Draco sat, Butterbeer in hand, gazing gloomily into its honey-colored depths.

Life had been unpleasant ever since he had turned sixteen, but just now it was particularly unpleasant. His father was in Azkaban. His mother had been trying to handle their finances in his place, but she had always had too liberal a hand, and now, where once there had been debtors to badger, there were debt collectors badgering them. And now, he, Draco, was without a job. When the ancient witch who ran the tiny Ministry department he had worked for had discovered that he had been 'one of those hoodlums who ran about with You-Know-Who' she had tossed him out of his job on his ear.

So he had come to this humble establishment, hoping to drown his worries in a draught of Butterbeer, but now, three bottles later, he was just coming to realize that it wasn't enough.

"Firewhiskey," he muttered to the grumpy old barman.

…

Hermione struggled not to burst into tears as she walked down the high street of Hogsmeade. Her mother's words replayed in her mind over and over again: "I hate you! I hate you!"

When she had been unable to restore her parents' memories in Australia over a year before, Hermione had brought her parents home and taken them to St. Mungo's to see if the Healers there could. For more than a year they had been living in the long-term patients ward, and after all this time her parents did recognize her, but not as their daughter. They recognized her only as the woman who had forced them to leave their beloved new home; the woman who had put them in a strange hospital where strange people asked strange questions and treated them like they were children, or mentally handicapped; the woman who had ruined their perfect lives.

Her mother's tearful outburst that afternoon had pierced her to the heart.

She needed to get away from her emotions. She needed an escape. But there was no-one to escape to. Ron and Harry were working overtime in the Auror office, trying to make up for the time they would have off over Christmas. Molly and Ginny were busy getting the Burrow ready to receive the entire family home for Christmas. There was no one she could turn to.

What she needed was a shot of Firewhiskey.

Hermione pushed open the heavy door of the Hog's Head and stepped inside. She closed the door behind her and stood there a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom of the little pub. What she saw made her want to turn around and walk back out.

Draco Malfoy was sitting at the bar, his back to her, pouring himself a drink.

Why did he have to be here? Now, when her eyes were red and her face blotchy with tears? Why? Hermione was gripping the door handle, preparing to make an escape, when an angry thought buzzed through her head like a swarm of bees: Why should she leave? She had just as much a right to a quiet drink in an out-of-the-way pub as he did. Squaring her shoulders, she marched over to the bar and plopped herself on a stool.

"Miss Granger," Aberforth grunted in greeting.

"Some Firewhiskey, please."

Aberforth looked surprised. Hermione, Ron and Harry had visited several times in the past year, but, though Ron had occasionally asked for Firewhiskey, Hermione never had.

"But you-"

"Since when do you care about who you serve and what you serve them? And I've been legal for two years, as you well know," Hermione snapped. As Aberforth turned away to get her drink, Hermione sighed and ran a hair through her tangled hair, already regretting her outburst.

"What's got your wand in a knot, Granger?" a drawling voice asked from the other end of the bar.

Hermione gritted her teeth and stayed silent, her eyes focused on Aberforth's back, refusing to spare a glance for the speaker, even when she heard him get to his feet and walk toward her.

"What – cat got your tongue?" Hermione could see his sneer out of the corner of her eyes. Underneath the counter, her hands curled into fists as she tried to resist the temptation to pull out her wand and hex him.

Aberforth placed a glass of Firewhiskey in front of her and she wrapped a hand around it.

"C'mon, Granger. No brilliant retort? "

Grimacing, Hermione lifted the glass to her lips and downed the contents in one gulp.

Warmth flooded her veins, and, feeling suddenly very confident, she turned to face Malfoy.

"Why should I waste intelligent conversation on a drunken slug like you, Malfoy? You can hardly understand me when you're sober."

Malfoy, rather than taking offense at these words, as Hermione had expected him to, grinned.

"Don't need to understand to appreciate."

And then, suddenly, he was kissing her.

Grabbing her wand, Hermione shoved him away and pointed it at him, but there was no need. He had already collapsed, unconscious. Hermione was sure he wouldn't remember any of this in the morning. She only wished that she could forget. She stared at Draco's prone figure on the dusty floor.

Funny. Ron never kissed her like that.

Horrified at her own train of thought, Hermione backed away. She had Disapparated before the door had even swung shut behind her.