Disclaimer: JK Rowling's characters are not ours.

A/N: It's just a prologue. More to come! No offense to Dramione shippers. There are plenty of well-written stories about it out there.

Prologue – Sunday

The air was smoky in the Leaky Cauldron. On this dark, stormy night, many an unsavoury character had taken shelter within its cold brick walls. It was a merry place, where unfortunate souls, beaten down by the harsh realities of wizarding life in the aftermath of the war, could sit back, relax and forget their troubles over a pint of mead. It was a place where you would not be judged, a place where you might find a friendly face in an otherwise unfriendly world… the dancing monkeys were not to be sneezed at either.

"Where did you find them, Tom?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Tricks of the trade, miss," the bartender answered. "Now, what'll you be having?"

"Give me a whiskey," she said, smiling tiredly. "With gilly water on the side. And don't be stingy, baby."

Tom looked sceptical.

"Whiskey with gilly water? I wouldn't drink that if I were you, miss. Tried it meself once I have, and my tastebuds were dead for a week. The aftertaste is… truly horrible."

"Oh." She paused. "Well, just give me a small sherry then."

"Righty-ho."

Hermione stared moodily into space. She sadly played with the ashtray, sulkily twirled a strand of hair around her finger, and stretched in a very angsty way. What a week it had been! And the next one would be even worse.

She caught sight of her reflection in the window, and examined her hairdo carefully. Her hair was pin straight, glossy, and a warm shade of cinnamon, with honey streaks. Crookshanks had tried to eat it.

It was perfect.

Of course it was perfect. She had spent… what? Three hours? Five? Straightening it out. And for what? Ron didn't care about her hair, so why should she?

Hermione sighed, wallowing in her own unique brand of misery. What had she done to deserve this? Everything had been going so well! Of course, it was she who had started it. It was she who had been suspicious, she who hadn't stopped asking questions about…him. It was her own fault really, but that didn't make the current situation any more pleasant.

-

From the darkest, smokiest, gloomiest corner of the room, someone was watching. Someone with shining, silver eyes, which could pierce like daggers, or sparkle like moonlit mercury. Someone with skin like marble, and cheekbones chiselled as if by Hephaestus himself. Someone with hair which… well, which defied description really.

Yes. Switzerland had changed Draco Malfoy.

He was no longer a pointy, pale shrimp. No longer was his smirk annoying to behold. It was roguish. Devilish. All around, it was far more attractive than it should be. No bully was he, for his eyes had seen what none his age should ever have to witness. Why, his own mother wouldn't recognize him.

His singed ear could attest to that.

There was a pain in his heart. A deep, twisting, agonizing splinter of knowledge that seared his very soul. There were trials to come. There were things he had to do – unspeakable things. And all because of… his father.

Who else?

That evil man. All his life, Draco had wanted to do nothing but make him proud. To ask such a thing of him, at this point in his life, was beyond cruel.

He had been so happy to see him released from Azkaban. Narcissa had prepared a scrumptious welcoming feast, to which she had invited all of their friends who were still alive and un-incarcerated. And there, in front of all the guests, the bomb was dropped.

Still, it was best not to think of it like that.

Moving forward gracefully like a panther – or at least like a really big cat – he went and sat down by the beautiful girl. Granger. But she was not like the Granger he remembered. Her hair looked better, for one thing. It made him feel warm inside, and strangely hungry.

"Granger," he drawled, his voice cold, yet amused, like the winds that blew in the high alps. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a rough joint like this?"

"Malfoy," she responded, her eyes gleaming like fiery topazes, a challenge in the tremor of her voice. "Of all the pubs in all the towns in all of Britain, you walk into mine."

"Well, it's a popular place, isn't it… wait, did you say yours?"

"Yes. I bought the Leaky Cauldron last summer. Didn't you know?"

"No, I was… abroad," he said, ominously. "But you, the owner of this place? I don't think anyone anticipated that."

"No," she said, proudly. "They did not." She smiled mirthlessly. "Oh, it was all going so well, Malfoy. We were raking in profits from our vampire cure, and I was happy. Really happy. But I don't suppose you understand that. And now it's all gone."

"What, all of it?"

"Yes – well, not the money of course. We're still disgustingly rich. But none of that matters. Malfoy, don't you see? I'm heartbroken!"

"Oh, I didn't realize that." He paused. "Is it Potter?"

"What? Harry!? No!"

"Oh. The Weaselette, then?"

"You mean Ginny? No… neither of us swing that way!"

"It's not my father is it? Please tell me it's not him."

"That's disgusting, Malfoy! Where could you get an idea like that?"

"Well, going in and out of Azkaban all the time, he's sort of gone round the bend. You never know."

"It's Ron I'm talking about! Obviously!"

"Ron," he exclaimed, smacking his forehead. "Ron. Right. Of course. I tend to forget about him."

"That's part of his charm," she said, smiling wistfully. "But it's over now. We… we had a fight…"

"But, don't you two always-"

"Yes, but this one was different. We said some awful things!"

"Well, I know how you feel, more or less. Millicent, she… while I was at that place… she cheated on me."

Hermione gasped.

"Yes. I came home to find her engaged. To Goyle, of all people."

"Oh, how terrible."

"Yes, it's like half of me has been ripped away. Blaise Zabini and my pet doxy Hans have been my only friends in this hard time. Which reminds me. Why am I talking about this to you?"

"I'm not sure," said Hermione, and all of a sudden her demeanour became as cold and distant as before. "Why don't you leave me alone with my misery, Malfoy."

"Granger," he said, inclining his head mockingly. He withdrew as quietly and smoothly as he had arrived.

Hermione felt sorry that she had cut off their conversation so brusquely. But there was only so much she could take of his arrogant face, even though it was rather prettier than she remembered it.

She smiled to herself and took a sip of her sherry. Something very interesting had happened tonight. She would contemplate their conversation for a long time.

After tipping the dancing monkeys a suitable amount, she rose from her barstool and made her way out into the night.