If You Only Knew

xXxXxXx Chapter Three:
Anatomy of a Date xXxXxXx

"Why? Why did this have to happen to my poor baby?" cried Elizabeth Kittridge for what was probably the sixty-fifth time. Not that anyone was counting.

"I'm very sorry," said Ginny, rubbing the sobbing woman's shoulders soothingly. She glanced at Draco, who was moving about the room looking at the various knick knacks the Kittridges had lying about. There were several prominent photographs of Thomas Kittridge in full Quidditch regalia, looking young, handsome, and fit as he performed several stunts on his broom. Ginny knew Draco was getting impatient with this entire scenario. They had barely been able to get anything out of the woman due to her habit of breaking down into tears every time she began to speak of her son.

And while Ginny was far more sympathetic to the woman's situation than her partner was, she too was growing weary. An inter-departmental memo had fluttered into their office that morning, confirming that their case was officially open. They had immediately proceeded to make the rounds to the various people (family members, friends, colleagues) connected with the two victims. It had been a long, fruitless morning with still more meetings to come, the caffeine had long since worn off, and all she wanted was to go home and take a long nap. She handed Elizabeth a tissue. The woman's frizzy, gray-peppered brown hair, up in a loose bun, shook with the force of her sobs.

"Mrs. Kittridge, it's very important that you answer our questions to the best of your ability. We are going to find those responsible for Thomas's death, and keep them from hurting any more people."

Sniffing, Elizabeth nodded and dabbed at her nose. "I'm sorry," she said, eyes red-rimmed and watery. "It's just ... every time I think of T-Tho--" Her face bunched up again and Ginny braced herself for another crying fit. Draco was likely about ready to leave her there. But Elizabeth took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm herself, and said in a choked voice, "I'm ready."

Ginny patted the woman's shoulder consolingly and glanced at Draco. Taking his cue, he lowered himself into an armchair near the couch where Ginny and Elizabeth were sitting, leaning forward with his arms on his thighs and his hands clasped between his knees. He was the very picture of attentiveness.

"Did your son have any enemies, Mrs. Kittridge? Someone who would wish him harm?"

"No, of course not," Elizabeth said immediately. "Thomas was an angel. Everybody liked him." Ginny bit her lip as she remembered some of the comments his team members had made about Thomas Kittridge's tendency to showboat and Quaffle hog.

"Of course," Draco said immediately, but without much conviction. "However, do you know of people who were openly envious of your son's Quidditch skills or anything else regarding his lifestyle? Did Thomas ever receive death threats or the like?" They had already spoken to Kittridge's manager, agent, and personal assistant, and they were only able to recall one instance in his relatively short career where he'd been mortally threatened -- and that person was currently residing at St. Mungo's in the psychiatric care ward. They were hoping Kittridge's mother might know something the others didn't.

Elizabeth's brow furrowed. "Oh, goodness, no. Not that I know of. Do you think my baby was receiving death threats?" This last was spoken with a break in her voice.

"No," Ginny hastened to explain, smiling reassuringly. "It's a standard question. It would help narrow down our suspects." Or suggest some, she thought.

"When was the last time you spoke to your son?" Draco continued, looking desperate to keep the woman occupied and to distract her from a fresh flood of tears.

"Just that day," Elizabeth whispered. "We had a disagreement about Laura -- that's my daughter. Thomas was angry because I had tried to introduce Laura to a nice banker, and she complained about it -- she thinks I do that too much, but why wouldn't I want to see my daughter happily settled with a nice man with a decent job? -- so he told me not to do it anymore. When we hung up I had no idea it was the last time I would speak with him." And with that, the flood gates were open once more. Draco hung his head and massaged his temples, while Ginny began her litany of "there, there"s.

They didn't stay long after that. It was apparent that Elizabeth didn't have anything useful to share, and when the session drew to a close they both courteously declined the offer of tea.

At the door, Elizabeth stopped Draco with a light hand on his arm. "Laura is around your age," she said somewhat shyly. "Perhaps--"

"Thank you for your help today, Mrs. Kittridge," Ginny said warmly. "Be sure to give us a call if you remember anything else."

"Oh. All -- all right," the older woman responded, looking somewhat disappointed.

Draco's face was impassive, but Ginny knew he was trying not to laugh. As soon as they had Apparated back to the Ministry, she asked, somewhat testily, "What?"

"What what?" Draco raised an eyebrow as he opened their office door, letting her precede him. He threw himself into his chair and picked up the memos on his desk and started going through them.

"Oh, never mind. Want to grab a bite to eat before we head off to see" -- Ginny consulted the file the department head had sent that morning -- "Bertram Tode?"

Draco was silent, and Ginny looked up, wondering if he hadn't heard her. "Draco?"

"Yes, about that," he hedged.

She narrowed her eyes. "What?"

"I think it would be more efficient if we split up -- you take Tode and I'll take Jones-Fitzhugh," he said absently, scribbling something down. Tina Jones-Fitzhugh was one of the Ministry psychologists, and Bertram Tode was a Ministry-appointed Seer. They were required to meet with both to consult on their case, so as to make their profile of the suspect(s) as comprehensive as possible. Every avenue that they could use to possibly procure information was to be exhausted.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because we're both supposed to see them, together."

Draco sighed. "It doesn't make any sense for us to do that, Ginny. It's been a long day, it's going to be an even longer evening, and I don't think it's necessary for us to double up at these meetings. We're each fully capable of conducting the necessary interviews on our own. We can debrief one another later."

Ginny's aching shoulders also begged for her to end this day as quickly as possible, so in her mind she had already conceded. But she wasn't going to make this easy for him. "That's not why you want to do this separately, so just come out and say it." Draco had made his feelings on the topic of Seers quite clear -- they were "nothing but a bunch of fakes masquerading as 'talent' -- what a joke."

"It is the reason, but if you're trying to get me to admit that I think seeing Tode is a waste of time, then very well, I admit it gladly."

"And yet it's okay for me to waste my time with him."

"Why should both of us suffer? We have to do it anyway, and you seem to put stock in that nonsense."

Ginny grit her teeth in annoyance. He made it sound as if she were Lavender Brown back in their Hogwarts days, rapturously believing every word out of Sybil Trelawney's mouth. "I simply don't dismiss them as easily as you do," she said. "I have an open mind. You insufferable prat," she added in a mutter.

"Well, there you go, then. I would only be a detriment at the proceedings. I might disrupt the spiritual Seer vibes, or something."

Ginny gave in with bad grace. "Fine. But our appointment with Jones-Fitzhugh isn't until tomorrow," she reminded him. "She may be booked today."

"Oh, I sent her a note this morning," Draco said, still writing. He indicated one of the memos. "She's replied that she has an opening now."

"How convenient," Ginny said resentfully. Things always fell into place for Draco. It was somewhat irritating. "You know, I wish you would tell me when you plan these things. Don't just always assume I'll go along with whatever you say."

Finally looking up, Draco gave her an incredulous look. "I don't assume any such thing. Do you know yourself at all?" Then he smiled. "In any case, you're such a clever woman I always trust that you'll see sense when it's presented to you." He turned back to his task.

"One day, that silver tongue of yours is going to get you into trouble," she grumbled, gathering up the items she'd need for her interview with Tode and striding toward the exit.

"I'm sure you're right. It's gotten me into a lot of things," Draco called after her, and she slammed the door.

xXxXxXx

Ginny had to admit that many of the Seers she and Draco had worked with in the three years they had been partners had not been much help, and she'd frequently heard the complaints from her colleagues: Seers' visions were general and vague, and only once the case was closed did their predictions seem to make any kind of sense. Of course, by that time it was too late for the information to have any impact on actually solving the case. Regardless, Seers contributed enough that they were still staffed by the Ministry and consulted on cases that fell within certain criteria (such as homicide).

True Seers were very rare, and most of the ones Ginny had worked with boasted cloudy and unreliable Sight. However, occasionally they were able to make breakthroughs that would not have been gained by conventional means. She was hoping this might be one of those times, even if Draco was less than optimistic. In any case, it was a requirement to consult a Seer on a case like theirs, so Ginny didn't see any reason to whine and behave like an infant about it. Draco apparently thought differently.

Ginny was early for her appointment. She sat on a bench out in the corridor where Tode's office was located and went over her notes from the morning. She entertained a small hope that perhaps they had missed something when talking to the Thorpes or the Kittridges; but after going over the facts twice she knew they had not. In short, they didn't know much more than they had after their initial meeting with Yellowbrook.

Er -- James, Ginny amended in her head. She would have to start thinking of him as James. She had received an owl from the endearing pathologist this morning, inviting her to dinner at some as-yet-unspecified time. Draco hadn't been around to see the owl arrive, and Ginny hadn't yet gotten around to telling him about it, as she suspected he would only mock her. For her part, Ginny wasn't keen on starting another relationship, but Yellowbr-James didn't seem the type of man who regularly got up the gumption to ask a woman out, and she hated to be the one to crush his hopes and perhaps discourage him from repeating the gesture to someone else for a long time. So she had accepted his invitation, thinking that when the time came she would suggest a restaurant with a very casual, friendly atmosphere, in order to convey the idea that she'd like to be friends before they decided whether or not to pursue anything of a romantic nature.

Ginny waved a greeting to Ingrid Wandmaker, a Seer she had worked with on one of her first cases. Wandmaker was one of the Ministry's more reliable Seers, but as a result she was overworked and had to take frequent sabbaticals. Ginny noted the other woman's wan countenance, the shadows under her eyes darker than was healthy. Wandmaker's dishwater blond hair was pulled back in a haphazard knot, and she seemed far older than her forty-two years. Ginny had once asked her why she continued to work for the Ministry when it clearly took so much out of her, and Wandmaker had replied simply that the lives she helped made it worthwhile. This was so similar to Ginny's own motivations that she had nodded in understanding, and that had been that.

"Hello, Wandmaker," Ginny said, smiling warmly. She expected Wandmaker, who was normally pressed for time, to return her greeting then continue on her way, but the other woman said hello, then stopped and sat down next to Ginny.

"I need five minutes," said Wandmaker, tilting her head back against the wall. "How are you, Weasley? I haven't seen you in awhile."

"I've been about, but I'm sure they've been keeping you busy," Ginny replied.

Wandmaker closed her eyes wearily. "That they have. Who are you here to see? Tode?" She sat up straight again, grimacing.

This reaction made Ginny somewhat nervous. "Er -- why? Isn't he any good?"

Wandmaker shrugged. Her opinion of her peers was not high. "He's like the rest of them," she said. "Sometimes it's there. Most of the time, I suspect he uses material from the last mystery novel he read." At Ginny's disheartened expression, she continued, "But he's one of the better ones." Then, "He's just an enormous wanker."

"Oh, that's all right," said Ginny, relieved. "I'm used to dealing with wankers."

"I'm sure you are," Wandmaker returned, a brief smile crossing her lips. "Are you still with that partner of yours? What was his name? Malfeasance?"

Hiding her smile behind a cough, Ginny nodded. "Yes, we're still together. Malfoy," she corrected, although she knew Wandmaker knew perfectly well what his name was. Draco and Wandmaker hadn't gotten along the last time they'd been assigned a case together; she had found him conceited and difficult, while he had made no secret of the fact that he didn't respect Seers or their "absurd profession." His looks, which normally worked in his favor no matter how much of an arse he was being, had no effect on middle-aged lesbians who'd seen more than their share of young, cocky Aurors during their stint at the Ministry.

"Well, good luck, Weasley," Wandmaker said, patting Ginny on the arm. "Not that you need it. You and -- loathe as I am to admit it, your partner -- must be doing something right, if your success rate is anything to go by." The last pat was somewhat harder than the previous pats, and Ginny winced.

"Thank you, Wandmaker. I--" Ginny gasped as the other woman's fingers dug hard into her arm. A quick glance told her that her protests could not be heard; Wandmaker was staring unseeing at a spot on the wall and her body had gone rigid. "What is it?" Ginny asked, wincing. She tried to tug her arm away, but the other woman's grip was firm. "Has it something to do with my case?"

"A man," Wandmaker said in a thin, reedy voice quite unlike her own. "His love is ..."

"What?" Ginny asked. "Is the murderer doing this out of some sort of quest for revenge? Justice on behalf of someone he loves?"

Wandmaker continued as if Ginny hadn't spoken. "... imperfect yet unconditional. You love him. You will lose him."

"What?" Ginny cried. "After everything, we're not going to catch the killer? No, I don't believe it. Give me something to work with -- a hint. A vision of what his flat looks like ... what kind of cereal he buys ..." She trailed off as Wandmaker turned her head to look at Ginny ... to look, but not see.

"You will have to choose," the Seer continued in that strange, almost melodious voice, "but in the end, the choice will be taken from you."

Ginny was a little perturbed. She understood that this vision had nothing to do with her, but the way Wandmaker was acting, the way she had turned to look at her, the way she was clutching her arm, all made it seem as if Ginny were the one being addressed. "Wandmaker?" she questioned cautiously.

"Me instead," Wandmaker said, almost whispering now. "Ginny."

Ginny went cold all over. She stood abruptly, and Wandmaker's hand fell away. The Seer's eyes rolled to the back of her head, and she collapsed back against the bench. Ginny stared down at her, and after a moment the older woman's eyes fluttered.

Wandmaker yawned and stretched, blinking up at Ginny. "Whew," she said wryly. "I need a vacation." Seeing the look on Ginny's face, she dropped her arms in concern. "What? What did I say? Will it help your case? It wasn't bad, was it? You look like you've seen a Dementor."

"No," Ginny said faintly, struggling to maintain her composure, even though something was rioting inside her head and making her stomach twist into tight knots. "It wasn't bad." It was worse than bad. Fear clutched at her insides with cold talons and made her lightheaded. She didn't want to repeat what she'd heard; it would make it palpable, real. She needed some time to sort it out and calm down. She'd see then that Wandmaker's words weren't meant for her at all.

"If you're quite through showboating for my client, Wandmaker," said an irritated male voice.

Turning, Ginny saw a thin, balding man in his early thirties, standing in the doorway to the office that she'd been waiting to enter. He was looking at Wandmaker with great dislike. This, then, must be Tode.

"Don't worry, Tode, I'm not trying to horn in on your lily pad," said Wandmaker, standing and giving him a disdainful look. To Ginny she said, "I'll see you around."

"Goodbye," Ginny said, wanting to call her back, wanting to demand answers, yet knowing this would be futile. Random visions, typically triggered by external stimuli such as physical touch, were next to impossible for a Seer to reproduce after the fact. It was difficult enough to guide visions under a controlled environment.

"You're Weasley?" Tode demanded.

Ginny nodded, trying to control her flyaway thoughts. She shouldn't jump to conclusions. Seer visions were vague and undisciplined; they often appeared to have one meaning, when an unconsidered yet equally applicable possibility was in actuality the truth. The fact that Wandmaker had said Ginny's name at the end of her Seer trance could indicate, for instance, that she had been coming out of it and part of her conscious mind had known that Ginny was there. In fact, given the uncontrolled circumstances, Ginny knew that she ought to forget the whole incident.

During her session with Tode, she listened and took notes and made all the right noises, but it all seemed to be happening somewhere far away. She kept hearing Wandmaker's voice in her mind.

You will lose him.

After bidding farewell to Tode, who appeared to think she was a complete moron (if the doubtful looks he was giving her were any indication), Ginny found a secluded hallway, took off the ring she wore on her right hand that boasted a small square stone, placed it on her palm, and muttered, "Collusor Reperio!" The plain brown stone immediately began to glow, brighter and brighter until the stone was no longer distinguishable, swallowed by the light.

Ginny waited patiently, and was soon rewarded; a faint representation of Draco appeared before her.

"I'm in the middle of a meeting, you know," he drawled.

"I know," she said. "I just --" But suddenly she didn't know how she was going to finish that sentence. Had the urge to see you? Wanted to make sure you weren't dead? Had a very unsettling experience with a vision, which I know you don't believe in, but if you had been there you would have believed oh yes even you Draco Malfoy?

"-- wanted to see how things were going," she finished, hoping that her embarrassment didn't show.

Draco raised an eyebrow but otherwise did not comment. "Tina and I have come up with several interesting possibilities. She --"

"Tina?"

"Yes. She seems to have a great grasp of how guys like this work. She did the profile on Samuel Firecloud, you know, the --"

"I remember the case," Ginny interrupted, feeling a bit peeved, but uncertain as to why. Perhaps it was the fact that Draco seemed to be having a grand old time on his assignment, while her nerves were stretched thinner than rice paper.

"Well then, you'll know she's a great profiler," Draco said, catching on to her bad temper and letting her know by the tone of his voice that she ought to either tell him what had her so snappish or push off and let him do his job.

"Fine. We'll brief each other later," she said, still irritated for no identifiable reason.

"Might have to wait until tomorrow."

"Why?" she demanded. "Why can't we do it tonight?"

At first it seemed that Draco wasn't going to reply, then he said in a long-suffering tone, "I have plans."

"With Jones-Fitzhugh?" Ginny was incredulous. She was about to go on a tirade about how they were supposed to be working and not picking up potential bed partners when he deflated her with his next words.

He looked at her as if she had spouted two heads. "No, with Granger, remember? You set up the day and time."

"Oh."

"Does that meet with your approval?" Draco asked somewhat sarcastically.

Actually, she wanted to tell him that she'd call Hermione to cancel and make it for another time, because she really wanted to talk to him about Wandmaker's vision. But she didn't. It was good that she'd have this opportunity to digest what she'd heard instead of spilling it all to a skeptical Draco like a ninny. She took a deep breath. "All right. We'll debrief tomorrow. I'm headed back to the office."

"Hey," he said, and his voice was gentler than it had been before. "I'm wrapping up here, so I'll see you before you leave?"

Ginny nodded jerkily. "I'll see you soon."

xXxXxXx

The newsroom was quiet, deserted except for Harry and the bustling bundle of energy to his right. Hermione was always a force to be reckoned with, but when her nervousness got into the act, Harry had learned from bitter experience that staying out of the direct path of her trajectory was the only way one's survival could be assured.

"You didn't happen to notice where I left my earrings earlier, did you?" Hermione asked as she flew (but not literally) past him.

"Which? The yellow dragon scales I got you for Christmas?"

"Yes. Ginny said I should wear them to go with the dress."

Harry looked doubtfully at the pale blue cotton jersey Hermione was sporting.

"I don't think they exactly go."

"Yes, I'll be sure to let Lavender know you'll be taking over her fashion beat straightaway."

"Very droll," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Anyway, you don't really need the earrings; you look fine already."

'Fine' was something of an understatement, as Harry normally thought of Hermione as 'exquisite,' but friends didn't go round calling one another 'exquisite' so he left it at 'fine.'

"Are you daft?" Hermione gestured to her hair, which was always a few seconds away from spiraling horribly out of control. "I haven't even started yet. Ginny's probably going to kill me for being so late. She's planning to play dress up or some such nonsense."

"If you don't want to go, you can just say so, you know," Harry pointed out reasonably.

"Oh, yes, that's just what I'll do, Mr. Oi, Hold Up There, Been Looking For You All Day. A lot of bloody help you were."

"You know I'm terrified of Ginny." It was a weak defense and they both knew it; further testament to Hermione's frantic mood was that she did not push the subject.

Being left to his own devices, however, prompted Harry to examine just how unhappy he was with this entire situation. He could have happily wrung Ginny's neck for putting Hermione in this incredibly awkward, doomed situation. If she didn't want to date, he didn't see why Ginny had to make it her personal mission to change that fact. So Malfoy couldn't come up with a girlfriend Ginny approved of; they were only work partners, after all, and Harry thought she could bloody well live with it.

You're only work partners, a little voice whispered inside his head. And not even partners, at that.

Harry gave the voice a mental flick, putting a stop to the annoying buzz of logic and reason. He hadn't been particularly logical or reasonable about Hermione in ages, not since she and Ron started favoring each other's company to Harry's and living in their own little world. The summer before fifth year had been intolerable for Harry, particularly once he had been reunited with his best friends.

Sometimes, it pained him that he could look back on that time and think of it as 'before things got really bad.'

Another thought he didn't wish to have. It bothered him that the only thing that seemed to distract him from this 'date' Hermione had consented to go out on with Malfoy was an even more unpleasant thought, and his thoughts didn't get more unpleasant than fifth year.

Until, of course, he recalled sixth year.

"Have you finished your column?" Hermione called over her shoulder as she rifled through her desk drawer.

"Yes," Harry said, and he glared at the surprised look she tossed his way. "It isn't totally unheard of, you know."

"It isn't?" There was a teasing sound to her voice and it made something warm settle in the pit of Harry's stomach. He absently blamed the sensation on his lunch.

"You don't have to go," Harry said for the sixth time that day. "Ginny will get over it, and God knows Malfoy can't be too eager."

A look of revulsion and what looked like resignation crossed Hermione's face. "Yes, I can just see Malfoy barging through the line of nonexistent suitors banging down my door."

Harry was tempted to comment that the reason there weren't dozens of suitors knocking down her door was because everyone who knew her was certain it was just a matter of time before she broke their hearts and went back to Ron, but he wisely kept quiet.

"Hmph," Hermione continued after a moment, "you don't imagine he is eager, do you?" She shook her head. "Maybe he's decided to see women below his class just to make his father roll in the grave."

"Perhaps he's brought a ring," Harry suggested. "It could be that the real reason Ginny was so keen, is because Malfoy put her up to it."

Hermione looked more horrified than she had when he'd shown her the scars on his hands, courtesy of Professor Umbridge.

"But--no, it's ridiculous, there's no possible way he'd--"

Harry laughed, perversely pleased that she was so distracted she hadn't noticed he was teasing her, and had to take pity on her in every respect.

"Accio earrings," he murmured after he'd pulled out his wand. From beneath a stack of parchment on Lavender Brown's desk, the earrings peeked out and soared into Harry's outstretched hand. He caught them with the care and finesse he'd once used to close his fist around a Golden Snitch.

Hermione let out a deep sigh and, as Harry dropped the earrings onto the desk beside her, stared at them with something close to depression. Harry recognized it as the wind being let out of her overly perky sails.

"I'm so thick," Hermione said dully.

"Yes," Harry agreed gravely, ducking as the earrings were hurled past his head.

xXxXxXx

Ensconced in their office once more, Ginny had calmed herself down considerably and was already starting to feel a bit silly -- a spot of tea had done wonders for her composure. She was determined that Draco wouldn't notice anything amiss when he arrived. And, in fact, he seemed rather preoccupied when he entered the office ten minutes later, studying the documents in his hands. He murmured an absent greeting to her, which she returned, then settled behind his desk. He picked up a quill and began to slash bold lines over the parchment -- whether removing sections or emphasizing them, she didn't know -- and after a few minutes of intense concentration he finally threw down the quill and began to open drawers to file his things away neatly. His work area was always pristine at the end of the day, no matter how many cases he was working on.

"Are you going to be staying long?" he asked, eyeing her work area.

Ginny sat behind her own desk -- piled high with stacks of parchment, file folders, crime scene photos, quills, two coffee cups, hand lotion, a half-starved plant, and a bowl of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans -- and looked at him mutinously. He'd once asked her mildly whether she felt more at home with clutter surrounding her, or whether she simply didn't know what file cabinets were for. She had responded that she had her own organizational system, and from that point on it was a matter of principle not to straighten up her desk until the stacks were piled so precariously high that they became a safety risk, threatening to tumble over onto the next person who walked by and breathed wrong. Draco had never said another word on the subject, but Ginny saw the amusement that sparkled in his eyes and it threw her hackles up. Not everyone, she had informed him, was as fastidious as he was. His response to that still made her flush when she thought of it. So she didn't.

"Not too long," she replied now.

He seemed to consider her a moment before saying, "What was that, earlier?"

Damn. "What was what?" she asked, hoping she sounded casual.

"Earlier. You were acting odd."

"I was?" She winced at how overly surprised she sounded. "No I wasn't."

"You were," he said, looking at her with a lazy, amused smile. "About Tina."

Ginny was so relieved that that was what he was talking about that it took a few moments for his words to sink in. "Why would I care about Tina?" she demanded.

"I don't know, you tell me. You're the one who had an attitude."

"I didn't have any 'attitude'!" Ginny protested hotly.

"You don't have to protect me from other women, you know," Draco said lazily.

Oh, he was maddening. Truly maddening. "I'm not trying to protect you!"

"Well, that's twice in one day."

"Twice? What are you--" But even as she was asking the question, the answer came to her. "Oh, you didn't want to go out with Laura Kittridge," she said, irritated. "You were relieved I turned Elizabeth down for you."

"Really? Wasn't given much of a choice, was I?"

Ginny ground her teeth. "You're only trying to get under my skin."

Draco capped his ink bottle. "Is that what I'm getting under?"

"I said trying."

"I might have hit it off with Laura Kittridge. She might have been 'the one.'"

"You don't even know her!"

"That's exactly my point. I've never even met the woman; if fate hadn't torn us cruelly apart we might have had a blissful life together."

Ginny glared at him. "You have a date with Hermione tonight."

Draco gave her an impatient look. "Just because I agreed to this dinner with Granger doesn't mean I owe her fidelity, for God's sake."

"No, you owe it to me," Ginny shot back. As soon as the words were out, she was annoyed with herself; that had come out less clearly than she'd intended. Even now, Draco's mouth was open in surprise. Before he could come back with a smart-arse comment, Ginny was in damage-control mode and said quickly, "Hermione is my friend and I set the two of you up. So the least you can do is to show me some respect and not make a date with another woman the same night you're supposed to see my friend. If things don't work out, I'll write to Laura Kittridge myself to--"

Ginny was interrupted by a tentative knock on the door.

"Come in," Draco barked.

The door opened slowly, and James Yellowbrook poked his head in. "I'm ... not disturbing you, am I?" he asked.

What is he doing here?

Ginny thought with some dismay. From the way his friendly blue eyes immediately zeroed in on her, she knew he wasn't there to talk about the case.

Draco didn't know that, however, and he said, "No, come on in. Did you find something else?"

As directed, Yellowbrook opened the door fully and entered. "Something else?" His brow furrowed.

Draco gave him a pointed look that asked without words if he was incompetent or merely just stupid.

Ginny hurried to the rescue. She made her way toward their visitor and gave what she hoped was a welcoming smile. "Hello, Yel-James. What can we do for you?"

Yellowbrook looked relieved as he turned toward her. "I received your memo," he said, looking shy but determined. "I wanted to tell you in person how glad I am that you accepted my invitation, and ..." He took a deep breath. "Toaskwhenyoumightbefree?" This was said all in a rush, as if speed were of the essence or he might not have gotten it all out. Ginny saw his eyes dart nervously to Draco, and she wished his bashfulness had at least prompted him to wait until they were alone before springing this on her.

Ginny herself was determined not to look directly at her partner; she'd probably perish from embarrassment. She could tell from her peripheral vision that Draco had frozen in the process of stacking his quills neatly into his quill-holder. He was probably amused as hell by her predicament. She tried not to let this ruffle her or color her reply to her would-be suitor. "How kind of you to stop by," she said in a low tone, stepping closer to him and turning her back to Draco, so she could more effectively block his presence. "You could have sent a note; it would have been easier for you."

"I know, but ..." Yellowbrook swallowed, appearing to try and get up his nerve again. "Iwantedtoseeyou."

Oh, good Lord

, Ginny thought. She really did not want him to get the wrong impression about the level of her interest, but she could not bring herself to let him down in front of an audience. "Did you have a day in mind?" she asked gently.

"Would tonight work?" he asked eagerly.

Ginny was dismayed. "Actually ... we've had back-to-back interviews all day and I'm rather exhausted," she said apologetically. He was already nodding before she even finished her sentence, as if used to hearing such excuses. Taking pity on him, Ginny quickly suggested, "What about tomorrow? Would that suit you?"

Brightening immediately, Yellowbrook said that would suit him just fine. As Ginny was about to bid him farewell and end the whole uncomfortable encounter, a drawling voice behind her spoke.

"If you want to date Weasley, it isn't going to be as easy as that, Yellowbrook."

Ginny turned and glared at Draco, who had gotten up and was now lounging indolently against his desk, his arms and legs crossed.

Yellowbrook's smile faltered. "It isn't?"

"What kind of partner would I be if I let her go out with anyone who waltzed through the door?"

Ginny forced a laugh as she shot daggers at Draco with her eyes. His sense of humor had not always seen eye to eye with hers, and this was one of those times. He ignored her. "I take my responsibilities very seriously, Yellowbrook. As her partner, it's my duty to look out for her, protect her, watch her back." At this last his glance strayed to Ginny's arse, and she could have throttled him with her bare hands. Unused to being toyed with by someone of Draco's repartee caliber, Yellowbrook was completely missing all the deliberate and distasteful insinuations. Instead, he was nodding very sincerely.

"Quite right. And please -- call me Jim."

Ginny groaned inwardly as a grin threatened to split Draco's face in two. "Thank you, I think I will." She noticed with some irritation that he did not return the gesture, but Yel-James-Jim-whatever did not seem to notice anything amiss. "So Jim, what are your intentions toward my partner?"

To Ginny's horror, Jim opened his mouth to reply. She had had enough. "Jim, he's just teasing you," she snapped, looking at Draco. "You don't have to answer that. Malfoy often thinks he's being funny, but he's not."

"Oh, but I understand his concern for you," Jim said earnestly. "That's his job, after all--"

"His job does not extend to my personal life," Ginny assured him as firmly yet kindly as she could under the circumstances. "I'll see you tomorrow, all right?" It was a dismissal, and Jim took his cue, saying that he looked forward to it, and that he would owl her later.

As soon as he was gone, she rounded on Draco, fully expecting him to be laughing. He was not. He was glaring at her as intently as she was glaring at him. All her ire left and was replaced with confusion. Why was he looking at her like that? If anyone should be angry, it was Ginny.

"What?" she said, sounding more waspish than she had intended. She crossed her arms defensively, preparing herself for whatever scathing comment he was going to level her way.

Draco gave her a look she couldn't decipher, then straightened from his position against the desk. "Nothing," he muttered. Brushing past her, he grabbed his cloak and left the office, closing the door with more force than strictly necessary behind him.

Ginny stared open-mouthed at the closed door. What in the world was that about?

xXxXxXx

Hermione shredded tissues from her purse as she sat in a dress that cost too many galleons, waiting on a date she didn't want to be on, in an insanely fancy restaurant she normally wouldn't frequent. Her shoes were too tight (something Ginny had insisted on; shoes, apparently, weren't stylish unless they pinched your feet) and her great mound of bushy hair had been tirelessly tamed into a dramatic upsweep. Hermione thought it looked very silly, but Ginny...

When Hermione had arrived at Ginny's flat, she'd found no one home. A few minutes later, Ginny had arrived, loaded to the gills with small instruments of torture Hermione knew most women used on a daily basis, apologizing profusely for being late, but a case had kept her preoccupied, and, by the way, if it weren't for Draco, she would have forgotten she'd promised to help Hermione before her date altogether. The rambling was punctuated with a smile that invited anyone who knew her to love her, and Hermione had relented, allowing Ginny free reign over her personal space.

A sigh escaped Hermione's lips. Ginny had spearheaded this entire evening. Ginny was the one who was so convinced Draco would be the perfect companion for Hermione. Ginny had shopped for Hermione's clothes and shoes and fought with Hermione over her hair. This was Ginny's date, not Hermione's, and the longer she sat here waiting for Draco Malfoy (the git was nearly half an hour late; Hermione had to abandon their plan of meeting up out front to save her feet the agony of standing another second in these shoes), the longer she nervously destroyed every tissue she could get her hands on in her perfect(ly awful) dress, the more conscious she became of the fact that she did not want to be on Ginny's date.

Ron had once taken Hermione to an empty Quidditch stadium. It had been their first date after graduating Hogwarts, their first date after the first of their many loud and passionate breakups and make ups, the kind that took for a good deal of time, rather than a few days of sullen rage. Spats were common between them; Harry had rolled his eyes at them and flat out gone mad over their constant bickering more times than Hermione could recall, but their arguing was rarely serious and never intentionally harmful. Their fights on the other hand...

But that date -- that had been a perfect date. Ron had been charming and funny, and he had brought a picnic lunch ("I packed it myself, didn't trouble any house-elves or anything else, so no need to go lecturing about") and a blanket and charmed their robes to repel grass stains. With his wand, he conjured up her favorite music, and they sat outside and watched the sunset while they ate, then laid back against the ground and watched the stars come out one by one. Ron listened as she named the constellations and gave him a quick lesson on the solar system and didn't complain the slightest, not even when she saw his eyes were about to glaze over.

That had been the first night they'd made love, out there under the stars, light years from Hogwarts and the war and the people they'd been at school. It was the first time in a year that Ron had felt like her Ron again, and not the cold, unsure man he'd become after Voldemort and his Death Eaters had wreaked so much havoc over their lives. Things hadn't been the same, not between Hermione and Ron, not between the three of them, after the war, but that night; oh, that night, Ron had laid her back against the ground and pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered sweet, beautiful things to her as they kissed and caressed and felt each other's quiet longings. And it was perfect. It was everything she'd thought long lost to the second great war waged upon their world.

Later, he confessed to her that Harry had used his considerable fame to open the pitch to them, at Ron's behest. A glow of gratitude had infused Hermione and never quite left, not even when she and Ron broke up the second, third, or fourth time. Because it never felt over and done with, even when she was sure it was, when she was so frustrated and furious with Ron that the idea of looking at his face again was repellent, let alone sleeping with him. The frustration and the fury passed, though, as they always did, into a haze of exasperated affection and acceptance for who Ron was and what he meant to her heart. It was the three of them, Harry would say to her, and she would agree. Sometimes, she thought Harry believed in her relationship with Ron more than she did; sometimes, she wondered if the real reason she and Ron kept coming back together had more to do with their best friend wanting them to be happy and together than it had to do with what they wanted.

And now, Hermione found herself distanced from Ron as she'd never been. He still talked to Harry frequently, she knew, but she hadn't spoken to him in almost six months, not since the last time he'd tried to rekindle their romantic relationship, and for the first time in history, she'd rebuked him. More than ever, Hermione was certain of what she didn't want, and that was to settle. Settling meant being resigned to the life set before you, and Hermione would not be resigned to some fate Harry Potter or Ginny Weasley or anyone else had laid out in their minds.

Determined, Hermione reached up and unclipped her hair. A frown marred her face when it stayed as it was, and she made a frustrated noise as she realized Ginny must have charmed it in place. Taking out her wand, Hermione tapped it to the upsweep and muttered a counter-charm that soon had her hair collapsing and pooling around her shoulders in all its bushy glory. Beneath the table, Hermione kicked off her shoes and efficiently transfigured them into a pair of comfortable slip-ons. She couldn't think of a thing to do about the dress, so she decided to let it be in all its canary yellow silk sheath glory and sighed in satisfaction.

Let Draco Malfoy come through those doors and fall madly in love with the real Hermione Granger, if they were so bloody perfect for one another.

xXxXxXx

Draco knew he was late. He wished he could say it had been on purpose, that it was ingrained in him to be fashionably late and some things never changed, but the truth was that his work had trained him in punctuality, and he was seldom late for an appointment. He could also blame it on the fact that he was not looking forward to spending the evening with a loud-mouthed know-it-all, but the depressing truth was that he had meant to be on time.

Meant to be, but he had gotten too absorbed at the gym. After he'd left the office, he'd been in a foul mood, and knew the best way to dispel it would be with exercise. Growing up, vigorous exercise had never been one of Draco's priorities. It had always had the veneer of the bourgeois. Thugs like Ron Weasley were the kind to spend time in gyms. Draco had played Quidditch, of course, but ... Quidditch was Quidditch. It didn't count. In the circles Draco had grown up in, one knew how far up in society one stood by how little sweat one produced.

Auror training had changed all that. Not only had time at the gym been strongly encouraged, they'd had rigorous field training exercises, and there were levels of physical fitness that all potentials had to meet in order to be officially admitted to the Auror division of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Of course, once ordained, many Aurors went back to the lax standards they had practiced prior to joining the Ministry, and quickly moved to sub-departments where field assignments were rare and desk jobs were more common.

Draco had found regular exercise to be both invigorating and a great method of relieving tension (and he didn't have to buy anyone jewelry or make small talk over dinner for it, although those things had their place). The fact that the time he spent at the gym or jogging on Manor grounds made him physically fit and more able-bodied to do his job properly were only bonuses. Like nothing else, exercise cleared his mind and allowed him to forget everything except the blood pumping through his veins, the air in his lungs, the burn of his muscles as he urged them on another mile. This afternoon, however, it had worked too well. By the time he'd given the order for the treadmill to cease he had run seven miles and was half an hour behind schedule. He hated having to hurry his grooming time, but there wasn't any help for it if he didn't want to keep Granger waiting too long.

And he didn't, because the sooner he arrived, the sooner the evening would be over. That was something he was looking forward to very much.

Apparating to a location just outside Niko's, he took in the fact that Granger was nowhere to be found, and figured that she had already gone inside. If she had been Ginny, she would have stayed outside where they'd agreed to meet so she could give him a pointed glare and a piece of her mind. Draco entered the restaurant, which was dimly but tastefully lit, accenting the modish decor. He was immediately greeted by the maitre d'.

"Mr. Malfoy," Paolo said, his low-key deference perfectly matching the understated elegance of the restaurant. "How wonderful to see you again, sir. Your companion has already arrived. Please, let me show you to your table."

Draco was somewhat self-conscious about his still-damp hair -- one of the sacrifices he'd made to get here reasonably on time. He was less concerned with leaving Granger to stew than he was with the idea of having her complain to Ginny about his lack of punctuality, who would know that it was out of character for him. Then he'd have no choice but to either allow Ginny to think that he'd done it on purpose (which he didn't want to do as he hated seeing that "I'm so disappointed in you" look), or tell her the truth of why he'd been late (since it was partially her fault that he'd felt the need for a long work out, he didn't relish doing that).

He didn't need Paolo's help in locating the table, which was, of course, smack dab in the middle of the room. The place of honor, where one could see and be seen. Many pairs of eyes followed his progress through the room, though such non-lethal attention had long ago faded to Draco's periphery. He had already spotted Granger -- it wasn't difficult; her hair, which resembled a brown rat's nest, was like a beacon. For once, he wished his name didn't entitle him to the best seat in the house. He would have preferred some dark corner, where other people -- not to mention Draco himself -- wouldn't be able to see his companion with too much clarity.

Sighing, Draco allowed himself to be seated. He and his dinner companion stared at one another without speaking for several moments, before a waiter came to take their drink orders.

"Firewhisky," Granger said without hesitation.

Clearly, she wasn't looking forward to this evening either, if she thought she had to fortify herself with alcohol. Then why did she agree to this? Draco thought with annoyance. Neither of them would be in this mess if not for her.

"Very good, madam," said the waiter. "What kind would you like?"

Granger stared back, at a loss. Sighing deeply, Draco intervened. "Odgen's," he said. "Single malt. And make it two."

"Yes, sir." He melted away.

At least she had the grace to flush. "I've, er -- never had firewhisky before."

"Really." Draco didn't bother to hide the condescension or lack of surprise in his voice. "And you've decided that tonight's the night?"

"It's the perfect night," she snapped.

Neither said anything further until they had both downed their drinks. Granger indicated another round, which was just fine with Draco.

"Right," he began, once the waiter had left again. "So now that you've gotten us into this --"

Granger choked as she took a sip of water. "Me?!"

Draco gave her a bored look. "Well, it certainly isn't my doing. You were supposed to refuse and get us both out of this." And because he couldn't resist, "If you wanted to see me this badly, all you had to do was ask. I wouldn't have said yes, but at least you would have tried."

"Your logic stuns me, Malfoy," Granger said, bristling. She rather resembled a squirrel who had found her hoard of nuts missing. "If you didn't want to be here so badly, you should have said no to Ginny." Draco thought he heard her mutter, "I should have bloody said no to Ginny," but couldn't be sure; the noises of the restaurant masked it. She did, however, level another scowl at him. "If you don't want to be here, you know where the door is, feel free to leave. But I told Ginny I'd try, and I'm not about to break my promise to her. Unlike you, Malfoy, I have this pesky condition the doctors call 'honor.'"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Oh spare me the honor speech, Granger." He sat forward, enunciating each word so that they would be sure to penetrate the shrubbery of her hair. "I'm not leaving. I won't be made the scapegoat for this turning out to be a disaster."

His companion slumped back in her seat. "I have no idea how I was talked into this date. We obviously have nothing in common, and if we were going out, I could scarcely count the days until there was a homicide! You are without moral character, and it is beyond me how Ginny can consider you a friend!"

"If you don't stop shrieking and drawing everyone's attention," Draco drawled, looking at her with distaste, "there will be a homicide sooner than you think."

Granger made an incoherent sound of rage while the waiter, with impeccable timing, showed up with their second round of drinks. "Are you ready to order?"

Draco could practically hear Granger's teeth grinding from where he sat. He smiled. "I'm afraid we haven't had the opportunity to consult our menus yet. We'd like some more time and another round of drinks."

"Of course, sir."

Draco stared at Granger's hair with curiosity as she threw back the second drink. He sipped his more slowly, then drained it. My god, it really is like a wild animal crawled on top of her head and took up permanent residence.

Their third round of firewhisky appeared quickly, and their waiter informed them that he would be back to check on them in a few moments. They both swallowed their drinks without ceremony.

"See here, Malfoy," Granger began, her cheeks looking a bit flushed. Her eyes were also getting suspiciously bright. "If I'm going to be stuck on this date with you, I might as well do my paper some good. Give us some gos-gosh- tell me about yourself so I can blab it all to Lavender Brown and have it in the celebrity gos-gos- pages."

Draco grimaced and signaled a passing waiter, indicating his desire for more drinks. "Can we not call this a 'date'? I have a reputation to uphold, you know."

Granger waved a dismissive hand. "If you'd like to fool yourself that you weren't emotionally blackmailed into this encounter by a redheaded tornado we both know and are going to kill later, be my guest." She hiccupped unattractively, then covered her mouth and looked embarrassed. "Less see ... what would Lavender ask you? Uhh ... who does your hair?"

"I'm not denying anything of the kind," he said. "I just don't want to call this a 'date.'" He raised an eyebrow. "Unless, of course, you do. I know it would probably do wonders for your reputation. And never let it be said that I don't support charitable causes."

Granger scoffed. "Please. Well if we aren't going to call it a date, what are we going to call it?"

"Purgatory," Draco responded immediately.

Their fourth round of drinks sat waiting on the table, and Granger lifted her glass in a toast. "To our eventual expulsion from Purgatory."

Draco lifted his own glass and swallowed quickly, feeling the burn of the alcohol as it branded his insides with its own particular form of stress relief. "It can't come soon enough," he muttered.

xXxXxXx

Purgatory, it seemed, would last quite a bit longer than they had hoped; they'd been sitting there for what felt like forever to Hermione, and the waiter had finally come back to take their order.

"I'll have whatever tonight's special is," Hermione said, handing over the menu she hadn't bothered to look at. "Just please, please be quick about it."

"Yes, madam," their waiter said, looking at her in a most disapproving fashion.

Hermione shrank slightly beneath his glare; the alcohol she'd consumed was already making her feel foolish enough -- the waiter being disappointed in her only heightened how stupid she felt. As she sunk further down into her chair, she felt ridiculous about it -- he was a waiter. This was precisely the reason Hermione detested these sorts of restaurants: the staff was always snooty, the food never quite lived up to the hype, and she always felt dreadfully out of place. She'd have given the overpriced dress on her back to be sitting with Harry at the coffee shop across the street from the Prophet.

Of course, it did not go unnoticed, even to Hermione's somewhat inebriated brain, that the most appealing part of that prospect was 'with Harry.'

Malfoy went on to order the most elaborate meal Hermione had ever seen one person consume, complete with starter, aperitif, a main course Hermione wasn't sure she could pronounce if pushed, and a dessert it took the entire length of their meal to prepare. A glare took up residence on her face and she decided she would pass the length of their meal making him feel very sorry indeed for prolonging it.

"I see someone isn't as eager to get out of this date as he pretended to be. That meal will keep us here for hours."

"Don't be ridiculous," Malfoy said. "The food is the only thing I'm looking forward to this evening. In any case, the service here is quite expeditious. Isn't that right, Jean-Paul?"

Their waiter (Jean-Paul, she thought with a mental eye roll) gave Hermione another huffy look. "Naturally, Mr. Malfoy. Your meals will be out shortly."

"Of course you'd be on a first name basis with the wait staff here," Hermione said, giving a snort of disgust; disgust at Ginny, at Malfoy, at herself for being talked into this whole night, at Harry for not doing his part by talking her out of it.

"What's wrong with that? Ginny and I come here quite often."

"Naturally. This restaurant is just like you -- pretentious and positive it's better than all the other restaurants, when really, deep down inside, it's got the foundation of a rickety drawbridge and the personality of a blast-ended skrewt. Honestly, I don't know how Ginny's managed to work with you so long."

Hermione had been hoping her little rant would score a direct hit; instead, Malfoy seemed almost amused. Damn him.

"And you got all this from a restaurant? It's no wonder you're not a novelist, with metaphors like that. As for Ginny, it's been the happiest, most rewarding years of her life."

Laughing into her nearly empty glass, Hermione was glad that at the very least some things never changed: Draco Malfoy's snide remarks about her character and her intelligence were of less consequence than Jean-Paul's.

"Yes, obviously that's why she's trying to get you a girlfriend so badly. Because she's quite happy with the way things are. Have you been annoying her, Malfoy? Hanging about, trying to get her to go out with you? Girls don't like to be stalked, not that you'd realize there actually are women who exist out there who don't want to join you in bed."

"That's because they are mythical creatures," he answered easily, and Hermione felt another eye roll coming on; she tamped down the urge. "In any case, you know as well as I that my relationship with Ginny goes beyond what happens in a bedroom. And..." He seemed to actually struggle for the right words. "She wants to see me happy." It didn't seem that he had found them, but that was all she was going to get.

Raising an eyebrow at what she suspected might be a real glimpse into his psyche, Hermione leaned forward and noted the irritated tilt to his mouth, as though he, too, had just realized the slip.

"If that's true," Hermione said frankly, "I don't see why on earth she'd want to see you with me. God knows I'm incapable of making myself happy, let alone anyone else." Abandoning the firewhisky, Hermione brought a glass of water to her lips and slowly began to sip at it. It suddenly didn't seem nearly as much fun being drunk, and she was left hoping the food would arrive soon to help settle her stomach. Along with her queasiness, so might go the unenviable fact that she wouldn't be happy as long as she remained as attractive to Harry as a boarhound, but neither of those things seemed to be happening, and Oh, dear, I'm quite sloshed.

When she looked over at Malfoy, she noticed that he was fiddling with his silverware and, she hoped, too concerned with the drunken slip he'd just made to pay much notice to hers.

"Not happy, eh? And to think, you looked so cheerful dressed up like a canary."

Bugger

.

"Yes, well, you can blame Ginny for the dress. And my mood. Though not for my life." Hermione shook her head. "Never mind. I'm just a melancholy drunk, all right?" Laughter seemed appropriate after that comment, but even to Hermione's ears, the sound that emerged from her mouth had a sickly, nervous ring to it.

Malfoy looked like he wanted very badly to sigh right in her face. There also seemed to be a sharp retort begging to be set free, but for some reason, he held it back. Hermione assumed this was either Ginny's doing -- Harry wasn't the only man to openly admit he was afraid of the youngest Weasley -- or Malfoy was setting her up for an even bigger insult. Either way, she was already beginning to regret her earlier decision to switch beverages.

"Now, Granger, that's not the positive, go-getter attitude I'm used to being annoyed by. Life as a two-bit hack not satisfying anymore? Looking for that oh-so-special someone to make two bushy-haired children with?"

Bushy-haired children with big green eyes and a penchant for getting into trouble with their best friends-- and stop thinking about babies that will

never exist!

A secret Hermione didn't like to tell, even to herself, was that this perpetual longing she felt to explore what she felt for Harry sometimes built up to a breaking point of sorts. Normally, when these breaking points ... broke ... she surrounded herself with chocolate, owled in sick to work, and spent the day reading books she'd been meaning to catch up on. It was a foolproof remedy to a problem that had no solution, and by the next day she was fully prepared to smile brightly at Harry and pretend she wasn't arse backwards in love with him.

Hermione was not prepared to break during a date -- however farcical -- with Draco Malfoy.

"I am perfectly satisfied with my life as it is." That's become a bloody mantra. "If there's something out there I'm missing, and it's meant to happen, then it will." A promise she whispers to herself late at night to keep her from Apparating to Harry's and begging him to kiss her, just once, so she can live off the memory for a decade or so.

Oi, I'm a pathetic drunk. Hope Malfoy hasn't noticed. Hold up, his mouth's moving, should probably be listening.

"You're perfectly satisfied with your life," he was saying. "Not two moments ago you said that you were incapable of making yourself happy. One of these cannot be true, and I'm guessing the former. You're so used to hiding behind some defensive claptrap that it's become second nature to you to prevaricate. That and you work for a newspaper."

Snorting, Hermione knocked back the last of her firewhisky (to hell with it) and gave a little moan of salvation when Jean-Paul deposited a basket of bread at their table. It looked crusty and freshly baked and she felt it might be the only thing that could possibly save her. Malfoy reached for a piece, and her hand darted out to beat him to it. He raised an eyebrow at her, but let the incident pass without comment. She began furiously buttering the bread.

"Well, thanks so much for the amateur psychology bit. I'll be sure to take every last word deeply to heart, I assure you," she said testily, reaching for another pat of butter. She'd lined up three slices of bread before her and was compulsively fixing each one until they were perfect. It gave her something to do besides punch Malfoy's smirking face. "For your information, being satisfied with one's life is vastly different from being happy with it. You of all people should know that. The last time I was happy--" Her teeth came down on her tongue so hard, she tasted blood, and promised herself, Bread, soon, there will be bread. "Never mind. It doesn't matter, and it certainly isn't something I'd care to share with you."

"It's not amateur," Malfoy said at once, and he sounded somewhat miffed she'd claimed it was. "We all had to pass several examinations on that very subject before we received our special little Auror's badges. So you see, Granger, you're getting professional help pro bono." He gave her look as though he expected her to be immensely pleased with this news, and to please, please beg him to help her.

She continued to stare at him.

"Well, out with it, Granger," he prompted. "You're dying to share your petty little problems. I can see it in the way your nose is twitching."

Damn him

! Her hand flew to her nose and she pressed the bridge of it between thumb and forefinger. The twitching had been a nervous tick that had developed shortly after the war began; no matter how hard she'd tried, she'd never been able to break it, and it gave away her anxiety every time. Her eyes began to tear, and Hermione firmly blamed it on the alcohol. She'd actually been considering telling her petty little problems to Draco Malfoy. Idiot.

"Shut up, Malfoy," she said as she began shoving bread into her mouth in a very unladylike manner.

xXxXxXx

If it is meant to be that I die at an absurdly young and virile age, I beg of you, Lord, take me now.

His pleas went unanswered, as they so often did, and Draco heaved a sigh and took another healthy gulp of firewhisky. He could not recall the last time he'd had quite so much to drink at once, but figured if a situation ever called for the consumption of massive amounts of alcohol, this was it.

Granger seemed to be growing more disgruntled as the meal progressed. He'd even kindly offered her a bit of his appetizer, and she'd wrinkled her nose at him. Ginny would have taken it and then helped herself to more. Chivalry was overrated, anyway, and Draco kept the rest of his food to himself.

Enough time had passed since they last conversed that Draco began to feel -- not uncomfortable, he assured himself -- slightly ill at ease. He had promised Ginny to make an effort, and sitting there in stony silence could not be considered an effort, no matter which way he tried to rationalize it. No, as tempting as the idea of finishing the rest of the meal in perfect quiet was, he would simply have to persevere.

"So how is the world of yellow journalism?"

There, that was pleasant, wasn't it? At least it was about her work, a subject that seemed to interest her. But of course she was glowering at him now; honestly, what did it take?

"Splendid," she said, and he thought he might have detected a bit of sarcasm in her tone. "I'm thinking of doing a story on arsehole Aurors within the Ministry. Have you got a few quotes I could use?

Yes, definitely sarcasm, then.

"Sure. How about, 'Reporting standards at the Daily Prophet are a joke'?"

"Smashing. I'll lead with that one, right after I do the story on the missing Quidditch player one of my sources is on about," she muttered, and for the first time in the history of their association, Draco took an actual interest in something Hermione Granger was saying. "Idiot is probably on a long weekend, drunk off his arse, but I'm supposed to drop everything I'm working on to look into it when there's nothing there at all."

"Really," Draco drawled with carefully feigned disinterest, "and who's that?"

She waved a slightly unsteady hand at him in a dismissive manner. He was mildly annoyed at being gestured at so crudely, but his interest was piqued enough to overlook it.

"Oh, Tom Kitty Ridge or something inane like that," Granger said. "Played for..." She blew a sudden puff of air from her mouth. "Hmm. I rather think I've had too much to drink." That fact didn't seem to bother her, however, because she quickly downed the rest of her firewhisky. "At any rate, we always get these tips," and he noticed that she was lisping the end of her 'r's. She'd better be able to Apparate out of here. There's no bloody way this excruciating night is extending beyond this restaurant. Why has she stopped talking? Why is she just staring--

Draco waved a hand in front of Granger's face, and she blinked.

"Sorry. Where was I?"

"Tips," Draco said curtly.

"Right you are!" she agreed. "We get dozens of them every week, always about someone famous, as though news only happens to people who've already achieved notoriety. The tips come from ordinary, average wizards, usually people who wanted to be reporters or Aurors and ended up as shopkeepers or something else perfectly respectable. Ninety-nine percent of the time they turn out to be absolute rubbish. But when these tips involve Quidditch stars, my editor insists I check it out because it doesn't fall under Harry's normal sports beat."

"Mmm," Draco said, because she was looking at him as though she wanted an answer of some sort; or possibly because she was about to pass out. Best play it safe. "Probably went on a bender," he said, speaking of Kittridge. "Now hiding in his flat recovering."

"Exactly!" Granger sat up straighter in her chair, warming to the topic. But please, please not the company. "Honestly, if people could just exercise an ounce of self-control and discretion, my job would be considerably less trying."

"Granger, if they did that, you wouldn't have a job," he pointed out in what he thought was a reasonable tone.

"That's not true at all!" she hissed at him like an angry kneazel. The woman was her own menagerie. Honestly. The things I do for you, Ginny. "I'd just finally have the time to do the stories I really care about! Exposés about corruption within the Ministry! Stories about the rebuilding efforts and how people really banded together after the war, how their whole lives changed for the better! Children who were so young during the war who did amazing things that have never, not once, seen the light of day, because all bloody people cared to hear about was Harry, no matter how much he insisted he didn't want any of it!"

I will give her anything if she'll stop speaking in exclamations.

Draco took a hefty sip of his firewhisky.

"You know," Granger went on, totally unconcerned with the coma he was slipping into, "Ron and I had a hard time of it, too, and no one cared, not even when Harry told them to. The Daily Prophet certainly didn't care, too busy..."

Draco could only hope she'd lost her train of thought. Maybe, he wanted to argue, there might not be so much corruption in the Ministry if people "exercised an ounce of self-control and discretion." The bleeding-heart material he had to give her. Saying so out loud, however, would prolong the conversation, and Draco remembered with fondness the idyllic past of fifteen minutes ago, when silence had reigned over their table. He had been too hasty in breaking it.

"This whisky is odd," Granger said, wrinkling her nose a bit. "It was very strong at first, but I can barely taste it now."

Yes! Train of thought hijacked.

Though she appears to be hailing our waiter...

"Yes, this firewhisky is odd. Could I have something a bit stronger?"

After the waiter left, Draco narrowed his eyes at her. She really wasn't going to be able to see herself home if she didn't slow down.

"You're drinking like a fish, Granger," he said. "Ginny didn't mention she was setting me up with an alcoholic."

Her eyes narrowed and he hoped she wasn't going to start ranting again.

"I only drink when the very near future looks to be an unending nightmare," she slurred at him. "I haven't ... come to think of it, I haven't had anything to drink in quite," she paused to hiccup, "some time. Oof. It's hot in here. Are you hot?" From beneath the table she produced a hair clip and she began rearranging the bush on top of her head like a bird making a nest, clipping it partially in place. Much of it fell apart, and the small bits that held stuck out at ridiculous angles.

She was off in her own little world now; Draco thought he heard her murmur that she should drink more often, but he really wasn't listening anymore. She goes out in public like this. I'm in public with her. And I'm starting to feel a little tipsy myself... The full magnitude of the night's horror suddenly became startlingly clear to Draco, and he recalled the tail end of her last question.

"I," he said as he plucked the new glass out of her hand, "am always 'hot.'"

"Hey!" she objected, futilely reaching across the table for her drink.

"No," he said. "I have zero desire to see you home, and even less than that to see vomit all over my robes." He knocked the drink back himself. "By the way, how's old Scarhead?"

Oh, good God, if she can't take a joke about Potter without bristling like a very bristly thing--

"Don't you dare call him that," she seethed. "Don't you dare call him that ever again, or I swear, Malfoy, the scene I'll make will be front page news."

Draco could no longer contain the urge to roll his eyes incredibly hard.

"Do what you like," he said, holding up his hand to prepare for a finger checklist. "Let's see, I can now tell Ginny we've talked about your work, my work, world events, Potter, and Quidditch. Right. If that doesn't earn me sainthood, I don't know what will."

Jean-Paul arrived at that moment and set out their main courses. "Please enjoy your meal," he said to Draco, casting another glare Granger's way. She stuck her tongue out at him.

"If you don't mind," Draco said, resisting the urge to just get up and leave after that display, "I'd like to take a page from the earlier, more successful part of our evening, and enjoy the rest of my meal in blissful silence."

"I--"

"SILENCE!"

She fumed at him for a moment, but soon tucked in to her meal. He did likewise, and prayed for death. Or at the very least, more alcohol.

xXxXxXx

For approximately five minutes, Hermione was grateful for Malfoy's presumptuous outlook on life that allowed him to believe he could subjugate the thoughts and feelings of others solely in keeping with his own desires. Then it occurred to her why she'd stopped drinking years ago: when she had too much alcohol her thoughts tended to lead her down a long, slippery slope of melancholy and regret.

The respite of silence as they consumed their meals was preferable to the 'conversation' they had previously found themselves engaging in, but the ensuing quiet gave her nothing but time to think, and memories began clawing their way to the surface. The way Ron used to crack stupid jokes because even when there were other things to worry about, he left the worrying to others; the way Harry used to hold her hand and hug her because she was his friend; the look of concentration on Neville Longbottom's face as he worked so very, very hard to improve his Defense Against the Dark Arts training, so that he might avenge his parents' incapacitation.

Of course, that was many years ago now. Neville was dead. Harry never touched her anymore -- a habit he'd gotten into after Ron had gone into one of his mad fits of jealousy when he saw them sitting together, Harry's arm draped comfortably (but platonically) over her shoulder. Ron had often been quite unreasonable, both in his jealousy and his protectiveness (just ask Ginny), but where Harry was concerned, the pain Ron felt always seemed a bit more acute, a bit more raw. Harry, after all, was, not born, but marked at a young age to stand out in a crowd; Ron seemed destined to blend in with the mob of redheads around him. So Harry got out of the habit of touching her, just in case Ron was around, and it was a habit he'd never quite got around to breaking, not even when the intimate relationship she and Ron shared had ended for the last time.

Ron didn't make his dumb jokes anymore. He tried sometimes, because he could sense that they were worrying about him, wanting the old Ron back, but where he once possessed an almost naïve, boyish humor, there was now an efficient coldness that the war left behind with so many of them. Hermione had loved Ron very much, and so she kept ignoring the very obvious fact that during the war they had both outgrown their relationship; she ignored it so studiously that they managed to keep hurting each other for nearly a decade before finally making a clean break. They still had little relapses, as she liked to think of them, but they were few and far between. She hadn't seen him in nearly a year now, but she couldn't be too sorry about it, because he seemed happy, and she was grateful for it because that was the one thing she could never seem to make him.

And you've done such a smashing job making yourself happy, too

.

The little voice in the back of her head that constantly pushed her to achieve seemed to be inebriated as well, and as such had slipped into a rather self-flagellating, morose tone.

Hermione glanced at her dining companion. Draco Malfoy was quite possibly the most unrepentantly nasty person she had ever encountered. Upon first glance, it seemed that he was mean for the sport of it; after she had known him for awhile after they'd left school, it became clear to Hermione that he wasn't actually unpleasant in some grand quest at villainy: it was simply his nature. He had been born into a house of hate and discourse and taught to value the opinion of a monster; that he was pleasant even some of the time was truly astonishing, and, had she gone into a career in psychology as her parents had wanted her to, Hermione might have wanted to spend a great many years studying the inner workings of Draco Malfoy's mind.

As things stood at present, however, she was highly considering letting loose a drunken rambling because he might be the one person in the world who wouldn't tell her a pretty lie to make her feel better.

"The last time I was happy," she said, staring at the untouched cup of coffee that sat at Malfoy's right arm, "was on the train after our fourth year. Cedric Diggory had just died, and I was upset, but ... I'm not talking about that kind of sadness, you know, the kind that everyone deals with. Deep down inside, in my heart, in my hope, in everything that truly counted, I was happy. Ron and Harry were with me, eating chocolate frogs, and Harry was trying not to be miserably guilty and Ron was cheering us both up and you and Crabbe and Goyle were safely stuffed away ... everything was perfect."

"Yes, it seems obvious that I would agree," he said after he had swallowed the bite of Baked Alaska he'd just taken. Hermione ignored his tone; it hardly mattered that he was here at all. These confessions, she was beginning to realize, were a long time in coming.

"Ginny had just confessed to me that she seemed well and truly over her crush on Harry," Hermione continued. "Back then, I wasn't sure who aggravated me more -- her, for following him around so pathetically, or him, for not noticing her."

"Him," Malfoy said darkly. "No matter the circumstances, it was always him who was more aggravating."

"I was fourteen then," Hermione said quietly. "I haven't been happy since I was fourteen. How pathetic is that?"

"Exceptionally," Malfoy answered. "Now, as you can see, I've finished my dessert--" He picked up his coffee and downed the entire cup in several quick swallows. "--and my coffee, so I imagine I'll be going."

Hermione gave a dispassionate wave that was intended to serve as her approval for his departure. But he didn't leave. He frowned at her. Is he having a moment of real, honest, human compassion? Is it possible that his years spent working for the Ministry have tamped down an ounce of that Slytherin ambivalence from--

"You aren't going to tell Ginny I walked out on you in an inebriated state, are you?" He looked cross now. "Because I sat here far longer than I would have, had this little horror been arranged by anyone other than my partner, and I honestly think that sort of thing ought to be taken into consideration."

"That's the longest sentence you've spoken all night," Hermione noted. "You must be pissed, too."

"Piss off," he muttered. But he didn't move. Hermione thought he might actually possess a bone of decency, heretofore undiscovered, at least by her. Perhaps it was located somewhere in his back, tucked far away from sight.

"Why do you think I'm so unhappy?" she asked him, then held up a hand to forestall what she imagined would be a litany of reasons. "Besides the stick up my arse, the bush on my head, and the general unpleasantness of my personality."

"Well, take all that away and you're likely to be a much happier person," he said sullenly.

"No. I wouldn't," she said honestly. It was more honest than she'd been to herself in years, and she was disconcerted that it had happened in front of Draco Malfoy.

"No," he agreed, "you're wouldn't."

"What would you know about it?" she snapped, wiping at sudden tears. It was unreasonable of her, but the fact that he'd agreed with her suddenly made the entire nightmare real. She wasn't happy. How could a person live so many years never being happy? What was happy, anyhow? How could she define it, capture it for herself? What if she was happy and simply couldn't recognize it?

"If you're going to snap at me, I'm leaving," Malfoy said. "I'm still here only because helping you find happiness means Ginny will stop trying to make me miserable." He shifted in his seat. "So come on, Granger, out with it; what will make you happy?"

"The impossible," she said, her tone desolate.

He rolled his eyes at her. "Yes, please do let us get mired down in melodrama, as that's bound to help the situation."

"I'm in love with Harry."

Her eyes widened so much, she wondered that they didn't simply roll out of their sockets. Her hand flew to her mouth and pressed there tightly, as though by sheer force she could capture the words and push them back inside. It was inconceivable that she had just spoken those words aloud. Speaking them aloud gave them power, made them real, meant that -- no. No, no, nononono.

Malfoy didn't seem particularly surprised, which surely he would be if she'd spoken aloud; everyone knew it was Ron whom Hermione had the romantic relationship with, Ron whom she kept making up and breaking up with, Ron whom she would eventually end up with, because there was simply no other acceptable course of action.

"And?"

Hermione blinked. "And ... what?"

His eyes rolled. "Good God. You mean that's it? You're in love with Potter, and--"

"Don't say that!" she practically screeched. "Don't say that out loud ever, ever again!"

"You've gone mad," he said calmly.

She had to give him that one.

"Oh God," she whimpered, and her head hit the table with a thunk; holding it upright was simply too much work at this point.

"Granger, sit up; people are likely to think I've finally snapped and struck you. Not that they'd be far off, mind you, but I do try never to strike women in public."

Slowly, she raised her head and looked at him blearily.

"Was that a joke, Malfoy?"

"Yes, sure, all right."

Hermione sighed. "It doesn't matter how I feel, anyway. He doesn't feel the same, so there's nothing I can do."

"You can change how he feels," Malfoy said.

"You can't make people love you," Hermione insisted.

"Of course you can," Malfoy said with the trace of a scoff in his voice. "You call yourself a witch; it's a disgrace. All you've got to do is get eye of newt and--"

"I don't want to make Harry love me," Hermione said firmly. "I just ... want him to. Because he does."

"Except he doesn't," Malfoy said, looking at her as though she were quite stupid.

"Yes, well, that's the long and the short of it right there," Hermione said, "and I'm very sorry I ever brought it up. Please, feel free to leave me here to wallow in perpetual misery."

"Don't be ridiculous," Malfoy said, waving her off. "We've got a strategy now. We get Potter to fall arse backwards in love with you, and we both get Ginny off our backs. It's perfect."

"Harry is not going to fall in love with me!" Hermione snapped, and she felt the tears pricking her eyes again; she wished he'd quit making her say it out loud.

"Well, you're right there. It won't happen as long as you've got your hair styled in the latest Escaped Mental Patient chic, and you're always pinching your face up in that prudish, disapproving way, and good Lord, Granger, do you even own a nail file?"

Hermione stared down at her nails; they were bitten to the cuticle because she never had the inclination to file them, and growing them long always interfered with her writing. Quills and long fingernails weren't designed to work together harmoniously.

"Have you considered simply inviting him to your flat and jumping him?" Malfoy continued.

"What?!" Hermione spluttered. "No! Well ..."

"Fantasized and actually considered aren't the same thing," Malfoy said.

The blush extended from the tips of her toes to the ends of her bizarrely styled hair.

"I would never -- I could never ..."

Again, Malfoy dismissed her with a wave of his hand. "Yes, yes, I know, Gryffindor pride. You know, if Millicent Bulstrode had gone around with this sort of puritan attitude she never would have captu-er, landed herself a husband."

"Hey now! I may not be Miss Honeydukes, but I'm certainly not Millicent Bulstrode!"

"Point conceded," Malfoy said, but he was sounding bored. "Which is why I think we've got a shot. You'll never be, as you say, Miss Honeydukes, but with the proper discipline and attention, I think we can get you presentable enough to turn Potter's head."

Hermione opened her mouth to object, to call this insane scheme for what it was, but Malfoy put his index finger to his lips, shushing her.

"No need to thank me, Granger," he said magnanimously.

"Don't worry," she muttered.

Draco Malfoy playing Cupid for her and Harry; this really was the most fantastic dream. Pity she probably wouldn't remember it in the morning.

"Now," Malfoy went on as though he didn't realize they were participants in her drunken delusions, "this is a very tricky situation. Ginny isn't going to leave us alone about each other unless she thinks we've hit it off, so that's exactly what we must let her think. And over the course of the next few weeks, I will allow you access to my vast knowledge of style, elegance, taste, and what makes a person attractive to another person, in the interest of helping you land your beau."

"But it's so ludicrous!" Dream or no, the idea of dating Malfoy -- even under false pretenses -- was just too much.

"You know that, I know that, the whole of England knows that, but Ginny does not, and that is all that matters."

"And what, we're just supposed to start going out in public together, holding hands and talking about what our children will look like?" A vague picture of blond, bushy-haired children with gray eyes and narrow faces flitted through her mind and the horrific image made her feel physically ill.

"No, no," Malfoy said. "This matter must be handled delicately. Ginny has the heart of an Erumpent, but also the subtlety of one. We'll simply inform her -- separately, of course -- that we did not have a totally loathsome time on our date and that we've decided to give it another chance."

"Lie, then," she said, warming to the idea against her will.

"Whatever label you want to place on it," he said unrepentantly.

Hermione didn't say yes. She also didn't say no. Malfoy had the waiter put their meal on his tab (he has a tab) and left the restaurant with a bounce in his step, obviously having taken her silence for capitulation. Hermione risked Apparating home and thankfully ended up in her own flat and not splinched. Desire had a great deal to do with the destination when magical transportation was involved, and Hermione had been half afraid she'd end up outside Harry's door, pathetically scratching to be let in like a stray cat.

She barely had the energy to get undressed, but somehow she managed. She dragged her protesting body into her bedroom and collapsed, face first, onto the bed.

A few seconds later, she half-sprang up with a groan.

Fuckdamnitwanker! I didn't brew an anti-intoxication potion ... Harry will never let me live this down ...

And then, blessed unconsciousness.

xXxXxXx

End Notes:

1) This chapter is dedicated to Lissanne, who Understands. Love and hugs for you, babe.

2) Many thanks to the Harry Potter Lexicon, which we use to fact check a great many things about the HP universe.

3) One of these things is the Erumpent, which Draco compares Ginny to. Fact: This huge African magical beast resembles a rhinoceros. Its horn, which can pierce almost anything, contains a fluid which explodes, destroying what it has hit. Because male Erumpents frequently blow each other up during mating season, the species is somewhat endangered.

4) Another of these is the spelling of "firewhisky." Fact: "Firewhisky" is the correct spelling, no matter now many times we want to spell it "firewhiskey." At least, according to the Lexicon and our British HP books (for this, too, we thank Lissanne).

5) Fact: The title of this chapter is derived from "Anatomy of a Murder," a 1959 Jimmy Stewart film.

6) Fact: We love feedback and appreciate any efforts that you make to tell us what you think.

Magical Mayhem, for fic updates and discussion: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/magical_mayhem/.

Jade: http://www.livejournal.com/users/jade_okelani/

Sarea: http://www.livejournal.com/users/sarea_okelani/

And now, what you've all really been waiting for: an update on our friendship.

Jade: Things really seemed to be taking an upturn until Sarea's childish behavior drove yet another wedge between us. I am not certain how much longer I can continue this association, even for the sake of you, our beloved fan.

Sarea: That is patently untrue and I am now considering suing you for libel. Besides, you started it!! I was playing HARMLESS PRANKS and once again, you TOOK IT TOO FAR! You hit me first!!

Jade: OMG HARMLESS? My dog will never be the same! And I so did NOT hit you first!! You like, totally smacked me on the arm!

Sarea: That was a FRIENDLY SMACK! God! You are so dumb.

Jade: ... Oh. Sorry about that thing with the spork then--

Sarea: *makes shushing gesture*

Jade: But--

Sarea: SILENCE!