I can't recall a time in my life when I'd faced a more vexing dilemma, with my decision to depart from the wizarding world as the only possible exception. Truth be told, that choice was far less emotionally taxing – at least initially – than the one that faced me as I closed in on nine months away from my former home.
Nine months I'd been gone, living my alternatingly exhilarating and bleak existence as Drew Blackman. Just long enough for a baby to be born, I reflected. Well, I didn't have much to show for the gestational term I'd spent in Liverpool. The life that I'd birthed wasn't one to celebrate, to be sure. Most days felt more funereal than expectant, regardless of how drunk or high I managed to get. There was something, however, on the horizon. A verdict that I dreaded and relished equally would have to be reached, and I somehow knew in my bones that the course I selected would be the single most momentous of my life.
It really was stark and simple, for all its potential ramifications. I had only one piece of information to sway me from one course to the other, and it was something that had consumed far more of my time and energy than I'd expected. That bit of data was the fact that Hermione Granger truly was alive – and not so well – only blocks from where I lay my head every night.
It was the only event in memory that made me wish I'd had more characteristics in common with a Ravenclaw than the Slytherin I'd been raised to be. A more clinical, academic assessment of the potential outcome of my decision might have been less stressful than the personal advantages I'd been trained to calculate.
The deliberation absorbed so much of my mental energy that I refrained from getting high for nearly a week. I still drank. I still got laid. I still couldn't keep my own hand off my cock. The drugs, though, screwed with my thought processes on entirely different levels, and I felt the need for at least some measure of mental clarity.
In the end, I made the decision for which I knew I was destined from the second the thought even occurred to me. Now that I knew, I would make every effort to find her and actually make contact. That's the point at which I started to understand the rolling avalanche of choices and their myriad consequences. Every metaphorical stone seemed to turn another one over, and I wondered which of them might crush or bury me.
I was confident that I could find her; I knew the area quite well by that point. She hadn't seemed to be hiding, per se, because she'd made no apparent effort to change her appearance. Even if she'd somehow become separated from her wand, Muggles had inexpensive hair dyes, and a passable haircut could be obtained for under ten quid at one of those franchise shops. So, I concluded, she either believed that no one cared to look for her or she didn't care if she were found.
The next tumbling stone was the question of my own identity. As had been clear in our two previous encounters, my own appearance alterations had been sufficient that I went unrecognized after reasonably close contact with someone whom I'd known for almost half of my life. So my debate came to be over the question of when I did make contact, should it be as my "new" self, or as the classmate who'd been anything but a friend or ally throughout her years in the magical world.
I had serious doubts that she'd recognize me as her rescuer considering that she'd barely even looked at me as I removed her from her predicament. Even if she had, she'd been so wasted that I was completely certain she wouldn't remember me. The only thing that might have given me away would have been my voice, and I hadn't spoken more than a word, maybe two, before she tottered away, certainly not enough to have revealed myself. I thought it was slightly more likely that she would have recognized me from our first encounter, although I'm mortified to admit that her attention had seemed to be… somewhere south of my face. If that were true, it might have actually worked in my favor; she probably wouldn't have felt as threatened to be approached by a man she'd thought to be gay.
The problem with the entire "Drew" strategy was that it would have given me almost no wiggle room to learn anything about how and why she'd come to be in Liverpool, and that was becoming an unrelenting itch under my skin. The Statute of Secrecy prohibited her from sharing information with someone she thought to be a Muggle, and it would have been at least as risky to proclaim myself a wizard other than Draco Malfoy. While there were a few of our age who hadn't attended Hogwarts for one reason or another, there weren't more than a handful. It would have been a tough sell.
As Draco Malfoy, however, saying there was no love lost between us was positively laughable. She had not been at Hogwarts during what would have been her Seventh year. While there must have been a few who knew with some confidence, most of us assumed that she'd either gone underground as many other Muggle-borns had done, or she, like Potter and Weasley were assumed to be, was involved in efforts to undermine the Dark Lord. I know that there was more than one time when I fervently hoped that the latter was the case. There was no way she could have known that, though. Oh, I suppose that there were rumors floating around about my ambivalence – Merlin knows it was a topic of discussion in the Slytherin dormitories, whether or not they realized that I knew they were speculating about my loyalties – but the Gryffindor cadre was probably not privy to any actions that I took, or failed to take as the case may have been. The bottom line was that, again, she had no reason to trust me.
At that point, I hadn't yet seen her again, but I'd not been actively searching, either. I needed to have a more solid plan, I thought, about the whys and wherefores before I approached her. It wouldn't do to be confronted with the opportunity before I was equipped to manage the aftermath, I thought. There would still be time for me to sort it all out, I reasoned. So I went out for my usual evening's carousing, indulging in one hit of molly – gods, I'd missed that high – and engaging in a particularly satiating round of mutual oral pleasuring with a delicious dirty blonde. (Take that however you will. I may have cleaned up my act since then, but my penchant for ribald expression… not so much.) I stumbled back to my room, stripped off, fell asleep, and forgot all about my need to plan for my eventual confrontation with Miss Granger, roughly in that order.
To say that I was completely unprepared when she quite literally fell into my lap three nights later is the grossest understatement of the millennium. I'll recount to the best of my ability the sequence of events on that day.
The previous night having been a rare night in, I'd awakened a bit earlier than usual, probably half eight or quarter 'til nine. I'd not had an inordinate amount to drink, so my head was without its usual pounding. At least I didn't have to consume any of that horrid-tasting hangover potion. (Why the wizarding world can't seem to concoct medicinal potions that don't taste like shite is beyond me.) One very satisfying hot shower, a cup of coffee, and a bowl of instant porridge later, I pulled a pair of jeans over my boxers and donned a lightweight cotton jumper. It may have been February, but the heat in the room was stifling. Regulating the temperature with the little knob on the wall – its purpose finally explained to me by one of the proprietors - seemed to be beyond my ability to accurately conquer. When it got uncomfortable to one extreme or the other, I solved the issue with a charm. But I digress.
After breakfast, I went to the lobby to purchase one of the several daily newspapers that were available. It wasn't something that I did often, but once every week or so, I felt the need to understand that there was a world going on out there beyond my hedonistic existence. Bringing the Liverpool Daily Post back to my room, I stretched out on the bed with another cup of coffee and settled in for an hour or so, reading the tabloid from cover to cover. The fact that close to half of what I read meant very little to me didn't diminish the value of the temporary diversion. Although I looked for clues to events in my world in the form of unexplained phenomena, there was nothing in the paper that pointed to issues that should concern me. Eventually, though, I became restless and hungry, so I changed into a warmer jumper, laced up my boots – grateful for the durable, waterproof, and rugged dragonhide – and buttoned up my black wool pea-coat.
Venturing out into the cold, I didn't have a specific agenda beyond getting something for lunch. My makeshift pantry was pretty bare and a visit to the market was overdue, but I just couldn't work up the enthusiasm for that chore at that moment. I wandered around until I found a hole-in-the-wall pub with nothing but a sandwich and a beer or two on my mind. Any "lunch crowd" that might have been present was long gone by half-one, so I had my choice of tables and all the privacy I could stand.
As I sat there sipping my first beer and waiting for my roast beef on rye, it dawned on me that I hadn't given much more thought in the previous day or two to the question of how I would approach Granger. I realized that, as days passed, the possibility that she'd move on (or worse) increased. By this point, I had fully committed to the idea of confronting her but still struggled mightily with the logistics of it. I must have been more absorbed in thought than usual, because I belatedly noticed that the waitress had placed my sandwich on the table without me registering the fact. I ate slowly, almost mechanically, while I continued to weigh my options.
It must have been a good ninety minutes later that I finally left the pub, having made a sizable dent in the sandwich that must have had close to a pound of meat, its accompanying massive pile of chips, and polishing off three pints. I was pleasantly full and just shy of mildly buzzed. My attention was drawn by a flash of movement about fifty yards away, and my breath caught when I saw that unmistakable hair. She was moving quickly, though, and away from me. While there were no obstacles between us, I wasn't at my best, feeling just a bit sluggish after my larger-than-usual lunch. Not wanting to make a spectacle of myself, I jogged rather than dashed toward the end of the block to see if I could catch up with her. My reward for the effort was nothing more than a stitch in my side. She'd disappeared from sight in those handful of seconds it had taken me to reach the corner, and there were enough cross streets and buildings that there was little point to a search. I was disappointed, but not dejected. My assumptions about her general location had been right, and I knew it was just a matter of time before we came face to face again.
As I leaned against a building to catch my breath – gods, it was clear that vigorous sex, no matter how frequent, was nowhere near enough to keep one in any kind of physical condition – I allowed myself to relish the thought that success in my mission was near. (I selectively ignored the direct and substantial impact that the drugs and alcohol had made on my general health.) Why that miniscule bit of apparent progress made me so… giddy, I had no earthly idea. Maybe it was the idea that I could have any success at all that wasn't directly tied to getting my rocks off. There hadn't been much of that kind of triumph in the last couple of years.
I checked the cheap wristwatch I always wore and determined that I had probably an hour and a half before the afternoon sky turned to full darkness. Shadows in the alleys were already long. I debated over whether it would be more productive to hang around to see if she'd emerge from one of the shops or eating establishments, or to head back to my room and try again later in the evening. Weighing my options and the odds, I decided that I'd go back to the rooming house for a kip, then come back later in the evening. After all, I reasoned, the other two occasions on which I'd seen her had been fairly late into the night.
As I made my way back, I counted the pubs, bars, and clubs in the immediate vicinity. There were seventeen of them. I realized then that my odds of finding her quickly weren't high. Rather than patronizing each establishment, I thought I might be better off strolling the streets in the area. That decided, I hastened back, stripping off, stretching out on my bed and indulging in a leisurely, sleep-inducing wank. The next thing I knew, I'd awakened to a darkened room three hours later.
To shake off my drowsiness, I showered, using that as my excuse to get off again, dressed in a pair of dark blue trousers and a dark grey jumper, and cast my usual Glamours. It was now close to eight o'clock, and while that was a bit early for any bar scene to get cranking, I figured it would give me time to grab something to eat before my surveillance mission began in earnest. I tucked my transfigured wand into my right pocket, tugged on my boots and buttoned into my pea-coat. Stuffing a small wad of cash into my wallet – reflecting briefly that such a thing would never be used in the wizarding world and only vaguely missing the weight and sound of a full Galleon pouch at my belt – I made my way determinedly to the neighborhood where I'd seen her only hours earlier.
One uneventful meal and two unproductive hours of wandering the streets later, I found myself getting tired, antsy, and thirsty. I was as sober as I'd been in months, and while I wasn't deliberately out to get drunk or high, a small libation to take the edge off would not be unwelcome. Without regard to my usual rule of never frequenting the same bar or pub twice (which I, admittedly, had begun to violate once in a blue moon – there were only so many of them, after all), I opened the door to the first drinking establishment that I encountered. It happened to be one that I'd not visited previously, but that didn't mean it wasn't completely typical of the genre. It was dark, loud, crowded, and, regrettably, smoky on that late Friday evening.
I made my way to the bar, hailed the tender's attention, and waited for a handful of seconds while he poured my double Scotch, neat. Paying the six quid he requested, I snaked my way along the length of the bar until I claimed a seat at a table that had just been vacated by some bloke being dragged onto the dance floor by his girl, if their easy familiarity were any indication. I watched about two dozen patrons moving to the heavy bass beat while others tried to hold conversations with pals, dates, or potential conquests over the noise. A small number of people - mostly those at the bar – seemed lost in their own worlds, getting pleasantly buzzed and waiting for something or someone to draw their attention elsewhere. I sipped at my drink, allowing my hands to warm the alcohol in my glass which in turn warmed my blood. About twenty minutes later, my libation finished, I turned toward the bar to request another. While the bulk of my attention was on my brief conversation with the barkeep, I heard the scrape of a chair, laughter, and a warning call of "Careful!"
That's when Hermione Granger fell right into my lap.
Instinct took over, and I wrapped my arms around her to prevent her from tumbling to the floor. Now seated firmly on my thighs, my inebriated former classmate turned her wavering gaze to meet my stunned one. She seemed to struggle to focus on my face, probably subconsciously sensing my Glamours. She frowned, stroked a finger along my cheek, and whispered, "I know you from somewhere, don't I." It wasn't a question.
Keeping a firm hold on her waist, I murmured under my breath, "Better than you imagine." Louder, I said, "Possibly, but I'd certainly like to get to know the lady who dropped into my lap." I hoped that my invitation sounded interested and genuine rather than creepy or threatening.
She wriggled in my arms, whether to find a more comfortable perch or to make her escape was unclear. I needed her to stop moving, or I'd have a completely differently issue. Nothing to do with who she was, mind you, just the fact that any attractive woman was shifting around over my cock. (Note to self: Stop while you haven't dug yourself a bigger hole, mate.) I, however, wasn't about to release her without having some kind of conversation. Now that my plan to approach her had been shot all to hell, it was time for some hasty improvisation.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
I was just a bit taken aback by her offer. "For saving my arse from a collision with the floor," she added as unnecessary explanation. Her diction wasn't exactly crisp, but it appeared that she wasn't quite as drunk as I'd assumed.
It would keep her here for a couple of minutes, I thought, and give me time to engineer a way to remove us – together – to a location where we could… have a little chat. "Of course, as long as you'll join me," I replied, offering her what I hoped was my best friendly smile. Seduction probably wouldn't have been the best choice for either of us at that moment.
She made no move to stand as she hailed the bartender and ordered a refresh for my drink and a Vodka Collins for herself. Fishing a crumpled ten pound note out of the pocket of her skin-tight black jeans, she paid the man and turned back to clink her glass against mine in a toast.
"To my savior," she said through a snicker. "What's your name, cutie?"
Ah, the operative question. I chose to neither lie nor tell the truth. "I'm called Drew. Blackman. And you?"
"Jean. Jean Granger," she replied. She'd hesitated briefly, but I could only speculate on the reason she'd chosen not to use her given name.
I decided to push the issue a bit. "Nice name, but it seems rather… simple for a lady who appears to be rather… complicated."
She snorted, giving truth to her lack of full sobriety. "And how would you have any idea how 'complicated' I am?" She'd emphasized the word dramatically, stopping just short of using air quotes. "Although, you're probably right, and you're definitely not wrong." She wore a pensive expression for a moment, but it passed as she took a deep sip from her drink. She'd also not made a move to leave my lap, but the lack of any other seating nearby was probably at least somewhat to blame.
It was my turn to scoff. "Lady, 'complicated' has a way of finding me. So, what am I not wrong about?"
She paused before answering, clearly weighing how much she was going to say. I realized even then what a deep disadvantage she had in our first interaction. I knew the answers to many of the questions I posed to her, but at that moment, she had no idea who I was. The Slytherin in me was operating at peak efficiency.
"I grew up using another name, but that life is gone now, so I'm keeping things simple. Good booze, better drugs, a little fucking when I feel like it. Doesn't get much simpler." She shrugged. "So what's your story, Drew? Do you like it simple, too? Or do you stick around when 'complicated' comes calling?"
I swallowed a long pull on my Scotch. "Either way works for me. The simple things keep me going, but the complicated stuff makes it worth staying alive."
Taking a deep breath, she took a plunge that I wasn't expecting. "So, you interested in keeping things simple tonight?"
Well, now. I had the perfect opening to exploit, but I'd be disappointing her at some point in the evening. There was no way that I was going to get high or stinking drunk with Hermione Granger that night, and a snowball's chance in hell that I was going to fuck her. Once she knew what I was planning to reveal to her, I was pretty certain her offer would be rescinded.
"Yeah. I've got someplace we can go." I took her by the hand and led her out of the bar, and for the first time in nine months, a woman would see the inside of my sorry excuse for a flat.