A/N: Nothing belongs to me!

She laughs, and lets her body move with the beat of her heart the music the alcohol in her veins, before shouting something to her friends that she's sure none of them heard and weaving her way towards the bar. By the time she gets there, forearms landing on the cold metal surface to cease her momentum, she can't remember why she came. The bartender barely glances at her.

"All right there, girly?" he inquires, still focused on whatever oh-so-important bartending task he is completing under the bar. "Don't tell me I have to cut you off too."

She looks at him thoughtfully. "Too?" She slurs the word out.

He inclines his head towards the far end of the bar, where a man sits with his head tucked under folded arms. "Had to cut him off about twenty minutes ago. Can't be liable for anything that happens to him." He turns his attentions back towards her pleading eyes. "Or you, for that matter, so scram." She heaves herself dramatically off the bar, then pauses as she surveys the masses in front of her. The pleading eyes turn back to the bartender, but he's not moved.

"Come on," she attempts, "I don' wanna go back ou' there. Jus' wanna sit here an' havva nice drink."

He lets out a bark of laughter. "See, that's just what he said. But I'm not going to be persuaded. Maybe you two would get along well." He gestures to the man, who has sunk so low on his stool he seems to be trying to become part of the bar.

She inclines her head, trying to get her eyes to focus on this new diversion. "What 'appened to him?"

"From what I could make out, his wife left him, or something to that effect. Doesn't look old enough to be having a midlife crisis. A runaway bride, perhaps?"

She nods, still looking at the man with interest and a little confusion. "I should talk to him." She seems to decide as the words come out of her mouth. Pushing herself away from the bar again, which she had been leaning farther and farther into as he talked, she begins to make her unsteady way down the line of stools, using each for balance as she passes it. The bartender shakes his head. Hopefully they'd be less likely to hurt themselves if they weren't by themselves.

When her friends fall over the bar ten minutes later, demanding her whereabouts, he makes to point them down the bar where he had last seen her. But both she and the man are gone.

xxxxxxx

Draco Malfoy was not having a good day. All that trollop about this being the most magical day of his life? Lies. And he would know magic; he was a wizard after all. Just not tonight. He didn't even want to know what his father would think of his choosing to slum it at a muggle bar tonight, but he didn't care. It was the only way to ensure he would be somewhere no one would recognize him. He didn't need his picture gracing the front of the society section of the Daily Prophet tomorrow (or, more accurately, today, since it was past three in the morning), headline "Malfoy Heir Left at Altar, Turns to Drink". He didn't need to run into anyone he knew, as they would all also know what event was meant to transpire earlier that evening. They would look at him with poorly disguised pity. Poor Malfoy. Poor Draco. Poor little rich boy who couldn't see his fiancée was secretly shagging a Hufflepuff. That was the worst part, he decided. She couldn't have chosen a Slytherin, or one of those skinny French boys she had gone to school with. Then he might have been able to cope, at least a little. But no, it had to be that awful Smith kid. What did that waste of pure blood have that he, the legendary Draco Malfoy, did not? A date tonight, that was the answer.

He groaned, and wrapped his arms around his head, which had been lying on the bartop since the bartender had cut him off almost twenty minutes ago, envisioning Smith getting in some awful accident. That would serve him right. He remembered his sixth year, when some Gryffindor had crashed into the commentator's stand, sending the prat crashing to the ground. It had been that Weasley girl, he recalled, that had done it. He hadn't appreciated it at the time, Smith's commentary being of the Gryffindor-bashing kind and therefore music to Draco's ears, but he thought he would very much enjoy a repeat performance now. Or maybe tomorrow -er, today- when he would be able to remember it.

Gods, he wished the damn bartender would give him another drink. He was still far too conscious for his liking. He was just contemplating if he really had enough dexterity to vault over the bar and confiscate a bottle of scotch or if his drunk mind was telling him lies again when he felt a hand on his arm. He flinched, but made no movement to raise his head. He tried not to get his hopes up. It couldn't be her, coming to apologize, to assure him she'd seen the error of her ways. It couldn't. Could it? He slowly extracted his head from his arms. It was- speak of the devil. It was the Weasley girl.

xxxxxxx

She's not that drunk, she assures herself. The bartender was just a stupid... stupid-face. All right, maybe she was that drunk. But she didn't mind, especially since the stupid-face bartender had found her a drunk friend. He looked scrumptious, she decided, from what she could see of his body. His muscled back showed quite nicely through the dress shirt he was wearing. What was it the bartender had said? His girlfriend, wife, something, had left him? Well they obviously had no taste. She, on the other hand, had plenty. Trailing her hand sexily along each stool as she passed it, she grew nearer to the man's slumped figure. He looked even better up close. The bartender was right, he wasn't that old, maybe only a year or two older than herself. She couldn't tell for sure without seeing his face and hair, both of which were still obscured by his arms.

She reached him at last, and shifted her hand from the last stool onto his arm. He stiffened under her touch, but she didn't move. Neither did he, for a long moment, until finally he freed his head from the cage of his arms and looked up at her. For a moment, there was something in his eyes that looked like hope, but it flickered almost instantly and was replaced with disappointment, then intrigue. And then she wasn't looking at his eyes, she was looking at his hair, which was no longer hidden. She only knew one person with hair that color, so blond it was almost white. It couldn't be, but it was. Draco Malfoy.

xxxxxxx

Their eyes lock, and a grin he wouldn't have thought a Gryffindor like her would ever be capable of wearing spreads across her face. He can't bring himself to grin back. Why did she have to be here, in a muggle establishment, where he thought he would be safe. His annoyance only grows when he remembers that she is a journalist for the very newspaper he was trying so hard to keep himself out of. He sighs, resigning himself to his fate. "Jus' take it," he mumbles, making a too large gesture of his hand that almost sends him tumbling off the stool. He catches himself just in time. "I know tha's why you're here." She looks at him in confusion, then seems to connect the dots in her head. The grin gets bigger, if that was even possible.

"Does it look like I have a camera, Malfoy?" He shakes his head reluctantly. Now that he thinks about it, three in the morning is an odd time to be working. Maybe he can still preserve the shreds of dignity he has left. He rests his head on his hand, mostly because he doubts it can stay up on its own. Weasley seems to have the same worry, as she sits down and mimics his posture.

"So, what, just here to laugh at my pain on a non-professional level?"

She looks slightly offended by his latest suggestion. "Of course not," she insists, "I'm here to commiserate." At his look of skepticism, she elaborates. "Clearly, you are just devastated by the lack of alcohol currently heading in your direction. As am I. So I'm here with a proposal."

He brightens slightly at this. She wasn't here to capitalize on his pain, and she brought a promise of more alcohol. "And what would that proposal be? And don't suggest either of us fling themselves over the bar and grab everything in reach. Because while that might seem like a good idea, I've tried it, and it only ends badly."

"Well I wasn't, but now that you mention it..." she begins, seeming to appraise the bar height and length of her skirt.

"No. I'm telling you, 's a bad idea."

"If you insist," she relents, turning back to him. "I was going to suggest a retreat, actually. Stupid-face bartender over there may not be willing to serve us, but I know a guy whose morals are slightly more flexible."

He appears to think it over, but his hesitation only lasts a second before he meets her eye with a look of determination. "Lead the way."

xxxxxxx

A few minutes later, they are out in the cold winter night, arms entwined for support on the icy streets. He wonders if she actually knows where she's going, or if she's going to get them lost in some alley in muggle London, to be found in the morning, two ice cubes composed primarily of booze. Just as he thinks he should never have left his warm but drinkless stool, she brings them to an unceremonious halt in front of what appears to be literally a hole in the wall.

He looks down at her in confusion. "And this is...?"

"The Oasis." She says the name like it's a prayer, and it feels that way to him as well. Wandering in the cold desert of night, they have stumbled across this pool that promises their thirsts will be quenched. She pulls him out of the street, and he is able to discern that the hole is in fact the top of a staircase, with a dark door at the bottom. She pushes it open and is inside in one smooth movement, hand sliding down his arm and into his own to pull him along after her. They fall back against the door as it closes behind them, as if they have narrowly escaped from some enemy on the streets outside. No one has noticed them come in, and as he surveys the dingy space, he can see why. The noise is deafening, and every occupant seems to possess their personal bottle of booze. He had thought the dancing in the club was bad, but here it is so much more.

He glances down to see that the grin has made a reappearance on her face. "Come on, Malfoy," she shouts above the din. "We're going to get you trashed."

He can't think of any reason to resist.