Hi everyone, next chapter has arrived! This chapter is where things really get going, so I'm going to shut up and just let you guys read :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; anything familiar belongs to JKR.

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Ch. 5: The Incident

I found it difficult to sleep that evening. After I had left Malfoy on the balcony, I went back inside and spent the remainder of the night with Charlotte. When it was time to go, I helped her get home safely, and then nearly collapsed into my bed. The entire time, despite my exhaustion, my thoughts had been racing. Seeing Malfoy, of all people, at a night club in France had definitely thrown me for a loop. Here I was, trying to get away from reminders of the War, and then I came face-to-face with a member of the other side.

But he seemed different. The thought had been nagging me, refusing to stay in the back of my mind where I tried to shove it. He did seem different, I had to admit. The Malfoy I knew from my days at Hogwarts would have never stood there and had a fairly civil conversation with me. I mean, sure he was a little snippy here and there, but overall, he was nearly – dare I say – pleasant. It didn't escape my notice that he hadn't called me mudblood once.

It wasn't just his lack of insults that made him seem different though; his entire demeanor wasn't what I was used to. He seemed more subdued, almost timid even. I saw the look in his eyes when I brought up his long sleeves. He almost looked frightened – of what, though? That I would see his mark? That was ridiculous, I had seen it before. Regardless of what frightened him, I saw another emotion swirling in his gray eyes too: shame. That was what really had me confused. Shame was an emotion I couldn't have ever imagined seeing from Malfoy, yet it was there, clear even in the dim light. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing him look so vulnerable, even if only for a moment, that made me reveal to him that I too covered up my scars.

I was far from understanding what went on in Malfoy's mind, and frankly I didn't want to, but even from our brief interaction it was clear to me that the War had affected him too. In what ways, I wasn't sure, but he clearly had his own demons, and he certainly wasn't the same boy from our childhood.

These thoughts bounced around in my head all night as I tossed and turned, sleep always seemingly just out of reach. However, my lack of sleep was not enough to keep me from fulfilling my promise to myself of getting back on track with things that made me feel like my old self. Just as I had planned, I woke up early – though not without difficulty and a large cup of coffee. I did everything that made me feel like I was getting a good start to my day; I stretched, let in as much sunlight as I could, and took a relaxing shower. By the time I had dressed and eaten breakfast, any thoughts about Malfoy were locked firmly away in the back of my mind.

First, I penned a letter to Ginny, asking her when she may be available to come visit, as we had discussed, and then sent it off with one of the hotel's owls. Then I called my parents, just to check in, and assured them I was both safe and enjoying myself. Finally, I called Harry and Ron. Shockingly, they seemed to be more concerned and had more questions than my parents. I had to reassure them both several times that I was being safe and vigilant enough to even pass Moody's standards before they were satisfied. After my safety was verified to their satisfaction, they asked about my social life and what I had been up to. I told them about some of the various destinations I had been to, and I told them fondly of Charlotte. Ron was skeptical of her, but that was likely because he felt he was being replaced.

I thought of telling them about my encounter with Malfoy, but after how skeptical they already were about my safety, I thought it best to not give them any more reason for concern. Not that I thought Malfoy was a threat, but I knew how their minds worked, and knowing that he was here would be enough to make them both panic and get the next portkey to Paris.

After we had chatted and caught up with each other's lives, we said our goodbyes and I promised to be in touch again soon. Hanging up the phone, I felt that small ache of loneliness in my chest again, but I firmly ignored it, determined to be positive today and enjoy doing the things that made me feel like Hermione again.

I decided to walk to the bookstores I had planned on visiting, enjoying the way the summer sun warmed my face. They weren't far, and soon enough I was in the first store on my list. This one was a wizarding bookstore, and I immediately went to their small section on magical creatures; I was interested in researching other countries perspectives on the rights of various magical creatures and compare it to the ideas back home.

After about an hour in that shop – I also picked up a potions book that I thought would be both interesting and handy to have around – I decided to move on to the muggle bookstores on my list. I thought it would be good for me to pick up a few familiar books translated to French to help me brush up on the language.

The first place I entered was small and smelled quite musty. However, the elderly shop attendant was quite helpful, and very patient with my rusty French. He suggested a book of children's stories my mother had read to me many times when I was young to begin, and then he helped me find a copy of The Great Gatsby to move onto when I grew more comfortable with my French.

On my way to the next store, I ran into Charlotte. She greeted me with a friendly wave and her brilliant smile. "Hermione," she called in her beautiful lilt.

"Good morning, Charlotte," I smiled in return. "I'm surprised you are out and about already; I assumed you would still be recovering from last night."

She laughed lightly. "Oh, no, I recover quite quickly," she winked. "Where are you off to?"

I waved dismissively. "Here and there. I am checking out some of the bookstores here."

She clapped her hands together. "I know just the place you should check out. It isn't far from here, and it has both English and French prints."

I brightened. "That would be perfect! I was hoping to find a place that sold English prints as well."

Charlotte nodded. "Oh, yes, then you will like this place. It is just a few blocks further down this street, on the right. You can't miss it."

"Thank you, Charlotte! Would you like to join me?"

She shook her head with a frown. "Unfortunately, I cannot. I have some tedious errands to run today," she rolled her eyes. "Boring, but they must be done."

I shrugged. "No problem, perhaps I will see you tomorrow?"

She flashed me her toothy smile again. "Most definitely. Enjoy your shopping, Hermione."

I gave her a wave as I continued on toward the bookstore. "Enjoy your errands!"

"I won't!" she called over her shoulder.

I chuckled to myself. I was glad I had Charlotte here with me. As nice as it was to get away from the reminders of the War at home, I missed my loved ones terribly, and I knew that I would have been terribly lonely without anyone here to talk to. It was lovely to have a friend I could count on in this foreign city.

True to Charlotte's word, I reached the bookstore soon enough. It was much larger than the last one I had been in, every wall covered from floor to ceiling with stacks full of books. There was even a little second floor loft that I could see held more stacks of books. "Oh my," I gasped.

A girl about my age came to stand beside me. "A bit breathtaking, isn't it?" she asked in a thick French accent.

I nodded. "It really is. I haven't been around so many books at once since, um, my library at school." I had almost said since Hogwarts, but I caught myself just in time, remembering that this girl was a muggle.

She grinned. "I know, it really is like a library in here. I am Brigitte," she said, sticking out her hand, which I shook. "I work here, so if there is anything I can help you with, please don't be afraid to ask."

"Actually," I began, "would you mind pointing me towards your English prints?"

She nodded with a knowing smile. "Bien sûr. The English prints are on the right half of the building, and the French are on the left and the second floor. If you need anything else, I will be at the front desk."

I smiled kindly. "Merci beaucoup."

Strolling casually through the aisles, I let my fingers brush lightly against the spines of the books I passed. After a few minutes of this and being surrounded by the smell of books, I felt a smile tugging my lips upward. I could easily lose myself in a place like this, spend an entire afternoon just browsing through the books without even realizing. I was happy in a place like this and being in a familiar type of environment helped me feel a bit more grounded, but – despite what I had hoped – simply immersing myself in books did not instantly transform me back into the girl I was before the War. It was an unrealistic expectation, I knew, but I couldn't help but to hope.

Nonetheless, I still was a little happier already, so I continued along through the many aisle of English prints, pulling some out on occasion to read a bit. I had picked two books out so far that I wanted to purchase, one which was a personal favorite as well as a new one that seemed appealing. I decided I would search for one more and then call it a day.

I was lost in thought, trying to determine what I wanted in my last book, and so I didn't notice there was someone around the corner I turned until I bumped right into them. My books slipped to the floor with a loud thump, and I gave out a startled squeak. The person whom I had run into grunted at the impact.

"I am so sorry!" I quickly apologized, bending down to retrieve my books. "I didn't even notice you there, that was my fault, really –" I broke off as I looked up from kneeling on the floor to see whom I had run into. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me – Malfoy? Again?"

He had an eyebrow cocked at me and a blank expression, unlike mine, which I'm sure showed my surprise and slight exasperation – I mean, seriously, what were the chances I would run into him twice in two days? "We've got to stop meeting like this," he smirked.

I rolled my eyes, straightening up. "What are you doing here? And what are you wearing?" Now that I actually looked at him, I saw that he was wearing jeans and a light, long-sleeved sweater – muggle clothing.

He frowned, looking down at himself in what appeared to be genuine concern. "Why? Is this not right?" he asked, pulling at his sweater a bit.

I shook my head. "No, they're right," I said slowly and then dropped my voice, "but they're muggle clothes."

"Really, I hadn't noticed," he deadpanned.

I put a hand on my hip, attempting to process what I was seeing. "Forgive me if I'm a bit thrown-off," I snipped, "but you have to understand that seeing you, Mr. Pureblood –" his jaw ticked at that "– wearing muggle clothing in a muggle store, is a bit shocking."

"So, what? I can't shop for some new books?" he bit out.

"Well, yes, but this is a muggle –"

He cut me off. "I bloody know this is a muggle shop, Granger," he snapped. I stepped backward a bit in surprise at his sudden outburst. I saw his chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath, eyes closed. When he opened them again, he was much calmer. "Two things – first, do not assume that I still hold the same beliefs that I did when I was sixteen. Second, even those who do believe in blood purity can appreciate a great piece of art, no matter if the artist is wizard or muggle. I've always read muggle books; we even have some in our library at the Manor."

I clutched my books tighter to my chest, shifting my weight between my feet. "I didn't mean to assume," I mumbled.

He shrugged. "It's not like I can exactly blame you," he said, more to himself than me.

We lapsed into silence, but he didn't walk away yet, and neither did I. I can't exactly explain why, but I believed him when he insinuated that he didn't hold the same beliefs from when he was at Hogwarts. I mean, I'm sure he wasn't exactly ready to go out and marry a muggle or anything, but, even from our brief interactions, it was clear he had changed, at least a little. Feeling the sudden need to be polite to compensate for my rude assumptions, I asked, "Who's your favorite?"

He dragged his gaze away from the shelf he had been inspecting to look at me. "What?"

"Author," I clarified. "Who's your favorite muggle author?"

He regarded the shelves again, appearing to consider the question. "Well, I enjoy F. Scott Fitzgerald – you have to admire that level of functioning alcoholism." I laughed, then quickly clamped my lips shut, refusing to acknowledge that Malfoy made me laugh. He turned to look at me, a small smile – not his trademark smirk – on his lips. After a moment, he cleared his throat and continued. "But I would have to say that Earnest Hemingway is my favorite."

"The Great Gatsby is one of my favorites - I just purchased a copy actually," I replied, and this earned me another small, almost surprised smile. "But Hemingway, I have to confess I haven't read a lot from him."

He snorted. "Granger doesn't know something? What a twist."

I rolled my eyes and found that his taunt didn't bother me as I would have expected; it had more of a good-natured air. "I just haven't had the desire to read his work is all."

"Why not?"

"He has a lot of darker themes – war, death, loss," I began explaining.

"And you think you've had enough of those in real life?" he guessed.

I looked at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Well, yes, actually."

He nodded. "I can understand that perspective, but have you ever considered that maybe reading about characters who experience similar things to you can help you overcome some of your experiences?"

I tipped my head in thought. "No, honestly, I had never thought of it that way."

He shrugged. "He has some great books, may be worth checking them out."

I nodded. "I think I may just take you up on that." We sat in silence for a moment before I spoke up again. "I'm sorry," I began, "but this is just – I mean you and I being civil – it's just," I stumbled.

"Mildly unsettling?" he finished.

I bobbed my head up and down. "Yes," I sighed. "Exactly. I feel like a fish out of water."

He scrunched up his nose. "Me too. Perhaps we should insult each other? To reorient ourselves?"

"Good idea. I'll start: you're so pale it looks like you haven't seen the sun for years."

He quirked an eyebrow. "And your hair is so large it could easily house a family of squirrels. Better?"

"Much," I said with a small smile, which he returned. Growing uncomfortable again, I cleared my throat and we both glanced away. "Well," I said after a pause, "would you mind giving me a recommendation for Hemmingway?"

"Sure, they have some of his books a few aisles over." He turned to go find them, and I followed after, ignoring how odd it was that Malfoy and I were now past the point of being civil and near crossing the line into getting along.

After we passed two aisles, Malfoy turned left into the next one, strolled halfway down, regarded the books, and pulled one from the shelf. He began turning toward me, beginning to extend the book. "This one –" he began, but quickly cut off as he turned fully toward me, eyes wide as he looked at something over my shoulder. "Granger!" he cried suddenly, and, before I could even react, he lunged toward me, knocking me to the ground. Just in time, too, because not even a second later a green jet of light flew directly where I had been standing.

I spun from where I was kneeling on the ground just in time to catch a glimpse of the foot of someone as they ran away. I tried to scramble to my feet to go after them, my wand already out, but Malfoy grabbed my arm to stop me. "You'll never catch them, only draw attention to yourself and cause a scene," he reasoned as we both stood.

I glanced fervently between him and the spot where my attacker had been. "But –"

He shook his head, hand still on my arm. "Just ignore that Gryffindor courage for a minute and use your brain – I know you have one. Someone just tried to kill you, Granger. Charging off after them alone, in a muggle area, is dangerous and stupid. For all you know, it could be a trap; they could be luring you away to where they have a larger group waiting."

I chewed on my lip, knowing his logic was sound, but having a hard time just letting the person go. Finally, I knew he was right, so I nodded. Only then did he release his grip on my arm. My skin prickled where his hand had been.

"What the hell was that?" I muttered, still glancing over my shoulder.

"Come on, Granger, you've been through a war the same as me; you know exactly what that was."

I shook my head, trying to make some sense of what had just happened. "But I don't understand," I continued. "Why would someone try to kill me?"

He frowned, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. "I don't know."

I stared at the spot the attacker stood, still not understanding, and then gave my head one last shake. "I need to get back home."

Malfoy grabbed me again, this time by the shoulder in order to spin my back towards him. "Granger, you are not that bloody stupid, are you? Someone is trying to kill you! Home is the last place you should go, especially alone."

I glared at him, no longer in the mood to put up with his sharp attitude. "What would you propose I do then?" I bit out through clenched teeth.

He rolled his eyes, strode past me toward the checkout counter. "You can come to Blaise's house to lay-low for a while."

I stopped in my tracks. He had to be kidding. "No way," I laughed.

He turned to give me an annoyed look. "It's that or probable death."

I hesitated.

"Granger!"

Fighting past the childish urge to stomp my foot, I settled for a dramatic huff of frustration. "Fine! I guess time with you is preferable to probable death."

"Oh, how you flatter me; truly, you are too kind," he quipped as I made my purchases.

I was already second guessing my choice; I mean it was only probable – I could take those odds, right?

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Things are happening now, people! Super excited about some of the things I have planned :)

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