Part 1: One shot, two shot, three shot, four. …And a little more.

"Four shots. Hardest thing you have," said a male voice.

She didn't even bother to look up to see who had (thankfully) ordered them for her.

One.

Hermione Granger was a very unlucky girl today.

You know those mornings when you wake up on the "wrong side of the bed," so to speak?

This was worse.

Much, much worse.

Typically, Hermione loved her job. She was able to help her world, the Wizarding world. At twenty-three years old, she was second in command in the highest law prosecuting office of Britain. Yes, life was treating her fairly well.

Today, however, was a whole other story.

The day started like any other did. She woke up quite tired and turned on her Wireless on the way to brush her teeth.

That was when she heard the first piece of news that ruined her day.

The clear excited voice of Fredrick Jacobs whizzed throughout her small flat as the water faucet ran clear.

"It's a beautiful October morning, folks. You can expect delays at main entrance of the Ministry of Magic this morning. Ryan Docker has managed to let loose yet another batch of pixies and the Ministry is having a hard time rounding all of them up…" Jacobs trailed off.

"In other news, Quinn Railings was found in a Muggle suburb just last night. Suspected of trading dangerous dark objects, he was taken into custody. Upon further investigation with Veraterrsim, it has been concluded that not only was he smuggling dark objects in and out of the country, but he has admitted to the Muggle killings of the Inkwell family and framing of Peter Inkwell." Hermione froze.

"As we all know, Peter was kissed last week after being prosecuted by lawyer Hermione Granger in direct connection to the murders of his family…"

"A ministry spokesman has also let out that Railings is also suspected in the murders of Jennate Cooper and unborn child, found last week in a similar state of the Inkwells," Jacobs finished. He moved on to less morose topics then, but Hermione hadn't heard a word.

Fuck.

She had been convinced, absolutely convinced that Peter had done it…everyone had. All of the evidence had pointed to him. He continually denied ever having any involvement with the death of his three squib children and Muggle wife, but most murderers wouldn't actually admit to murder…

Two.

All day Hermione had shut herself up in her office, silent tears rolling down her face.

She had asked for this case. Wanted it. She was a Muggle-born, and that certainly helped with the Jury.

For a fucking promotion.

Now, her perfect career was ruined, tainted.

Sure, others had made mistakes regarding the law but never Hermione Granger. Golden girl. A first. After four years working at the law office, not a single problem. Many praises from judges, lawyers, high-powered pure-bloods, even. Now this.

Harry had tried to talk to her. He came around eight o'clock knocking ruthlessly on her door and barging in.

And the sight before him was heartbreaking.

Her face was crinkled, messy. Her clothes didn't match, and he would have sworn she had worn the same shirt the day previous at their lunch outing…

Her hair was a messy disarray of tangles, hanging in a very lose bun at the base of her neck as the front curls escaped and stuck to her tear-stained face. She was currently going through a mess of paperwork scattered on her desk.

She wasn't concentrated on him, in fact, she didn't even look up when he entered.

"Hermione, it's really not your fa-" Harry started weakly as he saw his best friend in such a mess.

"St-STOP, Harry. Really. I appreci-appreciate it, but really, you don't have to lie to me. I was the one who…I, I…I…insisted the k-kiss," she said stuttering through choked sobs.

Another voice boomed in the room, making Harry jump.

"You have a floo in the main room, Ms. Granger. Would you like me to…?"

"She wont be taking calls right now, thank you. I'm going to take her home…she's in no state to speak with anyone," Harry called back approaching Hermione carefully. He was never any good at this kind of stuff.

He took her home then, not bothering to ask her if she even wanted to go.

Three.

The rest of the day was spent in bed, crying and moping around until she started looking for her small collection of Champagne. After fifteen minutes of half-arsed searching, she finally had had enough and decided it would be better just to head to a Muggle pub.

Four.

"Ugk," she said grimacing at the small glass which was now empty, spare a drop or two of brown liquid at the bottom.

Slamming it down on the table next to the other three she finally looked to her right, directly at the man who had bought her those four shots.

He was a relatively heavy man, she figured. He had a small tuft of light brown hair combed neatly to the side and he was wearing a large tan cloak.

"Thanks," she said awkwardly.

"You look like you needed it," he said grinning.

"Mark Roberts," he held his hand out for her to shake.

"Not interested," she said waving him off. She hoped he didn't recognize who she was…although, it was hard not to notice who she was. She prayed he was a muggle.

Now normally, she would have fooled around the preliminaries of meeting a person. She would have introduced herself in a fine manner, but then again, it was not a good day to meet Hermione Granger.

The man looked at her for a second, and then he furrowed his eyebrows and turned away, leaving the bar and slamming the door angrily.

She cringed. Maybe that was a bit uncalled for.

"Hey you! Yeah, you," she said calling the barman over to her.

"Give me your biggest cup, full to the top with your strongest alcohol," she said with all the power she could muster from her dried out voice.

Part 2: Defense for the undefendable.

It was an ordinary day for Draco Malfoy. He was sitting in his office. He prided himself in that office.

When he had been nineteen, he had been given that small cubical at the Ministry. Now, it was still just as small, but with everything the way a Malfoy should have it.

The old battered and ink-stained desk had been replaced with a beautiful mahogany desk that he had bought himself. His filing cabinets were top of the line, with extra added protection charms of his own accord.

His desk wasn't messy like the filthy spaces around him, but it was clean, organized and elegant.

There was a single picture on his desk.

As small fifth years, Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Theodore Nott all stood lined up in front of the manor Draco had grown up in. They didn't embrace in the picture like a group of normal friends would, instead they all stood there, arms folded and a devious smirk upon each of their features.

That was eight years ago.

The war had not been kind to Draco Malfoy. He of course, was a Malfoy. After the war had ended and Lucius had been sent to Azkaban the Malfoy name had been ruined. Centuries of respect that had been gained throughout the years was long gone, and the Malfoy's had been a joke. A complete and utter joke.

Of course, Draco still had his inheritance. In fact, he had enough money to never work again in his lifetime (and a few more). But being Draco Malfoy, he needed everything he wanted.

As a boy, it was no secret that Draco had admired his father. He admired the power he had over people, the way he could manipulate a situation to get it to fit his exact needs.

But Draco was no fool. Money, Draco soon learned, could not solve every problem he had. No amount of bribery or donation would sway the public of their view of the family.

So Draco then sought a way that could.

And that would be a job. An actual job.

No Malfoy had ever been known to have someone to report to. Draco would have to be the first in order to gain the respect of the Wizarding world back.

And that's how Draco Malfoy wound up working for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

When Draco had approached Roger Carlton for a job, he was ready to do anything he could to get a job as a lawyer.

Too bad they put him as a defense lawyer.

In fact, most of the cases Draco was assigned involved the dark arts and defending some idiotic Hufflepuff who didn't know how to cover his tracks.

The public had thought it ironic, really. Draco Malfoy defending people, trying to keep them out of Azkaban.

He tried, really, he did. But there was only so much a man could do when his defendant had forgotten to obliviate the muggle witnesses.

But then there were the innocent.

There were more than he would have believed at first, more people who were targeted because of their relatives wrong doing. People who were convicted wrongly because of prejudices against the pure-blood society after the war.

And that's when Draco started to take his job seriously.

After many investigations and trips to Azkaban to obtain memories from prisoners, Draco had finally won his first case when he was twenty-one, almost a year after he had started his job.

He had won thirty-three cases in his three years of working for the ministry as an underpaid Defense Attorney. That was, of course, quite an astronomical number for someone as young as twenty-three, and someone with a past like himself.

That morning had started completely ordinary, a simple cup of straight black coffee with his edition of The Daily Prophet before he went over his notes again for the last case he had lost. But the front headline had caught his attention.

Every lawyer in Britain had heard about the Inkwell case.

It was one of the biggest cases of murder since the war had ended and the Dark Lord's demise.

Granger had done a fantastic job with the case, of course. Flawless performance in front of the Wizengamont and had everyone convinced, (though he would never admit it himself,) him included.

So when the front page headline titled in black, bolded ink "PETER INKWELL INNOCENT AFTERALL, HERMIONE GRANGER'S BIG MISTAKE" it was quite a surprise to him.

The fact that Granger, know-it-all Granger, had made an actual mistake that cost an innocent man his soul was an unpredictable change of things.

He had to admit, he admired Granger in a way, well, the best way you could admire someone that used to be your most hated enemy. Granger worked in the same field as him, though never actually working against her in the courtroom, he had still seen her in action. The first time he had seen her since the final battle was watching her absolutely demolish Flint's (quite good) argument when he was just starting to study the court and learning the laws and rules. She hadn't neglected to contradict a single piece of information that Flint had provided, never missing a beat. Her words flowed with perfect articulation and pauses in the exact places of persuasion. It was quite a performance, and the Wizengamont had voted unanimously against the man who admitted to his wrong doings on stand, stuttering and tumbling over his words.

It was absolutely brilliant, watching the boy who had tortured him on the Quidditch field for losing to the-boy-who-couldn't-die, lose to the female sidekick of Potter himself. He had to stifle a laugh at the look on Flints face…

Draco grinned in remembrance.

But bloody hell, Granger! She was wrong! Something so unprecedented and astonishing.

"Draco," said a familiar voice. He looked up.

"Hello, Flint," Draco drawled, moving his notes to the side of his desk and bringing his piping-hot coffee up to his lips. Of course, there was a round circle of brown imprinted on the topmost paper, probably leaked through, too.

"So you've heard?" Flint said, his voice was unusually cheery.

"Heard what?" Draco asked, playing dumb (though some would say he wasn't playing).

"Granger, bloody Granger was wrong!" He said excitedly.

"Really? I hadn't heard, I mean, the headline on front of the paper you see me reading every morning, you would think I would've heard…" Draco trailed off sarcastically.

Flints eyes narrowed.

His voice was cooler now, he sounded more Slytherin. "No need to be so witty, Malfoy. You know I've been waiting on her downfall for ages," Flint said with a evil glint sparking in his eyes.

"Yes, well as fun as listening to you rant and rave about Granger this early in the morning is, I have some notes to get to," Draco said. It was obvious he didn't want to discuss this.

"She's probably a bloody wreck right now, mate. She's a girl…can't handle the job," Flint said smugly.

"Yeah, that's why you absolutely trashed her in the courtroom," Draco said, dripping with sarcasm.

Flint sneered at him and walked off and Draco tried to hide his smirk.

Malfoy would not consider Flint a friend of his. Merely an acquaintance at work that he would occasionally have small-talk with.

The day continued gruesomely for Draco. After trying to decipher his own coffee-stained handwriting for a good half hour, he was given a huge stack of paper work he needed to fill out after a won case by Flint and another one of his co-workers, Damien Rogues. The majority of the day was taken up with one-third of the paperwork that needed to be done by Draco, and not them (because he was the only one in the damn office who could fill out paperwork correctly).

At the end of the day, he decided he would head out for a few drinks first.

Wandering aimlessly around London, finally wandered into a rather small pub.

There were ten to fifteen people sitting around the tables on old wooden stools. Quiet chatter filled the pub, and Draco immediately realized he was in a muggle pub where no one would recognize him.

He had done this numerous times, so he knew what to order as he sat at on an empty barstool a couple seats from a haggard looking woman.

"I'll take a whiskey," Draco said as the barman approached him.

While his drink was being made, he took in his surroundings. There was a rather overweight haughty looking man walking away from the woman. The man walked past the woman, muttering something about having no manners and slamming the door.

His cup was set in front of him and Draco took a sip.

He heard a slurred and rather familiar voice call from the bar, "Hey you! Yeah, you," the barman left Draco and moved to the woman four or five barseats down.

He could faintly hear her voice for another drink, but he would recognize it anywhere.

Bloody hell, it was Hermione Granger.

Drowning in her sorrows, he supposed.

Well, this could get interesting.

He put on his best smirk and got up taking his whisky, and sat right next to her.

"Why, hello Granger! Fine day, don't you say?"