Chapter 1: Of Kings and Firewhiskey
"Thank Merlin for Kingsley Shacklebolt!" thought Hermione Granger as she reflected over the last three years. She kicked off her grey heels and pulled the pins out of her hair, shaking it free of its French twist as she plopped unceremoniously onto the dark leather couch, sighing in relief. This couch had always been her favourite.
Her pensive look softened as she gazed at the picture closest to her. Only taken a month ago, it was also the most recent picture in the room. Hermione in the picture laughed as she flipped the hair out of her face, chasing a young child in and out of the frame until she finally caught the little rascal and hoisted her onto her shoulders, both of them attempting to smile for the picture, only to erupt in more giggles. The girl atop her shoulders wore a birthday hat and a ridiculously happy expression, the kind only a child can manage. Try as she might, Hermione rarely saw anything of Kingsley in the little girl. Other than her darker skin, Callista only seemed to inherit Kingsley's charismatic demeanour.
When the war ended, Kingsley had stepped in as Minister to oversee the reconstruction of the wizarding world, and when it seemed that her life had ended, Kingsley stepped in again as the strong male figure she needed. He gave Hermione a place in his family, a place she would never take for granted. Then, her place was solidified with the birth of Callista.
Callie was easily the best thing in Hermione's life from the past three years. While she was grateful for her position as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, she felt she could never measure up to the example Dumbledore provided. Truthfully, she would have been happier with an appointment in the Department for the Care of Magical Creatures, but Kingsley insisted that she was the most qualified for the position of power, and the most deserving since she didn't desire it.
"Mistress Hermione," a squeaky voice called, drawing her out of her memories. She blinked a few times and turned toward the kitchen, from whence the voice had come.
"In here, Rosie," she answered, allowing a small smile to spread across her face as she heard a quick pattering of feet alongside Rosie's almost noiseless gait.
"Mummy, Mummy! Hugs!" Hermione winced at the greeting, but barely had time to stand before the adorable two-year old flung herself into her arms. She hugged the toddler close and nuzzled her face into the dark curls that reminded her of her own.
"Hey, Callie girl! What did you do today?" Callista smiled brightly as she launched her tiny body onto the couch, jumping and giggling manically as she explained in her limited vocabulary all that had happened while she'd been at work.
"Saw big bears. Go rawr! An' giddaffes. Wick baby, ew. An' trampine go jump jump!" She sighed as she collapsed face down onto the couch.
"Young miss! Is you jumping on the couch again?" Rosie's voice drifted in from the other room, containing a tone of warning. Hermione smiled at the house elf's admonishment. When she had first arrived at the Shacklebolt Estate, she had been moderately shocked that Kingsley owned a house elf. She warmed up to Rosie, however, once she learned that Rosie had been with Kingley since they were both very young and she wouldn't leave even after she had been freed years before. She was also a marvellous cook, not to mention what a help she was with Callie, when the nanny had gone home.
"No mow jump, mummy!" Callie's muffled voice was broken by more tired giggling.
"You better be careful, Callie. You're going to get us into big trouble one of these days! We almost got caught." Hermione whispered conspiratorially, gesturing to the kitchen.
Callie sat up on the couch and smiled at Hermione, holding a finger over her lips, acknowledging their secret. Then she squealed as Hermione picked her up and spun her around several times before putting her down and continuing to spin, holding her head. "Whoa, you made me dizzy, Callie!"
Callie laughed hysterically from her place on the floor. "Again, again!" Hermione smirked. The little girl loved it when she was dramatic.
"Oh, no more, please! You can't make me!" She put on a look of mock horror. "Rosie, Callie's trying to make me dizzy!"
Rosie came into the room, looking comically like an elf version of Molly Weasley. Her large eyes narrowed and her hands clamped on her rail-thin, apron-clad waist. As she shook her head, her bat-like ears flopped about.
"Young miss! If you is misbehaving, Rosie must tell Master Kingsley. Master isn't wanting you to be a bad girl." Rosie winked at Hermione.
"Spin, Rosie, spin!" Said Callie as she fell to the floor once more, yawning widely.
"Rosie doesn't think so, young miss. It's your bedtime. Say goodnight," said Rosie as she levitated the half-sleeping girl.
"Night night," said the toddler as she curled her arms tightly around Hermione's neck and planted a wet kiss on her cheek.
"Night night, Callie," Hermione whispered as Rosie magically carried the already sleeping Callie to her room.
Instead of returning to the oh-so-comfortable couch, Hermione moved to the kitchen, taking a seat at the table. She buried her hands in her curls, closed her eyes, and took deep breaths as she recalled tomorrow's date. By the time Rosie returned to the room, a few tears had escaped her and a look of excruciating pain marred her otherwise pretty face.
"Oh, Mistress! Rosie is being sorry! Why does you cry?" exclaimed Rosie as she took in Hermione's shaking form.
"I've asked you not to call me that, Rosie," Hermione turned her watery gaze to the tiny elf and burst into a fit of sobs, which only increased in volume when Rosie crossed the room and wrapped her frail arms securely around her.
Hermione didn't know how long they stayed in that position, with Rosie smoothing Hermione's hair and whispering soothing words. But some time later, Kingsley came in and she heard whispering before she was transferred from two small house elf arms to a pair of well-muscled, masculine ones and she felt herself being lifted and then deposited on a familiar, cloud-like surface that she vaguely recognized as her bed.
She slowly lifted her left eyelid and took in a shaky breath before she thanked Kingsley under her breath, then surrendered to unconsciousness. Just as she drifted off, Kingsley closed her bedroom door and turned to the concerned house elf, shaking his head. Rosie looked up at her master with her huge, glassy eyes and said, "Is tomorrow being the bad day, Master?"
Kingsley nodded affirmation and, seeing his oldest friend about to burst into tears, tried to comfort her. "She just needs a couple of days, and she'll be fine."
Rosie shook her head sadly. "Master, Rosie hasn't seen Mistress be 'fine' for years." She watched as Kingsley's brows knit together before he heaved a great sigh and gave a slight nod of agreement.
Hermione woke the next morning to the smell of cinnamon, fruit, sausage, and coffee. For a moment, she wondered what could be the occasion for such a large breakfast. Normally, toast and jam was the breakfast of choice for the Shacklebolts. Then, she recalled the date as she tried to open her tear-crusted eyes.
She stumbled to her washroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. When she finally looked up at the mirror, she was horrified at her splotchy complexion and the frizzy nightmare that was her hair. What bothered her most, though, were her eyes. Her normally warm chestnut brown orbs were hollow and hopeless, underlined by dark circles.
Deciding that she was entirely too un-presentable to go to breakfast, she opted for a shower, letting the hot water wash away the evidence of her tears even as they streamed down her face. She calmed her breathing as she dressed in sweats and an old t-shirt and pulled her unruly curls into a messy bun. "Not much better," she snorted at her reflection before she left to join the others in the kitchen.
Breakfast was uneventful other than the fact that Rosie kept sending worried glances at Hermione as if she would begin crying at any second. Though she had fully intended to lounge about the house and mope for the better part of the day, she found herself changing into her black work robes and slipping on her trainers for comfort, not bothering to fix her hair and makeup. She hugged Callie goodbye and waved to Rosie before flooing to her office, hoping that the new cases Kingsley had told her about this morning really were as interesting as he made them out to be, as they might provide some distraction.
So, it came to be that at exactly ten till midnight on July 17th, Hermione was sitting as the sole customer at the bar in the Hog's Head. She put her head down and sobbed to her heart's content, occasionally muttering half-intelligible sentences that involved "Ron," "Australia" and "bloody memory charms." With Aberforth alongside her to fuel her emotional display with a near-constant supply of firewhiskey, she believed she was safe from all prying eyes that might wonder why Witch Weekly's Most Powerful Witch was currently getting sloshed and howling like a mad woman.
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Draco Malfoy didn't have many friends after the war. Not that he had an outrageous number before; he knew he hadn't been the easiest bloke to get on with. But those friends he was lucky enough to retain, he fought like hell to keep. His best friend was Blaise Zabini, who was rather more like a brother than a friend.
Immediately after their respective war trials, Draco convinced Blaise to be his flatmate at a posh little place near the Ministry, where they had both worked at the time. Everything changed a month ago, when Blaise was offered the position of Defense professor at Hogwarts. Having a fairly gregarious personality, he was never really satisfied with the desk job he had acquired along with Draco, so he practically leapt for joy at the prospect of something different, which for Blaise meant that he spent all night celebrating at the Three Broomsticks, getting tipsy enough to grab Rosmerta and kiss her full on the mouth.
Draco would never admit it, but ever since Blaise had moved into his quarters at Hogwarts, he had been a bit lonesome. He very rarely went out in public anymore, an attempt to avoid the rabid reporters that literally pounced on him every chance they got to interview "The Assassin Who Got Off Easy." As a result, he spent most of the time in his flat which was now depressingly empty.
So, Draco decided to visit his old friend before he became too wrapped up in preparing lessons. He took a day off work, which was verging on necessary after the past week he had, rounding up the members of a new violent anti-Muggle group, the largest seen since the Death Eaters were disbanded. He left after lunch to spend the rest of the day with Blaise so they could catch each other up on how swamped they were at work.
After several hours of detailing their horrible weeks to each other (Blaise was having serious problems with Peeves) in between breaks of companionable silence where Draco read a Quidditch magazine and Blaise wrote up lessons for his third years, Draco got the niggling feeling that his friend was studying him.
"What?" Draco looked up at his friend exasperatedly.
Blaise leaned back in his armchair, cupping his chin with his hand and cocking his head slightly to dramatize his curious look before narrowing his eyes and humming thoughtfully. Draco rolled his eyes at the ridiculous pose.
"What have you actually been doing since I've been away?" Blaise asked bluntly, his deep voice resonating.
Draco's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "I thought we just went over that, in exhaustive detail I might add. Or have you gone and developed that Muggle disease…what do they call it? Old timers?"
Blaise scoffed. "That would be Alzheimer's, Draco. And no, you know full well that I was not referring to work."
Sighing, he said, "Not much. You know me."
"Yes, I do know you. Probably better than anyone. Which is how I know that you need to cut the bullshit and get out of the flat once in a while."
"But—"
"I know you don't like the attention, but honestly this isolation is not good for you. You're turning into a bloody hermit! Really, would it kill you to maybe go to the Leaky with the lads from work or maybe actually attend one of the Quidditch games you obsess over?"
"Better safe than sorry."
"You're just being melodramatic!"
"Am not! I work with that human explosive, Finnigan and that swot Smithson. The only reason they're in intelligence is they were too accident-prone to complete the physical training tests to become Aurors. I don't want to take my chances going in an alcohol-filled place with those two!"
"While you may have a point there," smirked Blaise, "I see no reason not to make an effort to get on better with the people you're forced to be around all the time. I mean, look who I have as colleagues. Longbottom and Trelawney alone are enough to make a man go bonkers! And for the love of Merlin, you need to find yourself a girl!"
Draco's eyes widened. "We've talked about this! I—"
"I know, you think there's no point. 'Any girl who would be interested in someone like me would only want my money or fame!' Pathetic excuses! Not all girls are Pansy. Honestly, mate, it's not like you have a lot of experience in this area." Blaise put his hands up in surrender as Draco sneered at him. "All I'm saying is that the right girl could mean more to you than a dozen friends, and a little action might do wonders for those nasty mood swings of yours."
Blaise turned back to his lesson plans, effectively ending the conversation and leaving Draco to mull over his words. He hoped he would take them to heart because he hated to see his best mate so lonely and depressed all the time.
Draco, however, was plotting exactly fifteen different ways to make a quick escape from the suddenly very confining room. No matter how many times the issue of his social life had come up, Blaise still hadn't caught on that Draco just didn't care. The generally horrible opinion of him, his newly acquired introverted demeanour, and one particularly gruesome Quidditch match had thoroughly convinced him that he was better off keeping to himself anyway.
In the end, Draco went with plot number eight to vacate the Hogwarts grounds. "Well, since you're so keen on my getting out of the flat, might as well pop over to Mum's to set those dinner plans she's been talking about forever."
"Excellent!" Blaise's eyes brightened. "Be sure to tell Cissa that the week in Venice is still an open invitation, any time she's willing to reconsider."
"Ponce!" said Draco as he whacked his friend's head with the magazine he was still holding.
"You get more like your godfather all the time, mate. Merlin!" Blaise laughed, rubbing his head.
Draco scowled as he left the castle, robes billowing behind him. If any seventh year students had been in the castle, they would have been reminded of a certain potion's master as Draco stalked through the halls.
Finally, Draco reached Hogsmeade and slowed down to enjoy the fresh air before apparating home. It wasn't often that he was free to do so without large crowds of people gawking at him. He may not have minded the staring so much, but he really couldn't stand the staged whispers of what an evil coward he was and how he and his family deserved to rot in Azkaban.
He thought about stopping by Honeyduke's for a pack of sugar quills and maybe some cauldron cakes, but as he checked his watch, he realized that most of the shops would be closed by now. Probably the only place still open would be the Hog's Head. Just as well, though. He might as well pick up a bottle of Ogden's Finest while he was in the area. Merlin knows he'd need it if he was going to visit his mother, if only because his father would be there as well.
As he approached the Hog's Head, he thought he saw movement inside from two different places. "Well, who would be in there at this time? Whoever it is must be completely mental!" He peered in the window to make sure that old Ab didn't have any of his Gryffindor pals hanging about the place.
As soon as he saw the familiar bushy head, he had every intention of turning straight around and apparating on the spot. But Aberforth's proximity to the girl caught his eye. Ab was a solitary man who usually shied away from contact with other people, but to Draco's surprise, he was patting Granger's back as he passed her another full glass of firewhiskey. It appeared that he was talking to her as well. Even for one of his war buddies, this was so unlike Ab.
It was then that Draco noticed Granger's shaking body and the half dozen empty glasses on the bar beside her. Great, she's a lush now too. Probably shouldn't be surprised after all I've heard-. Draco stopped himself right there. That line of thinking was supremely unfair of him. He had been victimized enough to know better than to put stock in the rumour mill these days. Besides, from what he'd seen of her, not just recently, but even as far back as his own war trial, she hadn't seemed any different from her old, bookish self. That particular issue of the Daily Prophet was probably no more than a full seven pages of malicious, baseless slander, especially considering its author. Everyone knew that Rita Skeeter had it out for Granger.
Still, even if he were to disregard the rumours, the question still remained: "Why is Harry Potter's best friend, the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, drinking herself into a stupor and crying her eyes out alone in a dirty old pub?"
After very seriously considering walking away with his newly acquired, valuable knowledge and never looking back, Draco decided that his alcohol needs outweighed the risks of having a drunken war hero verbally assault him. No more than a minute later, the young Malfoy had burst through the door of the Hog's Head and sauntered toward the bar, looking for the world like he owned the place.
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Hermione, in her muddled state, was beyond the ability to do much more than sob into her crossed, sweater-clad arms that rested on the bar. Her ears, however, seemed to be unaffected by her liberal alcohol consumption. As a result, she very clearly heard everything that was being said, though her mind was a little too slow to process the information at that point. She continued crying in her current position as she listened to the two men.
"Ab, good to see you again!" the enthusiastic voice was vaguely familiar, and there was an underlying tone that she couldn't quite place yet. "I've just stopped by to pick up a bottle of Ogden's, but seeing as it's still early, I might stay and have a pint as well."
Arrogance! Hermione finally recognized the tone that coloured the smooth, masculine voice. Arrogant…Pompous…..GIT, that's it! MALFOY!
Hermione's thoughts coincided with Aberforth's greeting of "Very well, Malfoy."
Hermione had been so distracted that she didn't realize she had stopped crying. On hearing her childhood nemesis's name, she lifted her head just enough to observe her neighbour. She was alarmed when all she could see was a dark blur, but when she moved her arm, the room became a bit clearer. She snorted at herself, rather loudly it would seem as both men turned to look at her curiously.
As Malfoy turned to face her, Hermione took in his appearance, just as pale and aristocratic as she remembered. Her last memory of him came to mind, when she presided over his war trial. When she looked at his face, she had been immediately convinced of his innocence. She hadn't seen that teenage bully who had terrorized her through school, but the same horrified boy who had cried uncontrollably as his deranged aunt tortured her. Probably none of the others had noticed, being caught up with their prisoners, but she had. As the memory of his terrified, tear-streaked face filled her mind, Hermione sighed and whispered, "Poor Malfoy!"
Then, the world around her turned black as unconsciousness overtook her.
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Draco flashed a confused glance at Ab before turning back to stare at the snoring witch. What the bloody hell does she mean, 'Poor Malfoy?' Draco may not have liked all the negative media and hate owls he had received; point in fact, he despised it; but if there was one thing he hated more than this, that he would not stand for, it was pity. Nobody pities a Malfoy, especially not some drunken Ministry tart, no matter what her position with the Minister happened to be.
"Granger!" He hissed. The sleeping witch didn't move a muscle. From the corner of his eye, Draco saw Ab concealing a small vial of what he could only guess would be some sort of sleeping potion. From the looks of the woman in front of him, he'd say Dreamless Sleep Draught. He narrowed his eyes at the barkeep. Sneaky bastard. What exactly did he think this would accomplish, other than landing him with a drunken, unconscious, high-profile witch to take care of?
"She's not actually had that much tonight," Aberforth offered in response to Draco's scrutinizing glare, which only increased at this. "Less than half a bottle, really. But I've no doubt she'd have continued all night if I let her, and I'm not exactly in a position to refuse her."
Draco arched a sculpted blond eyebrow as he contemplated this new information. Before he'd fully processed it, he found himself saying, "She comes here often, then?" He immediately wanted to take his words back when the old barkeep turned his back on him and began wiping glasses. Sweet Circe! What in Salazar's name is wrong with me? That's the most I've ever heard the old man speak, and I had to go and ruin it.
Aberforth sighed as he turned back to face the boy. He really wasn't up to leaving again tonight, so he supposed it wouldn't do any harm to at least ask. "Best be getting her home then, eh?"
"Beg pardon?" Draco was flummoxed. The old coot must be daft! As if I have nothing better to do! But who was he kidding? In reality, he really didn't have anything else to do. When it appeared that Ab wasn't going to repeat himself, Draco rolled his eyes and grudgingly offered his humble services, "Where would 'home' be?"
Ab raised a bushy grey brow, clearly questioning the boy's intelligence, or at the very least his social awareness. After all, most of the poor witch's life had been made painfully public. "Shacklebolt Estate, of course."
Draco's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. So the rumours were true? Normally it wouldn't interest him, but he had been fairly sure that this was too outrageous a scandal for Granger to be involved in. I suppose if I leave her here, I would risk the wrath of the Minister. Then again, if I bring her home in this state, I can't foresee anything good coming out of that situation. Perhaps it would be best to call in back-up. He slammed a few galleons on the bar; shrinking his Ogden's to put in his pocket before hefting the unconscious witch in his arms and nodding to Ab.
Once Draco was outside the pub, he stood Granger up; supporting her with his left side, his arm around her waist as he used his right arm to cast a patronus, hoping his message would be received quickly. Shortly after, a hacked off Blaise Zabini appeared in front of him with a "pop."
"Morgana's lacy lingerie! When I said you needed to get out, I didn't mean tonight. I've got duties in the morning, I don't have time to apparate you home just because you-." For the first time, Blaise noticed the sleeping Hermione Granger in the arms of his best friend. His teasing expression immediately turned to shock, almost betraying a bit of fear.
"Please tell me that's not who I think it is, mate," Blaise gulped.
"Hermione Granger, in the flesh," announced Draco, "the bloody heavy flesh!"
Blaise rolled his eyes and cast a silent featherweight charm on the witch.
"Why didn't I think of that?" Draco whined.
"Mate, I don't think you understand what you've gotten yourself into here," Blaise insisted, clearly flustered at this point. "I mean, do you even read the papers?" His frantic, normally low voice shot up an octave as his long, dark fingers fisted his short hair.
"Relax, drama queen!" Draco snorted. "She's just had a bit too much to drink, so Ab needed someone to escort her home. You're coming with me to corroborate my story."
Blaise closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, taking deep breaths. "Of all the girls to pick up, you had to find her?"
"Are you coming or not?" Draco's patience was virtually non-existent this late in the evening.
"I'm going to be murdered by the Minister of Magic, but no worries. Happens all the time." Blaise's sarcastic mumbling rang out through Hogsmeade as he trudged across the street to grab Draco's arm, bracing himself for the pull of side-along apparition.
