Author's Note: Thank you for reviewing slyswn28 and ErytaLove15! I am sorry that I haven't updated in a while... My mother messed up the cookies on our computer and I had to fix it so I could log in.

Chapter 2: A Chance Encounter

Things were calm in the Malfoy home for quite some time, as Hermione had expected. She had learned early on in their marriage that they had the huge rows only when pressure and hurt feelings had been accumulating. Although things were now on the mend, and none of these pressures seemed apparent, Hermione was still on her guard. As her mother once told her, it was better to be safe than sorry.

One morning, before Draco left for work, he handed his wife a moneybag that, despite it small size, was jammed full of Euros.

"Wh-what's this?" Hermione stuttered, taken aback at his random act of generosity.

"I want to... I want to apologise. I acted a fool the other night (the words you've got that right flashed through Hermione's head), and I just want to make up for it. So, go to London. Have a blast." He gave a weak, apologetic smile.

Hermione opened her mouth, probably to say something along the lines of you think money will make up for your behaviour? then closed it. She smiled. "Thank you so much. Thank you for understanding." Draco leaned down and lightly kissed her cheek.

"But remember, dear," he turned back while walking toward the door, "If you step foot in Diagon Alley, prepare to deal with the consequences." Hermione gave a small nod, almost unnoticeable.

"Of course." Draco looked pleased.

"Well, then, now that we have that settled! Have a marvelous day. I will see you at seven with a hot dinner?"

"Right. Have a fine day at work." Fine would be the antonym for Draco's work, however, unless one would consider torturing and killing for Lord Voldemort as a grand way to spend one's time.

With her husband finally gone, and a full day ahead of her, Hermione went upstairs to change. She hung her terry cloth bathrobe on a hook in her bathroom, and then slipped on a pair of blue jeans. Even though she was thirty-four, she had maintained her figure; and the fitted navy turtleneck sweater she pulled over her head accentuated her smooth curves perfectly.

She took a bus to London, where she promptly sat down in the nearest bookshop with a latte and the latest Peter Robinson. The plot was thickening when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Hermione whirled around to face a tall, lean man, who just happened to have dark, unkempt hair and piercing green eyes.

"Hermione?" Harry asked incredulously, "Is that you?"

Oh, how she wanted to leap into his arms and never see the cold glare of Draco Malfoy ever again! She hoped, though, that Harry could not see this horrible longing behind her eyes.

"You must be mistaken..." Hermione replied slowly. "That is not my name."

"No, I would know you anywhere! Hermione, what has been going on?

"Please leave me alone, sir," she said, slowly standing and moving towards the exit. "You must have me mistaken for someone else. I've got to go now." She walked swiftly out the door to escape Harry's intense stare, but had apparently forgotten something: a security alarm blared loudly as Hermione stood in the doorway, blushing, holding a "stolen" book. The manager quickly ran to her, ushering her inside.

"You tryin' to steal this, lady?" he spat, his red, sweaty face contorted with greed.

"No, no, I-I suppose I just forgot to pay for it, I..." Hermione's voice faltered. She looked down. The manager grimaced and wiped his nose with his shirt-sleeve.

"I guess we'll just have to keep you here until the police come," he muttered.

Hermione started to defend herself yet again, but Harry cut in. "There will be no need for that, sir! And I do not appreciate you treating my wife in this manner. Do you not know who I am?"

Hermione threw a sharp look in Harry's direction, but he seemed not to notice. The manager rolled his eyes.

"No, I don't. Who?"

"I am Prince Charles' gardener, Alan Titchmarsh! Now will you please let us go?" Hermione's mouth dropped open. Harry's audacity was stunning! As were other things belonging to him, but... those assets were not really for Hermione to know about.

The manager had obviously noticed those assets, because he looked sceptical. "You don't really look like him."

"I've had major plastic surgery," Harry whispered, as if it was a secret of utmost importance. "Got to look good for the cameras, don't I?" The manager looked puzzled, and then disgusted.

"Just go, I don't give a damn. I'm getting a migraine," he mumbled. Hermione dropped the book and practically ran out the door. Harry followed suit, laughing loudly.

Hermione glared at Harry. "Just what exactly are you trying to pull? What the hell was that? God... Alan Titchmarsh?" she snapped, although it was obvious that she was holding back laughter.

"I just, ah, saved your dignity, dear," Harry chuckled. "And Aunt Petunia always used to watch Ground Force when I was little. Er...now can we talk? Have you acknowledged my existence?"

"All right, it was rather funny, but..." Hermione shook her head. "You cannot be in contact with me, Harry, it's not safe. He... he has spies everywhere."

Harry looked concerned. "Who? Who has spies, Hermione?" His long-lost companion sighed.

"It's complicated. Just... there is one place!" she shouted, with the eagerness of a six-year-old on Christmas morning. She rummaged though her purse and extracted a pen and an old grocery receipt. On the back of the receipt, she hastily scribbled an address.

"Meet me at this place tonight, at 7 o'clock. Don't," she said sharply, "be late."

Harry watched as Hermione nodded as a good-bye, then turned and walked towards the bus stop.

"A chance encounter," he whispered, smiling.

Author's Note: My mum is obsessed with Ground Force.... My writer's block is gone! Please read/review/email me. I might start another Hermione-based fic, set in this time period. Tell me if you like this stuff!