If You Only Knew

Jade and Sarea Okelani

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Mystery
Relationships: Draco & Ginny
Book: Draco & Ginny, Books 1 - 5
Published: 04/05/2003
Last Updated: 12/07/2005
Status: paused

Quidditch games, a killer on the loose, hangovers, unrequited love (of course), deadlines, not-so-blind dates, command performances, Ron gets a girlfriend, and everyone cries at least once. (Harry/Hermione, Draco/Ginny)

Chapters

1. Headers

2. 1: Dial M for Malfoy

3. 2: The Matchmaker Always Rings Twice

4. 3: Anatomy of a Date

5. 4: The Third Man

6. 5: A Study in Scarlet

7. 6: Kiss Me Friendly

8. 7: In a Lonely Place

1. Headers

TITLE: If You Only Knew
AUTHORS: Jade and Sarea Okelani
E-MAIL ADDRESS: okelani [at] gmail.com
WEBSITE: http://okelani.vanishingscroll.com/
RATING: PG-13
CATEGORY: SRA
SPOILERS: You’re safe if you’ve read all of the HP books.
KEYWORDS: Harry/Hermione, Draco/Ginny; Draco/Hermione friendship, Harry/Ginny friendship
TIMELINE: This story takes place ten years after Harry's final year at Hogwarts.
DISTRIBUTION: Please do not archive -- the full text of this story will be archived by the authors at their site or elsewhere at their sole discretion (mostly for version control issues). If you’d like to link to this story from your Web site, we’d be honored – but drop us a line first, please.
DISCLAIMER: We don't own anything (except our sick, perverted ideas). Sue us and we'll send the Quidditch Cutter after you.
FEEDBACK: If you read this, love it or hate it, and don't send feedback, we'll send the Quidditch Cutter after you.
AUTHORS' NOTES: Er ... we only have each other to thank and blame for this one. Who knew spelling and grammar could lead to so much bloodshed? Now, we do! All mistakes are ours. The Quidditch Cutter has given us a stern talking to.

SUMMARY: Quidditch games, a killer on the loose, hangovers, unrequited love (of course), deadlines, not-so-blind dates, command performances, Ron gets a girlfriend, and everyone cries at least once.

2. 1: Dial M for Malfoy

xXxXxXx
Chapter One:
Dial M for Malfoy

xXxXxXx

It was 9:37 on Draco's wristwatch when the clock in the office finally showed that Ginny was "traveling." She normally prided herself on arriving before him, looking as though she had been working industriously for hours when he "sauntered in" at the "lazy" hour of 8 am. Her appearance was consistently neat and professional, and her disposition was nearly always cheerful, a trait that was particularly appalling in the mornings before he'd had his chocolate croissant.

The clock now showed that Ginny was "at work," meaning she had Apparated successfully into the Ministry's front lobby, and presently the door to their office swung open, admitting a Ginny that was the antithesis of everything she usually was. His partner staggered inside, wearing dark sunglasses, no makeup, and robes that needed a good ironing job. She closed the door behind her, and judging from the look on her face when it shut loudly, immediately regretted it.

Draco casually swung his legs up onto his desk, eyeing her thoughtfully as she tossed her bag onto her chair before teetering about the room. "Looking for something?" he asked.

"Coffee," she croaked.

He raised an eyebrow. "I haven't moved anything since Friday. You'll find it in the same place. To your right -- no, Gin, your other right."

Ginny located the coffeemaker, then muttered an incantation that had the pot pouring coffee into her mug as she looked on, swaying slightly on her feet. She took the steaming mug gratefully and headed not very steadily back to her desk.

"Want to make it Irish?" Draco asked innocently, snapping his fingers so that a hidden bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey floated down from its hidden place on a nearby shelf. He noted with satisfaction that Ginny's skin suddenly took on a green tinge. "I knew it," he said with an equal measure of amusement and irritation. "You're sloshed."

Ginny sipped her coffee gingerly, sunglasses still in place. "No," she corrected, "Last night, I was sloshed. This morning, I'm dying."

Draco suspected that something had happened with Jim -- Tim -- Bim? -- which explained his partner's current state. He had to approach this with a certain amount of tact. "Dim Jim tossed you over, did he?"

He could feel her glare even through the sunglasses. "His. Name. Is. Peter," she said through gritted teeth. "Why do you persist in thinking they're all named Jim?"

"Nothing rhymes with 'Peter.' Anyway, it's probably because you were seeing a bloke named Jim when we first started working together."

"His name was Joshua!" She winced and rubbed her forehead. "Just ... shut up, Malfoy."

"But did something happen?" he persisted.

Ginny growled. "Yes, all right? We broke up. Happy now?"

"Maybe just a little. He was a git. So why'd he do it?"

Ginny huffed. "You're just like Harry. Why do you assume he did the breaking off and not me?"

"Did you do the breaking off?"

Silence.

"Did you?"

"Whether I did or didn't is not the point!"

Draco wisely did not say anything in response, having already gotten his answer. Instead, he focused in on the one detail she had let slip. "You've spoken to Potter?"

"I owled him after it happened. Well, I needed someone to get drunk with, didn't I?" she said crabbily. "Luckily, I haven't reached the point in my life yet where getting good and drunk on my own holds any appeal."

"So you called Potter?" He hadn't meant to inject that much contempt into his voice, but oh well.

"Who else would I have called? You? Ha!"

Draco was vaguely insulted that Ginny didn't think he would be a good drinking partner, but was also glad he hadn't had to watch her get into her cups and hear her bemoan the loss of right prat like Tim. Still, that it was Potter who had witnessed these things and been there for her chafed. "I can drink Potter under the table."

"I know," Ginny said darkly. "Not my idea of a good time. You'd just sit there being all sober and sorry for me. Needed a lightweight like Harry to join in the fun."

"I see. And I suppose the two of you were too far gone to brew an anti-intoxication potion?" Sobriety potions only worked if the intended recipient took the potion within a certain window of time after getting inebriated. Wait too long and the damage would be done; nothing cured full-blown hangovers except time and a lot of water. Of course, most people needing sobriety potions were rarely rational enough to realize they needed one (not to mention that it really wasn't very enjoyable to go from drunk to sober in ten seconds, particularly if one was drowning sorrows of some kind in the first place), so the number of wizards suffering from hangovers was comparable to that of the Muggle population.

"It's all Harry's fault, that attention hog. Wasted all that time ... told him not to do that encore ..." she muttered. "Anyway, where were we going to get cockatrice spit at that hour?"

Again, Draco was perturbed at being so easily dismissed, and by the habit she had of mumbling her way out of responsibility. "You know I have a fully functioning potions lab."

Ginny -- it could only be described as such -- sneered. "Oh, right, as if I'd dream of interrupting you and Fancy Knickers."

Draco ignored the not-so-flattering nickname Ginny had bestowed upon his latest "conquest," as she put it. Ginny had taken an immediate dislike to Fanny Knight, heiress to the Knight Bus fortune, after their first meeting a scant two weeks ago, when Draco had first started seeing Fanny. It seemed there was an incident when Fanny had accidentally dropped a letter or a magazine ("Accidentally on purpose," said Ginny) as Draco was following her out of the office and, according to Ginny, bent down in the most provocative way possible to retrieve the item, exposing a pair of white thong knickers that appeared to have real diamonds sewn on them.

Draco himself did not recall the incident (or the knickers), but Ginny was unrelenting in her scorn for the other woman. Not that she'd liked any of the other women he'd dated, but on those occasions when she had found herself in their company, she'd simply pursed her lips in disapproval and stayed silent. Fanny was the first Ginny had actively disparaged, which Draco thought was odd, because other than her wealth, Fanny was much like Ginny herself -- smart without wearing her intelligence like a banner (unlike some annoying Prophet reporters he could name); beautiful but not ostentatious; funny; genuinely nice. Well, as near as Draco could tell. After all, the women he dated were always nice to him.

"I wasn't with Fanny this weekend."

"Why? What has Fancy Knickers done to earn disfavor with someone as easily pleased and undemanding as you?"

"Fancy -- Fanny hasn't done anything," said Draco, annoyed by her sarcasm. "I simply didn't feel like seeing her. I need my space."

"Which really means 'I wanted to shag someone else,'" Ginny interpreted, wrinkling her pert little nose in distaste. "Really, men are such disgusting creatures. So who was it?"

"There wasn't anyone else," said Draco. "I spent the weekend on my own. So you see, you and your inebriated sot of a friend could have stopped by for a bit of cockatrice spit, and you might not be feeling quite so vile this morning."

"You spent it on your own?"

She sounded so amazed that Draco was immediately defensive (and irritated with himself for letting her provoke him like this). "May I ask why that is so difficult to believe?" he fairly snarled.

Ginny threw up her hands as if to ward him off. "You are, after all, Great Britain's contender for the Bedroom Olympics. I'm sure you'll appreciate how difficult I find it to--"

"Shut it, Weasley. Don't you think it's time you got to work, as the rest of us have been doing all morning long?" He tossed a couple of file folders in her direction, which landed on her desk with a satisfying *thwap*.

Ginny flipped one of them open. "What is this, your bloodwork? Clean as a whistle, Malfoy?"

"Actually, I did recently have a physical -- I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear that I'm in perfect shape -- but no, sorry to disappoint, that's not what it is."

"Hmm ... two deaths," Ginny said, taking off her sunglasses. "Murders?"

" I think they are."

She looked at him sharply. "So this wasn't assigned to us by Division, then."

"Not exactly ..."

"Malfoy! So our normal workload isn't enough for you. You have to go and create more for us. Again." Ginny crossed her arms.

Draco had to admit her ire wasn't entirely unjustified. More than once, suspicious circumstances had roused his natural intuition -- honed throughout the years to go off whenever something unsavory was afoot -- and warranted their investigative expertise. He hadn't been wrong so far, but after the last time (a harrowing kidnapping case involving an abusive mother and a desperate father), Ginny had made him swear to restrict their casework to assignments specifically delegated by Skinman rather than pursuing unsanctioned cases on their own. Draco had promised to try.

He knew that her appeal wasn't because Ginny thought the work wasn't worthwhile; it stemmed from the fact that most of their self-pursued cases had involved uphill battles with Division heads, trying to convince them that they were worth investigating in the first place. It made their jobs ten times harder, not the least of which was because since these were not officially approved cases, they were an additional burden on Ginny and Draco's already full-to-overflowing caseload.

"Tell your intuition to work on cases we can easily green flag with the bigwigs," Ginny had said in exasperation.

"They only green flag cases that are obvious," Draco had replied with no little disdain. "If it's obvious, it's not intuition, is it? By the time they all get their bureaucratic arses together and agree that a case is worth investigating, it's already too late."

Ginny hadn't said anything, but he knew she agreed.

"... this is exactly the sort of thing Peter was talking about," he thought he heard her mumble, but decided it was best not to test those waters again, and let it pass without comment.

Draco had tried playing by the rules, but it suited him like an ill-fitting shoe. It wasn't his fault that this had jumped out at him over the weekend, was it? Anticipating Ginny's disapproval, he had even gone to Skinman first thing this morning to feel their boss out on whether he could get this investigation officially stamped with a go-ahead. Skinman -- who wasn't as bad as some of those other play-by-the-book quill-pushers -- had told him off the record that if he and Ginny could definitively tie the murders (if they were, in fact, murders) together, it was as good as done. Draco told this to Ginny.

"What makes you so sure they're connected?" she asked.

"Murder weapon," he replied.

"What murder weapon? Neither had a scratch on them. Suicide hasn't been ruled out."

"I've ruled it out."

Ginny sighed and rubbed her temples. "Okay, Malfoy -- I have a headache the size of that mausoleum you live in, and clearly am not up to challenging your mental prowess, so can we skip the entire scene where I try to shoot down your burgeoning hypothesis and you provide reasonable answers for every argument I have, implying all the while that I'm clearly not half as clever or educated as you--"

"But that's the best part," Draco whined.

"--and just get to where you finally open up and tell me exactly what you're thinking?" Ginny finished, ignoring him.

Oh, what the hell. He was dying to. "Ballycastle Bats, Kenmare Kestrels."

Ginny blinked. "Are you chanting?"

"Quidditch teams, Weasley," said Draco impatiently. "Those were the Quidditch teams the murder victims played for."

"So they were both Quidditch players. And you don't think that's just a coincidence."

"Hell, no. And what's more ..."

"What?"

"It's an inside job."

"What? Where are you getting all this?" Her words and her voice were skeptical, but he could tell he had her intrigued. This was the best part; convincing Ginny that what he was proposing wasn't preposterous conjecture, but sound and viable theories.

"Oh, nothing I can prove yet," Draco said, unconcerned. "So far, it's just circumstantial. But ..."

"What?"

"If my instincts prove correct, these acts would prove to be fairly vicious."

"Murder tends to be, yes."

"The kind of viciousness that can typically be attributed to ... a personal vendetta."

"I can tell you're trying to get at something, so just spit it out, Malfoy."

"Your drinking buddy last night..."

"What about him?" Ginny asked, suspicion tingeing her voice.

"He played Quidditch for five years, didn't he, before getting thrown out of the league?" Draco asked, leaning casually back in his chair. "How upset do you think that made him?"

xXxXxXx

"Hermione."

It was a harsh whisper that managed to carry across the four desks that separated the Daily Prophet's Sports beat from the Current Events area. There was a haggardness to his voice that sounded as though he'd finally reached the end of his tether. However, this was not the first time he had adopted such a tone, and she decided she would ignore him today.

"Hermione."

Louder this time, and she sighed, because he was obviously in one of those "I will not be ignored. I spent the first half of my life being ignored, and as God as my witness, I shall never be ignored again" moods.

Harry was actually a bit more dramatic than the general public gave him credit for.

"Granger!"

"What?!" she hissed as several heads turned at Harry's no-longer-quiet tone.

"I need help," he whined.

"That's your fault, isn't it, for coming into work looking half dead." There was a time when she might have been more concerned about his appearance, but the fact that today was a Monday and she knew him so very well merely led her to believe he'd gone out drinking the past weekend and perhaps mistook Sunday night for Saturday.

"Yes, yes, I'm as incredibly irresponsible as I ever was," he said, gesturing with a hand that he wanted to get on with it. "The fact remains that you are my best friend, you're incredibly good at being there exactly when I need you, and Hermione, I swear, I have never needed you more."

She rolled her eyes.

"It's the truth!" he insisted. He left his desk and walked carefully over to hers. She noticed he was trying not to look directly at anyone and seemed to be expending an inordinate amount of energy trying not to bump into people or furniture. And was it her imagination, or was the tip of his nose slightly discolored?

"I've no doubt that it's the truth," she said tiredly. "It's just that you can't keep doing this, Harry. You can't shirk your responsibilities--"

"When have I ever shirked my responsibilities?" Harry looked perturbed. "You make it sound as if I do this every day."

"You do," she said, exasperated. "Maybe not every day, but certainly every time a story's due. It's always, 'Hermione, can you just glance at this before I send it off to Lee?' and 'Hermione, do you suppose this font works better?' and 'Hermione, I forgot there was a game last week -- d'you happen to know who won?' Frankly, I'm sick of it, Harry."

He held her gaze for a few beats, sizing her up. She made certain she stared at the scar on his forehead rather than his bespectacled green eyes. There was just no way she'd be able to keep it up if she looked in his eyes. He knew her far too well for that.

"Ha," he said after a moment. "No go, Herm, though a nice effort."

"Damn!" She threw the quill she'd been writing with aside in a fit of frustration. "What gave me away?"

"The font thing," Harry replied. "You live to decide on which font fits which story better. Besides, you're always trying to get me back for all the pranks Ron and I have played on you over the years. Really, if my head didn't hurt so much, I would have seen through it immediately."

"What do you need help with now?" she grumbled affectionately. "And why must you insist on going out drinking when you know you've got work in the morning?"

"Ginny was having a rough weekend," he explained with a sigh as he pulled a chair up to her desk. In his hand, he carried a parchment she hadn't noticed before.

"Cut another one loose, has she?" Hermione grinned, well familiar by now with Ginny's long line of disposable suitors.

"I suspect this one might have cut her loose, actually," Harry confided. He sent a half smile Hermione's way. "But if Ginny asks, I never said that. I would never imply such a thing were even possible."

"Your secret's safe with me," Hermione said. "All of them, for that matter."

"Merlin knows," Harry agreed. "And now, to earn your keep as my best friend -- did you happen to catch the game yesterday? I thought for sure it'd go on 'til at least this afternoon, but Cho was totally off her game and Bulstrode caught the damned Snitch ages before anyone thought he would. Must be hard on poor Cho -- Bulstrode's brand new to the Bats."

"Yes, poor Cho," Hermione said, though she didn't examine too closely the tiny spark of irritation she felt at the other woman's name. "An exciting game overall, though."

"Really?" Harry began to look absurdly hopeful. "You really saw it?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. Gotcha. Can't pull pranks on you, my arse."

"I hate you. Ron's my favorite best friend now."

"Always has been, really," Hermione grinned. "I made my peace with it ages ago." Across the room, Lavender Brown opened the blinds, and Harry winced as bright, natural sunlight flooded the room. Hermione sighed at him. "If you insist on getting so spectacularly drunk, why don't you simply brew a sobriety potion beforehand?"

"You know me," Harry said with a shrug, sounding resigned. "If I'm going to do the crime, I'd best be willing to do the time. If I'm going to go out stupidly drinking, I'll pay for it in the morning, thank you very much."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. "Missed the window again, did you?"

"Yes, bugger it," Harry muttered. "Not to mention -- and I'm not totally clear on this part -- I remember standing on a table and being very popular. Then, this morning, I woke up with my pants on inside out, there was a smear of orange paint on my face--"

"Yes, you missed a bit of it. Just there." Hermione tapped the left side of her nose.

"Huh," Harry said dispassionately as he took a swipe at his nose. He missed the paint. Hermione was sure he didn't really care and decided to let it go. "Anyway, I can't quite remember how I got home."

"Harry," she said slowly; kindly.

"Yes?"

"If, somehow, in the distant or not-so-distant future, you should ever discover the truth of what went on last night, I only ask that you do me this one small favor; a pittance, really, if you look at the scope of our friendship."

He looked at her expectantly.

"Never tell me," she said flatly.

"Promise," he grinned. "Though it would serve you right if I did. You should know by now I need you to watch all the games just in case. I mean, if you don't, who am I supposed to ruthlessly extort information from for my column?"

"Have you thought of owling Ron?" she suggested. "He was supposed to be watching the game to scout out the Bats' new Seeker, after all, so he might have been paying some attention."

"Tried and failed," Harry said. "You see, I don't always bother you first. Puddlemere United is already en route to their next game and they've taken their Keeper with them. Poor Hedwig came back with my letter after several fruitless hours; nearly pecked me to death before a few bits of chocolate persuaded her to forgive me."

"What would you do without me?" Hermione wondered aloud.

"Wither and die, Hermione," Harry said.

He sounded awfully sincere. She decided to take pity on him. "Colin!"

A pale man with strawberry blond hair at a nearby desk looked in their direction, brightening when he saw Harry.

"Have you got those pictures of last night's game yet?"

"You bet!" Colin picked up a thick file from his desk and brought it over to Hermione. "Cho Chang looked really gorgeous, too. Wouldn't pose for any pictures after, of course -- never does, that one -- but the shots I got of her in flight -- wow." Colin turned enthusiastically toward Harry. "You used to fancy her, didn't you, Harry? So you can imagine how it feels to look up at her from the stands, flying through the air like a goddess."

"Yes, imagine that," Harry muttered, picking the photos up from Hermione's desk.

She watched Harry closely, saw him flip through the moving photographs until he found a pattern to them and could discern the chronology of each one. He absentmindedly began rearranging the pictures on her desk, searching for the shot that would spark his story to life. Colin's predisposition for taking far too many pictures assured him the position of the Prophet's top photographer, and at the moment, Hermione was sure he was about to save Harry's column.

When they'd been at Hogwarts, Hermione had been a bit bowled over by how naturally Quidditch came to Harry. Loads of wizards could play it, but few could truly breathe it the way Harry could. When he took flight as Gryffindor's Seeker, it was as though he'd finally found a place where he belonged -- up in the clouds, seated on his broom, scanning the skies for a tiny gold ball that held no more significance to the world than the quill she wrote with every day.

It was the ordinary cloaked in the extraordinary, Harry had told her once. Everyone had always spent so much time watching him, and the only time he didn't mind was when he was flying, searching for the Snitch. Because they weren't looking at him, Harry, then -- they were merely watching one arm of the Gryffindor team, hoping it would align with the rest of the players and assure victory. He could give them something then; give them a bit of the Boy Who Lived without sacrificing himself at that boy's altar.

Once again, Hermione allowed herself a moment to be impressed with Harry's almost eerie connection to Quidditch -- the photographs he'd arranged on her desk now painted a very accurate picture of every pivotal (and a few not so pivotal -- Colin never stopped clicking away at his camera) moment in the entire game. It was no coincidence that the last several were nearly exclusively of Cho Chang, a grim, sewn-on-smile curving her lips.

"Looks like Bulstrode was fantastic," Harry noted.

"Oh, he was," Colin gushed. "Best Seeker Ballycastle's had in an age. Everyone was chanting his name. Bulstrode, of course, not Philip, because Bulstrode can be chanted, but have you ever tried to chant Philip? It's an awfully inconvenient name to chant."

"Hmm," Harry grunted.

There it was, Hermione thought. He was gone now. Harry no longer belonged to this world. He was practically up in the sky, piecing together the details of a game he hadn't even witnessed first hand. Sometimes she worried that one day, he would go off to wherever it was he went when his eyes grew clouded and he clearly wasn't listening to them any longer. He would go to that place and forget how to come back.

But then he smiled at her, or winked, or looked at her a certain way, and she forgot her worries, because he was Harry and Harry could never be lost forever.

"Good show," Harry murmured appreciatively as he studied the photos. A few moments passed, and finally, he picked up a handful of them -- individual shots of Cho and the new Ballycastle Seeker, Philip Bulstrode -- and hurried back to his desk, a "Don't mind if I borrow these for a few, do you, Colin?" thrown over his shoulder.

"No," Colin said finally, long after Harry had gone, "I don't mind."

Hermione stifled a laugh.

xXxXxXx

Sarea: Thanks to those of you who are following "The Slow Autumn." Most of the next chapter is done, but I've decided to hold off on posting until after the release of OotP. Since it's so close, it seems silly not to wait so I can incorporate any new canon into the story.

Jade: I've decided to write as much fic as possible before OotP is released to prove that I have no fear of being wrong. Thank you.

Sarea: You bitch.

Jade: You whore, I can't believe you called me a bitch in our authors' notes. I can't believe I wanted to write a fic with you so bad.

Sarea: Yeah, that day and a half we spent desperately hammering away at the outline really seems kind of pointless in retrospect.

Jade: Even though this conversation has completely destroyed our friendship, I think we should continue writing. For the people.

Sarea: Fine.

3. 2: The Matchmaker Always Rings Twice

xXxXxXx
Chapter Two:
The Matchmaker Always Rings Twice

xXxXxXx

She had been there the moment he almost killed his father.

It had been chaos by that point; there were people dying all around her and she could barely tell her allies from her enemies. People were covered in dirt and blood and remnants of spells and sweat. She had almost bypassed the two figures standing off, wands drawn, as she hurried by looking for someone else to help. Such scenes had become commonplace to her. She stopped, however, when she heard a cold laugh that was jarringly incongruous to the circumstances. She drew nearer, but remained unnoticed by the two men absorbed with one another.

As she got closer and shielded herself behind a large oak tree that had seen better days, she told herself that her assistance might be required in this situation, but she knew that the real reason she was staying was because she thought she had recognized one of the combatants. Her suspicions were confirmed a moment later when the other figure spoke.

"Come now, Draco," his father said, sounding amused and dangerous all at once. "Surely you're not thinking of raising that wand against me. I am, after all, your father."

"Surely you didn't think I'd just hand it over to you. I am, after all, your son." She was amazed by how calm he sounded, considering that he was facing death at the hands of the man who had given him life in the first place.

"You always were a fool. Stop this nonsense, and I'll consider sparing your life," Lucius said. "Raise your hand against me and I'll strike you down where you stand."

"I'll make you the same offer," Draco said without inflection. His posture was casual, but she could see lines of tension running through his body. His expression was one of grim determination, and she was moved by the lack of fear she saw there. It was clear to her that he wasn't going to be swayed by anything Lucius had to say, and knew that he meant for one of them to die before this act was over. He was prepared to kill his father, and prepared to die at his hand. She felt an emotion she couldn't name pass through her when she realized this, and nearly intervened. However, prudence stayed her -- prudence, and the certain knowledge that if she were to distract Draco at that delicate moment, she might tip the balance in Lucius Malfoy's favor, and Draco's death would be on her conscience.

And she wasn't prepared to live with that; not after what he'd done for the Cause, what he'd given up for all of them, what he'd had to live with the entire year, knowing all the while that the same people who reviled him and wished great misfortune upon him were the same ones he was risking his life to save.

"You think you're a match for me, boy? You spoilt child. You ungrateful, disloyal child. You'll be dead before the words leave your mouth."

"I hate to state the obvious, but you haven't been paying much attention this year. I might surprise you."

"This unjustifiable arrogance is really quite unseemly, Draco."

"Done all right so far," Draco drawled sardonically, pointedly referring to the current situation. If Lucius Malfoy had been paying closer attention to his son, he might have realized his progeny's defection long before.

"Well," said Lucius, "this will be a great disappointment to your mother."

"You've always been attentive at seeing to Mother's disappointment. I don't think she has any left in her," Draco said dispassionately.

"Or really anything else, for that matter," Lucius agreed, unaffected. "If it makes you feel better, you'll no doubt be seeing her soon." Without another moment's hesitation, Lucius brandished his wand and cast the Killing Curse at Draco with a speed and fluidity that left her heart in her throat.

She nearly gave herself away with the moan that escaped her throat, but it came out as more of a whimper. When the flash of green had faded enough for her to be able to make out individual shapes and colors, she fully expected to see Draco lying dead on the ground. This was not the case. To her amazement, Draco was not only upright and quite alive, but had apparently drawn his own wand quickly enough to utter a counter-curse to his father's Avada Kedavra. The two were now locked in a battle of endurance, their wands vibrating as the two spells attempted to overpower one another.

The struggle continued for long minutes as the advantage alternated between the two wizards. Lucius, after getting over his surprise, had looked amused and almost pleased. This initial reaction had long since passed, and in its place was quickly growing frustration ... and anger. For his part, Draco had shown little emotion. When the pressure had been at its most intense, beads of sweat had formed on his brow. Now his fine blond hair was wet and spiky with perspiration, and he was breathing hard. But the hand that gripped his wand was unwavering.

Just as she couldn't stand it anymore, just as she decided she would have to intervene despite not being able to cast Unforgivable Curses very well (or at all), something extraordinary happened. Draco, who had been steadily gaining the upper hand, stepped forward, and his spell reached the tip of his father's wand. Lucius's eyes widened and his mouth grew slack as he realized what was about to happen, and soon his wand was nothing more than cinders that dusted the ground around them. Lucius collapsed, the energy spent holding the curse taking its toll on the older man. Draco stood above him, pointing his wand at his father with a still-steady hand.

"Draco," Lucius said, sounding weak. "Spare your father his life. After all I've done for you ... you owe me that much."

Draco didn't say anything to this bit of audacity, and she was sure that he was going to end his father's life any moment. She knew she ought to stop him, or call for Aurors who would take the elder Malfoy away so he could later be tried in criminal court, but she didn't. Draco was going to kill his father, and she wanted him to do it; for himself, for everyone.

After a long moment, Draco spoke. "Death is too good for you," he said without emotion. "You're going to rot in Azkaban, and I'm never going to think about you again."

She didn't know where he got the strength to do a binding charm after the energy he'd expended battling his father, but he had it. As soon as Lucius was immobile, Draco fell gracelessly to the ground and passed out. She ran for help. In the following days, everyone would know that Draco Malfoy had been responsible for delivering his own father to the Ministry, and that Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore had defeated Voldemort in a final battle that claimed the life of Hogwarts' greatest headmaster. The wizarding world picked up the pieces of their once-great society and began to contemplate a world at peace once more.

She never told anyone what she had witnessed that day, not even Draco; she guarded the memory like a stolen jewel.

xXxXxXx

The pathology lab was located three floors below ground, and always had a kind of sterile smell that didn't sit well with Ginny. She wrinkled her nose and hoped that she wouldn't have to be down here for very long. If she was lucky, what Draco wanted to show her would be quick. She didn't hold out much hope.

If someone had told her when she was sixteen that ten years in the future she would be an Auror with the Ministry, waiting in a dank pathology lab to look with avid interest at two dead bodies with her partner Draco Malfoy, Ginny would have laughed and understood it was Divination homework for that madwoman Trelawney. That it was reality was a surreal concept.

"Ginny Weasley?"

Ginny turned at the sound of a pleasant voice, which belonged to an equally pleasant-looking man who wore a white lab coat and a beaming smile. He was in his mid-thirties, she judged, and had dark brown hair that he wore slightly too long. She suspected it was less of a fashion decision than it was that he didn't find the time to get it cut. She was familiar with Ministry lab scientists, having dated a couple of in her time. None were as good looking as this one, however. "Yes, I'm Ginny," she replied, smiling in return. "Pleased to meet you, Dr. --?"

"Yellowbrook. James. That is, James Yellowbrook, at your service," he said, flushing slightly. She realized she had overestimated his age; this man wasn't a day over thirty, and probably younger. "Malfoy -- that is, your partner, Malfoy --"

"Yes, I know who he is," said Ginny, smiling at the stuttering scientist.

"He was right," Yellowbrook blurted, looking excited. He was fairly vibrating with enthusiasm. "We didn't think he would be, not really, but he was right, and it's all very fantastic, isn't it? What are the chances that--"

"Yellowbrook," Ginny interrupted. She was feeling slightly better than she had a couple of hours ago, but Draco hadn't elaborated on his implication that Harry had something to do with these supposed murders, and then he'd disappeared for an hour, so Ginny was no more informed now than she had been when Draco had dropped his bombshell earlier. "You'll have to start from the beginning," she said apologetically. "I'm afraid I haven't spoken to my partner, who is more familiar with this case. He sent me an owl ten minutes ago asking me to meet him here, but he has yet to show up." Because he's a self-involved bastard who can't be bothered to keep his partner informed, she added in her mind.

"Keep thinking bad thoughts about me and one day you might be sorry," asserted Draco, who had just arrived.

Ginny turned, startled, and groaned softly when this aggravated her headache. "I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I stopped," she said grumpily. "All right -- want to tell me what's going on? And where have you been?"

"Had to run some errands," he said. Then in a lowered voice so the pathologist wouldn't hear, "Besides, I thought you might appreciate the time to get yourself presentable."

"I was never unpresentable," she informed him in outrage. Her ire was dampened considerably when he handed her a steaming cup of latte. "Oh, you angel!" She closed her eyes and sipped. Ambrosia.

"I thought I was a black-hearted devil," said Draco.

"Lucifer was once an angel," she rejoined. She noticed Yellowbrook looking at them with interest, and quickly got back to the matter at hand. "Right -- I think Yellowbrook here was about to tell you that you've cracked the case, Malfoy."

Draco turned his attention to the white-robed scientist.

"Er -- not exactly," said Yellowbrook, looking embarrassed. "But we did discover that the bodies had been magically tampered with, posthumously."

"Magically tampered with? How?" Ginny asked.

Draco was studying the other man's face, and he answered without looking at her. "Their wounds were healed after they died," he said briefly. "At least, as far as the human eye can tell."

Yellowbrook nodded.

"What else?" Draco asked. "Have you determined cause of death?"

"Yes. Massive blood loss. This probably would not have been detected if you hadn't raised questions, Malfoy. It's not conclusive, but preliminary results indicate that both victims had internal lacerations."

"They were stabbed?" said Ginny in amazement.

Yellowbrook turned slightly pink when he directed his attention to her. "Yes," he said. "It would seem so."

"What kind of spell--"

Yellowbrook shook his head. "The tests have been performed, and I can say with absolute certainty that magic has been ruled out as a method. The lacerations were made, most likely, by a knife."

"A knife," Ginny repeated.

"A sharp one," Yellowbrook said helpfully. He turned his full attention to Ginny. "Would you ... would you, um, like to come see the bodies?" He sounded for all the world as if he were asking her to view his flower garden.

Ginny opened her mouth to answer, but wasn’t given the chance.

"Yes, we would," inserted Draco, taking Ginny by the elbow. "Lead the way, Yellowbrook, we haven't got all day."

xXxXxXx

"What kind of wizard worth his salt would use a knife to kill people, when Avada Kedavra is so much more efficient?" Ginny asked, stuffing her mouth with a dumpling.

She and Draco were at her flat, sprawled around her coffee table, which was littered with the remnants of their dinner, case files, pathology reports, and two-month-old copies of Witch Weekly. A drop of juice from the dumpling trickled down her chin, and Ginny quickly grabbed a napkin to wipe it up, feeling inexplicably embarrassed. Over the last few years she and Draco had seen one another in far-less-flattering circumstances, but one thing Ginny hated was to appear uncouth around him, as his own table manners were impeccable. No matter how many times she told herself that he was the bizarre one, that being able to eat without once dropping a crumb, getting anything in his teeth, or smearing it on his mouth (or face) was unnatural, she still felt like a coarse country bumpkin around him. What was worse was that he never made any mention of it. Draco Malfoy, who delighted in pointing out people's faults to their faces, had never once ribbed her about her dining deportment. It made her suspect she was so hopeless that even he was too embarrassed to call attention to it. And that was quite a bar.

Draco wasn't even looking at her. He had finished eating some twenty minutes ago, and was intently studying the reports. "Hmm," he said.

"Perhaps they didn't use Avada Kedavra because they can't," Ginny suggested. "Like a Muggle."

"Don't be ridiculous," Draco dismissed without looking up. "A Muggle couldn't possibly have infiltrated the wizarding world, and even if one did, no wizard would allow himself to be killed by one. Also -- where's the motive?"

"Perhaps the killer is a squib," said Ginny, warming to her subject. "Embittered from being unable to perform magic, he--"

"--takes it out on Quidditch players, because hey, they can fly, which means they're magic-enabled, and plus they're all so conveniently accessible and don't have hordes of security around them nearly all the time?" Draco finished, glancing up at last to raise a skeptical eyebrow.

Ginny deflated. "It was just a theory," she said grumpily. She perked up again. "Maybe--"

"Don't say that the knife somehow gained sentience and began killing on its own."

Silence.

Draco sighed. "Besides, Gin, you know not every wizard is capable of performing Avada Kedavra. It's a fairly limited specialty."

"You don't --" Ginny hesitated. "You don't really think Harry had anything to do with this, do you?"

"And what if I did?" Draco asked blandly. "Would you brain me with that poker, then run off to warn him that he'd been found out and that he'd better flee the country before Scotland Yard came after him?"

"Don't be silly. Scotland Yard is a Muggle institution and wouldn't be involved," she said.

"Don't dodge the question, Weasley."

"Then don't ask daft questions."

"So you would do it."

"Of course not!" Ginny exclaimed, fed up. "Harry's not above the law."

Draco's expression was one of cynicism. "Of course he is. Always has been."

"He wouldn't be exempt from something like this," Ginny said. "So answer my question -- do you honestly believe he had anything to do with these killings?"

Draco let a moment of anticipation pass before he said, "No, I don't."

Ginny let out a sigh of relief.

"But would you have believed me if I had said yes?"

Ginny considered before speaking. Finally she said, "I've learned to trust your instincts, so I might not have dismissed it as easily as if someone else made the same suggestion. But it would be very, very hard for me to believe Harry capable of any of this."

Draco nodded. "Well, you can sleep soundly at night knowing your precious Potter isn't behind it all," he said.

"How are you so sure? I mean," Ginny quickly amended, "I'm not suggesting that there's any reason he is, but ... why are you ruling him out?"

"Too strategic," Draco answered. "This was all well-planned and thought-out."

"Hey," Ginny protested. "Harry's strategic."

"Maybe on the pitch, but not with anything else. You know Potter -- he's all about heart and following his emotions. That was always his problem, you realize. He wouldn't be capable of the kind of planning that was executed here. Even at school, that was what he had Granger for. He acted on her strategies, for the most part. Potter would more likely kill in a fit of passion."

"And what about you?" Ginny shot, provoked. "You'd be able to plot murder, would you?"

"Of course," Draco said easily. "I could also kill if provoked. I'm stunningly well-rounded. Besides -- I'm trained to do it. We both are."

"Yes, but I would do all I could to avoid such a scenario. You'd just do what was most convenient."

"Ginny," said Draco patiently, "you've seen my records. I haven't killed a single person yet."

I've seen your official records, Ginny thought. And while you may not have killed in your capacity as an Auror, you have killed ...

"So what's next?" she asked. "Looks like we'll need to talk to Kittridge's and Thorpe's families."

Draco nodded. "I've already set up the interviews."

"What? When?"

"This morning."

"No, when?"

"Wednesday morning, bright and early. You're bringing the coffee."

Ginny ground her teeth. "And when were you planning to tell me this?"

"You know now, don't you?"

Ginny knew better than to pursue it, although it irritated her to no end -- blame rolled off Draco like water off a duck's back. He was a master at dodging complaint and accusation. And infuriating as it was, it leant a certain irresistible edge to the frustration of being with him, which was probably why women flocked to him in droves.

Women like Fancy Knickers. Ginny made a face.

While she'd been at the lab listening to Yellowbrook drone on and on about exsanguination, Ginny had taken the opportunity to study her partner without fear that he'd notice her doing so. He had been completely involved in every boring detail Yellowbrook had shared, and Ginny studied her fill. He really was very attractive, and had many good things going for him. She trusted Draco's judgment in nearly every respect, but when it came to women, he clearly needed assistance.

With that thought, an idea had formed itself in her mind and wouldn't let go. It would take a little -- all right, considerable -- work, but it was perfect. The more Ginny thought about it, the more she knew she'd have to at least try. Fancy Knickers was all wrong for Draco. Oh, she was beautiful enough. They were all beautiful. But she was too posh; too put-together; too submissive. Draco needed someone who would challenge him. He needed someone who wouldn't let him get away with the things his girlfriends normally let him get away with. He came from a wealthy family and had an impeccable bloodline, and that was the problem. He needed someone who was salt of the earth, someone who would shake him off his high horse and show him what the world was really like.

Having worked with him these past few years, Ginny knew that Draco was more than capable of putting aside his snobby upbringing and appreciate life on a simpler level -- look what he did for a living, after all, that there was more to Draco than what those women were offering. What he needed, in short, was someone his exact opposite.

And Ginny had the perfect candidate in mind. Hermione.

They hated one another, it was true, but Ginny suspected that behind the surface of their animosity lay attraction. That was the true reason why they were always at one another's throats. Why had she never seen it before? They would both have to be convinced, of course, to see beyond their mutual dislike, but she wasn't daunted by the prospect. In the end, when they were happily together and thanking her for her interference, she'd wave aside their gratitude and tell them that their happiness was enough.

Draco and Hermione -- it seemed so obvious. But she'd have to be very, very careful about this. They were both likely to bolt like skittish mares if she came on too strong. Imagining Draco as a skittish mare made her grin.

"What? What's so funny?" he asked, taking a sip of his wine. He'd been contemplating the fire whilst she'd been lost in her own matchmaking thoughts.

"Oh, something Hermione said the other day," Ginny lied, watching him carefully for any change in expression at the mention of the other woman's name.

Draco snorted. "I take it you mean she said something inadvertently amusing," he drawled. "That woman stood in line for a double-dose of 'book smarts' and bypassed the 'sense of humor' line entirely."

"Hermione can be funny," Ginny defended loyally.

"I've just said that she can be. Though her audience is normally laughing at her, not with her."

He's attracted to her, that's why he's being so scornful, Ginny thought. "She and I are having lunch together tomorrow," she said casually. "Want to come?"

"Where are you going?"

"Basanti Grill."

Draco made a face. "No, thanks. Their chicken club makes me queasy afterward."

"Then don't get the chicken club," Ginny said reasonably.

"But it's the only thing good there."

"Then just sit there and drink water for all I care," Ginny said. "We'll have our lunch. You'll just be there for the company."

Draco looked perplexed. "Gin, I see you every day."

"Not m--" she began in exasperation, but stopped. She couldn't show her hand just yet, but honestly, he was being remarkably dense.

He raised his eyebrows. "Then what?"

"Nothing," she muttered.

"Basanti Grill is right next to Top & Ladder, isn't it?" he asked casually.

Ginny wasn't fooled for a second. "What do you want, Malfoy."

"They have really fantastic lemon-pepper chicken fettuccini."

"You want me to bring lunch back for you?" Ginny said incredulously.

"Would you? Thanks, how kind of you to offer. And make sure they don't skimp on the parmesan."

Ginny grit her teeth, and barely managed to keep from throttling him. However, this was perhaps for the best. She would work on Hermione first. Although at this particular moment she couldn't recall why she was trying to foist Draco off on her friend. Fancy Knickers deserved him.

And she'd make sure to "forget" the garlic breadsticks he loved so much.

"It's late," she said pointedly when Draco yawned.

He rested his head against her couch, blinking sleepily. "Can I stay here?"

"Again?" It wasn't unusual after a late night for Draco to spend the night on her couch. Ginny suspected that he didn't like being in that big, drafty manor by himself. He'd never say so, of course, but the idea of it was enough to appeal to her sympathy. But she couldn't show her concern; if Draco thought she was taking pity on him he'd leave a Draco-sized cut-out through her door.

"Why, are you expecting company?"

"You know I'm not," Ginny said.

Draco looked honestly contrite. "God, Gin, I'm sorry. I forgot all about Jim."

Ginny sighed. "It's all right; I'd forgotten about it until this moment. I'll go get the spare blankets."

"Can't I sleep with you?" Draco asked, looking at her with big eyes.

"Don't push it, Malfoy."

xXxXxXx

"You've gone totally mad. That's it, isn't it? That's the only possible reason I can find for why we're having this conversation."

Ginny let out a sigh. "It's not that ridiculous a proposition."

"No, Gin, I think it's exactly that ridiculous a proposition," Hermione said, glancing around the newsroom to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation. It was embarrassing enough, discussing her love life in public; add the slant Ginny was putting on it and Hermione was downright mortified. "I mean, really, have you ever known me to not actively dislike Draco Malfoy, let alone fancy him?"

"Maybe not yet," Ginny said, a placating note to her voice as she dogged Hermione's steps, "but if you'd just give it a little bit of time, I think you two would be smashing together."

"If by 'smashing' you mean I'd end up smashing his head into a wall, then you might be on to something. Lavender, did you steal my prototype Quickest Quips Quill again?" Hermione turned her head from Ginny to glare at the Prophet's fashion columnist.

"Of course not," Lavender said with wide, innocent eyes.

The Quickest Quips Quill was the latest in Rita Skeeter's line of journalistic accessories. Unlike its predecessor, the Quick Quips Quill, the new model did not embellish or otherwise entrap the person being interviewed. Instead, it took a clear, concise, and unbiased record of the encounter, leaving it to the reporter his or herself to add any additional 'flavor' to the story. While this sort of fair-minded journalistic integrity wasn't close to being in Rita Skeeter's book, Hermione (possessed of the knowledge that Rita was an unauthorized Animagus) had written a few new chapters for the intrepid reporter and a new generation of Prophet staff had been born. Hermione smiled a secret, satisfied smile as she thought of the weeks she'd kept Rita's Animagus form trapped in a glass jar, then snapped out of it when she remembered Lavender was still staring up at her with a guiltless countenance.

A low growl came from Hermione's throat and she noticed that Ginny was hiding a smirk. It was a fairly well known fact that Hermione was an Animagus, and that her inner-animal was a lion ("That's our little Gryffindor," Ron and Harry had been fond of crowing after she'd changed the first time, back in sixth year). A lesser-known fact was that she was one of the rare Animagus witches who absolutely detested transforming and actually hadn't done so for several years. Hermione sometimes wondered if she even remembered how. Lavender was not aware of this, however, and the growl was warning enough to shake her tenuous hold on deception.

"I don't see why you should be the only one to use it," Lavender groused. "Just because Rita Skeeter goes off her rocker berserk around you."

"Yes, well, that's between Rita and me," Hermione said, snatching the quill back from Lavender's outstretched hand. "We came to an understanding years ago. Please, Lavender, if you absolutely must borrow it, just ask."

"Hmm," Lavender said. "I hadn't considered that."

Hermione rolled her eyes, then turned back to her desk, a little startled to see Ginny leaning against it impatiently; she had almost forgotten that Ginny was there. Ginny soon reminded her by starting in on the threads of their previous conversation without missing a single beat. It was an annoying habit Harry had, as well, and it drove Hermione nutters to have Ginny get in on the act. Especially given the subject matter.

"Why don't you just come off it, Hermione." Ginny sized her old friend up. "You can't possibly hate him the way you used to."

"No," Hermione grudgingly admitted, depositing the prototype Quick Quips Quill back on her desk. "I admit he's not nearly as loathsome as he used to be. But really, what sort of a foundation is that? I don't hate him, so I might as well date him?"

"It's not a foundation! Don't you see, that's what the date is for!" Ginny seemed to be really warming to the subject. "How can you know that you don't fancy him when you've never spent any time with him?"

"Ginny, isn't it possible that I simply don't want to spend any time with him? I mean, really, why now? He's been your partner for years."

"Oh, Herm," Ginny moaned, "I just can't stand the girls he goes out with! They're so obvious and they do nothing but fawn over him. I want him to have a real girl, someone who'll challenge him and make him really happy."

"Someone like you, you mean?" Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"Of course not!" Ginny looked appalled at the suggestion. "We're just friends. Sometimes we're at each other's throats so much we're barely that. I just -- he's in my life, you know? And if he's going to be in my life, it stands to reason the woman in his life is also going to be in my life and can you please just put me out of my misery and say you'll go out with him?"

"Why would he want to go out with me, anyway?" Hermione began to get suspicious. "Have you already asked him?"

"Naturally," Ginny scoffed.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "I can't tell if you're lying or not. Never could. I hate that."

"Come on," Ginny wheedled, "just give it a chance. What can it hurt, really? One night out of your life?"

"I can't think of anything at the moment, but every instinct I have tells me it could hurt a great deal," Hermione muttered.

In truth, the idea of going out with Draco Malfoy wasn't all that much more distasteful than the idea of going out with any man who wasn't Harry Potter. Stifling a groan, Hermione sat down heavily at her desk and flopped face down against her folded arms. Her infatuation with Harry had started back in school, but his total disinterest in her had fueled the mounting attraction she and Ron shared. A thousand good times and bad had sought to forge their places in each other's lives, seemingly without their consent. Hermione was Ron's girl, Ron was Harry's sidekick, and they were all best friends. Even when she wasn't Ron's girl, everyone sort of assumed she still was, and any unrequited feelings she had for Harry were conveniently swept beneath the proverbial rug.

Which didn't bother Hermione too much, considering that her feelings for Harry were most definitely unrequited. He cared about her deeply, but he always made her feel as though he loved her like a sister or an especially dear cousin. Any way but as a potential romantic partner. It hadn't been so bad until they started working together at the Prophet. These had been both the best and the worst years of Hermione's life, being so close to Harry, and so far from him. That seemed to encompass a lot of her life -- the best and the worst of everything, but she wouldn't trade it for any other life, because it was hers, and unlike the first ten years of her life, it fit.

Perhaps she shouldn't judge this harebrained scheme of Ginny's so harshly. Her heart was certainly in the right place, and given how much Hermione knew Ginny cared for Draco, the idea that Ginny "approved" of Hermione being his girlfriend was sort of flattering. At the very least, going out on a date with a man might help snap her out of the unending cycle of wanting-without-having she seemed to have perfected with Harry.

Then again, it was still Draco Malfoy . . .

"I'll think about it," Hermione mumbled into her desk.

Ginny let out a squealing sound of happiness. "Oh, Hermione, you won't regret it!" She leaned over Hermione's hunched form, squeezed her friend tightly, then bounded away from the desk.

"I said I'd think about it!" Hermione hollered, sitting up straight. "That means maybe, not ‘go make dinner reservations’!"

But Ginny had already Disapparated.

"Bugger," Hermione muttered.

xXxXxXx

Draco could feel Ginny's gaze on him as he sat at his desk, filling out paperwork. They would be submitting their request to have the Quidditch player killings officially sanctioned as a Ministry case today. Draco didn't have any doubts that it would be approved, and was only slightly irritated by the fact that they had to go through this red tape at all. He'd been working as an Auror too long to try and hurry the process along, if not bypass it altogether. That would only serve to annoy his superiors (in the most general sense of the word, of course), and Draco knew from experience that being on the bad side of people who could pull strings for you was not smart.

And if nothing else, Draco was smart. Fortunately, he was possessed of a great deal of other positive qualities as well, including dashing good looks, charm, wealth, grace, common sense, the ability to choose clothing that suited him, modesty...

She was driving him batty.

He looked up. "What?" he demanded shortly.

Clearly abashed at being caught staring, Ginny looked away quickly. "Nothing."

Draco didn't believe her, but turned back to his paperwork. He knew the silence would soon unnerve her, and she would say what was on her mind, whether he wanted to hear about it or not. Sure enough, two minutes later Ginny was clearing her throat. Draco put down his quill and raised a brow in inquiry.

"Erm." She bit her lip. "Are you serious ... about Frances?" she asked hesitantly.

To say he was surprised by this question was an understatement. Ginny hadn't used her derogatory nickname for the other woman, and that in itself was astonishing. Draco couldn't remember a single instance before now when she hadn't (other than in Frances's presence, of course). "Why?" he asked warily. It did not occur to him to tell her it was none of her business. He often found himself asking her questions about her partners, though he was always irritated with himself for it. But he also couldn't seem to stop himself, so he didn't begrudge her the same courtesy, within reason.

Ginny shrugged, playing with the corner of a piece of parchment. "Just curious, that's all."

Draco's brows shot up even further. Was she asking because...? He shook his head, not allowing the thought to go further. "No," he said. He didn't have time for serious relationships, and Ginny knew it. It was also about time that she gave up attempting to have them, herself. It would never work in their line of employment. She really ought to know better.

Ginny smiled, her evident relief making Draco's pulse race a little faster and his throat a little dry. "Good, because ... I think I know who'd be perfect for you, Draco," she said softly.

How many times had he fantasized about her saying exactly that, with that tone of voice, with that look in her eyes? And at the end of those fantasies, Draco always took the next logical step -- he and Ginny ended up fucking on his desk, on the floor, against the file cabinets, against the door ... and sometimes, in his chair, where she'd straddle him and--

"Draco?"

Ginny's voice, innocently unaware of the gutter where his mind had gone for the past few moments, jarred him out of his thoughts. He shifted uncomfortably, aware of the growing strain in his trousers. He was thankful for the concealment of his desk. If Ginny knew he ever entertained these kinds of thoughts, she'd be out of that door before he could utter a single spell to prevent it. It wasn't as though he were foolish enough to think any of his fantasies could ever be reality. They were exactly what the word 'fantasy' implied -- unreal, residing purely in the imagination. But he was a man, and Ginny was an attractive woman, not to mention the only one he was around all day. It was natural that he should entertain these thoughts from time to time. It would be more bizarre if he didn't, in his opinion.

"Who?" he asked, after frantically trying to recall what she had last said.

"I know this is going to sound crazy ..."

She's going to say 'me,' Draco thought in shock. He didn't know what the terror seizing him meant. Because he wanted her to? Because he didn't? Because if she did, it would change everything about their relationship, and he liked it very much as it was already? Because if she didn't, he was going to be very, very disappointed, and he hated feeling disappointment?

"Just hear me out. I know you don't really get along with her, but I really, really think that you and Hermione could really hit it off."

Draco looked at her blankly. Ah yes, and there was the disappointment that she hadn't suggested herself as the perfect companion for him. But -- what had she just said? "Granger?" he repeated incredulously, once it had sunk into his brain that Hermione Granger, Brainiac and Prophet Bloodhound, was the person Ginny was suggesting would be perfect for him.

"Don't say her name like that," Ginny admonished. "Call her 'Hermione.' That, I think, will go a long way in dispelling this hostility between you."

"Gin," he said, as patiently as he could given the fact that he wanted to throw things, "We don't want to dispel the hostility between us. We like the hostility between us. It's one of the few things I depend on."

"Don't be silly," Ginny dismissed as if he were joking, though Draco could not have been more serious. "Clearly, you two are in a rut. You're used to fighting with each other, so that's what you do. We just have to get you out of that cycle, make you see one another in a new light. Then you'll see I'm right."

"Mm-hmm. Perhaps I wasn't clear enough before. How about this: Are you out of your mind?"

"Why are you being so stubborn?" Draco had to hand it to her; she sounded genuinely perplexed.

"I'm not being stubborn, I'm being realistic," Draco said through gritted teeth. "Of all your mad matchmaking schemes, this one has got to be the worst."

"Mad matchmaking schemes?" Ginny said, sounding incredulous. "When have I ever -- you would be so lucky to go out with any of my friends!"

"Luck would have little to do with it," Draco muttered.

"I heard that." Ginny appeared to think better of her tactics, and wheedled, "Give me one good reason why you can't even go out with Hermione one time, to try and bury the hatchet."

"Because it's liable to end up in one of our backs."

Ginny crossed her arms. "I'm still waiting for a legitimate reason."

"I'm a Malfoy."

"So?"

"So ... her parents are dentists. Muggle dentists." He said this as someone else might have said, "axe-murderers."

"Merlin, you're such a snob, Malfoy."

"Yes," Draco said in relief, glad she finally understood.

"Not yes!" Ginny exclaimed, standing up and making her way over to him. "It's time you stopped living up to this ridiculous image of who you think you ought to be, and started behaving like a normal person."

"Nice to know what you think of me," Draco said, hurt.

"I think the world of you, and you know it," Ginny said in obvious exasperation, standing next to his chair and bracing one hand on his desk. "Why else would I even dream of you working it out with Hermione? I would never pair you up with someone who I didn't think deserved you."

Draco wasn't entirely sure that was a compliment, but he let it slide. "And I suppose Granger went along with this without any resistance whatsoever?"

Ginny turned slightly pink. "Well ... she's as stubborn as you are, but I think she'll come around."

"Hmph. Well, she would. She's getting the far better deal."

Ginny put her hands on her hips crossly. "No more of that! I know you don't mean it, so why don't you just stop with this conceited arsehole nonsense?"

Draco meant every word, and she was completely and utterly mad. But he couldn't deny that her intentions were good, if typically idealistic and impulsive, just like she was. And he had to admit he really enjoyed the way she looked at him so sincerely, with that expression on her face that begged him to do the "right thing," whatever she thought that was. It also helped her case that she was wearing the robes he liked best on her; this close, he could see the way the material strained enticingly across her breasts.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt," he said reluctantly, as if wanting to be convinced further. Hell, he already knew there was no way out of this without disappointing Ginny utterly, so if he had to give in he might as well get something out of it. He wasn't going to be the uncooperative party, no. There was no way Granger would agree; she would refuse and get them out of this, and meanwhile he would lose zero points with Ginny. In fact, she would understand that he was the obliging, ultimately injured party. She might even try to make it up to him.

For now, he would settle for the delighted smile she leveled his way. "Oh, you won't regret this," Ginny prattled on as she made her way back to her desk. "The two of you will see that I'm right. One day, you'll thank me."

Truly, she was mad as a hatter.

xXxXxXx

"Gin, have you been drinking? Because you know the Ministry frowns on that sort of thing during business hours. Don't make me get Hermione to write another exposé."

"Harry, you know I don't drink and Apparate after that time we -- but anyway, that isn't what I'm here to discuss with you."

"No, you much prefer stark raving madness," Harry said dryly. "Look, Gin, as adorable as I find your insanity -- and I do find it adorable, I swear -- I haven't got time for it at the moment. Hermione'll skin me alive if I'm late with my copy again."

"What business is it of hers if you're late?" Ginny placed her hands on her hips and lifted her eyebrows.

"Because if I'm late, that means she has to help me, and she says she's got better things to do with her time than bail me out of trouble. Claims she got enough of cleaning up after Ron and I when we were kids."

"Ron and me," Ginny corrected with a hint of exasperation. "You're supposed to work for a newspaper, Harry."

"A newspaper with an editor," he said, as though that made everything all right.

Ginny waved an impatient hand at him. "Anyhow, that's not why I'm here."

"Yes, that would be about your mad scheme."

"It is not a mad scheme!" She stamped her foot. Actually stamped it.

Harry grinned.

"Stop that!" Ginny made a sound of supreme frustration. "Oh, why is it you have this gift that only my brothers are supposed to have?"

"Sorry, Gin. But I'm sure I wouldn't be able to annoy you from the office you share with Malfoy," he said pointedly.

"Subtle, Potter, but you're not getting rid of me until you agree to assist me with my mad scheme."

Heaving a sigh, Harry began making through the bustling newsroom. Things always got the most hectic an hour before quitting time, and Ginny's arrival couldn't have been more poorly timed. Trying to tell her that had only prompted her to increase her haranguing. Harry wondered if it would be really that awful of him to attempt to lose her in the bullpen. A glance over his shoulder confirmed that, awful of him or not, throwing Ginny off his scent when she'd got a bee in her bonnet about something was highly unlikely.

Too many metaphors, Potter, he heard the internal Hermione he had in his head caution. If you can't even follow it, how is some hapless reader expected to?

He turned to Ginny as he picked up his pace. "I thought it was neither mad, nor a scheme?"

"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em," Ginny said with a shrug, her shorter legs working doubly hard to keep up with his long-legged strides. "But I'll have you know that this mad scheme is going to make our dearest friends unimaginably happy, and they'll have me to thank for it." She reached out and grabbed his arm, halting his forward momentum and forcing him to look at her. "If you'll stop being so stubborn, they'll have you to thank, too."

"Yes, er, as much as I appreciate you willingly sharing credit with me--"

"It's not an equal share," she cautioned. "I'm doing all the leg work, after all. Your part is really very minor. I hardly need you at all except for--"

"Except for the fact that Hermione thinks you're absolutely bonkers and Malfoy likely only agreed because he's sure Hermione won't?"

"You get too bogged down in details, Harry," Ginny said earnestly.

"You're mad. Goodbye." He turned to walk away.

"Do you want her to be alone forever?"

Staring up at the ceiling for a moment, Harry heaved a sigh. No. No, of course he did not want Hermione to be alone forever. But Malfoy? Couldn't Ginny see what a phenomenally bad idea that was? Then again, it had been ages since Hermione had been out on a date with someone other than Ron. Maybe . . . maybe seeing what was out there would make her--

Harry cut off his own dangerous line of thought. That way held more madness than Ginny's idea.

"Of course not," he said aloud, looking at the bright lights of the newsroom, Lavender Brown hastily scribbling away at her latest column, anywhere but at Ginny.

"Maybe it is a mad scheme with no hopes of succeeding," Ginny conceded, though Harry could tell she didn't doubt her genius for one second, "but, Harry -- what if it's not? Are you really willing to cheat Hermione out of something wonderful because you're too short-sighted to see the forest for the trees?"

"You just want to decide who Malfoy goes out with," Harry insisted.

"Details, Harry!" She snapped her fingers. "What do I keep telling you about details?"

"All right," Harry said, tilting his glasses up so he could pinch the bridge of his nose. Drinking with Ginny was great fun; being on the receiving end of one of her plots made him pray for death. "I will talk to Hermione."

"Talk to Hermione about what?"

"Hermione!" Ginny's voice oozed sugar. "I'm so glad you haven't gone home yet. Harry has something to tell you, don't you, Harry?"

"Huh? Oh, right. Um, Hermione . . ."

Hermione looked at him expectantly. Harry glanced over at Ginny and tilted his head, communicating his desire to speak to Hermione in private.

Ginny didn't move. "I don't trust you," she sad flatly, "and stop jerking your head about like that; you'll injure yourself and have to go to hospital."

"Oh, bugger," Harry muttered. "Herm, Gin thinks you should go out with Malfoy and I think it'd be such great fun, really, you should go." He glanced between both women, then pretended to see something out of the corner of his eye. "Oh, hey there, been looking for you all evening!"

It was not the most graceful of exits, Harry was perfectly willing to admit, but it was all he could manage. The subject of Hermione dating had always made him extraordinarily uncomfortable, and in the past, it had usually been Ron whom she was seeing. Having the best friend he loved like a brother date his other best friend had been hard enough; watching her go out with someone like Malfoy who was -- well, whatever he was to Harry now -- unthinkable.

He casually glanced behind him and saw that Hermione and Ginny appeared to be arguing. Feeling only marginally guilty, Harry pulled his wand out of his pocket and muttered a quiet incantation. A second later, both girls' voices filled his inner ear as though they were speaking right next to him.

"--can't believe you recruited Harry into this insanity," Hermione seethed.

"Well, you weren't cooperating," Ginny said in a tone that clearly communicated she'd felt she had no other choice.

"And Harry! He was so -- so . . ."

"So?"

"Willing!" Hermione whispered. "I can't believe he'd just shove me at Malfoy like this."

"Well, I did torture him," Ginny confessed.

"A lot?" Did Hermione sound hopeful?

"Not an awful lot," Ginny said. "He just wants you to be happy, Herm. That's all I want, too. If you'd just give it a shot--"

"I don't care what Harry wants. I don't care what you want. And I certainly don't care what Malfoy wants. Hear me, Ginny, and please, listen: I am not, not now, not ever, not even if we were the last two people on earth, going on a date with Draco Malfoy."

Ginny stared at her for a moment. Harry grinned to himself. That was his Hermione.

"That's just ridiculous," Ginny finally said. "If you were the last two people on earth it would be up to you to repopulate the species, and you'd have to--"

Even from where he was standing, it was clear that one of Hermione's blood vessels was about to burst. She turned and walked away from Ginny at a brisk pace.

"I've already made reservations for tomorrow night at Niko's. Draco will meet you out front," Ginny said doggedly. Hermione made an aggravated sound in the back of her throat as she quickened her pace. Harry watched an evil grin curve Ginny's lips. "I'll tell him to wear a white rose boutonnière!" she yelled. "So you'll be sure to recognize him!" A quiet laugh escaped her mouth when Hermione didn't argue. "Gotcha."

"They're not going to fall in love," Harry muttered to himself.

"You'll see," Ginny said as she passed him, startling Harry. He hadn't heard her approach. "Malfoy will finally have a girlfriend I adore and you won't have Hermione standing over your shoulder lecturing you all the time. Everybody wins, Harry." She smiled, then Disapparated.

"Everybody wins," he repeated quietly.

xXxXxXx

Credits and other things:

This chapter is lovingly dedicated to msscribe, who has a birthday coming up, who braves fandom wars with grace and style, and who we generally loff to pieces. Smooches, honey!

In our excitement to get the last chapter up as quickly as possible, we inadvertently left out some pretty pertinent authors' notes, which we will attempt to rectify here.

1) Anything we know about casefiles (which isn't much) comes from the X-Files. For any fans of the show, it's obvious that Draco and Ginny's boss Skinman is an XF reference.

2) Ginny's line in Chapter One about the Bedroom Olympics was tweaked from a line found in Judith McNaught's "Double Standards."

3) We hate writing summaries. We decided to pay homage to one from a story we love -- Cassie Claire's "Draco Sinister."

4) The first chapter's title, "Dial M for Malfoy," is a reference to Alfred Hitchcock's classic "Dial M for Murder" (1954).

5) This chapter's title, "The Matchmaker Always Rings Twice," is a reference to James Cain's first novel (and subsequent movies based on it) "The Postman Always Rings Twice" (1934).

Most of you probably got these references without us having to spell it out, but some people have made it clear that subtlety is an unappreciated art form. Mea culpa.

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, an update on the status of our friendship ...

Jade: Well, we survived another chapter.

Sarea: Just barely.

Jade: There were only two or three times when I felt I wanted you dead.

Sarea: Only? Really? Because I lost count of the number of times--

Jade: Make that four.

4. 3: Anatomy of a Date

xXxXxXxChapter Three:
Anatomy of a DatexXxXxXx

"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!

5. 4: The Third Man

xXxXxXx
Chapter Four:
The Third Man

xXxXxXx

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."

xXxXxXx

"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?"

xXxXxXx

"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.

xXxXxXx

"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.

xXxXxXx

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?

6. 5: A Study in Scarlet

xXxXxXx
Chapter Five:
A Study in Scarlet

xXxXxXx

Harry Apparated into Paris, outside the grandly constructed home field of the Quiberon Quafflepunchers, and inhaled deeply as the smell of worn leather and fresh grass assaulted his senses.

Nowhere in the world felt more like home to him than a Quidditch pitch; nowhere else in the world did he feel as capable, as calm. He'd found more enjoyable challenges than he'd ever dreamed possible in his adult life, but sometimes, when he looked back on his childhood before the war, before everything had gotten so terribly complicated, the pitch was his favorite memory. When he was playing Quidditch, just playing, because he loved his House and his team, he couldn't remember a time he'd felt more rested, more at ease in his own skin. He recalled the sensation of solitude and oneness as he soared high above childish taunts, looming death, and being the famous Harry Potter, and now, just for a moment, he longed to be eleven again, new to Quidditch, to friendship, to the world, and without any idea what was to be.

That was the real reason he'd gone pro after the war. He'd been trying to recapture something, a feeling so ephemeral he could never pinpoint exactly what it was. He only knew that he was better up there. In every conceivable way, he was better. After the injury he was determined to take to the skies again, determined to find that sense of peace and calm, though it had eluded him for most of his professional career. He hadn't told anyone -- not even Hermione -- but a few weeks ago, he'd begun training on the sly, using weekends and spare evenings to relearn what had always been so instinctual. He wasn't sure what he was training for; he was happy at the paper, satisfied in a way that was wholly different than the win of a well-played game. And he loved spending so much time with Hermione, in her element; in their element. They'd never really had common ground like that before, and it felt good. Plus, with all the time Quidditch players spent on the road, their bimonthly dinners would become a thing of the past, and he wasn't about to lose them for anything.

But today was Saturday, and while Harry would normally have been happy to devote a few of his personal hours in the pursuit of a good story, after spending so much time with Ron, hearing him talk about how he was thinking of starting things up again with Hermione, Harry had been especially looking forward to soaring around the field for a few hours, his only worry whether or not he'd be able to beat his own best time catching the Snitch.

Harry's editor had been insistent, however: Cal Canderer, Keeper for the Quafflepunchers, was earning tremendous acclaim for the stellar playing he'd been doing all season, and Dunhill was determined that the Prophet would have the first one-on-one interview with the Quidditch world's new darling. Last week's game against the Chudley Cannons had elevated Canderer another class level in the Quidditch hierarchy, from rising star to superstar, somewhere on par with the status Victor Krum had achieved shortly before he exploded onto the scene in earnest. Harry had been scheduled to interview him four days ago, but the match against the Cannons had gone on longer than anyone -- even seasoned Quidditch analysts -- had predicted. Saturday at one-fifteen had been the only opening Canderer's press agent had been able to secure for Harry, and he’d resignedly taken it.

Had that been the end of it, Harry might have been inclined to preserve his normally pleasant disposition. However, there had been a mix-up with Canderer's scheduling office. In the past hour, Harry had Apparated to Canderer's favorite pub, his personal residence, the home he kept on the Mediterranean, and the flat of an ex-girlfriend who threatened to do terrible things to Harry's anatomy for speaking Canderer's name in her presence. Finally, Harry had been forced arrive in person at the offices of Canderer's representation, where an insufferably perky girl at the front desk had informed him Cal always had an extra practice in his home field on Saturdays, which had made Harry all the more bitter about his own aborted weekend plans.

If Canderer wasn't in the locker room after a grueling practice as the perky girl had promised, Harry was going to tell Dunhill where he could stick his desires for the Prophet.

"Hey, Harry!" a friendly voice called out from beneath the stands.

It was George Doolots, one of the handywizards who kept things running smoothly at various stadiums. His job was one of the most tedious Harry could think of, as he not only had to deal with the day-to-day maintenance of extremely large public arenas, but he also had to do so amidst throngs of screaming, fanatical Quidditch enthusiasts, most of whom were armed.

"All right then, George?" Harry called out as he crossed the field to enter the stadium.

"Damn kids," George called back, holding up what looked like a half-transfigured armadillo. What it was half-transfigured into, Harry couldn't say.

"Keep your chin up, George." Harry sighed as he made his way to the players' changing room. He did miss this sometimes. Playing Quidditch professionally had almost been like being at Hogwarts, except he hadn’t had to worry himself with half a dozen academic subjects and Voldemort trying to kill him.

He also hadn’t gotten to see Hermione, or Colin, or even Lavender Brown on a daily basis, faces from his past that brought comfort and familiarity to his world, Hermione especially. He’d also lost touch with Ron for awhile, only seeing him when their teams played each other, or if there were some sort of Quidditch function they were both required to attend. It was like living in another world, being a Quidditch player, even more separate than the Muggles were from wizarding folk. The schedule was grueling, and you often forgot what city you were in or what time of day it was. Games could last for days in all sorts of weather conditions, and if you were caught complaining, your mates on the team would give you a proper thrashing.

But you were free. Kick at the ground, get a heady burst of speed, crash through the clouds and you were home. Harry only knew what it was like to be a Seeker, and he doubted he'd miss playing Quidditch at all if he'd played any other position. The Seeker was a solitary player, the only member of the team not working in synch with the others to achieve a common goal, beyond the obvious end of winning. A Seeker’s sole imperative was to locate the Snitch and catch it. It was advised for a Seeker to ignore the actions of the rest of his team, of the opposing team, and even of the opposing Seeker, because nothing was to distract from the capture of that tiny, lightning-fast flash of gold.

Early on, Harry had spent most of his life alone, with no one to look out for him but him. When he was eleven, that had unexpectedly and irrevocably changed. Suddenly, he had a whole stable of people ready, willing, and able to put their lives on the line for him if need be, a large portion of them bearing the surname Weasley. Ron's family had become Harry's family, and with them, Hermione, Hagrid, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, Neville Longbottom, Draco Malfoy (he was like the obnoxious cousin no one liked, but kept coming around to family reunions anyhow, and you couldn't exactly turn him out, and even if you could get rid of him, you wouldn't, because it wouldn't be family without him), and even little Colin Creevey, had become integral, necessary parts of his life. Harry felt that he sometimes held on so tightly to Quidditch because it was the last part of him he kept separate from everyone and everything else, and if he lost it, what would that leave him with?

With Hermione, a little voice in his head whispered. Doing something you love with someone you love and perhaps finally having an opportunity to really figure out what that meant.

Assuming, Harry thought darkly, Ron and Hermione weren't on their way to reconciliation number two hundred and seventeen.

"'Ey, you zair, what are you -- oh! Monsieur Potter. I--I am sorry, I did not recognize you from behind."

Harry felt a grin tug at his mouth, both at the grudging nature of the man's apology, as well as the assertion he'd made. "I should hope not," he said, turning to regard the man before him. He looked to be in his late fifties, his hair well on its way to pure white, and with Stadium Security, judging by his dress of sedate navy robes adorned with gold trim.

"I did not realize you were back, sir," the man said, though the 'sir' sounded almost insulting. "I am Monsieur Beauchamp. I look after ze safety in ze stadium during ze -- 'ow do you say -- downtime."

"Nice to meet you, Monsieur Beauchamp," Harry said, shaking the other man's hand, "and I'm not back. I'm looking for Cal Canderer, actually. I'm meant to be conducting an interview with him--" Harry looked down at the Muggle wristwatch Ginny had given him for Christmas. "--Five minutes ago."

Monsieur Beauchamp gave a snort of derision, then immediately sobered. "My apologies. Monsieur Canderer should be in ze Quafflepunchers' changing room. 'E 'as been sulking all morning."

Harry felt his left eyebrow rise of its own volition at the derision in the other man's voice. The French had a way of pronouncing certain words that lent an air of criminality to them, replacing the word 'sulking' with the intent of the phrase 'murdering baby seals.' "Sulking? Any idea why?"

At that, Monsieur Beauchamp grinned. "It seems zat Monsieur Canderer wished to be traded to a different team, one zat would compensate 'im for what 'e thinks 'e is worth. 'E 'as been -- 'ow do you say, whining? -- all ze time, and 'e found out today zat 'is 'ot-shot agent cannot get 'im out of 'is contract wiz ze Quafflepunchers."

"So I shouldn't ask him how he likes playing for France," Harry noted dryly, thinking that this man was on the sort of power trip Lucius Malfoy had experienced when he'd demanded silk sheets on his cot in Azkaban.

"'E 'as no loyalty if 'e wishes to be traded from 'is own team," Monsieur Beauchamp said, his mouth pulling into a sneer, and he went on, almost as though he'd forgotten Harry was still standing there. "Ze players today, zey 'ave no respect for zair roots. Zey play wherever ze money is. I could get ten times ze pay I get 'ere if I work wiz ze Sweetwater All-Stars. Ze Americans are willing to pay, but I believe in France. Cal Canderer 'as no 'onor."

"Er, yes," Harry said, beginning to back away from Monsieur Beauchamp. "I think I'll leave that subject for another interview. But I do thank you for all the background information the press kits don't tell us. If you ever see me in a pub, I owe you a pint."

"Zat is unnecessary, Monsieur Potter," Monsieur Beauchamp said, his thin cheeks flushing scarlet with pride, but no hint of surprise. Harry got the impression this was the sort of man who was never truly pleased by anything in life, because he already believed he deserved every good thing that happened to him, and therefore only became increasingly despondent when things did not go his way.

"Good day," Harry said, turning and walking briskly down the hall. Hermione would chastise him for fleeing just because the other man was zealous about his opinions.

Passion, Hermione was fond of saying, is what arguments coast on while logic and reason refuel.

"It's also the excuse people use when they've gone totally nutters," Harry muttered quietly to himself, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Mr. Beauchamp hadn't followed him. He was alone in the hall, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the changing room at last, shouldering the door open and stepping inside.

The showers were going, steam pouring out of the stalls, lending a distorted perspective to a room filled with mirrors and benches. Harry stubbed his foot twice before he pulled out his wand and muttered a spell that instantly cleared the room of steam. As he swept his gaze across the room, looking for signs of Cal, he caught sight of the last thing he'd wanted or expected to see.

Blood, a lot of it, was trailing out of a locker, and smeared, in small bits, along the front.

Harry had seen blood before, had seen death up close and far away and surrounding him, everywhere he looked. The night Voldemort tried to decimate everything in Harry's life the ruthless creature had left intact seventeen years before had given Harry the opportunity to look death in the face. Death was no stranger, but it had been a very, very long time since Harry'd been forced to shake hands with it and remember the very close association they shared.

Hand trembling so slightly he almost couldn't feel it, Harry reached out to touch the locker, then felt his arm drop. He knew he had to open it, to confirm what the horror in his heart was telling him was inside, but he could not find the will to do more than stare, horrified, at the sight before him.

His gaze was riveted to the silver letters that spelt C. Canderer, marking the bloodstained door like a headstone.

xXxXxXx

The inside of Hermione Granger's home was not a sight Draco had ever aspired to see, nor had he ever wanted to pretend to be her boyfriend, yet somehow, both these horrors had come to pass. She was neat and orderly, much like Draco himself, but if he compared this sterile environment to that of Ginny's homey clutter, he much preferred the latter. Besides, he merely tended toward cleanliness, whereas from the looks of things, Granger bordered on obsessive.

"I thought I'd get your opinion on some new clothing I bought this morning," said the burden in question, sounding muffled from behind a closed door.

Draco sighed deeply and looked at his watch. If this didn't take too long, he could still catch the Magpies-Harriers match on the WWN. His money was on Montrose, mostly because he hadn't had any use for Germany ever since the time he'd been on a family holiday and his favorite brand of pumpkin juice hadn't been available anywhere in the country. He was very interested in the outcome of the game. not because he needed the money, but because he enjoyed winning, and it was all the more satisfying when the losing party knew full well he didn't really need it.

He was reclining on the imitation-leather sofa, trying to make himself more comfortable and considering a nap, when Granger opened a door that led somewhere he didn't care about and abruptly presented herself, modeling a new ... a new ... Draco's mind worked for a few moments, trying to supply answers, then ceased the exercise in futility. What was it?

"What do you think?" she demanded.

"Many things," Draco replied. "But if you're referring to how best to get rid of that thing, then might I suggest a merry bonfire?"

Granger's face fell, and Draco almost felt sorry for being so critical. Well, if you want to change, first stop being so critical of yourself then, he thought reasonably, and decided that this was sound advice.

She looked down at herself, spreading her hands in bewilderment. "What's the matter with it? I thought it looked nice!"

"Well, I should hope so," Draco said, "or I'd think you were even more daft for purchasing it." He crossed his arms. "It's very ... orange, for one thing."

"You said my clothing ought to be more dramatic and eye catching!" came the protest.

"Yes, well, I assumed you knew I meant in a good way."

Granger pursed her lips and crossed her arms. "All right then, other than the color, what's wrong with it?"

"I can't identify it. Is it a dress? Trousers? An overly decorated sack?"

"It's a dress!" Granger exclaimed, flushing red. "I know the folds are a bit unusual, but the salesgirl said it was the latest fashion!"

"Of course that's what she's going to say," Draco retorted, "if you went anywhere other than the list of shops I gave you. And I can only assume you did, because there is absolutely no way that thing came from anywhere I'd recommend."

"Well, I haven't the means to shop at the places you recommended," Granger replied snippily. "I went into one of those stores, and you would not believe the number of Galleons they wanted for a pair of knickers! There isn't enough material there to justify that kind of cost!"

"You wouldn't be paying for the material," Draco said. The fact that he even had to point out such an obvious fact to this clueless woman was a testament to his astonishing patience.

"Whatever it is I would be paying for would not be worth that price," Granger replied, her nose in the air. "In any case, this dress may not have been the right choice, but I'm sure there are items available at a reasonable price that would be acceptable even to you, Draco Malfoy."

"If you say so," he sighed. It appeared he was going to be obligated to spend more time with Granger than he'd wanted or anticipated; if she was unwilling to go the easy route to achieve the desired results, then he would have to go shopping with her to find the gems at these so-called fashion establishments and -- inspiration suddenly struck. He could simply buy her the clothes from the right shops. He'd call up the proprietors, let them know approximately what he was looking for, and let the sales clerks take care of the rest. All he'd have to do was pay. Certainly, a part of him balked at the idea of spending his money on Granger, but the ends would justify the means. Glorious would be the day when she and Potter found bliss in one another's flailing arms, and Ginny would stop trying to make oil and water mix.

Granger would probably veto the idea if he brought it up, but there was little she could do if the clothes simply showed up at her door and he refused to return them. Besides, she wanted Potter -- an idea he really couldn't fathom, but then, he was not a Mudblood nor did he have bad hair, factors that might conceivably make Granger that desperate -- and if he was right (which of course he was), she'd swallow that damn pride of hers and accept the clothing. He'd also make an excuse to help her come to that decision more easily. This was clearly the best course of action. Draco had long ago accepted that if he wanted something done properly, he had to do it himself.

Well, sometimes he could depend on Ginny, but she was a bit dotty and liked to argue with him too much.

"I do say so," Granger said. "What else?"

Draco sighed again and propped his feet onto the coffee table, mostly to annoy Granger, and by the look on her face, it was working splendidly. "It's a size too large."

"It fits."

"It should be fitted. You don't want to be entirely comfortable. Comfort equals complacency -- poor posture, you know."

"So I'm not supposed to be able to breathe?"

"Of course you should breathe. Just not too deeply." Draco linked his fingers behind his head. He was sorely tempted to give her bad advice, but the end result would only mean his misery, so he refrained.

Granger rolled her eyes. "I think Harry would like it if I were able to breathe. In fact, I think he'd prefer it."

Draco shrugged, thinking that conversation with Granger was like watching Blast-Ended Skrewts mate: it had questionable entertainment value, and when it was over, you wish you hadn't bothered. He was missing the match for this? "Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, you might think about investing in a corset. Not only would it help your posture, it'd help accentuate your rather limited offering up top."

Granger gasped, hands balling into fists at her sides, causing her to resemble a woodland creature, if one could quiver in outrage the way she was doing. "I'll thank you to keep your comments about my chest to yourself! And why are you looking there anyway?" She glared.

"Please," Draco scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself, Granger. A man taking notice of how well endowed a woman is -- or isn't, in your case -- is hardly personal. All men do it. Well, men who are interested in such things, at least. It's on par with noting hair and eye color, whether she has good teeth, that sort of thing."

"I don't believe you," she said, obviously trying to sound confident. "I'm sure Harry does no such thing."

Draco did not even attempt to roll his eyes, as he was sure he'd hurt himself from how hard he'd have to do it. "Well, that changes everything, then," he announced. "If you had told me from the start that Potter was gayer than a of male figure skater at a Barbella Quicksand concert, I wouldn't have wasted my time trying to make you attractive."

"Harry isn't gay!" Granger responded immediately, then frowned, and Draco would have wondered what she was thinking, if he'd possessed even the slightest interest in the answer. "He's just not a disgusting lecher like you. He doesn't notice things like that. He's good and decent and--"

Draco held up a hand to stop the tide of Potter virtues being hurled at him with lightning precision, before he was forced to be sick on her sofa. However, considering the cause, it might be well deserved. "Let's assume you're right," he said. "That simply proves my point. You want him to take notice. Before he can find you attractive, he first has to notice that you're a woman. And as far as I'm concerned, you've just admitted he does not."

Granger opened her mouth to object -- probably with something literal and asinine such as, "Of course Harry knows I'm female!" -- but she shut it abruptly as Draco's meaning became clear. He smirked in triumph and she scowled. "Fine, I'll return this," she said, looking defeated. "I don't suppose there's any point in showing you the rest of it."

Draco tamped down the urge to say, "Yes, bye then" and find the nearest pub to watch the match. A little time investment now could end this farce that much sooner, and this hope kept him in his seat. "We could use this as a learning opportunity," Draco suggested reluctantly. "I'll tell you what's wrong with each item, and when you're shopping on your own, you'll have a better idea of what to look for." There wasn't really much point, as he was going to buy her a whole new wardrobe if necessary, but it wouldn't hurt for her to possess the knowledge.

After a moment, Granger acquiesced and disappeared into the other room once more, leaving Draco to reflect that he was becoming such a good Samaritan, it was nauseating. And the blame could be laid squarely at the door of Ginny Weasley's House of Infernal Matchmaking Attempts.

He was surprised she hadn't seemed happier about the fact that he and Granger appeared to be getting along famously. Perhaps she hadn't been feeling very well yesterday; she had looked a bit peaked during their conversation. This required serious consideration. After all, he wouldn't want a sick partner watching his back if they were chasing down suspects, or passing an illness on to him. Yes, there was no help for it, he would have to stop by Ginny's flat later and check on her. If she was even at home. He wondered if she had another date with that prat from pathology. Draco began to drum his fingers impatiently on the arm of a sofa, now regretting making the hasty offer to critique Granger's purchases.

Over the next half hour, Draco gave rapid-fire suggestions about every new outfit Granger appeared in. There were one or two items he didn't despise too much, but with every passing moment he was getting more and more antsy. He was considering telling her he'd had enough for one day and to simply return everything else she'd bought, when she came out in a nearly see-through top that was the most daring thing she'd shown him all day. It was still hideous, of course, as sheer clothing that wasn't lingerie required extremely discerning taste and the right sort of body -- neither of which Granger had. Still, at least it was a step in the right direction.

Draco was about to tell her so when a breathless voice calling her name issued from the fireplace next to the couch. He could make out Potter's head in the flames, his glasses looking slightly askew.

The identity of the caller was confirmed when Granger shrilly exclaimed, "Harry!" and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Hermione, I'm so glad I've caught you at home. You won't believe what I've just seen." Potter gulped, and Draco's interest was piqued by the urgency in his voice. "I had a devil of a time finding Cal Canderer -- you know, the player I was to interview today, and finally I'd gone to the Quafflepunchers' changing room, and ... and ..." Potter's voice seemed to have failed him. When he spoke again, it sounded rather strangled. "What are you wearing?"

"Well, I ... um, that is ..." Granger was blushing and stammering like a schoolgirl.

Draco decided it was time for him to interrupt, as their awkward mating ritual could go on for some time, and he had other plans. "She's just modeling some clothes for me," he said casually, drawing Potter's attention. Draco's grin widened at the look on the other man's face. Even if he'd rather bed a banshee than lay a finger on Granger, it was quite satisfying to watch Potter turn a mottled shade of red.

"What are you doing there?"

"I've just told you," Draco said.

"Harry, it isn't--" Granger began, then stopped when she caught sight of Draco's raised eyebrow. What was she going to say, after all? "What were you going to tell me?"

"Yes, what were you yammering on about, before you were so captivated by Gra-Hermione's new shirt?" Draco threw Granger a rather smug 'I-told-you-so' look. Her lips thinned, but she didn't say anything.

"Well," said Potter slowly, looking at Draco suspiciously. "I suppose it's a good thing you're there, Malfoy, as the Ministry will need to get involved. I've just been to interview Canderer--"

"You've said. If you have a point, do try and come to it quickly," Draco interrupted.

"--only when I was in the changing room, I couldn't see anything at first, with all the steam, you know, coming from the showers, but I cleared that up, and that's when I saw it. Blood. A lot -- a lot of blood." Potter looked grave and tired, seeming to have run out of words all at once.

Draco sat upright, his attention immediately focused. What he said next wasn't a question, because he already knew the answer. "And he was dead. You found Cal Canderer dead." His voice was flat.

Potter let out a long breath and nodded. "I found him stuffed in his locker," he said calmly. "He was jammed in there, between his practice uniform and his broom."

"Dear God," Granger whispered, staring in horror, one hand covering her mouth.

"Where are you now?" Draco asked, his voice hard.

"I'm using a fireplace in the Quafflepunchers' main office."

"Was anyone else there?"

"No, it was off time, Canderer was there for a private practice."

"Did you touch anything?"

"No, other than opening the locker. I mean--"

"Potter, listen to me carefully. The second we disconnect, I want you to go back and make sure no one's in that room. Don't touch anything. Then I want you to stand outside that changing room and make sure no one goes in. Do not move from that position. Do not offer any information and do not discuss what you saw. If anyone asks, that area is a crime scene and is now under Ministry protection. No one is to step foot in that room without my say so. In the meanwhile, I want you to think about everything you did today, from the moment you woke up until the moment you discovered the body. Don't leave out any details. We'll need you to provide an official statement recounting everything you know, and I don't want to miss anything. Do you understand me, Potter?" Draco said, removing the brown stone ring from his left ring finger. "I'll be right there."

xXxXxXx

Stripping off her clothes into a messy pile on the floor, Ginny eyed the rapidly filling tub. She snapped her fingers to upend the bottle of bubble bath into the water, and another snap stopped the flow and floated the bottle back to its original position by the side of the tub. Next she used the same method to open a bottle of chilled red wine and poured herself half a glass, setting it down on the floor but within arm's reach. Learning how to focus magic without the aid of a wand was part of her early Auror training, and it was very useful in times like these. Likely not what the Ministry had intended, but Ginny rationalized it as exercising the skill for when she would need to use it in a work-related situation.

Dipping a toe into the filled tub, she gasped slightly as hot water met her skin. Always one to prefer a bath that was too hot to one that was not warm enough, she bravely stepped in, the water covering her knees. She took the opportunity to tie her hair into a messy bun on top of her head, then cautiously lowered herself the rest of the way in increments, allowing her body to adjust to the temperature of the water. Once fully immersed, she brushed away the bubbles that tickled her chin, closed her eyes, and rested her head against the edge of the tub.

The water that lapped over her shoulders felt unbelievably good, soothing her sore muscles. She let out a small sigh. It wasn't often that she was able to indulge in a bubble bath, but Ginny was having one of those lazy Saturdays where she woke up late, had a nice, leisurely brunch at her favorite cafe, then spent the rest of the morning sitting on a park bench reading The Daily Prophet. Today's issue had had an interesting article about some new spells that researchers at the Institute of Responsible Magical Discovery and Research (IRMDR) were working on.

Occasionally she'd been known to ask Draco to join her, but today he was the last person she wanted to see. Today was about relaxing and pampering herself, and that meant not having to deal with him.

Even as the thought went through her mind, Ginny felt guilty. She wasn't really being fair. More often than not, Draco's company could make a dull time more interesting, and he could lift her spirits more easily than anyone else she knew. However, the reverse was also true; he was more capable than anyone of driving her stark raving mad. In this case, however, Ginny had to admit he was blameless (for the most part). It wasn't his fault she was feeling grumpy ... or that most of the grump was directed toward him. She wasn't even sure why she was feeling so put out, but she was, and it was for the best that she have a weekend alone to get over it. Ginny wondered if it was PMS making her so surly, and after a bit of reflection she came to the realization that her period was in fact due in about a week. The knowledge was somewhat comforting -- at last, a rational explanation for her recent seesaw of emotion. Hopefully by the time she had to face him again on Monday, she would be feeling more like herself.

Unless he was a git, in which case, all bets were off.

She supposed this was a long time in coming. When she'd first gotten her Auror detail three years ago, she had seriously contemplated asking for reassignment. She couldn't possibly work with Draco Malfoy, no matter what he'd ended up doing during the war. Weasleys and Malfoys did not mix, and Ginny saw the potential for him to make her life absolutely miserable, just because he could; being the Ministry's golden boy, he'd get away with it, too. If their partnership was problematic, the blame was going to be placed squarely on her, not him. After all, Draco had been recruited by the Ministry directly after the war, despite only just having graduated from school. It was decreed by Those Who Mattered that he had already proven himself in the field by being an immensely valuable operative when someone had been needed on the inside, providing faulty information to the Death Eaters while keeping the Ministry apprised of Voldemort's movements -- not an easy task for one so young and untested. Of course, to catch a criminal one had to be able to think like one, and Draco had been raised by Lucius Malfoy.

Being a Gryffindor, Ginny had not taken the coward's way out. She had accepted the assignment, and while he hadn't been the easiest person to work with, neither had he been the boy she'd remembered from school.

Draco had been a prize for both sides, being a Malfoy and a Slytherin, as well as Quidditch team captain for his House and Head Boy at a school full of impressionable youth. The Death Eaters wanted him because he could recruit fresh members to their cause, while the Ministry needed someone who had pre-established trust with their enemy and would therefore be above suspicion for a longer period of time than a new recruit, someone who would be able to infiltrate their ranks without too much effort, someone who understood the risks and accepted them. Thus, getting Draco Malfoy on their side was truly a coup, and very few people knew why he'd committed himself to the Order of the Phoenix, though theories abounded. All Ginny knew of the story was that one day, he'd been called out of Transfiguration to the Headmaster's office, where Snape and Dumbledore had had a discussion with him. She didn't know what had transpired during that session -- Draco had never seen fit to satisfy her curiosity -- but the person who had gone into that office was not the same person who had left.

However, Draco's massive character growth had not become widely known until much later, Ginny reflected.

Technically, Harry and Professor Dumbledore had been the ones to finally rid the wizarding world of Voldemort, but that had only been made possible by the efforts of countless individuals who'd worked tirelessly behind the scenes, many of whom never received full recognition for their contributions. Draco, of course, had not been among their ranks. His double agent status had been concealed for far longer than anyone had hoped, but eventually, it had become too risky, and they'd pulled him out. It was only then that word spread amongst those who opposed the Dark forces of what Draco had done. At that point, his life was at risk by the very people he'd grown up venerating, while those he'd been helping in secret looked upon him suspiciously. Not an enviable situation, but if Ginny recalled correctly, he'd treated it with the same casual indifference he seemed to approach everything else. She had been fascinated and repelled by him in equal measure.

It wasn't until after the war that things began to turn around somewhat; the Ministry, determined to keep someone like Draco in check, approached with an offer to accelerate his progress through Auror training. It was anyone's guess why he'd agreed. Ginny supposed he found the type of work suited him: it required using his instincts, quick thinking and logical reasoning, and the ability to analyze a situation and use it to his advantage. And there was rarely a dull moment, which was probably the most attractive part. Someone like Draco Malfoy feared only one thing: boredom.

Once he had passed a rigorous training course and had taken all the requisite exams, he had been paired with a more seasoned Auror, as was the norm (this practice was how Ginny had herself ended up assigned to Draco). The Auror he'd been paired with had been so seasoned, in fact, that a year or so later, the other man had retired, leaving Draco without a partner. Instead of reassigning him to another experienced Auror, the Ministry left Draco a solo agent, which worked for awhile. He took advantage of the freedom of being left to his own devices, and began circumventing protocol and working on cases that had not yet been sanctioned by the Ministry. It didn't matter to the powers that be that the cases he pursued usually had merit; what mattered was that there was procedure to be followed, and one of their Aurors was not appreciative of that fact.

So, Ginny could understand the Ministry's logic in assigning her to him. "Give him a green cadet to baby sit and keep him busy," they'd probably thought. The fact that she was a Weasley -- the natural opposite of a Malfoy, if there was such a thing, and liable to disagree with him on just about everything -- only helped matters.

What they hadn't known, of course, and what she hadn't realized at the time herself, was that witnessing that final scene between father and son had altered Ginny's opinion of Draco Malfoy, and there was no changing it back. The risks he'd taken during the war, the things he'd done, had required a certain level of courage and sheer audacity that she could imagine no other possessing. At the time of his appointment, he'd been one of the youngest Aurors ever to carry a badge for the Ministry of Magic, and Ginny had appreciated that fact much later, when she'd gone through her own training.

Ginny's path to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had differed greatly from Draco's. Not quite the war hero that Harry and Draco and others could claim to be, she'd gone about it the long way. After the war had ended, she went back to Hogwarts to finish up her schooling, but academic life during the rebuilding period had proved dull. Nothing seemed to really matter anymore. How could concerns about exams and Quidditch season and whether so-and-so liked so-and-so come close to the not-so-distant past, when worries had been centered around life and death? She wasn't the only one to feel this way; anyone who had been remotely near the front lines seemed years older than they were, and looked at everything around them with distant eyes and hollow expressions. Most everyday things seemed trite and unimportant, and to someone like Ginny, who hadn't been a typical girl since she was eleven years old, the feeling was only magnified. So she did everything by rote, in the process earning a number of N.E.W.T.s that made her mother ecstatically happy. After graduation, Ginny took on several different apprenticeships, but nothing held her interest for long, and after only a few months she would find it necessary to move on to another project, only the results would be the same as all the times previous. She was a Jill of all trades and expert of none; she was smart and educated and had a great resume on paper but no direction.

It wasn't until her twenty-first birthday, listening to the WWN detail the apprehension of a long-wanted Death Eater, that Ginny had felt that spark she'd been lacking for so long. Hearing Draco Malfoy's name listed as being part of the team of Aurors that had captured the man had been like a wake-up charm. Draco Malfoy was making a difference. The last person on earth she would have expected to take up a profession helping others was out there apprehending criminals, while she was where? Sitting in a restaurant, half-heartedly celebrating yet another birthday, contemplating if the growing and nurturing of trees for ideal broom making was really the career for her.

Ginny had to smile now as she remembered the way her mother had begged her not to apply. It was a miracle that Molly's entire family had survived the war, and now her headstrong daughter was determined to take even more risks with her life. Ginny had dramatically declared that she had waited her entire life for the sense of purpose that now suffused her, and when one felt something like that, to turn away from it would be to only live half a life. "Don't worry," Ron had said, trying to assure their mother. "Give it two months, she'll be wanting to shepherd hippogriffs next."

Two years of hard work and intensive training later, she had received her Auror's badge. Ginny had never had a prouder moment -- and she knew that whatever her mother's misgivings, Molly had been bursting at the seams with the knowledge that her little girl was a member of one of the most elite law enforcement groups in Europe.

The first hiccup had been, of course, getting assigned to Draco, but that had actually been rather anticlimactic. After their initial stilted "introduction," he'd been the epitome of courtesy and professionalism. Ginny had been rather disappointed; this was the person she'd been so intimidated by? She'd expected -- maybe even wanted -- to have to struggle for every inch with him, to fight tooth and nail to gain his respect. Instead, he'd been accommodating, patient, and kind.

Ginny laughed to think of how confused she'd been -- and how well he'd fooled her. He wouldn't be able to do so now, but she knew him much better than she once had. Ginny reached out with a bubble-covered arm for the glass of wine, then sipped at the delicately aromatic liquid. That particular Draco had lasted for nearly a month. He'd been an absolute perfect angel of a partner until the day Ginny had discovered that he'd been working on a case that was clearly out of their official parameters. She'd been outraged at having been duped for so long, and told him in no uncertain terms that he was either going to include her on everything, or she was going straight to their department head.

The real Draco had been unleashed then -- cold and threatening, and when that hadn't worked, wheedling and sullen. By the end, they'd formed a cautious truce, and only then had their true partnership begun. They'd found, somewhat to their surprise, that when it came to their jobs, they complemented one another very well. Where Ginny was pragmatic and compassionate, Draco was edgy and intuitive. She trusted easily, while his trust was short in supply and hoarded tightly. But somehow, when they worked together, all the parts fused to make a whole.

As if this reminiscing had somehow reached through the ether to conjure him, Ginny saw the flash of her partner charm ring, which she'd set on the edge of the sink.

What now? she thought with no little irritation. Was it too much to ask for one day of peace from His Royal Draconess? She thought about ignoring it, sinking deeper into the bath, feeling extremely reluctant to move. In the end, she couldn't do it; it might be important. If it weren't, he could have simply owled or even stopped by. Of course, if it turned out that her confidence was misplaced, she'd have the great satisfaction of telling him off.

Ginny got out of the bath and ran a quick towel over herself to catch the water droplets and soap bubbles that lingered on her skin, grumbling all the while. The ring never paused in its flashing. "I'm coming," she snapped. She grabbed a bathrobe and slung it on, tying it quickly around her waist. She took the ring into her hand, closed her eyes (this wasn't required, but it was less disorienting to do so), and muttered the spell that would connect her with her partner.

When she opened her eyes, Ginny wasn't sure what she expected to see, but it was certainly not Draco and Hermione, wearing a top so sheer that it was positively indecent. And if she wasn't mistaken, they were in Hermione's flat. For a split second, Ginny wondered with some horror that perhaps the ring had not been activated on purpose. However, initiating the ring required a very specific spell, and unless the two of them were engaging in something bizarrely kinky, it was unlikely to have been an accident.

At the moment, the two were involved in what appeared to be an argument, and hadn't noticed Ginny's appearance. Their constant bickering was, of course, what had prompted her to believe they were hiding deeper feelings in the first place, but she wished they would abandon this strange courtship of theirs and act like a normal couple already. She was tired of having to referee their flirtation.

"I'm here," Ginny said loudly. "What do you want?" She crossed her arms peevishly.

Both turned immediately in her direction, Draco with a raised brow. "Took you long enough," he said. "I hope we didn't interrupt anything."

Reacting to the censure and insinuation in his tone, Ginny snapped, "As a matter of fact, you did." She deliberately reached for her wine glass and took a sip, just to annoy him. "So I hope this is important."

Draco's mouth tightened, and Ginny thought she saw a tic start in his jaw. But that was impossible. Malfoys didn't have tics, and even if they did, they'd conceal it so as not to compromise their external equilibrium.

"I'm sure Cal Canderer feels very sorry for inconveniencing your busy social calendar, and he'd apologize to you himself, but having just been murdered, his ability to communicate is rather limited," Draco said caustically.

Well, that took the wind right out of her sails. "Merlin," she breathed. "Another one?"

Draco nodded while Hermione cut in, "What do you mean another one?"

"Oh, you know, another murder, it's so disheartening every time we come across one of these," said Draco, giving Ginny a significant look. She nodded, the slight movement imperceptible to Hermione, who didn't press further but looked at the two of them suspiciously. Ginny knew exactly why Draco didn't want to draw attention to the incident just yet. It wasn't so much because Hermione was a civilian; it was because she was a reporter, and while news of these murders was bound to get out sooner or later, they preferred it to be later. Much, much later. They were both well versed in the fact that the media only complicated matters, often impeding investigations and making an Auror's job more difficult.

"So how did you hear of it? Canderer -- that was his name?"

"Harry found him," Hermione supplied.

"Harry?" Ginny gaped.

"Apparently, Potter was going to interview him for that little rag he works for, and he found the body in the poor sot's locker."

"Oh, God. Poor Harry," said Ginny sympathetically. "I take it we're going to -- where are we going?"

"France," said Draco. "Canderer played for the Quiberon Quafflepunchers."

"Keep talking, but turn around. I need to get dressed," said Ginny with a pointed look.

Sighing deeply, Draco nevertheless did as he was told. Ginny shed her bathrobe and dressed quickly, listening to Draco's thorough recitation of events. "All right, you can turn around now," she said at last, drawing on her Auror's robes. "You've owled the forensics team?"

"What do you take me for?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "It was just a question. Don't get your knickers in a twist."

"Can I get your knickers in a twist?"

"Shut it."

"How about neatly folded then?"

"I'm leaving now. I'll meet you at the stadium's Apparation point." Ginny found that when Draco got like this, the only recourse was to ignore him.

"Granger, you stay--" The order stopped abruptly as the two realized they were alone.

"Too late, I think," said Ginny dryly.

"Goddammit."

xXxXxXx

Ginny knew it was going to be a long day when she and Draco arrived at the Quafflepunchers Stadium Apparation point and were met by an official-looking wizard wearing dark green robes that bore the insignia of the French Ministry.

The Auror held up his hand. "I am sorry, but ze stadium is off limits. Official personnel only."

Ginny could practically hear Draco's teeth grinding together, and she put a light hand on his arm to curtail whatever insult might have leapt off his tongue. Perhaps a bit of diplomacy was in order, and if the French prat didn't respond to that, then she would unleash her partner to shred the man to ribbons.

"There seems to be a misunderstanding," she said, smiling courteously. "I'm Ginny Weasley and this is Draco Malfoy. We're the lead Aurors on this case. And you are?"

"Gabriel Chausset. I am an Auror wiz ze Ministry, second division."

"Auror Chausset, we appreciate your diligence. Would you be so kind as to show us to the crime scene?" She revealed her badge, in case their British Auror robes were not enough to verify their identities, and saw Draco do the same out of the corner of her eye. Vibes of impatience fairly leapt off his body.

The guard hesitated. "I was not aware zat ze British Ministry 'ad jurisdiction in France," he said firmly.

"We don't," Draco said shortly, clearly unable to restrain himself any longer. "However, this case originated in Britain, and this investigation is ours. Take us to the crime scene and locate your captain for me." Chausset, trained to obey authority, was not immune to Draco's domineering ways, and he relented.

They followed him across a broad expanse of freshly cut lawn and into the stadium, where they wended through several hallways before Ginny knew they were getting close. She could hear contentious voices speaking English tinged with British and French accents echoing off the walls, and as they turned the corner she saw a large group of people hovering outside the door to what she assumed was the changing room where Cal Canderer had died.

As they drew nearer, Ginny could see that the forensics team had already arrived, most of them still carrying their equipment. When Richard Hudgemeyer, the team lead, noticed Draco and Ginny, his face broke out in relief. "It's about time," he said. "These prats won't let us through!"

Chausset called for his captain, and when there was no response and no one else had, he gave Draco nervous look and went off in search of the missing man.

"What's going on here?" Ginny demanded, drawing up to the group.

"We haven't been able to investigate the scene yet," Hudgemeyer said. "They keep insisting that we don't have any rights here. Did I misunderstand your owl, Malfoy?"

"No," Draco replied grimly. "Do they have a team in there?"

Hudgemeyer smiled a little, shaking his head. "Near as I can tell, they haven't got the right people here yet. It's a good thing you showed up when you did; I think they've got reinforcements coming."

"Just what we need, a turf battle," Ginny sighed, dismayed. This sort of thing was not at all uncommon, but it was her least favorite part of the job. Luckily, she had Draco around to fight these things out.

"There isn't going to be a battle," Draco said. "This is our case."

"Oh, good. Well, I'm sure it will be just that easy," said Ginny. "Make sure you explain it exactly like that."

"I will," Draco replied, shooting her a quick grin. He turned back to Hudgemeyer. "Why haven't they gone in? Why haven't you hexed them so they'll move?"

"Draco!"

"Why haven't you been more convincing in asking them to move?" Draco amended without blinking an eye.

"Well, they might be keeping us out, but Potter's keeping them out. I think we all figure that as soon as Potter moves, we'll make a dash for it."

Draco's eyebrow nearly climbed into his hairline. "Potter?"

"What?" said an irritated voice from behind the wall of people. "Malfoy, is that you? I don't know what 'I'll be right there' means to you, but it's not forty bloody minutes."

The members of their team parted to make way for them, and soon Draco and Ginny found themselves standing directly in front of the door to the changing room. Blocking the door was a disheveled-looking Harry, and by his side was Hermione, who was still wearing that hideous shirt from earlier. Couldn't she have taken a jumper with her or something? Ginny thought irritably.

"What are you doing?" Draco asked incredulously.

Harry shrugged. "You said not to move or let anyone in, so I haven't."

Ginny had to grin. "Good show, Harry."

"I also told you not to discuss what you saw, but apparently you've told all of France," said Draco, not as willing to dole out praise, though the corners of his mouth threatened to turn up.

"It wasn't me," said Harry. "Someone might have overheard our conversation, though. You were barking out orders so loud, they probably heard you back in Surrey."

"Very stealthy of you, Potter." Ginny noticed that Draco totally ignored the insult Harry hurled his way.

Harry pushed his glasses up. "You're lucky I've done this much, Malfoy. Just say the word and I'll take off this shield and let the French have the room."

"Don't you dare," Draco warned.

"He couldn't anyway; the French broke through his five minutes ago. This one's mine," said Hermione.

"Hermione," Harry said, disgruntled.

"Thanks for all you've done," said Ginny, impressed by her friends. "You've been a real help."

"Yes, now get out of the way so our team can go in there and do their jobs."

Before anyone could do anything, a loud voice cut in, "Zere zey are!" It was Chausset, and following behind him was a distinguished-looking wizard who looked to be in his late 60s. His robes were decorated with long copper tassels, indicating his rank. "Captain Montagne, sir. Zese two say zey are ze lead investigators of zis case."

Draco and Ginny formally introduced themselves, then asked if they could speak with the captain privately, as their conversation was not meant for all ears. As Ginny followed the captain off to the side, she heard Draco hiss to Harry and Hermione that they were not to let anyone in.

Quickly explaining the situation to Montagne, Draco was at his reasonable best. Ginny was glad to see that the captain had been doing his job long enough that he didn't seem particularly compelled to struggle with them on jurisdiction. If he'd been twenty years younger, he might have felt he had something to prove. As it was, however, he merely nodded through the recitation, inserting questions and the occasional comment here and there.

"Well, Aurors Weasley and Malfoy, I believe zis case is yours," said the captain. "To be 'onest, we 'ave quite enough to do wizout taking zis on as well. I will confirm wiz my superiors zat we can officially turn zis over to you, and I believe zat will take care of it."

"Of course," said Draco. "In the meanwhile, our team will start gathering forensics data from the crime scene. If it turns out for some reason that this incident is unrelated to our ongoing investigation, you'll have our full cooperation in turning whatever evidence we find over to you."

"Would you like our assistance in any way?" Montagne asked. "I can spare a small team."

Draco nodded, but it was Ginny who replied. "We'd appreciate that very much. Since your men are bound to be more familiar with the area and they speak the local language, I'd like to have a team of four of your men paired with four of ours to scope out the area and talk to anyone they come across. There have to be people here on the weekend -- maintenance workers, janitorial staff, tourists, anyone, everyone. I'd like to get a full report by Monday morning."

Montagne nodded and barked out four names. While Draco went to prep the forensics team, Ginny paired each French Auror with a British Auror and sent them off in different directions.

"If zere is nussing furzer?" the captain asked. At Ginny's negative response, he inclined his head toward her, then raised his hand and made a short, sweeping gesture. Immediately the rest of his Aurors began to depart, and he followed swiftly after them.

"Well, let's get a move on," Ginny said, rejoining her team. Her voice betrayed none of the nervousness she felt. She wasn't sure she was prepared to see what they'd find in that room. "Hermione, if you wouldn't mind?"

Harry stood aside as Hermione removed the spell, and Draco and Ginny waited until after the forensics team had moved in, each person looking relieved to be able to do his job at last, before moving to go in themselves. Draco held the door open, waiting for Ginny to step through. Hermione, however, moved forward at the same time Ginny did, and Draco let go of the door, causing it to slam shut. He stopped Hermione by taking hold of her arm. "Excuse me," he said pleasantly. "Where in hell do you think you're going?"

"Inside," Hermione snapped, attempting to pull her arm away, without success.

Ginny and Harry exchanged wary looks.

"Take your hands off her, Malfoy," Harry said, then took a step closer to Draco when the other man made no move to obey him.

"Let go of her, Draco," said Ginny, and his arm dropped away almost immediately.

"She cannot go in there," he said emphatically, looking at her with a resolute expression.

He was right, of course. Ginny turned to Hermione with an apologetic look. "Hermione, it's a crime scene. You're not allowed--"

"If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even know there was a crime scene," Harry said. "If you'll recall, it wasn't you I was calling, Malfoy; it was Hermione. You just happened to be in her flat." At that, Harry looked as close to murderous as Ginny had ever seen him, and she glanced away from her old friend as Hermione spoke up.

"And without our help, what crime scene you had left might not have been worth an old Fizzing Whizbee," said Hermione. "If Harry and I hadn't stood outside this door--

"I don't care," said Draco, his voice icy with disdain. "And lower your voice." Ginny looked at one, then the other. How could they look at one another with so much aversion when not an hour ago she'd found Draco at Hermione's flat, looking for all the world as if they'd been engaged in some sort of private sex show that required Hermione to dress the part of a slut?

"I won't lower my voice!" Hermione said loudly. "In fact, I can be EVEN LOUDER THAN THIS! IF YOU DON'T LET US STAY AFTER ALL WE'VE DONE--"

Ginny winced. While she would normally have backed Draco fully on this issue, there was another consideration: both Harry and Hermione had already seen and heard plenty. If they went off angry, there was a chance they could print everything they knew -- without the right context -- in the Prophet. She didn't think they'd be that irresponsible, as whatever they printed could endanger the investigation, risking many more lives, because they were good people, and because their careers and reputations were on the line, but even so, the remote chance of it happening did not sit well with Ginny, and appeasing them would be so easy. "They did help..." she said to Draco, trying to get him to come to the same conclusions she just had. Her fear was that his oftentimes irrational dislike of Harry and Hermione (Ginny noted that whatever their new feelings for each other, it had not yet colored Draco's professionalism, at least) would overcome his ability for rationality.

To her relief, however, he seemed to understand, if the dark scowl was any indication. He pinned the other two with a glare and spoke through clenched teeth. "Stay in the corner at all times. I don't want to hear one single word out of either of you, or you're both out of here. Take it or leave it."

"Fine," sniffed Hermione.

"Whatever you say, Malfoy," said Harry, looking tired and annoyed.

Draco pushed the door open once more, making sure that he entered directly after Ginny. Harry and Hermione were as good as their word, going to an unoccupied part of the room and staying there, silently observing.

When Ginny first saw the body, stuffed as it was into the locker, she barely recognized it as human. Canderer was wearing a scarlet jumper, which made the discoloration of his skin even more pronounced, his joints were grotesquely and unnaturally bent, and his wide, unseeing eyes seemed to contain all the horror of what he'd experienced just before his death. His red jumper, she saw now, had once been white. The red was his blood -- blood that had not too long ago been pumping life-giving oxygen through his arteries.

Ginny inhaled once, sharply, and tried to remind herself that this was not the first time she had seen a dead body. Draco's hand rested on her shoulder reassuringly, and the warm, solid presence was a comfort. He didn't say anything, and after a moment she felt him move away, knowing without being told that he was going to investigate the rest of the area. Ginny knew he wouldn't suggest that he take this detail; she wouldn't appreciate the coddling.

Regaining her composure, Ginny drew nearer, looking the body over with a detached investigator's eye. She donned a pair of latex gloves, then bent down to where Hudgemeyer was busily working with a magically enhanced brush that would reveal fingerprints and other foreign substances on Canderer's skin.

"Make sure you scrape under his fingernails," Ginny said, peering at Canderer's hands closely. "Looks like there's something there."

"He was a Quidditch player; it's most likely grass or broom wax," said Hudgemeyer.

"No, look -- it's red."

"Blood?" the forensics specialist suggested without looking up from his work.

"No, it doesn't look organic. It might be something."

"You got it, Weasley. I'll send whatever I find to the lab for analysis, and I'll have them alert you or Malfoy the second we get anything."

Ginny nodded. "Good job."

Straightening, she glanced over to where Harry and Hermione sat. They looked subdued, but they seemed to be drawing strength from each other. The dread that had formed a knot in her stomach tightened. She knew with absolute certainty that all of these murders were connected, despite the discrepancies in the MO. She had felt rather disconnected from the previous two victims, as if her life and the case she was investigating did not inhabit the same world. But Canderer's murder was so recent that she could still smell the deodorizer charm he had used. His battered and lifeless body was not five feet from where she stood. He might have a sister somewhere who would have to be told that her brother had not only died, but died as a victim of a horrific and senseless murder.

It drove home the one fact that she hadn't allowed herself to think about consciously until now, when she could no longer avoid it.

Her own brother was a professional Quidditch player. And without knowing exactly how the killer chose his victims, Ron's life could be in danger. Next time, it could be his murder site swarming with official Ministry personnel. His mangled corpse that she stood over. His life, gone.

Ginny's gaze drifted to her friends again, and she swallowed to see the same somber realization reflected on their pale faces.

xXxXxXx

Crime scenes were quite boring, really. Hermione wasn't a person naturally inclined to boredom; few things outside of Divination or exceedingly long Quidditch games in which Harry or Ron weren't participants had the power to bore her to tears, but watching Malfoy and Ginny comb through an area they -- and an entire forensics team -- had already covered ten times at least was about to lull her into a coma.

It might be different, Hermione conceded, if she were actually allowed anywhere near the body, or the evidence, or allowed to move, speak, or in any other way contribute to what was happening in the changing room. Malfoy had been adamant when he'd ordered her and Harry not to move or get in the way, and while the logical part of Hermione's brain understood -- and approved -- of this, the part of her that was still wearing a see-through top and had spent an inordinate amount of time with Draco Malfoy wanted to shove his little Auror's badge down his aristocratic throat.

Oh, but it had been embarrassing when Harry saw her wearing this -- this thing. He must have been horrified, because his eyes had widened and he hadn't been able to say anything, though he'd tried several times. Then, he'd studiously avoided looking directly at her, though sometimes, he obviously forgot how terrible a sight she made, and his gaze would accidentally land on her, then skitter quickly away again.

And she'd thought the mocking whistles she'd gotten from the landscaping staff had been humiliating.

She really ought to tell Draco Malfoy to stuff his little humanitarian project. Why she was entrusting her future romantic happiness to a man too blind to see he was in love with his own partner was beyond her. Hermione rolled her eyes as she recalled the moment Ginny had begun changing clothes during her communication with her partner earlier. Malfoy had dutifully turned around, but his gaze had immediately gone to the full-length mirror he and Hermione had been using all day to admire (or, in his case, mock) her clothing. Ginny's form had been fully visible in the reflection.

Hermione would have ousted him for the lecherous pervert he was if she hadn't caught a certain look in his eyes. It was obviously unconscious, but for a moment, just before he'd caught her watching him, he'd looked like a man dying for something he knew he'd never have, and wasn't even sure he should want. But of course he had noticed her noticing him, and for a second, there'd been something like pleading in his eyes. In that moment she'd softened toward him, thinking how awful it would be to get caught in a moment of such guilty pleasure. Then, he'd smirked, making a crude gesture, and that made her want to hit him again, but the urge had been tempered by her new knowledge: she wasn't the only one hopelessly adoring a close friend.

The difference between them, Hermione was willing to wager, was that Ginny quite obviously felt something in return for Malfoy, even if she wouldn't admit it. There was at least an attraction there, Hermione was sure, though whether Ginny would act on it was another matter entirely. While Hermione and Harry worked together, their jobs didn't require that they work in as close quarters or in situations nearly as dangerous as Malfoy and Ginny's did. If a romantic relationship between the latter two didn't work out, it could prove disastrous to their careers, and given that Hermione knew how highly Ginny regarded her work as an Auror, she wasn't sure the other girl would be willing to risk her professional career over some circumstantial affection for Draco Malfoy.

It was actually quite easy to forget the brief moment of vulnerability she'd glimpsed in Malfoy's eyes, as when he was going over details with Ginny as she'd dressed, he'd been simultaneously pantomiming to Hermione that she was simply going to have to enhance her chest if she had a prayer of making a go of the blouse.

Hermione had Apparated out the very second Ginny had told him it was safe to turn around, knowing full well he'd never consent to allow Hermione to accompany them to the crime scene. But so long as she didn't give him the opportunity to forbid it, she could honestly say she hadn't disobeyed a direct order from an Auror.

There were many things she'd learned from Ron and Harry over the years.

For instance, Hermione had spent a great many hours listening to Harry and Ron go back and forth on Quidditch statistics, the stadiums at which the best games had been played, how many different teams this player or that had played, and on which positions. It had always been tiring, but never more so than this one summer holiday after the war, when both boys had insisted on taking a worldwide Quidditch stadium tour and somehow -- likely because she'd been Ron's girlfriend at the time -- Hermione had been talked into accompanying them.

The experience had been mind-numbingly dull for her (not unlike her trials in the changing room). If she hadn't remembered to bring a dozen books in her magically enhanced bag, she would have gone mad.

When she'd Apparated directly outside the Quafflepunchers' stadium over an hour ago, Hermione had sent a silent thank you to Ron and Harry for so thoroughly seeing to her Quidditch geography education, as one could not Apparate somewhere without knowing precisely where one was headed.

Her press pass got her past the first security guard she encountered, but in the halls near the changing rooms a particularly nasty older Frenchman had attempted to stall her, not listening to a word she said, or how important it was she be allowed to move on.

Fortunately, they had been very near the changing rooms, and Harry had come to her rescue. It seemed the snippy gentleman, while not overly fond of Harry, felt some sort of respect for him. He'd left them in peace, and that was when Harry had begun his uncanny impersonation of a fish out of water as he'd seen her attire in person. Finally, he snapped out of it and managed to tell her what he knew, and listen as she told him what she'd overheard Malfoy and Ginny talking about before she'd Disapparated.

"There have been more victims than just him?" Harry had looked horrified, and a bit disgruntled as he gestured toward the locker behind him. "How have they managed to keep it quiet?"

"Ginny and Malfoy are the only Aurors assigned to the case," Hermione had explained. "If you hadn't discovered this body, and I hadn't already been with Malfoy, we wouldn't know about it now."

Harry had frowned at that. "That's right, he was at your flat, wasn't he?"

Her eyes had widened. "Oh -- well, I mean, erm -- yes?" She simply had to get better at this.

"Hmph," Harry had responded stiffly, and she'd winced, questioning for the thousandth time whether this foolish plan was worth this sort of awkwardness. Gratefully, a forensics team had arrived then, shortly followed by Malfoy and Ginny -- both wearing scowls -- and she'd been spared having to conjure up a response.

Sighing now as Malfoy imperiously shoved one of the forensics team members away from the body and proceeded to use the most microscopic pair of tweezers she'd ever seen to poke at yet another previously examined area, Hermione considered the two men who meant so much to her and Ginny. Harry and Malfoy had been mortal enemies for a great many years. While it was true that the war, and the years that had come after had done a lot to mend fences between them, they were not best mates by any stretch of the imagination. Hermione was sometimes convinced their mutual tolerance of one another was for Ginny's sake alone, a fact that really ought to have clued Hermione into Malfoy's affection for Ginny ages ago, she realized now.

"Where on earth did you find that blouse?" Harry muttered finally, breaking the silence between them.

"It was a present," Hermione said, thinking quickly. "From Draco."

Harry's jaw tightened, but he made no reply. She wanted to draw him back into conversation, but wasn't sure how. All she knew was that talking to Harry had been her favorite thing since she was a child, and when he was put out with her in any way, it made her stomach hurt terribly.

"Poor bastard," she said, indicating Canderer. "I wonder if he saw it coming."

"Everyone sees death coming, Hermione," he said quietly with the authority of someone who knew it for fact. "Even when it's sudden."

A chill passed through her at the certainty in his voice. It was easy to forget that Harry, with his easy smile and sparkling green eyes, had seen and felt so much pain and death in his relatively short life. She wanted to take his hand, to brush her fingers through his perpetually messy hair and offer him whatever comfort she could. Feeling awkward about such gestures since she'd come to a new understanding of her ever-deepening feelings toward him, she instead crossed her arms over her chest, wishing she'd thought to quickly Apparate to her own flat for a change of clothes.

Harry winced. "You look -- erm ... I mean, I can tell you're cold." He kept his eyes averted and shrugged out of the sport coat he was wearing, offering it to her mutely.

"Thank you," she muttered, quickly pulling it on with cheeks that flamed as hotly as she'd ever seen Ron's. Thinking of Ron brought another sharp jolt of fear to her heart, and she decided to refrain from thinking about what it meant that a Quidditch player -- and apparently not the first -- had been murdered, at least until she was alone and properly equipped to have a panic attack.

"All right, then," Malfoy announced as he suddenly stood from his crouched position, "that's all, nothing more to see here, time to move it along."

"Hold up there," Hermione said, "that's it? We've been standing here quietly for over two hours, and now we're just expected to toddle on out like good little ninnies?"

"Yes, that is about the thrust of it," Malfoy said cheerfully.

"Really, guys, there's nothing you can do," Ginny said gently.

"I disagree," Harry said. "We can warn people there's a mad killer out there cutting Quidditch players to bits."

"Yes, we've got an extraordinary communication device," Hermione added. "Perhaps you've heard of it. It's called a newspaper. Millions of people see it every day."

"Yes, very clever," Malfoy said. "Your wit is obviously what I adore most about you, Gra-Hermione."

There she went, blushing again; only this time, in fury. Thankfully, however, her brain seemed to be working. "I thought we'd discussed this and decided to keep things professional between us when we were working," she scolded in an overly nice tone of voice.

"So we did," Malfoy agreed easily. She thought he looked a bit relieved he didn't have to pretend to like her every moment of the day. Though given the way he treated Ginny -- someone she was sure he liked a great deal -- she wasn't quite sure what the distinction was.

"Look, now that you've resolved your little lover's spat," Ginny inserted, looking annoyed, "we really have quite a bit more work to do -- getting results from the lab, fact checking, interviewing witnesses, you know how it is."

"Gin, we're not rolling over on this," Harry said. "I found the body. I know there've been more. Innocent men are dead and I doubt given the way you've been going over that body like maniacs that you've got much in the way of solid leads."

"I think you mean our typically thorough and professional examination of the crime scene," said Malfoy. "We're doing just fine."

"The dead man in the locker would indicate otherwise," Hermione said primly.

"You're going to cause a panic," Ginny said desperately.

"We're going to give people fair warning," Harry disagreed. "I swear to you, we wouldn't publish anything inflammatory or intentionally salacious. You know us, Gin."

Ginny looked like she was wavering, and it seemed to displease Malfoy greatly. "No chance in hell you're going to convince me to let you print a single word about this investigation in that rag you work for."

"Look," Ginny said, "this isn't the time or the place." Her gaze indicated the forensics team still buzzing around. "Let's table the discussion until later. I had a bath less than three hours ago, and I already feel disgusting. Let's all have a change of clothes and meet up again." Hermione thought Ginny was staring at her when she mentioned the change of clothes, and she pulled Harry's jacket around her more tightly. "Say in an hour?"

Harry blew out an agitated breath. "Good idea," he said grudgingly.

"Yes," Hermione agreed stiffly. "Where shall we meet?"

"Our office," Malfoy answered immediately, then muttered, "so I can have you both arrested if need be."

"Funny," Hermione said, her voice brittle as she Apparated back to her flat.

xXxXxXx

Forty-three minutes later, Hermione's mood was greatly improved. She'd taken a shower and changed into an old mauve sweater with a giant H embroidered on the front -- a Christmas gift from Mrs. Weasley when the older woman had been grooming Hermione as a daughter-in-law -- and wondered why on earth fuzzy clothing couldn't be considered sexy. Harry's jacket was lying on her bed where she'd left it, and with only a slight feeling of guilt she pulled it back on, giving in to the temptation to sniff at the collar.

Harry wore no cologne, but he'd used the same soap since he was a boy and she'd come to associate the scent with him, feeling comfort from it at first, and later, more arousing emotions entirely. She recalled the undershirt that lived in the bottom of her bureau, the one Harry had left in her flat one night after a game and several thousand fans outside his place had caused him to flee to hers. That had been the night, a few short months before his accident, she'd realized just how much her feelings for her old friend had changed. It was the first time she'd ever illicitly sniffed at an article of his clothing left abandoned in her care, and it seemed that not a great many things had changed in the intervening year.

"Hermione! You in there?"

She turned her head around so quickly she feared whiplash for a moment. He was outside her door, so there was no possible way he'd seen her sniffing at his jacket like a lunatic, but that didn't make her feel any less foolish. She gave her reflection a quick glance in the mirror and grimaced; no makeup, hair in glorious, frizzy disarray, and wearing a fuzzy sweater with her first initial on it, along with a jacket that swam on her small frame. Yes, it was stunning he'd somehow resisted the urge to jump her.

"Coming, Harry," she called out, bustling through the bedroom to the front door.

A grin split his face when he caught sight of her. "I thought I was the only one who kept all of Mrs. Weasley's sweaters."

"Sentimental value," she said, which was odd, considering she wasn't a particularly sentimental person. But certain things had meaning, they stood for something, and Hermione greatly believed in keeping mementos of one's life, be it a dirty old undershirt she never washed or a mauve sweater that reminded her of the single Christmas she and Ron had spent together without fighting.

"Sure," he said, but he seemed subdued, though she was fairly sure he remembered the same Christmas she did. She recalled a lovely toast he'd made to her and Ron, thought of how sure everyone had been that marriage for the two of them couldn't be far off. For the life of her, she couldn't imagine why such a memory would provoke the sort of sadness she saw in Harry's eyes. "Ron mentioned trying to spend Christmas at the Burrow this year," he added.

"That's what Mrs. Weasley's last owl said," Hermione confirmed. She and Molly Weasley had a great affinity for one another, Hermione being the person closest to Ron and to Harry, the latter of whom the older woman adored as a son. And, Hermione was fairly certain Mrs. Weasley still held out a little hope that Hermione might become Mrs. Ronald Weasley yet. "I'm glad he's really thinking about it. She misses him."

"I'm sure you do, as well," Harry said, but there was something in his voice, something that made Hermione answer him more slowly than she normally would.

"Of course," she agreed. "I'm -- I'm worried about him, as well. Especially with all this..." Harry nodded his agreement. Hermione recalled the moment her gaze had met Ginny's over the crime scene earlier in the day. Ginny realized that her brother could be in serious danger, and the four of them might be all that stood between Ron and imminent death. Whatever had gone on between Hermione and Ron romantically, he and Harry were and would always be her two best friends. They were family, the three of them, and it was a bond stronger than blood or death or screaming Quidditch fans trying to keep Ron on the road as much as humanly possible.

"Sometimes," Harry said, "I wonder how things would have turned out if Ron had been the one injured and you had gotten him the job at the Prophet." He tried to smile, but it seemed forced. "I'd wager the two of you would be married by now."

"I doubt it," she said softly. "I think we've learned that Ron and I don't make sense as a couple. Sometimes I wonder if we ever really did."

"Oh, you're just saying that," Harry said. "The next time you end up in each other's arms you won't be able to remember a time you weren't mad for him."

"I think I know myself better than you do, Harry," she snapped. It was beginning to grate on her, how sure Harry was of the great and eternal love she supposedly shared with Ron. Was that really how he saw them? If that was the case, obviously the entire farce with Malfoy was unnecessary; Harry would never be jealous unless it was another in a long line of things he did on his best friend's behalf.

"Of course you do," Harry said, and he was using his best placating voice, something she'd learned to detect during sixth year when he and Ron had perfected it. Then his voice changed, became softer, genuine. "It's just not easy sometimes, seeing how much you love someone when they're standing right in front of you." He cleared his throat. "You know, give it some time, the two of you away from each other, you'll miss him so much you'll forget all the reasons he gives you to throttle him."

Hermione was silent for a moment, wishing with all her heart she could open a vein or cast a spell and let everything she felt for him wash through the room so he would know, so there could be no doubt in his mind about everything she wanted from him, everything she was willing to give him. The urge to kiss him, to hold him, to do anything for him that would obliterate in his mind the image of her as Ron's girl, as 'just Hermione,' burned so hotly inside her for a moment, she actually thought she might evaporate into mist, the will to just go on as they were turning to ash.

Then the moment passed, as they always did, and she cleared her throat and said they'd better get going if they didn't want to be late meeting Malfoy and Ginny.

"Yes," he agreed, and he held the door open for her and neither mentioned that she still wore his coat.

xXxXxXx

Malfoy and Ginny's office was so deep inside the bowels of the Ministry, Hermione sometimes wondered how they managed to keep from feeling claustrophobic. The lift they took had been sparsely populated to begin with, it being Saturday, and had emptied completely by the time they neared the right floor. It stopped with a jerking motion at the last floor it traveled to, and they stepped out into the dark hallway that housed the often bizarre cases Malfoy and Ginny saw fit to investigate. The second floor of the Ministry housed the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but somehow, Malfoy and Ginny's office was sequestered in the basement of the building. Ginny had once confided to Hermione that Malfoy believed all the open-air cubicles the rest of the Aurors inhabited were far too pedestrian for a Malfoy, and he had requested the privacy of the basement so he could have 'a bloody quiet moment to think.'

"I don't know why they've got to have their offices down here, anyway," Harry muttered. "It's probably to do with Malfoy not wanting the peasants staring at his magnificence."

Hermione glanced to her left at Harry's words and saw him looking tense and uncomfortable, though not from any fear of enclosed spaces. Though he'd tried and failed to restore conversation between them by discussing the weather, Harry had fallen silent since they entered the Ministry, and given his clipped words about Malfoy and Ginny's office space -- an office they'd both visited countless times before -- she knew he was thinking of Sirius, as he always did when he had to make the long trip into the bowels of the Ministry. Awkwardness set aside in favor of friendship, Hermione reached out and blindly grasped his hand in hers, squeezing tightly. He returned the squeeze, and held on with blinding strength as they both continued walking, staring straight ahead.

As they approached Malfoy and Ginny's slightly ajar office door, however, the sound of the Aurors' voices caused both of them to slow, then stop and release their hold on each other as they unashamedly listened in.

"Look, really, it happens to everyone," Ginny was saying.

"Not to me," Malfoy declared hotly. Hermione had rarely heard so much emotion in his voice.

"I didn't realize you were still this wound up about it," Ginny said, sounding surprised.

"It's not exactly the sort of thing a man's likely to forget, is it, Weasley," Malfoy said bitterly. "It's easier for you. You don't have these sorts of problems."

"That's not true. It could happen to me just as easily."

"You know it's not the same for women as it is for men," Malfoy argued. "You've got your part to do, it's true, but no matter how sexist it is -- and honestly, Ginny, I do not want to hear it -- there's just a certain ... expectation of the man, in the heat of the moment. He's supposed to get things done. And instead ... oh, Merlin."

"Maybe it just needed a woman's touch," Ginny said archly, and Hermione thought it might have been his punishment for shushing his partner.

"You know very well a woman's touch was part of the problem," he said. "You've always got to be the center of attention, distracting me." He sounded so genuinely miserable, even Hermione was nearly sympathetic toward him. Nearly.

"It's all right," Ginny said, and her voice sounded soothing. Perhaps she felt a bit guilty for ... whatever it was she'd done. Hermione's mind shied away from what, exactly, that could be. "You can -- well, maybe we can try again this afternoon, get some practice in so it won't go off so soon next time."

"I've never had a timing problem before!" Malfoy ranted. "My performance has always been exemplary. Even mother thought so."

Harry looked at Hermione, a horrified expression crossing his face. "I know it just can't possibly be what we're thinking it is," he whispered, "but I still can't believe you're going out with him."

Hermione grimaced. "It's probably..." It made her quite sad that she couldn't think of anything.

"Look, I can pull a dozen case files right now with others who've had a similar experience to yours," Ginny was saying. "Aurors with far more seniority having the same, er, firing problem."

"Oh, yes please, let's do see how I compare with the masses." Malfoy let out an indignant snort. "You're not going to make me feel better about this, Gin, because no matter how many cases you find, it still happened to me."

"Fine, if you're going to be a baby about it--"

"I am not being a baby!" Hermione thought his tone was a bit too petulant to claim anything of the sort. "And besides, if it had happened to you, you'd be going on about it like a banshee for weeks."

A squeak of protest left Ginny's mouth, and Hermione had had enough. She wrapped her knuckles loudly on the door, ignoring Harry's muttered "spoilsport" as they walked into the office.

"We're not early, are we?" Hermione wondered.

"No," Malfoy said, straightening from the sullen leaning position he'd taken up against the filing cabinet. "Right on time."

"Well, we're here," Harry said. "We're listening."

"What an incredibly obvious statement to make, Potter," Malfoy said. "Can always count on you for that."

"The way I see it, you two are the ones interested in silencing the press," Hermione reminded him, "so I'd think you'd want to be a bit nicer."

"Well, as I see it, you two are the ones who seem hell bent on endangering the lives of other people by exercising your right as gossip mongers to sell more issues of your rag," Malfoy said. "Isn't perspective lovely?"

"Look, Malfoy, what do you want us to do?" Harry said.

"Keep your mouths shut," Malfoy said easily. "Don't print a word of what you've seen or heard today. Let us investigate this as quietly as possible."

"Not a chance," Harry said. "People are dying here, Malfoy. If there's one thing I've learned in my life, it's that secrets don't protect anyone but the people keeping them."

"Blah, blah, I've led a sad, pathetic, hardship-filled little life where grownups lied to me," Malfoy said carelessly. "I've heard the song before, Potter, and I wasn't terribly impressed by it then." Something happened then, and his face almost softened. "It's not the same thing and you know it." Hermione wondered if he was remembering something he and Harry had shared in the past, or if he'd simply decided antagonizing Harry unduly wasn't going to help him get his way.

"I don't know anything of the kind," Harry said, and if Malfoy's jabs had upset him, he certainly didn't show it.

"Look," Hermione said, getting between the two of them, "if this had been the first death, I might be inclined to agree with you, Ma-Draco." She winced, because her slip had sounded like she'd called him 'my Draco' and the thought made her throw up a little in her mouth. "But it wasn't. There've been more. Quidditch players are dying and they -- and their friends and families -- deserve the courtesy of a warning."

"It'll cause a panic," Ginny said. "We've seen it before. The press gets hold of a story, and even with the best of intentions, it takes on a life of its own. It's always harmful to the investigation."

"There has to be a middle ground, Gin," Harry said. "Something that falls somewhere between full disclosure and utter secrecy."

"Sod middle ground," Malfoy said. "Just keep your bloody mouths shut and everyone's happy."

"I'm not," Hermione said hotly. "And if you keep that attitude up, Malfoy, I'll be inclined to print whatever I damned well like."

"In that case, Granger, I would be inclined to see you thrown into Azkaban," Malfoy said.

Hermione snorted. "For what? Not doing as you said?"

"Disobeying an order from an Auror that directly conflicts with the security of the wizarding world," Malfoy said smoothly.

"Bollocks," Hermione pronounced firmly. "Freedom of the press, Malfoy. I'm sure you've heard of it. We've done nothing illegal to obtain this information, and I'm sure the Ministry would be delighted to hear that the reason this information came to me in the first place was because you had dressed me in a see-through top in my flat." That wasn't necessarily the entire truth, but she knew he couldn't deny it, and that made her feel a sort of unholy glee. It felt nice to be able to hold something over his head for once, and while it occurred to her that they'd both given up all pretense of a budding romance, at the moment she was far too riled up to care.

"Try it," he said in a cool, low voice that reminded Hermione chillingly of Lucius Malfoy. She wanted to take a step back from him, but held her ground.

"All right," Ginny said slowly, and she took a step forward at the same time Harry did, effectively breaking the murderous tension between the two combatants. "Now that we've calmly and dispassionately laid out where everyone stands, let's see about that middle ground, eh?"

"Maybe stop threatening your girlfriend with prison, as well," Harry added, sending Malfoy a rather icy look. Hermione placed a hand on his forearm and squeezed. The last thing she wanted was Harry playing big brother, telling Malfoy off for treating her badly.

"Terms," Hermione said at last, glaring at Malfoy.

Malfoy in turn glanced at Ginny, who sent him a pleading look. He let out a sigh, and said, "You print what we tell you and nothing more. You restrict yourself to factual reporting without editorializing. There will be no cutesy names for the killer and absolutely, positively, no mentioning Ginny or myself by name, no going into detail about each crime, and absolutely no chasing after interviews with any victim's family. The last thing they need right now is to be hounded by the media. Nonnegotiable."

"Too bad," Hermione said. "We have to give the killer a name or the people will do it for us, and as you've so eloquently stated, the public is prone to panic. We'll agree to no editorializing until after the killer is caught, at which point we expect exclusive rights to your perspectives on the case, as well as in-depth, cooperative, interviews."

Malfoy's nostrils flared, and he looked like he wanted to object. Hermione wondered how he could possibly disagree with what was an entirely fair proposal.

"Done," he said finally, and they turned away from each other without shaking hands. Malfoy went to sit sullenly in his chair, and Hermione turned to leave. She heard Harry remark to Ginny, "Well, I guess we'll be going now," and held the door for him.

They made their way back to the lift, and when the doors had closed behind them and the lift was taking them back up, Hermione glanced at Harry out of the corner of her eye and caught him grinning.

"What?" she asked crossly.

"You're amazing," he said, and she tried very hard not to blush.

Given the way he kept grinning at her, she was almost positive she was not successful.

xXxXxXx

End Notes:

1) This chapter is dedicated to the lovely Rainpuddle13. It's a long time in coming. *mwah*

2) Won't you be generous and share some of your feedback? We can actually use it to make the story better, you know. It's like giving back to yourself! <g>

3) To help with #2, here's all the ways you can reach us:

a. E-mail: jadeokelani @ gmail.com and/or sareaokelani @ gmail.com

b. Magical Mayhem (fic updates and discussion): http://groups.yahoo.com/group/magical_mayhem/

c. Live Journal: http://www.livejournal.com/~jade_okelani/ or http://www.livejournal.com/~sarea_okelani/

d. A paper crane, folded lovingly by Draco and sent by magic. This is the preferred method, but we realize the paper might be difficult to obtain.

4) The title of this chapter is taken from a Sherlock Holmes novel of the same name.

5) We blame all our French on JKR. It is 'er crazy diction, people. We are not at fault.

And now, an update on our friendship:

Sarea: I would just like to say that there is one heinous thing that you could have done to me in this chapter, and that was to set it in France. So, well done, you.

Jade: Come on, surely that's not the only heinous thing I did to you this chapter. Go ahead, think about it for a minute. I'll wait.

Sarea: Okay, I have one. What was with the Amelia homage? She'll start to think we care about her or something.

Jade: Oh, whatever. She isn't even going to remember she once told me Russell Crow makes her throw up in her mouth a little. That was just for us. But thank you for sucking the joy out of it by bringing it up. I can always count on you.

Sarea: And I can always count on YOU to set things in FRANCE. I guess "we'll always have Paris" won't mean the same thing to us as it does to other people. Though come to think of it, that's really for the best.

Jade: Tu m'emmerdes!

7. 6: Kiss Me Friendly

Note: This chapter was posted to www.dracoandginny.com (where you can find our most complete D/G story collection) awhile ago, but the uploading tool here is finally cooperating with us, so here it is for our Portkey readers. Chapters four and five have also been fixed.

xXxXxXx
Chapter Six:
Kiss Me Friendly

xXxXxXx

OvO OvO OvO OvO OvO

Dear Prat,

How have you enjoyed your vacation? What have you been up to? Harry mentioned you'd stopped by the other day to see him and Hermione at their offices. Nice to know where I rank in the scheme of things, as I've not seen hide nor hair of you.

I'm sure that whatever you're doing, you're enjoying yourself immensely, since you're apparently too busy for your little sister. No, no, it's all right, I'll carry on somehow, burdened with the knowledge that my own brother has better things to do than spend time with his only sister. But honestly, I'm glad you're having a rest. Have you thought about taking an extended leave? You've been working far too hard. I haven't seen you in ages, and we all miss you.

Love,

Ginny

OvO OvO OvO OvO OvO

Dear Favorite Sister,

Why are you owling? I'll see you tomorrow night at the Burrow, little idiot ... which is also why I haven't contacted you. I've only got one week of freedom, and I have a lot to get in before getting back to the taxing life of a world-famous Quidditch star. It's not because I don't want to see you.

As for taking an extended leave, are you mad? You want that git Toby Markham to take my place, is that it? You've no idea how cutthroat the competition is, Gin. Every day I hear of new recruits who are younger, faster, stronger, you name it. It's all I can do to hang onto my job, and now you want me to tell them I'd like to go off on an extra-long vacation? Sure, I could do that, and I'd come back to a special new position -- benchwarmer.

But I'm glad to see that even though we haven't seen each other in "ages," you haven't completely changed. You're still the daft girl I remember.

Speaking of you and daftness, what's this I hear about your setting Hermione up with Malfoy??? I don't think I need to tell you that this is your worst matchmaking attempt yet.

With love from your favorite brother,

Ron

OvO OvO OvO OvO OvO

Dearest Deluded Sibling,

Draco and Hermione are perfect for one another. They'll be my greatest coup yet. I know you don't like Draco, but you don't really know him. He's wonderful, and funny, and sometimes he can even be kind, to the people he likes anyway, and Hermione deserves someone like that. I love you, but you and I both know that you guys were miserable together. I hate to see her unhappy, and she needs to get over you once and for all. And don't tell me you're all that broken up about it; I know you haven't exactly been a eunuch. You've a new witch on your arm every time I open the papers.

You're a fantastic Keeper! I don't think it would be so unreasonable to ask for some extra time off. You're always training or on the road or otherwise risking serious bodily injury in games -- surely they encourage players to take breaks now and again, so as not to burn them out? Anyway, I'm worried about you, and I just think that now would be a good time to step away from the Quidditch scene for awhile.

Gin

OvO OvO OvO OvO OvO

What the hell are you talking about? Now's a good time to step away from the Quidditch scene? You've been around Malfoy too long; you're getting as cryptic as he is. As for "wonderful, funny, kind"??????? I'll have you know you made me bring up a perfectly nice dinner with that. He's got you snowed, the bastard. You and Hermione both. I wouldn't be surprised to learn he's got you both under some hex. Or a potion he slips into your morning coffee.

As for Hermione, she's my friend. One of my best friends. So regardless of whether or not we're right for one another romantically, I care about what happens to her. This might surprise you, Ginny, but I actually want what's best for her, too.

Now can we please stop owling? It's late and I want to go to sleep. I'll see you tomorrow night.

OvO OvO OvO OvO OvO

See? See?? You're getting burned out. You never used to tire so easily. You're running your body down, Ron, and it's not good for you, mentally or physically. I really think you ought to consider stepping back and giving yourself some time. Just for a few weeks.

As for Draco, it's not so much a hex as it is that he's a right tiger in bed that's got us hooked.

OvO OvO OvO OvO OvO

Having complete mental breakdown. Can't write. See you tomorrow if I survive the night.

xXxXxXx

Harry was approximately twenty seconds away from ripping the wand out of Hermione's hand and bludgeoning her to death with it.

They'd arrived at his flat a few hours ago, exhausted after having spent far too many hours in the company of Aurors Malfoy and Weasley. Harry loved Ginny dearly, but if he never met her in a dark alley that would be all right with him. Her professional persona was downright scary, and while Harry had a long history of dealing with a scary woman, Ginny was ever so slightly more unsettling than Hermione had ever been. Add Malfoy, and Harry was sure there had never been a more forbidding team.

The thing that really made it work was how innocuous Ginny seemed, all petite and kind. You expected the sort of behavior Harry and Hermione had been treated to earlier that day from Malfoy; the bullying, the badgering, the outright disdain; but coming from Ginny, you really felt it, and it rankled Harry to no end to argue so heatedly with his old friend.

The argument hadn't actually been as severe as Harry had felt it was at the time, but he'd been so frustrated with Ginny and her faithful allegiance to everything Malfoy wanted (never mind that she'd actually opposed Malfoy more than once during the meeting; Harry's tired, worried, frustrated brain knew no logic), he'd been ready to strangle her. Her insistence that she be the one to tell Ron about the killer had baffled Harry, even after Hermione reluctantly agreed that it was probably for the best.

Sure, now that the red haze had passed, Harry was willing to concede that Ginny had been right. But in the moment, he hadn't been able to see anything but the emotion of it: Ron was his best friend, and no matter the things they'd gone through, both together and apart, this was what they did. They rallied around each other and plotted in secret to overthrow the awful thing threatening their happiness and the happiness of those around them, and Harry hated that things weren't the same as they'd always been. He hated it and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Please, Harry," Ginny had said. "I know my brother. He's going to be a prat about it no matter what, no matter who tells him. I -- with everything, I really do think it's best that it come from me." They'd shared a look then, and it was that look more than anything, Harry realized now, that had finally gotten him to back down. In some ways, Ginny did know Ron better than anyone, even Harry and Hermione, and she had his best interests at heart. Harry needed to respect that, whether he agreed with it or not.

He just hoped Ron would take the news better than they feared.

"And the bed," Hermione said, the disgust in her voice interrupting his private musings. "Harry, are you even aware of how to make it?"

"Yes," he said tightly. "Shockingly, I've been making my own bed for years now."

"You wouldn't know it to look at it, would you," Hermione muttered to herself. Her tone was quite chastising, and Harry was more than a little annoyed.

"Hermione, we do this every time you come round," he said, tilting his glasses high on his forehead so he could massage the bridge of his nose. "Why can't you just leave it alone?"

"And leave you to be eaten when all the dust and mold finally evolves into a sentient being?" A disbelieving gust of air was furiously blown from between her pursed lips. "Really, Harry, you simply can't be trusted with your own welfare."

With a sigh, Harry turned back to his writing and left Hermione to her not-so-quiet muttering and mad cleaning. Dinner had been take-away roasted chicken and assorted side dishes Hermione had Apparated in with, dressed ridiculously in a low-cut top that looked like it was made for someone Malfoy would date. Harry shied away from the thought and was equal parts grateful and resentful when, after dinner, she abandoned the top in favor of one of his older, rattier t-shirts so she could clean. The elaborate, gravity-defying hairstyle she'd arrived in vanished almost instantly as she got to work, and Harry tried his best not to appreciate the view she presented too much, as the last thing he needed was a good slap to the head.

The article was nearly half done; between the two of them, it should have taken an hour at most to come up with a first draft, even with the insane limits Malfoy and Ginny had put on them.

They'd spent hours being debriefed, Ginny and Malfoy putting on a great show of tag-teaming first Harry then Hermione, as they made them repeat every little detail they'd seen at least three times. Harry had never enjoyed reliving traumatic incidents, but being forced to do so by Malfoy was especially grating, particularly when he made a great show of pulling Hermione aside to whisper something in her ear that made her blush. Harry had been sorely tempted to strike him. Finally, this horror at an end, Aurors Weasley and Malfoy gave them a very strict list of information they were not allowed to leak into their story. This, combined with the nasty habit Harry and Hermione had of getting distracted when they were meant to be working (Harry because he liked to avoid work as much as possible, and Hermione because the horror of Harry's living conditions were simply too much for her to bear), meant very little actual work had been accomplished.

He hadn't always been this way, Harry recalled; there had been a time in his life, before Ron, before Hogwarts, before his life really began, when work had been the only thing he was allowed. Picking up after Dudley or cooking breakfast while Aunt Petunia clucked around him had almost been a relief; as long as he was busy doing their bidding, the Dursleys nearly forgot he was there. Hard work had been the closest thing he'd had to an Invisibility Cloak in those days. Unfortunately, he was not unique to the rest of the population in that his upbringing greatly affected his current psyche. The older he got, the more he tried to avoid hard work as if it were Devil's Snare.

"Dear Lord, Harry," Hermione's tearful voice said from somewhere beyond him, "I think there actually is something alive in the kitchen."

Harry ignored her and tried to concentrate on the article. It mocked him with its half-blank page and unwritten words. The pathetic excuse for a start they'd made seemed all wrong and insignificant; Harry wanted to go over it with the InvisoQuill and start from scratch. Hermione would have a fit, but then, Hermione was already having a fit, wasn't she? She'd been perpetually on edge since Malfoy informed them they wouldn't be debriefed until Monday, and that no amount of whining, begging, or threatening on Hermione's part would do her any good.

Whining and begging had never been Hermione's forte, but threatening Malfoy was old hat. Sadly, the prat was quite used to it at this point and barely blinked in the face of her onslaught.

"It's all right," she called out with an edge to her voice. "I've killed it."

"Good show," Harry mumbled. It was almost painless as he mercilessly erased every word. He then began scribbling furiously; he might like avoiding hard work, but Hermione's wrath over wasting time by unnecessary re-writing was more terrifying than a pack of Dementors.

Their coworkers at the Prophet had been trying to convince Harry and Hermione to switch to an automated quill for years. The latest thing was the Quick Sync Quill that, when the proper incantation was made, actually read your mind and copied down your thoughts without embellishment. Hermione was deeply opposed to it because she thought it took the fun out of writing; part of her enjoyment, she claimed, came from organizing her thoughts just so before putting quill to parchment. Having the Quick Sync Quill, in her opinion, was like cheating on the creative process, and one thing Hermione Granger did not do was cheat.

Harry, on the other hand, was just unnerved by the idea of what the quill might write down without his consent.

It wasn't just the idea that his -- infatuation, he decided, was a kind word -- was well spiraling out of control; an hour ago, when she'd been charming his plants back to life, Harry had decided that Hermione learning he was arse backwards in love with her might not be the worst thing to ever happen in the history of the world. No, Harry was far more concerned that, in a fit of frustration, the quill might spill every secret he had, and before he could stop its tidal-wave of purging, someone not Hermione would see, and then he would be forever revealed.

The Boy Who Lived was an icon; Harry felt him like another entity, a shadow that hovered over his every waking moment. The Boy Who Lived was perfect; he had no fear, no hate, and everyone, save Draco Malfoy, loved him. The Boy Who Lived wasn't in love with his best friend and he didn't have to make excuses to work in the field he enjoyed. The Boy Who Lived was everything Harry knew he would never be, and wasn't even positive he wanted; he was just sure that not being that boy might kill him.

"Have you ever cleaned the bathroom, Harry? What about that potion I gave you for the tub? Honestly, it takes five minutes."

Assuming he didn't murder Hermione first, then take his own life when the guilt consumed him.

"I lost it," he said quietly, and ignored her when she said "What?" from the other room. As he'd hoped, she didn't persist in her line of questioning; instead, he heard a muffled scream, then the sound of furious banging. He let her at the bathroom and began scribbling so fast his hand almost became a blur. It all poured out of him, the facts, the emotion, anything and everything he thought Malfoy and Ginny would let past their barricade of controlled information. The changing room, the stillness in the air, the way he didn't recognize the smell of blood until he saw it -- Hermione would likely edit that out, as she disliked too much gore sensationalizing the facts -- everything poured out of Harry in vivid flashback.

He had a gift for translating his memories into the written word. Proper expression had failed him when he'd been younger. If he tried to speak, to explain himself, it would all come out a jumble of ers and ums and ahs. His first summer out of Hogwarts, there had been so much wrong with his life, with Ron, with everything, Harry had set out to find a new way to express himself. It had actually been Ginny's idea -- she'd gifted him with a leather-bound journal, "brown and manly," she'd assured him, "with absolutely no connections to You-Know-Who." It had stunned him speechless at the time, and she'd sensed his hesitation, because she added, "It really helped me. You know. Before. Writing everything down. I think it might help you, too," and smiled shyly, because when she'd been that young, she'd still smiled shyly at him.

Ginny's gift served him better than either of them had ever imagined it would. He began writing about everything, from the terrible first ten years of his life, stuffed in a cupboard, sometimes going days without proper meals, years without proper clothes, treated with less respect than a house-elf, to that first magical, frightening year at Hogwarts. As he'd relived it all, filled page after page of the journal with the bad memories he possessed, he'd slowly realized that even the worst recollection brought something positive along with it. His parents had died, but he lived; he grew up in a house full of loathing, but he grew up; the most evil wizard to ever walk the earth wanted him dead, but he made the greatest friends of his life and forged relationships that would literally mean the difference between life and death.

Once he'd filled every inch of parchment and made his final markings on the last page, the last thing he'd written had stayed with him. He remembered little else of the prose (often incoherent) that had filled his gift from Ginny, but he recalled those final words: 'Great or ordinary, hero or lucky bloke, I know one thing of myself that will mean more to me than all the statues and accolades in the world: beyond a single night of infant serendipity, I lived.'

After committing the sentiment to memory, Harry had murmured an incantation and watched the journal burn to ash.

When Ginny asked him later how it had turned out, he'd smiled, and said he'd written a few pages, then forgotten about it. He was sure it would turn up later, but it had helped. It wasn't the first time he'd told a lie to someone close to him, but it had struck him more profoundly than any of the others. He tried to assign logic to his decision, but it seemed to be decidedly illogical. There had been no reason to lie to Ginny, when the truth would have served them both far better: Ginny would have known her gift had been well received, and Harry would have been able to share his purging with a friend.

It wasn't until far later that he realized why he'd done it. He'd thought that by pouring all his pain into the book, then wiping it from existence, he had effectively burned away the horror in his past along with one thousand bound sheets of parchment. He'd felt reborn, a free man, able to make his way in the world. Professional Quidditch seemed like the natural next step, and with Hermione looking after Ron, who was doing his best to put the war and all its terrible baggage behind him as well, Harry became a new man.

Except he wasn't a new man. And he realized it shortly after the accident. He was the same old Harry; the pain wasn't gone, it was just faded, like the scar on his forehead. There were countless scars on him, so much a part of him that he sometimes forgot to notice them. The pain would never be gone; it was with him like Hermione and Ron, like the Weasleys and the lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead. Through an incredible feat of denial, however, he'd managed to deny it for the better part of a decade.

There was no more denial left to him now. He had been confronted with his pain, and his love, and Hermione going on about his grout problem, and he didn't know whether to kiss her or strangle her, and all these assorted and sundry thoughts were exactly why the last thing he needed was a Quick Sync Quill.

"Done," he said aloud, not realizing until he'd spoken that it was true. Four pages of parchment sat before him, covered in his familiar, messy scrawl. Hermione would go through it and throw half of it out, adding more concise accounts, sharpening up his grammar, rephrasing things so the Prophet didn't end up getting sued for Harry's unauthorized editorializing. She'd been keeping him honest for most of his life, and he didn't know what he would ever do without her.

"Good heavens, you are not," Hermione said, sounding exasperated as she emerged from the bathroom. Her hair was in more disarray than usual and she was sweating. She looked over his shoulder and he tried to tell himself that the way her now-gross hair brushed his cheek wasn't endearing, but his quota of denial was all used up for one lifetime, so he leaned in a little closer and breathed her in. She was disgusting smelling, frazzled, and nagging at him, and Harry loved her with every beat of his heart.

"Harry," she said a few moments later, "you didn't have to do all this. I would have helped as soon as I'd finished making sure you weren't going to erode away under all this mold."

"My flat is not moldy," he said. "It's just lived in."

"Do you really want me to show you what I've just killed in your bathroom?" She arched a brow at him. "Do you remember sixth year at all, particularly the lessons Snape gave on the sort of things that grow in wizarding homes, and how if they aren't properly maintained with the right sorts of potions--"

"Agagh!" He gestured wildly with his arms in case the inarticulate sound he made wasn't clear enough of an indication he wished her to stop. "No, of course I don't remember sixth year or much of anything from Snape's class, but yes, I do have a faint recollection of the potions because you've brought them round twice a year since I've lived here. I've never used them."

"Obviously," she said with great superiority.

"But you have," he added. "So I can only conclude that you've been doing it all wrong."

The look on her face was worth any retribution his words might have engendered; fleetingly, he wished Ron were here with them to see it.

xXxXxXx

After work on Monday, Ginny went back to her flat to change into more comfortable, everyday robes for dinner that night. She'd owled her mother at midday and offered to get to the Burrow early to help with the preparations, but Molly insisted she had everything under control and all Ginny had to do was show up.

Ginny was not looking forward to dinner. It wasn't that she didn't want to see her brothers (it was a rare occasion indeed when everyone was available at the same time), but these large family gatherings invariably turned chaotic, and she'd found over the years that she enjoyed seeing each of her brothers on more of an individual basis, rather than when they were together and prone to encourage each other in their rowdiness.

Eyeing her bed with longing, she removed her Auror garb and donned more casual clothing. All she really wanted to do was turn down her covers, crawl between the soft sheets, and get a good night's rest. Instead, she was on her way to the very opposite of peace and quiet.

At least Ron would be there. She was looking forward to seeing him, not just because it had been awhile, but because she wanted to use the opportunity to get him to stop playing Quidditch. Not forever, obviously, but at least until the Quidditch player killings had stopped. It made her blood run cold to think of Apparating to a murder scene to find her brother's lifeless body, stuffed into some locker like a discarded Quidditch costume...

Don't even think of it, Ginny told herself with a shudder. The problem was, of course, that the threat was very real, and when tomorrow's Prophet came out, Ron would know exactly how real. She'd fill him in tonight, and renew her plea for him to step away from the Quidditch scene for awhile. Surely he'd see sense once she'd explained the situation. She had seeded the idea of taking a sabbatical via owl earlier; tonight she'd cement her position.

And if he didn't see sense, well, she was his little sister. She would just have to beat it into him.

xXxXxXx

"No more, Mum, I'm stuffed," Ron groaned, patting his stomach. He was so fit from playing Quidditch there was no indication of how much food he had consumed, Ginny noted enviously. He seemed to be able to keep the weight off naturally. She, on the other hand, knew she'd be paying for this meal with hours at the gym, or risk being jibed by Malfoy about her "softness" the next time they worked out together.

"But you've only had two pieces," said Molly, looking unhappy. "Was there something wrong with it?"

"No, no, it was great, Mum. Fantastic, really," Ron hastened to assure. "It's just that I've eaten enough for three people, and there's only one of me."

Ron, Ginny, and Arthur had all overeaten in order to compensate for the fact that the family dinner had turned out to be quite a bit smaller than planned, consisting of the eldest two Weasleys and the two youngest. Fleur was having complications with her latest pregnancy and Bill had opted to stay with her, a small herd of dragons had gotten loose in outer Mongolia and Charlie had been drafted as part of the recovery team, and the twins ... Ginny couldn't remember why the twins weren't able to make it, but they had promised to stop by later. As for Percy, he'd attended his final family dinner quite some time ago. His hand on the clock had pointed to "With Merlin" for several months before Molly removed it, saying she didn't need a reminder for something that was indelibly printed on her heart.

"What am I going to do with all this food?" Molly cried, gesturing at the teeming table. Ginny knew there was even more in the kitchen.

"I'd love to take some of this home with me, Mum," she said. "I don't always have time to cook, and it's much simpler to reheat something. And I could never make these dishes half as delicious as you do." Ginny tacked on the compliment not only because it was true, but so that it might bring a smile to her mother's face.

It had the opposite effect. "Well, whose fault is that, Ginny Weasley? Perhaps if you spent a little more time learning how to be a proper wife, one of those boyfriends of yours might actually ask you to marry him one of these days. As it is, I just don't understand how you can spend all of your time running after criminals and putting yourself in danger. Think of your future! What kind of mother will you make?"

Beside her, Ron dropped his head to avoid looking at her or their mother. Ginny knew her brother well enough to know it wasn't a sign of indifference; he just knew his place. Ron was aware of how much this argument of Molly's bothered her. If Molly didn't drop it and she and Ginny started rowing, it would be Arthur and Ron's jobs to step in and mitigate the situation. Arthur would ask Ginny to compromise and see her mother's side of things, and Ron would entreat their mother to see Ginny's. It was a scene they had played out many times before. They were all -- with the possible exception of Molly -- hoping they could skip Act II: Family Squabble and go straight to the conclusion.

"I'm still young yet, Mum," Ginny said as patiently as she could. "When and if I have a family, I will rethink my career. All right?"

"How can you ever have a family, when all you do is work? We hardly see you any more. That Draco Malfoy sees more of you, and we're your family! Don't you think it's time you looked for a less perilous job, where you might meet a nice bloke from a nice family..."

"I enjoy my work," Ginny said firmly, hearing the edge in her voice and hoping that Molly wouldn't press the issue.

"I know you do," Molly sighed. "But I want you to be happy--"

"I am happy."

"--and I don't want you to regret that you wasted the best years of your life--"

"I'm not wasting them!"

"--because good men don't grow on trees, you know. Not since the Ministry banned it, but that was before you were born. My point, Ginny, is that life is short. Just think about it, won't you? Think about the choices you're making now--" Molly held up a hand to prevent Ginny from interrupting, and continued on, "--and maybe you don't even know you're making them, but you are, sweetheart, and I'd just like you to consider how they will affect your future. Will you do that?"

A diatribe was on the tip of Ginny's tongue, but she managed to grit out, "I will," before falling silent.

After a beat, Ron took his cue and looked up, all smiles. "That was a great dinner, Mum, as always. Dad doesn't know how lucky he is."

"She reminds me often, though," Arthur said jovially, taking his cue to pretend that Molly and Ginny's discussion had never taken place.

Molly hit her husband's shoulder in exasperation and began to gather up the dishes. "I'll package some of this up for you, dear," she said to Ginny. "And how about a slice of chocolate pie? We didn't even have a chance to cut into that tonight."

"Oh," Ginny said, hedging slightly. "Well, if you wouldn't mind, I'll take the whole pie."

Three sets of raised eyebrows turned toward her.

"Well, I don't have time to bake!" she said defensively. "And Mum's chocolate pie is the best."

"The whole pie it is, dear," Molly said cheerfully.

"I don't know where you put it all," said Arthur. "You're such a little thing."

"Maybe she's feeding two," Ron joked. At the looks on his parents' -- not to mention his sister's -- faces, he quickly added, "I've never been more kidding in my life."

"You're not really feeding two, are you?" Ron asked as they retired to the family room.

Ginny ignored the question, since she didn't have an answer that would satisfy him. She knew they had to have this conversation quickly, before their parents finished with the dishes. She had no desire to discuss the topic with them, given that it would only fan the flames of discontent with her mother where her job was concerned. They could just read the watered-down version in the paper tomorrow along with everyone else.

She sat on the couch and pulled him down next to her. "Listen, Ron--"

"Can you believe no one else showed up? What am I, chopped dung beetle? Apparently no one cares whether they see me or not. You're the only one who loves me, Gin." Ron sighed dramatically.

Ginny didn't have time to play Ron's favorite game of Pity Me, which he had started indulging in more and more after the war. She wasn't sure if it was a symptom of the hex he'd been unable to dodge, or simply of the war itself. In any case, there were more serious issues at hand, so she waved her hand impatiently at him to get his attention.

"Ron, you have to stop playing Quidditch."

His head lolled toward her and his eyes were open wide in disbelief. "Not this again. Have you gone cracked? What is with this--"

"There's someone out there killing Quidditch players."

Ron's eyes seemed to widen with shock. Then he laughed. "I'm sorry, I thought you just said--"

"I'm serious, Ron."

He sat up, all casualness deserting his frame. "Care to explain?" he said evenly.

So she did. It was similar to the briefing she and Draco had given Harry and Hermione earlier in the day, though with much less detail, both because there wasn't much time and because he didn't need to hear the worst of it. By the time she was through relating the facts of the murders, Ron looked as though he'd been hit by a sledgehammer.

"I don't understand how this could happen," he said.

Ginny placed a comforting hand on his arm. "I know."

"I suppose now's the time to complain to the Committee about security measures." He laughed a little, but the sound was unnatural.

"Nothing is foolproof," Ginny reminded him gently. "We're doing everything we can--"

"We?" He twisted his head to look at her.

"Yes ... Malfoy and I have been assigned to the case."

"What? Ginny, no. You have to get out of it somehow. This is far too dangerous."

"I could say the same to you."

Ron looked away, but didn't say anything. He seemed to be doing some serious thinking.

"Listen to me," Ginny began. "I don't have a choice; I was assigned this case. It's my job. I can't just turn it down." None of that was strictly true; she hadn't been assigned the case until she and Draco had petitioned for it, and she could probably get out of it by citing conflict of interest, with her brother in the League. "But you--"

"I don't have a choice either, Gin," Ron shot back. "Playing Quidditch is my job, and I'd be putting my entire career at risk if I were to take an extended leave now. My team has a game on Wednesday, and I'll be there, broom in hand. If everyone else goes about business as usual, I'd get branded a coward. No thanks."

Ginny took a deep breath. She knew there would be no changing Ron's mind, not when his self worth -- or at least the appearance of it -- was at stake. "Unless we can convince the Commissioner to put the season on hold," she suggested quietly. "If that happens, you won't have to request time off. No one will. And, career wise, you'll be no worse off if no one else is playing either--"

"You can't do that!" Ron exclaimed. "You can't just shut down Quidditch! It's -- well, you just can't. No one would stand for it. You'd have rioting in the streets. It would be chaos. The Ministry would be under siege..."

Ginny wished she could dismiss Ron's concerns, but the truth was that he was probably right. Quidditch fanaticism in the wizarding world ran deep. "Maybe. It might not even be in our best interests to do it, so this is very premature. Just promise me you'll be careful."

"Cal Canderer," Ron said, shaking his head slowly. "I was playing chess with the guy not two weeks ago!"

"Did you?" said Ginny in surprise. Her first instinct was to question him further, but knew he probably needed some time. "I'm sorry, Ron."

"Yeah," Ron said softly. "I guess you never know when it's your time."

Ginny didn't say anything in response, knowing there was nothing anyone could say that would help him come to terms with his friend's senseless murder.

"Who would do something like this?" Ron ran careless fingers through his short red hair, slouching again. "I mean ... Canderer could be a right git -- and was one, frequently ... ask anyone, we've probably all said at one point or another that we'd like to kill him ... but no one really says that and means it, do they? People have said that about me, I'm sure, but Merlin, who would actually do it?"

The pleading look in her brother's eyes made her heart ache for him. "That's what Malfoy and I are going to find out."

"Have you any leads so far?"

"I can't discuss the specifics of the case with you, Ron," said Ginny. "But it would be helpful if you could tell me anything about your last visit with Cal Canderer that might have stood out to you as being odd, or if you know of anyone who might have wished him harm..." she trailed off leadingly.

"I just told you we've all had it in for him at one point or another -- the guy was a shameless glory hound. Played a mean game of chess, though."

"No, not like that. Wasn't there anyone who -- you know what, never mind, forget it." Ginny smiled. It was unlikely that Ron would be able to provide information that they didn't already have, and it wasn't worth making him even more upset.

"Well ... there was one thing," Ron said slowly. "Probably doesn't mean anything, though."

Ginny's heart rate sped up a bit. "What?" She tried to sound calm, as if she agreed that it was likely nothing, not wanting to alarm him.

"I met Canderer at Quiberon Stadium probably two weeks or so ago. We were going to have dinner, he was going to show me around Paris ... but then we got a bit drunk at the pub we went to after we ate and there were these two witches--"

"I don't need to hear this part," said Ginny, waving her hand.

"All right, well -- the weird thing is, when I got to the stadium, he wasn't where he said he'd meet me, so I went looking for him. I found him eventually, but he was yelling at this guy who wasn't taking being yelled at very well, because he was waving his finger in Canderer's face, saying something, and he sounded really angry."

"Do you know what he said? Or what they might have been arguing about?"

Ron shook his head. "It was all in French. When I asked Canderer about it later, he didn't want to talk about it. Just said that the guy was getting too big for his britches or something. Apparently he was with stadium security, and was always getting on Canderer's back about something ... not that I blame the guy; I told you he rubbed people the wrong way."

Stadium security. That sounded familiar. Of course -- one of the security guards had been on location at the time of the murder. Ginny and Draco had gone over all of the interviews that Captain Montagne's team had gathered yesterday and nothing about the report on this Alain Beauchamp had stood out, but perhaps it was worth another look.

"Ron, I'd like to bring Malfoy in on this. Can you repeat everything you just told me? He might want to ask you some additional questions."

Ron looked dismayed. "What? You want me to talk to Malfoy? But I just ate."

"Come on, Ron, this won't take very long. I'll use my ring. It'll reach him immediately."

He didn't look any happier about the prospect, but he did look at her ring with interest. "So how does one of these work, anyway? I've never seen you use it."

"It's a communicator," Ginny said, smiling at her brother's boyish interest. He was a lot like their father in some ways; they were both fascinated by gadgets, though Ron didn't require them to be of the Muggle variety. "If I want to locate Malfoy, all I do is hold it in my hand and say the proper spell. Then an image of him will appear before me, and we can talk as if we were standing right next to one another."

Ron looked intrigued. "Can I see it?"

Ginny twisted the ring off her finger and dropped it in her brother's hand, watching as he turned it around, inspecting it.

"Doesn't look very impressive."

"We're on a Ministry budget," Ginny defended. "And most Aurors are men. Do you think they want to wear something fancy and sparkly?"

"So does Malfoy see an image of you, too?"

Ginny nodded. "Well, the person who gets 'summoned' actually sees the entire scene." She gestured around them. "That's why I'd like to summon him and have the two of you talk."

"What if he's, you know, busy?"

"He'd better not be 'busy,' as you put it, since I know Hermione's with Harry tonight putting the article together for tomorrow's Prophet about the murders."

"Oh. Ew. Malfoy and Hermione. I had forgotten about that. Gross." He shuddered.

To her surprise, Ginny didn't feel like defending her matchmaking. In fact, she felt rather sympathetic toward her brother.

"And ... wait a minute. Harry and Hermione know about the murders? And they didn't tell me?"

Ginny knew Ron was very sensitive about being excluded from anything Harry and Hermione did; the three of them had always done everything together in school. It had been all right when he and Harry had both been playing Quidditch, because they'd all been on their own schedules, but now that Harry and Hermione were working together, Ginny knew it bothered Ron that his two best friends spent a lot more time together than either spent with him. "They barely knew anything until today," she said. "Malfoy and I only briefed them on it this morning, and we all agreed that since I'd be seeing you tonight, I would be the one to tell you." Well, she, Harry, and Hermione had agreed, once Ginny had convinced Harry not to go haring off to tell Ron everything himself. Draco had suggested keeping Ron in the dark -- out of kindness, he claimed, since Ron probably never read the paper, he could go around being oblivious to the terror around him.

"I suppose," said Ron, though he still sounded put out.

"So shall I summon Malfoy?"

Ron let out a deep sigh. "Fine, but can I take a piss first?"

Ginny waved him away. "I'm going to check on Mum and Dad. Meet me in my old room."

After making sure that her parents were still occupied -- the dishes were done but they were now putting away all the food, dividing up what Ginny was going to take home with her (she double checked that the chocolate pie was packaged up tight) and what the twins would want if they showed up later -- Ginny went up the stairs and turned down the hall that would take her to her old bedroom. Ron was already there, lounging on the bed.

"My ring?"

"What? Oh, here." He reached into his pocket and tossed the ring at her. "Can't I try it?"

"It'll only respond to me or Malfoy," Ginny explained, shaking her head. "Collusor Reperio!"

"Oh, it's you," Draco said once his form appeared. "What do you want, then?" The teasing note in his voice made up for the coolness of his words. Then he took in his surroundings and his eyes opened wider than she had ever seen them. "Are you going to tell me that all my fantasies are about to come true?"

"Oi!" said Ron, sitting up in bed indignantly.

Draco's eyes widened even further, if that was possible. "You know, I never really believed those things I used to say about you and your brothers, but--"

"Oh shut up, the both of you," Ginny said. "Ron, he's just kidding."

"About which part?" he shot back darkly.

"All of it," Ginny said firmly, ignoring that Draco had opened his mouth to speak. "I've told him," she said, directing the comment at her partner. "It turns out Ron spent some time with Canderer a couple of weeks ago, and he told me something that might be of interest to our case."

"Really," said Draco, not bothering to hide his disbelief. "And what might that be?"

Scowling but cooperative, Ron repeated what he had told Ginny downstairs.

"How did you know Canderer?" Draco asked when Ron had finished his recitation.

"We played together early on, when I was first drafted to Pride of Portree," mumbled Ron. "We became friends in the year or so he was still on the team."

"And were you good friends?"

Ron shifted uncomfortably. "We weren't the best of friends or anything, but professional Quidditch is a fairly small world; we were on good terms and we tried to get together occasionally, but it didn't always work out." He shrugged. "You know how it is."

"And yet you thought you'd break out of this mold of convenient friendship by meeting him in France. Why?" Draco asked the question casually, but Ginny knew him well enough to hear the suspicion that laced his words. She didn't like it, but it was a good question. She was sure Ron would have a good answer.

"So I wanted to see a friend; so what?" Ron asked testily.

Draco crossed his arms, and without prompting, Ginny took the reins. "There's more to it than that. Why don't you just tell us, Ron?"

He looked as though he were going to object, then caught Ginny's eye and deflated. "All right ... I'll tell you, but I haven't told anyone else yet. So just ... don't go around saying things to people, all right? I'm not even sure, I mean, it's really new, and--"

"If you don't spit it out in the next five seconds, I swear to Circe, Weasley..."

"My girlfriend wanted to go to Paris," Ron blurted.

Ginny looked at him in surprise. What girlfriend? She hadn't known Ron was seeing anyone.

"And upon arriving in one of the purportedly most romantic cities in the world, you immediately ditch your girlfriend, look up a bloke, and get plastered with him," Draco ticked off. "I don't know if you've ever considered working out some of these issues, Weasley, but you might look into professional help."

"She was with her family that day!" Ron snapped. "She has cousins or something that live there. We haven't been dating very long, and we both agreed it was premature for me to be meeting distant relatives, so I made myself scarce."

"Who is it?" Ginny asked. "Why were you trying to keep it a secret?"

"It's -- Cho Chang," said Ron, not able to meet Ginny's gaze.

"Cho Chang!" Ginny exclaimed. "How -- I mean, why --" It seemed entirely too bizarre. Her brother and Cho? Though Ginny had gotten over her crush on Harry by the time she was in her fourth year at school, it was hard to erase the sting of rejection she'd felt when he'd made it very clear the year of the Yule Ball that Cho Chang was the sort of girl he preferred. So while Cho had never done anything to Ginny directly, it didn't mean she had to like her.

"Was that the bird Potter went bonkers for in fourth year?" Draco asked musingly.

"Yes!" Ginny and Ron snapped.

"Nice bit of revenge scheming there, Weasley," said Draco, sounding almost admiring.

"It's not -- look, just shut your trap, Malfoy, you don't know a thing about it."

Draco shrugged, seemingly disinterested. "Have it your way. All right, so Canderer got into a bit of an altercation with this Beauchamp bloke. We'll look into it. Was there anything else?"

"No, so you can just go back to your wanking off," said Ron, standing and making for the door.

"All right, I will," said Draco.

Ron made a noise of disgust and swung the door open. "Come on, Gin."

Ginny followed him to the door and gently pushed him out. "You go on, Ron. I want to chat with Malfoy for a bit. I'll be right down."

Once her brother was gone and she had closed the door firmly behind him, Ginny turned to address Draco, but was perplexed when he wasn't where she'd left him. She found him peering at the objects sitting on top of her bureau, before moving on to her desk and then her bedspread. Despite the fact that she was now a grown woman, Ginny could feel heat rising to her face.

"So what do you think?" she asked, attempting to sound business like.

"I think I need to come over one day when I can actually pick up some of these things and examine them properly," Draco said.

"No," said Ginny.

"Why, are you afraid that I'll spread around your love for ... let's see ... My Little Hippogriff dolls?" Draco grinned. "Or that I'll know too much about you?"

Ginny shuddered to think what kind of profile he'd piece together on her from her belongings as a young girl. She decided to be honest. "Yes."

Draco stepped closer to her, and even though she knew he was nothing but an image, she held her breath as if he were going to touch her. "It's too late. I already know all about you, Ginny," he said softly, and his expression was tender.

Ginny felt some odd emotion making itself known in her stomach, and in confusion, she looked away. "I'll set up a meeting with Beauchamp tomorrow," she said. "What did you think of the debriefing with Harry and Hermione? I thought it went well."

"It was fine. Want to come over?"

"What?" Ginny was startled. "You want to look over the interviews some more?"

"Interviews," said Draco. "Sure."

"Well," she hesitated. "I'm really supposed to be spending time with Ron and my parents..."

"Oh."

"But the twins should be here soon," Ginny amended. "And this is really important. Lives are at stake."

"Yes, think of all the lives."

"And I have something for you," Ginny said mischievously. "I think you'll like it very much."

Draco looked delighted.

"Not that," Ginny said in disgust.

His expression fell.

"But it's almost as good. Chocolate pie!"

"I love chocolate pie," Draco said, his face brightening again. "Did you make it?"

"Er..." Truth was, there might have been a time or two in which Ginny had brought Draco some pie that her mother had made, and didn't disabuse him of the notion that she had been the one to make it from scratch, in her own kitchen. "My mum helped," she compromised.

"Well, I'm sure it will be good anyway. You know I love the idea of your little hands making a pie just for me."

"Right," said Ginny, feeling guilty. She had deliberately gotten her mother to package up the pie for the sole purpose of giving it to Draco, so that was pretty much the same thing, wasn't it?

Draco looked so happy that she decided it was.

xXxXxXx

Hermione didn't know if she was anticipating the afternoon, or dreading it. On the one hand, it would be like old times, the three of them being together again; on the other hand, she would have to withstand Ron's constant haranguing over her supposed affair with Malfoy. Harry would probably convince Ron that Hermione and Malfoy were meant to be, and she would seriously consider homicide or suicide right there at the table.

They had always been maddening, her boys. She'd been possessive of Ron and Harry almost from the moment they'd met, but just because she loved them so dearly didn't mean they couldn't drive her batty. Harry had always been impetuous, and Ron more so; together, they had almost no sense at all, haring off into danger and near-expulsion without stopping to think about the consequences. Bad enough at school, when expulsion had been the only consequence, but their daredevil behavior continued into young adulthood, nearly gave her many a heart attack during the war, and provided her a cause to pray for every night, without fail. Please, she would pray, please let Ron and Harry grow out of this. They had grown out of it, of course; she'd just never assumed it would be at the expense of them growing apart.

Childhood friendships weren't meant to last forever, but Hermione had been so sure theirs would. It had flourished into adolescence and young adulthood, but recently, time and distance had put it through the ringer. She hoped that, if nothing else, today's lunch would serve to remind them why the three of them were better together than apart. Maybe Ron would make time to come home more. Maybe she and Harry could attend a few more of his games, not for work, as Harry sometimes did, but just to show support for their friend.

Who, speak of the devil, was making his way through a throng of people toward her. She'd chosen to sit outside because it was such a lovely day, and this was one of the few wizarding establishments that accommodated outdoor dining. Ron strode through the patio quickly, smoothly avoiding a collision with a waiter who wasn't paying attention. He sent her a grin as he pulled out the chair next to her.

"Quidditch star's grace in motion," she commented.

"That's why they pay me the big Galleons," Ron confirmed. "If I may ask, why have you chosen to sit outside with the bloody sun blazing down on us?"

Hermione frowned. "It's not that hot, is it?" The weather was glorious to her, considering she spent most of her days locked in an office at the Prophet. This was the first truly nice day she'd been able to enjoy in months. One of the things you learned growing up in England -- wizard or Muggle -- was that sunny days were rare and precious gifts.

"No," Ron groused, "but I get enough sun as it is, and Mum says it's beginning to disagree with my fair complexion."

"Yes, I see what she means," Hermione noted gravely. "You are beginning to look a little red around the eyes. Oh, but maybe it's not the sun at all, maybe you're just getting old."

"Silence, woman," Ron ordered. "I am eternally twenty-one and there isn't a thing you can do about it."

She smiled fondly at him, and he reached over to take her hand. There had been a time when she'd begged him for public displays of affection; he'd replied they weren't his style, that he showed her how he felt in private, and wasn't that enough? Hermione had always assumed that it would be, and she wasn't that demanding, not really. She hadn't wanted him to throw her down across the table and snog her silly; she'd just wanted something simple, something that showed he cared.

Was it really so much, wanting him to hold her hand? And now, just like Ron, here he was, doing something she'd always asked him to do, a day late and a Sickle short. But when she sighed at him, it was with affection, and she gave his hand a squeeze, because one look in his eyes told her that he had absolutely no idea that his casual gesture had brought up so much turmoil in her heart.

Just then, Harry Apparated at her side, and she was shocked to feel a flutter in her stomach. It was Harry, after all, and just because she was in love with him didn't mean he should be causing her insides to flutter. But his hair was a little messier than usual, and his clothes looked rumpled, like he'd just rolled out of bed in them. Hermione liked things to be neat and tidy, orderly to the extreme. Most of the time, she would exorcise from her life anything that didn't fit just so, that made her feel less than completely put together.

Harry was not one of those things.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, then seemed to take in Ron and Hermione holding hands with a slight pause. "Or maybe I'm not?" His tone was measured and made Hermione blush, though not from embarrassment; he was getting the wrong idea, and he obviously felt like he'd intruded on them. It made her angry because Harry would turn around right now and leave her and Ron to each other if they asked him to. It made her angry because she'd never, ever wanted to use Ron in any way, particularly not in a fruitless attempt to make Harry jealous, and now she had. How was holding Ron's hand any different from the pathetic show she was putting on with Malfoy?

At that moment, Hermione was just a little bit sick of herself. Ron seemed totally unaware of any undercurrents.

"I can't believe you're letting her see Draco Malfoy," Ron said in lieu of a formal greeting.

"Sorry, I thought you'd met our Hermione," Harry noted as he took the seat on Ron's other side, across from Hermione. "The word 'let' isn't in her vocabulary."

Ron waved his hand in a vague way that translated into, 'Oh, go on with you and your rubbish.'

"It's no one's business but mine who I'm seeing," she said with as much dignity as she could manage, considering she desperately wanted Harry to realize that it was his business and ought to forbid her from seeing Malfoy again.

"But you've obviously gone mad," Ron pointed out, "and it's up to us, as the people who love you most in this world--" with that, he brought her hand to his heart and made a great show of looking worriedly into her eyes, "--to make sure you don't do irrevocable harm to yourself during this time."

"Excellent use of the word irrevocable in a sentence, Ron," Hermione praised him, sliding her hand out from beneath his and patting his shoulder once, fondly.

"I'm glad the Word-a-Day calendar I brought back from Muggle London wasn't a total waste," Harry commented, though he seemed a bit withdrawn from the conversation.

"Yes, very thoughtful of you," Ron said. "Nearly as thoughtful as letting me know some bloke was going around killing Quidditch players. Oh, wait, that's right; you didn't do that."

"Oh, Ron, don't be cross," Hermione said immediately. "We wanted to tell you, but Ginny thought it would be better--"

"Yes, yes," Ron said, waving her off. "I'm only joking around. It's fine. I could be killed at any moment, but it's fine."

"I assume Ginny mentioned that this might be a great time to extend your vacation," Harry said.

"She did indeed," Ron said jovially.

"And I'm sure she stressed how dangerous the current situation is," Hermione continued.

"It's as though you were both there," Ron said.

"Ron," Hermione said warningly.

"Hermione," he said in the exact same tone.

"Let him alone," Harry said after a moment of tense silence. "He's never listened to a thing you've said to him; I doubt he'll start now."

Hermione thought that sounded a little more bitter than Harry had perhaps intended, but when she tried to catch his gaze, she found he was staring at some point beyond Ron's left shoulder. It bothered her, because Harry was obviously bothered, and there was nothing she could do about it. It bothered her that Ron wasn't picking up on it, when once he had probably been more attuned to Harry's moods than she had.

It bothered her that the three of them were all together, sharing a meal, for the first time in months, and there was anything to be bothered about.

"That's not true," Ron said, and Hermione forced her attention back to the conversation. "I've listened to loads of things she's said."

"All right," Harry conceded, "you've listened, but have you actually heard what she has to say and taken her advice?"

Ron remained stubbornly silent.

"There's your answer, then," Harry said, and while his tone was friendly, Hermione could tell he was tense. She wondered if he did feel jealous of her and Ron, and hated herself a little more when she consciously leaned closer to Ron to test her theory. A muscle in Harry's jaw flexed and she was flabbergasted. And a little giddy. His tenseness only lasted a moment; as soon as it passed, he changed the subject and began discussing the newest broom or some such with Ron. Hermione wasn't sure, as she started to tune them out at that point, as she had done for years, and let the boyish enthusiasm they displayed when matters concerning Quidditch were discussed buzz around her like a pleasant white noise.

The giddiness she felt in her belly was slowly being replaced with cold, numbing realization. Harry had been jealous before, she remembered, but not because he wanted Hermione for himself, or anything of the kind. It'd been the summer before their fifth year; Harry had felt like they were leaving him behind to be together, even though that had never been their intention, and it had hurt him deeply. Hermione wondered if he still felt that now, even as he pushed them together, every time they would break up and start up again; she wondered if he felt like he was losing his best friends over and over again.

Harry had never talked about any of this to her, but Hermione liked to think she knew him fairly well by this point, and, being one of his best friends, had at least some rudimentary understanding of his psyche. He'd grown up almost completely alone, surrounded only by people who hated and feared him. The first friends he'd ever made in his life had been her and Ron, and eventually, they'd become more enamored of each other than of him. Ron had been the most important thing in the world to Harry during fourth year; it must have killed him when Ron chose her to be his most important thing.

Or at least, that's how Harry must have seen it. In truth, Hermione wasn't sure she had ever been first on Ron's list of priorities; sometimes, she wondered if she had even made second. He'd loved her, yes, but she'd always gotten the feeling he loved Harry more; the brother he'd actually got to pick instead of being born with. Then there was the need Ron had to distinguish himself from the rest of his family, to stand out. Percy had been selected Head Boy; Bill managed to be a top Gringotts Bank employee, as well as an invaluable member of the Order; Charlie was brilliant with dragons; the twins were always getting into trouble; Ginny was the girl. It left very little for Ron to do to distinguish himself, but there had always been one thing Ron did better than anyone else: he was Harry Potter's best friend, and Harry needed him.

They'd drawn such strength from each other when they were children, Hermione remembered. She'd almost felt like an interloper half the time, putting a damper on their fun because someone had to be sensible about things. But the two of them, oh, they'd been thick as thieves; the expression was practically invented for them. It reminded her of the way Lupin and Snape and nearly everyone else had always talked of James Potter and Sirius Black.

As she always did when her mind took such side trips, Hermione said a silent thanks to anyone listening that Harry and Ron were still here with her, still whole. Maybe not as close as they once were, but the connection was still there; you could see it in every word they spoke, in the comforting familiarity that surrounded lifelong friends no matter how much time or distance separated them. They were each a fundamental part of the other's history, as connected as family, and twice as affecting for being a part of each other, not by blood, but by the power of their choosing.

"Sad to say, I think we've lost her," Ron said, and as always happened, Hermione's subconscious chose to clue her in when her attention was most needed.

"You've done nothing of the sort, Ron," she said primly, giving him her full attention. "I was just waiting for you to exhaust the subject of Quidditch before I interjected any thoughts of my own."

"I'm surprised you let us go on so, what with a mad killer on the loose," Ron said. "Say, why is some bloke taking a hack at us poor, defenseless Quidditch stars, anyway? We're making a useful contribution to the world, bringing it joy and entertainment, and bringing hope to the lives of little tiny children with very little to look forward to. Why doesn't this madman go take a hack at someone like Malfoy, who contributes very little joy and entertainment to the world, and I can almost guarantee brings absolutely no hope to the lives of tiny children with very little to look forward to?"

"Ron," Harry scolded lightly.

"Really, Harry, he's always had very little tact," Hermione said. "Don't go acting shocked now."

"Oh, sod off," Ron told them both.

Hermione laughed, and it was the sort of laugh she hadn't had in ages; it was the kind of laugh she used to have before the war, even during the war, when the three of them were together; even with the sky falling down around them, they were invincible. Ron had always been able to make her laugh, even when she'd wanted to strangle him; it had gotten them through a lot of difficult times in their relationship, and it had been the thing she'd most missed while he'd been recovering. It felt so good to hear him make jokes now that she was filled with a wary kind of joy that was threatening to burst out of her. Right then, she didn't care about Malfoy's insane plan or making Harry fall in love with her, because he was with her, with her and Ron, and they were together, and why had it ever gone this long without that being true? How could they have possibly survived so many months -- years, if she was honest -- without this feeling?

"I love you both so much," Hermione said, and she covered one of each of their hands with hers, unashamed of the tears in her eyes.

They both looked uncomfortable. Ron looked almost horrified by the unprompted display of affection, and Harry couldn't meet her eyes.

"I mean it," Hermione continued. "You're -- you're honestly the most important people in the world to me, and I wouldn't know what to do without you, and no matter what, that is one thing that will never, ever change."

"Um, us too, Hermione," Harry said, when it became clear Ron wasn't going to speak.

"Oh, sod off," Ron said again, but he was beet red, and Hermione couldn't stop smiling.

"You know you love us, too," Hermione prompted. "Go on, say it, it'll make you feel better."

"It will not," Ron said vehemently.

Harry had finally begun to work out of his embarrassment, Hermione could see, because he slid his chair closer to Ron's and put a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Ron," he said seriously, "it's all right. You can say it. I love you."

"Stop it, you lunatic," Ron muttered, and she slid closer to him as well, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Ron returned the gesture, and Hermione kissed his cheek. Then, faster than she'd thought him capable, he turned his head and kissed her full on the mouth. Over Ron's shoulder, she could see Harry's eyes widen and his chair scoot back, almost on its own.

Hermione was so stunned, she didn't pull back immediately, and when the kiss ended, it was because Ron broke it. He grinned in a very self-satisfied way that made her long to strike him, her earlier fuzzy thoughts dissolving, as they often did, in the face of her indignation.

"Ron," she fumed, but he held up a hand.

"That was payback for all the mental pictures I got while I was having a conversation about a dead teammate with my baby sister and Malfoy," he said, then shuddered. "Honestly. Bad enough I have to live with the idea of her prancing around with him every day at work, but for my soul mate, the only woman I will ever truly love" -- it was actually stunning, she thought, that anyone so full of crap could actually continue to walk around amongst humans without exploding -- "to fancy him on top of it all -- well. I had to teach you a lesson."

"You're right, Ron, and I am duly chastised," Hermione said. "Never again will I cross you for fear of retribution in the form of a kiss, truly the vilest punishment you have ever conceived."

It took him a moment, but once he'd processed what she said, Ron narrowed his eyes. "That's it," he declared. "You have gone too far. I'm sorry, Hermione, but not even our friendship can save you now. You must pay."

He was tickling her a second later, and amidst her protests of "I'll tell your mother," "I'll get my wand," and "I swear, Ron, I'll box your ears myself," she caught Harry watching them with a sad smile on his face. That smile tugged at her heart, because she'd seen it on his face a thousand times, usually followed by a lecture in which he begged them to get it right, because he couldn't stand seeing them hurt each other when they were obviously so in love. Ron backed off on his tickling, and Hermione halfheartedly promised that she'd learned her lesson, whatever it might be, and they set about ordering lunch. Harry was withdrawn for the rest of the afternoon, but Ron more than made up for it with a series of boisterous tales of life on the road, and adventures within the Weasley household. There were very few pokes at Malfoy, for which Hermione was grateful; she didn't feel up to feigning defense for him at the moment.

When they parted, Hermione's heart was heavy, and her mind was made up; she was very good at lying to her best friends when it was necessary, but this foolishness was not necessary. She would return the hideous clothes Malfoy had had delivered to her, and she would end this farce before it went any further.

What point was there, really, in trying to win the affections of a man so dedicated to the love he thought you had for his best friend?

xXxXxXx

On the whole, Ginny'd had better days.

The only good thing about this particular bad day was that Draco had a share in it. It was true: misery loved company. Well, hers did, anyway.

It began at seven in the morning, when she arrived at work. They had both wanted to get an early day, knowing there was a lot of work ahead of them. The only hitch to this plan was that the coffeemaker was broken -- again. No matter how many times they requested a new coffeemaker, the maintenance department insisted that the old one was fine and just needed a little fine tuning. After losing to Ginny at Rock, Parchment, Scissors, Draco was obliged to run out and get them both lattes, grumbling all the while.

The moment he arrived back at the office with two cups of java, the morning paper came in. Ginny let him have it first. Though normally she might have enjoyed a pre-breakfast tussle with him over the Prophet, today all she wanted was to get some caffeine into her system, and as quickly as possible.

She'd just taken a sip when Draco spewed coffee all over the paper and began shouting curses, turning the air blue with his language.

"What's the matter?"

"Look," he said, shoving the paper in her face.

"I can't read it when it's two millimeters away from my nose," she responded calmly, taking it from his white-knuckled grasp.

The proud headline of the Prophet read: RECENT DEATHS LINKED TO "QUIDDITCH CUTTER"

"Oh, no," Ginny said in dismay.

"'Oh, no,' is right," Draco snarled. "This is what we get for trying to placate those attention mongers. Your friends," he nearly spat.

"My friends?" Ginny responded hotly. "One of them is your girlfriend, if you'll recall. Why didn't you have her put a lid on it? Too busy taking care of other matters, were you, Malfoy?"

Draco looked as if he wanted to shake her senseless. Then he seemed to reconsider and took a deep breath instead, rubbing a finger over his chin. Probably has no response to my dead-on assessment, Ginny thought acidly. Stupid, typical, bastard man.

"I don't know how she could do this to me," he murmured, sounding perplexed, "after all the tender moments we've shared."

Ginny flung the paper at his head in reply. Draco raised his hands to protect himself, then picked up the loose pages and smoothed them out.

"You're so easy to wind up. 'Aurors with the Ministry have few suspects, and fewer leads,'" he read. "'Ministry officials declined to comment on whether the deaths of Thomas Kittridge, Henry Thorpe, and Cal Canderer are linked, but those of us at the Prophet believe them to be the first in a line of serial victims.'" Draco snorted. "Do they have trained monkeys over there that write this rubbish?"

Harry and Hermione hadn't known the latest when they'd put the paper to bed last night -- not that Draco or Ginny had rushed to inform them. The forensics had come back on Canderer, and it'd been no surprise to find he'd been killed the same way as the previous two victims, with one notable exception: the killer hadn't cleaned up after himself. Canderer's crime scene had been far more gruesome, indicating that either something had happened to prevent it, or the perpetrator was escalating and was no longer concerned with being careful. They'd also found a fiber under one of Canderer's fingernails, and though additional tests were being performed on that small piece of evidence, it could very well turn out to be nothing.

"'The motive and gender of the "Quidditch Cutter" remains unknown.'" Draco binned the paper with far more force than strictly necessary. "And it will remain unknown to the two of you for much longer, if I have any say in it," he said darkly.

Don't say it. Don't say it. Oh, bugger it, I'm going to say it. "I wouldn't discount pillow talk so easily, Malfoy," Ginny murmured, her arms crossed.

He stared at her. "Are you suggesting that I would reveal confidential facts of this case for sex?" he asked incredulously.

Ginny felt a funny lurch in her stomach that threatened to make her latte come back up. "Anything is possible," she said, trying to sound properly severe.

Draco looked at her as if he didn't recognize her. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response, Weasley," he said coldly.

Ginny pressed her lips together and excused herself to the loo. She splashed water on her face and willed her hands to stop shaking. What had come over her? Of course Draco wasn't going to tell Hermione anything, regardless of her romantic status with him. He was a consummate professional, and had never given her even the slightest concern that he didn't take his work seriously. He didn't deserve her accusations, especially as they hadn't come from a place of rationality, and she wasn't sure why she'd given voice to them in the first place.

"I'm sorry," she said as she reentered the office.

Draco nodded in response without looking at her. Biting the inside of her cheek, Ginny went to work quietly at her desk. She hated quarreling with him; it tied her up and made it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. When she found herself rereading the same sentence for the third time, she forced herself to pay more attention to the words. What the hell does this say...

"Thanks," Draco said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Ginny looked up. "Pardon?"

"Thanks," he repeated. "For the pie last night. It was the best one yet."

She knew this was his way of apologizing to her, and was so relieved by his overture that she responded, "It was, wasn't it?" before realizing how immodest that would sound to someone who believed she'd baked it herself. "I mean ... that is ... I changed the recipe a bit to make it, um, better." Ginny wracked her brain for some baking knowledge. "You know, to make the chocolate ... chocolatey-er, and the crust, um, crustier."

Draco nodded solemnly. "It was definitely both chocolatey-er and crustier."

"I'm glad you thought so," said Ginny, smiling a little. He smiled back, and the knots in her stomach loosened.

They worked in companionable silence this time, until an owl arrived bearing an official French Ministry tassel and a letter. They'd managed to secure an interview with Alain Beauchamp for that very day (really, the request been out of courtesy; if he'd refused to see them they would have gone to France and compelled him). After getting a quick bite to eat, they'd Apparated to Quiberon Stadium once more.

At first, things went swimmingly. Beauchamp was courteous and professional. Sure, underneath the veneer of civility was a clear disdain for the British (or perhaps anyone who wasn't Beauchamp himself), but it wasn't the first time Ginny had encountered disdain from others, and she'd learned early on to ignore it. Other people could think of her however they liked; she knew who she was and wasn't about to let anyone make her feel inferior.

Draco, of course, hadn't been willing to let it go at that.

Ginny conducted the interview while he circled the room like a vulture sensing carrion. At one point she even thought about asking him to stop, because he was making her nervous.

Initially, Beauchamp appeared unaffected, and Ginny had to admire what a cool customer he was. If he was hiding something, they'd be hard pressed to find it out from one interview. But Draco seemed determined to make the other man break, and eventually, he did. Ginny and Draco had gotten approval from Beauchamp's supervisor to spend as much time with him as they needed, so they did just that. After nearly three straight hours of being questioned and orbited, beads of sweat began to dot the Frenchman's forehead. The moment he broke was when Ginny asked the same question for the fourth time, and before he could answer again with the same neutral statement he always responded with, Draco suddenly whirled on him and snarled the question in French. Beauchamp had turned beet red and answered in kind, and suddenly there was rapid-fire French dialogue between them that Ginny only vaguely followed, as her French was spotty at best.

She thought she might have caught the phrase "giant flesh-eating wombat," but that couldn't be right.

Afterward, trudging back to the office, Ginny remarked on the uselessness of the entire session, as what little evidence they had didn't necessarily point to Beauchamp as the culprit. By the time they'd left, they had accomplished nothing more than flustering a security guard.

"And what did you say to him, anyway?" Ginny questioned.

"Oh, I was just trying to get his cooperation by mentioning my grandmother. He didn't know I was from that Malfoy family. As if there are so many," Draco sniffed, then grinned smugly. "But he won't be making that mistake again."

"Malfoy ... you didn't ... I mean, there wasn't any mention of a giant flesh-eating wombat, was there?"

"What? Oh, Maurice? You heard that part, did you? I didn't know you could speak French, Weasley."

"Only a little bit, but that's not the point! You're going to get us in trouble for threatening a witness! What if he reports us?"

"I didn't threaten him, and he won't report us," Draco said in that way he had, seeping outrage that she would dare suggest such a thing. "And anyway, he's not really a witness, so even if I did threaten him, it's fine."

Ginny had been too drained to argue further.

When they arrived back at the office, an owl was waiting for her from Harry, who wanted to know if she'd like to meet up for drinks later. No doubt he wanted to know how things had gone with Ron. Well, he'd have to wait for the answer, as Ginny didn't anticipate being able to leave for hours yet.

To her surprise, Harry responded to her request for a rain check with a plea to reconsider, saying that he would meet her as late as she wanted. Ginny's first reaction was that it would be late and she just wanted to go home. Then she caught Draco smiling to himself, obviously not thinking about anything work related, and she decided that perhaps having drinks with Harry was just the ticket. She suggested going to Unrobed, a trendy new restaurant that she and Draco had been to several times in the recent past. (He absolutely loved the place.) Ginny had to admit the atmosphere was wonderful, as was the food, which was why she suggested it. She probably wouldn't have a chance to eat before then.

Ginny thought about inviting Draco along, but when she casually brought up the possibility of dinner, he looked at her blankly and said that he already had plans for the evening. And she didn't want to probe any further than strictly necessary, knowing that, however irrational it was, if he said those plans were with Hermione it would render her unable to enjoy her night.

xXxXxXx

Even at nine on a Tuesday night, Unrobed was packed to the gills. Ginny had to get past the uppity hostess (who was a lot less friendly when Draco wasn't around) in order to squeeze through the mass of people who seemed determined not to let her through. After a bit of searching she spotted Harry's thick mass of unruly dark hair and trademark glasses, so she began to make her way over to him.

"Isn't this place insane?" she gasped, scooting into the booth. "Nice table."

Harry shrugged. "I didn't have anything to do with it."

Ginny laughed. "You only think you didn't. Do you know how difficult it is to get a table like this? Right next to the window?"

Harry scoffed, just as she'd known he would. "It was luck," he dismissed, uncomfortable as ever with his fame. "I arrived just as this table opened up. I've ordered a G&T for you."

"Bless you," Ginny said gratefully. She removed her coat and settled in, the drinks arriving just as she flashed Harry a smile. "Cheers," she toasted, then downed most of her glass in one gulp.

"Hard day at work?" Harry asked mildly, taking a small sip of his beer.

"Long. Very long," Ginny replied. She pointed a finger at him. "You're not trying to use our friendship to get information out of me, are you?"

"If I thought it would do any good, I might," he said, grinning. "But since I know you'll be a wall of silence, I'm just asking as a friend."

Ginny flagged down a server and ordered a beer with a chaser, which Harry seconded. "Good. I'm just beat enough that my will might not be as indomitable as usual."

"Thanks for the tip."

Ginny watched him as he sipped at his drink. Harry had always been a contradiction to her, which had probably contributed to her silly crush on him all those years ago. There was a casual air that hung about him, as if he didn't have a care in the world, but she knew he carried a lot of weight on his shoulders. He'd been a young boy with the responsibility of a dozen men, yet rarely had he ever managed to look as tired as he did just then. Rolling her head around, trying to ease the tension in her own shoulders, Ginny eyed her friend closely. "You look really uptight, Harry."

"I do?" He sounded genuinely surprised.

"Yeah. 'Fess up, Potter -- what's bothering you?"

"Nothing," he answered, too quickly.

"Yeah, nothing's bothering me, too," Ginny muttered. "Come on, we're here as friends, right? You can tell me. Is it just that you're tired from your job of making Ministry Aurors sound like incompetent morons?"

He didn't even have the good manners to look ashamed. "Ah, read our article, did you?"

"It was kind of difficult to avoid, given the screaming headline. The Quidditch Cutter -- I like it. Catchy."

"I bet Malfoy loved it." Now he just looked ridiculously satisfied.

"Oh, he did, he did," said Ginny. "He raved about it. Read select passages out loud, even." Harry laughed. "But officially, my position is that I'm terribly angry with the two of you, the way you took advantage of us kind, accommodating souls in order to write a sensationalistic article that serves no higher purpose than to stroke your own overly large egos."

"Hmm. Quoting anyone in particular?" Harry raised his eyebrows.

"Maybe."

"How'd it go with Ron last night?"

"Oh, it's just one happy topic after another with you, Potter." Ginny sighed and shrugged. "About as expected, I'd say."

Harry nodded. "Hermione and I had lunch with him today."

"Did you?" Ginny was surprised; then Harry already knew what Ron was going to do, so why had he wanted to meet? "Did you manage to change his mind?"

"What do you think?"

"Just once, I wish he'd --" Ginny stopped. "But that’s my stupid brother, storming in head first without weighing the consequences. If he can even see the consequences anymore."

Harry rubbed his forehead wearily. "Yeah. It's sort of useless trying to admonish him, isn't it?"

"Well, that's always been true," Ginny said. "Even before the war."

They were both silent, and Ginny knew they were both reflecting on the past. She also knew he was probably thinking of what he might have done differently that might have made things better. Harry often did that; took things that weren't his fault and felt guilty about them. She wondered where he went sometimes, when his eyes got that far away look and he wasn't really in the present anymore, almost like a Time-Turner had hurled him halfway into the past. Ginny, on the other hand, spent a lot of time thinking about Percy and how grateful she was that Ron was still with them, however frustrating he could be at times.

"How was everyone else?" Harry asked after they'd both finished their drinks. "And are you hungry?"

"Starved," Ginny said.

After some consideration, they ended up ordering a salad and garlic bread to share, as well as a couple of hamburgers, chips, and two more beers.

"No one else was there," Ginny answered when the server departed. "Everyone ended up canceling for one reason or another. The twins might have showed up later."

Harry looked surprised. "I'll bet Ron wasn't too happy about that."

"Well, who can blame him? He barely gets any time off as it is, and when he does, no one can even make the effort to see him," Ginny said. "It's not as awful as all that, of course, but you know how Ron is."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. He didn't used to be like this."

"I know," Ginny said quietly, remembering the easygoing nature her brother had had before the war.

"At least the twins always manage to lift his spirits," Harry added, trying to sound cheerful. "But you don't know if they were there?"

Ginny shook her head. "I left a little early last night." She buried her face in her hands guiltily. "I'm such a hypocrite, talking about the others, when I'm no better!"

"At least you were there for most of it," Harry pointed out reasonably. "And I'm sure you had a good excuse for leaving."

"Well, yes," said Ginny, not sure why she was feeling a twinge of conscience. "Malfoy and I had some work to do."

"You did? What was it? Okay, you don't have to be specific, but did you find something else? Has there been another murder?" Harry kept his voice pitched low, but there was no mistaking his interest.

Ginny shifted uncomfortably. "No ... nothing like that. We went over the interviews the French Aurors conducted at the stadium."

Harry looked surprised. "I thought you did that on Sunday."

"We did," Ginny said. "But ... we need to be thorough. It's our jobs to be thorough."

"I understand that, but does it really require you to--" Here Harry stopped, studying her intently. For some reason Ginny wanted to avoid his gaze, but instead met it steadily, hoping to brazen her way out of the situation, though she wasn't quite sure what the situation was. "Of course," Harry murmured. "That makes total sense." He lifted his mug and took a deep gulp.

"What?" Ginny demanded. Her palms were tingling and she felt a little flushed. How much had she drunk? Only a couple of beers ... and a couple of shots ... and a G&T. It was nothing. They'd barely even started.

"You," Harry announced. For the first time, Ginny noticed the telltale flush on his neck, indicating his less-than-sober state. "You and him."

"You're drunk," Ginny said in disgust.

"No, I'm not," Harry denied. "But it wouldn't matter even if I were. It's as plain as the freckles on your face. You like him."

"I don't even know who you're talking about," Ginny scoffed, although she knew perfectly well. She wanted to derail him early if she could.

"Malfoy. You like him. You want to have sex with him."

"Harry!" Ginny's screech was so loud that it drew interest from several patrons. This was Unrobed, after all -- anything could be happening. She leaned forward and drew her mug close to her face, trying to hide behind it. "I don't," she hissed furiously. "Draco's my partner and that's all."

"Ha! You just called him 'Draco'!"

"So what? I call him Draco sometimes."

"Yes, but when you say it, it sounds like 'Draaayyyyy-co,'" Harry mimicked, "all lovey like."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Harry Potter, you are so drunk I can't even listen to you. Next you're going to be telling me and that guy over there that you love us and want to live with us."

Harry looked over at the bloke Ginny had indicated and gave a delicate shudder. "No, I'm not drunk. Or at least, I'm still sober enough to know what I'm saying. And I do love you. But I hate you, too."

Now it was Ginny's turn to be surprised. Harry had looked down immediately after his proclamation, and looked so miserable that she knew he was telling the truth. "You hate me? Why?" Ginny was, naturally, hurt. And, all right, maybe a little tipsy. But why should he hate her?

Harry took a deep breath and ran both hands through his hair, looking so overwrought that Ginny's hurt gave way to curiosity. Something was clearly bothering him, but he was being so damn reticent. She'd have to coax it out of him. "Harry? What is it? What did I do?"

"You set Hermione up with Draco," he mumbled.

Their food arrived, but Ginny ignored her rumbling stomach and focused on Harry. "Not that again," she said. "I don't want to talk about that." If she could go back in time and keep herself from ever coming up with that idea, she would. But time turners were rare, and she doubted she'd get Ministry sanction to use one for this purpose, anyway. She was ready to admit that, for whatever reason and despite her initial intentions, Draco and Hermione being together bothered her. Ginny didn't know why it was, but after questioning herself constantly and coming up short on answers, she'd decided to accept it as just one of those things.

"Well, too fucking bad!" Harry snapped, making Ginny stare at him in amazement. She didn't know if he'd ever used that tone with her before, and he almost never cursed. "You did it, it's all your fault, and I want you to undo it!"

"I can't undo it," Ginny said. "I would if I could!"

"They're dating," Harry whispered. "They like each other." He looked like he might cry, which made Ginny feel bad. "Oh God, I think I'm going to be sick."

"You just need to eat something," Ginny said encouragingly. "You haven't eaten in hours, and you've had a lot to drink. Eat this burger." She pushed one of the plates at him.

After looking at it dubiously, Harry picked up the proffered item and took a tentative bite. His next bite was large and healthy, and soon he was devouring the burger ravenously. Watching him reminded Ginny of how hungry she was, so she began to eat her own food.

After they were through, they asked for two glasses of water, which they drank thirstily.

"Do you think we'll need sobriety potions?" Harry asked.

Ginny shrugged and stifled a yawn. "We'll probably be okay."

"Just in case..." Harry said dubiously. "Maybe we should brew some. I've got things to do tomorrow, and I really don't need to be hung over."

"All right, then. I don't have the right ingredients, though, do you?"

"No. But didn't you say last time that Malfoy said--"

"No! We're not going there tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because ... because I saw him earlier, and he was ... with Hermione." Ginny bit her lip.

"Oh."

Subdued, the two of them picked at the remaining chips on their plates.

"What were they doing?" Harry sounded extremely reluctant to ask the question, but couldn't help himself.

"Nothing," Ginny hastened to assure. "She'd only just got there."

"There?"

"Malfoy Manor. It looked like she had brought overnight things. I cut off our communication before they felt like they had to explain. It was very uncomfortable." It also explained why Draco had been so surly when she'd accidentally contacted him with her ring, though, of course, she hadn't realized it was what she'd done until later. Ginny didn't quite know what had happened; one minute she was placing it on her finger after getting dressed from the shower, and the next she'd been looking around Draco's study. He hadn't seemed to notice her, so intent was he on what he was doing -- clacking away on that old Muggle typewriter she'd given him.

She'd been so surprised to see him using it (thinking he'd consigned it to the rubbish heap long ago) that she blurted, "What are you doing?" forgetting that her presence was, at the very least, unexpected. And indeed, after he'd recovered from the shock of her presence, they'd proceeded to have a mild row in which she tried to explain that her ring had malfunctioned, but he'd been maddeningly unsympathetic, practically biting her head off and generally being a complete jerk about the whole thing. She didn't understand what the hell his problem was, but Hermione showed up before she could straighten him out, and Ginny had left bitterly.

"So she's spending the night there?"

"I don't know," Ginny said, trying not to think about it. Harry looked so morose that even though she wanted to drop the subject entirely, she offered, "I know you're concerned about her, but you really shouldn't be. Draco really is a wonderful person. He'll treat her right. He's not the sort of man who cares about people easily, but when he does--"

"That's what I'm afraid of!" Harry said.

Ginny gaped at him. "You don't want him to care about her?"

"No!"

"But ... why?" Ginny was at a loss. She would have thought that if Hermione, who was one of his best friends, cared about someone, Harry would want to see those feelings returned. "Look, I know you didn't get along in school -- let's face it, none of us got along with him -- but don't you think it's past time that we let bygones be bygo--"

"It's not that," Harry interrupted. "I mean, I'm glad he's being decent. He'd better be. She deserves that. But..." He trailed off and wouldn't meet her eyes.

It was then that Ginny was struck with the realization that none of this had to do with Draco at all. "You're in love with Hermione," Ginny breathed, feeling both delighted and horrified at the same time. What had she done? A little voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Draco lectured her about the pitfalls of matchmaking, and she ruthlessly silenced it.

"Of course I love her!" Harry said, a dull flush creeping into his cheeks. "I mean, she's my best friend--"

"Oh, don't give me that bullshit," Ginny said bluntly. "It may have taken me awhile to get there, but now I can see right through you."

Harry opened his mouth as if to argue further, then appeared to give up. "You and Hermione both," he said.

"Oh, Harry," Ginny said sympathetically. "I feel so awful. Why didn't you tell me? Or rather," she quickly amended when he gave her a withering look, "why didn't you tell her?"

"Tell her?" he repeated incredulously. "Why in the world would I do that? So she can look at me with pity and discomfort while she finds a way to let me down gently, which, despite trying, will probably fail because she's never quite mastered the art of honesty with tact? Not to mention that by doing so, I'd be irrevocably altering our friendship to the point where it could never be the same. I couldn't take that. Look what it did to her and Ron. I couldn't lose her like that"

"What? Hermione and Ron are still friends," Ginny pointed out.

"Yes, but it's never been the same. She doesn't look at him the same way, and when she does ... it's because she's forgotten for a moment, and I can see it, Gin, I can see what happens to her face when she remembers again, and I can't ever have her look at me that way. It would kill me."

"Maybe it's not their relationship ending that's affected the way Ron and Hermione relate to one another. We're all different from who we used to be, Harry," said Ginny. "The war changed us. But you and Hermione have maintained a strong friendship even after all this time. I have to believe that's a good sign."

"Even if you're right, it's too late now," Harry said, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "I was hoping that with a little time she might, I don't know, start to see me differently. But now there's Malfoy, so I might as well give up."

"That's not true," Ginny protested. "You could win her back! They've only just started seeing one another; she likes you loads better than she likes Draco, I'm sure."

"Yeah, but in a totally different way," Harry said darkly. "Besides, do women usually end things with Malfoy?"

Ginny opened her mouth to say that of course Draco had had his relationships ended by his girlfriends plenty of times ... only she couldn't think of even one instance. Usually they'd just stop coming round, and when Ginny mentioned it, he'd just shrug and say he'd gotten bored, clearly uninterested in pursuing the topic further. Also, she could name at least two separate occasions on which she'd needed some form of consolation after a relationship had ended (whether or not she'd done the breaking off), and Draco had been a good friend. But she couldn't remember a single time when he'd needed to be consoled about the ending of a relationship. Therefore, she had to admit reluctantly, "Not really." Then she brightened. "But there's a first time for everything! You could break them up, Harry, I know you could! I could help!"

Harry looked dejected. "No ... if she's really happy with him, I don't want to jeopardize that."

"Sure you do!" Ginny said insistently. "Tell her he snores."

"Does he?"

"Who cares?" Ginny brushed the question aside impatiently. Honestly, Harry was behaving as if he'd never prevaricated before, and she knew for a fact that was not the case. "No. But oh! Tell her he's really messy, and leaves dishes and clothes lying around all the time."

"That would drive her crazy!" Harry said, his eyes lighting up.

"Only ... if she spent any amount of time with him, she'd figure out fairly soon that he's obsessively neat," Ginny said thoughtfully.

"So is she," Harry said, looking depressed again. "They're obviously perfect for each other. Hermione's number one complaint about me is how ridiculously messy I am. This plan would only work if I had something to offer her that Malfoy didn't, and it's glaringly obvious that I don't."

"It'll work!" Ginny insisted. "We're just not thinking hard enough. Let's see, what else ... well, to be honest, she already knows most of his negative qualities. He's conceited, and sarcastic..."

"Condescending," Harry supplied helpfully. "Rude ... chauvinistic ... dismissive ..."

"He's not all those things all the time," Ginny said loyally. "Only sometimes. But the point is, she's already aware."

"And she's fine with it." Harry finished off his water. "I think I need another beer."

"No, you don't," Ginny said. "I need your brain at full capacity so we can think of how to break them up."

"Why are you so determined to break them up, anyway?" Harry asked, looking at her suspiciously. "You're the one who wanted to get them together in the first place." In his voice was a world of condemnation.

"I just want to help you," Ginny responded primly.

Harry leaned forward and looked at her even more closely. She tried to meet his eyes, but after a couple of seconds had to pick up her own glass of water.

"No you don't!" he exclaimed. "I was right before! You're upset because he has a girlfriend he really cares about, and that bothers you, because you want him for yourself!"

"I don't think of Draco that way!" Ginny protested hotly. "But yes. All right? Yes, I admit it, thinking of the two of them together bothers me. Not because of what you're suggesting, but because ... I don't know, it's childish and stupid, but I think it's because the two of them were my friends first, and now they're -- well, now when they want to go out for drinks, or have dinner, or whatever, they won't think of doing those things with me. They'll have each other to do those things with. It's completely selfish, but now it's as though I've lost two friends, which isn't really the case, I know, I've admitted it was irrational ... but that's how it feels. And I'll get used to it; it'll just take a little time. It's hard when your best friend gets involved with someone. Well, you'd know."

"Yeah," said Harry glumly. "And I can understand how you might feel that way. But you know, Hermione will always be your best friend. She's told me loads of times that there are just some things she'd only feel right sharing with another woman."

"Right," said Ginny, shifting uncomfortably. "But I was sort of talking about Draco."

"Oh," said Harry. "Really? Not ... I mean, not that I don't think he could be someone's best friend" -- his tone implied otherwise, but Ginny let it go -- "but this isn't the first time he's gotten involved with someone since you've been partners, is it? He's always got a girlfriend."

"Not always," Ginny said defensively. "None of those other twits count. They weren't his friends. He was still my friend when he was going out with them. I could still depend on him." She noticed she was playing with her straw and forced herself to stop. "That's important to me."

"Well, of course it is," Harry said. "You have to feel you can count on him; your jobs and your lives rather depend on it."

Ginny looked at him, startled by the simple truth of that statement. "That's true. And he's different with Hermione than the others, so I'm not used to it." And while she knew she ought to be happy about it -- and in fact, would be incensed on Hermione's behalf if it were not the case -- it still made her feel inexplicably sad. "But like I said, it's just a matter of getting used to it. Draco would never let his personal life interfere with his work, so really, I don't have anything to worry about."

Harry sat back in his chair and said, "I don't really believe you. I think you do like him that way, but can't admit it to yourself."

"Fine, believe whatever you want, Harry. It doesn't bother me," Ginny lied. What she really wanted to do was argue with him until he understood with absolute certainty that she had zero romantic interest in Draco Malfoy, but she suspected that her protestation would only make him more set in his opinion.

"You know, it would be a lot easier if you and I had fallen in love," Harry mused.

"Much," Ginny agreed with feeling. "My family loves you..."

"... and I love them," he inserted quickly.

"I really like you and respect you..."

"Ditto."

"...and we get along really well."

"And we've known each other for a really long time."

"And frankly, I'm getting a little tired of the dating scene," Ginny said, sighing. "I mean, Jim is fine, but--"

Harry's brow furrowed. "I thought it was Peter. And didn't you guys break up?"

"No, there's another one. Jim. But we've only been on one date. In any case, Jim, Peter, whatever, it's all starting to feel the same," Ginny said, sighing. "There's this tedious process of getting to know them, and then at some point we figure out whether or not we actually even like each other, and more times than not, the answer is 'no.' And yet we're expected to be intimate and spend loads of time together. Does that make any sense to you? Dating is such a backwards, asinine process. People should be friends first. Like you and me."

"I agree! Figure out if you can even stand to be around one another for an extended period of time before starting anything else."

"Exactly. Harry," Ginny said hesitantly. "Why do you think we never tried to make a go of it?"

"I suppose it's because we don't like each other that way," said Harry thoughtfully.

"But how do we know? Have we ever tried?"

"I suppose not. When you liked me I was a bit of an ignorant prat, and when I liked you--"

"You liked me?" Ginny repeated in amazement. "When?"

Harry shrugged. "Oh, it was only for a couple of months in seventh year. But I was hardly alone. Suddenly, you had this body..." He waggled his eyebrows, then blushed a little. They both laughed.

"But see, that's exactly what I mean!" Ginny said, grinning. "It might have worked out, if only our timing had been a little better. But it's not really too late, is it?"

Harry's eyebrows shot upward. "What do you mean?"

"Well, we're sitting here talking about breaking Draco and Hermione up, when the real solution might be something far simpler and less destructive. Just think, we could even double date," she joked, although the idea of witnessing Draco and Hermione out on a date made her physically ill. But if she were in love with Harry, surely that wouldn't bother her?

"That's true," said Harry. "I admit I'm curious. And I've had enough to drink that this all makes a kind of sense."

"Me too," Ginny said. "I like experiments. And if it actually worked out, wouldn't it be great?"

"It would be great," Harry agreed.

"Okay, so are we really doing this?"

"Yes. Wait, are we?"

"I think so. I mean, don't you think?"

"Yes?"

"Okay, let's just do it."

"Okay. Yes. All right. Go."

Harry leaned over the table, resting his weight on his arms. Ginny, being smaller, had to move one of her legs up to the seat to push herself forward far enough.

And then she kissed him.

xXxXxXx

The first time she saw him, she was taken by his beauty; the curve of his jaw, the paleness of his skin, the cruelty in his eyes. She had every reason to distrust him, yet was compelled to put her life in his hands again and again without fear, sure that he would always keep her safe.

For his part, Deacon had never wanted to keep someone safe before, but something about Georgia, the fire of her hair, the way she looked at him as if she didn't think him a monster, brought out protective instincts he hadn't known he possessed.

Theirs was the unlikeliest of alliances and the strangest of friendships, yet over the years, they would work together and an unbreakable bond would form between them -- one that nothing would ever be capable of separating.

Except, perhaps, the cold hand of death.

Draco leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up onto the desk. He read the passage over again, highlighting the parts he wanted to consider rewording at some future time. It'd been at least a week since he'd last touched the manuscript, and he'd missed it more than he expected. Writing a novel hadn't always been one of his life ambitions, but inspiration had struck one day whilst he'd been studying the old Muggle typewriter Ginny had given him one Christmas as a gag gift. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do with the thing -- tossing it out with the trash sounded like a good idea (where most, if not all, Muggle things belonged) -- but the thought had suddenly occurred him that he could use it for its intended purpose.

He flipped through a few more pages, refreshing his memory and re-immersing himself in the story.

"Deacon," Georgia said with an exasperated air about her, "you know I've always found you ridiculously attractive and as utterly perfect as a man could be, but I just don't see you that way."

"And I don't want you to," Deacon declared. "I like that we're friends. I like that I can depend on you to always be in my life, no matter how much of an arse you think I've been."

She arched a brow at him. "And yet, your ego just can't stand that there's one woman on the planet totally immune to your charms."

"That's not the most incorrect statement you've ever uttered," he conceded.

Comfortable silence stretched out between them, and she took a sip of her juice, half pumpkin, half apple, that Deacon mixed up for her in the mornings when he made his coffee.

"I like it too, you know," she said finally.

"Hmm?" he asked, having lost track of the conversation.

"That we're friends," she clarified. "Our friendship. I like it, too."

They exchanged a smile and settled into the quiet together.

He'd told himself he was just going to type a word or two so he could see how it worked, to prove how very inferior Muggle technology was. He knew the answer in theory, but he'd never tested it before, and Draco never fully trusted anything until he'd examined it from every angle. To his surprise, the second he had put his fingers to the keys, he'd begun to feel an affinity for the contraption. He began typing ... and typing ... and typing. After awhile he actually learned where all the letters were (typical of Muggles to create an asinine system wherein the keyboard resembled some unsolvable puzzle) and began to formulate words. Even more surprising, the story had started to form itself. He'd never fancied himself a novelist, true, but he wasn't shocked to discover that he had yet another talent.

Where had he left off last time? Oh, yes ... Draco took a sip of his drink and began to type.

There were small liberties Deacon took with his off hours that no one, not even Georgia -- especially not Georgia -- ever knew about. He was not a man accustomed to judging his own passions to be inappropriate, but even he had to admit that the thoughts he sometimes had about his partner were perhaps pushing limits he'd rather not push.

They functioned well as partners, and finding someone you could both trust and tolerate was a rare thing in a work colleague -- though not as rare as being able to call that same colleague a friend. He wasn't willing to jeopardize either relationship for a good (and it would be good) shag, but that didn't mean he wasn't human. Sometimes, he had ... thoughts.

Such as the way she looked at work that day, and how exposed he felt when she caught him staring. He'd always felt the workplace was no place for a woman, and Georgia's distracting manner of dressing only made him more convinced. And it wasn't just her clothes ... it was also the smile she'd given him for making her drink just as she liked it, a smile he was insanely jealous of her giving anyone else. Or the thought of her back, arched in ecstasy, her mouth parted in a way he'd never seen, but imagined occasionally, usually in the quiet privacy of his adfasjlk;sd

"What are you doing?"

Ginny was standing in his living room.

It wasn't actually Ginny, of course, just a wispy, unsubstantial representation of her, but she could still see what he was doing, and since he hadn't expected her in the least, Draco still had a small heart attack when she spoke.

"I'm not afraid of ghosts," he barked, quickly (but hopefully not obviously) angling the typewriter so she didn't have a prayer of reading what he'd been writing. He hoped the typewritten pages he'd carelessly left on the table near his leather couch wouldn't draw her attention. "What?"

"Isn't that my line?" She sounded vaguely impatient, and he thought she had some cheek when she was the one who'd just barged in unannounced.

"Did you want something?" he countered.

She gestured at him and enunciated her words slowly. "What do you want?"

He was genuinely confused. Was it not really Ginny at all, but a ghost come to lecture him on the terrible life he was leading and to make him repent his ways before he regretted it forever? "You mean ... in life?"

"No, not in bloody life, right now! What did you want?"

"For you to go away," he snapped, the aggression in her voice sparking his own.

"Then why did you summon me?" She placed her hands on her hips in apparent exasperation.

Was he going mad? No, it had to be her. "I didn't summon you."

"But... then how..." She glanced down at the ring on her finger. "It must have malfunctioned," she said, looking a little embarrassed. "I just found myself here. I thought I must have missed it blinking or something. Sorry."

"Yes, well, leave immediately and we won't speak of it again," he said easily. Now that the shock and pique were beginning to recede, he began to worry. How long had she been there? Had she been standing behind him at any point? Had he mumbled some of the words aloud, as he tended to do, when he was writing? Was she going to push him to know what, exactly, he was doing hunched over the stupid typewriter?

"What are you doing?" she asked, looking at him curiously.

Apparently she was.

"Nothing," he snapped. "Why are you still here?"

"Excuse me," she said, looking annoyingly gorgeous in her casual clothes. Was that what she'd been wearing under her robes today? Shame he'd missed it until now. Though Ginny in Auror robes looked good, too. It always irritated him a little bit when she looked more gorgeous than usual, though he didn't know why. It used to irritate him that he thought she looked gorgeous at all, but he'd gotten used to it after the first year or two they'd been partners. "Apparently someone gets surly when guests show up without pie."

"You're excused," he said magnanimously.

She looked as though she couldn't believe he was being so dismissive. "Fine," she bit out.

"Fine," he said back, just as shortly. "You apparently can't manage to control your own ring; that's your problem. But now it's infringing upon my evening, and I don't appreciate it. We work hard, Ginny, and my private time is very important to me."

He felt like a bit of an arse even as he said it, but he'd been on edge all day, from the moment he'd read that pathetic article by the laughably hard-hitting team of Potter and Granger. Ginny had all but picked a fight with him earlier, and while he'd forgiven her for it, he was still irritable where she was concerned. All he'd been looking forward to was coming home, having a brandy, and putting in some work on his novel.

Yes, explaining all that to her would go over smashingly. Not only would she laugh him out of his own study once she found out he was writing a work of fiction, but she would probably tell Potter and Granger and her prat of a brother and the four of them would have a great guffaw at the expense of that Malfoy git. He knew Ginny was on his side for the most part, but sometimes he feared that if her loyalties were ever truly tested, he would find that they actually lay with the lot of goody-two-shoes she'd grown up with rather than her Ministry-assigned partner.

Draco didn't fancy the news of his novel as being anything revolutionary enough to test anyone's loyalty, but he was annoyed and obviously in the wrong where this spat with Ginny was concerned, so wallowing in a bit of self-pity for possible slights helped ease his conscience a little.

"All right," Ginny said, looking ever so slightly miffed. "Sorry to have caused so much trouble for you. I never realized my presence in your life was such a disturbance. I'll try to keep it in mind the next time you come round to sleep on my couch because you can't stand..."

She trailed off at the sound of quick footsteps out in the hall. Draco turned his head toward the door and a second later, Hermione Granger, weighed down with parcels, barged into his study.

"Oh, what fresh hell..." he muttered under his breath, glad when neither woman seemed to hear him. This was just another in a long line of unpleasant surprises determined to ruin his evening of quiet solitude and creativity. Had Granger ever even been to Malfoy Manor before? What the bloody fuck was she doing here? And didn't anyone believe in the courtesy of announcing their intent to visit prior to the fact anymore?

"Sorry," Granger said, looking between them. The head of steam that had obviously propelled her inside seemed to dwindle. "Your butler let me in. I didn't mean to intrude--"

"No, you didn't," Ginny said immediately, looking like she wanted to be anywhere but there at the moment. Then it seemed to dawn on her that she wasn't actually there, and she brightened. "It's fine. All my fault, really, sorry, total mistake. I didn't realize you were coming. I'll see you tomorrow, Malfoy."

Without giving him a chance to respond, she was gone, leaving him alone with Granger, which was possibly his least favorite thought of all time. Ginny's hot-and-cold moods where his "relationship" with Granger was concerned were starting to genuinely perplex him. She made a lot of noise about wanting him to find a nice girl and settle down, but when he finally did seem to be going along with her idea of what would make him happy, she still wasn't satisfied.

It was somewhat tedious, being so central to someone's existence. He decided that while she wanted him to be happy, Ginny would absolutely hate it if he weren't available whenever she needed a shoulder to cry on or a sympathetic ear to listen to her whine. Her couch was his second home (no matter how often he might try to pretend that it was too lumpy or wasn't nearly soft enough for him), and he wasn't particularly interested in changing that. The sort of women he normally dated suited him fine, just as his friendship with Ginny suited him fine, and her annoying habit of meddling in other people's business was just mucking things up. Ribbing her about Granger would show her the error of her ways, and hopefully, several years would pass without another insane matchmaking attempt. Draco sighed in satisfaction. Yes, if ever there had been a doubt (which there had not), he was truly a master of the human psyche -- Ginny's in particular.

Coming back to the moment, he noticed Granger still standing by the door, face scrunched up like an angry raccoon. "What do you want, then?" he asked, resigned to being kept from his novel for the rest of the evening.

"I'm here to return all this rubbish," Granger said, letting the parcels she held drop to the floor near his leather couch. "I don't -- I don't need any of it anymore."

Draco tried to appear interested. "Well, I'm glad to hear you've gotten Potter to come around already--"

"Bugger off," she hissed. "He hasn't come around at all, and you know it. What neither of us has admitted is that ... he never will. It's not -- I'm just not what he wants, all right? Better for everyone to admit it and end this insane scheme."

"Must we really go through this again?" Draco asked with a sigh.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Granger informed him primly.

"You most certainly do," he said firmly. "You come to me, blustering about how ridiculous or underhanded you find our plan. I organize my thoughts until you're finished, then I remind you that you desperately want to get inside Potter's trousers, and after a few moments of truly tense indecision, you agree to continue until we've landed you a Harry of your very own."

"You're a pig," Granger spat, "and I want nothing more to do with you."

"If you're going to be angry with me, I welcome it," Draco said, "but please do us both the courtesy of being angry with me, and not simply using me as a receptacle for all your frustration and humiliation about Potter." The idea of receiving even Potter's castoff frustration was enough to turn Draco's stomach.

To his horror, tears began to fill Granger's eyes. It was utterly intolerable that he would have to comfort a sobbing Hermione Granger, and so he quickly shifted tactics.

"I've also got a bloody bone to pick with you," he said, rising from his desk chair.

"About what?" That was good. Her voice was still thick with unshed tears, but she was getting her hair up like a wet cat, so it was unlikely she would cry. Hex him, perhaps, but not cry.

"Your article," he spat the word, "that appeared in the Prophet this morning."

"I thought it was quite good, actually," Granger argued. "Factual, not at all sensational, and I told you we'd be giving the killer a name."

"The Quidditch Cutter?" Draco exclaimed. "Why not ... the Slayer of Innocent People, or Hacks McGee!"

"Hacks McGee isn't at all accurate," Granger said logically. "It doesn't mean anything, does it?"

"I'm not going to strangle you right now, Granger, and I'll tell you why," Draco said calmly. "It's because if I did, they would write me up in the paper and give me a name like Reporter Roper and I couldn't bear the shame of it all."

For a moment, it looked like she was going to fight back, to say something equally cutting in response, but then she practically deflated.

Luckily, this new defeated Granger seemed to not want to burst out into tears, so Draco cautiously rejoiced his good fortune.

"I love him so much," she whispered, "and he doesn't want me at all. He never will, and all the clothes and makeup and hair charms in the world aren't going to change that."

Draco spat upon fortune, as this might be worse than tears: she was being vulnerable. He walked over to her and patted her shoulder once, quickly, before retracting his hand again.

"Buck up, Granger," he said cheerfully. "We've only just begun this campaign. By the time we're through with him, Potter won't even think another woman's name."

"I'm being comforted by Draco Malfoy," she mumbled, sitting heavily on his leather sofa and burying her face in her hands. "I can't believe it's come to this."

"We all have little ironies that make up our lives," Draco said brightly as he strolled to the trolley that held the liquor decanters and freshened up his drink. "Brandy?" he asked. There was no response. "Honestly, Granger, I know you didn't grow up in a proper house, but surely you've heard that when you're a guest in someone's home, and they offer you a drink, you're meant to make a resp-- put that down!"

Granger's eyes were wide as saucers as she held a stack of neatly typed paper in her lap. Draco spilled a few drops of brandy on the floor as he crossed the room in a few long paces, making a desperate grab at the pages.

"She loved him," Granger read aloud as she skillfully evaded his grasp. "He was her partner and the only person in the world she trusted beyond reason, and she loved him without knowing why or how, without knowing if he loved her back. She would tell him, Georgia had decided. She would tell Deacon in all his elegant perfection and superior grace; she would confess the secrets of her soul and hope that his cold, twisted heart could love her back." Her arm went limp, and Draco seized the opportunity and the pages she still held.

Draco clutched them to his chest protectively, barely even able to speak from outrage. "You had no right--"

"You're writing a book," Granger said incredulously.

"Yes, yes, so I'm writing a book--"

"You're writing a book about you and Ginny," she went on like an absolute lunatic.

"What? Don't be so ridiculous," he scoffed.

"Deacon and Georgia?"

"Very common names for fictional characters," he insisted, smoothing out the pages and placing them safely on his desk.

"Is she a redhead?" Hermione asked casually.

"You wouldn't know anything about the creative mind," Draco snapped, "but since you're so damnably interested, allow me to enlighten you. We novelists--"

She snickered. He ignored her.

"--take things from our every day lives and make them different, bigger, better--"

"So you're saying Ginny being in love with you would be better," Granger inserted.

"--to weave a complex relationship into something more easily understood by a traditional, mainstream audience," he continued as if she hadn't spoken.

"I see," Granger said, as though the secrets of the universe had been revealed to her. "So it's not that you fancy Ginny, it's that you're pandering to your audience."

It only took him a moment to decide which was worse. "Yes," he ground out. "Sex will make the book easier to sell."

Granger seemed to be weighing his sincerity for a moment, then smiled. "Since you're obviously in complete denial, and because you are an infinitely pitiful creature, I am going to leave this alone, Malfoy," she said.

"Very gracious of you," he snapped. Was he supposed to be grateful that she had ceased trying to turn his novel into some kind of twisted expression of his supposed unrequited desire for Ginny? Just because she was projecting her own pathetic situation with Potter onto him didn't mean he had to go along with it. However, she was incredibly pitiable herself, and Draco decided on a rare demonstration of mercy. "Come on," he said. "I could do with a walk. It clears my head when I'm writing, and God knows you're strung higher than a giant's guitar."

To his surprise, she laughed; if he'd known punning was a way to manage her ... well, he wouldn't have done anything, because he still greatly disliked her.

"A walk actually sounds lovely," she said, looking surprised.

"However," he said, holding up a hand in warning, "this offer in no way is meant to indicate that I like you."

She sighed at him. "Perish the thought," she assured him. "And I'm still not keeping the clothes."

"We'll see," he said, and rifled through one of the bags until he found a form-fitting lavender suede coat with large buttons down the front. "Why don't you just try this, hmm?"

"You're like the devil," she said quite seriously, but she held out her arms and allowed him to help her on with the coat.

At the front door, Draco accepted his own coat from one of the house-elves, pointedly ignoring the disgusted look Granger sent his way. He was almost disappointed she didn't make a fuss about house-elf rights, as it would have been good for laugh, but Draco dealt well with his disappointment.

Granger hadn't asked where they were walking to, and Draco was glad, because he honestly didn't know. Sometimes, the walls of the house just started closing in on him and he couldn't stop seeing things he'd rather forget, like the look on his father's face the day Draco had almost killed him, or worse, the look on his father's face the first time Draco could ever remember making him proud. Those were the nights he usually found himself on Ginny's couch, not only because he couldn't stand to be in the house another second, but because she was the safest place he'd ever known.

"Sickle for your thoughts," Granger said.

In a rare moment of candor, he answered her honestly. "A Sickle isn't nearly enough for what I'm thinking."

"A piece of advice, Malfoy? Never say something that interesting to a reporter unless you actually want her to pry."

"I could go for a bite," he said, smoothly changing the subject. "Have you eaten?"

"Not since lunch," Granger said. "What time is it?"

"Well past dinner time," Draco answered. "Come on, I know a fantastic place. I'll treat. You can bore me to death about your love life."

"How can I resist sweet talk like that?" she muttered, but took out her wand and followed his instructions. They Apparated to a small shop a short block away from the restaurant, as Hermione had never been to Unrobed before.

"What kind of novel is it?" she asked once they were walking again.

Draco shot her a look of discouragement. "I might have known you wouldn't really let go of something. You're like a badger."

She wrinkled her nose. "How is my not letting go of something being like a badger?"

"How should I know?" he asked. "I just assumed you'd try to hit me if I compared you to a dog."

"Not an entirely incorrect assumption, actually," she conceded. "So come on. What's it about?"

They had nearly reached the restaurant and he stepped up on the curb. "Captivated by my stunningly gifted mind, are you, Granger?" he asked. He thought he saw her roll her eyes, but it might have been a trick of the light. "No, it's all right, you don't have to be ashamed. Since your life is so pathetically devoid of any specks of joy, I'll humor your curiosity. But be warned: if you breathe a word about it, Potter's going to be hearing from me and we'll have a nice, long chat about your pathetic obsession."

"Whatever petty threats make you feel secure, Malfoy," she said as they walked past the large window that gave the patrons of Unrobed a view of the street.

He ignored her cheek because he was actually rather keen on the idea of talking about his book. Granger wouldn't have been his first choice ... or second or third or even two hundredth, but she was at least passably intelligent, and would do in a pinch. "It's a mystery about two Aurors who are deeply in love and deeply entrenched in finding a homicidal killer. Not at all based on fact." They'd reached the door and he held it out for her, but she didn't move. "Granger, I know you haven't been to a lot of expensive restaurants over the years, but they're just like the cheap places Potter takes you to; you've still got to walk through the door yourself."

Then he got a good look at her face. She looked like she'd been punched in the stomach, but the instinct to double over hadn't quite hit her yet. Her skin was paler than usual, and if she'd been about to cry earlier in his study, the sound that would surely escape her mouth when looking like that would summon werewolves to them. Not really wanting to know what had caused such anguish, he followed her line of sight to one of the tables that could be seen clearly through the window of his formerly favorite new restaurant.

What he saw was Potter and Ginny, wearing the outfit he'd thought her so gorgeous in earlier (I knew she wouldn't have worn that to work, Draco thought, because it was the only sentiment that actually solidified in his mind), and they were doing a lot more than exchanging information. Red hair brushed Potter's cheek, and Draco saw Ginny's lips moving on Potter's mouth. Draco averted his eyes before the picture was burned into his brain, another image to add to the collection that forced him out of his dark, empty house in the middle of the night. He wasn't sure he'd succeeded, and he had the hollow thought that, even if he had, where was he supposed to go now that Ginny was one of the things he was escaping?

He had almost forgotten Granger standing beside him, still shocked, heart breaking so loudly he thought he could actually hear it. Without a word, she shook herself, turned, and fled.

Weighing the decision for barely a second, Draco followed.

xXxXxXx

Authors' Notes:

1) This chapter is dedicated to Mynuet, whose encouragement and puppy-dog eyes can make even the lowliest creatures (that would be us) feel shamed.

2) The title of this chapter is inspired by the 1955 Robert Aldrich film "Kiss Me Deadly."

3) Please feed us. Only with such sustenance can we live to write another chapter.

4) We realize this chapter was a long one. We didn't intend for it to become such a monster, but these things happen. We had two other scenes planned for IYOK6, but we decided to push them out to the next chapter. All that being said, we wish to state, for the record:

We don't want to hear "This chapter was too long!" from anyone. (We've gotten such notes in the past for previous chapters, and this one was the longest yet.) If you feel that way, we suggest that you might want to find another story to read, one that you'll enjoy more. It's simple, really -- when we like a story, there's no such thing as "too much." If you're not feeling that way, you probably aren't enjoying the story as much as you should. That's okay; we don't expect our story to appeal to everyone. However, we have no intention of making chapters short in order to cater to the ADD generation. We're just not. Chapters will be as long as they will be -- sometimes they may be very long; sometimes they may be less long (never short <g>).

If you're not convinced we're right, and want to continue to read the story despite chapter lengths being too unwieldy for you, might we suggest that you cut up the sections yourself? No one says you have to read it all in one sitting. We even break them up with little Xs -- use those as a guide and read one section a week or something. The wait in between chapters may even feel shorter for you than for others. : )

5) A big THANK YOU to those of you who have stuck it out with us so far. We love you. We really do.

6) As always, Okelani fic updates and discussion can be found at Magical Mayhem: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/magical_mayhem/ or you can visit us on our Live Journals.

Friendship update:

Jade: Well, things were actually going along swimmingly on this chapter until Sarea mucked it up again.

Sarea: Did not. You're a lying bi-ach.

Jade: That may be true, but you did muck it up again.

Sarea: I refuse to dignify that with a comment, as per Draco when Ginny accused him of trading confidential information for sex. =;

Jade: Just admit it. It was all your idea to make Harry and Ginny kiss.

Sarea: LIAR!

Jade: I AM NOT LYING!

Sarea: YOU ARE!

Jade: OKAY MAYBE I AM.

Sarea: OMG THAT YOU JUST ADMITTED IT AFTER ALL THIS. THIS IS WHY I HATE YOU.

Jade: WORDS HURT, SAREA.

8. 7: In a Lonely Place

xXxXxXx

Chapter 7:
In a Lonely Place

xXxXxXx

Breathe. If you can just keep breathing, everything will be all right.

As she entered the Daily Prophet offices, a small degree of panic bubbling up inside her, Hermione realized it was easier said than done.

Harry was somewhere inside this building. He was probably sitting on his desk -- she'd often asked if he knew what a chair was for, scribbling something or other in a notebook. When he saw her he would smile and look genuinely pleased to have her at work with him; would probably ask her opinion about something, and she'd have to give it, have to actually speak to him without choking or bursting into tears, because she couldn't wipe the image of the night before from her mind with all the memory charms in Gilderoy Lockhart's repertoire.

The horror was burned into her skull. Hermione had thought she'd cried herself out last night, thought that surely there were no tears left. But she'd cried again in the shower this morning, and a little bit more on the way to work. She'd cried more in the last twelve hours than she had her entire childhood, and just the idea of it made her angrier with herself than she already was. It wasn't as though someone had died. Surely this sort of behavior ought to be relegated to the deaths of one's family.

But it felt like something had died. The small, seemingly uncrushable hope Hermione had harbored for years that maybe, just maybe, Harry might love her back someday, seemed to have taken its last, gasping breaths last night.

Because this wasn't just a girlfriend – Harry had certainly kept company with enough girls over the years for Hermione to be well used to it. No, this was Ginny. This was Ron's sister and Arthur and Molly's daughter and the girl who'd almost died in the Chamber of Secrets. If Harry was kissing Ginny, it meant something, something real, and for the first time in her life, Hermione found herself genuinely unable to cope with reality.

And Malfoy -- Malfoy -- had borne witness to every bit of it.

After she'd fled the pub, he'd followed her, he said at the time, to make sure she didn't do anything drastic like "fling yourself off a bridge or something." Hermione would have been insulted by his low opinion of her self-esteem if she weren't positive he was only saying it to make himself feel better about being concerned. It was a decidedly strange proposition, admitting that Draco Malfoy not only had human emotions, but that they might be positive ones, at that. In light of the almost thoughtful behavior he'd demonstrated the previous night, however, she could no longer deny it.

His good natured (for him) treatment of her, however, had had the opposite effect she was sure he'd intended. Instead of comforting her, it had made her feel worse. Draco (she really did need to get used to thinking of him as Draco, and not Malfoy; why was it so hard? It was just his name) looked nearly as wretched as she felt, though he hid it considerably better, given his eyes weren't puffy and red and his cheeks weren't drenched in mascara. He made sure she got home safe. He said this didn't mean it was over. She assumed he was referring to what they'd witnessed, though how he could possibly delude himself into believing there was even a chance Hermione might win Harry's affections after... after...

She didn't like to kid herself. Hermione knew she wasn't a beautiful woman. She was pleasant enough to look at, but as far as great beauty went, she was well aware that, of the two of them, Ginny was the girl that made boys' heads turn. Ginny, with her lovely red hair that didn't frizz, even a little, and pale, porcelain complexion, had been surrounded by male suitors from the moment she began to mature out of adolescence. Hermione had always had Ron, and to a lesser extent, Harry, and she had been more than satisfied with them. Let Ginny and Cho Chang and Lavender Brown have all the handsome, devoted beaus in the world; Hermione would take Ron and Harry and be happier than any person had a right to.

Except it would seem she didn't have either of them anymore. Whatever she and Ron had was over, and it appeared that Harry... that Harry...

Stop it.

Hermione rested her shoulder against the wall that bordered the newsroom and the lobby. Inside, she could hear the bustling sounds that were as familiar to her as rain beating against a window. Quills scribbled, cameras clicked, people shouted jovially to one another about bylines and fonts and what story ought to be on the front page. And in there somewhere, was Harry. Was he thinking about Ginny? Was he remembering what it had been like to kiss her, wondering when he would be able to see her again? What if -- Oh God -- what if he wanted to talk about it with Hermione? What if he wanted to ask her opinion?

Bile actually rose to the back of her throat and Hermione ducked into the women's toilets so that she could dry heave in peace. When she heard someone coming in behind her, she darted into a stall, locked it tightly behind her, put the toilet seat lid down and sat heavily on top of it. Muted conversation followed two women who seemed to have come in just to avoid work. Hermione tuned them out and buried her head in her hands.

She did not get upset over men. She did not cry over them and avoid work over them. For a few minutes today, she'd actually considered owling in sick, all to avoid seeing Harry. Feigning sickness, shirking her responsibilities, because she was too emotionally overwrought to face a colleague... it didn't even sound like her.

Numbly, Hermione recognized exactly what had happened: she had become the sort of woman she had once pitied. Love had made her messy and weak and completely out of control. She was sitting on a toilet to prolong an awkward, potentially painful encounter with Harry, all because she thought she might embarrass herself if she actually saw him. At this point, anything could happen. She could confess that she loved him. She could slap him for kissing Ginny, even though he had every right to kiss whomever he liked. She could break down and begin sobbing uncontrollably as he watched on with wide, frightened eyes, because she was simply not the sort of woman to break down weeping in her workplace.

Correction: she hadn't used to be that sort of woman. Now, all bets were off.

This was ridiculous. What was she doing? Being stupid, that's what. She wouldn't be able to avoid Harry forever. At some point, they would see each other, and she would have to live with their friendship remaining just as it was. Putting that off wouldn't change it; it would just make her self-loathing grow with every passing minute. Steeling herself, Hermione got off the toilet, flung open the stall door, and strode purposefully into the newsroom.

"Hermione!" Colin called, rising from Lavender's desk. Lavender was -- blushing? In all the years Hermione had known the other girl, she'd never seen her blush. This, too, nearly made Hermione cry, but she forced a smile instead. "We've been wondering if you were all right. Fifteen minutes late for work -- what is the world coming to?"

"Yes, dreadfully sorry, Colin," Hermione said in response to his teasing. It was a widely known Prophet fact that Hermione was the only employee to have never been late to work.

Yet another thing that was different about her now. Funny how one little kiss really did change everything.

"Have you heard?" Colin went on, and Hermione never thought she would be so grateful for Colin's total obliviousness to the world around him.

"Heard what?" she asked, trying to appear distracted in removing her coat and setting her things on her desk, rather than what she was actually doing, which was scanning the room for Harry. Honestly, her infuriating best friend was always underfoot when she didn't want to make sure he wasn't going to take her by surprise.

"Your story, the Quidditch Cutter piece – it's sold out. Sold out, Hermione. We haven't sold a paper out since our headliner was 'YOU KNOW WHO IS YOU KNOW WHAT – Wizarding World Rejoices!'</b> We certainly didn't do this kind of business with 'Worldwide Wizarding League Demands Reform.' Nasty business. The Quidditch Cutter, of course, not the WWL reforming, or the war ending, which were both quite good days, actually."

"That's nice," she said, because she honestly couldn't think of anything else to say.

Colin remained standing in front of her desk, smiling like an idiot. He had a rather nice smile, now that the rest of his face had grown into it. Unfortunately, someone as unrelentingly cheerful as Colin was precisely what she didn't need at the moment.

"Did you want something, Colin?" She winced a little at the sharpness of her tone, then sighed as she watched Colin's face fall.

"Oh. No. I just thought -- well, I just thought that maybe you could tell me what you know about the Quidditch Cutter." He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "You know. The stuff you couldn't put in the article."

Hermione looked at him carefully. "Colin, if we didn't put it in the article, that means we've been sworn to secrecy about it. You should be ashamed of yourself for asking; you'd never try this sort of nonsense on Harry."

"Actually, I would," Colin said, "but the lucky bastard is out in the field."

Every muscle in Hermione's body stilled. "He's what?"

"The boss sent him to some stadium or other," Colin went on, blissfully unaware of the damage he was doing to her mental health with every word he spoke. He wasn't even here. Harry wasn't even in the building. "He's supposed to be out covering the match, but I think our beloved editor is hoping Harry'll stumble over another dead-- hey, what's so funny?"

"Me." Hermione took a deep breath and tried to reign in the hysterical laughter that had spilled out of her mouth. "Me, Colin, I'm funny. And ridiculous. And -- oh, please be a dear and go back to pretending you're not flirting with Lavender. I'm not good company at the moment, I'm afraid."

Colin gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. "Hey, cheer up. Whatever it is, it can't be as bad as being brutally murdered in a changing room, can it?"

"I keep telling myself that," she assured him as he went on his way. Sure enough, he returned to Lavender's desk as though he'd cast a homing charm on her so he'd never lose his way. Hermione sighed and sat down heavily in her chair. There was only one personal item on her desk, and that was a picture of herself, Ron, and Harry, taken when they'd finished school their seventh year. They wore their Hogwarts robes and it was the last time she could recall them all looking so put together at the same time. They were smiling, big, wide smiles that gave Colin's a run for its money. For a split second, Hermione wished more than anything that they could go back to those simple days when no one in the world had meant as much to them as each other.

Then, with a resolve she'd thought lost to her, Hermione decided that her behavior was unacceptable. So Harry was kissing Ginny. There, she'd thought it, and the world hadn't come to an end. Harry was kissing Ginny. Ginny and Harry were kissing. The more she forced herself to think it, the less power the words would have over her. This didn't have to be the end of the road. Harry had beaten Voldemort, one of the most evil and powerful wizards to ever curse their world with his presence; he was brave enough to stand up to something that struck paralyzing fear into the heart of every other man, woman, and child who knew of its existence. Surely Hermione could manage to confront her love for Harry head on, and come out on the other side as victorious as Harry had been. She just had to figure out what her next move should be.

Because Draco had been right; there would be a next move. It wasn't over; not when things were still unclear. Hermione had loved Harry far too long to give him up without even knowing what his real feelings for Ginny were. It was decidedly beneath her skills as a journalist to draw hard and fast conclusions based on so little evidence. And if he was in love with the redhead...

Well, Hermione supposed the women's toilets would be available for weeping if it came to that.

xXxXxXx

Something was wrong.

Ginny eyed Draco as she extended a hand over her shoulder, then used the other hand to push down on her elbow, creating a taut stretch. He was being suspiciously quiet. Not that Draco was normally a chatterbox -- in fact, he could be quite maddeningly reticent when he chose -- but normally he had at least one comment to make, whether it was about her appearance, the choices she made, or the state of her life in general. That was just how Draco was, and Ginny was quite used to it. But today, there had been nothing. Not even a "God, Weasley, you really look like you need a cuppa."

In fact, he'd barely said five words to her. She had the impression he didn't want to be there at all ... which made two of them. They usually met at least once a week -- often more -- to run in the park and conduct a light workout. Their session this morning had been planned weeks ago, and when Ginny's alarm went off that morning, she'd groaned and debated whether or not to even show up. She hadn't been feeling her best, and she wasn't even sure Draco would remember their plans, given his company the previous night. In the end she dragged herself out of bed, knowing she'd get all sorts of grief from her partner if she didn't show up (or he'd reach her via their Auror link, and then she'd have to go anyway and get grief), and she needed the workout, in any case.

She'd been the first to arrive at their typical meeting point in the park. He'd shown up five minutes late, grunted in reply to her greeting, and been silent ever since.

Ginny could only stare in open-mouthed surprise when, without another word, Draco finished his stretches and took off on a run. Usually they started off together in a steady, but leisurely, pace, building up to their individual levels of endurance. At some point Draco would pull ahead, his longer stride bringing him forward. They would run for about an hour, the final lap bringing Draco back to her side. Apparently, however, Draco didn't feel like starting off slow today.

That was just fine with her, Ginny fumed. She didn't need him to pace her, anyway. He was usually very distracting, making comments about this or that while Ginny was trying to concentrate on her breathing. She had never been much of a runner; she disliked it more than anything, but there was no denying it kept her fit. It kept Draco fit, too, only he seemed to actually enjoy it.

Why was he in such a bad mood, anyway? Had he and Hermione rowed? Or perhaps the sex had been bad. Ginny realized guiltily that she was personally hoping for that reason. Did that make her a bad person? Maybe. She wasn't even sure why she was feeling so oddly. Or maybe she just needed a little time to get used to the idea of losing both of her friends in one swoop. And last night she had nearly lost one more.

Ginny groaned inwardly as she remembered that. It hadn't exactly been inspired, had it?. Really, she and Harry ought to make a pact never to touch alcohol while in one another's presence. They were both too volatile, too susceptible to letting alcohol govern their actions once they had it in their systems. Neither of them were capable of stepping back; instead, they merely encouraged each other.

Not, of course, that Ginny regretted kissing Harry now that it had happened. She had always wondered what it would be like to be with Harry the way she'd fantasized about as a young girl. And now she knew -- that young girls' dreams belonged to young girls, not women. When the girls grew up, well ... they had their own kind of dreams.

Ginny scowled at the ever-smaller dot that was Draco.

For the next forty-five minutes, she resolved to think of nothing but her breathing. Which did help; she managed not to think about the Harry situation or the Draco and Hermione situation or even the most pressing situation of all -- the fact that there was a killer on the loose, and they were no closer to finding the murderer now than they had been days ago. Ginny slowed to a walk on her final lap, noticing that Draco had already chosen a small clearing on which to do his post-run stretches. In due time she joined him, her body feeling limber, her mind feeling quite sharp and awake.

Without a word he laced his hands behind his head and lay on his back, staring at the sky above. Ginny took this as her cue to grasp his ankles with her hands and press down hard, anchoring him. She tried to talk to him as he began doing sit ups, first about the case and then about less consequential things, but she only got monosyllabic replies, when she got any reply at all.

Finally, Ginny couldn't take it anymore. "Are you planning to be like this when we meet with the Commissioner?" she asked with some irritation.

"Like what?" Draco grunted.

"I don't know ... surly and off putting?"

He didn't say anything.

"Draco," she said in exasperation, trying to put him in a better mood by using his first name -- a trick that usually worked.

"What, Weasley?" he barked irritably.

Hurt and anger forced her to her feet, just as Draco was coming up. Her sudden movement caused him to lose balance, and he fell awkwardly to the side, catching himself with an elbow. She ignored his colorful cursing as she stood over him with her hands on her hips.

"I don't know what your problem is, Draco Malfoy," Ginny began, "but you'd better get over it by this afternoon. I am not walking into Commissioner Roldy's office with you like this."

"Why? Do you think my attitude will bother the Commissioner?" Draco drawled, now resting back on his hands and looking at her in that insolent way of his.

"No," Ginny said, gritting her teeth. "Because I am two seconds away from hexing you, you insufferable—" She broke off with a small shriek as Draco suddenly reached out and clamped a hand around her wrist, yanking her forward. Ginny tumbled to the ground, only slightly mollified by the fact that his body had partially cushioned her fall. Draco now held both of her wrists in his hands and was pressing them up against her chest.

Ginny's heart suddenly began to beat double-time. From rage, she deduced, because his face was so close to hers, that long patrician nose just asking to be given a good wallop, and yet she was unable to act on that impulse with her wrists bound. "Let go of me!" she said, sounding a lot less authoritative than she had in her head.

"Don't think I will," Draco replied, his eyes alight with mischief. Despite her current predicament, Ginny was glad to see that the scowl he'd worn all morning had faded, replaced by a lopsided grin.

Ginny moved so that one of her legs was between his. She raised her knee slightly so that it pressed against him -- a part of him he wouldn't want injured. "Let go of me, or the Malfoy line ends with you," she said sweetly.

A look she couldn't interpret flashed across his face. Ginny decided it was fear. She was forced to adjust her thinking, however, when Draco let out a laugh. "Stop it, Weasley, you're getting me excited," he teased.

Her ploy having failed, Ginny dropped her knee and released her tense muscles, dropping her head back with a sigh. "Fine. Do with me what you will," she said, knowing her rage and struggling were only encouraging him. He was just that perverse. Now he would get bored and let her go.

For a second, Ginny thought she had miscalculated. Draco's hands actually tightened on her wrists and his eyes darkened. Then a shuttered look came over his face and he let her go. Though she had gotten what she wanted, she was dismayed that she'd somehow inadvertently made the sullen Draco return – where had his laughing counterpart gone?

They both sat up. Draco didn't look at her as she brushed grass off of her hands and instead stared off into the distance. Ginny reached out to touch him, his name and another query about what was bothering him on her lips, but before she could utter a word or make contact with her fingers, he spoke, still without looking at her. "Ready?" She dropped her hand, the words dying on her lips. Whatever it was, he was clearly not going to share it with her. She tried not to feel hurt. Draco was not the most communicative person on the best of days, but Ginny had sometimes been able to reach him, even when no one else could. Now it seemed he was drifting farther and farther away from her, her place taken by someone else. It was her own doing, so there was little reason to feel sorry for herself.

She felt sorry for herself anyway.

Draco turned and squinted at her. "Sit ups, Weasley. You're not trying to skive, are you? I can't have someone who's out of shape watching my back."

Ginny made a face at him but obediently lay down, her knees bent. As she'd done, Draco pressed down hard with his hands on top of her trainers to keep her grounded.

She kept waiting for him to suddenly let up, as revenge for having done it to him, but he never did. Draco held Ginny steady until her reps were finished, and then he helped her to her feet.

xXxXxXx

The best part of being a Quidditch journalist when you spent a great deal of time playing the sport professionally was that every game was filled with the faces of old friends.

Today, two people Harry had once been close to were present: on the field, Ron was playing for Puddlemere United.

And out in the stands, Cho Chang was waving a little flag in support of his team.

Cho looked good, and Harry was proud that he could appreciate that fact without great passion or great ire. Her face bore no traces of makeup, which was not unusual for her post-Hogwarts, and she was trussed up in warm clothing, as were most of the other people in the stands. It was a cold day and even Harry, who, after weeklong matches in blistering cold had grown almost immune to the weather, felt the chill. Taking a closer look at Cho, a pang of melancholy struck him -- her sweater reminded him of the kind Mrs. Weasley knit for her family; a family that had included Harry for a time. Still did, probably, though Harry had not spent a Christmas with the Weasleys in too long to be sure. Though Cho's sweater bore no monogram, it catapulted him into the past anyway.

The first real gifts Harry had ever received in his life had been presents from Mrs. Weasley, a sweater with a giant H on it, horribly unstylish, and quite possibly the loveliest thing Harry had ever laid eyes on. It represented acceptance and friendship and the simple notion that there were people out there in the world who gave a damn what happened to him. Harry had never known what that felt like, and every year, when Mrs. Weasley knitted him a new monstrously garish sweater and sent it to him at school, he wore it proudly and stored it in a chest with the few possessions he had that were precious to him.

During the war, Voldemort had taken Hogwarts; most of the student body lost precious keepsakes when the Death Eaters started burning the place to the ground. When the flames got to the seventh-year boys' dormitories, Harry lost every sweater Mrs. Weasley had ever knit him; he lost school portraits and the book of his parents' pictures Hagrid had given him at the end of first year. He lost frivolous things, like his collection of wizard trading cards, and he lost things to which no value could ever possibly be assigned, like the words Sirius wrote to him while in exile.

That was the day Harry learned to let go of the past and live in the moment. If you held too tightly to the past, it still had the power to disappoint you, and that was awfully stupid, wasn't it, giving something that had already happened control over your present. So he started to let go of old attachments, started to pull away from the people he loved, who were precious to him, all because of a bunch of junk getting burned up in a fire.

Though it seemed more like a dream than something that had actually happened, Harry could vaguely recall once feeling that Cho might be something infinitely precious, too. And like the sweaters and everything else, his vision of her had been taken from him as surely as if she had burned away to ash.

For a time after fifth year, Harry had borne something of a grudge against Cho. It had been completely fueled by disillusionment; how dare she, this gorgeous girl who was the subject of nearly every barely coherent fantasy and lustful emotion he'd had before the age of sixteen, how dare she turn out to be anything but wonderful?

Of course, whatever slight he felt she'd dealt him by being imperfect had long since faded away. Cho's career in Quidditch had been widely publicized by the Prophet, as well as several other, far less reputable papers. Unable to cope with the deaths of most of her family during the war, Cho had started abusing alcohol and certain spells that one had to travel to Nocturne Alley to purchase. More times than Harry could count, pictures of Cho and whatever poor bastard she'd been joined at the hip with for a few months were splashed across the gossip section of this syndication or that, with headlines like 'Seeker Seeks Bar' and 'Party Girl Packs Punch.'

Sadly, he could well remember the few occasions the bloke in the picture next to her had been him. The papers had speculated as to the exact nature of their relationship; it had never been confirmed publicly that they were linked in any way but platonically. Harry sometimes wished that had been the truth.

Even disillusioned fantasies sometimes still held sway, however, and it was no different for Harry. They were never teammates, but several years ago Cho and Harry had spent nearly an entire season playing against one another as their two teams seemed destined to make it to the Quidditch World Cup. After they started sleeping together, it certainly made for an interesting campaign to capture the Snitch. Harry had been nineteen years old and still a virgin before their affair. Cho had grown out of her shallow adolescence and now held a world-weariness that Harry had identified with and felt drawn to.

Cho had used to drink. A lot. It was one of the few recurring stories about her that had not been fabricated, even then. A drink now and then, she told him when he asked her about it, that's all it is, Harry; just something to make all the crap easier to manage. He had taken her at her word and paid the price for it several months later when they got into a very public screaming match. Mostly, it was her screaming, and him trying to get away. She had been drinking, of course; the world had just learned that Harry's team, the Chudley Cannons, would be playing the Quidditch World Cup; the Holyhead Harpies, whose Seeker had failed to catch the Snitch the night before due to sluggish reflexes, would not.

After that incident, Cho was put on indefinite suspension and told to dry out. To all indications, she had, though she still drank socially and was classified as one of Quidditch's most unpredictable spirits. Some speculated that she was too wild, too volatile to last in this world; that she would find herself succumbing to Viktor Krum's fate, an accidental death brought on by recklessness and too much whisky.

Harry dearly hoped they would be proven wrong; there had been more than enough tragedy for the children who'd grown up around him. For the ones who were left, he thought they really deserved to live their lives in peace. Cho was smiling and cheering, which Harry conceded was a damn good start; the Wasps were closing on the Snitch. The commentator's voice filtered into his internal reverie.

"..... Weasley does a fantastic job keeping Wimbourne from scoring with the Quaffle, but he seems a bit distracted."

"Well Leo, perhaps that's because his new dish is here watching in the stands."

"I'm sure you're right, Deborah; it's hard enough playing a game when a new girlfriend is watching. When that girlfriend also happens to be a professional Quidditch player – talk about pressure!"

"You've got that right, Leo!"

Harry tuned them out. That sort of mindless gossip had always irritated him, particularly as it had no place in a professional game (and it only served to get the rest of the crowd gossiping, which, to Harry's annoyance, they were). As a Seeker, he had very little to do for most of the match other than look for the Snitch, which was not the sort of thing one required all of one's focus to do – at least not always. He often had plenty of time to watch what his teammates were doing, and to hear every insipid word the commentators spoke. Poor Cho, not even allowed to attend the game of an old acquaintance without a lot of rubbish being talked about.

Two girls in front of Harry were on a roll.

"Cor, Ron Weasley is dreamy. He's the best Keeper Puddlemere's had in ages."

"I can't believe he's stepping out with Cho Chang. He'll catch something from that one, mark my words."

"Better than him getting sliced up by that Quidditch Cutter," the first girl remarked.

"Come on, let's not talk about that," the second girl said. "It gives me the willies."

Harry sighed and did his best not to listen to the rest of their conversation. Talk of the Quidditch Cutter had followed him since the article was published and the entire business was beginning to consume him. He wanted to take a day off to be a sports reporter, which is what he'd been hired to do. Not to mention the opportunity to just be Harry, someone's friend.

Ron was frowning as he brought his broom to a halt and scanned the field. He was utterly still for all of fifteen seconds, then the crowd began to yell. Philip Bulstrode, the Wasps' Seeker, had spotted the Snitch. Puddlemere's Seeker, Kate Simpson, started for it a second later, and Ron, seeing (as Harry could) that the Puddlemere Beaters were occupied on the other end of the field, moved. It all happened in a blur, but Harry, who was familiar with the fast paced nature of the game, couldn't wipe the enormous grin off his face.

"Jameson's got a shot at the Bludger, he's taking aim at Simpson -- great Merlin, Deborah, Puddlemere's Keeper's come in from nowhere and taken the hit -- my god! He's got the Bludger, Weasley's got the Bludger! He's traveling with it, heading toward -- Weasley's knocked Bulstrode out of the air! Simpson catches the Snitch! It's all over -- Puddlemere wins! Puddlemere wins!"

The crowd began chanting Kate Simpson's name. Cho began to jump up and down and cheer wildly. Harry couldn't take his eyes off of her. She was stunning. She had always been beautiful, but before, he had been blinded by it, lost in a desire to have her, before he even knew what that meant. He didn't want her anymore, but that didn't make her any less beautiful; he just saw it in a far less personal way. She wore tragedy around her like a cloak and the vivid red of her sweater accentuated the lovely paleness of her skin. When she and Harry had dated, there had been hollowness in her eyes, an emptiness that had only ever receded out on the field, or during some daring, exciting deed she'd thrown herself into. Her sweater had a wide neck, and it slipped just so off her shoulder as she bounced up and down -- Harry's gaze was drawn to a nasty bruise on her shoulder. He let out a sigh -- he hoped there was a good explanation for it, and that she wasn't in the thick of her old ways.

Ron flew by Harry's seat on his broom, and Harry gave a great whoop! for his friend's victory, then winced at the sharp motion. In the excitement of the game, he'd almost forgotten the slight hangover he was currently suffering from. As he watched Ron fly over to Cho and lean down to buss her soundly on the mouth before doing a victory lap with the team, Harry completely forgot how to close his mouth.

So maybe all gossip wasn't rubbish.

Once the shock had passed, Harry tried to summon up some sense of outrage or betrayal, and found the emotions decidedly lacking. He thought of the bruise on Cho's shoulder and hoped she wouldn't be dragging Ron down into her ever-present melancholy. He didn't let himself dwell long on the possibility that the bruise might very well be a love bite -- lifetime friends or not, there were just some things Harry would just as well rather not know about Ron.

Just then, the potential love-biter in question made another pass around the stands and spotted Harry, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head. Harry couldn't quite hold back a grin at his friend's obvious panic. Ron opened his mouth, Harry knew, to apologize for not having warned him about this new development, but Harry shrugged and smiled wider and jabbed his head in Cho's direction, his intent clear: Go on, kiss her again. With a grin of thanks, their wordless communication as effortless as it hadn't been in forever, Ron angled his broom back toward Cho and kissed her in a way that left no doubt in the minds of anyone present just how not-platonic their relationship was.

Harry took a moment to imagine how hard his best friend would hit him if Ron ever found out Harry had kissed his baby sister in a drunken stupor the night before.

The answer, of course, was very hard indeed; not that Ron had anything to worry about. Harry sighed. He and Ginny must have really been hard up for something if they'd even considered trying each other on for size. He was just glad there had been no one else present to witness their moment of great stupidity -- the shame should remain between the two of them, and the two of them alone, for all time.

Out on the field, Kate Simpson flew up to Ron, threw her arms around him, and kissed him soundly on the mouth in gratitude. Ron looked a bit stunned as she flew off again without a backwards glance, but when Harry glanced at Cho in the stands, he thought someone else might be getting hit rather hard later on.

"Excuse me," an excited voice asked from beside him, "but aren't you Harry Potter?"

Harry looked down at a boy, no older than ten, his wide blue eyes earnest and unblinking.

"So they keep telling me," Harry confessed.

"I have every trading card they ever did of you," the boy said with great awe. "And every article you've ever written. Are you going to start playing Quidditch again? Oh, please, I hope you do."

"You never know what's going to happen," Harry answered. Play Quidditch again. The thought of it seemed so far away, like a dream he'd had. He did know one thing: it was nice, being looked up to because of something he did, rather than because he had a scar on his forehead. "What's your name?"

"James," the boy answered.

Harry smiled painfully; then, after a moment's pause, shrugged out of his cloak. He draped it around James' small shoulders, his smile becoming less painful as the material dragged along the ground. James' mouth was now as wide as his eyes.

"Something to keep you warm, James," Harry said gently, then passed his hand over the boy's head as he began to make his way out of the stands.

There was almost a full minute of silence before Harry heard a young voice cry out "MUM!!" in the most desperately excited tone he'd heard in ages.

His smile remained intact for the rest of the afternoon.

xXxXxXx

Draco didn't like to be kept waiting, but he'd been doing it for well over fifteen minutes now. Commissioner Roldy hadn't yet put in an appearance. Granted, he and Ginny had arrived ten minutes early, but in his opinion the Commissioner ought to have received them immediately. Draco fidgeted impatiently with the ties on his shoes, wanting to get this meeting over with. The comfortable chair in which he was sitting was making him antsy ... it was too comfortable, making him feel like he was being lulled into complacency.

Ginny was nattering on about something, and Draco knew he ought to be paying attention, but he just couldn't seem to do it. All day, he had found himself sidetracked by memories of the night before. He didn't know why he kept thinking of it. It wasn't as if he had particularly enjoyed seeing Ginny and Potter slobbering over each other. Or having to console a blubbering Granger (who didn’t even have the decency to act very consoled, afterward). It must be that because if Ginny were to have the extreme poor taste of taking up with Potter, all of Draco's hard work would be for naught. After all, he'd voluntarily spent time with that insufferable swot Granger, and the idea that he might have done that for nothing was truly galling. It was time he could have spent working on his novel. Which Granger now knew about, and could hold over his head as blackmail. Bugger.

"... so I think we ought to simply allow him to -- you're not even listening! What is the matter with you?"

Draco jerked his attention back to his partner guiltily. "What do you mean?"

"The way you're acting!" She sounded peeved.

"How's that?" he asked, feigning disinterest. He thought he probably had some idea, but wasn't about to admit it.

"You know very well how," Ginny shot back. "Like the miserable little git you were at Hogwarts."

For some reason, this hurt. All right, so he hadn't been the most pleasant person in the world today, he could admit to that, but was it a requirement that he be Mary Fucking Sunshine? If only she knew how positively sympathetic he'd been last night, cleaning up the mess she'd made. "Well, that's me, Ginny," he said, knowing he sounded like an arse. "This is how I am. Take me or leave me." Now why had he added that last part? He held his breath. From the look on her face it wouldn't surprise him in the least if she were to take him up on the offer and simply walk away, putting in a request for a transfer to another division. Or at least another partner.

After another tense moment, Ginny shook her head. "I don't know how to talk to you when you're being like this."

Draco let out the breath he'd been holding. He was being a complete prat and he knew it. He seemed to have no control over the way he was behaving or the things he was saying. If he went much further, she was liable to rip out his heart through his throat then throw it in his face, and he really couldn't blame her. But every time he thought he'd gotten himself under control, he only had to glance at Ginny and his brain would supply the positively nauseating image of her with Potter. Then there'd be that uncomfortable clenching feeling in his gut, which inevitably made him snap at her again. It was a vicious cycle, and he didn't know how to get himself out of it.

It wasn't that she had done anything wrong. He was being unreasonable, which wasn't like him at all. Just because he couldn't see the first thing appealing about that four-eyed "journalist" obviously didn't mean that others with less refined tastes didn't. Look at Granger, a perfect example. She and Potter were made for one another. But Ginny -- Draco had given Ginny more credit than that. She was supposed to have better taste. He couldn't help being disappointed in her. She hadn't lived up to his expectations, so he was acting like a louse.

Just like his father.

The thought came unbidden, unwelcome, and Draco grimaced. He was being like Lucius. He took a deep breath. Instead of snapping at her, he should be guiding her. Showing her why Potter was all wrong for her. After a bit of discussion, she was sure to see the error of her ways. After all, Ginny was a reasonable, rational person, for the most part. He'd point out all of Potter's deficiencies, all the ways he couldn't support or satisfy her, and she would come to the natural conclusion that she couldn't waste herself on him, all without Draco having to lift a finger.

And if that didn't work, he'd tell her Granger loved Potter. Surely she wouldn't continue seeing a man her friend was in love with.

xXxXxXx

There were a great many things that Hermione could do to occupy her leisure time. Unlike Harry, she enjoyed cleaning her home, keeping everything tidy, assigning a place for everything. However, even for Hermione, the task of cleaning was sometimes wholly unappealing, and so she had to turn to other pursuits. Reading, or something equally academic would not do at all when the entire purpose of engaging in an activity was to silence the riotous thoughts in her head, and so, though she was not very good at it, Hermione decided that she would bake.

Hermione quite enjoyed baking, in spite of the results she always yielded. As a young girl, she had spent many an hour carefully watching Mrs. Weasley's every move to determine the exact angle at which to fold an egg into cake batter. These lessons had been almost completely unhelpful to her, yet the baking bug had never fully fled. Ron and Harry had been forced, over the years, to consume a great number of foul-tasting things, only to dispose of them the moment her back was turned and they thought she couldn't see them.

Every poorly concealed napkin was like a dagger to Hermione's heart; she just didn't fail at things. Divination, certainly, had been an abysmal failure, but that was because Divination was so imprecise. Hermione enjoyed things with patterns and reason and certainty -- baking should have been like that. There were numbers and charts and all kinds of measurement to ensure a successful outcome. No matter how carefully Hermione followed a recipe, however, it never turned out right.

And so, what Hermione did when she was already frustrated, was bake. One hopeless campaign, after all, went well with another.

Tonight she had decided on a chocolate cake, which had been one of the few things her mother was adept at baking. With every step, she tried not to imagine Harry and Ginny kissing, and with every step, she could do nothing else. When the directions in the book told Hermione to "gently fold the eggs in" she pictured Ginny whispering something into Harry's ear and she ended up beating the eggs into frothy submission. Grimacing at the sight, she gently spooned at the batter as though she could undo the brutal treatment of seconds ago.

Ginny was good at baking.

Cattiness was unattractive and unproductive and Hermione hated it, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. Ginny was like a sister to her, and yet jealousy was twisting her heart and mind into something ugly. If Ginny had Apparated over just then, Hermione would have been hard pressed to keep herself from striking her best girl friend simply because the other woman could have made this chocolate cake with her eyes closed.

Hermione knew Ginny had inherited her mother's prowess in the kitchen, and Draco had felt the need to reinforce this knowledge over a meal they'd shared in the past few days. This is absolute rot, he'd said, making a distasteful expression at his perfectly acceptable chocolate soufflé. Pushing it away, he'd glanced up at Hermione. Ginny can make one of these without all the right ingredients and still have it turn out better than this.

It had intrigued Hermione, his casual, totally unconscious ability to pull Ginny into the subject of any conversation -- or any random occurrence, for that matter -- and because she was truly fascinated by human behavior, Hermione had probed a little further. What she had learned was that Ginny sometimes cooked meals for Draco; there was nothing overt or suspicious about them, it was just something she did from time to time, just like how he spent the occasional night on her couch because he didn't like his garish mansion or something. The details were supremely uninteresting and obvious to anyone paying the slightest bit of attention, so it wasn't the facts that piqued her curiosity.

No, what interested Hermione was that Draco honestly didn't appear to realize he was completely besotted with his partner.

Even then, Hermione allowed for the possibility that she might be mistaken; even the most successful theories still had to account for a reasonable margin of error. Men and women could be close, dear friends without any romantic feelings between them. So she had put her suspicions aside and went on with the insane plan Draco had laid out for her, but she kept her eyes open, like any good reporter would, and tried to see each new clue that came her way objectively.

Until, of course, she had stumbled upon his novel-in-progress. At that point, Hermione had thrown objectivity out the window, because no one could possibly be more obvious about feelings he wasn't even aware he had.

"Deacon and Georgia, indeed," Hermione muttered under her breath as she used an entire stick of butter to grease the bottom of a pan. The last time she'd attempted this, the cake had refused to come free so she was making doubly sure she got to every nook and cranny.

How Draco could create an entire universe that was basically a bastardization of the one he lived in and not realize the depth of his feelings, Hermione didn't know. She supposed the Malfoys had been living in denial for so many centuries that it was probably like second nature to them.

But really:

"You're so beautiful," Georgia whispered. "It's almost unnatural. Here, I've baked you a chocolate soufflé you can eat while you stay over on my couch."

"Thank you," Deacon answered. "I shall dream of your long red hair and the cases we will solve tomorrow."

Perhaps her memory was exaggerating, but Hermione didn't feel it was by very much at all. And really, it was just pathetic, Draco sitting home late at night, tapping away on his typewriter, living out his perceived unrequited feelings for Ginny in the pages of questionably prosed pulp fiction.

Almost as pathetic, Hermione realized numbly, as angrily baking a chocolate cake no one would ever eat because you're too much of a coward to fight for the man you loved.

Well that tore it. There was no way Hermione was going to let herself be as sad an act as Malfoy. If he wanted to waste his life subconsciously pining after a woman who might very well fancy him back if given half a chance, then that was his prerogative. So what if Ginny was prettier, and sweeter, and easier to get on with than Hermione was? Harry and Hermione had a very special bond, one that he did not share with Ginny, and Hermione wasn't going to sell it short another second. She would fight for Harry.

She would fight, and she would win, because this was the one personal battle Hermione had ever fought in which losing was not even a mathematical possibility; she wouldn't let it be.

Perhaps as a show of good faith, her chocolate cake would even cooperate and turn out all right. There was, after all, always hope.

xXxXxXx

Ginny was trying to go over a strategy on how they ought to handle their meeting with the Commissioner -- high-ranking political figures were inevitably tricky -- but it was clear that Draco had less than zero interest in what she was saying. Really, what was the matter with him today?

"Malfoy!" she snapped, after trying and failing for the second time since they'd arrived in Commissioner Roldy's offices to get his attention. "Have you heard a single word I've said?"

"Of course I have," he said disdainfully. Then his expression turned impassive. He studied his fingernails. "So what did you do last night?"

The new topic caused Ginny to pause for several seconds as her mind adjusted to the change. "Pardon?"

"Last night," Draco repeated. "What did you do?"

Ginny shrugged, wondering why he'd decided to make small talk in the middle of discussing an interview for their most important case. "Last night? Nothing."

To her surprise, a hint of a scowl appeared on Draco's face, before it relaxed again. A smile played at his lips. "Really? Nothing?" he asked lightly. "You looked nice when I saw you."

Ginny bristled as his words made her recall how unwelcoming her reception had been when she'd appeared at the Manor. It had been an accident, and he'd been a complete git about it. "Thanks," she said, and did not elaborate, just to irritate him. She fought back her glee when she saw his expression tighten, then faded into equanimity once more. Clearly he was trying to make some kind of point. Well, she certainly wasn't going to make it easy for him.

"Are you saying you spend quiet evenings at home dressed like that? How sad for you, Weasley. All dressed up and no place to go," he finished blandly.

Immediately Ginny's temper sparked, but kept her own features impassive. She would not let him goad her. "Actually, I had drinks with Harry."

Draco smiled, but the way his eyes were studying her as if she were an insect under a magnifying spell was making her unaccountably nervous. But it had to be her imagination. What cause would he have to look at her that way? "Interesting," he said. "So it was the two of you."

"How do you mean?" Then she drew the natural conclusion. "Oh, did you see us?" Ginny said in surprise.

"Mmm," said Draco. "Hermione and I thought we saw you, yes."

"Well, why didn't you come say hello?" Ginny wanted to know.

"It was far too crowded, and anyway, by the time Hermione and I got to the restaurant, we had lost our appetites," Draco responded easily enough, though Ginny noticed there was an odd twitch in his left eye. And why was he saying Hermione's name in that emphatic, unnatural way? Ginny wondered if he'd been hexed recently and the symptoms were just now manifesting themselves.

"Oh. That's too bad," Ginny murmured. She was slightly hurt by the knowledge that Draco had thought to take Hermione to Unrobed for a date. It was their place. Such thoughts were irrational, of course, since Ginny herself had brought Harry there. But we weren't on a date, she argued.

But you kissed.

Which only served to prove how much of a date it wasn't.

Draco had continued to talk, oblivious to Ginny's internal debate. "... I'd simply be a little more cautious."

The condescending tone snapped Ginny back to attention, despite only catching the tail end of whatever he'd said. "What exactly are you trying to say?" she demanded.

"Your reporter friend is sniffing after a story. You have all the details," Draco said bluntly. "I'm just warning you to exercise a little caution, that's all."

"How dare you," Ginny exclaimed in a low hiss, glancing at Commissioner Roldy's secretary, who was seated at her desk not far away. "First of all, Harry would never abuse our relationship like that. Second of all, what do you take me for? I'm not new to this, and I'm not an imbecile!"

"Relationship?" Draco pounced, almost before Ginny had even finished speaking.

"What?" He had gotten her all riled up, and now he was turning the tables on her again. She was getting a headache trying to keep up with the discussion. "Yes, relationship! I know that you're not extremely familiar with the concept of friendship, but there's a certain level of common decency--"

"Oh, friendship," Draco cut her off, waving his hand dismissively.

Ginny stopped abruptly, feeling a bit disoriented. Were they even engaged in the same conversation? Or were they somehow in different dimensions, and while she was speaking to him, he was actually talking to someone else? She had heard of such things happening. "And anyway," she continued haltingly, though a lot of her ire had evaporated due to confusion, "any caution I should be taking, you should be doubly aware of, given that your reporter girlfriend is staying over and might chance upon your case notes as well as other confidential information."

"She's not--" Draco began, then stopped when Ginny raised her eyebrows for him to continue. "--staying over," he finished.

Ginny had the feeling that wasn't what he was originally going to say, but was distracted by the unreasonable gladness she felt at the knowledge that Hermione hadn't stayed at the Manor last night. But wait... "That doesn't sound like you," she said.

Draco ran his fingers through his hair and wouldn't meet her gaze. "We're taking things slow. Very, very slow."

"Well ... that's a great idea," Ginny said, trying to sound less enthusiastic than she felt. "You really shouldn't jump into these things." Unless ... he was holding back because Hermione actually meant something to him, unlike the other witches he'd dated in the past. "Or maybe you should just get it over with. You know, then if it's bad, you won't have to waste your time." She could hear herself talking, but was getting confused about what advice she should be giving. Now she was encouraging Draco to sleep with Hermione, and if Harry found out, he'd kill her. But there was a good reason for it! She was actually trying to break them up! Ginny's brow furrowed. That didn't really make any sense, did it? It did at the time she made the suggestion, but now...

"You know I despise it when you go into Ginnyland while we're in the middle of a conversation," Draco slotted in, neatly disrupting her thoughts. They squawked like chickens and scattered around in her head, landing haphazardly. She would have to round them up later.

"Well, I despise it when--"

"The Commissioner is ready for you now," came the professional, falsely kind voice of the secretary.

Draco and Ginny both rose and followed her to the double doors that led to the Commissioner's well-appointed office. Before they went in, Ginny managed to get in one last, "Don't be a prat," under her breath.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Draco replied, his tone clearly implying that he was preparing to be the biggest prat on the face of planet Earth.

It was going to be a long meeting.

xXxXxXx

As anticipated, the Commissioner's office was nothing short of luxurious. Even Draco had to admit that, but then his standards had declined somewhat after being forced to work out of a dinky little office day in and day out. The view seemed wasted on an office; from the look on Ginny's face, it was clear she shared his sentiment -- a view such as this should have been attached to a home. Her home, preferably, her expression said. But there was no use in coveting the views of others, and after allowing herself a moment of envy, Ginny got to the business at hand. Despite the Commissioner's invitation to sit, she remained standing. Draco, however, chose to settle himself in one of the enormous and comfortable-looking chairs in front of the large mahogany desk, facing the seated Commissioner.

Roldy smiled at Draco. "Mr. Malfoy, I heard you were once quite a fine Seeker during your Hogwarts years."

"You heard right," said Draco, ignoring Ginny rolling her eyes.

"And yet you chose to be an Auror rather than pursue a career in Quidditch -- why is that?" Roldy sounded genuinely curious.

"Most Quidditch players are seeking fame and fortune; I had those things," said Draco truthfully. "And while I enjoy Quidditch as much as the next bloke, being gifted with both intelligence and talent, I ultimately decided that I'd rather use my intellect rather than my brawn in my career."

Roldy chuckled. "Most in my acquaintance would say that it is an impossibility to become a truly fine player of Quidditch without also having intelligence -- which might also explain why you yourself took to the sport, yes? But your point is taken."

Draco inclined his head in acknowledgement of the other man's point as well.

"Thank you for meeting with us this afternoon, Commissioner," Ginny said, clearly wanting to jump in before the entire interview got completely off track. "As you're aware, we have quite a serious situation on our hands. Three WWL Quidditch players have been found murdered in the last--"

"Yes, yes, it's terrible. Terrible," the Commissioner interrupted gravely. "Coffee?"

"No thank you," Ginny said firmly, while Draco waved his hand in refusal. He rested one ankle on the opposite knee and crossed his arms as if in boredom. Ginny remained unfazed and continued. "We've reviewed personnel records from each of Britain's teams spanning the last month, but the scope of the league makes it difficult to ascertain--"

"Majorie," Roldy interrupted again, speaking into his fireplace, "Could you be a darling and bring us a glass of water? My throat gets very dry," he said in explanation to Ginny and Draco.

"Of course, Commissioner," came the secretary's saccharine voice.

"You were saying?" Roldy motioned for Ginny to continue. As his partner spoke, Draco surreptitiously studied their interviewee. Roldy, who was rather young for his position -- he couldn't have been older than 60 -- was not particularly impressive in stature, but the sharpness of his gaze belied the good natured, somewhat absented-minded facade he had shown them so far. He hadn't gotten to his position by being stupid or a doormat; unlike the Minister of Magic from several terms ago, Cornelius Fudge, Roldy would not have been able to rely solely on PR to obtain his position. No momentary public flights of fancy would have filled his role, not when the lives -- and finances -- of so many important patrons were at stake. The Minister of Magic was a temporary public servant, liable to change if the wind blew the wrong way; the Commissioner of Quidditch, however, while a highly public figure and held in extreme awe and respect, generally answered to no one but a small number of constituents -- powerful entities consisting primarily of large corporations and important shareholders.

"At the moment, we do not know whether these three players comprise the entirety of the killer's victims," Ginny was saying. "We have not been able to verify the whereabouts of four players and six alternates who are currently on leave -- and these are players just from the British teams. We had initially focused our inquiries domestically; however, Cal Canderer's murder indicates that the perpetrator is not limiting himself to British teams, which introduces the complexity of an international investigation."

"I understand," Roldy said, "and I can assure you that I will do everything in my power to assist your investigation."

It was all Draco could do not to smirk. There was a knock on the door, and Majorie entered, carrying a tray laden with a tall glass and a pitcher of ice-cold water (if the frosty beads of condensation covering it were anything to go by). She set the glass down on a coaster -- shaped like a Snitch, of course -- and filled the waiting glass to three quarters full. The pitcher with the remaining water she set down discreetly at a nearby side table.

"We're very glad to hear that, Commissioner," said Ginny, after Majorie had departed. "Therefore, we'd like for you to temporarily call for a halt to the Quidditch season, postponing all upcoming games until after we have apprehended the perpetrator and can more readily assure safety for the players."

Draco had kept his gaze on Roldy as Ginny delivered this request, and the other man's expression did not change. "My dear, are you quite mad?" Roldy said mildly. "What you're asking for is an impossibility. Even if I thought it was a good idea -- which I don't -- I couldn't do it."

Neither Draco nor Ginny flinched. It was what they'd been expecting, after all, despite his grandstanding of not ten seconds ago. They both knew that there was very little a man like Roldy couldn't do -- not if he truly wanted it done. He knew it as well.

"Commissioner, we do not make this request lightly," said Ginny. "We understand that what we're asking for is unorthodox --"

Roldy laughed. "Unorthodox? My dear, do you pride yourself on understatements? We're talking about the cessation of an entire community. We're talking about thousands of hours of work, gone to waste. We're talking about--"

"Human lives -- those, in fact, who keep the community you speak of functioning," Draco slotted in softly.

"Yes, well," Roldy seemed to founder for a moment. "And I have great respect for what you are doing, in helping to bring this criminal to justice. Surely, however, you realize that what you are asking for is outside the boundaries of reason. Quidditch cannot be put on hold, as if it were a set of robes in a shop! Quidditch keeps our very society functioning, and if I did as you asked, do you know what would happen?"

"Rioting in the streets?" Ginny said, in a kind of monotone, as if she were repeating something she had heard before. "Perhaps the Ministry under siege?"

"Don't be so melodramatic, my dear," said Roldy impatiently. "I am speaking the plain truth; I do not need hyperbole to prove my point. You were both raised in the wizarding community. I shouldn't have to explain to you that Quidditch is our lifeblood!"

Draco noted the passion in the Minister's voice; it was clear that Roldy actually cared about the sport and was not just another politician.

Roldy went on. "If we take Quidditch away from the people, they'll simply form amateur leagues, mark my words. How will you monitor that? You'll have the same problem on your hands, only without any semblance of order or official parameters. We will work with you as much as we are able, and lend whatever assistance we can, Aurors Malfoy and Weasley. You will have no such guarantee were you to force people into playing Quidditch 'on the sly,' as it were. What will you do then? Ban Quidditch altogether? Make it against the law?"

Ginny protested that Roldy's assertions were exaggerations and pure conjecture, that their request was not asking for an indeterminate blackout of the sport, that people would place the capture of a murderer higher on their list of priorities than their sports entertainment, but it was no use; the Commissioner would not budge on his position, and in the end, Draco and Ginny were ushered out of his office when Roldy claimed a prior commitment.

"Thanks for the help in there," Ginny said, glaring at Draco as they Apparated back to the Ministry.

Draco shrugged, nodding to another Auror as they passed. "Well, he's probably right, you know. We wouldn't accomplish anything by shutting Quidditch down. Either the killer will simply lie dormant during that time, or he might escalate and turn to the general population. In any case there's no guarantee he won't continue to kill Quidditch players even if they're no longer playing."

"It's just so frustrating!" Ginny burst out, flinging the door to their office open. "We haven't got a single lead to work with, and he could be killing someone else right now, for all we know!" She paused. "Maybe I should owl Ron..."

"Don't worry about him," Draco assured. "I wouldn't be that lucky."

An urgent knock sounded on the door, saving him from one of Ginny's death glares.

"Yes? Come in," she called, still giving Draco dirty looks.

A bespectacled man poked his head inside the door, his face shiny with sweat and his hair needing a good brush. He could be Potter's twin, Draco thought. "I'm so glad I've caught you," he said breathlessly. "I work with Yellowbrook -- that is, James Yellowbrook, I think you know him--"

"Yes, of course. What is it?" Ginny asked, gently so as not to seem rude for interrupting his babble.

Draco was already out of his seat and headed for the door when the man replied.

"There's something you should see."

xXxXxXx

1) This chapter's title comes from the 1950 film noir of the same
name, starring Humphrey Bogart.

2) To the person who was complaining about how "bloody long" it takes
us to update: Don't read our story anymore. Or at least, don't tell us
you're reading it. We don't mean to be mean, we really don't. We love
hearing comments and criticism, but saying we're taking too long to
update doesn't help the creative process; in fact, it hinders it.

3) There seems to be some confusion over what an author does or does
not owe their readers. Allow us to clear it up as we see it: We write
this story for us. That you all enjoy it and take the time to read it
is deeply appreciated and makes us really happy, but it's not actually
necessary for us to write it. We do take a long time to update; we
acknowledge that, and we thank you for your patience with us. But
we'd rather write our story right instead of fast, and
considering we spend hours of our free time doing this and losing
sleep over it (yes!), we'd just as soon not hear from people who seem
to have no appreciation for the creative process.

4) To the reader who "corrected" our grammar: It's NOT always "Subject
and I." It's clear that you only know very vague grammar rules and
don't actually know the how or why. This is a common mistake that we
see in fanfic in general, so this might be a good time to teach a
little grammar lesson.

Here are two different examples:

Ex #1: Jade and I are going to kick your ass. ** In this case, the
proper usage is "Jade and I," because you would normally say, "I am
going to kick your ass," not "Me am going to kick your ass."

Ex #2: People like you really piss Jade and me off. ** In this case,
the proper usage is "Jade and me." An easy rule for this sort of thing
is to remove the secondary subject and see if the sentence still makes
sense. In this case, you would not say, "People like you really piss I
off."

Therefore it's "Jade and me," not "Jade and I."

We hope this lesson has been helpful.

5) To everyone else, we thank you for your time and your comments.

Important Note:

In chapter 1, we stated that Ron played for the Ballycastle Bats. That was our bad. We've since realized it was awfully bad form for Ginny, Draco, Ron, Harry, and Hermione to not mention that one of Ron's own teammates died. Call this the clerical error from hell and let the record stand that Ron plays for good 'ole Puddlemere United. Previous chapters have been altered to reflect this correction.

Thus, in lieu of the update on our friendship that would normally be found at the end of a chapter, we bring you instead a conversation with Ron Weasley.

Sarea: Sorry about that, Ron.

Ron: So that's why I haven't been getting my paychecks.

Jade: Yeah, sucks to be you.

Ron: Don't you take that tone with me.

Jade: We MADE you. This version of you, at least. We'll take any tone we like.

Sarea: YEAH!

Ron: JUST ONE BLOODY MINUTE! YOU STOLE FROM ME--

Jade: We didn't steal. Heavens, you're so tense. It was an honest mistake! You're getting them all now. Just think of us as Gringotts trolls. Much, much prettier Gringotts trolls.

Ron: I'm reporting you to the WWL and Department of Wizarding Labor. This just isn't on. You'll get a fine, for sure.

Jade: Fined! Why would I get a fine, when the two of us were the ones who-- wait, where's Sarea? Sarea?

Ron: I'm just filling out this form here. It is J-A-D-E O-K-E-L-A-N-I, correct?

Jade: That is IT! Sarea Okelani, our friendship is over! O-V-E-R, OVER!!

Ron: Who are you talking to?

Jade: I HAVE NO BEST FRIEND.

Ron: Sad, gone off her rocker, that one.