Nighthawk

Are women mad? A few are,
And if it's true you say --
If most men are as you are --
We'll all be mad some day.
~ Excerpt from "The Clinging Vine," by E.A.R.

Chapter One

Hermione breathed in the fresh bitter scent of coffee with a contented sigh as she stepped into the shop. Her life was going to shit, but at least she could still enjoy a good cup of java.

She glanced around the small brewery absently, taking her place in the thankfully short line up to the counter. It was later in the morning than she usually popped in to pick up her coffee and biscotti, and she didn't recognize any of the customers relaxing in the comfortably stuffed chairs around the room. Only one person was sitting at a round table towards the front of the shop, a darkly handsome man that... well, he seemed somewhat familiar, although she didn't think she'd ever spotted him in there before. His nose was buried in a copy of the London Times and she eyed him curiously as he took a sip of his large coffee, the steam curling up as it mingled with his breath. Something about the way he held his head, the way his fingers loosely grasped the end of the paper...

He lifted his head suddenly, simultaneously arching a brow at her and nodding slightly in greeting as he caught her gaze.

Oh crap.

With a barely suppressed squeak of surprise, she whirled back around towards the counter. She could feel his eyes on her as she stepped up to order and she gave the boy at the register a shaky smile.

"Late today," the boy grinned widely at her, pushing his long sandy hair back from his face. She'd suspected for a while now that he had a slight crush on her.

She nodded. "Had a few errands to run before work. Just give me my usual please, Chris."

Fidgeting, she paid for her drink and cookie and moved off to add sugar and cream, the man's eyes still boring holes into the back of her skull. It was completely unfair, that she'd run into him, of all people, at her coffee shop. And a Muggle one at that.

Completely unfair.

She nearly spilled her coffee when his voice, low and smooth and deeper than she remembered, drawled just behind her, "Hullo, Granger."

Taking a deep breath before turning, she nodded hello and forced out a semi-pleasant, "Zabini."

"Fancy meeting you here," he said, one lip quirked up in wry amusement.

"Yes," Hermione said weakly, craning her neck around his shoulder and looking for any way out of the conversation, "fancy that."

Without giving her a chance to excuse herself, he curled a hand around her elbow and herded her towards his table. "Up for a chat? Catch up on old times?" He seemed to be greatly enjoying her discomfiture.

"Er... I'm actually... meeting..." She trailed off as he pressed her down into the seat opposite his. "Love to," she ended dejectedly. Because, of course, Blaise Zabini happened to be the only boy who'd ever been able to make her heart flutter. And she had absolutely no time for frivolous fluttering.

"So, Granger," he started, lounging back into his seat, "what have you been up to?"

She didn't bother removing her coat and sat stiffly in the high-backed chair, the small bag that contained her cookie on her lap, one hand wrapped around her cup and the other curled slightly into itself on the polished surface of the table. "Work mostly." Trying to save a dying albatross, she added to herself. "You?"

He waved a hand. "Oh, this and that."

Bloody wastrel probably didn't need to work. "That's nice," she managed to comment politely. "Look, Zabini, I've really got to--"

He placed his hand over hers and she stared down at it dumbly, her thoughts momentarily scattered.

"What do you do?" he asked nonchalantly, as if his palm wasn't currently burning through the back of hers.

He radiated heat like a furnace.

She swallowed. "Um... private investigator, actually. We've an office 'round the corner."

"We?" He brushed his thumb against hers.

Was he doing it on purpose? Did he suspect she'd had that teensy infatuation with him back in school? "My partner and I," she explained, hoping the gods wouldn't smite her down for the way the blatant lie rolled easily off her tongue. My partner. It was the first time she'd said it out loud to anyone but her secretary.

"Perhaps I'll stop by sometime," he smirked, "and we could do lunch."

Did he know? she thought, a bit panicked. He couldn't though, she assured herself. His smirk was merely the Slytherin version of a smile; nothing to worry about. "Sure, Zabini," she found herself saying. "Anytime. We're on Fourth and Gilbert." She had to fight the urge to clap a hand over her mouth in stunned horror. She'd just invited him by.

Zabini gazed at her silently, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Er... Yes. Really should be going, now." She gave him a fleeting smile, then slipped her hand out from under his. Was she just imagining the pins and needles that tingled down from her fingertips? Oh Merlin, she almost groaned. She didn't still have the hots for the man. Honestly.

Drumming his fingers on the table, he took a sip of coffee and said, "See you around, Granger."

Hermione nodded and strode briskly from the shop, vowing never, ever again to pick up her coffee late.

******

"I'm in way over my head, Alice," Hermione said. "We're only a step above bankruptcy."

"What about...?" Alice started thoughtfully, absently playing with the end of her pale blonde braid.

Hermione shook her head, knowing exactly what her friend and secretary was going to suggest. "I'm not borrowing any more money from Harry," she said firmly. "This new plan has just got to work."

She glanced over at the freshly painted door, grimacing at the new name, Tynan Cross, P.I., listed underneath the Nighthawk Investigations logo. That was a bitter pill to swallow.

Sighing, she slipped from her perch on the corner of Alice's desk. "You can patch any calls straight through," she said, striding towards her office.

"Yes, ma'am." Alice mock-saluted.

Hermione rolled her eyes at her and shut the door, moving to settle into her chair and pulling up her email. She'd gotten the computer as a necessary prop, since she catered to both Muggles and Wizards. Or she would have catered to them, if any of them ever bothered to take the petite, curvy P.I. seriously. She was barely squeaking by.

It made no matter that she was Hermione Granger, brilliant witch and former Head Girl, top of her graduating class.

Fresh out of Hogwarts, she'd originally taken a job with the Ministry, but found out quickly enough that she didn't play well with the Officials.

She'd been an Auror. A damn good Auror, actually, but she'd never gotten used to the chain of command. She didn't have any problems with rules, really. She'd learned long ago when to break them and when to fall in line. She just found that she didn't agree with any of the nonsense the higher-ups were spouting, and realized they'd never let her do things the way she wanted them done. She ended up arguing against nearly every order tooth and nail, and when they didn't give, she simply did her own thing anyway. She'd saved lives that way, she knew. They just weren't willing to admit it.

When they had politely asked her to resign, she did so graciously, and Dumbledore almost immediately offered her the Librarian position at Hogwarts. It'd been fun for a time, but she eventually grew bored with the lack of stimulation. She loved books, of course, but she wanted, needed to do more.

So she ended up scrimping together every single sickle, knut and galleon she could get her hands on, then hired her flat mate, Alice, at an embarrassingly measly salary, and opened up Nighthawk Investigations. Which was, after barely two years in existence, on the verge of going under.

She didn't have much email, which wasn't especially surprising since she only maintained a few Muggle acquaintances.

Ron's wife, Estelle, a talented ballet dancer, was her one close Muggle friend. Lovely woman; a sweetheart, really, but on the whole she was somewhat absentminded. There was a short email from her, inviting her for dinner on Friday, which she promptly declined. A Friday night at the Weasley's just screamed set-up. Estelle fancied herself a bit of a matchmaker, and Hermione had no desire to find a match. At least, not until she was back on her feet financially.

She had a few messages from her contacts down at the Fortieth Precinct and answered them with a quick hello, making it seem as though she was much busier than she actually was. She'd learned early on that it was prudent to make good with the local authorities. Of course, since her biggest case to date involved a stolen champion standard poodle...

Frustrated, Hermione shoved her fingers into her hair and tugged them through her curls. The intercom buzzed and she blindly groped for the button. "Yes, Alice," she said wearily.

"Sexy Beast, line one," she chirped.

"Thanks," Hermione replied, reaching for the phone with a chuckle. It was slightly inconvenient, but she didn't have any means to Floo her friends when in the office. "Hi, Harry."

"Alice..."

"Wants to lick whipped cream off every square inch of your body. Yes, I know."

He laughed. "I just wanted to know if you were free for lunch."

"Let me see," she said, pulling out her day planner. She flipped idly through the nearly blank pages, and then said wryly, "The way things look you can have me for every lunch until the end of time."

"One okay, then?"

"Perfect. Meet me downstairs? We'll walk to the deli."

"Great," he replied. "See you."

She was in a minutely better mood when she hung up the phone. Talking to Harry tended to lift her spirits, and she was glad she'd get to see him that afternoon, since he was almost always on call twenty-four hours a day. He'd stuck with the Ministry for all of the nine years they'd been out of school, and seemed to really love being an Auror. Of course, they'd given him a managerial position almost immediately after he'd finished training. Defeating the Dark Lord at sixteen gives you a stellar reputation apparently, while merely helping to defeat him, well...

Hermione refused to finish her bitter train of thought and glanced down at her files. Organization was key. Perhaps if she just rearranged her drawers, the clients would start lining up down the hall. Gods, who was she kidding? She might as well quit and join up with Chris at the coffee shop. She'd certainly have a longer list of clientele.

******

They crammed themselves into a small booth towards the back of the deli, and Hermione watched as Harry fairly drowned his chips with ketchup, her lip curled in amused disgust.

Glancing up with a grin, he explained, "Hardly ever get Muggle food like this," with a shrug. "How are things?" he asked in between bites of his sandwich.

She sighed. "All right."

Harry arched a brow. "And the mysterious Mr. Cross?"

Smoothing her paper napkin on the scarred Formica, she said, "I'm giving it up if this doesn't work, Harry. Scrapping the whole thing."

Harry choked on a chip. "But it's what you want to do, isn't it? You can't just give that up. Let me--"

"No," she shook her head. "No more loans. It's past time to stand on my own two feet."

"And two extra imaginary ones," he added dryly.

It was also time, she thought sagely, to change the subject. "I ran into Blaise Zabini this morning."

"Really?" Harry leaned forward. "Haven't heard anything about him since graduation." He waggled his brows and Hermione instantly regretted bringing up the ex-Slytherin. "You used to be in love with him."

"I wasn't in love with him," she huffed indignantly. "I was never anywhere near in love with him. I just--"

"Got all sweaty and bothered whenever he was nearby," Harry ended smugly.

"The man's a bloody furnace," she bit out.

"Got close to him this time around, eh?" he asked, a sly tilt to his lips.

"What...?" She scowled at him. "I'm not, nor have I ever been, in love with Zabini. I admit I had a sizable crush on him," she lifted a hand to stay his undoubtedly snarky reply, "at one time."

"Then why are we still talking about him?" Harry pointed out innocently.

Hermione's scowl deepened and she nicked a chip off his plate. "We're not."

He chuckled a little, then dipped his head and absently toyed with a straw wrapper. "I actually have some news," he said after a moment, his tone no longer teasing.

She waited anxiously for him to continue and when he seemed to stall, she prompted, "Well? Spit it out, Harry."

He sighed, glanced up at the ceiling and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Smith's been let out," he said finally.

"What?" Hermione was properly stunned. "They let him out?"

After Harry had destroyed Voldemort, Zacharias Smith had developed an unnatural obsession with him. Harry was used to the overzealous admirer, of course, and even the occasional maniacal stalker. But Smith... Smith had been in an entirely different league.

Harry spread his hands and tried to smile. "They say he's reformed."

"Reformed, my arse. After what he did?" She shook her head. "What are we going to do?"

"Nothing we really can do. Watch out for him, I suppose. Be aware of our surroundings. He still can't legally come anywhere near me or you and Ron." He pushed his plate away and frowned. "You really need to open a Floo at your office."

"I will," Hermione said emphatically. With what funds, though, she didn't quite know.

******

Hermione climbed the steps to her offices, mentally calculating what little she had left in Gringotts against the going exchange rate for Muggle money. She'd have to transfer funds from her Muggle account to get a Floo - an open traveling Floo, at that - placed in their front room. It'd cost nearly double just to have them create a working hearth.

Opening the plate-glass door, she spotted Colin leaning against Alice's desk, a camera slung about his neck and a manila file folder clutched in his right hand.

"Hermione." He straightened and smiled at her.

She nodded at the file. "That the Bronson case?"

"Yep," he said, grinning wider. "I've got it all under wraps."

"Come on in and let me see the photos." She beckoned him into her office and shut the door after asking Alice to hold her calls. Not that she expected any.

"Heard you had lunch with Harry," Colin said as he dropped into a chair.

She circled round behind her desk and reached out for the folder. "Yeah, it was good to see him."

"So you..." he lowered his voice, "know?"

Flipping open the Bronson file, she gave him a quick, troubled glance. "That Smith is out?" She tried to sound nonchalant, but suspected she wasn't very convincing. "Harry told me, yes."

"You know you really should--"

"Get a Floo," Hermione finished darkly. "Care to work for free this month?"

Colin Creevey worked for Hermione on the sly, gleaning a few extra coins to supplement his salary as a lackey in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Division. She knew, though, that he really didn't do it for the money. Colin was a glutton for intrigue, and seemed to find pleasure in even the simplest of surveillance tasks.

His work was topnotch, though, and Hermione held no complaints for his zeal. Especially since he was willing to help her out for a paltry sum per case.

She riffled through the few pages of notes Colin had jotted down, not bothering to scan them until she'd seen the photos. Since Clay Bronson was a Muggle, there were two sets of pictures tucked into the folder. The first, a series of stationary shots of his backyard, illustrated a sequence of events that had Hermione chuckling despite herself.

The second set were a few moving photos of the enclosed porch in question, showcasing a bird no bigger than an apple insinuating itself into a tiny hole at the bottom of the screen, and then scarping off with Mr. Bronson's loose change, one coin at a time. "Seems it wasn't the 'drunken hobo neighbor' after all," she said lightly, using the term her client had used to describe the senile old man that lived to his left.

Colin laughed, in a much better mood than Hermione would have been in, had she been the one forced to lie in wait for a thief in the form of a sparrow. "I suspect it saw the coins shining in the sun and just couldn't resist. Why would the man leave a change bowl on his porch anyway?" He shrugged and got to his feet. "If you've nothing new, I should head back to the Ministry. Arthur's got me cataloging the entire electronics room." He shuddered. "We've got a mountain of half dismantled radios."

"No," Hermione sighed, "nothing new at all. I've got a morning appointment tomorrow, though, so I'll let you know."

"Right."

Colin walked to the door and Hermione followed, intending to ask Alice to get Mr. Bronson on the phone. They both paused by the secretary, though, noticing her slightly dazed look.

"Harry finally asked you out?" Hermione teased, tapping the file folder on the edge of Alice's desk.

"Three," she said softly, gazing up at Hermione and Colin in wide-eyed wonder.

"Three what?"

"Three calls," she elaborated. "Three appointments."

"In the past," Hermione glanced at her watch, "twenty minutes?"

Alice nodded her head enthusiastically. "Three of them!" she practically yelped.

Hermione blinked. "That's... amazing."

Colin stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Anything interesting?"

"They wanted to speak with Mr. Cross," Alice added, waving the message slips in the air. "I've got them down for tomorrow afternoon."

"Erm... Doesn't that create a problem," Colin asked, "seeing as how Mr. Cross doesn't actually exist?"

"My partner," Hermione stressed, the words failing to make her nearly as guilt ridden as they had earlier, before they'd gained her the possibility of three new clients, "will have had a sudden and tragic family emergency."

"That excuse won't last long, though."

Hermione was fully prepared to ask Colin to step in occasionally, if needed, but, "People can be incredibly stupid, Colin. You'll see."

******

Hermione shrugged out of her coat and slipped onto a barstool. She'd gotten an owl from Seamus right before leaving the office saying that he was running late, so she ordered a dry white and leant her elbow onto the edge of the bar, cupping her chin in her hand. The bar was a scant block from Nighthawk, so there was no point in her Apparating home and then right back again. After all, he didn't say exactly how late he would be, and Seamus was rarely on time for get-togethers anyway.

Besides, there was always the off chance that Neville would show up.

She had a standing date every Wednesday with Seamus, alternating between the Whiskey Pocket pub near her, and the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. Neville, who kept odd hours, and didn't always remember what bar they were due to be at, popped in every now and then to grab a drink and chat. She'd gotten fairly close to the two men during her stint as Hogwarts' Librarian, since Neville had just started teaching Herbology and Seamus had been apprenticing with McGonagall.

Hermione was well into her second glass of wine, and was deeply pondering the merits of switching to something harder, when Seamus finally materialized at her side, an almost breathless smile on his face.

"You won't believe what's happened to me," he said, grabbing her glass and swallowing the dregs.

Hermione scowled at him. "You're late."

"Never mind that," he rushed out, pulling her from her stool and wrapping his arms about her waist.

She struggled in his hold and pushed her palms against his chest. "What's gotten into you?" she asked, slightly bemused and fighting a grin.

"McGonagall's retiring," he said, excitement glinting in his eyes. "McGonagall's retiring and I've the classes all to myself, a hefty raise, larger quarters, and..." he nearly whooped, "Dumbledore gave me Head of House!"

"That's wonderful, Seamus," Hermione exclaimed, hugging him back. "This calls for a celebratory drink. Several, in fact."

"I can't believe it," Seamus said dreamily as Hermione disentangled herself from his arms. "I'll have the same authority as Snape. And," he boasted, "Dumbledore says I'm the youngest Head in seven hundred years!"

"Have you told Neville?" Hermione asked, settling back onto her stool. She waved the bartender over and ordered Seamus a whiskey, neat, and herself a cosmo, heavy on the vodka.

"He's been shut up with his new dewberry sprouts," Seamus shook his head. "I sent him an owl before I left, though, so I hope he'll show up tonight."

"Hope you mentioned what bar."

He scratched his head. "Think I did."

"To McGonagall retiring," Hermione said, raising her martini glass.

Seamus picked up his whiskey and clinked it against hers. "To finally being able to make Snape's life hell without dire consequences," he said, downing the amber liquid in one swallow.

Hermione arched a brow. "Will that be your main goal for the rest of the term?" She sipped her drink and made a face, the alcohol burning a slow path down her throat before settling delightfully low in her stomach.

He shrugged, placing the empty rocks glass back on the bar. "I'm sure I'll get tired of it before the summer holiday." He grinned and shook his head. "Nah, probably not. First Quidditch game against Slytherin's in two weeks," he added gleefully. "We've got Bill Weasley's oldest as a Seeker. Nothing can catch her."

Seamus motioned for another drink, then nudged Hermione's arm. "Say, don't we know that bird?"

"Who?" Hermione asked, lifting her head and scanning the room.

"The woman in the corner, all by her lonesome with a pint."

Hermione narrowed her eyes in thought. Something was vaguely familiar about the woman. She was large and thick... statuesque, if she was being generous about it. But her face was quite pretty, framed with loose brown curls. "Don't know," she said finally.

"Aha!" Seamus exclaimed, and Hermione gave him an odd look. He grinned widely at her. "Millie Bulstrode."

"Millicent Bulstrode? Really?" She found it a little too coincidental that she'd seen two ex-Slytherins in one day.

Seamus nodded. "Must be. Heard she was living around here, though." He emptied his second glass of whiskey as fast as his first, well on his way to getting pissed.

"From who?"

"Erm..." he screwed up his face, drumming his fingers on the bar, and then waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. "One of the girls, I'm sure."

Hermione, frowning, stared over at Bulstrode, wondering if she'd had anything to do with Zabini's sudden appearance that morning. But then, even if she had, there was nothing wrong with that.

All thoughts of Bulstrode evaporated, however, when they spotted Neville at the door, obviously pleased that he'd made it to the right bar, and proceeded to order another round of drinks.

Three hours later, the three of them spilled out of the pub and into the chilly night, chuckling as they struggled into their coats.

"Right," said Seamus. "We'll hop a cab to your flat, Hermione. We can't Apparate like this."

"You know, you should really get your office a Fl--" Neville cut off abruptly at Hermione's harsh, albeit blurry-eyed, glare.

"Not one word about a Floo, Nev," she grumbled.

They hailed a cab, quickly piling in, and failed to notice the tall woman who'd stepped out of the pub behind them; lurking in the shadows and watching them pull away from the curb.