"Patience is power. Patience is not an absence of action; rather it is timing. It waits on the right time to act, for the right principles and in the right way."

-Fulton J. Sheen.

"For a few moments they stood upon a balcony upon which the corridor ended, and tossed the feathery ball of conversation."

-"Transients in Arcadia", by O. Henry.

Hermione gazed out the window of her flat. It was a drear day in London (quelle surprise). A few reluctant drizzles of moisture wafted intermittently from the chilly October sky. She was clutching a mug of blackberry tea in one hand and Jean Webster's Dear Enemy in the other. She had read it countless times; it was one of her favorite Muggle books. The spunky heroine and her amusing epistolary writing style never failed to make Hermione smile, but today Sally and Dr. MacRae just weren't holding her attention.

She was considering the enigma that was Draco Malfoy.

Of course, that was exactly the say he intended himself to be - enigmatic and mysterious. That tendency of his truly irked her, like most things about him. She really shouldn't be wasting brain cells on analyzing him, but then character analysis was one of her favorite pastimes.

Which reminded her, her own character might need some analysis, after yesterday's ill-fated Quidditch game. Hermione had been seriously out of it. She had been too ticked-off at Ron to even care when Ginny fell. That was uncharacteristic and sadistic. Such behavior needed to stop. So, it was time to play the "why" game with herself.

She had been ticked-off at Ron.

Why?

Because he was being an idiot and ignoring me on our date. I don't like Quidditch anyway.

Why didn't I tell him I would rather go somewhere else?

Because I expected him to know better after knowing me for thirteen years, besides officially dating for three.

Why doesn't he know me better?

Because he's a self-absorbed prat sometimes.

That's unfair.

Okay, he's really untactful.

Why does that bother me so much?

Because I would prefer to date someone tactful and sensitive. Or I assume that I would, since I've only ever dated Ron and Viktor. Neither of them was exactly the observant type when it came to my feelings.

Okay, so Hermione had deduced that the problem behind her angsty mood swings was that she wanted to be with someone tactful, and Ron was the antithesis of tact.

As for a solution . . . She decided that she didn't want to break up with Ron. Yet. They had been through a lot together (understatement of the year), and she didn't want to lose his friendship. Hermione wasn't sure if their friendship could survive a "make-up-break-up" relationship.

Somehow, Malfoy's strange proposal surfaced in her mind. Spend time with him . . . What had he meant by that?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a tapping on the glass. She jumped in alarm, sloshing cold tea all over her socks. A magnificent dark brown owl was sitting outside. Cursing, Hermione set her book and now-empty mug on the kitchenette counter and pushed up the window.

Hermione untied the scroll from its leg. She set it on the window ledge, then peeled off her tea-soaked socks and tossed them in the washer. When she returned, the owl was still staring at her. It was rather unsettling, actually. Its eyes were like fat yellow coins. Hermione was eager to have it on its way so she could close the window and keep out the dank chill, but this owl was clearly not going anywhere soon. Hermione sighed and unrolled the creamy parchment.

To whom it may concern:

I didn't know how to address this letter. "Dear Granger" sounded a bit off. Anyway, would you like to take me up on my offer? I had the most terrific idea about what we should do. Trust me, you won't regret it.

Regards,

Draco Malfoy

Ps. Isolde has no intention of leaving until you write a reply.

Hermione arched an eyebrow at Isolde, who hooted balefully in confirmation. She really was the most beautiful owl Hermione had ever seen, since Hedwig of course. Hermione pulled out her parchment and quill, trying valiantly not to compare Malfoy's epistolary style with Ron's. She smirked as she thought of how to address the letter.

Dear Enemy,

Your epistle intrigued me, which was doubtless your intent. What is this terrific idea of yours?

Regards,

Hermione Granger

Ps. Call me in the Muggle way; it's much faster than Isolde.

She added her landline number at the bottom of the page and tied it to Isolde, who was much more obliging than Pigwidgeon. Hermione shut the window and buried herself back in Dear Enemy.

About an hour later, Isolde was back and tapping. Hermione looked up from her book in annoyance. Why hadn't Malfoy called her? Seriously. Wizards!

"Well?" she demanded, raising the window for what felt like the eightieth time in a few days. Isolde penitently stuck out her claw. Another note was tied to it.

Dear Enemy,

Your impatience disgusts me. However, thank you for giving me your fellytone number. I plan to use it at unlikely hours of the morning to annoy you.

Meet me at two o'clock this afternoon near that Muggle monument, Big Ben.

Regards,

Draco Malfoy

Hermione felt like kicking herself. How could she have been stupid enough to give Malfoy her number?! It was amusing that he called it a "fellytone", though. She would have to save the note for blackmail.

She supposed that she would have to meet him now; Hermione wasn't low enough to stand anyone up, even Le Blond.

Draco was a bit nervous, standing on the Westminster Bridge, waiting for Granger to show. Suppose she stood him up. . .? But, no! He had momentarily forgotten that he was Draco Malfoy. Women did not stand him up, even seemingly asexual women like Granger.

It was comforting to feel arrogant again. He lost his ability to be snarky during the nausea, but somehow, around Granger he felt much less existential. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing had yet to be determined, but anyway it was a relief to feel like himself again.

Draco looked up at the looming clock, but could discern no meaning in its mysterious lines and numerals. He checked his own watch. Neptune was approaching the third tick. She should be here by now. Trying not to look anxious, Draco scanned the crowd of pedestrians moving by. At last, he saw her.

She was wearing dark jeans and a thin raspberry-colored sweater. Her hair was loose today, framing her heart-shaped face. With a jolt of surprise, Draco realized that he had been wrong about her hair. It wasn't frizzy at all; if anything, it was wavy. Had she done something new with it, or had Draco only been seeing what he expected to see?

She hadn't noticed him yet. Draco considered waving, but thought better of it. He leaned nonchalantly against the barrier of the bridge, ignoring the Muggle pedestrians.

Hermione got a bit of a shock when she saw Draco in Muggle clothing. Firstly, it seemed odd to see him wearing anything but wizard robes. Secondly, he didn't look like any Muggle she had ever seen. He was wearing an elegant charcoal-colored suit that Hermione rather suspected was a Savile Row creation. Under it was a white Oxford shirt, open at the collar. His skin looked almost unhealthily pale against the dark suit, in an admittedly attractive way. The platinum-blond hair that had earned him Hermione's private nickname of "Le Blond" was pushed back with a minimal amount of gel; as she had noticed before, it was rather long. Even from a distance of fifty feet, she could tell that his wolfish grey eyes were fixed on her. He was leaning against the bridge barrier. Unbidden, a quote from Hermione's favorite television program, My So-Called Life, entered her head: "He leans great."

She approached him rather apprehensively. After all, this man had been a Death Eater at one point.

"Good afternoon, Malfoy," she said carefully.

"Good afternoon, Granger."

"Are we going somewhere formal?"

"What would give you that impression?"

"Your Muggle attire is far from normal." She tried to sound faintly disdainful, as though he had made a great faux pas.

"That rhymes, Granger," he noted parenthetically. Hermione blushed slightly. "What you must understand is that sartorial elegance is a great priority for me. Why would I choose to wander around Muggle London dressed like you are when I can instead invoke the envy of strangers?"

Hermione hated to concede it to herself, but he had a point. Random passerby were looking sideways at him, with envy or something else. Quite a few Muggle women seemed particularly interested by his appearance. Hermione pretended to consider him.

"Yes, it would certainly be very odd if you dressed like me. The Muggles wouldn't know quite how to react to a crossdressing wizard, though I suppose this is London, after all."

"Lots of crossdressing wizards," they said in unison. Hermione looked at him in surprise. Malfoy's expression mirrored hers. She giggled rather nervously.

"Ah, but we still attract too much attention," he said.

"I know a coffee place not far from here," said Hermione. It felt so odd to be talking logistics with bleeding Malfoy.

"Excellent. Lead the way, Granger."

"Allons-y, then." They walked about two blocks to Hermione's favorite coffee shop. It was very near the Muggle tourism hub, but suspiciously it never seemed crowded. Actually, it had a decidedly wizardish flavor, now that she considered it.

They ordered drinks - a chai latte for her and black coffee for him - and sat down at a small table.

"So," she said, in an attempt to diffuse the sudden awkwardness, "what is your terrific idea? Pray tell."

"Ah. Yes." Hermione couldn't help but notice that he was looking at her rather intensely. "You are dissatisfied in more that your relationship with Weasley, I suspect."

"I don't - !"

"Down, Granger. Now is not the time for denial. I have eyes, you know."

Yes, unfeeling grey metal ones.

The drinks arrived, uncannily fast. Hermione looked sharply at the counter in time to see the barista hastily tucking a slender piece of wood back behind the coffee canisters. She smiled to herself. So, the cafe was enchanted after all. Malfoy coughed to recall her attention to himself. Reluctantly, she slid her gaze back to his pale, pointed face.

"I dare to surmise," he continued, "that you are dissatisfied with your work. Not challenging enough? Not enough power passing through your hands?" He stopped her interrupting again. "It's perfectly understandable, my dear. You made this department for the good of Wizardkind, and they chained you to it. It must be torture for such a bright, promising young witch."

"Flattery isn't helping, Malfoy."

"But it's true! I may be prejudiced against you from our school days, but even then I wasn't stupid. I could tell that you were the cleverest witch of our age and it drove me mad with jealousy. Silly of me, really. I should have realized that we could help one another."

Hermione could practically smell manipulation. Or was that cloying aroma merely his aptly named cologne?

"You have all the raw materials of a very influential individual. Brains, talent, motivation, determination . . . And the thing that I've never quite developed myself, honor. It doesn't hurt that you're a war heroine with public opinion on your side and some press attention."

"You're starting to sound like Slughorn."

"Slytherin trait, I suppose. We always had a talent for selecting the brightest young Gryffindors of the mix, to hate or to polish."

"Go on." Hermione wasn't going to pretend not to be intrigued.

"The reason that you may be finding it so hard to get a damn promotion is that you haven't been enough in wizarding society." He leaned in slightly, and she unconsciously mimicked him. "I can help you there. Malfoys stay well away from actual positions of power, but Malfoy Manor is the hub of magical society. Can you imagine the sheer power flow that drifts through the entry hall to nibble on canapés over the course of one party?" His eyes began to glitter strangely. Hermione thought inexorably of clear-cut grey diamonds.

"What exactly are you proposing?"

"In three days, my family is hosting our annual Hallows Eve Soirée."

"All Hallows Eve isn't for another few weeks, silly."

"Don't call me silly. Everyone is busy on Halloween. It's a rather important wizarding holiday, in case you didn't know."

"Don't imply that I'm silly and I won't call you so." Hermione smirked at him. Good heavens, Le Blond was wearing off on her. Bleck. "Did you know that 'hallows' means 'saints', so All Hallows Eve means - "

" 'Quite frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.' Anyhow - "

"You read Muggle American novels?!" Hermione grinned at his slip-up. Who was a mighty pureblood now?

"Granger, Granger, Granger. If you were as literate as I, you would know that that particular quote is not from the book, but from the movie."

"I don't believe it. Draco Malfoy both read Gone With the Wind and watched the film. Happy, happy day."

"Can you blame me with being fascinated by the Götterdämmerung? I found it very well described."

"You would, you racist - "

"Can we focus, please?" He ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "The Hallows Eve Soirée is rather an anticipated event on the social calendar. The Minister of Magic will be there, as well as many highly influential witches and wizards." He grinned rather wickedly. "I even had the presence of mind to invite the Other Minister."

Hermione gasped. "You don't mean - "

"Yes; the Muggle Prime Minister." Hermione's mouth fell open.

"Er . . . Won't he be a bit out-of-place at a wizard's gathering?"

"Nonsense. That's where my brilliance comes into play. All of the guests have been told to wear Muggle eveningwear. It's going to be a sort of costume party."

"That is brilliant," breathed Hermione. Malfoy looked so smug that she wanted to kick him.

"So: my proposition. You will attend the soirée as my guest and rub elbows with many famous people. Everyone will notice you. You will get moved out of that DEW and start a smashing career in the department of your choice. You will be the Minister of Magic in a decade or so. Happily ever after, et cetera."

"Brillante. What's the catch?"

"The catch?" Was it her imagination, or did Malfoy's eyes suddenly take on a sinister gleam? "You must take me on a tour of Muggle London today."

Not five minutes after Draco made his strange request, Granger was dragging him underground. It was all very unsettling. She had said something about a tube, and off they went, both coffee drinks untasted.

"Remind we what we're doing again," he said, trying to maintain his languid tone as they hurtled down a grimy set of steps as what seemed like an unreasonable pace.

"You can't have the Muggle experience without taking the Tube, mais oui! It's how most people get around London."

"Unpleasant place, isn't it? Typical Muggles, they have the whole sky to contemplate and they choose to scurry through the sewer like rats." Draco wrinkled his aristocratic nose in disgust.

"You're one to talk. Floo powder is much less comfortable, je vous assure."

"Why do you have a habit of lapsing into French?" He tried to keep the curiosity out of his face as Granger inserted money into a large rectangle, muttered to herself about a "green line", pushed some buttons, and received two little pieces of stiff paper. She handed one to Draco.

"Ticket. Don't lose it, don't eat it."

"Sorry?"

She laughed at his mystification. "Never mind, it's just something my dad used to say when he gave me a ticket for anything."

Draco could have spent a few more minutes examining the turnstile, but the cloud of brown hair was on its way again and he had to move fast to keep up.

Draco found the bullet-shaped "tube" vehicle to be less than pleasant. It was too noisy and smelly. Besides which, it was packed with Muggles. Draco found himself pressed against Granger. She smelled tantalizingly of her rose perfume.

"Égoïste, right?" Apparently her thoughts had been similarly inclined.

"Yes, I am. On that thought, why do you keep lapsing into French? You don't have veela aspirations, do you?"

Granger's face flushed slightly pink. "Shut up. I don't even know what you mean. In response to your first question, after I finished my education, my parents took me to France for the summer. It was sort of like our version of the traditional Grand Tour. It was really lovely; we stayed with mes grands-parents for a while in Aix-en-Provence, then I went on to Paris alone." She looked suddenly wistful, gazing off into the distance. A suspicion formed in Draco's mind.

"You met someone there, didn't you?" Who would have thought it? Hermione Granger finding romance in Paris.

"No! Well, not exactly." Her face flushed the same color as her sweater. "We never officially dated. It was just . . . A summer flirtation, one could call it."

"Je comprends, mon cher. Vous pouvez compter sur ma discrétion."

"There's nothing to be discreet about!"

"Sorry, I've just always wanted to say that." He smirked down at her. Really, she was only a little taller than Astoria.

"This is our stop!" She grabbed his wrist suddenly and led him off the "tube".

Draco reclaimed his wrist. "Really, I may be an ignorant wizard, but I am not a dog, thank you."

"Sorry!" The casual, breezy apology took him rather by surprise. Draco would certainly never toss something so grave about like it was a feather.

"What are we doing today, Miss Granger?"

"We are going to spend the entire afternoon at the Tower of London."

To his immense surprise, Draco enjoyed himself rather a lot. The examples of ancient architecture and crude Muggle torture devices were amusing, though he could never claim to be fascinated. The crown jewels were quite sparkly; Draco liked sparkly things. Granger had been there several times before, and was a veritable fountain of information. Draco looked sideways at her, deaf to the trivia she was spouting but engaged by the glow that diffused across her face. How had he ever thought her hair frizzy? It was quite obviously wavy.

At last, Draco declared himself sated with Muggle London and wrenched his companion away from Traitor's Gate.

"Now, what you need is a dress for the soirée."

"I have dresses."

"Trust me on this one, Granger, you're going to want a new dress." He cast a disdainful eye over her sweater.

"Hm. I suppose you have a point."

So, now she trusted him more easily. Excellent. That had been the point of the afternoon.

"I have an idea," she said suddenly.

"Pray tell."

"You didn't really get a sense of modern London, did you? Waiving the Tube."

"Yes, let us waive the Tube."

"So, let's go shopping at Harrod's!"

"Smashing idea."

It was not, he discovered, a smashing idea. Granger was a miserable shopper. After looking at a few dresses, she started whining and dragging her feet. It was like taking a toddler to the supermarket.

"So . . . many . . . sub-departments," she moaned. "I liked that blue dress, can we just go back and buy it?"

"That blue dress suited your complexion miserably."

"Blue doesn't suit anyone's complexion miserably."

"Well, there are colors that suit yours much better!"

"I'm tired."

He marched her diligently from section to section. At last, he found the perfect dress.

"I don't like it," she said automatically.

"You didn't even look at it."

"I looked at the price tag. How rich do you think I am?"

"Silly, I'm buying it for you."

"Wha - ? No!"

"Yes. I didn't drag you around a department store by your hair to watch you complain over a price tag. I must say, retail therapy has the most awful effect on you."

"Fine! Do whatever you want."

As they left, Granger carrying a garment bag with his purchase, she looked at him sharply.

"So, I'm your Eliza Doolittle project now?" she observed caustically.

"Remind me never to take you shopping again, you ingrate. And yes, you are my Eliza Doolittle project."

"No more 'With my help, you will rule the world' ?"

"Would it kill you to thank me?"

"Fine!" She dropped the garment bag and flung her arms around his neck. "Thank you, thank you, Draco Malfoy! You are a singularly wonderful personage!"

Draco's spine stiffened with surprise. He disentangled her from himself. "Er. Well. You're welcome." That had been unexpected.

Blushing slightly, she picked up the dress.

"Same time tomorrow, Granger. We must work on your posture and vocal inflection." Before disapparating, Draco heard her say, "I hope you're joking! 'Just you wait, Henry Higgins!' "

She had no idea. Hermione Granger wasn't the Eliza to his Henry, she was the Pip to his Estella. The ceiling would come crashing down eventually.