Everything but the plot belongs to the lovely JK Rowling.

Chapter 3

Draco lounged at his kitchen table, coffee in hand, with this morning's copy of the Prophet sitting on the table in front of him. Hermione's announcement had made the front page and he could not have been more pleased. The reporter had included the draft that he had sent in the previous night, as well as some details about Hermione's part in the war and her 7 year long stint at the Department for Regulation of Magical Creatures. He felt the article droned on a bit too long about her fight for regulations on the treatment of pygmy puffs (seriously those things are so annoying who really cares?), but overall it was well done.

After reading and mentally critiquing the article, his thoughts turned to the witch herself. She really was quite the pain in his arse, and he had quite a nice arse, so it really was a shame. Now that he was thinking of it, her arse wasn't something to turn your nose up at, at least from what he could tell when she made her exit the previous day. But that was neither here nor there. Besides, she was far too much of a hassle to consider in that way anyhow. Nope. The only thing he wanted from her was distraction from his boring life. He supposed having some sort of fulfilling occupation would be nice as well. It would be nice to do something he could be proud of.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the tap of an owl on his window. It must have been a heavy mail morning, because the owl was clearly struggling to stay in the air. Every few seconds it would drop below the outer sill of the window, then come back up, barely able to stay afloat. He quickly opened the window with an irritated groan, and the poor bird practically broke its neck tumbling inside the kitchen.

Once the bird dropped its load, he understood why it was struggling. He had quite the stack of mail this morning. Not that he was surprised. What could he say? He was a popular guy. Who wouldn't want to write someone with his striking features? Well, at least in his own opinion. He flipped through the mail quickly. Letter from his father, garbage. Letter from his mother, read later. Letter from Tuesday night's shag, which smelled far too strongly of perfume, garbage. The third letter caught his eye. It was addressed to him in swotty little handwriting he knew belonged to queen swot herself.

He tore the letter open quickly. It bore a simple message. "7pm. I'll open my floo to you."

He smiled, quite self satisfied. He knew she would come around. Plus now he had an excuse to cancel his date tonight with Sharon. No...was it Charlene? Well whatever her name was, he would much rather meet with Granger than sit through dinner with another boring bint. "What a pathetic thought" he said to himself. "I really need to get my priorities straight."

When 7pm rolled around, Draco began to dress for his meeting. He didn't want to arrive perfectly on time. Seems to overeager. Plus, he knew the perfect Gryffindor princess would get all indignant over his tardiness, and that was always good for a laugh. Plus, she looked hot when she got all riled up, but that was another thought he wouldn't let himself dwell on. When he was ready, and a good 15 minutes late, he stepped into the floo and announced "Granger's house," as he disappeared into the green flames.

"You're late," Granger immediately spoke as he exited the floo, apparently annoyed.

"Yeah well, I am a terribly busy guy, you know obligations and such," Draco retorted, feigning boredom.

As he endured Granger's predictable lecture on punctuality, he took in his surroundings. He appeared to be in a small flat. It was small, but not altogether aesthetically appalling, much like the witch herself, he mused. The dark wood floors were adorned with some sort of woven rug, and a cozy looking grey couch was settled on the back wall of the room, across from some strange looking black box. He would have to ask her about that on another occasion. Between the couch and the strange contraption sat a simple wooden coffee table. He wondered if she was baking cookies, based on the wonderful smell wafting around the humble flat.

"Malfoy, are you even listening to me?" Hermione interrupted his thoughts.

"Yes, of course, I believe you were imparting on me the virtue of being on time. Manners and all that." She sighed, apparently giving up on her diatribe.

"Well, I suppose we might as well get started," she said matter of factly. "Can I offer you anything, wine, beer, coffee?"

"Umm sure, I'll have a "beer" Draco said questioningly, confused as to why she was abbreviating butterbeer. Hermione dipped away to the kitchen and came back with two beverages that appeared to be butterbeer, but more transparent. Was it old? Was she really that uncouth that she was trying to unload expired beverages on him? He took a sip, partly out of politeness (he wasn't quite sure why he cared what Granger thought of his manners), partly out of curiosity.

His first sip informed him that it was definitely one of two things. It was either the oldest, most putrid butterbeer he had ever had the displeasure of tasting, or it was not butterbeer at all.

"Jesus Merline Shite Granger, what the fuck is this piss!?" he exclaimed.

Granger seemed to find the entire situation much too entertaining for his liking. In fact, she could hardly contain her laughter. Tears welling up in her eyes, she managed to get out "Oh Malfoy I completely forgot to mention that wasn't butterbeer, It is muggle beer. They're very different." She continued laughing for several minutes until she calmed down. Despite the questionable taste, he continued to drink the muggle beverage. He had a feeling he was going to need the alcohol to get through this evening.