I sighed, and closed the door to my flat, shrugging the strap of my laptop case gently off my shoulder, and onto the floor. It was followed by a folder, which I dropped out of my hands much less gently, before trudging into the living room and throwing my purse into my worn, red armchair with quite a bit more force than I had originally intended. Myself, I dropped unceremoniously onto the matching (as in down to the threadbare arms and lumpy cushions) red couch.

I absent-mindedly fingered a small circular hole in one of those lumpy cushions. It was a hole that had been left there by one of Magnus' post-coital cigarettes, almost two months ago. I kept meaning to have it fixed.

Damn him. Like this couch wasn't bad enough.

I frowned, and flipped the cushion over, not wanting to think about him right now.

I suppose there was one good thing to come out of this whole mess. An Auror's salary wasn't exactly. . . glamorous. It wasn't terrible either, it paid the bills, and put food on the table, and left me a little to stash away in savings every month, but with a new job, I could afford some new furniture.

Which, of course, brought my mind back to my job, the very subject that had caused the mistreatment of my purse.

I'd gone in early, you see, having decided that I couldn't simply hangout for two weeks, despite the temptation to use all my vacation time in one fell swoop. My objective was to finish some long-neglected paperwork, and prepare my most recently closed cases for trial.

I was the first one there, which was no surprise I suppose, since I got to the office at about half past six, and, for over an hour, I sat, alone, hunched over my desk. It was nice. With no one else in the office, I could at least *pretend* that this was a normal day.

Then the other Aurors started to trickle in.

The water cooler woman, who, after several brain wracking hours the previous night, I'd remembered was named Lydia, was one of the first, walking past me, and casting me a sympathetic glance. God, they were treating me like I was going to be executed, or something. Or like I'd just lost my best friend.

Her reaction wasn't uncommon, unfortunately, as Auror after Auror gave me nods, and pats on the head upon entering the office. I wanted to scream at everyone to stop treating me like a grieving widow. Or a puppy. What was with those head-pats, anyway?

But of course, I kept my mouth shut, and fumed in silence, making a point of ignoring all those annoying stares, and focus on the files in front of me. It worked, somewhat, I managed to tune them out and get some work done, and it seemed that perhaps the day was not lost.

Until Magnus walked in.

I didn't notice him come in, what I did notice the sudden tense hush that fell over the room. Like everyone was holding their breath and waiting for the explosion. And it came.

At that moment, I stood up, threw my laptop in its case, tucked the Nott file under one arm and stood up.

I ducked my head into Moody's office to inform him that I'd be working from home that day, then turned back to the floor.

Once again, all eyes were on me.

"Oh, for god sake, don't you people have lives, and such?" I glared across the room, "get back to work."

And these were the events that lead up to this particular instance of handbag brutality.

I sighed, remembering the Nott file. Two inches of folder, jam packed with allegations, accusations, and evidence, all for me to sort before handing it over to the prosecution, just so Nott's high priced lawyer could tear holes in it. Unless, of course, I could make sense of the madness between it's covers.

I cast a glance back into the doorway, at my mound-o-crap, and groaned. Suddenly, and very uncharacteristically, I didn't feel like doing any work. What I really felt like was a nice cup of tea.

I heaved myself off the couch, and headed into the kitchen. I'm sure I heard the bathroom mirror shatter at my scream.

There, sitting on a stack of mail, was Malfoy.

Okay, sure, it was just a picture of Malfoy. One that grace the cover of my issue of Witch Weekly, along with the caption "Europe's Most Eligible Wizard," but it was disturbing as hell. The Magazine Malfoy's smirk was almost as annoying as the real thing, and I suddenly wished that I'd learned origami, so that I could fold him into a crane, or a paper hat, or something with a lot of creases on it. Instead, I settled for the next best thing. I chucked the magazine into the garbage, directly onto last week's issue, and watched happily as the smirk on the picture turned into a look of pure horror.

I thought the picture might have mouthed "what do you think you're doing?" as I slipped the lid back onto the trash.

"Most Eligible Wizard, indeed," I snorted. Was there ever a more inane publication, for sillier witches than Witch Weekly?

I was just glad that the 12 months was almost over, and my subscription was about to lapse. It had been a gag gift from Harry and Ron for my birthday the previous year. Revenge for constant replies of "just get me something I can read" to their inquiries about my present preferences. Ron had said that it took a long time to choose between that, and a phone book.

This year I planned to be much more communicative about my birthday wishes.

Now, with my mug in my hand, and the initial shock of seeing Malfoy in my kitchen beginning to fade, I sat down to look over the rest of my mail. I sorted them into two piles: personal and professional.

Into the personal pile I put: a letter from Ron, and invitation to Lavender Brown's wedding (wow, I hadn't even known she was engaged), a thank you card from Ginny, for the set of drawing quills I bought her for her birthday last month, and a reminder from Harry that we were meeting at Archibald's next Thursday, as the Leaky Cauldron was going to be closed for repairs.

Into the professional pile, I put: an inquiry from the Paris Zoo of Magical Creatures, questioning from the London Wizard's Symphony, requests from Douglas and Darcy Advertizing, pleas from Bartebly Insurance (insurance companies can always use good investigators) and, oddest of all, a proposition from Nine Inch Wands, a wizard band in need of a new agent (to which I replied "like the name, and the demo was interesting, guys, something in between Billy Idol, and the Weird Sisters, but I'd make a terrible agent" then directed them to a guy I knew).

I'd just finished with my mail, and was stealing myself to start on the Nott file, when I heard a tapping at my window.

The great horned owl I recognized immediately as Magnus's bird, Carlise. What I couldn't understand was what he could possibly want.

It was more curiosity than any sort of desire to ever communicate with him again that made me open the window and let the bird in.

Carlise circled once, before landing on the sill, so I could ruffle her feathers in a manner I knew she found pleasant. She clicked her beak at me in a way that seemed to say "long time, no see."

"I couldn't agree more, girl." I replied, and smoothed out the feathers I had just fluffed up. "So, what have you got for me, then?" I said, trying to keep my voice even, and unstrained. Carlise was, of course, too perceptive to fall for that. Hell, I bet even Ron would have been too perceptive to fall for it. She deposited the roll of parchment into my hand, then gave me a reassuring nibble on the ear, before launching herself back out my window.

I regarded the parchment in my hand's warily, before I unrolled it.

I didn't get more than a few lines into it, before I crumpled it up, and sent it to join my Witch Weeklys with a shriek of rage.

The bastard. . . of all the stupid. . . had THE NERVE. . I can't believe. . . these were among the jumbled, angry thoughts that leapt into my mind all at once.

Of course, there were those mandatory masochistic thoughts as well. . . the "what's wrong with me?". . . "what did I do wrong?". . . "maybe if I begged?". . . and my all time favorite, "I must deserve this." These thoughts, however, I pushed away. They were just the normal thoughts, and doubts any person has when they catch their lover cheating. Of course I knew that my only *real* mistake was getting involved with a jerk like Magnus to begin with, but only someone who is so self centered they don't think they could possibly do wrong can completely banish those sorts of thoughts.

I bet Draco Malfoy never wondered where he went wrong when his relationships went sour.

Here's what Magnus's letter said.

Dear Hermione,

I know we can never reconcile after what happened, but I never meant

to hurt you (shagging a secretary in the ladies room, explain your altruistic motives behind that!). I don't expect you to forgive me, but don't you think that you're overreacting a bit? There's no reason for you to quit, as long as you're willing to work through this like an adult. . .

This was the point where the letter found it's way into the wastebasket, and I didn't read the rest.

More condescending bullshit, no doubt.

Suddenly I felt that it was necessary for me to expel some anger, and since Magnus wasn't there for me to beat bloody of, I did the next best thing. I went into my room, and came out five minutes later in my tee shirt and sweats, with my CD player zipped into my belt bag. I bent over to tie my shoes, then hit the play button.

When I run, nothing else matters. Nothing else exists. . . it's just me, the pulse of the music, the pounding of my feet, the beating of my heart, the breath in my lungs. When I run, I can forget anything. Right now, I wanted to forget everything.

I'm flying now.

Running also made me sharper, brought me into focus, cleared my head so I could think about what I really needed to. Like the Nott file.

I ran until I was exhausted, until every step was agony, until my lungs ached, until the blood in my ears drowned out the music. I ran until I had to apparate home, because every step was agony, and when I appeared in the kitchen, I knew just how to present the evidence to the prosecutor, so he could present his case.

*********

"Yeah, I think the feeding frenzy's finally died down," I said, over a raised glass of scotch. I was always partial to the muggle drink. It made me think fondly of my father, going over papers in his study, after work, while he sipped at a glass of the pale, amber colored liquid. It was always just the one glass, right before bed, and when he came to kiss me goodnight, his breath would smell faintly of cedar.

Harry regarded me from across the table, eyebrow raised, and Ron propped his elbow on to his place mat, his chin onto his fist, and wrinkled his nose at me. "How so?" they said in unison.

I stifled a giggle. That was one sure sign that you'd been friends with someone for a very long time indeed. "The 'fan mail,'" as I had begun calling the constant job offers, "has tapered off. About time, too, I was tired of taking and hour to open my mail every day."

"Hmm. . ." said Harry, his eyebrows knitting together, and I could practically see the wheels turning in his head, I was about to ask him what had started that machine running, when Ron asked,

"So, any good prospects?"

"Well, I haven't heard back from Bartelby's yet, but I have an interview with the London Wizards Symphony tomorrow."

"London Wizards Symphony? But 'Mione, you don't even play an instrument."

I gave him a grin, "they need a new Events Coordinator, someone to organize the fund raisers, and deal with the advertising, and things like that, you silly prat.

"Which reminds me," I continued, pushing my chair back, "I have to leave early tonight, otherwise, I'll sleep through the whole thing." I gave each of my friends a hug. "wish me luck boys," I said, right before disapparating.

I'd forgotten to ask Harry what was on his mind.

*******

Last night, I'd received one letter. It another reminder to renew my Witch Weekly subscription.

That's why it was a good thing that I was doing so well in my interview at the LWS. I was charming, I was intelligent, and I was ever so hirable. Jefferson Cougan seemed to think so, at least, because he kept dropping hints that I already had the job, if I wanted it, and I was about to come right out and say that I did, when the phone rang.

The phone. . . rang? I wasn't used to seeing muggle pieces like that in wizarding establishments, but now that I looked around the room, I noticed quite a few muggle items. Even the lamp on his desk was electric. The guy must be a collector.

"Who is this? I'm in an interview, it better be import-, oh. . . oh, I see. Quite right. No, no, no. . . I wouldn't want that. . . and I certainly wouldn't want that" he was nodding, "I understand. And a good day to you, Sir."

He replaced the phone on the receiver, and cleared his throat nervously.

"Miss Granger, I'm sorry, but I regret to inform you that the position has been filled."

It didn't take an ex-Auror to know he was lying. And it didn't take one to know who was on the other end of that phone. Who was wealthy, a major contributor to the symphony, and a vindictive son of a bitch.

*********

My last day as an auror was approaching, and I was getting desperate. That was why I'd come to Douglas and Darcy that day. The seeming unending spring of job offers had dried up, and Douglas and Darcy was my last hope before I applied at a McDougal's Wizard Burger as a fry cook.

I wasn't happy when I called at 9 o'clock this morning, and they said that, no, the position had not been filled, and yes, they'd be happy to see me. I was thrilled.

It didn't really come as any shock, though, as I sat there in my perfectly pressed white button shirt, and navy skirt and jacket, when Mr. J. Alan Darcy, opened his mouth and said:

"er. . . uh, actually, that position has been filled."

"Excuse me?" I wasn't shocked, no, but I was still angry. Vindictive, slimy, smarmy little rat faced git.

"I said the position has been filled."

"I know what you said," I returned with a snarl, "what I meant was that I talked to you at 9, and it was still open. It's now," I glanced at the clock over my shoulder, "12:48, are you telling me you've found someone in the last three and a half hours?"

"He gave a good interview," J. Darcy said weakly.

"What'd he do, give you a blow job?" what the hell, it didn't really matter what this guy thought of me, Malfoy'd obviously had me black listed, and no one was going to hire me, whether J. Alan Darcy told everyone I'd accused him of accepting sexual favors for work appointments, or not.

Darcy was understandably shocked. He stood there with his mouth agape for a good thirty seconds before he stuttered a reply. "No. . . absolutely. . . well, I never!"

"You should, might help you relax a bit."

"He came highly recommended," Darcy now looked highly flustered.

"Let me make this simple, Mr. Darcy, which one of your illustrious clients recommended this man for the job? Was it Casten Wool? No? Maybe the Grandma's Strudel account? Not that one either? How about Malfoy International? Was it that company, Mr. Darcy?"

Mr. Darcy seemed ready to choke.

"Thought so," I said, and got up out of my chair. I had a little visit to pay to a certain ferret.

*********

"Excuse me, you can't go in there," the nasal tones of the receptionist entered my ears as I approached Malfoy's private lift. "Did you hear me," she said , moving out from behind her desk, and coming dangerously close to laying her hands on me. Dangerous for her, of course. "I said you can't-" before she could grasp my shoulder with that hand she was reaching for me with, I shoved my badge in her face. "Oh. . . " she swallowed hard, "um, do you have a warrant?"

"Probable cause," I informed her, as the lift doors slid open, and I stepped into the red velvet lined interior. "Plush," I muttered, appreciatively, I hit the button labeled with the Malfoy crest, and the doors slid closed.

After fifteen minutes of easy listening, I realized what all that velvet was for. So you didn't cause yourself permanent brain damage when the music caused you to begin banging your head into the wall. I groaned. Fuck sake, how many floors did this building have?

I was almost at the point where I was ready to pry the doors open, and end my misery by means of a 100-odd story fall, when the doors slid open by themselves, and I found myself staring at a large, mahogany desk, flanked on either side by a carved onyx panther. The statues followed my movements in an eerie fashion, as I stepped out of the elevator. God, but they were creepy! With a shudder, I surveyed the rest of the room, as an excuse to avert my eyes. Hm. . . all the walls were lined with shelves, some of which contained preserved animal skeletons, and oddly shaped igneous rocks. Shells of long extinct mollusks. Several ornately carved dragons of many different materials. But mostly, the shelves contained books. Dusty, old, beautiful books.

It caused me to catch my breath.

Then a low chuckle drew my attention back to the desk, where the chair was now turned around, facing the lift. And sitting in the chair was none other than, "Malfoy."

"In the flesh."

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Wow, another update so soon. . . didn't know I had it in me. Okay, so I already mentioned that I own nothing, so I don't see any reason to state it again.

Anyway, just thought I'd mention that when I post chapter 3, I also want to do a clear chapter 1 with it, so if anyone has any bones, now is the time to pick them.

Anywhoo. . . hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.