CHAPTER ONE

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Something was definitely not right.

That was Hermione's first thought as she woke up on the morning of the day that would end up changing her life. Even before she had opened her eyes, she could tell that she wasn't in her own flat, purely because while her own sheets were soft and floppy, the ones that were wrapped around her at that point were anything but. They were rough and scratchy, not cheap but definitely not the high end Egyptian cotton that she was used to. The sounds that floated toward her ears were wrong, too. Rather than hearing the birds singing in the tree outside of her own bedroom window, she could hear the approaching clattering if a train coming down the track, closer and closer…

She winced as the train apparently took a route directly through her brain, at least that's what it felt like to her. Lying still and stiff on the lumpy matress, Hermione slowly lifted one eyelid and peered around the room, noticing that the walls were dark and panelled, sparsely decorated with various moving portraits. Well, at least that gave her a clue as to her whereabouts, she supposed, knowing that she wouldn't be seeing moving paintings if she were in Muggle London. So, she was in Wizarding London, most likely, which meant that she was quite probably in a room above the Leakey Cauldron.

Now that she had the where answered, Hermione figured that she should probably focus on gaining some answers to the why and, most frighteningly, the who. Why? Because she had realised that she was completely and utterly naked, no scrap of clothing left on her. Apparently, whoever she had brought back to this dingy room had been in rather a hurry to shed her of unnecessary barriers, because as she slowly glanced around, she spotted a trail of discarded clothing going from the door to the bed. It was also accompanied by random decorations and lamps that appeared to have been knocked down at some point or other, probably in the mad rush to find some kind of release.

With a sigh, Hermione carefully began to turn her head, attempting not to move any other part of her body for fear of waking up the unidentifiable lump that was still sleeping next to her. As odd as it may seem, Hermione's brain made the brilliant observation that at least this man, or at least she rather hoped and assumed it was a man from the bits of suit that lay with her own discarded clothes, didn't snore. It seemed like such a random thing to notice that Hermione snorted quietly as she ever so gently moved her body so that she was facing the lump. Then, having never been in this situation before and having no idea what the hell she was supposed to do or how to act, Hermione froze.

She closed her eyes, trying to force herself into thinking logically for a moment. She was absolutely certain that there had been sex, quite rough sex too if the ache between her thighs was anything to go from. That and the fact that this man was a wizard were her only solid pieces of knowledge. Suddenly, just as Hermione was steeling herself to reach out and wake her companion, a brainwave hit her and if she hadn't been so worried about waking him up, she would have groaned out loud at her own foolishness.

The invite, of course!

Each person who had attended the ministry ball the night before had needed to keep their invite with them at all times, in case of emergency or suspicion that people had arrived without one. Her own was still in her clutch, presumably somewhere in the room, so his must be… Somewhere among his clothing. Ron had always kept things in the inside pocket of whatever jacket she was wearing, so as she carefully and silently rolled out of bed and reached for some kind of clothing, rolling her eyes as she picked up a large men's shirt and thinking what a cliche it would be for him to wake up and find her wearing it, she stood and looked back at the lump to check that it didn't appear to be waking.

Once satisfied, she tiptoed away from the bed, trying desperately to remain as quiet as possible. However, when she put her foot down on a particularly squeaky floorboard and heard the shuffling of sheets behind her, she froze midstep with wide eyes as her heart hammered in her chest. When no voice came, she turned her head very slowly, half expecting to find the unidentifiable person frowning or glaring at her but let out a sigh of relief to find that they simply appeared to have wrapped the blankets more tightly around their body. She took another step, making certain that she avoided the squeaking board, before coming to rest in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips.

"Jacket, jacket…" she whispered to herself under her breath as she turned her head around the room, "where the bloody hell did he put his- Oh!"

Her gaze fell on the trail of clothes and she followed it back, wincing as she found that her bra appeared to have been quite literally ripped from her person, to find something black hanging precariously from the corner of the dresser. Taking a quick look back at the lump in the bed to make sure it hadn't woken, she crept forward until she was within touching distance before she reached out and grabbed it, pulling it towards her and grinning to herself in a private moment of celebration. It wasn't to last, though, as when she rifled through the pockets, the only thing she found was a wrapper from Weasley Wizard Wheezes and a ticket stub from a quidditch match that she had been to herself the week before.

So there was no ID, admittedly, but if the ticket stub was in this jacket, surely that meant that the lump would have been wearing it at the game? She held it by the shoulders and held it aloft in front of her, tilting her head to the side and squinting as she tried to recall whether she recognised it, but to no avail. If she had seen the jacket before, she didn't remember it. Not that that was surprising. It was, after all, merely a black suit jacket that presumably matched perfectly with the trousers she had already spotted hanging from the frame of the four poster she had woken up in. With a sigh, realising that she needed to look in the trousers, Hermione turned and carefully trod through the mess as she approached the bed.

The trousers proved a little more useful, though she still found no ID after she had pulled them down from the railings. In the front pocket she found a piece of parchment with something unreadable written on it, telling her that this lump had terrible penmanship but also triggering something in her mind that told her she was familiar with the writer. At the very least, she had seen this handwriting before, not that that narrowed down her options much, considering that she had seen writing coming from almost everyone who worked at the ministry, not to mention fan mail that she still got, unbelievably. In the back pocket, though, that was where she found the one thing that she had been desperate to find:

A name.

There was something thick and hard in the back pocket as Hermione felt around the trousers and when she reached into the hole, her hand came into contact with what felt to be a book. She frowned as she pulled it out, carefully laying the trousers down on the side of the bed she had come from, before looking down at the plain brown leather that encased the wrinkled pages of what she assumed to be a notebook. Around it, there was brown twine that held the pages and, apparently a few loose pieces of parchment, together. Glancing at the lump and finding it not to have moved, she untied the string and the book fell open, revealing more of the same unreadable writing and a loose piece of parchment.

Even though she squinted, Hermione could make neither head no tail of the writing in the actual book and decided that it was probably her best bet to look at the loose piece. She pulled it out before closing the book again and tucking it under her arm, then she slowly began to open the folded piece, frowning deeply as she found a different handwriting, this one almost as familiar to her as her own. It was a handwriting she had seen hundreds if not thousands of times in the many years since she had first met it's writer. It was Harry's. Her head throbbed as she caught sight of one sentence that made her feel both confused and sick to her stomach.

'…this is your chance to tell Hermione how you really feel, Nev…'

As she reread the sentence, her hungover mind began to process it and it felt as though she had been hit by the Hogwarts Express as everything fell into place at precisely the same moment. The handwriting was familiar because she had seen it many times, but it was so long ago that her slower than usual brain hadn't connected the dots. She knew with absolute certainty that Neville had been at the match last week because she had bloody well spoken to him there! The notebook, she had seen before but had never held in her hands because it was the one item that he always, without fail, carried on his person.

Feeling absolutely sick and overwhelmed with the need to cry or shout or collapse into a catatonic state, any would do if she were honest, Hermione threw caution out of the window and began to rush around, picking up all of her clothes and hurriedly pulling them on in a way that she was sure would tell the entire story of her evening to anyone who saw her. She didn't even turn around as she heard the sheets rustle behind her, while she frantically searched for her bag and found it under the sofa, turning toward the door and all but running straight for it. The last thing she heard was a shout that emanated from the room she had fled, followed by the very obvious noise of a fist colliding with plaster.

"FUCK!"