Don't see him, Hermione. At least don't go alone.
Ron's final words after breakfast burned through Hermione's skull as she stood in the bathroom stall, waiting for another witch, or even a wizard to come by and give her a hand.
The toilets flushed normally for her, but if she wanted to be sucked through the pipes and into the atrium that led to her office, it required a magic touch that she didn't have anymore.
Merlin's pants, I can't even get to work without someone helping me.
That was the price she paid, now that Ron wasn't with her every second of every day.
They'd had another argument that morning. He wouldn't let her make her own breakfast. He didn't want her to go to work. He didn't want her to meet with her contact.
"Do you want me to quit my job? Because that isn't happening!" she retorted, finally having enough.
Somehow they avoided another argument in between the breakfast dishes, Ron taking the trash to the curb and leaving to let her get to work on her own.
Independence. Space. That was what she wanted, right?
What she hadn't wanted was the extreme hangover that she'd woken up to. Hermione thought she might stop by St. Mungo's to get checked out during her lunch break, but after a kindly witch flushed her through the plumbing and she caught sight of her packed schedule, she didn't even have time for lunch. She couldn't eat anything anyway. Her stomach threatened to digest itself, but all she could bear was sipping water, and that only kept her mouth from getting unbearably dry.
"Water?"
Hermione's assistant, a stringy bloke just out of Hogwarts with sandy hair and a penchant for showing up with exactly what she needed, was decidedly not at all like Ron. Three years her junior, he had just enough experience to know how bad the war had been, but had been young enough to be sheltered from the actual battle.
He'd fought his own battles, though. As a fourth year, he'd lived through the manipulation and torture of the students during the hostile takeover. Sometimes, his eyes were still haunted, and Hermione wondered how any of them could still function on a daily basis.
"Miss Granger?" her assistant asked. "Have some more water. You look a little pale."
"I feel a little pale." Hermione had lived with her disability for long enough just to agree with people when they said things like that. It was just as pointless to deny as it was to dwell.
The pit of her stomach had expanded, and every time she approached food, the nausea kept her from filling it. When she went to sit behind her desk, the room spun a little, and she had to close her eyes for a moment.
"Do you want me to get someone?" her assistant ventured.
"No, Henry. Thanks. I've missed a day and I need to stay on schedule."
Her assistant wavered and then Hermione added, "Clear my schedule for tomorrow. I'll plan to come in late, maybe get checked out in the morning, if whatever this is doesn't pass."
That put her assistant more at ease. Hermione breathed deeply and waited for another nauseous wave to roll through her. Maybe she'd step up her visit to St. Mungo's for the afternoon. But then it'd be another battery of tests and everything under the sun to rule out that this wasn't another side effect of the dark magic before they tried other things. It could be, she reasoned, that this was just a common stomach bug – which would mean it would take care of itself and medicine and potions wouldn't help anyway – not that she could keep anything down.
But if she did go in, she'd have to explain where she'd gone and where she'd been for the missing day, and the Mediwitches would summon Ronald Weasley on her behalf, since half the staff knew her personally, and knew him even better. He'd been a sloppy patient, coming in almost bi-weekly with Harry from injuries sustained during training exercises over the last two years. He'd been at her bedside through the six weeks when her arm had swelled up with dark magic, through the useless therapies and the stumped Curse-Breakers.
All she could do was move ahead and get ready for her next appointment, which had taken weeks to set up. She wasn't going to blow the opportunity to get the files now, not since she'd expected delays and finally gotten a date and time for the exchange.
This contact had been meeting with her on a semi-regular basis, selling information about illegal substances and who dealt with them. The Ministry was interested in keeping the underground commerce scarce, and her contact was interested in maintaining a steady stream of reliable revenue. The war had ruined his family – drained their coffers with fines, payoffs, donations, and retributions. Though he was working on it, rebuilding something reputable from the rubble of his family's destroyed legacy was a slow and painful process.
Only one thing was clear. Everyone had to work within the imperfect system. Everyone had to make a living after the war.
Even Hermione Granger's best friend, savior of the wizarding world – Harry Potter – attended his Auror Training with Ron, Susan and Neville, some of her classmates who had survived and were trying to make things better, one day at a time. Ron's little sister, Ginny, was picked up by a Quidditch League and left London. Hermione had been relieved that at least someone she knew got away and was living a better life. Ron's oldest brother got a promotion from Gringotts a few weeks ago, and for the rest of them, things were going as well as could be expected.
After achieving House Elf rights, Hermione had tackled the sticky situation for werewolves. After that, she tried to work with the Centaurs, but Firenze wouldn't return her messages. So when her therapist suggested another marginalized group, Hermione simply went with it.
She was busy. She was important. She was doing her part – in spite of her weakness, in spite of losing the thing that made her belong to this community – she'd fought for them and would continue to fight for them.
She'd been doing it for so long that she didn't know how to do anything else.
She sipped another bit of water, noticing that Henry had added a spritz of lemon in it. That was alright. She could handle the lemon, even if Potions might make her vomit, and she needed to keep her wits for this meeting, if only on the outside while her insides were betraying her.
When she stepped inside the pub, her senses were assaulted by stale ale and aged cheese. At least the lights were low, which helped a little. She picked her way past seedy-looking patrons until she got to the back table with a lone occupant. Ron could go piss himself if he threw another fit about her coming here. She was sick of being told what she couldn't do.
Besides, this wizard was on the Ministry's payroll. He had no reason to hurt her and every reason to give her what she wanted.
She sat down, swallowing her gag reflex. "Malfoy," she said.
"Granger," he said. He cocked his head to one side, in that signature stuck-up aristocratic way. "You look like dragon dung on a hot day."
Hermione didn't fall into their usual exchange of insults. When she needed something, it wasn't a good idea to make her contact's life miserable.
Coincidentally, she'd been given a line on a small, rogue group of vampires who were staking out a small territory in London. Normally, the Ministry wouldn't get involved, but this particular group had stolen something that the Ministry wanted returned. Draco Malfoy dealt with many things, including keeping his ear to the ground for whispers of dealings the Ministry could only hope to discover.
With her added interest in vampires as a potential species to be considered for rights within the Wizarding community, Hermione had a vested interest in what this group wanted and whether their desires could be handled – discreetly – in order to give them a chance to be taken seriously.
With her own experience under her belt, the missing day and the way her body felt, she was aware the meeting hadn't gone well, but she knew that fringe groups had their own way of testing the loyalty of their messenger. The pixies, for example, had changed her hair to straw for two weeks.
She was going to give them a chance, and find out as much as she could, while at the same time, performing her Ministry-assigned duties. But she wasn't feeling so good. In fact, things were getting worse for her the longer she sat in the booth, surrounded by beer and cigars.
This was a dangerous bar with even more dangerous people in it. She knew what she was getting into, or at least she thought she did. She had to get out fast, before her vulnerability showed through.
"The packet, Malfoy."
Draco furrowed his brows and didn't move. "Seriously, you look unwell."
Hermione's nerves were frayed. She just needed to get the packet, get home, owl it to her Ministry contact and go to sleep. A long sleep. Draco Malfoy's face blurred before her, and the world tilted dangerously.
"Just give me the…"
"No," he said, grabbing her wrist that she'd carelessly left within reach. "You know what kind of game we're playing here. If you drop dead in this pub, I'm as good as dead too."
Hermione knew exactly what Draco had locked away, which was why he made such a good contact for the Ministry who was still tracking down the rest of the Death Eaters. "What makes you think that I'd willingly take one of your illegal potions, Malfoy?"
"Because you're whiter than a banshee and your pulse barely registers." He held up her wrist. "I've seen this before. Let me help you."
Hermione gasped as she was yanked to her feet. Draco snaked an arm around her waist to keep her upright. Then they were moving through the shadows. She'd always resisted coming back here. The Ministry paid him for information only. She didn't need to know anything else incriminating about him.
Yet, here she was, leaning on him for support, being dragged down a long, dark hallway, and into a plush sitting room. Draco stood above her and thrust a clear plastic bag with a dark, viscous substance into her hands.
"Drink."