YES, a second chapter! Abbily caught many mistakes this chapter, a sign I should probably stop typing late at night. I also noticed that there are eleven people following, and only two of you reviewed. I like talking to the people reading, you know, even a simple "Good story, update soon!" (Even though I prefer something a little longer...) is nice, it means I can engage in conversation with you, and possibly figure out what people do and don't like.

It also gives me something to do when I get writers block. See? You guys can prevent writers block!

Reading also gets you a shirtless Draco, or Theodore, or whichever male character you like most.

Draco woke up on an unfamiliar floor in pain. His back and fingers were on fire, his bones ached, and his mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. This was unusual-not the cotton bit, but the rest of the pain. He struggled a moment as he blinked the blurs from his vision and realized that it was a tile floor, in an unfamiliar bathroom, and his pants were missing.

No, wait, there they were, being put on by a struggling, obviously drunk bird. She looked down at the material, swaying, and then finally realized her mistake when she saw his eyes on her, releasing them where they drooped around her thighs. She attempted to pull them off but fell ungracefully, body smacking on the floor. She giggled loudly, wiggling her rather shapely legs wildly in an attempt to get rid of the pair of jeans. Draco managed to reach out and yank them off, getting them on with only a little fuss and minimum pain. He grinned at her, stretching like a cat and listening to his spine line up accordingly, before sitting up.

He couldn't remember how he had gotten here, and there was an amazement he could still remember his name started with a D, so Draco managed an ungainly stumble to his feet and shoved his way out of the bathroom.

It was four in the morning, by the barely visible clock, and this party was still going on. Snatching a glass of what looked like punch and smelled like firewhiskey, he downed it, leaning against a table with a good-natured grin still on his face. The pulsing lights hurt the back of his eyes, and the music was deafening him, and it was so crowded and warm, but the day felt good. Draco stripped his shirt off, laying it over his shoulder and selecting a second glass of the punch, drinking this one slowly.

A girl with large dark eyes and skin like tea with a splash of milk pushed through the crowd to him, a quill in her hair and a notebook in her hand. He softened his grin so it looked welcoming. "Hello, love, what can I do for you?"

Calling people 'love' was just so easy...

She giggled, standing extremely close to him, the warmth between their bodies tingling. "My-My name is Romilda Vane! I'm a reporter! Can I ask you some questions?" she said loudly, trying to be heard over the music. She giggled again, and pressed her small chest against his. He leaned forward, teeth gently nibbling at her ear, "Ask away, Romilda."

Another stream of giggles. He reached for a new glass as a girl across the crowd began making her way over.

Alcohol began to blur things, softening the edges until he was struggling to string together the words on her lips-her oh-so soft-looking lips...

"So, for-" she giggled again as he adjusted his hold on her. At some point, they'd sat down and he'd balanced her on his lap. She looked happily euphoric to be there. "I-This one is off the record, by the way-What, exactly, has led to your drinking habits?"

Draco stared at her a moment, thinking, the words stringing up too quickly and he found he didn't like the question. "It's personal," he said hoarsely.

"Aw, just a small hint? Maybe I could help-" she was drawing designs on his chest, fingertip tracing imaginary outlines as it slowly slipped south.

"You? A little airhead reporter?" he said scathingly, and abruptly stood up on surprisingly steady feet. She fell to the ground, floating inkwell smashing on the smooth linoleum. Draco stepped over her, ignoring her hurt expression, shoving his way through the crowd on the dance floor. He was through the door before he knew it, cool spring air washing over his sweat-soaked skin, but it reminded him of the clammy cold of dementors-

He quickly pulled his mind together, away from those memories, and then tore along the alleyway, running. This place was called Wicked, it wasn't all that far from a public floo-and-disapparation spot... He didn't have his wand, he hadn't seen that in months, but the ambient magic would probably be enough...

Standing by the little pretend telephone booth on a dark streetcorner, he stepped inside, gathered the magic around him and turned on his heel. He landed in the little park not far from his flat, looked up at the moon overhead and then looked east, or maybe it was south, his hangover making a reappearance with a starving vengeance.

He bent over and puked at the roots of the tree spreading branches overhead, mostly alcohol and bile that burned on the way up. He heaved once, twice, and again his throat seared and vomit splattered over the ground. With shaky hands, he wiped his mouth on the grey shirt still draped over his shoulder, looking around before headed down the empty sidewalk towards his flat, just another young man after a party.

But oh, Merlin, did he need his firewhiskey. Memories of the dementors were pushing at his boundaries.

. . .

Hermione had spent three days analyzing the contents of the file in her spare time. It contained a paper copy of the interview with Narcissa, an audio copy, her last communication with her son (A drunken, rambling letter explaining that he was moving from the place she had got him, nothing personal but he wasn't burdening her like this, and that maybe he might talk to her again soon-her wrists ached just looking at the length and the perfect cursive), and a blank check for expenses that had to be personally activated by Narcissa.

She didn't usually spend this much time poring over a file, but she found she was delaying. She could set aside differences, but she refused to forget them.

But she had to admit-Narcissa sounded extremely anxious on the audio copy. Somehow, she had never reconciled the Malfoys as the worried or compassionate types, not even towards each other.

Hermione was curled up around a book, (Influential Wizards and Witches of our Age, Mildred Bats, 1973 printing) trying to collect background information on the Malfoy family. She was taking notes, and occasionally would glance up, an eye scanning all the entrances, looking for a sign of someone unwelcome. When, this time, she noticed light trying to struggle through her curtains, she turned her wandering gaze to a clock. It was eight in the morning. She should have been at work two hours ago, but her coworkers (Perhaps assistants would be a better term) had all her notes on the disease sweeping through those centaur herds and they could experiment with cures as well as she could. Maybe Kingsley would take this as a sign that she was working hard on this little case. How hard could it be to find one wizard already in the news anyway?

She groaned, realizing that was a dooming thought. Just by thinging those words, she had guaranteed this would probably be her most difficult case of the year. She slammed the book shut, looking around warily at the sound, and waved her wand to start a pot of coffee.

When a scoop of pre-ground coffee dumped itself in the little machine, she gave it a glowering look and flicked her wand again. A second scoop was added, as water poured itself in and then the machine began to work, the rough sound of water condensing and dripping into the coffee grounds filling the air. Hermione also put the kettle on with another little twist of her wrist. Tea and coffee. Some would call blasphemy from both sides, but Hermione loved both beverages equally; both contained caffeine and were therefore welcome at this tiring hour. She needed to stop staying up all night like this, she was not a girl at school where she could find the time to catch up on lost rest anymore.

Drawing a line below her notes, she tapped the quill gently against her jaw, thinking. Where to start... She needed information on Draco, specifically, and through much less biased eyes than those of his mother.

Friends of Draco Malfoy, hmm... She began scratching names. Goyle was still in Azkaban, and not particularly helpful in any case. Parkinson, old girlfriend, definitely. Who else... Blaise Zabini, she'd seen him around Malfoy several times in sixth year. Theodore Nott-maybe, but he'd only gotten out last year, and rumors said he wasn't taking it well. But still a lead.

She tried hard to think of others Malfoy might have graced with his once illustrious presence, but the more she thought, the more she came to the conclusion that she needed coffee, or that Malfoy had been a bit of a loner. Quite probably both, but she was going to down a good dose of caffeine and check her flat's wards before deciding.

Heaving herself off her couch, she tossed a throw pillow back onto the comfortable furniture, shuffling to the coffee pot and draining its entire contents into a large mug. She took an appreciative sniff of the bitter fluid before she began sipping on it, waving her wand in a series of patterns. They stayed blue and the pattern completed, so she was safe. A gesture of her first finger had the kettle pouring into a second mug for her tea. She counted off the alloted minutes and seconds that the bag steeped before pulling it out and dumping it in the trash.

Dear Merlin, she was obsessing over her drinks again. Was she going to check the tea for poison this time? She'd done that to the coffee she had earlier...

She sighed, picking up the tea mug and placing it on the little cabinet next to her couch, clutching the coffee in her hands. Once this case was closed, she promised herself an appointment with her therapist, and this time she wouldn't forget, she would go, talk, feel better for a few days and manage more than three hours of sleep.

Her adrenaline eased away, leaving an ache in her bones. She felt infinitely tired today, like she could nap for days. She was in no state to do research without a few Sleep-Less potions, and that meant going into work for those, then signing for them, and that meant people she was friends with that she was going to snap at when they told her she had reached her monthly quota with a worried look on their faces... Sleep-Less could be addictive, she knew, like Dreamless Sleep could, but she didn't have an addiction. She'd know. She knew all the symptoms.

She quickly gulped down the coffee, feeling it burn her throat and grimacing. Maybe she'd start with talking with one of the three snakes on the parchment. No way in Merlin's name would she go near Nott without a day to prepare herself, Zabini was appointment only, but Parkinson married happily last year; surely she wouldn't mind a visitor... Hermione began carefully sipping her tea, planning her Floo message. Owl wouldn't arrive any time today.

When the coffee began working its way through her bloodstream and she felt more awake, she set down the tea. The world may have changed, but Parkinson was still a pureblood, and that meant good manners and dress no matter the occasion for visiting. She would rather avoid spiteful comments for wearing trainers when flats or heels would have been more appropriate.

She found a skirt, wrinkled from a stay on the floor but easily fixed with an ironing charm, tucked in her blouse and pinned her Auror badge to its pocket, wand hanging from her side in plain sight and easily reachable. Then she spent several moments painfully raking a brush through her hair and realizing she hadn't done this menial task in ages, finding several knots and tangles with each jerk through her bushy hair.

When she had finally managed the task of getting it into a loose bun, the Ministry note she had sent to Harry via Floo had returned. She now had Parkinson's address. Now to just politely ask for an invitation...

When she stuck her head into the fireplace, a man's face came into view. She quickly marked his appearance. Young, handsome, dark hair cut short, amber eyes-unusual but pretty. He spoke in French first, and while Hermione understood it almost perfectly, this was not a casual visit.

"Monsiuer Martin, I am Auror Granger and I require a visit with your wife."

His hackles were up instantly, she saw in the way his shoulders stiffened under the suit he wore.

"What has she done?" he hissed, teeth clenched.

"She has done nothing, she is not under investigation," Hermione reassured him. He smoothed out instantly.

"Then you should have no need to talk to her," he said pleasantly. "Good-"

"I am on a missing person's case, and as she was a friend of the person in question, her help would be invaluable."

"My wife is sick today and is no position to receive guests."

Hermione resisted the urge to growl. She was not going to come back tomorrow and deal with this prick a second time, she didn't care how much she might upset Parkinson. "We are on a tight schedule. Unless she is dying, I will speak to her, the person's family has reason to believe this is life-or-death. If you don't let me in, I will get a warrant."

Not a lie-Narcissa had come off that way, though she had voiced no concern towards her son being in danger, tone said a lot of things. She wished she could have been there to study body language, but one could only hope for so much.

Martin paled slightly, but nodded tightly. "Only an hour," he said, French accent coming back thick. Native-born, possibly, but well-trained in English. "I won't have you upsetting her."

"I understand. I will arrive in ten minutes, pleasantries are not required for this visit." She withdrew her head, watching the clock while she checked her wand again. She gave them a full thirteen minutes and then stepped into the floo.

International floor travel was a rough-and-tumble experience, but quite fun as long as one kept their elbows in. She spun past so many places, glimpses into others lives, gently scraping against walls, and a cool woman's voice instructed as she slowed, "Transferring countries, please remove your wand. Thank you. Turbulence is expected."

There was a jerk in her stomach, and then she flew by fireplaces into the lives of people she would quite probably never know. She closed her eyes until her feet hit a fireplace empty but of one dead log. She very carefully stepped over it and onto a hearth of old and worn stone, very carefully cleaning herself with a wave of her wand. Only then did she step onto the rug.

It was a large, well-lit, and expensive room. She told herself not to name the prices or countries of anything around her, or how many children the expense could feed.

"Granger."

She turned to look a woman. She almost wouldn't recognize Parkinson, she had never gotten over her stay. Her black hair had been grown long, her shoulders were straight but held no pride, and her eyes gleamed with a touch of pain, emptiness. Hermione had once called her a pug. That was no more true than Hermione was a troll. While Parkinson's nose was a little scrunched, it now looked almost endearing.

"Park-Sorry, Martin."

She nodded to her. "The sitting room is this way. I hope your travel was not difficult."

Hermione shook her head slightly. "It was fine. How are you?"

"Best I can be."

Mister-or perhaps Master would be the more appropriate term-Martin was waiting in the doorway. "You left your wand in the bedroom, dearest." He gave Hermione a smile strained at the edges. "She is rather forgetful, I'm afraid. And getting a little pudgy, best cut the late-night snacks, Pansy!" He laughed loudly. "I'm only kidding. I will see you soon. Don't get lost on your way to the sitting room." He kissed her cheek, gently rubbing her arm, and walked away.

Hermione was led down a hallway in silence. Following Parkinson (She couldn't think of her by any other name), Master Martin's comments drew her thoughts. She never remembered Parkinson as forgetful, but perhaps Azkaban had done that to her, and she'd never known her particularly well.

But pudgy? Unless she was wearing a corset under that dress, or something of the like, Pansy was not pudgy.

Hermione frowned.

"He makes distasteful comments sometimes, especially when they're not true. It's just the way he is," Parkinson held the door to a room open. Hermione stepped in, looked around at the finery, and pulled out her wand, testing for charms. Unless spells to keep the doilies clean were dangerous, there was nothing. She gave Parkinson a wary smile, perching on a chair. She barely batted an eye.

"You interrupted my morning, Granger, and you look tired, so I think it would be best if we skipped anything resembling chatter and get to the point of your visit."

Hermione immediately pulled her recording devices from a small handbag. Undetectable Extension Charms were the love of her working life.

"You knew Draco Malfoy, that's why I'm here. While he may be in the papers, his mother and the Auror department both have found ourselves in the position of not knowing his place of residence and his mother has been unable to contact him in seven months."

"He's in the papers? I'm sorry, I don't read the Prophet anymore. It holds nothing of interest to me." She set a small plate of tiny sandwiches on the low table between them.

"He has a small column in the back by Romilda Vane, his apparent stalker and admirer. He's been an almost constant drunk for about a year now, and recent photos provide ample evidence he's only a few bottles a day extra away from alcohol poisoning. She wants to bring him home before she loses the only family she has left. We all know her husband won't come out of Azkaban in any good state."

Parkinson had a well-disguised flinch, nodding. "But that doesn't explain why you came to me, Granger. I haven't left my home since I married. Wouldn't your lovely department know that?"

"You knew Draco. I need to find out as much about him from people who really knew him, weren't blinded by the emotions of a mother, or an enemy's disgust. Peers, like you."

Parkinson primly crossed one ankle in front of the other, appearing to think about something a moment. "Draco was always a bit dramatic. If emotions came into play, he'd blow the event up or overact something-like third year with that hippogriff. He was used to everything he does being so big. But he was also an organized mind, I asked him once how he remembered all he did, he said he filed things, like they were paper, labeled them, or boxed things into little cordoned areas of his mind so he wouldn't think them.

"He's prone to too much pride at all the bad times. So close to the Dark Lord, there's no telling what nightmares he saw, you'd have to drill through his thick head to find out."

She said with just a little bitterness on the edge of her tongue, almost not there.

"He was brilliant. He didn't need to read books all the time to learn things," Hermione ignored the obvious jab, "he could just know how magic was supposed to know, and the way his head worked made him a master at potions."

Hermione gave a polite cough. Parkinson handed her a cough drop. "Of course, that was what I saw. Maybe he was different to others."

She blinked, looking over the cough drop before putting it in her pocket. Looking around the room, she tried to think of other questions she could ask, to get out more information about Malfoy.

"Was he always fond of drinking?"

"He hated it. He got his hangovers within a few hours, usually, instead of the morning after. Takes out all the fun."

Hermione nodded slightly. Picking up one of the miniature sandwiches, she turned it around in her hands, inspecting it as she disassembled it.

"For Merlin's sake, Granger, it's not poisoned!" Parkinson snapped, then she straightened her shoulders. "I apologize, that was rude of me." When Hermione stared at her a moment, she huffed. "Surprised I'm civil? I am capable of manners, and I've learned my lesson. Eat the sandwich you just took apart."

Hermione carefully ate it in two bites, staring at her hand. Then she quickly packed up her recording material, not looking at Parkinson till the end. "Thank you for your cooperation, the Auror department thanks you even though you probably don't want that. Have a pleasant day," she said in a monotone. She turned around, opening the door but banged against a side-table. A crash as a delicate crystal vase smashed on the floor.

"Oh Merlin, I'm so sorry! I wasn't-I'm so-Why don't you use your wand?" Hermione, already pulling hers out, paused as Parkinson began picking up the pieces by hand. "Here." With a tap, the vase repaired, good as new, and shaky hands set it back on its spot, a relieved expression slipping through for a moment.

"I think it's time you leave. This way." Face blank, Parkinson swept up the hallway, dress barely whispering across the carpet, quickstepping. Hermione followed her, stumbling into the room she had entered from and stepping onto the hearth, flooing away.

*cue people hating on Vane and some odd review trashing Pansy*