Chapter 6

The Swish and Flick

In comparison to Tonks, the Creeveys were easy. She read off a list of questions, scribbled down the answers of Colin—still the spotty teenager she remembered—and a shabby grey man who could only be his father, and then left too quickly to feel anything resembling guilt. Even so, she couldn't quite shake Colin's wide-eyed, terrified gaze as she hurried down the street and into an alleyway, where she could Apparate unseen.

As she ducked in between two rubbish bins, a hand reached out and grabbed her by the scruff of her neck; a second clapped itself over her mouth before she could scream.

"You are the easiest person to track that I've ever met," Theo's voice whispered in her ear.

She spat on his hand, and he let go, wiping it on his trousers.

"That's disgusting."

"I'm not the creep who corners his partner in alleyways in broad daylight," she said. "You're lucky I didn't hex you."

"You wouldn't have been caught if you had been paying attention. Constant vigilance!"

"I think those six months you spent in Auror training addled your brain."

"Fortunately, I found my true calling before any permanent damage was done."

"You mean when they kicked you out because you couldn't obey orders."

He shrugged and tossed back his hair. "I've always been a rebellious spirit—the Aurors just weren't ready for my revolutionary ways."

"Like extreme laziness and a tendency to foist off anything resembling paperwork to the nearest timid trainee?"

His lip curled into the delicate sneer that seemed to be in-bred into every Slytherin she had come across. "It's called delegation, love."

"Since you're pestering me, I presume you're finished with our neo-pagan friend?"

"Yes—I mean, why?"

"Because I thought we ought to practice a little delegation of our own."

His eyes grew larger as her meaning dawned on him. "No. No. No, I absolutely refuse to—"

"Interview the Weasleys about their deceased son's return?"

"Yes."

"Lovely—you'll do it, then?" She passed over the folder that contained Fred Weasley's file. "It occurred to me that I shouldn't—conflict of interest and all that."

And she knew that Molly wouldn't want to look through her professional act—that she would take it as a personal affront and remain oblivious to the fact that Hermione couldn't let herself care too much. There was a stack of books on necromancy on the floor of her study, and she couldn't give herself a reason to use them.

She hadn't cared much for the twins before Fred's death, but she had ached for their family.

"Look," she said, "I don't mind taking the Diggorys, crazy as they were after Cedric died. But I can't face the Weasleys, knowing—they won't understand why I can't help them the way they want me to."

"You're destroying my reputation as a soulless heartbreaker," Theo told her, "and there is no point in being this gorgeous if I can't break hearts."

"Don't you think you've reached your heartbreak quota for the decade?"

His face relaxed into a grin. "Never."

"Then go break some Weasley hearts and I'll meet you back at the office in about an hour."

The Diggory's house was a living example of Victorian decoration, from the pale rose of the walls to the delicate floral pattern on the sofa and chairs; even the cup and in her hand matched the colour scheme. In short, five minutes in their house was more than enough to make her wish she had changed into something a little less comfortable.

It was reminiscent of the strained politeness of afternoon tea every Sunday with her grandparents; in fact, they probably owned the same rug.

She cleared a throat and took a sip of tea, forcing herself to study Cedric. He was by far her healthiest specimen so far: his death at seventeen hadn't been the spotty and gangly affair of Colin Creevey, nor had he undergone the years of turmoil that Snape and Tonks had. Rather, he was tall, athletic, and without the creases of worry that the rest of his generation had imprinted into their foreheads by the age of twenty.

In comparison, his parents were fluttering ghosts, hanging around the edges of his existence; the last decade had aged them, making them look more like grandparents.

"So," she said, when the clinking of teacups on porcelain saucers became unbearable, "I assume that you know why I'm here. It's not really anything more involved than a routine check, so need to worry." She wasn't going to pry their son away from them yet.

Their story was much the same as all the others she had heard—they had returned from the Christmas Eve gathering to find Cedric standing in front the of the door, and had been too overwhelmed to do anything but take him in. It had been less shocking for them, of course, because they had seen Snape's arrival at Grimmauld Place; nevertheless, Cedric's decay had horrified them at first, until they had learned how to restore him. They had taken turns giving him energy in small doses since.

Her quill scratched against the parchment for several minutes after their story drew to a close.

"Cedric," she said, when she ran out of things to write. "Why don't we go on a walk, and you can add anything you want."

Not strictly the format she had followed at the Creevey's, but Colin Creevey didn't have a controlling and not entirely stable father to deal with.

"How is it, to be back among the living?" she asked, once they had found a tree to hover under next to the garden shed.

He shrugged. "Not much different than it was before—Dad wants me to take my NEWTs in the spring, and Mum seems to think that force-feeding me is the way to keep my life-force from dwindling away."

"Ah," she said. Lovely. The Diggorys had moved from overextended grief to full-frontal weirdness. "What about you? What do you want?"

Another shrug, heavier this time. "The good thing about being dead was that I didn't have to make that sort of decision."

Although she hadn't known Cedric in school, except to look at (which she did alongside every other girl in Hogwarts), the remark struck her as uncharacteristic for the former shining example of team spirit.

"The good news is that this probably won't be permanent," she said. "But, then, that's also the bad news."

Expressions warred for dominance on his face; he settled for a neutral sigh. She sighed back.

"If you need help at any point, owl me at the Ministry. This isn't a situation you asked to be in, and I'd be happy to do whatever I can."

His eyes slid away from hers onto the pavement, and she studied the curve of his neck and the shed that lay behind it. When the silence didn't end, she took it to be his diplomatic way of refusing her offer.

"So," she said, hunting for words, "a shed. Does your dad like to fix up cars?"

Theo was sitting at her desk when Hermione returned, studying the calendar that someone had anonymously given to her for Christmas last year—three hundred and sixty-five days of hair tips. Like she needed the reminder.

"Hello, sunshine," she said, snatching it out of his hands and tossing it in the bin. "Any luck?"

"Fred Weasley had a difficult time believing I was on his side this time round. I'd forgotten he hadn't been gifted with the Inner Eye before his death, so he wouldn't have known the deep bonds I have formed with your side of the battlefield."

"You weren't on anybody's side," she said. "Don't be silly."

"As far as he's concerned, that's about the same as being a kamikaze Death Eater. It took half an hour for his mother to calm him down."

She winced. "Theo, I didn't realise…"

"Of course you didn't—mostly I'm just annoyed that I had to step carefully. It's hard to get the information you want when the person you're interviewing thinks that one of 'your kind' dropped a tonne of bricks on his head."

"If it makes you feel any better, the most information I got out of the Diggorys is that Amos has a secret fondness for outfitting old Aston Martins with magical devices. He's a half-blood, apparently, and his only form of bonding with his father was watching and re-watching James Bond films to death."

"James Bond?"

"And you have the nerve to call yourself a spy! I shall have to take it upon myself to educate you."

"That's my little Muggleborn."

She made a show of slapping him—although not too hard, as he had a tendency to pout—and leaned against the front of the desk.

"Yes, things grew awkward very quickly and dear Cedric was a wellspring for useless information—which, in my vast worldly experience means they're hiding something, so we ought to get a search warrant for their root cellar."

"Seriously?"

She rolled her eyes. "No. They're a bit crazy, but basically harmless, and probably not having much fun dealing with the constant reminder that they're about to lose their son again."

"You don't suppose that there's a way to bring them back for good, then?"

She was on her feet in a second, trying to keep her hands from balling into fists. "No, Theo. You know we can't."

"I've been thinking, you know, about Professor Snape, and we have the books…"

"No. For one thing, we'd have to kill other people to get the energy to do it—"

"I was thinking we could use chickens or cattle or something."

"Do you have any idea how many chickens we would have to kill?" she asked. "We'd probably go through Britain's entire poultry industry twice over. And, anyway, it isn't our job to control who lives and dies—if we start bringing people back from the dead, who's to say—"

"—that someone else won't try the same thing, except this time with Voldemort?"

"Or Grindlewald. Or some ancient and even more evil wizard from three thousand years ago about whom we know absolutely nothing. And Voldemort was a bitch to kill the first time round—I don't fancy going through it all again. Besides," she added, shooting him a sidelong glance, "Harry might actually die the second time, and then where would you be?"

"Searching out the solace of lesser beings every night, trying to comfort the hole that has been pierced through the depths of my soul?"

"Right in one." As his reward, she ruffled his hair, and earned an angry swat.

"Do you have any idea how long it takes me to style that?"

"That's why I do it. Anyway, I'm off—I promised Ginny coffee this afternoon, and I should probably wear actual clothing if I want to be seen in public with her."

He raised a hand in a farewell salute. "And you're coming tonight, yeah? The Swishy? Pre-New Year's Eve celebratory evening…"

Hermione choked. "I'm sorry—what did you call it?"

"The Swishy? As in, The Swish and Flick? If you haven't heard of it, I may die."

"You shall have to, then—I presume it's a club? Owned by Flitwick?"

"No, by some of his ex-students who thought it would be fun to lend dirty connotations to innocent first year lessons. Does that mean you're coming?"

"I wasn't planning on it." She made a face in response to his pout and sighed. "Maybe. We'll see."

"If the Weasley tart doesn't seduce you into going, I shall have to inform her that I don't think much of her skills."

She hovered the in doorway long enough that he could see the irritation on her face, before sticking her tongue out in a stunning display of maturity. "Goodbye, Theo."

Ginny was waiting for her when she got home, huddled in the foyer with her hood up, tossing occasional glances over her shoulder.

"You can't be thinking of going out in public like that," she hissed.

"I've already done it," Hermione replied, "but just for you, I'll run and change."

"Yes, but hurry. Any second, now, Harry will come in the door and try to make up with me."

The thought of trying to extract Ginny from that particular situation gave her the impetus she needed: practically flying up the stairs, she changed from old sweatpants into jeans and pulled on a blazer over her t-shirt. It was a matter of seconds to run a brush through her hair and tie it back in some semblance of order, sprint back down the stairs, and drag Ginny into the street.

"You can slow down now," Ginny said, breathing heavily as she jogged to keep up with Hermione's pace. "I don't think he's following us."

"I've told you a million times that I don't want to get caught up in your little spats. Besides, I thought you were supposed to be a professional athelete."

"Flying—brooms—doesn't involve much—endurance."

Hermione slowed as they reached the doors of the nearest coffee shop and held the door for Ginny, who took the opportunity to double over, panting. By the time they sat down, lattés and muffins in hand, the other girl's breathing had slowed and she was staring out the window at the people hurrying past.

Hermione broke off a piece of her muffin and chewed, hunting for a conversation opener—direct was probably the easiest, she decided, and she wasn't likely to offend Ginny. Much, anyway.

"Are you going to tell me what you and Harry were discussing yesterday?"

"I thought you said that you didn't want any part of it."

"I don't want to play referee—but I do want to know what is going on."

Ginny shook her head. "I suppose I was sick of feeling like I was leading him on, even when I felt that I was being clear, so I sat him down and told him that I don't want a relationship right now. Not with him, or anyone else."

Hermione nodded, easing her feet out of her shoes and shifting to a cross-legged position. "How did he take it?"

"He didn't seem too surprised, but he did ask me who I was seeing, which I thought rather showed that he didn't understand."

"Well, that's Harry, isn't it?"

"I just… I look at my mum, and I can't believe that she's happy with her children and her husband and her knitting—especially now that we've all grown up. What purpose is there? The entire Wizarding world knows how powerful she is—she took down Bellatrix Lestrange—but she hasn't done anything with that. Not for herself, anyway."

Hermione felt a sudden rush of gratitude for her own career-oriented mother, for whom grandchildren were optional as long as her daughter was self-sufficient.

"I know she always wanted a daughter," Ginny continued, "but I don't think she wanted one quite like me—I've always been as much of a boy as the boys were, except when I wasn't, and I don't think she's entirely happy with the ways I choose to express my femininity."

"I can see where you might get that idea."

Ginny smiled wryly. "And she keeps dropping hints about settling down with Harry, which she doesn't seem to understand would mean moving me more into the public eye than I am right now. It's bad enough popping up in the tabloids every so often as a Quidditch player, but can you imagine how it would feel to be the symbol of motherhood for the entire country? Just the thought makes me feel like I can't breathe. I love Harry, but not enough to want to subject myself to oxygen depletion, and I think he needs someone who isn't afraid of becoming a symbol."

It crossed her mind that it really was a job for Theo—vain enough to want his picture plastered across every newspaper that could get hold of his picture, self-assured enough not to be lost in the half-lies of journalism. She pushed the thought aside before she started matchmaking, which was a recipe for disaster.

"What about you?" Ginny asked. "I assume you would have told me if there were any romantic prospects on the horizon, but just in case…"

She let out a short bark of laughter. "It's been nearly a year and a half since I last had sex with anyone, never mind attempted a relationship. Things have a tendency to fizzle out by the time of the third date, and it's always with people who can't seem to move past copping a feel as they kiss you good night."

"I know the type." Ginny shuddered. "But surely there must be someone—you're young, intelligent, pretty when you decide to change out of your pyjamas…"

And here was the opening for the inevitable expression of truth. "It's been a busy year. I have been working…." She faltered at the look of absolute horror crossing Ginny's face. "A lot. There's a serial killer on the loose, and it has been taking up a lot of time."

"That's an absolute shit excuse, and you know it."

"And I've been distracted and didn't realise it had been this long, and I suppose I just haven't felt like going to the effort of finding someone."

Ginny blew her hair out of her eyes and shook her head sadly. "I can't believe these words are coming out of your mouth, Hermione Granger. I'm tempted to order you to never speak to me again, until you fix the situation."

"I'm… sorry?"

"You are coming out with us tonight," Ginny said, "and I will find someone attractive to send you home with. Someone with references as to their skill."

"And a recent STD test result form showing that he won't infect me with anything crawly and disturbing and potentially involving a rash?"

It was too much to hope for; Ginny was shaking her head again. "Do you ask every potential shag for those test results?"

"Of course not! I just… occasionally dig through their medicine cabinets looking for prescription potions to treat venereal diseases." At Ginny's look of disgust, she added, "And I usually find them, so thus far it has been justified."

"When did you become so…"

"Practical?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of creepy, but practical works, too."

Hermione grinned and tapped her temple. "It's why they assign me all the hard cases."

"Jeans? You're wearing jeans?"

The incredulity in Ginny's voice was high enough to send her seeking out Pansy's gaze for support. The only thing she found there was ample cleavage and a seemingly endless supply of legs.

Looking to Pansy Parkinson for validation—oh, God. She tried to surreptitiously glance out the window to look for signs of the apocalypse, by then Pansy had moved so that she was blocking the view, and proceeded to give Hermione a once-over.

"You've never been to The Swishy, have you? Jeans iand/i a cardigan? Granger, I'm not letting you go out in that. You'll destroy my reputation just by being in the same room as me."

Hermione crossed her arms and backed away from the twin piercing gazes. "I haven't got anything else."

Which was the truth—her experiences with going out tended to involve stops off at the pub after work with co-workers, which didn't require changes or sparkly additions to one's wardrobe, and official functions, which were a very different animal than a place where glitter and awful music were guaranteed to be the norm.

Pansy looked scandalised. Ginny, who was wearing little more than a strip of gold sequins covering all the important bits, had gone white and was gripping the kitchen table for support.

"I have some things I can lend you," Ginny said, speaking quickly. "There is just enough time for me to Apparate to the Burrow and back—Pansy, do you mind taking care of her makeup?"

"There's nothing wrong with—"

She was cut off by being dragged up the stairs by Pansy, who muttered, "I'm sure it's lovely if you're fifteen and going to the Yule Ball."

And that was how the pain began.

They ended up running late by about an hour, but neither Pansy nor Ginny seemed to mind. Hermione did, particularly when they decided to spend most of it ripping a comb through her hair and casting spells to hold it in hundred of tiny ringlets around her head. She thought she looked a bit like a lion's mane—and not in a good way; Ginny told her it spoke of exotic passion.

And then there was the makeup; caked onto her face so heavily that it was a wonder it hadn't begun to crack.

"Will I be able to peel it off in one piece and save it for later?" Hermione asked, scowling at the mirror.

"Don't worry, you'll sweat most of it off," Pansy replied.

This was hardly comforting.

She had to admit, though, that the dress Ginny had chosen for her wasn't horrible—much shorter than she was comfortable with, but a pleasantly subdued black, and not low-cut enough to make her want to reclaim the cardigan at once. Overall, surprisingly classy.

Of course, the effect was rather ruined by knee-high dragon-hide boots that Ginny had to shrink several sizes before they would fit.

As Ginny and Pansy stepped back to admire their handiwork, Hermione caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

"I look like a prostitute."

"A very high-class prostitute," Pansy assured her, earning a slap from Ginny. "I'm sure you'll attract lots of business."

"I can't leave the house in this."

"You can and you will," said Ginny. "Trust me, compared to what everyone else is wearing, you'll look like you borrowed an outfit from somebody's grandmother."

"I see I have no choice in the matter," she said. "Just give me one more minute, and I'll be properly ready."

She slipped out of her bedroom, and faked going in the general direction of the bathroom—instead she slipped into the study.

"Where are you going, all tarted up?" Snape asked, glancing at her as she took wobbly steps towards the nearest bookshelf; she didn't miss the way his eyes lingered on her legs as she leaned over to pull something from the bottom shelf. "Off to fornicate with some drunken sod whilst the undead wait at home for whatever cure you can provide?"

Maybe there was some merit to what Ginny and Pansy had said—if this was her effect on the undead, she could hardly wait to meet the living. Nevertheless, she didn't like the shortness in his tone, which somehow made his words feel more accusatory than usual.

Or maybe that was just self-consciousness.

"To a club," she replied. "And, believe me, it's entirely against my will."

She shrunk the book and tucked it into her purse. In response to his questioning gaze, she added, "If it's really awful, I'll claim a stall in the loo and get some reading done."

Some of the annoyance eased out of his features. "Do you ever stop working? It makes it rather difficult to needle you about typical Gryffindor laziness when you work yourself into the grave."

"When I have such delightful things to distract me from it?"

He was a fine one to talk; if Nagini hadn't killed him, he would have probably died of a heart attack two months later. Of course, if anyone knew the signs he did.

Nevertheless, just to prove that she could annoy with the best of them, she blew him a kiss as she slid out the door—her clothes made playing the flirt almost easy, and she was beginning to learn that he was as easily wound up as she could be.

Ginny and Pansy caught her leaving the study, but only exchanged a glance and didn't insist on searching her purse, which was all the better for them: Hermione would have defended to the death her right to tuck herself away with a book.

It took all of five seconds for Hermione to realise that she would more then blend in among the glittering pulse of bodies crammed into too small a space; with a crushing sense of relief, she knew that Ginny had known she wouldn't mind resembling a slip of a shadow in the crowd. Still, she couldn't resist the compulsion to tug at the hem of the dress in an attempt to bring it down to a more comfortable level.

"You look nice," shouted a mouth pressed against her ear as hands caught her around her waist.

Instinctually, she reached for her wand and twisted with the intent to hex, only to find that it was Harry—lightly soaked in alcohol, and swaying more than a little, but nevertheless familiar. She relaxed back into him, not missing the way that he angled her in Ginny's direction, or the hitch of breath when she flung herself in greeting at someone she knew.

"Our table is over here."

She let him guide her by the hand, keeping close even though she was feeling more than a little claustrophobic, until they reached a booth in the corner with people crammed tightly into it.

Theo waved when he saw her and forced out a row of people so that she could slide in next to him.

"I knew the Weasley tart would come through!"

She let the full force of heavy eye makeup hit him as she narrowed her eyes at him. "And you'll be gloating about it for the next year."

He clapped his hands. "Darling, you look positively demonic. I'm not sure I'll be able to contain myself—you'll have to dance with me."

Something inside of her chest froze. "I agreed to show up," she said. "Dancing was not in the contract."

"It is now."

"You could at least buy me a drink first."

He laughed and handed her a fizzy purple concoction that was sitting in front of him. "Have mine—I've had too much already."

The drink went down far too easily, and had all but disappeared in a matter of seconds. When she set the empty glass back on the coaster, he shooed everyone out of the booth again, and led her into the middle of the dance floor.

It was awkward at first; she had little—no, really—sense of rhythm, and stumbled more than once over the height of her heels, but after the third or fourth drink she felt the first stirrings of dizziness buzz out to her fingers. Her rigidity seeped out of her muscles, leaving behind a pulse that matched the music.

At some point Harry replaced Theo, and then Ron replaced Harry, who was further plied with alcohol and convinced to dance with Theo, and Luna, dressed in silvery feathers and a headdress that reminded Hermione vaguely of a swan, wandered over to join her.

"Daddy said I ought to watch for disco fairies that creep up on girls and make them want to sleep with boys they don't want to. I think he may have been somewhat euphemistic."

Hermione laughed at the lucidity of Luna's words and drank some more, so that by the time she returned to the table her feet ached, the last of her tension had drained away, and she could barely stand. Charlie Weasley, who had appeared sometime in the last hour—two hours, maybe—cleared a space next to him.

"I'm sure you felt traumatised at missing out on the annual Christmas dinner," she tried to yell, but her voice cut out halfway through the sentence.

"Oh, very."

"Where were you?"

He pointed at the man sitting on his other side; Hermione leaned across him and might have felt surprise at the sight of Draco Malfoy, if the alcohol hadn't squeezed any capacity for shock out of her. The Weasleys were on the verge of becoming infamous for their unlikely choices in significant others.

"Christmas party?"

Charlie nodded, and she felt obliged to continue asking questions to keep the conversation lively.

"How did you two meet?"

At this, Draco grinned, predatory, and leaned across Hermione to answer her question directly. "He has a universal interest in dragons."

There were more drinks and more dancing—this time with some of Ginny's team mates—and slowly she began to think of the buzzing in her head and legs as fun, rather than a duty she was performing for the sake of keeping her friends happy.

Pansy found her after another space of time, leaning against the bar and listening to a burly Quidditch player pour his heart out as she nodded sympathetically and finished off yet another unspecified drink.

"Some days I feel like there isn't a point in looking anymore, you know?" he was saying. "You girls are all the same—you fuck with us and then leave us for the man with the biggest, er, paycheque, and then leave him when he retires."

"That's because the man with the biggest, er, paycheque, isn't slumped over his drink, sobbing his heart out," Pansy said, grabbing Hermione by the arm.

"He was nice," Hermione slurred, trying to wrench herself out of Pansy's grasp.

"No, he was pathetic. There's a difference."

Hermione paused to contemplate the wisdom in those words, and nodded her head once. "You're right—I think I need another drink to wash the taste from my mouth."

Pansy raised her eyebrows. "I think another drink is the last thing you need—and I'm not sure those words have ever crossed my lips before now."

"No reason to start now." Ron materialised at Pansy's elbow, levitating three glasses before him. "Gin for you, vodka for me, and water for Hermione."

Hermione scowled in protest. "Hardly fair."

"Are you sleeping with me tonight as payment?"

"Ugh." She pulled a face and smacked him on the arm. "No."

Pansy laughed. "It's comforting to know other women find you attractive—and you've had so much to drink that I doubt we'll get far."

"Thank you for emasculating me in front of my ex-girlfriend."

"It's okay," Hermione said, eyes wide. "I've seen you in much more emus… emis… much worse situations. Remember that time—"

He clapped a hand over her mouth. "I think I know what you're about to say, and the answer is no. You are not allowed to speak the words."

Hermione glared up at him from behind his hand and nodded. As soon as he released her, she turned to Pansy and blurted out, "For his twentieth birthday, he had too much to drink, and we dressed him in a pink tutu."

Ron buried his head in his hands and moaned, as Pansy collapsed against the wall in a fit of giggles.

"Granger, I like you much more when you've been drinking."

"I don't," Ron said. "Traitor."

"Just for that," Pansy told her, "I will buy you another drink. Wait here."

Pansy wound her way to the bar with Ron trailing behind, and Hermione leaned back, grateful for the solidity of the wall. Waves of exhaustion overwhelmed her former giddiness, reminding her that she hadn't slept nearly enough in the last—well, the last year. She wasn't sure how long she stood there, letting the music and voices shift around her at a dizzying rate, but it couldn't have been long; Pansy and Ron were still elbowing their way forward, and the song hadn't changed.

But Luna was heading towards her now, with the same Quidditch player who had cornered Hermione what seemed only moments before.

"Why are you still following me?"

Hermione barely had time to wonder how Luna's voice managed to keep its dreamy texture when she was shouting to be heard over the pounding bass; the Quidditch player set in on yet another tirade about the evils of groupies.

"I don't particularly like Quidditch," Luna said, apparently oblivious to the tears running down his face. "Thousands of triple-horned snorkacks lose their homes to deforestation to make pitches every year, and they're practically extinct."

"You're leaving me for that bastard Richardson, aren't you? With his place as starting sodding seeker and his five-point-three million galleons a year?"

"No, I promised Daddy I'd be home in time to water the Wittering Wildflowers."

"You needn't lie to spare my feelings. I'll find out in the morning anyway."

Luna shot a desperate glance over her shoulder, and began edging towards Hermione's wall. When the Quidditch player lunged for her and grabbed her by the arm, Hermione decided that, amusing as it was to watch his frustration, it was time for something to be done.

Stepping forward, she said, "She's really not interested." It came out fuzzier than intended, and too quiet to be heard above everything else.

"Sorry, come again?"

"I really don't think she's interested."

His eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer. Hermione was mildly alarmed to find that he hovered around her escape route with bulging muscles, and that her reaction time was non-existent. Her only hope was that the alcohol in her breath would be exposed to an open flame and she would be able to burn him to a crisp with a single puff of air.

"Back already? Found out exactly how long Richardson can last?"

"I don't know who Richardson is," she said, his face inches from hers. "I don't really care to."

"What do I have to do to make you women understand—"

A drink appeared over her left shoulder, grasped by a stiff hand; the same hand that had spent an hour attempting to tame the wild beast of her hair.

"You could start by not invading their personal space," Pansy said as she stepped around Hermione and took hold of him by the bicep, making no effort to conceal the way that her nails dug into the skin. Hermione was amused to see that she towered over him, and would have even without the stilettos. "Then, once you've backed away, you can wait for my overprotective Auror fiancé to walk over and answer for the consequences."

He relaxed slightly at the realisation that the pain was in the immediate future rather than the present. Hermione took a sip from her drink and watched closely, knowing that this sort of intimidation tactic might come in useful someday—even if the only suspects shorter than her were first years and dwarves.

"That's not to say that I wouldn't highly enjoy taking advantage of five years working as a Gringott's curse breaker, but it's so much less messy when it's the fist of the law smashing your face in."

On cue, Ron stepped in between Hermione and the Quidditch player, with a pleasant smile on his face. "Do you think I'll need to make use of the handcuffs?"

Pansy pouted. "But you promised we could use them later."

Hermione supposed she would never know if it was finishing off that final drink or the mental image that Pansy's remark produced that sent her over the edge, but her stomach lurched unpleasantly and before she could blink Pansy had dropped her prisoner and was pushing open a door that led to the alley behind the club.

She spent what felt like an hour kneeling down with her head pressed against the brick before she could pause to breathe again.

"Sorry," she said, trying to spit the taste from her mouth.

"I told you that you'd had enough." Only Pansy would try to sound saintly when drunk and wearing next to no clothing in a deserted alleyway.

"Sorry," she said again, miserably.

"In about ten minutes, once I've realised that I'll be able to remember this moment for the rest of my life, whenever I have my head in the toilet, I won't mind a bit."

Hermione stood up, trying to hide the trembling of her knees and failing. "Thanks."

Ron chose that moment to appear through the same door, bearing a glass of water and a napkin. Hermione accepted them, and forced herself to take slow, careful sips, patting dry the beads of sweat on her neck and forehead in between them.

"I've had less to drink than you have," Ron said. "I'll take her home."

Ron Apparated back to Grimmauld place with her and helped her up the stairs and into a set of flannel pyjamas, with Hermione apologising every step of the way. He left her feeling a second wave of nausea, which she managed to hold back until she heard the door shut behind him downstairs; just because she saw herself experiencing a less than pleasant night didn't mean she had to ruin his.

When she had finished emptying the contents of her stomach for the second time, she brushed her teeth until her tongue had gone numb from the mint and wiped the remaining makeup from around her eyes.

"Did you enjoy your evening?" Snape asked, making her jump and send the washcloth flying into the bathtub.

"Do you always creep up behind people like that?"

"I heard you, and thought you might like someone to check in and make sure you were still alive."

She turned and found him leaning against the doorframe, looking amused.

"Until about half an hour ago, it was lovely, thank you."

"I have no doubt of that. Can I fetch you anything? A glass of water, perhaps?"

Certain that he could turn even the most innocent, unremarkable glass of water into an insult, she scowled and brushed past him. "I'm just about to make a pot of tea, actually. You can join me if you'd like."

She heard his footsteps behind her and took that as a 'yes'.

It came as a surprise when he took the teapot and leaves from her fumbling hands and poured the boiling water for her, but not as much as it might have if she had been fully lucid. In the back of her mind, she was reminded of waking to find her head on a small stack of pillows rather than the keyboard of her laptop, and of his eagerness—even if it was disguised in insults—to run through a new theory with her.

Her eyebrows knit together in a frown when he passed her a mug, and settled across from her with one of his own.

"I didn't realise you could eat—or drink."

"I just like the smell," he said. "I'm rather hesitant to apply water to a decomposing corpse."

She smiled and curled around her cup of tea. "I can see where that might come from."

They settled into an easy silence—the sort of silence that made most people chatter to fill it up—and when it seemed natural to break it, when his gaze dropped down to examine the grain of the wood table and he sighed, looking more at ease than she had ever seen him, she spoke.

"You're arguably an observer of the human condition—quite a good one. What would make a person want to raise someone from the dead?"

He pushed the hair from his eyes and glanced up. "You're recovering from your state of inebriation quite quickly, aren't you?"

"No—if I were completely sober I wouldn't be hounding after motive, I'd be methodically examining the clues. It's only because I have had a few too many that I'm forcing myself to admit that there are no clues."

"Any number of reasons—insanity, the desire for power over the living and the dead, grief…" He broke off with a shrug. "There are as many reasons as there are people. I'd like to think I know better than to try, but I suspect my reasons would be entirely selfish. You would raise the dead to try and give the universe justice and order. Potter would do it for some combination of the two."

She shivered at the realisation that he had caught her glancing through the necromancy texts. "Lucius Malfoy had the means," she said, "but I'm not convinced there was a motive—and I suspect he's the sort of man who needs a motive and an evil plan for the day to get out of bed in the morning. If it were an army of Inferi it would be different, but you still have your personality, your—your—"

"My soul?"

Her nose wrinkled. "I hate the word. It feels so… not technical."

"But it is the technical—and, I might add, generally undisputed—term in necromancy. Many would argue that only a Muggle would make such a fuss over a single word."

"But words are all we have—especially in magic. Spells are really nothing more than words attached to an arbitrary movement. It's the words that give us control, and keep us from accidentally ending the world—there must be consequences for using the wrong one."

"But who decides on the words, if not the people using them?"

His words seemed to cut through the fog surrounding her mind, and she straightened as ideas flooded her mind. Together, they began to hammer out the beginnings of a theory: how to attach arbitrary, unrelated words to spells to confuse an opponent; whether or not etymology mattered; if intent was more important than the spell itself.

Hermione felt as though she were hovering on the verge of some sort of revelation that was pushing in on her thoughts and would come clattering into her conscious any second, but it was interrupted by Ron, Harry, and Theo exploding into the room in a flurry of shouting.

Hermione's mug clattered to the floor and Snape stood, looking as though he were debating between bolting and trying to break up what looked like a scuffle. The most rational explanation that entered into Hermione's mind was that Ron had caught Theo taking advantage of Harry's inebriated state and wasn't reacting well—except that it seemed less an argument that had turned to muscle than a race which none of them was winning.

Harry finally broke free and collapsed before her knees, gasping for breath. "There was another attempted murder—Silbury Hill this time—only they caught the man before he could do it and he's being held by the Aurors. We thought you might be interested in the questioning."

The last of the alcohol seemed to clear from her system, chased out by a sudden, burning fury that made her head pound alongside her pulse; it was mingled with relief that it was over, even if she hadn't solved it herself.

"Let's go," she said, rising to her feet.

Finally, she could go back to ordinary sleeping hours, some of the panic created by the murders would subside, and the undead could go back to an un-prefixed existence in which they were simply dead.

She flashed a glance at Snape, and felt something sink inside of her. Remembering something that someone—perhaps the Diggorys—had told her earlier that day, she crossed the room to where Snape was standing, frozen, and wrapped both of her hands around his. Black danced at the edges of her vision, but it was less powerful than it had been last time, and subsided before it completely took over.

He tried to wrench his hand out of her grip, but she clung on until the tension stretching between them subsided; his eyes widened as they met hers.

"It'll be easier if I give you a little bit every day," she told him. "As far as I can tell, the only lasting effect was to increase my metabolism, which I don't particularly mind."