Unofficial Portkey Archive

On Thursday, Ginny expected to receive an owl from Hermione telling her how her date with Draco had gone. "It was awful," the owl would read. "We gave it our best shot, but it just didn't work out." Ginny wasn't deterred by the anticipated failure -- in fact, she expected it and even looked forward to it. She was, after all, a realist, and she enjoyed challenges.

But no owl came.

She then began to drop hints around Draco, hoping he might be more forthcoming. But he was as close-mouthed as he normally was about his love life. He would have probably answered direct questions if asked, but he wasn't one to volunteer information, and for some reason, Ginny couldn't bring herself to ask outright.

Perhaps Hermione was simply trying to be discreet, Ginny reasoned. After all, an owl at work had a fair chance of being intercepted, however innocently, by Draco. That certainly wouldn't do.

But there was no owl waiting for her when she got home from work. Nor one when she got out of the shower, nor one when she left her flat to meet James (a compromise between Jim and Yellowbrook). Nor did any owl find her during their meal. She knew she'd been a poor dinner companion, distracted and unable to appreciate James's attempts to be charming. He had been wonderful about it, trying to interest her in various topics, asking her about herself, asking her about Draco. "I work with him all day, and I'd rather not talk about work," she'd muttered, and he had seemed surprised but willing to adjust the conversation to her preferences.

He was so accommodating, so nice, that Ginny began to take the opposite views just to engage him in debate. But then he would capitulate to her points, and in disbelief Ginny would then argue the other side. Realizing what was going on, she finally invited him to talk about himself. However, it turned out that James needed a lot of prompting, which normally would have been fine, but tonight Ginny found this frustrating. Somehow, they got on the topic of dead bodies, and James happily went on at length while Ginny's eyes glazed over and her veal went uneaten.

She felt so badly at the end of it all that she allowed him to kiss her good night, though originally she had planned not to encourage this sort of behavior; at least, not until they had become friends and she was more certain about her romantic interest in him. James wasn't a bad kisser at all, and Ginny found that she did not need to feign enjoyment (which she had been fully prepared to do, to make up for her lack of attention during the evening).

Sleep did not come easily to her that night, and she found herself tossing and turning until the wee hours of the morning.

The next day, Draco was already in the office by the time Ginny arrived, bleary-eyed and grumpy.

They went through their typical daily routine, catching one another up on various aspects of cases they were working on. There was a minimum of small talk; they had been working with each other long enough that neither felt the need to fill up the silences with unnecessary chit chat.

Around mid-morning, a division-wide call was made for all available personnel to report to the Piccadilly Circus tube station, as something had gone awry with one of the Knight Bus cloaking charms, and a large number of Muggle commuters had been shocked into mild hysteria at the sight of an enormous purple bus that had seemingly appeared out of thin air. Aurors were needed to calm the panicking citizens, as well as locate any stragglers and perform memory charms on one and all. Since Draco was busy reconciling the information they had procured from Tode and Jones-Fitzhugh into a workable profile, Ginny had answered the summons, hoping that by the time she returned Draco would be finished and she could talk to him about his date with Hermione.

She did not return until well past two o'clock, having had to chase down a Muggle who had seen the Knight Bus as proof that he'd been right all along about the existence of a magical world beyond the one they knew, and proceeded to ring all his family and friends to tell them about it. Ginny'd had to not only memory charm the original perpetrator, but also locate those he had spoken to about the incident. It was likely the man's credibility wouldn't have carried the truth very far, but it wouldn't do to have even the seed of the idea planted into these Muggles' heads.

Starving, sweaty, and feeling decidedly grumpier than when she had left, Ginny arrived back at the office to find that her partner was not there. "Typical," she muttered. How like Draco to spoil the one thing she was looking forward to -- complaining to him about the whole mess and his devil's own luck at never seeming to have to deal with this sort of thing. No, when Draco went out on a memory charm mission, the Muggles always lined up like ducks for his wand. Ginny couldn't remember a single time when he'd had to chase some unruly Muggle halfway across London.

Draco's seemingly eternal absence served to help her avoid a topic that she was alternately desperate and reluctant to talk to him about: the strange reading Wandmaker had given her in the hallway of Tode's office. She still didn't know what to make of it, and changed her mind every hour whether or not she ought to say anything to him. Not that she was being given much choice, and she thought rather petulantly that it would serve him right if he ended up maimed horribly in the interim, wherever he was.

These uncharitable thoughts were momentarily put on hold when she saw that he had left a ham and cheese sandwich on her desk, along with a banana, crisps, a large pickle that was cold and crunchy, just the way she liked, and her favorite drink -- juice that was half pumpkin, half apple.

Ginny was tipping the last of the crisps into her mouth when Draco sauntered in, bringing in the fresh scent of the outdoors and swinging his cloak off and tossing it onto the nearby coat rack with unerring precision. His hair looked windswept, which added to the evidence of his having been somewhere other than in another part of the Ministry, tracking down information on any of the myriad of cases they were working on. Ginny scowled at him.

"Where have you been?" she asked, a tad belligerently.

"Well, you know on Fridays I dance at the local ladies' club during lunch," he said mildly.

The idea of Draco provocatively removing his clothing for a bunch of sex-starved women did nothing to improve her temper. "Did you finish the profile?" she asked through gritted teeth.

"Yes," he said, raising an eyebrow. He walked over to her desk and leaned negligently against it, studying her thoughtfully. "Are we in a mood?" Draco studied her face while Ginny tried to look impassive. She was behaving childishly and she knew it, but she'd be damned if she gave him the satisfaction of calling her on it.

"I'm merely inquiring into your activities while I was away," she said in a calmer tone.

"Did you miss me?"

Ginny rolled her eyes and shuffled some parchment around on her desk. "I didn't have time to miss you, you git. How do you always get out of the situations with hysterical Muggles who run around telling everybody that he was right about there being magical beings?"

Draco shrugged. "Talent." He picked up the discarded bag of crisps. "Did you see, I got your favorite brand and flavor. How was the sandwich? Did the freshness charm last?"

At the reminder of the lunch he'd so thoughtfully left for her, Ginny couldn't help but thaw a bit. "Yes, thank you." She caught her breath when he leaned down and touched her shoulder. "What are you doing?" she asked in a voice that was not quite steady.

Draco straightened, holding out a small piece of white fluff. "Lint," he announced.

His cool, clean scent served to remind her that she was sweaty and probably ripe from her trek in Muggle London, and she shied away from him.

Draco straightened and went over to his own desk, his expression closing off. Ginny had the ridiculous urge to explain that she hadn't objected to his friendly gesture, but admitting that she was afraid he'd think she smelled bad seemed the greater evil, so she kept silent. She sipped her still-cold pumpkin-apple juice and hoped he could sense her apologetic vibes.

He must have, because when Draco spoke again it was in a normal tone. "So what happened?"

"Just what the memo said. A Knight Bus revealed itself in the midst of London commuters. Apparently one of the cloaking charms was due for a renewal, but this was ignored despite the conductor's near-daily reminder to the KBCD." Ginny couldn't keep the censure out of her tone, nor could she resist adding, "Mind taking that up with your girlfriend?"

"Hmm?" Draco appeared distracted by the contents of a folder he was perusing. "Oh, right. Well, afraid that's going to have to be some other bloke, as I'm no longer seeing Fanny."

In her shock, Ginny dropped her hand, the jug hitting her desk with more force than she'd intended. "What? Why?"

Draco shrugged without looking up. "Does it matter?"

"Well ... I suppose not, but ... you two seemed to be getting on rather well. That is ... this is so unexpected!"

"Is it?" Draco looked up and titled his head fractionally. "Hmm." And he went back to the folder without elaborating.

Ginny had a sudden moment of insight and gasped, covering her mouth. "Oh Merlin," she breathed. "It's because of Hermione, isn't it?" She had no idea what the constricting feeling in her stomach meant. It had to be happiness. After all, she'd been right. What better feeling was there, especially when it came to Draco? But how was it possible that they would have gotten to this point so quickly? Ginny had hardly had to do anything!

Draco shut the folder with a snap. "If that's what you want to believe."

That's all she was getting? "What else am I to believe?" she asked incredulously. "The timing is a bit coincidental, don't you think?"

"Does it matter what I think?"

"Stop doing that!"

"Stop doing what?" Now he sounded as exasperated as she felt.

"Being so bloody noncommittal!"

"Is that what I'm doing?"

"And stop answering questions with questions!"

Now he looked like he was trying not to laugh. "I'm sorry?"

"Don't you smirk at me."

"Why don't you tell me what I am allowed to do, then."

Ginny crossed her arms. "You can tell me how your date with Hermione went. And while you're at it, why you suddenly decided to bin Fancy Knickers."

Draco mimicked her posture. "It was time to end things. The date with Granger was fine. I didn't have an entirely horrible time." At Ginny's expectant look, he continued helpfully, "And the food was really quite excellent."

"Of course it was. That's why I chose Niko's," said Ginny. "So Hermione enjoyed herself also?"

Draco sighed. "Why don't you ask her?"

"Oh, I've already spoken to her," Ginny lied, not knowing why she felt the need to do so but also unable to stop herself. "I just wanted to see how you thought things went."

"I'm hardly a mind reader," said Draco. "Lemon drop?" He pulled a small package from his shirt pocket.

"Yes, please," said Ginny, and he tossed her the packet. After popping one into her mouth, she tossed it back and persisted, "So do you think you'll see one another again?"

"It seems likely," Draco answered blandly. "Guess you were right after all, Weasley. All that blatant hostility really was masking something more."

"Oh." Considering the victory she'd just scored, Ginny felt oddly unsettled. She'd known Draco and Hermione would work well together, obviously, or she wouldn't have tried to pair them in the first place, but knowing it in her head and having it confirmed as fact in such a short amount of time were two very different things. Seeing Draco's raised eyebrow, she hastened to react how she should be reacting -- with a lot of pronounced cheer. "Draco, that's absolutely wonderful. I have to admit that I thought it would take more time than this, but clearly I've underestimated you both. I couldn't be happier for you."

"We're going on a second date, not getting married," Draco said, crunching down on his third lemon drop. He preferred to chew his sweets, and Ginny had often told him that he ought to make them last as long as possible. She was, of course, still rolling her first sweet around in her mouth, and planned to have one more at most.

"It's only a matter of time," Ginny said heavily. "Which is wonderful."

"So you've said."

Ginny stared unseeing down at her desk, wondering what to say next. All she really wanted to do was to go home and curl up in her bed. It might be selfish of her, but seeing two of her favorite people pair up so easily only reminded her of how alone she was, and nowhere close to a committed relationship. She would have to watch while Draco and Hermione went through all the stages of courtship right in front of her, and perhaps by the time they were engaged Ginny still wouldn't be part of a meaningful relationship. The thought depressed her more than it should have. She was so lost in her own thoughts that she nearly missed Draco's next question.

"Speaking of dates, how did yours with Jim go?"

There was a beat as Ginny's brain processed the question. "Er -- fine."

"Did you -- or he -- get lucky?" He sounded as if he didn't care in the least what the answer was, and Ginny found herself unaccountably annoyed.

She shrugged. "He might have, but if he did, it wasn't with me. And also -- hey. I don't sleep with blokes on the first date!"

"Maybe it was true love," Draco said cynically.

"I don't believe in true love."

"Really?" He sounded surprised. "I thought that was something all bleeding heart Gryffindors believed in."

"Not me," Ginny said firmly. "I think there are people out there that we're compatible with, and the trick is finding them. But luckily, we're compatible with more than one person, so it's not as difficult as one might think."

"But perhaps more difficult than one might hope?" Draco suggested.

"Yes," Ginny said with some hesitation. This conversation was making her even more depressed, if that was possible. But talking with Draco had always been disconcertingly easy nearly from the beginning, and she found herself unwilling to change the subject. "I feel incredibly sorry for the people who believe in one true love. Can you imagine, in this whole world, having only one person who's perfect for you? What are the chances that we'd find this person, assuming they even exist?"

"Slim to none, I'd say," Draco said softly. "And if you found them, you'd have to be pretty daft to let them go, assuming you recognized them for who they were."

"Exactly," Ginny said with feeling. "That would be all too easy, wouldn't you agree? All sorts of things could happen for you to not see it until it's too late -- or perhaps ever. Far better, and more realistic, to think that we fit with many different people."

"Couldn't both be true?" Draco asked with curiosity. "It seems to me that it doesn't have to be one or the other."

"I ... I suppose," Ginny said grudgingly. "You Slytherins, always wanting it all. But if that were true, knowing that the perfect right person is out there, it'd ... it'd be hard to settle for the one you're only compatible with."

"So it's a good thing that we don't know, isn't it?"

"Yes," Ginny said. "Definitely a good thing."

"Hey Harry, what's the good word today?"

"Hullo Colin," Harry said, doing his level best to look busy. So long as he kept up a fairly good imitation of a dedicated Prophet employee, Colin usually left him alone after a few pestering moments. It made Harry remember the good times at Hogwarts, before things had become so heart-poundingly real in their secret hideaway of magic and make believe; a place where they'd once believed themselves safe from harm under Albus Dumbledore's watchful, twinkling eye.

Harry often thought of Colin as one of the few constant things in his entire universe. No matter how much the others changed, how much the war changed them, Colin had remained amazingly, sometimes maddeningly, the same. He was the kind of happy normal people only got when they were high on something, and his dogged determination to ingratiate himself to the Famous Harry Potter went undeterred, even though Colin's life had changed in innumerable ways.

His little brother, Dennis, had been cursed by Death Eaters during the war and now resided at St. Mungo's. Colin took a day out of every week to visit his brother, spending hours trying to coax some semblance of sentience out of little (not so little; seventeen when he was cursed, and a man of twenty-five on the outside today) Dennis Creevey. Though he was employed by the Prophet, Colin spent a lot of time freelancing, taking pictures for various charities that raised millions of Galleons every year trying to get better conditions at St. Mungo's or improve Muggle/Wizard relations.

In his spare time, Colin was also the finest photographer the Prophet had seen in thirty years and had saved Harry's job more times than Harry could count.

"Have you heard what everyone's saying about Tom Kittridge?" Colin was saying in his deep baritone. Despite his presence on the front lines of the war, Colin's voice -- his spirit -- had managed to retain most of the boyish enthusiasm and innocence that had once flowed out of his every pore. The only difference was that it had thickened, now absent an eager squeak that had once heralded his arrival in a room from fifty feet away.

Harry asked, "Who's 'everyone,' Colin? Because a few weeks ago, 'everyone' was on about how I was thinking about going back to playing Quidditch."

Colin's eyes lit up and his voice was nearly breathless, a throwback to the old days Harry had been spending too much time lately thinking about. "Are you, Harry?"

Harry spared him a smile. "No, Colin, I'm not."

"Because if you were--"

"I'm not--"

"I'd really love to be the first one to snap a picture of you at practice. It'd net a few hundred Galleons at least from a fan, and the Muggles-Borns Lineage Society could really use--"

"Colin," Harry said, waiting until the gentle glare he sent Colin's way penetrated and the other man grew quiet, "I am not -- I repeat not, unequivocally, not -- going back to Quidditch. But if I do, I promise, you'll be the first to know."

It was untrue, and Harry could tell that Colin knew this by the wry grin the photographer sent his way. Hermione would surely be the first person apprised of such information, with Ron -- if he could be located on tour with the Cannons -- coming in a close second. At best, Colin would run a distant fifth, after the editor of the Prophet and Lavender Brown, the latter of whom seemed to know everything about everyone before anyone.

"All right, if I can't beg a juicy picture out of you, how about returning a few I let you borrow?"

"Right you are." Harry rummaged around the paperwork haphazardly cluttered across his desk, amidst other Quidditch knickknacks and memorabilia.

"I've never really noticed it before, but you're a pack rat, aren't you, Harry?"

Was he? Harry had never really considered it before, but now that he looked at his desk, he tried to do so through Colin's eyes. For starters, he couldn't even see the desk amidst all the piles of stuff -- flyers and banners and "Get well soon -- we miss you!" post fans had sent him. At his flat, things were always in a bit of disarray -- jumpers that weren't quite clean, but not yet dirty, were thrown over chairs, and broken quills he'd thrown to the side in a fit of irritation still littered the floor around his bed (where he did most of his writing from home). Yes, it was safe to say that Harry Potter was something of a slob. But it wasn't that he was lazy, or even that he didn't like things neat and orderly, it was more that--

"I suppose," Harry said aloud to Colin, "it's because I never really had many things for so many years, I never had to worry about putting them away. Got to be something of a habit, and now, I don't really think about it." He grinned. "I do have someone come in twice a month to clean my house, though."

"You big celebrity, you! Broke down and hired a maid, did you?"

"No. I have Hermione." Off Colin's look, Harry elaborated. "She pops round for our weekly dinners, sees my place and has a fit. She makes me cook while she berates me for my slovenly ways, cleans everything up, and vows we're going to restrict dinners to her place from now on. We never do, though. I think she worries a dust bunny will mutate and eat me. Hang on, I think the pictures are over here..."

Looking over his desk, Harry realized most of the belongings on it were work or fan related. The only truly personal items to be found was the mangled Snitch he caught at his first professional game and a pair of photographs -- one was a picture of Sirius, Remus Lupin, and Harry's parents; the other, a candid photo snapped of Ron, Harry, and Hermione together a few days after the war had ended.

Old ghosts, Harry thought, mentally tracing the lines of Sirius's face, his father's, his mother's. His old family, the one he'd craved half his life, the one he'd lost too soon, alongside his new family, the one he'd built on a foundation of chocolate frogs and childish trust before he'd had any idea of the future that was before them.

There were few personal items on Harry's desk, but what there was certainly packed quite a punch.

"Here you are," Harry said, plopping the photographs down in front of Colin. "You got a fantastic shot of the Seeker."

"Thanks," Colin said, the perpetual grin on his face widening. "It's really difficult to get a nice image of the Seekers -- well, you'd know."

"Right," Harry agreed, "I'd know."

That might have been true once. Lately, Harry felt as though his time as a professional Quidditch player was some kind of dream he'd had during the war. It was nearly a year now since his injured arm (it had taken weeks for the bones to re-knit. Due to a rather nasty untraceable hex placed on an official game Bludger, Harry's arm had been hit rather badly, and the doctor said it would have been better if they'd re-grow the limb entirely; Harry quite disagreed, but had been overruled) had taken him out of the season, nearly a year since the Prophet had offered him a temporary assignment until he could heal. Hermione was responsible for the job, Harry was certain; she was always worried he'd go mad if he was left alone to think for too long. To Hermione, idle hands were an evil nearly on par with Voldemort.

Surprisingly, Harry had adapted quickly to the fast, harried pace of the newsroom, and found he quite liked observing the action instead of being thrust squarely in the thick of it. Since his introduction to the wizarding world, Harry had grown used to having his picture incessantly snapped (mostly by Colin) and countless news articles written about him (mostly by Rita Skeeter) -- turning the tables on the world was shockingly addictive.

Then, of course, there was the added perk of hanging around Hermione day in, day out.

Their weekly dinners had been in place for years, but now they had almost daily lunches, too. Hermione sat at her perfectly ordered little desk and Harry watched her go about her routine. What amazed him the most about Hermione (aside from her work ethic) was that in all the time he'd known her, she'd possessed a quiet strength that you'd never know was there unless you made it your business to know her very, very well.

There was nothing obvious about Hermione, nothing simple or ordinary. Her heart was the biggest he'd ever known, and sometimes it absolutely shocked him that she loved him and Ron so much. They certainly weren't worthy, but neither had there been a moment past their first year at Hogwarts when either of them had found it plausible to go on without her. She was bossy and intimidating, practical and intelligent, almost to the point of absurdity. Most people never really saw beneath that exterior. They didn't know she loved to read romance novels and play silly Muggle games with Ron and him. They saw a hero, a woman who seemed to encapsulate perfection, but in reality merely sought to attain it. Perfection was an ever constant, ever unattainable quest, and, Hermione had confided in him once, that was exactly how it should be. God help a truly perfect person trying to live in this world, she'd said, because living with the rest of us would drive them mad.

He felt her looking at him. It was something he'd started to notice back in fifth year, when Hermione would glance up from her textbooks or her house-elf knitting and send him a small, secret smile that belonged just to him. Those smiles comforted him when things got very dark and always managed to warm him just enough to keep the numbing, aching cold at bay. She'd been gone for lunch an awfully long time earlier, and he realized that he'd missed her. Stupid, really, considering he saw her practically every day, but there it was. He'd missed her and she'd roll her eyes at him if he told her so.

If he told her he was a bit jealous she hadn't mentioned who she was having lunch with (I will not let it be Malfoy, I will not let it be Malfoy, it just can't be Malfoy), she'd probably box him about the ears.

One of her secret smiles beamed at him across the newsroom, and he returned it, wondering if he ever kept her warm without knowing it. He hoped so. As he stared at her, he noticed there was something different about her, though he couldn't quite -- ah, that was it. She'd done something to her hair. Something ... slimy? All the frizz was gone, and with it, as far as Harry was concerned, went a lot of personality. Hermione couldn't actually think it looked good that way, could she? Ah well, he thought, she'll probably get tired of it soon enough.

Very soon, he hoped, because it really was sort of distracting...

"Well, I'll be off then," Colin said, glancing up at the doorway behind Harry. "Think I'll go bang my head against a brick wall for awhile." That was code for asking Lavender out to dinner. She'd steadfastly refused his every advance since -- well, since fifth year. Colin was awfully determined, though, and Harry was certain he'd wear her down. Not that Harry really thought it was a good idea -- office romances never worked out (he thought briefly of Cho and grimaced) -- but he couldn't stop himself from rooting for Colin, anyway. "Besides," Colin added with a smile, "looks like you're about to get busy, fast."

"Cor! As I live and breathe, is that the Harry Potter? Bugger, and me without a camera."

Harry watched a grin split across Hermione's face and he mirrored her expression as he turned toward the voice that had just entered the newsroom. "Ron!"

Ron Weasley made a beeline for Harry's desk and the two men embraced fondly. Hermione left her desk and Ron scooped her up in a bear hug that caused a decidedly unladylike squeak to leave her mouth. He looked her up and down for a minute, then frowned at her hair.

"What in the hell have you done to your hair?"

Hermione blushed the way Harry had only ever seen Ginny do and smacked Ron on the arm (something else Ginny often did). Ron rubbed at it in feigned anguish, before letting his mouth settle back into a comfortable grin.

"It's good to see you," he said, looking back and forth between the two of them.

"Us," Hermione scoffed in a good natured way. "You're the one who's always much too busy to consort with your wage-challenged friends."

"Blah, blah, I'm a git," Ron finished with a roll of his eyes. "Fancy a drink, Harry?"

"Sure," Harry agreed, earning a scowl from Hermione. Honestly, you should be working, it said, not playing, and haven't you learned your lesson about drinking yet? Harry was amused and frightened in equal measure that she'd managed to communicate that to him without uttering a single word.

"I'd invite you along, too, but I suppose you've got more important things to do." Ron directed this at Hermione rather imperiously, Harry thought, and couldn't contain a grin at the familiarity of their sniping. Sometimes, like now, he missed it. Sometimes he prayed in gratitude to every deity in existence that he wasn't surrounded by it on a daily basis. It really depended on how nostalgic he was feeling.

"Some of us do have to actually perform scheduled work in order to make ends meet," she said with a sniff. "And anyway, I could have other plans. Plans that don't include the two of you."

Harry narrowed his eyes and tried very hard not to think about what those potential plans might entail. The taunting little voice in the back of his head began to grow louder and louder. Hermione had been uncharacteristically quiet about her "date" (and he did use the term incredibly loosely) with Malfoy two nights previous, something Harry was desperately hoping implied the evening had been an exercise in humiliation and she was trying to forget about it as quickly as possible.

The only flaw in that logic ointment was that suffering in silence was simply not in Hermione's makeup. Especially when one took into consideration that the entire evening could be blamed entirely on Ginny. Therefore, Hermione was armed with an awful experience to rant about, and an undisputed scapegoat, and...

She hadn't said a word. Harry was trying to work up the nerve to ask her, point blank, how things had gone when Ron chose to address her first point.

"Harry's that way," Ron argued. "He's got to work his fingers to the very nub just to be able to afford the simple pleasures in life, like hand-tailored robes and that flat he keeps in the city. But do you see him turning down the opportunity to have a drink with an old friend who, by the way, is only in town for the day? No. No, Hermione, you don't." He considered her gravely. "I worry about you, Herm. I really do."

"Oh, stuff it," she muttered, pressing a fast kiss to his cheek, then doing the same to Harry. "Try not to get yourselves maimed," she called over her shoulder as she wandered over to Lavender Brown's desk to discuss something with the other woman. Colin lingered in the background, seemingly poised to make a sudden forward sprint the second an opportunity to accost Lavender presented itself. It was painful to watch.

"Let's go," Harry said, grabbing his cloak from the back of his chair. He and Ron made their way out of the newsroom, questioning each other on which tavern they were going to Apparate to.

"Seriously," Ron said after they'd made their decision, "what has she done to her hair?"

"All right, Malfoy, so what does our suspect look like?"

"Well, I figure he's about yea high, with green spectacles, scraggly eyebrows, and answers to the name of Kangaroo Charlie." Damn. Not even an eye roll. He must be losing his touch.

"I've had a really long morning," Ginny said, crossing her arms.

Draco felt a bit guilty that she'd been off having a hellish time dealing with ridiculous Muggles (honestly, why didn't they just herd them all onto an island somewhere, so they'd be less of a menace to normal people) while he'd wasted an hour trying to help that hopeless Granger resemble a woman. One of his first suggestions had been to do something about the forest she referred to as "hair" -- he'd even suggested a quality product that had instructions right on the bottle. The problem was that Granger, ever the rule follower no matter how inappropriate the situation, had followed the instructions to the letter rather than going by instinct. The result was that she had used too much of the gel. Even so, it was an improvement, and Draco thought with some self-blame that Granger could hardly be expected to have any instincts about this sort of thing; that was why they were in this predicament, after all. Looked like he was going to have to suggest a proper salon. A good one, but not one where anyone knew him. There were some lines that he would not cross, and admitting to knowing a woman with hair like that was one of them.

Taking pity on his partner, he got to the point of the matter. "All right, so let's quickly review. So far, we've got two victims: Thomas Kittridge and Henry Thorpe. Kittridge was a Chaser for the Kenmare Kestrals, Thorpe a Seeker for the Ballycastle Bats. Neither had enemies that any of their family, friends, managers, publicists, et cetera, knew about. Both were good Quidditch players, but not particularly exceptional. Kittridge was single and as far as anyone knows, wasn't involved in a serious relationship at the time of his death. Thorpe was engaged to a rather hysterical female by the name of" -- here he paused to consult his notes -- "Sharlene Edwards ... what?" Ginny was scowling.

"She was probably not prone to hysteria until her fiancée was brutally murdered," said Ginny.

"I call them as I see them," said Draco. "In any case, she doesn't appear to have had any motive to want to see Thorpe dead, and even if she did, there's nothing tying her to Kittridge. The two men didn't know each other, and there seems to be no connection between their deaths."

"Other than dying the same way."

"Well, yes. Exactly. Both victims had been stabbed, with their wounds healed posthumously. Clearly, we're talking about someone who's thought this out. The murder weapon -- a Muggle knife, according to Tode -- cannot be traced through magical means. Their external wounds were healed, likely to make it appear that these were natural deaths. However, pathology reports have confirmed that this is decidedly not the case. So we do know there's a connection." He closed his eyes, seeing, with a detached eye, the men who'd died, the crime scene, trying to find it, that one little thing he knew they were missing that meant everything. "We've just got to find it."

"Have I ever told you that you're cute when you get all worked up like this?"

"I am not cute," Draco said, affronted. "I know you meant devastatingly attractive."

Ginny tilted her head, considering him. "No, cute, I think."

"In any case," he barreled forward, "we've got the facts of the case and also some good information from Tina and Tode."

Ginny sniggered.

"What?" Draco asked in exasperation. Charlie the Kangaroo didn't warrant a smile, but serious business did? Honestly, if she were anyone else he'd have requested a transfer long ago.

"Sounds like a musical group my mother used to listen to. Tina and Tode. Tode and Tina."

"I've compiled what we've gotten from Jones-Fitzhugh and Tode, and it seems that we're looking for a Caucasian male between the age of 23 and 31 years. He's fair skinned, likes intellectual games -- that needs to be clarified, and has an enormous inferiority complex."

"Well, that rules you out then," said Ginny. "I was worried there for a moment. Now if it had been a superiority complex..."

"That's enough out of you, I think," said Draco, casually aiming a silencing charm at his partner. "Accio Weasley's wand." Ginny's wand flew into his outstretched hand, which would keep her from undoing the spell. She glared at him from her desk, and her expression promised retribution. "Aww, Ginny, you're so cute when you're completely silent."

Having no other recourse, she stuck her tongue out at him.

"He also has a great fondness for Quidditch, avoids ever doing the laundry himself, and appears to have little to no conscience. That's it for now, but Jones-Fitzhugh and Tode are both officially assigned to this case, so we can go back for supplementary detail when needed." Draco took a sip of water from the goblet on his desk. "So, sound familiar?"

Draco watched as Ginny pulled a parchment pad toward her and scribbled something onto it. Presently, she held it up to show him, smiling sweetly.

Every man I've ever known.

"Well this was a complete waste of time," Hermione muttered to her reflection as she used her wand to remove the Harriet Hadley's Straightener and Shine from her hair. The idea had been to get Harry to notice her, not receive an insult from Ron and more of Harry's eternal obliviousness. This was exactly why listening to Draco Malfoy was always a mistake. She'd learned to never listen to his taunts years ago; why hadn't she thought to apply the same rule to his advice? And naturally, when she'd met him for a quick bite to eat during lunch hour, he'd claimed that she'd done it all wrong and used too much. Well, he ought to know, having abused hair gel for years before he'd finally let up. Git.

Seeing Ron today had been like having a proverbial bucket of ice water thrown over her head (except, of course, for the fact that her hair remained as slickly perfect as it had been when she left her flat in the morning). Their on-again, off-again relationship had been off-again for over three years (if you didn't count that little slip just after Christmas year before last, and Hermione certainly didn't) and the last time they'd been together for any significant length of time there had been something decidedly lacking between them. There had always been a spark between her and Ron, a passion that kept them kissing and making up after some truly spectacular rows. Hermione had been quite saddened to realize that spark had faded, and it wasn't so much passion she felt for him as affection. The sort of affection you might have for an ex-husband you'd never stop loving, but have certainly stopped seeing as a partner.

Hermione had cried for hours the day the realization had dawned on her. Her relationship with Ron had been a constant, even when they hadn't been together. He was Ron, the one she was supposed to be with, the one who fought with her and screamed at her and let her scream at him and hated her but still loved her so very, very much. Ron was supposed to be The One. She adored his family, and honestly felt that they adored her. And her family couldn't have been happier to welcome a wizard into the fold. Everyone wondered when they'd get married, how many children they'd have, where they'd live -- and no one ever suspected that Hermione was wondering why her toes didn't curl when Ron kissed her anymore, or why she didn't spend the moments without him thinking about what he was doing or when they'd next be together.

She wanted to blame the war, to blame all the repercussions from that terrible time, the things Ron went through. She wanted to, she just wasn't sure it was true. Hermione didn't think she'd been in love with Harry then, she really didn't. The fact that she couldn't be positive about it made her queasy, so she tried not to think about it too much.

The decision to break up had been hers, but Ron had seemed as resigned to their fate as she was, if somewhat reluctant at first to admit it. More so, if the successive line of starlets he was photographed with after their breakup was any indication. Unlike all the other stops and starts they'd had along the way, Hermione had felt this one really meant something, considering it hadn't been reached with flaming cheeks and raised voices. They'd discussed things calmly (a first for them) and come to a mutual resolution (that of course didn't stop him from flirting with her mercilessly when they saw each other; she wondered if he even realized he was doing it sometimes, or if mindless human contact had become second nature to him, a byproduct of that damned spell). If it made Hermione's heart ache just a bit that he hadn't seen fit to fight for her at all, well, she just reminded herself that thinking that way was silly when she certainly hadn't bothered to fight for him, either. She was tired of fighting, full stop.

"Which is exactly why this whole scheme to snare Harry is ridiculous," she muttered, looking away from her reflection with disgust. It had been two full days since her ill-fated evening with Malfoy, and Harry hadn't made a single effort to inquire about it. He didn't even have the friendly concern to make sure Malfoy hadn't done something! She tightened the navy blue flannel robe around her body and stalked into the kitchen. Malfoy, she thought darkly. It was entirely his doing, and first thing tomorrow, she would owl him and tell him the entire arrangement was off. As though she actually needed to be taught how to become attractive to the opposite sex! She could get a date. If she wanted to. She just couldn't get Harry, and no amount of coquettish looks, slimy hair, and infernal batting of eyelashes was going to change that. He simply wasn't interested, and she wasn't going to spend another second of her time trying to change something that couldn't be changed.

"You can't make people fall in love with you," she whispered as she stood in front of the refrigerator, looking woefully at a container of yogurt. "No matter how much you--"

"Oy! Hermione! Open up, my naughty bits are freezing and that's going to greatly impair my ability to conceive children in the future, and you know how much Mum wants little--"

Muttering unkindly under her breath the entire way, Hermione flung the front door open, interrupting Ron's tirade.

"Do you have any idea how late it is?"

"You're up, aren't you?" he said without apology, shouldering past her inside the flat. His cloak was pulled off and discarded over the back of her easy chair in no time, and she couldn't contain a small smile at the outfit he was sporting beneath it: his shirt didn't match his pants (purple and orange didn't go together, she didn't care what this month's Wizards Wardrobe said) and the tie he was wearing looked as though it had been set on fire once or twice in the immediate past.

"I could have been in bed," she maintained, crossing her arms in somewhat feigned agitation. Showing she was amused at this juncture would only encourage his behavior.

"It's not even five of one yet," he said with a scowl. "You're never asleep before three; you've always been totally barmy that way. Now, if you were like this because I'd gotten in the way of your work, that I'd believe. I still wouldn't be sorry, but I'd believe it."

His total disregard for her habits always made her smile now that she didn't have to live with him, or worry about living with him, as had often been the case, so she gave up looking irritated and grinned at him.

"Would you believe I'm taking the night off?" she offered over her shoulder as she wandered back to the kitchen. A late night snack sounded divine, and she'd never known Ron to pass up food.

"You? Take a night off?" He made a sound that adequately expressed his disbelief. "Why are you really up? Having trouble concentrating?"

She jumped a little to realize he'd followed her rather closely and was now pressed up against her back. His arms wound around her waist and his mouth was uncomfortably close to her ear. For a second, she considered letting it happen. After all, what did she really have in her life that was better than this? There were no prospects -- of the two men she'd actually been out to eat with, one of them didn't see her that way (and never would, she had to keep reminding herself), and the other was Malfoy. At least Ron wanted her. That, of course, was why it was so totally and completely wrong, and why she couldn't allow it to continue another second. Hermione let out a sigh and gently laid her hand over his, then slowly turned in his grasp until she could look him in the eye.

"Did you come over because you missed me, or because the girls in the bar didn't fancy a shag with a Quidditch hero?"

"Because I missed you, of course," he said at once with a smile. "You know I don't care about other girls, Herm."

"Mmhmm," she said, a single eyebrow arched in disbelief. "Well, that's lovely to hear, Ron, but you know I don't sleep with inebriated ex-boyfriends."

"Come on, Herm, that's not all I am, is it? Just another notch on your broomstick?"

"I don't have a broomstick."

"You know what I mean." He leaned forward and tried to kiss her, and she turned her head so his mouth made contact with her cheek.

"It's not a good idea," she said quietly, laying a friendly hand on his shoulder.

"Neither are most of the things I do," he said sourly, "so I don't see why that should stop us."

"Ron, aren't we past this?"

"Past what," he mumbled, looking for all the world like a sullen child. A horny, sullen child.

She looked up at him (quite a distance, as it happened; Hermione wasn't exactly short, but Ron had towered over everyone since that growth spurt before sixth year) and took a moment to really see him. The three of them had gotten together, of course, over the intervening years since their final breakup, but that's all it had ever been: the three of them. With the exception of that one slip (the one around Christmas that she tried not to think of), she and Ron hadn't actually been alone in years. They exchanged the occasional owl, but those letters were always filled with surface details, perfunctory "How are you"s? and "Guess who I saw today? Umbridge! Wandering around the stadium looking bonkers and smelling a bit"s. They never spoke about how each of them felt (not that they'd done too much of that when they'd been together) or even expressed regret that they didn't see each other enough.

"You know I miss you, don't you?" She wasn't sure where it came from, but at that moment, Hermione realized that he didn't know, not at all.

"Um," Ron said eloquently.

"I mean, I miss us, sometimes. Not -- not usually. I don't think we made the wrong decision, and I don't want to get back together," she hurriedly added, "but ... it wasn't all bad, you know?"

"Yeah," he agreed warily.

Hermione sighed. "I'm not trying to trick you into anything."

"I can't know that, can I?"

"You never change," she muttered, extracting herself from the still-delicate situation they found themselves in, once again turning her back on him to root through the refrigerator. She had some pumpkin cakes in back, left over from Halloween. They would go nicely with the cup of tea she was hoping would sober him up enough to Apparate somewhere without getting lost.

"Is that why you dumped me?" he muttered.

Frowning, she turned to him. "I didn't dump you," she said. "We both decided--"

He waved her off. "I know, I know. Just feeling sorry for myself. Getting rejected by an ex does that."

"I didn't reject you," she said, just as soft, turning back to her pumpkin cake quest. "I just -- we can't start doing this again."

"It was just the once," he said, as though that made it all right.

"And it shouldn't have happened." Yes! Pumpkin cakes! And they still looked fresh. Excellent. "Honestly, Ron, did you think we'd do this for the rest of our lives? Every couple of years just throw everything aside and have a good shag?"

"Well, Herm, it's not like you're seeing anyone, and at least we care about each other," he pointed out.

"Right," she agreed, her voice catching a little around the word. He narrowed his eyes and she busied herself with preparing the tea. "But that's not the point. It's just not healthy, us always falling back on each other this way."

"But that's what friends are for!"

"I'll be sure to let Harry know," she muttered, with a trace of bitterness. Good show, she congratulated silently.

Ron went uncharacteristically quiet after that, and Hermione finished with the snacks and carried a tray of tea and cakes to the small breakfast nook. They sat opposite each other and ate in silence, Ron making exceptionally loud chewing noises considering it was soft cake he was consuming. Hermione was taking a sip of tea to wash down her last bite of cake when he spoke again.

"So is it Harry, then?"

Her choking fit only lasted a few seconds.

"No," she gasped, then decided an immediate denial gave too much away. "What?"

Ron looked at her like she'd gone mad, and she couldn't say that he was wrong. "You and Harry," he repeated. "Is he the man in your life? Or the man who could be in your life?"

Think, think! Hermione tried to school her features. If she admitted it to Ron -- and oh, how wonderful it would be to admit this to someone who wasn't Malfoy -- it would get back to Harry. Hermione didn't fool herself. She and Ron may have been lovers for a few years, but they'd never been as conspiratorial as Ron and Harry were. The two boys had been closer than brothers and thick as thieves practically from the moment they'd met, and Hermione had never imagined it being any different. Wished, sometimes, yes, but only in her most selfish of moments.

"Don't be ridiculous, Ron." She tried very hard to sound like her normal self, dismissing one of his foolish theories. Oh, Ron, don't be ridiculous; Snape is not planning to poison the graduating class over dinner.

"I don't think I am being," Ron said, looking at her through remarkably clear eyes for someone who'd been more than tipsy a few minutes ago. Damn tea.

"Of course you are." She laughed, and it sounded fake, even to her ears. "I mean, me and Harry? That's just -- that's--" Wonderful? Perfect? Incredibly foolish of me to even contemplate? Heaven?

"Making you stutter?" he offered helpfully.

"Preposterous!" she shouted triumphantly. That had been bad -- everything but the truth had actually flown right out of her head for a moment.

"Well honestly, Hermione," he said, imitating her in that way he knew she hated, "if Harry's not the lucky bloke, then who is?"

Once again, her mind emptied of everything but the truth. Or, at least, a bizarre, bastardized version of it that should have only existed in her worst nightmares.

"It's Malfoy," she burst out. "All right? Happy now? I'm -- seeing -- Draco Malfoy."

Ron's eyes actually bulged. His mouth opened and closed a few times. Hermione could hear Molly Weasley in her head. Do close your mouth, dear, it's not a very attractive sight; Weasley molars, is it? Thank your father's side for that.

"That's-- that's--"

"Nice?"

"Disgusting!" Ron stood up so fast his chair fell over behind him. "It's -- Malfoy!"

"Your sister works with him!" Hermione felt a little bad bringing Ginny into the middle of it, but only a little.

"But she isn't sleeping with him!" Ron cried, then made a face as though he'd been assaulted by a mental image.

"Neither am I!" Hermione said, tempted to gouge her eyes out at the mental image she'd just gotten. Ron narrowed his eyes at her, and Hermione realized that if she were seeing Malfoy, she might actually be looking forward to sleeping with him at some point, and added, "Yet. We're taking things slowly." Very slowly. It's as though we're going in reverse, or not actually going out at all.

"Hermione, this is wrong," Ron said in a grave and serious voice. "You can't just -- you can't!"

"I most certainly can, Ron Weasley," Hermione said stiffly. "And I will. Oh, look, you're feeling better. You can make it back to wherever you're staying, can't you?"

"I'm staying with Harry," Ron said peevishly. "Does he know about this?"

"Of course," Hermione said. "He encouraged it, in fact." It was odd how something she had been so depressed about was now serving as a lifeline.

"What?" If anything, Ron looked even more incensed. "He knew about this, and didn't say a word?"

"Well, maybe 'encouraged' is the wrong word." It was exactly the right word. "It was more that Ginny was being insistent, and he suggested that I give it a shot in case things worked out. And can you believe it? They did! You should be really happy for me!" If Ron weren't blinded by shock and outrage, he would have easily picked up on her fibbing. Quickly, Hermione said, "Anyway, I'm sure Harry'll be happy to have you wake him up from the blissful sleep he drops into thirty seconds after his head hits the pillow." This she noted with a scowl. Harry had been that way since the war had ended. It was as though without anything of world-altering importance to worry about, Harry didn't worry about anything. Ever.

It drove Hermione a little batty, to be honest.

"How do you know how Harry sleeps?" There was suspicion in Ron's voice, but unlike talk of Malfoy or her feelings for Harry, this subject didn't fluster her in the least. Hermione grinned as she picked up Ron's cloak and helped him fasten it up.

"Remember, I flatted with him for a month after he was injured. Cooking for him, cleaning up, keeping him company. He threw me out, said he couldn't 'take it' anymore." The smile she sent him was old and familiar, and just feeling her lips curve upward made a thousand moments between them fill her with fond affection for the boy he'd been that grew into the man she quite proudly called her friend. "I don't know what he could have been referring to."

"Yeah," he said, the smile in his voice matching the one on her face, though he still looked a little put out. "Can't imagine."

They found themselves at the door and she playfully pushed him outside. "Get lost, Weasley."

"Sure," he agreed, and a second later, Disapparated.

Hermione closed the door behind him and let out an enormous sigh. Terrific. Just wonderful.

She was still going to have to owl Malfoy in the morning. She just wasn't sure what she was going to tell him now.

End Notes:

1) Thank you, thank you, thank you to all the people who have stuck it out this far with us, and who have been so awesome as to leave us a review on all the sundry places we've posted this story. You guys rock our worlds. We're very sorry it's taken this long to update! We're starting on IYOK5 right away so that won't happen again.

2) The title of this chapter is from the Joseph Cotten/Orson Welles film The Third Man.

3) Please let us know what you think. You can use a carrier pigeon, but email or review boards are probably easiest. But, you know, up to you.

4) Magical Mayhem, if you want new stories/updates: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/magical_mayhem/

5) We have LiveJournals, yes. We feel free to be our dorky selves there, yes.

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

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

6) We do enjoy numbered lists, yes. Why do you ask?

How our friendship is going:

Sarea: You have Jade to thank for this chapter being completed.

Jade: Thank you, thank you, hold your applause.

Sarea: You also have Jade to thank for the fragile truce we'd managed these months falling utterly apart.

Jade: Oh whatever. You know you were just faking the truce during our writing downtime so you'd have somewhere to stay in L.A.

Sarea: That's not true! Well, all right, it is, but I could have kept it up if you hadn't gone all militant drill sergeant!

Jade: I did not go that militant. You insolent bitch. Drop and give me twenty.

Sarea: If it weren't for our fan...

Jade: Yes, do it for the fan, blah, blah, I'm a git. Drop. Twenty.

Sarea: How about two?