It was not the two tipsy Shrivel-Fig Shirleys or the matching bra and panty set from Merlin's Secret or the new bottle of Beetlicious-Black Volumizing mascara that visibly changed her appearance in the mirror. No.

It was definitely the fitted black dress, the one she bought at Madam Malkins in the hidden department on the second floor. She turned her hips to the right, then to the left.

Her skin seemed to glow, her hair was a more succulent shade of brown and her eyes had a certain glimmer to them. She had to give it to Luna, she did look good in black.

Black was the shade of merlot in the back of the bar. The shadowed-dips of a freshly painted wand. A deep blood-cut. A night-time encounter with a dark-eyed stranger.

Why did she have nothing else in her wardrobe in that shade? After seeing herself in the mirror, she decided that she was going to charm all her outfits into the darkest shade of night she could conjure.

It looked nothing like her, but that was the point. Tonight was about doing something new and unexpected. A transformation.

She felt good, sexy even until she came downstairs and saw the concentrated look on Ron's face as he stood by their hallway mirror.

He was buttoning his Auror badge to his robes just the right way.

"So what do you think?" she asked, positioning herself right behind him.

"Ron?"

She stood to his side, so he'd catch a sliver of her reflection beside him.

"Ron?"

Again nothing.

"Ron!"

"What?" he barked, sticking his pricked finger into his mouth. "Blimey, look what you made me do."

Sighing, Hermione took her wand and charmed the pin right into its proper spot by his heart. "I got a new dress for tonight."

"Do you think I need to keep the top button open?" he asked, fingering the clasps. "Open or closed?"

"Closed."

"I think open." He pulled the button open and gave a proud smirk to his reflection. "You were saying?"

"I got a new dress."

He continued picking the button. "Again? What happened with that red one you got last year?"

"You mean the one I wore to your brother's wedding...five years ago."

"Five?"

"I just needed a change," Hermione replied, the hot tears building up in her eyes. She wished she had just agreed to meet her girls at the club instead of at their flat.

"So it's like that now?" Ron huffed. "As long as you don't break the bank."

"So I should return it?"

"Do what you like. It's not like you ever ask for my opinion these days."

Hermione walked into the kitchen, barely holding back the pool of wetness forming in her eyes. Not with her new mascara and not with Ginny and Luna coming by. Why did Ron always know which scab to pick at?

So what if she had left her job at the Ministry? Working with hippogriffs did not make her like them any more than she had when she'd been learning about them back in school. Besides, she'll find a job soon enough.

She wiped a tear away with her finger.

Ron was just stressed out at work. He loved her.

She loved Ron too. She really did. But sometimes (and she hated to use the word) he acted like a complete git. While she was a perfectly amicable witch, sometimes she wished she could…box his ears.

A knock on the door and familiar voices in the hallway suggested Luna and Ginny were here. Hermione summoned a clean napkin to wipe her under-eyes right before Luna burst into the kitchen.

She looked at her for a moment, then cupped her hands over her mouth and jumped up to examine her from all sides.

"I told you! It looks even lovelier on you than it did in the shops," Luna said, pulling Hermione in for a big hug.

"Right," Hermione whispered, sniffling into her shoulder. Luna said nothing, simply gave her a gentle squeeze, then pulled her back into the common room where Ginny was talking to Ron.

Hermione looked at the ceiling, letting the air dry her eyes, then back at Ginny. The redhead gave her an approving nod, then turned her attention back to Ron. "Anyways, mum says you two need to visit more often."

"Busy schedule," Ron said. "Some of us have to work night shifts. Maybe Mione could go alone."

Hermione was not about to have this fight again. She wouldn't cry about this now.

"Maybe," she mumbled back.

Truthfully, she would rather be cooped up in a tent in the forest in the middle of winter than have to face another holiday dinner with the Weasley family.

To see Mrs. Weasley's look of forced sympathy and endure a train of questions about a possible engagement and Hermione's supposed skin problems were not her definition of a well-spent evening (even if Mr. Weasley's choice of ale was impeccable).

She decided it had to be with a wife like Mrs. Weasley.

"Ron, won't you come tonight?" Luna said in a teasing tone. "Mione won't be able to fight off her many suitors without your help."

"Can't. Work." He tapped his badge.

"You know, you could have invited us to come along," she said. "Not every day we visit the Buckingham Palace. Lots of Gulping Plimpies out this time of year."

"You'd have to dress better," he said haughtily, as though he was always the epitome of fashion and perfection. Hermione bit her lip, not wanting to remind him that he wore hand-me-downs most of his life before this Ministry job gave him custom-made robes.

"Anyways you wouldn't like it there. A treaty between Muggles and Wizards and the queen of sorts. Awful bore. Night of appearances. They say there may be some Death Eaters there tonight, Silver Masks, you know? So we need to keep a close eye to make sure they don't cause any trouble."

He tossed his wand into the air and it flew straight into his baldric. "You girls have a good time though. Stay out of trouble."

With a snotty expression like she'd never seen before, Ron Apparated out of the flat.

Stay out of trouble. What a prat! Like she ever got in trouble. Tonight, she sure would like to.

She wasn't sure why Ron was dispatched. Most of the Death Eaters were long gone. The Lestranges, the Yaxleys, the Greybacks, and Snape. At least she heard so.

Their cab honked in the distance. Luna and Ginny shuddered, which made Hermione laugh. They'd never been in a cab before. Should be an experience.

The window rolled down. "Cab for...Monica Wilkins?" said the gruff voice.

Hermione nodded. Ron would tell her all kinds of stories about cab drivers stalking their victims just from knowing their names. Sometimes, after a visit to the shops, she'd imagine seeing the same cab standing at the corner of the street, its eyes unblinking and looking at her.

These sorts of things never happen to witches like me, she'd tell herself. But she wasn't always sure. Just in case, she summoned a can of pepper spray into her handbag before heading out the door. It was no use scaring the Muggle with magic if he did attack her.

Might have been her wild imagination, but Hermione swore this particular driver was sizing her up as she slipped into the leather front seat. It made her breath hitch and she tightened her jacket around her chest. Her girls shuffled together in the back.

Mr. Manden, according to the certificate in the corner of his windshield.

He was an older man, at least in his fifties. Dark, and his shades even darker. He wore those shades at eight in the evening in the middle of January and a jacket up to his ears. Made her wonder.

"There's something a little stately in him," Luna whispered to Ginny.

He cleared his throat. "Where to?"

There was one advantage of being out of work and having an Auror for a partner. Hermione had spent hours walking down every street in London and exploring every corner Ron had told her about.

"Go straight for a bit! Then be sure you turn right on Windsor street and then go three blocks down after the house with the porcelain cat. I'll tell you from there," she said confidently.

"You've an address or a name?"

Right. Hermione handed him the paper, crumpled at the bottom of her bag.

"More obliged than I can express." The man glimpsed at the scribbles before handing them back.

The engine revved and the cab filled with the thick smell of gasoline and leftover cigarettes.


The lights of the downtown core flickered in the distance.

Neither Luna nor Ginny have been to Muggle London much, and both had been convinced that it was the real deal. They practically begged Hermione to be their 'foot-in-the-door'. Then real life took over and their visit to the Muggle club never happened until today.

Hermione in turn was grateful to not be spending another night in front of the telly with a bag of crisps while her breadwinner boyfriend strutted around Buckingham Palace, fighting the queen's corgis (or something like that).

The driver didn't speak a word, didn't even flinch as Luna and Ginny yapped on and on in the back. He kept his head towards the road. Hermione wondered what they looked like to him. Just three silly girls dressed up for a night out on the town. Three clients, not unlike any he'd driven before.

Was he thinking of ways to turn into some dark alley and lynch them? Did he have a knife hidden somewhere in that coat of his? No. Hermione reminded herself that these sorts of stories are not the norm. The only reason she's heard so many of them was because Ron kept up to date with all the murders in London. He had to, working in the law.

"So you're both still coming over for Christmas?"

"Hm?"

"You and Ron," Luna repeated. "Neville and I were hoping you'd bring that French wine again."

Hermione thought she saw the driver's expression change. She must have been imagining it. He didn't care about her or her friends. She turned to Luna.

"I'll ask him."

"You don't think he'll be busy with work?"

His shortcoming. Hermione smirked. Ron had never been a career wizard. Heck, he'd never even done his parchments in school without her help. She admitted that he matured over the years.

Ron was a perfectly good boyfriend. No, not that muscular, dark type at all. He was caring, though very forgetful, and a good listener...if the conversation was about Quidditch. Who didn't have their shortcomings? Hermione was sure he was less than fond of her monthly Spells and Charms subscription magazines that were stacked high in the bathroom. She even caught him using a page on potions to wipe his bottom.

Then there was her cat. Crooky and Nibbles the Rat were not to be found in the same room without a tiff breaking out. Each couple had its conflicts.

"Ron will make time." Hermione toyed with a loose string on her jacket. "Unless something urgent comes up."

"He's trying his best, " Ginny said stiffly. "Maybe it's you who needs a bit of support."

Hermione frowned. "I don't need support."

"I'm just saying that it wouldn't hurt if you took up a part-time job." Ginny's look was of concern. "I told you, you could come and sell Quidditch tickets. I'll find you a spot."

Perhaps spending time with Mrs. Weasley was not the worst idea stated that evening. "Thanks, Gin, but I'm already waiting on some good job offers."

"Well hurry up, cause mum's been ratting my ears out about how you don't take care of Ronny-kins," Ginny grumbled and turned her head to the window. "Why do I always get the short end of the stick?"

"Girls, I was only asking because I wanted to know how many servings of my vegan casserole to make," said Luna. "Besides, tonight is not about our jobs or mums, it's about friendship."

Ginny did not look so sure.


The cab ride trailed for what felt like an hour until it pulled into a crowded street. Ginny slammed the door and headed to a building with a bright neon sign stating Cheshire Cat Club.

"What's her problem?"

"Don't worry, she'll come around," Luna whispered.

Hermione rummaged through her handbag. Where did she put her wallet? Mr. Manden sighed, slowly, grumbling something about taking her precious time. Finally, Hermione handed him a 20-pound note. He yanked it out of her fingers.

"Is that your son, Mr...Manden?" Hermione pointed to a photo clipped to the rearview mirror. A cheery-looking boy was sitting on a plastic pony at the carnival.

"Let me settle up with you," said Mr. Manden, clearly ignoring the question in favor of rooting for change in his cupholder. Such a surly type, and not stately at all. Hermione grumbled a quick thanks. Luckily, she won't have to see this cabbie again.

The line-up stretched at least to the end of the next building. Ginny was looking half-interested as a boy with a checkered shirt was chatting her up.

"To be honest, I never liked Ron," Luna said as soon as she was sure Ginny was not listening. "Has he been drinking heavily?"

"I used to send him to sleep on the sofa in the sitting about four nights a week," Hermione replied. "He's been better, for now."

"How could he not sort himself out? He's what now, twenty-four?"

Hermione watched as Ginny pulled a fag out of her purse and lit it up. Immediately, two other men up ahead came up to talk to her.

Oh, to be Ginny. Hermione wondered why no one ever paid attention to her. Not that she'd want to date someone other than Ron. But it would be nice to know that she was still...wanted.

The line reached the booming doors, shaking from the loud bass inside.

A security guard said, "I.D.s ladies?"

Ginny was already inside, probably happy she didn't have to spend another minute socializing with any of the half-drunk lads swarming her.

Oh, Gods. Hermione reached her hands around her hips and then into her pockets. Only she didn't have pockets in her 'going out dress' which is why she wore the purse in the first place. Shit, shit, shit!

"What's wrong?" Luna asked.

"I must have left it in the cab…my purse…when I was getting my wallet…I-" She remembered setting it down on the passenger seat while she was paying the driver. He must have driven off with it, that Mr. Manden with his attitude. If only she didn't get distracted by his photo.

"You can't Accio it?"

"In a Muggle place? In public?" Hermione looked at the guard, standing hands crossed, and then looked at the line-up growing behind them. "Go inside and tell Gin I'm calling the cab company. I'll meet you there."

Shit, this was not good. This called for emergency measures.

Hermione took out her Nokia from her bra and clicked through the options until she found U-need-a-cab. After a few rings, the operator was on the line.

"I don't remember the plate number," she said, walking quickly.

The voice was impossible to hear through the blasting sound of the club. "Mr. Manden. MAN-DEN. I don't know… he had glasses, dark jacket, and a photo of his son on the front...older man..he dropped us off at the Cheshire Cat Club ten minutes ago."

"Mr. Manden? Our Mr. Manden is only twenty years old, doesn't wear glasses either," said the nasally voice on the other line. A microwave beeped in the distance.

"Yes. But he- Just transfer me to him."

The phone clicked and a quiet, jazz melody played on the line. It took a few minutes before a low, growl of a voice spoke on the other end.

"Talk to me."

"I'm sorry to bother, it's…Monica Wilkins. You just dropped us off in Centertown. I left my purse in your cab. If you could-"

"Where are you?"

Hermione glanced at the street signs. She had no idea how far she'd wandered from the haze and noise of Cheshire Cat Club. She walked around a corner and sounded out the titles of a nearby intersection.

"I don't have any special talents, but I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

With that, the line dropped, and beeps resounded through the receiver.

Hermione shut the flap and slumped down against an old bus bench. As she did, the back of her dress let out a resounding rip.

First the cabbie with his attitude, then the lost purse, then Ginny's cold shoulder, and now, her new dress decided to come apart at the seams.

Hermione sniffled back a wad of snot and wiped her nose. To make matters worse, she didn't even bring a proper jacket. She huddled her heels together in the patch of sidewalk free from the light dusting of London snow.

Fifteen minutes, he said. Three minutes passed already. If her calculations were correct, she could have an eight-minute self-pity session and then take four minutes to wipe the mascara from under her eyes. She took off the jacket and wrapped it around her midsection, took her wand out, and cast a warming spell over her shoulders.

She flinched as a loud roar and blinding headlights rolled down the street. The cab passed her, then two minutes later came back and parked. From the black doors came Mr. Manden.

"Miss Wilkins." He extended her purse towards her then took a long look at her expression. "Surely you can't be crying over a handbag?"

"No, no I'm not-" She wiped her eyes as clean as she could get them, checking her thumb for black, smudged blobs. The driver extended a crumpled kerchief.

"No point in being here. I can drive you back if you'd like."

"I'll walk." She covered her knees with her skirt and waddled down the pathway. Her heels pinched at her every step. It was more than enough embarrassment to be seen by the strange driver looking like a mess, much less have him fuss over her.

"Can't have my clients alone at night in a place like this."

His voice. There was something recognizable, something both foreign and close in it. Like seeing an old photograph and tracing the outlines of lips and eye crinkles in it. Being there in the moment, though you'd hardly remember it, you do and you know you should. Distant yet, she could just touch it with the flick of her finger, a bat of an eyelash, a scent of old film and ink.

"I called the cab company."

The driver stood still. "Very well."

"You're not really Mr. Manden, are you? That's not your real name." Her heartbeat quickened. "Do you think you could take your glasses off for a second?"

The cab driver's fingers toyed with the frame. For a moment, he seemed to be debating the act and then lowered the frames off his hooked nose. He pushed back a few wisps of dark hair covering his forehead.

Professor Snape.