If It Was You

A/N: Welcome to the sixth chapter of If It Was You. Here we see a bit more of emotional Hermione… and thank goodness, her feelings for Big Bad Draco start to trickle out now, and… Is that jealousy I smell? Plus, yay, Draco/Hermione interaction! I think you folks are going to like this chapter. (And, yeah… I know, everyone needs to take a serious chill pill.) Plus! Drunk Hermione! And, I know the Three Broomsticks is supposed to be a kid-friendly place, but bear with me?

Dedication: To Ashley. Why? Why?

Horny Tourists Night at the Three Broomsticks

Hermione's bad day was compensated for, oddly enough, with three glorious weeks of the absolute lack in the appearances of Draco Malfoy. One could say she was ecstatic, if not mildly paranoid a fraction of the time, and cynically wondering when he'd pop out of nowhere, like when the lights were off when she came home, or when she was in her knickers dressing up, or when she was crossing a dark alley, or when she was in the dairy section of her local Muggle grocery store. There was also the fact that Ginny Weasley had somehow dug her way into Hermione's personal life again, like a mischievous gopher, for what she had feared would arise from her public humiliation of Draco in Hogwarts finally – inevitably – did: Ginny's interest and efforts were triggered yet again, and now she requested Hermione's company far too often for it to be of innocent, friendly purpose.

Apparently, Ginny had picked up a new hobby over the summer called Psychoanalyzing and Bothering the Hell Out of People.

What was worse was that Ginny was putting all sorts of ideas in her head again, no matter how much of a touchy subject it was, and especially no matter how much Hermione tried to tune her out and ignore her. Apparently seventh-year girls were very insensitive to people's blatant suffering and insufferable in their matchmaking and philosophies of love and past relationships. Hermione had probably blown up at her twice already (and imagined gagging her more times than she could count), but Ginny had just told her to stop being so sensitive – for what? Hadn't she and Malfoy broken up an entire year ago? So why was it that she was being such a begrudging jerk? Why couldn't she just let it go, after all, it was what happened in relationships – "Nothing lasts forever, you know that, Hermione, so stop freezing him out, will you? Quite obviously he's not out to harm you, since he didn't punch you back that one day when he easily could have."

That always hit a vulnerable spot, even though she tried her best to be a welder and make sure everything inside her was strong, grade-A iron when it came to Draco Malfoy. She always said, through gritted teeth, that that wasn't the point. But Ginny's constant prying of her past had slumped her all time high into a miserable low, causing her to question exactly why it was she hated him so much – which was wrong! Utterly wrong! Couldn't a person just hate a person without people trying to resolve their problems for them? Couldn't people – uh, what was that word again? Oh yeah, it was – mind their own business? What was Ginny and Remus and Dumbledore seeing that she wasn't? No, wait, eighty-six that – she didn't want to know.

But what was bizarre was that she didn't necessarily talk to Hermione about her getting back with Malfoy – thank God, or else she would have bashed her over the head with something heavy – or anything particularly love related. Usually she was always rambling about Hermione's unfortunate inability to forgive people. She seemed to know that Malfoy had done something horrible to her but effortlessly disregarded the look of obvious frustration and slight pain in their recollections of that year. And it was sad; it was, because Hermione tried not to hear her for she herself knew that the youngest Weasley was often ridiculous. But – and this may not make sense to anybody, for it didn't even make sense to her – her incessant pestering and analyzing and unsolicited advice really grazed her where it was sore. Especially after three weeks. Especially when the redundancy and – shit – good points had drilled themselves into her head and chimed like a never-ending nursery rhyme. She lost sleep because of it. She lost sanity because of it.

By then, Ginny had made it clear that Hermione had to make her understand why she couldn't do what she was asking her to do for a variety of reasons so complicated that it completely and mercilessly screwed with her brain and scruples, yet simple enough that Ginny Weasley – who, when she last checked, was still human and imperfect like the rest of them – should understand. Just a little. A little.

And the fact that maybe she was feeling a little overemotional today probably had something to do with it, too.

"Oh, come on, Hermione, don't be so dramatic. I mean, I know Malfoy's a malicious prick with a boot lodged up his arse, but really, it shouldn't be so hard after an entire year—"

"He hurt me, all right, Ginny? He lied to me! Is that what you want to hear?" Hermione shouted to her one day when she had followed her into the back room. Her voice was shrill and loud – passionate, so passionate that her cheeks were pink and her eyes were shiny. "That I can't forgive him, not now, not ever, because I don't want to! I can't! Because every time I look at him, every time I see him or hear him or think about him it still hurts! Is that what you want? And I hate him! I do! Because I know I should be over it, it's been an entire year – but he's back, you know? You saw him! Prancing in here like he's God, like he's got a right to step on people on his way to the top – well, I'm not going to allow that! Do you understand me? I'm not!" Her vision had started to blur then; and she didn't know what was happening, for all she felt was that pain in her chest, like someone was stabbing rusty screwdrivers into her. But Ginny had finally shut up and never mentioned later on that Hermione had been crying.

And Hermione, who was perfectly insane in her ways, would have never believed her anyway. It was one of those times when she cried and never knew it because she was so passionate about something that she couldn't get a grip on reality, the smoky, physical reality – that she hated. Because that's what she reckoned what had gotten her into this mess in the first place. The way circumstances screwed with people's minds until there was finally a breaking point, and they reached it, or they bordered it. Or they were forced to very violent measures.

And one could not blame her, for Hermione was a girl. And being that she was a girl, she cried over her feelings sometimes. It was not a weakness but a way to vent. A very wet way. And it was okay. It was. Ginny made sure to tell her that while she soothingly patted her back while she continued to sniffle about how unfair it all was, how much of a bastard he was, and that she just wished he punched her back – she would've totally destroyed him, without a doubt. And Ginny, who was a good friend when she was not pestering people for the sake of her "hobby," said that right, she would most certainly have. And it was one of those incredibly vulnerable moments where it didn't matter that she was angry with Ginny for doing this to her, for perhaps it was all a plan – maybe she needed to come to these terms. Maybe it was supposed to do her some good, like get her one step closer to getting over it. Because Ginny was right. It had been one entire year already. What on earth was taking this long? Of course, one has to point out the fact that she had been doing absolutely fine before he came along…

What the hell? So what was this trying to tell her?

"Bloody hell, Ginny," she suddenly said, drawing back from her friend's embrace. She looked at her. "What? Did you just say something?"

Because she so very hoped she hadn't said what she thought she said.

Ginny gave her a blank look that made it obvious to Hermione that maybe she was just hearing things. Not a very healthy sign, but whatever. Nothing about this was healthy anyway.

"Are you sure you didn't say anything?" asked Hermione, and her friend then proceeded in leading her to a chair where she strongly advised her to sit down and maybe take a few breaths because she was imagining voices when, quite clearly, she hadn't said anything.

They sat down, and Hermione had long stopped crying. Ginny looked around at the barren library, which was nothing new, and then looked back at Hermione with a soft look. "But Hermione," she whispered, "why is it, do you think, it still hurts?" And it didn't look like she was using one of her mind tricks again, either; she really looked like she wanted to know.

Hermione grunted.

Well, join the party.

"Because he's a bastard," she replied without much thought. She gave her an irritated look, which looked wearier and more miserable than it was the annoyed half. "Don't ask me that, Ginny." Then she told her to go fetch her a book from the front desk so that she might read and feel better.

ooooo

"Tell me again, Hermione, why you dragged me here to do absolutely nothing but stalk you while you're looking for… groceries," Ron said, eyeing the variety of cereal boxes and then inching closer to the shelf, picking up the one with the toucan on it. "I say, you Muggles truly are bizarre with your… food. You have animals on it with little word bubbles!" He laughed and Hermione rolled her eyes, remembering how shallow his joy was. At least it kept him entertained.

"Because Harry's working and I can't very well leave you alone at our flat, now, can I? You might burn it down or something," she muttered, reading the nutrition facts on the back of a cereal box and wrinkling up her face in dissatisfaction. In the very back of her mind there was a teeny voice that bubbled up with laughter and shouted on about the fact that she had almost burned it down herself… and so she was one to talk. But Ron didn't know that, and she didn't think it was a very important thing for him to know, so he wasn't going to. Simple.

He made an exaggerated sound from his mouth. "Hermione, you've got to loosen up. I already told you I wouldn't touch anything, except maybe the telly." She remembered that Ron had been so fascinated with that thing that he had stayed for three days watching it without sleep until they had to force him out. "How can I burn your flat down if I don't touch anything?"

"I don't know, but knowing you, I'm certain you'll find a way," she said distractedly as they headed towards the fruits and vegetables section. "Besides, I'm almost done. I just need to get a few more things and then we can go."

"I should just visit Harry at the office," remarked Ron, putting his hands in his pockets and looking around with a strange look on his face. "He'd let me stay at your flat. I bet he wouldn't force me to stick around you in this… smelly place."

Hermione scoffed. "No, he wouldn't. That's one of our rules. You can't ever stay there by yourself – ever."

Ron was incredulous. "What are you, his mum?"

"Might as well be," she mumbled.

He grabbed a tomato as Hermione stopped to inspect the cabbages. "You know, Hermione, it'd do you some good to stop acting like everyone's mum and to start acting like a normal girl. You know, not so smart about everything and…" he was passing it in between his two hands as he looked at her with a furrowed ginger brow, trying to think. "I don't know, to stop acting like you always have to have your way. It isn't very attractive. I mean, it could be." He grabbed another tomato and started to juggle. "But in your case it's not."

"Well, thanks," she said dryly. "I appreciate it, since your history in romance and your dating life is just blossoming with diamonds and gold bricks. Obviously, you're doing something right."

"I mean it," he insisted. "See? See – that's what I'm talking about! The constant put-downs and sarcasm and witty retorts! That's how a girl's supposed to be after they get married, not before they catch a bloke and trap them! At least other girls, they don't show their true colors until after they'd gotten that rock on their finger and a marriage proposal –"

"That's because those girls are gold-digging bints," snapped Hermione. "And I thank God every day my brain has been nurtured to have more oxygen and actually retain information than what would push up my breasts or… how to look like some trollop," she said, quite disturbed with the direction their conversation had turned, rolling her cart away. Ron followed, still juggling the tomatoes.

"I'm just saying it wouldn't hurt anybody if you'd acted… like a girl once every while," he said oh-so-smartly. He certainly knew how to charm women with his words, all right.

"Oh, yes, because I'm not a girl, I'm some creature that is just utterly confused with its sexuality —"

"Hermione, I didn't mean it that way," Ron groaned.

"No, Ron, please spare me the lectures and advice, all right?" she said. "If I cared about snagging a bloke or getting a marriage proposal right now, I'll be sure to perhaps consider all of the helpful things you said, but right now that doesn't seem very likely, all right? And, by the way, I am downright disgusted by how you view the female population and your stereotypical views about the way we are supposed to act – you are just like a man!" she exclaimed, gaining a few looks from the other people in the store. "A pig!"

"Well, I respect your opinion, but not so loud, eh?" he said sheepishly, his cheeks flushing a little red, halting his juggling and quickly putting them in the crate with the peaches as he caught up with Hermione. He ducked his head down a little in embarrassment. "You know I love you, Hermione, you're my best friend – hell, I can even quite vividly recall a time when we would have been good together…"

"Ron, we'd kill each other."

"Yeah, but it'd be in a good way." He began to laugh. "Cheer up, Hermione, don't be so unpleasant towards everything. I was just trying to get my point across. I mean, all I'm trying to say is that I'd really like it if you'd just venture out into the dating scene every now and then. I've tried to set you up with some of my mates but you've always turned them down – didn't even offer a good reason, just a plain old No. You really have to take your chances. You only live once, you know."

He didn't state the fact that he didn't want to see her end up as some old maid with thousands of cats (even he had been sad when Crookshanks ran away) and a great big monumental library. He didn't even make a joke about her marrying the library, which would have been typical Ron behavior. He just looked at her pityingly. Because Hermione knew that he didn't have to say it; it would have been cruel to say it straight aloud. They were in a market, for goodness's sake. There was no need to go shouting around that Hermione Granger was perhaps the only Hogwarts Alumni who was Most Likely to End Up Alone.

Merlin, that was a depressing thought.

"Ron," she sighed, though she really felt like people – or, more specifically, the Weasleys – were attacking her personal life for no apparent reason known to her. "I don't have time for this."

Because grocery shopping and getting lectured by Ronald Weasley, whose soul had currently vacated his body and was instead replaced by some queer love doctor, and finding out that the price for tangerines and apples had gone up almost twenty pence since she had last been in here was almost a little too much to bear right now.

She started heading towards the checkout line, her head buzzing with the most dismal and controversial of thoughts, when she spotted something from the corner of her eye. She turned her head and caught a man closely staring at her, a man no older than she was, perhaps even a tad younger. He seemed familiar to her for in that instant there was a sudden spark in her head, and she pursed her lips as she tried to quickly remember where she had seen him. He gave her an ambiguous, mysterious look before Hermione felt her cart hit something and heard a loud crash that made her whole body jump about two feet into the air.

Her gaze jerked forwards as she watched the pyramid of canned corn clatter down to the ground from the impact of her cart, rolling around on the floor, the hollow sound of metal on tile silencing the entire market. Everybody was looking at her now, and she felt her face coloring at an alarming rate. Her palms were sweating against the protective plastic handle of the cart.

"Hermione, why can't you watch where you're going?" said Ron from behind her, and for once, began to do something useful as he walked ahead of her and began to pick up the runaway cans. "Do you know how long it takes to assemble these into-into that?"

But as Hermione looked back at where the man had been, by the potatoes, he was gone.

ooooo

Over the next few days Hermione felt a very odd feeling every time she left her flat until she returned home. She couldn't exactly place it, for she had no experiences to compare it to and therefore couldn't precisely say, but often she felt as if she was being… watched. It certainly was odd. One moment she would see something from the corner of her eye that would send her body into a strange, paralyzed state, but when she turned, it would be gone, or it would just be some regular person on a street, waiting for the bus. By the third day she was convinced that she was only being paranoid, which was not new. But usually her paranoia involved Draco Malfoy somehow, and that was not the case this time around. Actually, she was doing rather fine in the Draco Malfoy department. All she needed was a break from him, a particular amount of time in which she spent minimal time thinking of him.

It was also because she was suddenly so busy. The library had been back to being swamped again, for it seemed that three professors had assigned big, scary essays all at once, and then there was Peeves, who for some reason had chosen Hermione to bother this week by disorganizing the books in the shelves or – quite conveniently – throwing them out of the window. Madam Rosmerta had also called her in for extra shifts because her pub had gained popularity from magical out-of-towners and now tourists were filling up the room before it even struck eight. Most of the tourists were adults and often came late, but they seemed to order rounds and rounds before they left. Lately they'd been closing later and later than usual and Madam Rosmerta, though ecstatic about her pub's fame, was getting a bit worried about its reputation. They hadn't taken down the Adults Only sign in three days.

"Sorry again, girls," she said as another pack of Swedish wizards entered, laughing obnoxiously and then eyeing all of the women in the room. "I know it's awful for me to ask this of you, but it's real important. And remember, if anyone tries anything, just do what I told you," she said, before she rushed away to collect orders. These nights always seemed to go by in a blur yet it didn't end as quickly as they liked – it was just in the manner everything played out, as if she was watching it all in rapid motion and then there were the colorful trails of auras and activity.

Hermione, who was tying on her waist apron, looked at her fellow bartender, Nicole. Nicole was usually the one who attracted all of the dirty men because she was blond and – let's face it – beautiful, but she was also snarky and cruel when it came to horn balls, so it all worked out just fine. She and Hermione got along just fine, but Hermione could not help but feel a little bit of resentment and envy towards her when she did manage to catch a nice, decent bloke's attention. Sometimes she wished she were as fearless and sexy as she was. But that was a painful thought.

"Good luck," Nicole nodded at her as she hastily put up her hair. "And remember that if you can smell their breath from all the way behind the bar, then it's time for them to stop."

Hermione silently wondered how on earth she had gotten a job as a bartender at the Three Broomsticks during Horny Tourists Night. "Yeah, sure thing. You too. But I'm sure you won't have any problems." But Nicole probably hadn't heard her, for she had already walked away and up to the bar where a man had instantly started to order some alcohol for him and his buddies. He then proceeded in asking for her name. And Hermione, who was ironically smiling only because it was the only thing she could do right now, walked up to her station and whipped up some gin for a sixty-year-old man, on the rocks.

Just an hour into her shift, it took all that Hermione had not to duck underneath where the people couldn't see her and take a good gulp of vodka, or scotch, it didn't matter. She passed the temptation, but when a woman had almost thrown up on her and a man who could have been her father offered to take her to his home, by the tragically depressing end of her second hour she had tucked herself away for five minutes and nestled that bottle in between her legs, breathing deeply and taking a few swigs just to keep her from passing out. She felt a little lightheaded, no doubt, and the room seemed too hot or there were simply too many people breathing, and pressed the cool glass against her temple for a minute, thinking dazedly to herself. Today just wasn't her day.

It was sort of funny the way she forgot how miserable her job made her sometimes. It wasn't because people treated her horribly, or the management sucked, or the work was tedious or boring – it was none of those things. It was simply just that she had never meant to be a bartender; she couldn't even stand alcohol, and yet, here she was, encouraging people to get drunk and even go home with that guy in the corner of the bar who – let's face it – probably had one or more types of VD, only to wake up the next morning with no recollection of the night before nor any clothes. She hated it that sometimes it even drove her to drinking, only because it was right there, and it was accessible. Funny, because when Draco Malfoy had come strutting back into her life again she forgot all of this. She'd been so focused in her anger for him that work no longer made her so unhappy, because she'd been vindictive.

Sad.

It was horribly sad.

"Bartender! Bartender! Bartender! I need a drink!"

Hermione closed her eyes and her clammy fingers squeezed around the neck of the bottle, and she sighed. It wasn't even ten yet and she was already surrounded by drunken people. That contributed generously to the sad factor of it all. Yet she felt guilty about feeling all of this. She was employed, wasn't she? Shouldn't she be happy about that?

Yeah, but a woman had almost thrown up on her.

Suddenly, there was a floating head – no, there was a face was staring right back at her. It was Nicole, who had her thin, silvery brows furrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line. "Hermione? I need you. You're going to need to tuck that away for now until we get our break, all right? Come on, up, up."

She didn't know which she was talking about, the bottle of vodka or the fact that she was grossly unhappy with Horny Tourists Night and her job. But she got up anyway, because it was still her job, and one Nicole against the crowd at the Three Broomsticks would be like leaving her to battle a pack of wolves. Very drunk, strange, constantly-slurring-their-words, smelly wolves. But as she crawled out from underneath the bar, taking the bottle of vodka with her and hiding it behind some of the other bottles, she looked up and saw something that made her heart stop. And maybe it was just the alcohol, and maybe it was a sign that those few swigs were going to send her into a heart attack. But her eyes widened, and her brain – there seemed to be like little fireworks inside there, the kind that popped and swelled and rattled.

There was – she could have sworn – Draco Malfoy sitting down at one of the tables not far from where she was standing. It was even a tad bizarre the way the crowd – the noisy, glittery-eyed crowd – parted at that exact moment when she would see him sitting down, looking so unruffled yet so out of place in such a rambunctious, unsophisticated place. Instantly she was struck with confusion. Draco Malfoy did not belong in the Three Broomsticks on Horny Tourists Night. How did he even find a seat? What was he even doing here?

Hermione continued to stare at him, hard at first, and then she rubbed her eyes and looked again. She was quite certain she hadn't drunk as much for hallucinations to take place. And he was still there. Sitting down.

She blinked.

"Scotch, please, and a dry martini," she heard a woman say in front of her. Hermione nodded, but was still sending a disturbed look in Draco's direction and blindly gripped the bottle of scotch. She took a glass from her right and began to pour, her eyes still transfixed on him and wondering what the hell he was doing here, when suddenly she felt something surprisingly cold and wet on her knuckles and heard a loud gasp from in front of her.

Her eyes flickered down in alarm and saw that in all of her inattentiveness she had missed her aim and spilled scotch all over the counter. The woman was glaring at her now, and Hermione mumbled an apology as she grabbed a towel and wiped it up. She got her what she ordered successfully this time but afterwards went back to observing him, despite what protests she most certainly had. She felt a little twinge in her chest as she watched him and wondered if he had stayed away on purpose (which almost made her want to smile a little, just because it showed that she was still threatening to him). Somehow her anger had simmered just a little, for perhaps, yes, maybe she had been overtly dramatic in her shock… but she still felt that blend of pain and anger like a thick, unconquerable segment of rope bound around her chest.

She still hated him. She couldn't say that enough. And she couldn't even begin to fathom why Lupin had said what he had said to her that day for she feared she might down the whole vodka bottle and never even get anywhere in terms of Lupin's intent behind his vague and complicatedly confusing remark, except maybe increase her chances of being an alcoholic. But maybe – maybe – if he attempted to apologize and told her the truth, and it wasn't a hideous one, then maybe she could start to forgive him. But somehow she felt like the vodka had diluted her, or it was just this drunken atmosphere that was making her think like this. Because she remembered that sometimes saying things were a lot easier than doing them. And what if her hate was stemmed too deeply that she couldn't forgive him – not even if she wanted to? Because she felt like that sometimes, too.

But then a slender figure passed by him and took the seat in front of him and it seemed as if her whole train of thought – or what had been the beginning of what could have been a productive start of a resolution – shattered. Funny, because she never quite got it when writers used the term "shattered," maybe because she was just deftly ignorant at times, but it was at this instant that she felt it – just like how the writers described it. Like shattering.

She watched as the woman smiled politely at Draco, and she couldn't tell, really, but she was almost certain he had smiled back. And Draco Malfoy almost never smiled, not even when he was happy. Hermione, who felt paralyzed and ambushed by vicious shock, felt her brain doing a double take, and then a triple take, but was still having major difficulties trying to comprehend what was happening. Because it had never occurred to her – not once – that ever since that day they'd broken up he would have moved on. She hadn't even thought about it, which was strange, but it only made the impact of this-this occurrence even bigger. And she shouldn't have a problem with it, none at all, because she completely hated him and so what if he was being an awfully cheap date by bringing her to the Three Broomsticks on Horny Tourists Night? Why, she should be laughing her frizzy little head off!

Draco Malfoy was a cheap date!

Who would've figured?

She was fuming. She wasn't aware of it, though, not really, because when one is incensed by jealousy (and she did not know this) ninety-five percent of the time one does not even know it. And Hermione could be very ignorant sometimes, especially when it came to Draco. She could feel herself glaring at them, saying that she didn't care about Draco Malfoy and-and his skinny chicken, but why on earth did they have to come here? On Horny Tourists Night? Seriously, was this a conspiracy?

And the woman looked old enough to be his mother! So what if she was beautiful and had the body of a goddess – she was old! The woman probably had pieces of lint older than him!

Oh God.

Hermione whirled around, breathing hard, feeling something hot tightening around her ribs. Her head felt feverish and her hands had broken out in sweat. She hastily brushed aside the bottles and retrieved the vodka she'd hidden, closing her eyes tightly as she leaned her head back and pressed the bottle against her lips. The liquor burned her throat. It burned her mouth and her lungs, but somehow she thought it could make her feel better – see? She was already acting like an alcoholic. And it was horrible, and she hated alcohol… this was most certainly not something she was going to tell her children… if she even had any children… she'll probably only have, like, thirty cats… and even then the cats wouldn't listen to her just because she was a stupid old maid… and who ever listened to an old maid? Nobody she knew.

Because old maids were ugly and pathetic.

"Hermione! Save a little for the customers, all right?" she heard someone say, and her eyes darted open, snatching the bottle away from her mouth. She looked to her right, where Madam Rosmerta was making a drink for two brunettes, yet glancing worriedly at Hermione as she grabbed two olives and dropped them in. "Are you all right, dear? I think you should take your break now, you look a little funny." The brunettes were staring at her now, and they were nodding in agreement.

Oh how she would have taken her break without a moment to spare, almost tripping over herself to get out of here and run out of the back door, breathing as much as she could before she – she was almost sure – threw up. But as much as she wanted to get away from Draco Malfoy invading her territory, he and his insufferable date with somebody's mother, she found herself firmly shaking her head. She had to force out the words, and she didn't think she did it very well, either. "No, I'll be all right. I just…"

Madam Rosmerta shook her head, smiling a little as if she sympathized with her. "No need to explain. I know."

She got back to work, and since Nicole had taken her break, there was a crowd in front of both her and Madam Rosmerta now. She didn't look up as she made their orders and wasn't thinking about their orders, either; she was on automatic, she could do anything without thinking about it, only because she was too busy thinking of something else that took the efforts of her whole brain to try and break down. She messily made their drinks with a deeply embedded scowl on her face, feeling so angry and-and just plain old hateful, gritting her teeth because she felt as if she was so furious she could cry.

But she wasn't going to cry, because she wasn't a weepy drunk. She wasn't even a drunk. All she could think about was Draco and that woman. How she hadn't even gone out on a single date since, well, never, while he was going through all of the women in the wizarding world as if they were lined up in a queue. And hell, maybe they were. But she thought it so despicable how he had to show up here, out of all places, when they could have gone to some high maintenance, fancy-schmancy, toilets-with-diamonds-in-the-seat restaurant. Not some pub that actually had a Horny Tourists Night and practically had no vacant loos, since almost every one of them were usually occupied by snogging teenagers.

Maybe Dumbledore had told him that she worked here and he was here to rub it in her face. She didn't doubt it. Maybe he just wanted to get back at her for what she'd done to him, the constant ill treatment, and, well, injury. It was just too much of a coincidence.

"Two glasses of your best scotch, please," a voice from in front of her said.

Hermione froze. She recognized that voice: a superior and gratingly arrogant drawl. She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand and her heart shudder – with rage, with hate, with sadness, with jealousy – as she stiffly looked up and felt something heavy hitch up her throat. Her lips drew down into a scowl.

There she was, face to face with Draco Malfoy after three insufficient weeks of his absence. She hated it that when she first looked up and saw his face she felt an overwhelming tackle of pain that seemed to unravel every inch of her, and she couldn't even try to compose herself because she was too busy trying not to let her eyes water with spiteful tears or her chin tremble or her tongue lash out at him. She feared what she would say. She insisted it was anger, and humiliation, and hate, but she felt something else toiling in there too, smoking like a freshly fired pistol.

"Granger?" he said, one of his brows climbing up his forehead, looking surprised to see her, because obviously he had said his order while still looking back at his… "date." Blech. "You're-you're a bartender? Here?"

Well, shit.

"It's called employment," she said harshly, glowering at him. "But I wouldn't expect you'd ever need it, would you? Thought so."

"But what are you doing bartending? I thought you were a librarian." He gave her an ambiguous look that almost made her want to look away. He was going to ridicule her now, she knew it. She deserved it. Well, Draco Malfoy? Bring it. "I say, you don't exactly have a good handle on this one," he remarked dryly, motioning to the wet countertop and grimacing. "Maybe you should just stick to the books. I rather think you're much more compatible with those than drunks."

She wasn't sure if that was an insult. His tone wasn't ice, that was for sure, but that only made her angrier. What was he doing to her? What – did he feel sorry for her now, because she was a bartender and a librarian, and so she wasn't even worth his insults?

"I'm sure," she said tartly, still fuming inside. She got the bottle of scotch and hesitated for a bit, her grip tight on the bottle, deciding whether she should fulfill the urge to throw it in his face. "But I doubt anyone could be as compatible with old whores like you," she hissed, and Draco's once passive face eased into a sneer. She nodded behind him, to his date. He didn't turn around to look. "Did you run out of people your age? Or did the world suddenly get smarter and see how much of a prat you are?"

"I feel no need to discuss my personal life to you, Granger. Besides, I wouldn't talk about running out of things if I were you." His scowl intensified and she sensed that familiar hint of venom in his voice. "You shouldn't talk so quickly. You're the one who's pathetic enough to grasp for something nearby and lower your standards – because Potter's accessible, and he's a hero, and you aren't tortured by the look of his scar every day – because, hey!" he suddenly said. "You're used to it! You're living together, remember?"

"I don't see how any of this has to do with Harry," she snapped, still completely oblivious to Draco's assumption of her and Harry's relationship. "This is what you always do, don't you? You twist everything around to make it involve him – are you so sick of being the villain that you've resorted to pinpointing it all on him? Because, newsflash, Draco Malfoy," she said, banging down the two glasses of scotch in front of him. "You're always going to be the villain. It's not what you do. You can join our side with your mum and Snape," she hissed. "But it won't change anything. You can save a life. Hell, you can save my life. But you're always going to be a villain, because that is – who – you – are."

"And you, Hermione Granger," he heatedly retorted, "are always going to be a psychotic basketcase in need of a major lay."

And, grimacing at her, he took his drinks and walked away.

Bastard.

ooooo

She spent the rest of her terrible night watching them. It was a pathetic and ex-girlfriendish thing to do, but she did it. Over the span of the three hours they spent there talking, she grew to hate Draco and his date even more than she thought was emotionally possible. What was even worse was that she'd started taking more swigs of vodka regularly, and while she insisted that she wasn't drunk, she was feeling a little lightheaded and a tad disoriented sometimes. She thought it would make things a little better if the alcohol had numbed her a little – just a little – but it most certainly was not doing anything for her. She realized how much people lied to her about this stuff and subconsciously asked why they drank when they were in pain – wasn't it supposed to dull that hurt? Wasn't it? Well, then, why the hell wasn't her pain being dulled? The only thing that was happening to her was that she was getting drunker and drunker. And that had totally not been her intention.

She told herself that it didn't seem as if Draco and that woman he was with were talking about anything particularly enjoyable, for Draco's face was grave the entire time, and so was the lady's. They appeared to be talking about something really serious, which was strange, because the Three Broomsticks was certainly not the place to be talking about something serious (i.e. incident with Harry during their third year when their professors had been talking about Sirius Black). Plus, he barely even looked at her – and when she followed his constant gaze, she saw that he was watching a man sitting on one of the stools. Hermione stiffened as she recognized him; it was the same man from the market!

But when she turned her gaze towards him his eyes flickered away, and she got this very disturbing feeling inside her skin. What was that man doing here? She'd seen him in a Muggle market… and now the Three Broomsticks? Something was definitely not right.

"Hermione, dear, are you all right? I think you should take your break now before you drink all of the vodka. In fact, we're out of vodka, so why don't you go to the back and fetch us one more case before heading out," Madam Rosmerta said, her voice clearly telling Hermione that she was concerned about her. Hermione couldn't blame her. She'd known from the start that Hermione was not a drinker (which was one of the reasons she had been so quick to hire her) and, well, when she started downing all that vodka… obviously, something ugly was going on.

"Yeah, sure thing," replied Hermione, taking her vodka with her before Madam Rosmerta snatched it away from her and gave her a stern look. Hermione nodded as she remembered her 'Drinking will not solve your problems but make you even stupider' lecture she'd given them right before they started, and there was also the 'Just because it's here doesn't mean it's here for you' that was fairly relevant to this. So, with empty hands, Hermione made her way towards the back.

Back at booth number twelve, a pair of gray eyes trailed one Hermione Granger. Draco said a quick goodbye to the woman sitting before him before getting up and following her.

She went into the backroom, looking for the box of vodka. She went through all of the boxes until she came across one messily labeled but had a distinguishable 'V' in it, so she assumed it was the one that held all the vodka. She cursed under her breath as she looked inside the box and discovered that it was empty. She then spent five minutes searching the room for another box of vodka, or a bottle that had somehow rolled away, but only found a few mice and some questionable stains on the floor.

She was somewhat embarrassed to be going back empty-handed to Madam Rosmerta and having to be the one to tell her that there wasn't anymore vodka, for that only proved how irresponsible she was. And usually Hermione was not this irresponsible – usually Hermione was not that bartender who drank all the vodka. And usually Hermione was not that girl who was still angry with her ex-boyfriend for having found somebody else. But hey, maybe it was opposite day today and she hadn't gotten the memo.

Frowning to herself and running one hand through her frizzy curls, she exited the backroom and began to pass the short hall to get to the bar. Suddenly, she found herself being pulled into a corner, the corner right beside the doorway, and where they would be hidden by that damn door curtain Nicole had insisted on putting up because her Muggle aunt had gotten it for her from Japan.

She was going to scream but felt a hand on her mouth and heard a voice. Her head was slightly dizzy now, for when someone was mildly drunk it wasn't the brightest idea to engage in fast movements, and felt her body closely fitting against this-this unknown person's that it sent a blatant shudder down her body. She squinted through the darkness of the hall and found her eyes enlarging as she realized she knew this person. In fact, she hated this person.

She gasped, feeling his hand against her mouth, before her eyes narrowed.

"Granger," Draco Malfoy lowly whispered to her. "Don't scream. I'm not going to hurt you."

Hermione, her heart thundering in her chest, feeling as if she was on the verge of a heart attack, took his hand off of her mouth. "Malfoy? What the hell are you doing here? You aren't permitted back here! How did you even get –"

"That isn't important," he said hurriedly. "And keep your voice down, will you?"

"Why?" Hermione hissed, looking up at him and feeling very nervous that they were this close. He was still holding her against him, as if making sure she wouldn't get away, and she could feel the warmth of his rigid body against hers. His hand was on her back and she could feel coils of heat blossoming from the very spot he was touching her. She swallowed hard.

The sensible, Hermione thing to do would have been to push him away, sock him in the face, and then nonchalantly get back to her job. But she couldn't think of it at the moment for it seemed that the vodka and the fact that she was this near to Draco Malfoy – who she hated – seemed to rush in all at once, overtaking her, rooting her to this very spot. She felt a wave of indescribable static as she watched his face only inches from hers, and in all of her drunkenness wondered how it would feel to kiss him again. Her head felt as if it had been disconnected from her body and it was so misty inside her skull, yet her body and her heart was thrumming with an influx of feelings she was sure she hadn't felt in… a year.

Oh, goodness, she was so drunk.

"Do you honestly want to be caught back here with me?" he asked her, and Hermione, though now run by alcohol, managed to catch his point. "And, what in Merlin's name – have you been drinking?" He scrunched up his face from the reek of alcohol emanating from her.

"This is a bar," she pointed out coldly, wishing he'd let her go before she did something bad (like punch him) or something even worse (like kiss him). Her throat felt so hoarse now, and so her reply crackled, and she really wished she could get a glass of water. "Now, let me go," she said, suddenly feeling angry again, and a hotness in her eyes. Something flickered across his face and he ignored her.

"Yeah, but you're a bartender."

"Why do you always have to point that out?" she snapped, wanting to yell it at him. She wanted to push him away and scream at him, telling him to never touch her again – because he couldn't, couldn't ever after what he'd done to her. Because when he touched her she felt as if she was being burned, and when he touched her she had begun to feel as if nothing had changed from the year before – and everything had, oh, everything most certainly had. And it wasn't fair, no, not to her. It wasn't fair that he could do this to her again.

"So what if it's a lowly job?" she barked. "So what if-if I have to handle people who might throw up on me, or hit on me, or drunks that are so miserable that we have to kick them out because they never want to leave?" she seethed. "What is it that you do, Draco Malfoy, that makes you feel as if you have to point out every single flaw in everybody else's lives?" She felt her chin tremble and could taste the sting of vodka on her tongue. "Because I'd like to know."

"Oh, get over yourself, Granger," he tartly replied. "I didn't mean it that way, if you weren't perceptive enough to notice. Hard as it is to believe, I don't live to jump down your throat, you know." He then called her a word that made her face wrinkle up in annoyance.

Her defenses flared up again. "Well, that's fantastic to know. Now why are you here?" she demanded, hazily wondering if that had been a look of guilt that had appeared in his eyes for a quick second.

He hesitated. "We have to leave," he said briskly. "There's a man out there – no, don't look," he hastily commanded as he prevented her hand from parting the curtains to see. Her hand buzzed from the contact and he had retrieved his own hand before she could slap it away. "You can't look, or else he'll see you and he'll know. But for the past three hours we've been here I've been watching him and all he's done is watch you closely. We need to get out of here now."

She remembered and was almost going to tell him that she'd seen him at the market, but didn't, for he was then telling her that he thought something strange was going on. That man was an Auror and it was too suspicious for him to be watching her so closely. There were many Aurors that swayed sides for power. She then recollected a glimpse of the morning paper and her face dawned with realization. It was the same man who had been on the Daily Prophet, the one with all the medals and trophies. "But why is it do you think he's watching me?"

"I don't know, but I don't want you to stick around to find out. We've got to leave. Now."

Hermione nodded, but then stiffened again at the remembrance of his date. "Well, what about Demi Moore?" she asked frostily, looking him straight in the eye.

Draco's face twisted in bewilderment. "What?"

"What about your friend?"

He looked irritated with her now, his brows furrowing at her. He swore under his breath. "For Merlin's sake, Granger, if you absolutely have to know, she's my aunt, all right? My aunt. Not my date, not – whatever else you were thinking. My mother asked me to meet with her to straighten a few things out."

The impact of her embarrassment was immediate. She felt her cheeks color rather vividly and could not look at Draco Malfoy anymore for the sake of her transparency. She slurred out an "Oh." She then moved away from him, slipping his hand off from behind her, still feeling a little awkward, for she had been so incensed with him just minutes ago and now she was agreeing to leave with him. Well, not actually, for what she was actually planning was that she was going to go out to the bar and make a run for it herself. And if that Auror followed her, she could take him. Because no way she was going to leave with Draco Malfoy. She was angry with him, remember? And she was also a little drunk, so she was prepared to take her chances.

"Well, then, let me just tell Madam Rosmerta and get my wand and then we can" – she parted the curtain with her hand as she prepared to go back out into the bar; apparently disregarding anything that Draco had just told her. But Draco, who had always been one for fast reflexes, reached out and grabbed her hand before she could actually walk out, and before she could object, there was what seemed to be the loud crack of a whip and they were gone.

ooooo

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Hermione shouted as she stumbled on the ground of the dark alleyway he'd so spontaneously Apparated them to. She didn't mix too well with unexpected side-alongs – much less Apparating While Intoxicated! – so it wasn't a surprise to her when one of her knees buckled and found herself falling on her bum and glaring up at him. She could make out his figure in front of her and heard his voice, but everything seemed muffled, and as she felt her head spin she saw three of him. She had to blink continuously to clear her vision and even then she felt very peculiar. She couldn't seem to quite get her legs to work as well as they used to. She began to stutter. "A-are you aware that I could get sacked for leaving without p-permission? And what about my wand?"

"Don't keep up the pretense," he snarled. "I know what you were about to do – you are as daft as you are transparent when you're drunk, Granger. Now, get up."

He was offering her a hand but she didn't take it, viciously shaking her head until she realized that shaking her head only made the fuzziness worse, and even then it seemed irreversible. She tried to get up but her hands appeared confused, or she was simply too exhausted from this evening, but either way they weren't working. Then she felt something firm clamp around her arm and yank her up. The sudden force pulled her up from the ground but also caused her to lose her balance and fall right into him. She made a face, and when she tried to pull away from him, he wouldn't let her, for suddenly he'd told her to shut up and to be very still.

Hermione froze when she heard a loud, familiar sound just yards away from them. It was awkward for them to be huddling like this, especially when he inched further into the shadows and, hence, took her along with him, but as her face pressed against his shoulder she could hear her pulse rapidly drumming inside her ears. Draco's breaths had gone silent, yet she could still feel it against her hair, and she could swear she could hear his heart pounding with anticipation. His body had gone completely frozen and she shut her eyes and swallowed hard, not believing for a moment that they had managed to get into such an intimate position again.

She heard quiet footsteps and a man mumbling. After a few very long seconds, she heard another crack, and felt Draco exhale with relief. His muscle-tensed body relaxed.

"He followed us," he said to her, and she shivered. "Must be an awfully skilled Auror to be able to track us so quickly."

"Yeah," said Hermione, feeling funny. Her voice came out light and floaty to her. She tried to strengthen her tone but realized that she felt very dizzy. "Thanks. Now will you let go of me, Malfoy? I can take care of myself, you know," she said, yet she tried a little too hard to say such a simple sentence. "And who's to bloody say that I wouldn't have gotten away with it?" she said passionately as she stepped away from him and swayed a little. She gripped the wall for support.

"Because you're drunk," he pointed out matter-of-factly. "And drunk people never get away with anything except being stupid and drunk. What are you doing drinking, anyway? I don't even think you've taken a sip of alcohol until tonight. You obviously can't hold your liquor well," he said, giving her a look of sour disapproval.

Hermione glared at him. "I can hold my liquor just fine. My brain hasn't been affected" – Draco guffawed – "and I can still combat your asinine words with witty remarks, all right?"

"Granger, with each second that passes, you're losing more and more brain cells."

"What is your problem?" she suddenly blurted in all of her anger. "What do you want from me, Draco Malfoy?" To be honest, she now hadn't the vaguest clue of what she was saying. Drunk people, you know, they just say stuff. "Showing up at the door of my flat, then showing up at my jobs at the library and now the pub – you ruined my life once already, you know?" she yelled. "What is it? Are you not satisfied with that? Do you want to try again, to see if you can leave me in an even bigger mess than before? Is that really how much of a monster you are? And how in the deepest reaches of hell are you even on our side?" Unknowingly, she began to cry. "After you lied to me?" Her voice cracked.

"It isn't as simple as you think," Draco said, feeling a painful tightening around his ribs. He was stunned at how the topic of her drunkenness had turned into talking about – this, a topic he was definitely sure was almost forbidden.

He could hear the hurt in her voice, and maybe this was all just a drunken escapade for her, but – somehow – for him this was very real. He didn't know what to say to her this time, even though he could remember thinking about it countless times this past year. He'd been so ready to combat the Angry! Man-eater! Hermione, but he hadn't counted on catching her when she was drunk and on the verge of tears. But perhaps this was the way it was supposed to be, because Lord knows Hermione Granger was as heavily guarded as Azkaban prison, and were she to be in her normal state of mind right now and un-intoxicated, she would have probably simply walked away with a few biting words of hate and spite. She would never have cried in front of him. Not since he had done what he did to her. Because Hermione Granger was not one to show her true feelings, especially to him, and especially about this.

If she were hurt he would never know it.

It was part of who she was, that unrelenting disability to comprehend forgiveness to those who harmed her as well as the intentional closed off-ness. He hurt her, and now he wasn't allowed a glance into the peephole of her life and feelings because she knew that he would invade it and use it to his advantage. To her, Draco knew that all he was was, in fact, a monster. And maybe that's what it was, that widening rupture in his chest that made his face twist up in slight agony at seeing her like this, so vulnerable, and maybe she was right. He was a monster for doing that to her. But was that ever surprising? No, for Hermione Granger was almost always right. Even about him.

Sometimes.

"I don't believe you," she bit out. "I don't believe you for one second."

"Are you really that dense, Granger?" he reasoned. The truth gurgled up his throat. They had too much of a history for him to keep acting like – well, how he acted with everyone else. Because she was different. Even if she was annoying, she was different. "Can't it be possible that maybe, just maybe, I lied to you because I couldn't tell you the truth? Has it honestly never crossed your mind that maybe I lied because I needed to protect you?"

Hermione made an incredulous sound as she pushed herself away from the wall, walking away, before whirling around to face him again. "Protect me?" she exclaimed, as if she couldn't even consider the fact or else her head would explode. "Protect me? Is that all you have to say? That you wanted to protect me? From what?" she yelled. "From what? Are you aware that it isn't your job to protect me? And that if I'd wanted any ounce of your protection I would have asked for it? Because that is one of the most nonsensical pieces of rubbish I have ever heard!"

Draco's jaw locked and he was breathing heavily. "Potter protects you. Do you ask for that?"

"That's different," she said.

"How? How is it any different?"

"Because he never lied to me! He never had to pen a fake tattoo on his arm! At least he's honest about protecting me! He doesn't go around on secret missions by himself—"

"Has it ever occurred to you that I'm not Potter?" he shouted at her.

"Don't make that an excuse!" She was shaking. "You know what? I'm leaving. I can't talk to you. I can't even look at you. Just the mere fact that you're here – here, in front of me…" She shook her head as she exited the alleyway. But it was only seconds later that she was back in front of him again, and she was telling him something else. "And, for your information," she told him, and he could see the glossiness of her eyes, "I don't care about your personal life. Go ahead and date old women if you want. I don't care. I don't." And then she left again.

Draco stood against the wall for a minute, trying to take in what had just happened. He cursed. "Granger!" He ran out of the alley, turning the corner and watching her walk away, though not very quickly, for he knew very well that she was still drunk and drunks couldn't even walk in a straight line without good concentration. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Away from you!"

"You're drunk!"

"You're an arse!"

Swearing under his breath, he ran after her and grabbed her arm, twisting her around, and she nearly smacked him in the face from trying to fling her elbow away from his grip. "Let me go," she persistently said, her words a little slurred, trying to slap his hand away. "Let me go or I'll scream! You know I will!"

Draco looked around. The street was completely barren. Even as angry with her as he was now, he couldn't let her go. Because she was wrong. It was his job to protect her.

"Granger," he said through his teeth, "you're drunk. There's a possibility you'll get mugged, or even raped, or abducted by some—"

"I don't care."

"Shut up, because you do care. And I also can't let you go because if they ever find your body lying out here gutted and your organs for sale in some black market, they're going to blame me, and they're going to slaughter me, got it?"

"Let me go!" and she began to flail her body about, trying to get his grip to loosen, and when he did, she fell into an unconscious heap on the floor. She'd passed out. He had been wondering when that was going to happen. Sighing, he mumbled to himself as he crouched down beside her, picking her up into his arms, looking at her face. She was completely wasted, yet even in a drunken faint she still managed to look… decent. Looking ahead with an exasperated look on his face, he called her a psychotic basketcase one more time before Apparating away.

---

Post-A/N: Be generous. Give reviews. Now, I don't know how you all liked that (oh, I guess you'll just have to click on that 'Submit Review' button below and let me know!) but all I can say is, more Draco and Hermione (and yelling) coming up…