felt deliberate.
She recognized it for what it was: an outfit meant for seduction. Her first thought was absurd jealousy, because it looked like the woman was on a date. Her second, more troubling one, was the near-empty bag in her hand. Miss Black had summoned her for a “pretend” delivery; she had probably dressed like this for her.
She swallowed hard, thoroughly unprepared.
“Good evening, Miss Granger,” Miss Black said, leaning lightly against the doorframe. “Thank you for the food.” Her eyes drifted down Hermione’s coat and boots. “How is your new job?”
Hermione frowned. “Did you get me a job so you could see me more often?” It felt ridiculous to say aloud, but she couldn’t shake the idea.
The woman’s laugh was soft, amused. “No, darling. I am entirely above manipulating employment contracts simply to see you. If I wished to see you…” She leaned in a fraction closer. “…I would simply ask you out. Again. Until I get what I want.”
Hermione’s face went scarlet. She immediately hated herself for reacting.
“Oh. Well. It just seemed like a strange coincidence,” she muttered. “Deliver to you twice and suddenly I’m hired.”
“Do not underestimate yourself,” Miss Black replied smoothly. “You strike me as very capable. Intelligent. You deserve stability.”
Hermione’s gaze dropped involuntarily, straight to the open line of the woman’s blouse, and she blushed harder, mortified. She thrust the near-empty bag forward just to anchor herself. “Thank you. That is… kind. Your food, Miss Black. You should take it before it gets cold.”
“Yes. Let me fetch my purse. I must tip you for braving the winds just to indulge my evening cravings.”
Hermione knew it was a game. And she knew she was losing, badly.
She began to protest about the tipping policy, but Miss Black was already gliding back inside the flat, deliberately leaving the door ajar. Hermione couldn’t help herself; she peeked. Warm lighting, a fire flickering in a sleek modern hearth, high windows swallowing the city lights. All of it inviting. She knew if she stepped in, she wouldn’t be stepping out anytime soon.
So she stayed rooted to the doorway and waited.
The woman returned with money in hand. Hermione shook her head firmly. “I don’t want to be fired immediately. It would be… a pity.”
“I could call the restaurant and insist they allow you to accept my tips. But I suspect you would not want that either.”
The tone in her voice had teeth. Hermione exhaled sharply. “I suppose not.”
She opened her palm and Miss Black slipped two twenties into it, letting her fingertips linger against Hermione’s skin far longer than necessary. Then she took the bag, gave a satisfied wink, and turned around.
Hermione stood there waiting for an invitation inside. When none came and the door closed, she turned around and felt thoroughly foolish.
She rode home on her own bike, the familiar weight of it settling her nerves far better than the sleek restaurant moped ever could. She pushed open the apartment door already preparing to physically attack Pansy, only to find the place eerily quiet. Naturally, Crookshanks had taken advantage of the situation and was perched smugly on the kitchen counter: an absolute, non-negotiable forbidden zone.
She lifted him gently and placed him on his designated chair. “You know you’re not supposed to do that, Crooks.” He stared at her with deep offense.
Hermione checked Pansy’s room to be sure she wasn’t hiding behind a pile of clothes waiting to ambush her. Empty. She showered, dressed warm, and then opened her laptop.
She had never thought to Google the restaurant before, but tonight felt like the night to do it.
Imperial Bird had five solid stars out of five, across thousands of reviews. It apparently had a back room reserved for celebrities who wanted to eat without being hunted by photographers. The menu was absurdly expensive; the photos left Hermione hungry again despite the sad leftover pizza she’d scarfed down earlier. She closed the tab quickly.
And reopened another. She Googled Miss Black.
Nothing. Not a single useful search result. Just a Wikipedia entry about some nineteenth-century botanist with the same surname.
She tried again: The Black Family London Battersea.
This time, articles popped up at once: glossy photographs of the three sisters at charity events, art galas, fashion shows. She clicked almost absently on one about the kind sister she had met three days ago: Andromeda. She owned several boutiques across London, all “haute couture,” all devastatingly expensive.
She recognised two of the storefronts: places with valets, attendants opening the door for you, and scarves priced higher than her laptop.
The brand name made her pause: Aconite Atelier. Hermione realised Andromeda had fully expected her to know it. Her offer about a raincoat suddenly made a lot more sense; and somehow made her feel even more embarrassed for not recognising the connection.
She shook her head at herself. Enough. It was sleep time.
She closed her laptop, found Crookshanks (who pretended to resist being picked up, then melted immediately), and carried him to her bed. She hated sleeping alone in the apartment. The cat grumbled but curled up near her anyway. Hermione buried her face in his fur and let exhaustion finally take her.
The next morning, Pansy was nowhere to be found, which was deeply suspicious. Considering she had no job and usually woke up around noon, Hermione felt compelled to check on her. She texted:
Hermione (8:50) - where r u
Pansy’s reply came in under thirty seconds:
Pansy (8:50) - busy, none of your business
Pansy (8:59) - i am at work. leave me alone
Hermione (9:01) - you don’t have a job
Pansy (9:01) - i do
Hermione (9:03) - since when
Pansy (9:03) - since i got hired. try to keep up
She groaned and decided Pansy was alive and that’s all she needed to know.
She went through her day and by the time she returned home around six, she felt a ridiculous wave of relief when she saw Pansy’s familiar figure facedown on the sofa.
Hermione set her bag down and brushed her pants. She was wearing wide-leg jeans, the heavy sweater she loved in winter, and she was feeling properly cosy. Pansy, however, was wearing a women’s suit. A nice one, too.
“Are you working for the King of England?” Hermione asked after a long moment.
Pansy lifted her head, stuck her tongue out, and let it fall back again. “I am an assistant. I have to be dressed nice. I got sent home early because my suit is too cheap.” She said this all in one breath.
Hermione blinked, then exhaled. “Okay, okay. I have questions.” She raised her hands, marched over, and sat directly on Pansy’s legs. She groaned, Hermione assumed that meant permission.
“How did you get this job?”
“I applied.”
“What are you doing?”
“Assisting. As an assistant.”
“What are your hours?”
“Unclear.”
“Who are you working for?”
“The House of Black.”
Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. “Say that again?”
Pansy kicked her with her heels until Hermione stood up. “No. And you’re too heavy to sit on my legs anyway.”
Hermione ignored the comment. That name again. Black. She felt irritation prickle under her skin. Was everything in her life suddenly connected to this one family?
“Did you have your interview today?”
“Yes.”
“Did you mention me?”
Pansy scoffed. “Not everything is about you, Hermione.” She paused, then added casually, “But yes.”
Hermione clenched her jaw. “Who’s your boss?”
Pansy snorted. “She told me not to tell you, and that you’ll figure it out soon enough.” Then she leapt off the couch, ran to her room, and slammed the door. “I’m not answering any more questions!” she yelled while cackling to herself.
Hermione followed, knocking sharply. “What do you mean? Pansy, what do you mean?” Pansy was delighted. “You’ll see! Thanks for the job, Hermy! Putting my headphones on now, byeeee!”
Hermione kept knocking until she realised it was pointless.
By the time her delivery shift started, she was still bothered by the whole ordeal. She parked her bike, resolved to gather answers.
Her shift passed smoothly at first. After her first delivery, and then another, about an hour and a half in, she finally had a break. She practically sprinted to the kitchen, dodging Ron. She found Harry and pushed him into the staff room before he could protest.
He looked startled but softened once he saw her face.
“Harry, listen,” she said, voice trembling from sheer frustration. “I delivered food to a customer, and then suddenly I’m hired, and then she said she didn’t get me hired, but she also told me she wanted me to accept her tips, and now my flatmate works for a company with her last name.”
Harry stared at her. “What? What’s the customer’s name?”
“Miss Black.”
“Oh,” he said lightly. “You mean Bellatrix Black? She owns the restaurant. She’s not a customer.”
Hermione blinked. Once. Twice.
“What?” she whispered.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “Didn’t they tell you during your interview?”
“Well, no. Thanks, Harry. You helped me a lot,” she said, even though her tone implied the opposite. She stepped out of the staff room already pulling out her phone, because it was absolutely time to text Pansy’s traitorous arse.
Hermione (7:45) - you work for bellatrix black.
Pansy’s reply arrived almost instantly:
Pansy (7:45) - maybe.
Hermione (7:45) - did she tell you she hired me in her restaurant?
Pansy (7:45) - in one of her restaurants
Pansy (7:45) - yes
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose.
Hermione (7:46) - why?
Pansy (7:46) - you needed a job? idk
Hermione closed the conversation before she hurled her phone into boiling water.
She fully expected Miss Black to summon her with some pointless late-shift delivery, just like the night before, and the night before that. She needed to confront the woman, ask her outright what she thought she was doing. Why she lied about not being involved. Why she was weaving herself into Hermione’s life like some silk-wrapped spider.
She exited the kitchen with determination and immediately bumped into Ron.
“Hermione! You look great! I didn’t know you worked here,” he said brightly.
She gagged. Audibly.
“Me neither,” she said, flat as a brick. “It’s new. Good to see you,” she added, and then fled before he could inflict conversation on her.
Nicholas intercepted her near the exit, catching her arm. “Miss Granger. Delivery.” He shoved a bag into her hands.
She glanced at the label and felt an unexpected stab of disappointment; no familiar address.
“Something the matter?” Nicholas asked, already sounding bored.
She shook her head and left.
Her shift ended without a single delivery to Miss Black. No tiny bag. No warm lights or expensive perfume. Hermione’s heart dropped before she could stop it, and then she felt ridiculous for caring. Why did she suddenly want to see the infuriating woman? Gratitude? Curiosity?
She felt grateful for the job, yes. But also used. Controlled. Like her life was being quietly but firmly redirected toward one woman’s doorstep. She needed clarity. She needed distance. She needed to talk to someone who wasn’t Pansy or Nicholas or Harry.
By the time she reached the apartment, Pansy still wasn’t home from her shift. Hermione scooped Crookshanks off the counter, forced herself not to Google anything Black-related, showered quickly, and texted the only person who could help her make sense of this chaos.
Hermione (10:50) - can we go out tomorrow i had a terrible week
Ginny (10:51) - yes
Ginny (10:51) - i thought you’d never ask
Ginny (10:52) - when and where
Ginny (10:52) - actually don’t answer, i’ll come around 10
Hermione (10:55) - i finish work at 11 on saturdays
Ginny (10:55) - ok i’ll be at your flat at 10 and then u join me at 11
Hermione exhaled slowly and let herself fall onto the bed.
Saturdays were usually good days. Hermione got slow mornings, a proper breakfast, and the comforting chaos of Pansy, Crookshanks, and whatever unfortunate man or woman had been hauled home by her flatmate. But today the apartment felt oddly hollow. Pansy was nowhere to be seen, and Crookshanks was staring at her hungrily.
Hermione frowned at the cat, then at the nearly empty bag of food she’d bought earlier in the week. He had eaten through it with the speed of a small black hole. She wasn’t paid until the end of the month, and she genuinely wasn’t sure whether she could afford to feed both herself and the creature whose stomach clearly opened into another dimension.
She set up her books and laptop at the small kitchen table, wishing that her bedroom had actual workspace instead of the current layout: bed, wardrobe, and a mountain of books. The kitchen carried the lingering smell of spices and last night’s leftovers, but it was the only spot with enough room for her elbows.
She tried to focus on her readings, keeping one eye on the time. But her thoughts kept spiraling somewhere else entirely. She was reaching a point where she needed to choose: whether she would allow Miss Black to continue seeping into her life like perfume into fabric, or whether she would pull away, quickly, decisively, before things got complicated.
Pansy’s new job made her chest tighten in ways she didn’t want to think about. Was Miss Black manipulating her? Using Pansy? Using her? Or had everything been a coincidence, and the woman had simply thought Pansy a good assistant, and Hermione a competent delivery person?
When it was time to leave for her shift, Hermione chose her outfit with more intention than usual, even though most of it would be swallowed by the restaurant’s coat. She spritzed on her one expensive perfume and told herself it was because she liked smelling nice. The truth, however, was embarrassingly simple: she wanted to look good for Miss Black.
She took the Tube instead of her bike to avoid sweating, telling herself it was practical, not desperate.
She arrived early, like always, and did an entire reconnaissance of the restaurant to avoid Ron at all costs. Saturdays were busy; she didn’t sit once. The moped spared her the worst of the rain, but her face still ended up wet, strands of hair sticking to her cheekbones.
After nine o’clock, she caught herself anticipating deliveries to Miss Black’s building. When none came, she felt a sharp, stupid pang in her chest. And then an even sharper pang in her head as she realized exactly what she’d been wishing for.
She tried to shake the thought away. It returned with enthusiasm.
By the time she finished her shift and stepped into her apartment, she found Ginny already seated at the kitchen table, Crookshanks curled contentedly in her lap. Ginny wore a going-out outfit: a short black skirt, chunky boots, a dark green top that shimmered every time she moved. She had set two shot glasses on the table beside an unopened bottle of tequila.
Hermione sat down across from her and, for a moment, simply pressed her palms against the edge of the table as if grounding herself. Then she told her everything. Every strange, disorienting detail. The freezing delivery night. The three Black sisters. The penthouse. The undeniably stunning Miss Black, who had asked her to spend time with her for money. Her sudden employment at one of the fanciest restaurants in the city. Her suspicion that her life was being rearranged like chess pieces without her consent. Ginny listened with her chin in her hand, nodding at intervals, not interrupting once.
When Hermione finally stopped talking, Ginny waited a full beat before summarising: “So. You met a hot, incredibly wealthy woman, she propositioned you politely, offered money, and now you work with my idiot brother. Your ex.”
“Sort of, yes,” Hermione admitted, chewing on her lip.
Ginny nodded again, thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you accept? She’s hot. You need money. Seems efficient.”
“I don’t know.” Hermione sighed. “Pride? A sense of self-worth? I don’t want to be paid for… that. Or anything like that.”
“Well you could’ve gone without being paid,” Ginny pointed out.
“I just… don’t know her, Ginny.”
Ginny got up, gently shifting Crookshanks off her lap. “Hermione. You’ve used dating apps. You’ve gone on blind dates. You once snogged a guy who introduced himself as DragonLord69 on Discord. Knowing her first isn’t exactly your usual rule.”
“That was one time,” Hermione muttered, following her toward the bedroom.
Ginny was already half inside her closet, tossing tops and dresses over her shoulder with methodical chaos. “If I were you? I’d fall for the hot rich older woman. Seems like the obvious choice.”
Hermione didn’t even bother responding. She let Ginny dress her, fix her hair, and drag her out of the apartment.
They headed to The Liquid Luck, their favourite bar. It took less than five minutes before two men at the bar offered to cover their drinks. Hermione let her hair down and the waves settled against her shoulders as she danced. At one point, a woman approached her and pulled her into a slow, teasing sway. She played along for a few seconds before realising, embarrassingly, devastatingly, that she wished it were Bellatrix Black’s hands on her hips instead.
Her stomach dropped. She excused herself and ordered another drink.
Much later, long after the bar had emptied and the sky was still dark, they left arm-in-arm. Ginny groaned about nausea, claiming the cold air was her “medicine,” so they walked through quieter streets, buildings gradually shifting into expensive hotels and quiet luxury bars. The few couples out at that hour wore fur scarves, elegant gloves, and looks that suggested they owned houses, not rented flats with unreliable heating.
Ginny perked up enough to fish out her phone. “I’m ordering an Uber. Before I puke on your shoes.”
Hermione nodded. They stood beside a lamppost, breathing the crisp air, watching the city slow.
A flicker of movement caught Hermione’s eye. Across the street, the doors of a high-end restaurant opened. Not Imperial Bird, but the same type; valet service, tinted windows, the quiet hum of money. A couple stepped out: two women in tailored winter coats, laughing softly, clearly finishing a date. One helped the other into a sleek car before the vehicle pulled away.
The remaining woman lingered near the entrance, speaking with the valet. She moved with the kind of grace Hermione had come to associate with wealth. A second valet brought her a car that did not fit with modern London traffic at all; a vintage black Jaguar E-Type, polished to mirror shine. She knew the model because it was her Dad’s favorite. He had pictures of cars in his office, and this one was the biggest.
She stared, mesmerised by the woman’s silhouette, the way the streetlights caught in her dark hair, the careful drape of her coat.
Her breath caught when her brain finally made the connection. It was Miss Black.
She wore a long, fitted wool coat in midnight blue, belted at the waist, the collar turned up against the cold. Her gloves were soft leather, and her hair was pinned loosely at the back, curls escaping deliberately.
Hermione’s Uber pulled up at the curb with a soft chime. She reached for the door, still glancing back.
And Bellatrix, who had been speaking to the valet, turned her head. Their eyes met across the quiet street. The woman smiled.
Then she slid into her Jaguar with smooth, practiced elegance, the valet closing the door behind her. The car pulled away into the London night, leaving Hermione standing on the pavement with her pulse in her throat.
Ginny nudged her. “Who was that?”
Hermione swallowed. “No one,” she lied.
Her friend snorted. “Please. I Googled her earlier when you said her name. That is absolutely the woman. And Hermione? She literally gave you her number. Just text her.”