Chapter Text
The first time she'd seen him, he'd looked somewhat familiar, though she couldn't place why. He'd sat quietly in the corner-back booth of the diner she frequented, his back pressed to the wall, body held stiff, head lowered.
The second time she'd seen him, she couldn't help but notice there was something strange about him—something off.
Perhaps it was his dark, dirty hair, hanging limply about his face and brushing between his chin and shoulders. Perhaps it was the black leather jacket, the tactical trousers, and the combat boots—clothing meant for shadowed streets, not the soft hum of a small-town diner. Or maybe it was the gloves. Black leather, worn indoors despite the warm, pleasant day outside.
But it wasn't just his appearance. It was his placement—tucked away at the back, hidden from the windowed front that let anyone passing by see inside. His shoulders were hunched, chin tucked in, both hands wrapped tightly around a mug of black coffee. Even from her seat, Hermione could see the tension threading through his fingers, the rigid line of his back. He didn't want to be seen.
And yet, despite his lowered head, he seemed to register every sound, every movement in the diner. As though he were waiting for something or someone.
There was something about him. Something strange. Something unsettling.
Curiosity got the better of her. She'd asked Holly—the owner's teenage daughter—if she knew who he was. The girl, working long hours to save for college, had only shrugged.
He'd been coming by for a few weeks, she said. First seen loitering outside before finally stepping in. Always ordered the same thing: black coffee. Always paid in cash—coins that looked as if they'd once lived on the ground.
Was he homeless? Hermione had wondered, frowning slightly. Before leaving that day, she'd slipped extra money onto the counter—enough to cover her bill, Holly's tip, and a hot meal for the stranger in the corner. Holly had smiled knowingly. It wasn't the first time Hermione had done such a thing.
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When her stomach rumbled, Hermione decided she'd earned a break. She headed to the diner again, the hum of conversation and the clatter of cutlery greeted her as she stepped inside, the familiar warmth wrapping around her shoulders like an old coat.
It was moderately busy—the dinner rush in full swing—but she found her usual seat at the counter. Holly darted past, balancing plates stacked high, her expression set with weary determination.
Hermione gave her a small smile as she passed.
A few minutes later, Holly returned, cheeks flushed, notepad and pen pulled from the pocket of her pastel blue uniform.
"What are we craving today?" she asked, her voice bright but breathless, pen poised over the page.
"For you to take a moment and breathe," Hermione replied, amused.
Holly sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair from her bun and leaning forward, forearms braced against the counter as she took a long, exaggerated breath.
"Better?"
"Better," she confirmed, nodding, face still pink from the rush.
Hermione's eyes softened. "You're too young to be stressed," she teased lightly. "Where are Maggie and Scott this evening?"
"Beats me," Holly huffed. "Maggie called in 'sick' and Scott hasn't turned up for his shift. He's an hour late."
"Again?" Hermione's brows rose.
"Yeah, he's a damn asshole," she scowled, glaring at the counter. Hermione fought back her laugh.
"Where's your dad?"
"Out of town for the week, and Darren's out the back doing 'inventory'."
"And he's left you out here all alone?" Hermione pursed her lips.
"Well, he's not gonna get off his lazy ass and do some actual work, is he?" she glowered. "Anyway, enough about my problems, what are we having today? The usual or something different?"
"You know, I think I'll just have a cheeseburger and fries," Hermione replied.
"And a strawberry shake," Holly nodded knowingly as she wrote it down.
"You know me so well," Hermione laughed lightly as the girl tore off the page and handed it through the hatch to the kitchen.
"Now, give me the notepad and pen."
"What?" the brunette blinked.
"Notepad and pen," Hermione repeated, holding her hand out expectantly. "It'll take some time to get my order through, so you take a five-minute breather, and I'll deal with those boys." She tipped her head toward the group of six teens who had just walked in, loud and careless as they searched for a free table. "If I'm not mistaken, those are the idiots who were giving you a bit of bother last week."
"It's fine," Holly waved her off.
"No, it's not," Hermione said firmly. "I don't care how old they are—that doesn't excuse their behaviour. They need to show more respect."
"They're paying customers," Holly replied weakly.
"That doesn't give them the right to touch you without your permission. We'll see if the little monsters try that with me. Now, take a break and have a milkshake on me."
She leaned over, plucked the notepad and pen from Holly's grasp, and rose from her seat.
"I don't pay."
"Then have one anyway," Hermione shrugged. She smoothed out her red dress, the hem falling just below mid-thigh, and adjusted her cropped leather jacket. Then she crossed the diner, weaving easily between tables and customers until she reached the booth where six teenage boys sat.
They looked up in surprise, instantly wary. She wasn't in uniform, and she definitely wasn't Holly. A few of them straightened; the rest shifted, clearing their throats or staring down at the table as if it might save them.
Hermione's smile was polite but sharp. No, she thought, they won't try that with me. She was older. She intimidated them.
After taking their orders, she passed them along to Holly, who quickly relayed them to the kitchen. The teen gave Hermione a grateful look as she moved to tidy empty tables and refill drinks for waiting customers. Together, the two of them brought the chaos under control with quiet efficiency.
When Hermione finally sat back down, her food arrived—a cheeseburger and fries, the strawberry shake already starting to melt. She ate in content silence, the hum of the diner surrounding her: the hiss of the coffee machine, the low murmur of conversation, the clink of forks against plates.
When she finished, Holly whisked away the empty dish. Hermione's eyes, however, drifted—inevitably—to the back corner booth.
He was there. Exactly as she'd expected.
She'd seen him the moment she walked in; truth be told, she'd been looking for him. And in all that time, he hadn't moved. He hadn't lifted his head. His hands still gripped the same mug of coffee. She hadn't even seen him drink from it.
"How long's he been here?" she asked quietly when Holly returned to the counter after taking a couple's order.
"He arrived not long before you," the girl replied. "Same as usual. Only ordered black coffee, nothing else. Paid cash."
"Did he say anything to you?"
"No, only that he wanted a black coffee. That's it. Barely even got a thank you."
Hermione's brow furrowed. "And did he eat the food?"
"No," Holly said, shaking her head with a guilty smile. "It was three days ago. Didn't even look at it."
Hermione pursed her lips, thoughtful. "Oh, he's a stubborn one. Well, I like a challenge," she murmured. "Holly, I'll have the same again, please, but substitute the milkshake for a coffee and add a tomato soup and grilled cheese."
"You got it."
Hermione didn't take her eyes off him once. She watched as the food was cooked, plated, and delivered, every second that passed stretching thinner, tauter. Holly gave her another guilty look before darting away to another customer, leaving Hermione alone in her quiet, determined vigil.
She narrowed her eyes, willing him to move—to lift his head, to take a sip, to twitch, to do something.
He didn't.
Ten minutes passed.
With a quiet huff, Hermione rolled her eyes, slid off her stool, and left enough cash on the counter to cover her bill and Holly's tip—doubling it for the girl's trouble that shift.
Then she turned and walked toward the back-corner booth.
Her shoes made little noise against the tiled floor. The diner noise faded around her—conversation dimming, dishes clinking in the distance—as she reached the shadowed table. Without a word, she slid into the seat opposite the man.
Crossing one leg over the other, she rested her elbows on the table and propped her chin on her folded hands.
He didn't move.
Didn't look up.
The only sign he'd even registered her presence was the faint tightening of his shoulders and the soft creak of leather as his gloved hands clenched around the mug.
Hermione's eyes dropped to the cup. The coffee inside was still full.
Stone cold. Untouched for almost an hour.
She tipped her head contemplatively. His bowed head and limp hair curtained his face, hiding it from view. He'd done it deliberately. He didn't want to be found—or recognised.
"So, are you going to eat that?" she asked conversationally.
His shoulders tensed. A faint flinch followed, and though he didn't raise his head, it tilted slightly—as if the sound of her voice had startled him. It must've been the accent, she thought. Most were taken aback when they heard her speak for the first time, especially when they hadn't expected the lilt of a foreign tongue.
Well, she had his attention now, at least.
"It's getting cold, and have you ever eaten cold fries? They aren't very appetising; it's like eating a sheet of cardboard."
No response.
"You know, it's impolite not to respond when someone is talking to you. And it's just as impolite not to eat the food a kind stranger has bought for you."
He finally looked at her.
His head lifted so slowly she could almost count the seconds it took. Hermione found herself cataloguing the details as if studying a portrait: pale skin, a strong jaw with a cleft at the chin, thin pink lips—the lower slightly fuller than the top. Facial hair that fell somewhere between stubble and beard. Sharp cheekbones. A straight, narrow nose. A faint shadow of bruises beneath his eyes.
And his eyes—
Godric. They were breathtaking. A deep, startling blue ringed with darkness, lashes so thick they cast shadows against his cheeks. But beneath that beauty was a hollowness. A coldness. They looked… dead.
No. That didn't seem right. Hermione frowned, unsettled. Those eyes weren't meant to be that cold. It didn't fit. Even with the bruises hinting at sleeplessness, the sunken cheeks of malnutrition, and the dirt-matted hair that spoke of neglect, it was clear this man had once been—was still—devastatingly handsome.
Adrian Pucey, who? she thought absently, recalling the handsome Slytherin half the girls at Hogwarts had pined over—including herself, once.
Her gaze flicked to the untouched food, then back to him, catching his eyes again. Something clicked.
"Oh, I see," she breathed, the understanding settling in. Her shoulders eased as she dropped her hands from her chin to the tabletop. "I understand now." Her tone softened, her voice lowering to something gentle, steady. "Sorry, Sweetie," she said with a small smile.
He flinched again—barely—but she noticed.
Slowly, she reached for the plate and coffee mug, pulling them both toward the centre of the table, between them. His eyes followed her movements, wary but still silent.
Hermione plucked a lukewarm fry from the plate and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly. Then she reached for the napkin-wrapped utensils, unrolled them, and cut the burger neatly in half. She sliced off a smaller section and took a deliberate bite, her gaze never leaving him.
Finally, she lifted the mug and took a sip. The coffee was ice-cold and bitter enough to make her grimace, but she swallowed it anyway.
"See? There's nothing wrong with the food. It's safe to eat," she assured him gently. "Don't worry about the coffee—I'm not a big fan of the taste. I much prefer tea." She smiled faintly. "I'll leave you alone now. But please, do eat. There's no reason to go without. Food is needed to function."
Sliding out of the booth, she felt his stare on her back—sharp and frigid as ice—as she walked toward the counter. Holly stood there refilling sugar and salt canisters, pretending not to watch.
"Is he eating?" Hermione asked.
"Not yet. He seems to be thinking about it," the teen replied, sneaking a glance over her shoulder.
"That's better than nothing," Hermione said with a small nod. Her attention shifted as the door jingled open and the twenty-three-year-old raven-haired soon-to-be ex-employee of Moira's Diner stumbled in.
"And where do you think you have been?" Hermione demanded, setting her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips.
The young man froze mid-step. He wasn't in uniform—hadn't even tried. He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. Smelled like it, too. And a liquor store.
"Well? You are two hours late."
"My alarm didn't go off," he offered lamely.
"Your alarm didn't go off?" she repeated, disbelieving, one brow arched. "It is six o'clock in the evening. If you plan to go on a bender, I highly suggest you don't do so the day before work—and if you do, you sober yourself up first. You smell like a brewery. You've no idea the stress Holly's been under, having to do everything herself. You should be ashamed of yourself."
He flushed crimson, eyes darting nervously to the whispering customers.
"I didn't think it'd be an issue. Where's Laura? Maggie? Justin?"
"Maggie called in sick, Laura's had today booked off for two weeks, and Justin's girlfriend went into labour last night," Holly said, not bothering to look up from the condiment bottles.
"Oh." He cleared his throat awkwardly.
"I've already told my dad you were late and unreachable," Holly added, watching him fidget. "That's four times this month. You're cleaning the kitchen tonight. Alone. And you're on lock-up duty."
"But that'll take forever," he complained.
"Perhaps you should've thought about that before," Hermione replied sharply. "If I were you, I'd be grateful you still have a job."
"Sorry, Holly," he muttered, staring at the floor.
"Just get to work," she sighed, turning her back and setting a fresh plate on the counter for Hermione.
Hermione smiled her thanks, then turned slightly, catching the stranger's gaze again. He was still watching her—expression blank, unreadable. Deliberately, she tore a piece of grilled cheese, dipped it into the tomato soup, and took a slow, deliberate bite, making sure he saw. She nodded once, as if to reassure him it was safe, and then turned away.
"Scott, take this over to the gentleman in the back corner, would you?" she said casually.
Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed her jacket, slipped her hands into her pockets, and stepped out into the evening light. The last warmth of the sun spilt across the street, the air heavy with the scent of frying oil and rain.
Pausing, she glanced through the diner window. Her eyes found him easily—still half-hidden in the corner. She squinted, watching closely until she saw his gloved hand finally release the mug. He reached for a fry, hesitated, then lifted it to his nose to smell.
When he cautiously placed it in his mouth and chewed, she smiled to herself.
Stubborn, but not impossible.
She'd seen it the moment their eyes met—though it had taken a while to piece together. The suspicion. The deliberate solitude. The way he scanned his surroundings, ready for an attack.
That cold, calculating stare. The despondence. The exhaustion.
She'd seen it all before.
She'd felt it all before.
He was a soldier.