Author's Note: This piece was written for Strictly Dramione's Summer Fest 2018. The only requirements were that the story takes place during the summer, and end on the Hogwarts Express, September 1st. The story is complete and will be shared in nine parts.

Warnings: Please be advised this story contains the following: coarse language, depression and mentions of suicide, alcohol consumption, and sexual content. Please take this as your warning for the entirety of this fic.

Thanks to the prereading prowess of Kyonomiko and Labelladone x. Thanks also to coyg-81 for her assistance with the setting of this fic.

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Harry Potter franchise.

Hermione Granger secured the hood of her raincoat over her head as she increased her pace, her feet splashing through the growing puddles in the cobbled streets, water seeping through her trainers and socks as she broke into a jog.

Grey clouds drifted overhead, flowing and roiling into one another as the wind picked up.

The coastal town of Whitby, in North Yorkshire, was proving to be as rainy as any Hermione had ever seen, even having only been in the town for a week.

She supposed it was to be expected, in a fishing town on England's north coast.

Rattling the gate leading up to the front gardens of her temporary cottage home, Hermione slipped through the yard and into the house, stopping once inside the threshold to remove her soiled footwear and jacket.

Trembling from the cold, brought on by the sudden deterioration of the weather, she made her way into the small kitchen and set the kettle to heat on the stove. She sank into the couch as she waited, wrapping herself tightly in a thick, well-worn knitted blanket.

Once the deep chill in her bones began to subside, Hermione drew her book from the end table and opened it to the marked page. Her eyes flitted across the pages until the kettle started to whistle, and she rose to make herself a strong cup of Earl Grey.

An absent smile graced her lips as she returned to her book.

It was another three days before the sun came out – but it did so, in a spectacular fashion, and the beauteous intrigue of the small town was abundant.

Hermione had taken a part-time job upon moving to Whitby at one of the local restaurants, which – she had been told repeatedly – served the best fried haddock along the coast. In all of England, if you asked some of the long-time Whitby inhabitants

Being early in June, the tourists were plentiful, and her days were long; she arrived home most days bone-weary and mentally exhausted. It was just what Hermione had been hoping for when she had left bustling London – with its heavy host of melancholy memories – for a quiet summer before her eighth year was to begin.

A summer free of the pain and the terror of war. A summer, Hermione hoped, in which she could begin to heal.

Harry and Ron had taken her leaving London as an inherent representation of her leaving them. And no matter how she tried to explain that she needed to get away – for herself and that it was nothing to do with them – they had taken it harder than she would have liked.

She hadn't known how to explain to them that the spell she had cast on her parents was permanent, according to every healer she had spoken to. How, for the rest of her life, Patrick and Jean Granger would only exist tucked within a shattered corner of her heart.

And Whitby, with its crumbling abbey high on the cliff – with its idyllic landscapes and the ever-present odour of fish – brought with it some of her fondest memories of her parents.

Many summers ago, it had been, that they had last vacationed in the seaside town.

But as the omniscient scent of the commercial fisheries assailed her senses, the recollections were brought forth with a strength Hermione hadn't expected. She had spent much of the trip into town with silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

And after she had met with her new landlord, and unpacked her meagre possessions into her cottage, she had spent two days in a semi-catatonic, mournful state.

The day after that she had made her way down the road to see about a job. She didn't have the means to afford the cottage on the modest savings she had left for herself when her parents went to Australia – and she feared she would never begin to move on if she didn't keep her mind occupied.

She wasn't very proficient as a server, she had quickly learned, but the long hours and the manual work kept her heart light enough. And the fresh sea air kept her mind in a gentle state of ease.

The pain of losing her parents would never fully pass, Hermione knew, but at least they were living their lives, together. It was infinitely preferable to them having been unwitting victims in a war they knew nothing about, and for that Hermione would always be grateful.

And so she pushed through, each day, even as the dark clouds threatened to encroach – both figuratively and literally.

And her wand, lying at the bottom of her trunk, hadn't been touched.

"Hermione!" Etta barked, from across the diner.

Hermione smiled at her customer as she set down a generous portion of haddock and chips, before making her way to the kitchen where her employer was working tirelessly as always. Etta's dark hair was tied back in a messy bun, her weather-worn skin making her look older than her thirty years.

"What is it?" she asked, stopping by the sink to wash her hands. It was always a long shower to get the feel of fried food off her skin.

"Finn is out sick today," Etta explained, even as she handily loaded a plate. "I need you to go down to the docks and receive our shipment."

"Me?" Hermione asked in surprise. She still found it both ironic and amusing that the fishmonger was named Finn.

"Yes," Etta said distractedly. "Celeste will mind your tables while you're gone. It's too busy back here or I'd make the run myself."

"Sure," Hermione said with a shrug. It was a beautiful day outside and she could use the fresh air. Sometimes, since spending so much time on the run, being indoors for long periods of time had a tendency to make her restless.

"You know which ship?" Etta asked, looking up from her work.

Hermione nodded, offering her employer a reassuring smile. "I'll be back before you know it."

"Great," Etta said with a sigh of relief. "Hermione, I appreciate it."

Hermione made her way outside with a brief wave to Celeste, the other server working, and began the short trek from the diner to the wharf.

The docks were always loud and bustling – fishing vessels and workers moving in and out, tourists and residents bartering with the mongers, and a few opportunists who were always set up cooking and selling fresh-caught fish by the fillet.

There was something about it that always made her smile.

On an ordinary day, Finn would make their delivery himself straight to the diner, being a good friend of Etta's, but Hermione knew well enough where to go to receive the fish for the day.

Making her way through the crowds to the pier where the ship they purchased from unloaded, Hermione spotted one of the fishermen she knew from interactions at the diner, a scruffy middle-aged man who went by Brix.

He gave her a roguish grin; his skin was tanned from immeasurable hours at sea.

"You're runnin' the shipment today?" Brix asked, and Hermione returned the smile easily.

"That's right," Hermione said, moving forward to inspect the bin of fish the way Etta had taught her. "Someone's got to, what with Finn slacking off."

Brix barked a laugh as he hopped off his ship. Then he turned back, shouting, "Lad! Come give a hand, then!"

"Oh, I've got it just fine, Brix," Hermione said, eyeing the wheels at the bottom of the bin.

"Heavy," Brix grunted, and Hermione's eyes flickered toward his ship as well as a flash of blond hair emerged from the ship's cabin. Something jolted in her stomach – the shade of blond was so similar to Malfoy's that Hermione had momentarily felt ill.

But then the crewmate turned and a breath snagged in Hermione's throat.

Beneath the black aviator sunglasses, the thin layer of stubble along the jaw, Hermione could make out the pointed features of the man. It was Malfoy. With the slight tan to his features, his blond hair stood out even more.

"What in the name of Merlin," she breathed to herself, eyes wide as he turned to her.

"What the fuck!" Malfoy exclaimed, his mouth dropping open as he removed his sunglasses as if seeing her clearer would change who she was.

Oblivious to the exchange, Brix waved a hand towards her. "Give the lass a hand to the diner, then," he said.

"I don't need a hand," Hermione said quickly, even as her eyes narrowed in the blond's direction.

Whatever shock or surprise he had experienced initially had passed as Malfoy stormed off the ship and onto the pier, his grey eyes narrowing.

"Tell me this is a nightmare," he hissed, his voice low.

"I wish," Hermione returned harshly, her lip curling at the sight of him. "What are you doing in Whitby?"

"The fuck does it look like, Granger?" Malfoy asked, sneering, his words dripping with contempt. "Making a living, aren't I?"

"It looks like you're doing Muggle work, getting dirt under your precious fingernails," Hermione spat, glowering at him. She shot a cautious glance at Brix, who was preoccupied with adjusting some lengths of rope.

"Always were fucking observant, weren't you?" he growled, letting out a long exhale. He squeezed his eyes tightly and blinked them open, no less full of animosity. "Tell me you're only visiting."

"For the summer," Hermione said, tossing her hair back. "You?"

"Fuck!" he cursed, running a hand through his windblown hair. Hermione was pleased to note the filthy state of said fingernails. "You had better keep out of my way, Granger. Move the fucking fish yourself."

With that he stormed back down the pier and onto the ship, ignoring Brix's stunned expression.

"Really, I've got them," Hermione said, feeling her heart race and her stomach roll as she stared at the ship onto which Malfoy had vanished. "I'll bring the barrel back once I've got them to the diner."

"Finn will get it tomorrow," Brix said with a dismissive wave of the hand, even as he frowned towards his ship. "You know him, then, obviously?"

"Unfortunately," Hermione grunted. She didn't owe Malfoy anything, even a good word with his employer.

"Quiet fellow, but a hard worker, seems like. Most I've ever heard him say," Brix muttered with a shrug. "You sure you got that, then?"

"Absolutely," Hermione said, forcing a smile as she demonstrated by pushing the bin ahead. "Thanks for the fish, Brix!"

"Yeah," Brix said absently, nodding, "tell Etta hello."

"Will do," Hermione said, swallowing the sour taste in her mouth borne of the encounter, and began the two-block trek back to the diner with her barrel of fish on ice.

Hermione frowned as she soaked her sore muscles in the bath – with a generous scoop of Epsom salts – that evening.

What in the name of Merlin was Malfoy doing working in the fisheries of Whitby? He was the last person Hermione would ever have guessed would work in such a grueling trade. But yet… she had seen it herself.

It was obvious he was the same arsehole he had always been. She didn't relish the thought of sharing this small town with him until the end of August, but she had already signed a lease and secured summer employment.

Besides, if she left Whitby it would be a concession of defeat and she was not willing to give him that sort of power.

If Malfoy was returning to Hogwarts in September, she didn't need to give him anything to hold over her. She had been hoping the fresh school year might be a chance to finally pursue her academics in peace.

She needed her NEWTs, of course, since Hermione didn't fancy the idea of working in a Muggle diner for the rest of her life, despite that the simplicity of Muggle life was well-suited for the time being.

By the time September came, Hermione would be ready to return to the wizarding world.

But still, she could only wonder what had brought Malfoy to the same seaside town as her. And she couldn't fight the creeping suspicion that she would most assuredly see him again.

Hermione glanced up at the soft ping of the door that announced a customer. Plastering a smile on her face, she made her way from the kitchen to the entrance, the expression broadening into a grin upon seeing Finn and Brix crossing the threshold.

"Your table's open," Hermione said, sweeping in with a stack of menus. "Just the two of you?"

"O' course it is," Brix said with a chuckle. "We'll have two more coming, the dawdlers."

She distributed four menus before walking off to collect two ales, already knowing what Finn and Brix would be drinking.

"You must be too smart to be working in a diner," Finn said with a smile when she delivered their drinks. Hermione snickered and opened her mouth to respond when the ping of the door went again.

Stepping away to greet the new customers, Hermione froze on the spot when she saw Malfoy's pale blond hair, her eyes narrowing and lip curling on instinct.

Malfoy stopped in the entrance, faltering in the middle of the conversation he'd been having with one of the other young men on Brix's crew. Hermione watched as his eyes darted back to the door through which he had just walked.

As if he was considering whether he ought to turn and leave.

"Malfoy," Hermione ground through her teeth. She nodded in greeting, without removing her gaze from his face.

His nose wrinkled and his lip curled into a sneer; he strode past her and dropped into the seat beside Brix, his companion following with an amused look.

Hermione found herself wishing he had left Whitby. She took a long breath, plastered on a fake smile once more, and stepped forward to take their order.