(Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the brainchild of J.K. Rowling and thus belongs to her and whomever she sells the rights to, which is not me in this case. This piece of fanfiction is written with the admiration and respect of Harry Potter's creator. I claim no ownership of her creations. The Graduate also does not belong to me and I claim no right to the original work. Both works are gently parodied for the amusement of all and it is done so with admiration for the original material.)

Harry feels he's a terrible, despicable person; hardly worthy of breathing actually. But he can't bring himself to be sorry. When the attention of the room turned to the heated argument between Rita Skeeter and Augusta Longbottom, the first thing he did was slip out the doors.

"You muck-sucking grindelow!"

"Such language, Mrs. Longbottom. From the matriarch of a family filled with –well, supposed- war heroes, I am shocked."

"Supposed!"

"The files on your son and his wife never were fully disclooo-ACK!"

There is no doubt Rita Skeeter was hit by at least one curse but with a roomful of enemies, it would be hard to figure who was responsible. He hopes more than one was able to get a nice hit in. For example, maybe Ginny threw one of her classic bat-boogies; something nice and non-fatal though terribly embarrassing. The hateful witch deserves as much. Though, doubtlessly, a newly graduated Auror will be stuck with the task of finding someone responsible.

There's no way in hell he's doing it. He has a hero card that he's not afraid to flash at any mention of her name. He's earned it, dammit. Though, it was rather low of him not to come to old Mrs. Longbottom's defense. For that reason, he is hardly worthy of breathing.

So he lights up a cigarette instead.

"Our savior smokes?"

He is so shocked to hear the door yanked open and that terror of a voice sneak in that he nearly drops the cigarette, only catching it by burning the palm of his other hand. "Shite."

"How are you, Mr. Potter?" Narcissa Malfoy asks, little more than a dark, curved shadow in the closet doorway. He begins to stutter out a reply when she plucks the cigarette from his hand and takes a long draw. "I suppose it's safe to assume this isn't the powder room?"

"I'm fine, thanks," he answers belatedly, feeling like a complete wanker. His eyes focus on his cigarette between her lips, wondering if he truly wants it back and why he let her just take it from him like that. "And no. The loo's down the hall, I think."

"Do you have an ashtray in here?"

"What? Uh, no."

"Is that why you're using your palm?

"Look, Mrs. Malfoy, I don't mean to be rude but-."

She walks into the closet and the door closes behind her. Luckily it's a wide closet that allows two people more than enough space amongst mops, brooms, and Mr. Magic's Magic Cleaner but there is no light. He doesn't think of casting a Lumos. They stand in the pitch dark, choking on smoke, as Mrs. Malfoy puffs on his cigarette and he watches the end flare up and die down like a pulse.

"You're in a closet with me, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Are you scared?"

"What?"

"Are you scared to be sharing a cigarette with me in a closet?"

Harry could only stare just above the cigarette at where he imagines her eyes to be. He doesn't have to look down but straight ahead. She is wearing stilettos that could kill, if he remembers correctly: deep purple and impossibly high, making her legs seem as long as London. Draco grumbled about it at first seeing her that evening. He had scoffed and said, "I can't believe she's wearing those! A woman of her age, I swear. I better not fucking have to levitate her home because she breaks her bloody ankle." Harry loved them but knew better than to say so.

"Am I scared to be sharing a cigarette with you?"

"In a closet, yes."

"No," he laughs and she at least is kind enough to toss a chuckle in so that it might not sound as awkward as it is. "It's just a little strange, don't you think?"

"Is it a girl?"

"A girl?"

"Whatever is upsetting you. Certainly you aren't ashamed of Miss Weasley; the hex she laid on Rita was masterful."

He laughs again but she doesn't join him. It sounds hallow. "No. I'm just disturbed, I guess. About things."

"Things." There is that long draw and flare that entrances him more every second. He thinks he'd really like his cigarette back now but doesn't know how to say it. She has unarmed him along with his nicotine. It was too masterfully accomplished for him to be upset but he'd like to have a puff or two for himself before she finishes it. "In general?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Mister Potter, I want to ask you something."

"Okay." The smoke is so heavy in the closet that it's hard for him to breathe. No matter how terrible he felt over Mrs. Longbottom, he does enjoy breathing and would be much happier about giving it up if he had his cigarette back. "What?"

"Will you take me home?"

"What?"

The closet door is flung open and he squints against the light, only seeing her as a shadow sighing the smoke of his own damn cigarette back at him. "Draco seems determined to get pissed. He might be willing to risk splicing himself for vodka, but I'm not."

"Why don't you floo?"

"This dress is couture."

"Oh."

"Do you know what that means?"

"No." Though he's sure Draco does.

"It means that it's very expensive and the soot will never come out."

"Oh." His eyes slowly adjust to the light and the rush of fake laughter from down the hall. He feels ridiculous standing in the closet while she's outside the door, adjusting her hair with one fine hand and lifting the cigarette for one last draw with the other. He finally works up the audacity to reach out to her lips for it, but she pulls it away and tosses it on the Ministry's glossy floor, crushing it beneath one of those stilettos of hers. He likes them far less because of it. "Won't you Apparate me home?"

"Why can't you Apparate yourself?"

"They took my wand."

"What?"

"The ministry took my wand. You remember."

"Oh. Yeah."

"I try not to mention it, but I've never been able to Apparate wandless. I never had to with Lucius. But now, well… how else am I supposed to get home?"

"There has to be someone else who-."

"Do you want me to beg?"

"What? No! Uh, here," he tosses his wand at her and she catches it with a precision that startles him. He always thought Draco got his Seeker skills from Mr. Malfoy but he begins to wonder if he was wrong.

Mrs. Malfoy only stares at him, holding his wand where she caught it. Suddenly he realizes what he did and wonders what she will do. "I suppose that wasn't a good idea, huh?" She shakes her head.

He stretches out a hand toward his wand. "Can I have that back?"

"Will you take me home?"

"Yeah, sure."

She walks away, tossing his wand over her shoulder as her stilettos do violence to the floor. He rushes to pick it up and follows her out of the ministry. No one, even the Savior of the Wizarding World, is allowed to Apparate inside. Luckily, he doesn't have to ride a toilet up with her, just a cramped phone booth with a Weird Sisters ballad thickening the silence.

--