Author's note: this was a fun chapter to write. I hope you guys enjoy it :P Be sure to REVIEW after you READ, people! R&R=Read and Review, for those of you who didn't know. So do it, please! :D

I own nothing.

Oh, and also, I apologize in advance to any politicians who may be reading this. It's her view, not mine, like in the little disclaimers before the DVD about all the commentary stuff.

Everyone had expected Hermoine Jean Granger to go into the Ministry line of work.

She had always known, however, that it wasn't for her, government. It was full of liars and idiots and people who would do anything to get their way. (Some called them 'politicians'.)

That life was not Hermoine's.

On the few occasions she had presented this view, responses had always been similar: she could change that if she chose to pursue a government career.

Hermoine, however, had had enough of war. She wanted a quiet job, something she could take pleasure in. She didn't care about the money. She just wanted to do something she would enjoy for a change.

The Ministry (whom she thought secretly grateful that she had not chosen to pursue a career with them) had had Flourish and Blotts fixed up after the war and gifted to her out of gratitude. Out of the many gifts they, along with a few wealthy families who had resisted, attempted to give her, this was the one she chose to accept.

She loved it. The warm, musty smell of paper of varying ages; the wooden shelves she polished twice a week in the evenings; the hardwood floors that creaked a little if you stepped in just the right places; the fireplace (set well back from the shelves, in an open place, with a grate in front of it so as not to risk harming the books) that she lit on cold days; the old sofas and squashy armchairs in varying colors and sizes.

Some of her customers came in just to talk and have a cup of coffee, which she was happy to brew for them; others came in for the sole purpose of curling up in one of the aforementioned squashy armchairs with a book. She didn't mind. She couldn't even remember how many times she had done the same thing as a child (and, admittedly, as an adult). Books were her great comfort in life, and she very much loved her job of sharing them with the world.

Even today.

The door opened with a great jangling of bells, jolting Hermoine out of the slightly stricken state Draco had left her in. She hurried to paste a helpful smile on her face and busied herself with her books.

The rest of her day was a flurry of activity. Next Monday Hogwarts term began again, and students were rushing in and out of the store like mad. One first year boy, a rather chubby young man who made her think, smiling, of Neville Longbottom, was so excited he forgot altogether to pay for his books and tried to walk out of the store with them. His mum, who had been chatting animatedly with Hermoine, had to chase him down and remind him that the train wasn't coming until Monday and he had plenty of time to pay for his purchases.

At last, her final customer left and Hermoine was able to lock up. She had a policy of never kicking people out at closing time; rather, she stopped letting people in then and let the people already inside finish up.

Sighing, Hermoine unlocked the door in the stockroom and climbed the stairs to her home above the shelves. The flat was cozy and comfortable, full of old, mismatched furniture that contributed to the warm atmosphere of the place. Tonight, however, in late August, it was boiling hot. She changed into shorts, undid the top two buttons of her short-sleeved blouse, and propped open a window.

She found a quill and parchment and began to write.

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

Thank you for the lovely invitation. It was very sweet. However,

No. That didn't sound right, and anyways, Narcissa was the one who'd invited her. She changed Mr. to Mrs., but it didn't help. Malfoy was the one who'd come to check to see if she was going.

Who was she writing to? The stalker or his mother?

She was so deep in pondering the issue of a polite rejection that she didn't even notice a whooshing sound from her fireplace.

"Trying to figure out the best way to reject me?" a familiar voice drawled. Hermoine nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Does the privacy of a person's home mean anything to you, Malfoy?" she asked hotly.

"If I say no, will you kill me?" he wondered, playing with a few loose threads on the armchair next to her and looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes," Hermoine ground out.

"Then yes, I'm very sorry I invaded your space," he muttered, waving her off.

"It's one thing to show up at my shop, Mr. Malfoy," she growled, getting to her feet. "But it is quite another to enter my home without permission. What the hell are you doing here, anyhow?"

He ignored her question. "Button up," he ordered.

"What?"

"Your shirt," he said slowly, as if he were speaking to a dimwit. "Button. Up. Your shirt, Granger." He moved to do it for her as she stood there, paralyzed, tasting Firewhiskey on his breath.

At that very moment Ronald Weasley entered.

His face turned a rather funny shade of red, but Malfoy calmly pushed her top button into its hole before turning to him.

"Weasley," he greeted. "Fancy seeing you here."

Ron appeared to be having trouble forming words.

"What the- you- and then- shirt," he sputtered, looking back and forth from Draco, who looked amused, to Hermoine, who had turned pink.

"Very modest girlfriend you've got there, Weasley," Malfoy said, with a shameless wink in Hermoine's direction. She turned from pink to red in an instant and shoved him.

"Get out," she ordered as he stumbled and fell. "You bloody drunkard, get out of my house." She glared at him as he got to his feet and staggered off to the fireplace. With a whoosh of emerald green flames, he was gone.

"Ron," Hermoine said slowly, turning to him, "that wasn't what it looked like. I had my shirt undone a little, because it's so hot, and…"

Ron looked at her balefully. She came and leaned into him. His arms circled her abdomen automatically and he sighed. "Are you sure?" he asked rather pitifully, his lips in her hair.

"Positive. If it had been the other way around, he'd have been dead." Ron laughed softly and kissed her cheek.

"Good. Hermoine…"

"Mm?"

"What are we going to do about this ball?" He said 'ball' as if it were 'Draco Malfoy'.

"Oh, I don't know," she muttered tiredly.

"I'll take you," he offered. "We haven't danced together in ages, Moine." His voice was coaxing, gently persuasive.

"Alright," she conceded after a time. He smiled and brought his lips to hers.

…

After Ron had left (she'd nearly had to kick him out) Hermoine stepped tentatively into the fireplace and shouted an instruction that she never thought she would.

"Draco's room, Malfoy Manor!"

Final author's note: ooh, I am evil! Dun dun dun! You have to admit that was fun though, right? Was it fun? Cause I sure thought it was! Cliché, I know, but it's all the plot bunnies would give me, so yeah…

Okay, and another thing. This story has had, so far:

2 favorites

11 subscriptions to Story Alert

And 1 REVIEW.

That is so wrong. Thank you, James Birdsong, for being my lone reviewer!

I'm holding the next chapter hostage until I have at least five reviews. (I haven't written it yet, but once I do write it, it will not be posted until my ransom demands are met.)

So REVIEW, PEOPLE!

Love,

GLA