So, a thing happened.

And that thing being a delightful, talented, hilariously funny Irish pixie finding me and becoming my friend. And because of that, together we wrote something that neither of ever thought we would.

Having never collaborated before, it was an absolute pleasure to find someone who had the same vision, the same commitment, and the same stress levels as me.

~ LaBelladoneX, let's do this again ~

PLEASE READ THE AUTHORS' NOTES BEFORE CONTINUING WITH THIS. IT MIGHT NOT BE WHAT YOU EXPECT.

Authors' Notes

This little birthday surprise contains Olympic-style Potter and Weasley bashing; we're talking award-winning tearing apart of the Chosen One, his missus, friends, and in-laws (not all of them, some we still like). Basically… if you're a Gryffindor, please know we mean no harm.

A massive hamper of teabags and chocolate digestives to our alpha/beta, CuppaTea90, for casting her beady eye over this and pointing out our ridiculous oversights. We got very carried away at times! And we owe Sleepygrimm a huge debt of gratitude for the superhot artwork.

And, of course, a very happy birthday to one of the most wonderful people we've have the pleasure to know — coyg-81.

BellaSmith

LaBelladoneX and smithandbarrowman

September 2005

"She didn't need to be saved. She needed to be found and appreciated, for exactly who she was." Fuckology

Hermione slowly lowered herself down onto the top step of the staircase, listening closely to the drunken voices coming from the living room. She curled her arms tightly around her knees, bracing herself for the cruel and hurtful words. He was drinking; they were inevitable.

"Pass us over a beer, pal. Cheers. What'ya say this movie was called again?" That coarse Dublin accent she loathed; no prizes for guessing who Ron had over.

"Lesbian Love Bunnies, Part Two: Nibble my Nipples."

"Fuck me, look at the tits on that, I'm stiffening up! You watch this stuff with 'Mione, Ron?"

"Nah, Seamus, 'Mione's not into that. She's not into bloody anything—"

"Fuck, mate, seriously? One I'm seein' now would turn herself inside out for me — bitch fuckin' begs to be taken up the arse all the time! And the other—"

"What the fuck! You're doing two birds at once?" Ron's shocked response was tinged with jealousy.

"You know me! Played them off each other for a while then fucked them both last weekend. Got Dean over and spit-roasted the cunts after they'd eaten each other out. Best night in a long time."

"Should've called us, Shay," Harry commented. "I could do with a decent shag."

"What's up with Ginny? You guys alright?" Ron asked over the hiss of another beer opening.

"Always too tired after practise, too busy before," Harry moaned. "Fucking sick of wanking off."

"You need some pussy on the side," Seamus remarked. "Fleshlights will only help you so fuckin' much, you need to dip yer wick into something—"

The whistles and jeers that followed from Ron and Harry left Hermione cringing. No doubt the visual joke was tasteless and crass, and she felt tears on her cheeks as Seamus laughed that hideous wheeze that always spread fag breath around the room, and made her gag.

Merlin, she hated him so much. She'd disliked his uncouth behaviour in school but now she positively hated him — his filthy habits, the way he leered after women, and the fact he had both her fiancé and her best friend wrapped around his cigarette-stained fingers.

She couldn't detest Seamus Finnigan more if she tried.

She hated that Ron and Harry got on so well with him. She wanted to tell them he was a bad influence — had tried to — but ended up with a condescending pat on the head and a curt reminder that they were no longer in school.

At first when Seamus started to come around to her childhood home — left to her in her parent's will and immediately invaded by Weasleys — she was convinced he was responsible for leading her boys astray, turning them into heavy-drinking, porn-watching arseholes. But, over the past year, she began to realise that Ron and Harry had actually just become that way themselves, joining the Auror Program with most of their classmates, training during the day and boozing every night. At first, Hermione didn't mind; they'd just survived a war that had stolen their childhoods, but the partying got out of control and personalities changed, while Hermione seemed to be the only one who remained the same.

Ginny was so obsessed with the Holyhead Harpies that Hermione hardly ever saw her, and — judging by what Harry had just said — neither did he.

"Mate, I know Gin's my sister but listen—" Ron began, cracking open another can, "if she's not putting out then you need to get out. Or play on the side. Dad's been shaggin' Mary Cattermole for years. After havin' seven kids, he said Mum's—"

Hermione put her hands over her ears; she didn't want to hear the rest. The Weasleys had once been her surrogate family, now they were invaders in her home, constantly popping in and giving unwanted advice. Molly was always picking at Hermione, belittling her career — Hermione planned to work her way up through the Ministry and one day run for the top position — and constantly telling her 'a Weasley wife was a dutiful wife'. If Hermione Granger thought she could continue working after marriage and neglect her husband and family, then she was out of her mind. It simply wasn't done! Fleur was a perfect homemaker, already pregnant with her third child, and an expert at soufflés. Audrey had given up work as soon as she'd married Percy and was three months gone, happily at home all day practising her needlework. Angelina only worked part-time at the shop when George was busy — she spent the rest of her spare time at Hermione's house along with Molly, commenting on every item left behind by the late Mr and Mrs Granger.

Molly was also in denial about Ginny's career, convinced that her youngest was far too influenced by Hermione's ridiculous feminist ideals. The chance to make her only daughter the future Mrs Harry Potter had been foremost in Molly's mind since the morning Ron had written home to inform her the young boy they'd met on Platform 9¾ the previous Sunday was actually The Boy Who Lived.

Having Harry Potter as her only son-in-law would escalate Molly Weasley into the circles of society she craved, surpassing the likes of Narcissa Malfoy and Primula Parkinson. If only Ginny would just give up that stupid sport, get a Potter ring on her finger, and start churning out little red headed green-eyed babies faster than you could say grandchildren.

Tempus Fugit.

Molly and Arthur never spoke about Charlie.

There had been plenty to say when Sirius came out — Molly's loud and unwanted opinion would have put Walburga Black to shame — but the day she'd walked in on 'the convict' and her second-eldest child, she'd denounced Charlie as her son. Arthur had said nothing, but his disgust was obvious.

Charlie and Sirius left England two days later, married in Romania, and were blissfully happy together. Hermione was insanely jealous.

Hermione was dragged back to the present by the taste of blood as she realised she'd bitten through her lower lip. She ran her tongue over the wound, wincing at the sting, her minding racing.

"So, whatya sayin', Ron? You don't get anythin' like that?" Seamus' loud accent broke her thoughts.

"Well… we do some stuff, I guess," she heard her fiancé reply. "Just not what I want. I mean, I've suggested all sorts but she's not into… I mean, she's not vanilla but she's just not much fun. Lav used to love it when we got hot and heavy; I'd get a bit rough and she'd fucking scream for it. Mione will get on top once in a while but she'll always close her eyes, you'd think she doesn't want to fucking look at me. Fucking pisses me off."

"How 'bout you two find some pussy to keep yis busy?"

"It's beginning to look like we'll have to," Harry moaned. "Porn and wanking are getting fucking boring."

"Yeah," Ron took a loud slurp from his Muggle beer can. "At this stage, I'm… eh… I'm thinking of… well…"

"Throwin' the leg somewhere else?" Seamus filled in the blanks. "Tellin' yis, lads. It's the only way."

Ron belched, no doubt with his mouth wide open. "I'd love another go at Lav…"

"Look, Ron, life's too short," Harry piped up.

Harry Potter, Hermione's supposed best friend. What a fucking joke.

"Shay's right," he continued. "I love Gin, I fucking love her so much. But while she's out there riding a fucking broom, my balls are going blue. You and 'Mione are going nowhere; she's only interested in her books and her work. Remember we used to say 'the only thing that'll turn Hermione on is a page'? Go try Lav — you need it. I'm going to talk to Gin one more time and see if she'll cop the fuck on. If not, well…"

She listened to the three of them discuss her as if she were a frigid plank of virginal wood in bed, counting each insult on her fingers, and stopping to glance at the huge rock of sheer bling that should have weighed down her left hand but instead constantly twisted around due to its light weight and ill-fitting size.

Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was time. She'd put off the inevitable for too long, hoping that Ron would change and become the man she'd always hoped he would be. But she knew — deep down she'd always known — he was a lazy, selfish, uncultured, boring, disgusting slob. Just like she'd tried to convince herself that the Weasleys were not the family from hell, and Harry only had her best interests at heart.

Bollocks.

Moving carefully, Hermione stood and crept across the landing into her bedroom. She had told Ron she needed an early night; it wouldn't do for him to hear dainty footsteps overhead and come upstairs after Harry and Seamus left, looking for a drunken shag.

Listening carefully, she heard him open the refrigerator, calling back into the living room that they'd have to go out for more beer.

"Why don't we head to The White Horse?" Harry asked. "It's Monday. Darts night."

"Fuck, yeah," Seamus added. "Don't they serve chilli to the darts team on Mondays? Reckon we could score a few bowls if I look the right way at the piece behind the bar."

"White Horse, it is so." Harry rubbed his hands together. "See you there?"

Three pops of Disapparation followed, and Hermione was alone.

She grabbed her beaded bag and opened her wardrobe, emptying the rails and shelves of all her clothing and accessories. Being the organised and slightly obsessive witch she was, the internal compartments of the bag resembled a mini apartment; she could technically live inside the bag if she wanted.

But who'd ever put their entire life inside a piece of luggage? A ridiculous thought!

Hermione walked methodically around the house, gathering toiletries and mementos. Sadly it didn't take long to collect them; Molly had started redecorating a few weeks before, when she knew her future daughter-in-law would be at work, immediately relocating to the Burrow the ornaments and furniture Mr and Mrs Granger had spent their entire married life collecting. All Hermione had left was a small nest of tables, a novelty china teapot in the shape of a washing machine, and four photographs.

Finally, stepping over the empty beer cans and out into the hallway, she removed the gaudy engagement ring that continually spun around her finger. Ron told her he'd had it made with her in mind — a brilliant diamond for his girl. But when she'd held the ring up close to her face and her breath had fogged the stone, Hermione knew it was as cheap as he was. Why she didn't walk out on Ron Weasley then, she'd no idea.

She leaned down to place it gently on the wooden floor, stood back up, took a deep breath, and smashed her foot onto it so hard, the glass shattered into a myriad of tiny pieces.

"Just like my love for you, Ronald Weasley," she said out loud, squaring her shoulders. "You and your fucking family."

Villiers Public House was small and dark, lit only by small lamps scattered around the walls. It couldn't hold more than fifty people at any one time, but it was perfect. Mr Granger used to meet his colleagues there after work every Thursday because the pub 'served the best ale in the whole of London!'

He had brought Hermione into the pub once, when they'd spent the day sightseeing together, just before her tenth birthday. She'd needed the loo, and he'd desperately needed a pint after all of her exhaustive questions. She'd loved the darkness, the shabbiness, the chatter amongst the men as they drank whisky or lowered pints, large working-class hands wrapped around their glasses.

Hermione slipped in through the door quietly, remembering a small alcove to the right of the bar, wondering if the inside of the establishment would be any different. She shouldn't have been surprised to see that it wasn't, fifteen years later. The stools were all lined up, dark wood scratched from years of overalls, jeans, and thick-soled boots. The mahogany bar hadn't changed, the mirror in the middle of the shelving advertising Port Ellen whisky — a scotch no longer distilled. The doors to the toilets were in the same place, the ladies' sign still crooked.

The only part of the pub that had changed — as far as Hermione could see — was the cushioned seating around the perimeter. It used to be a dull brown, almost lost against the panelled mahogany interior. Now it was a rich emerald, warm and inviting, its colour mirrored in the seating of the chairs neatly tucked under the various shaped tables.

The colour reminded Hermione of a certain family.

A family no one had heard of since the Battle of Hogwarts.

All she knew was Voldemort had killed one of them not long before his own demise. The remaining two had not been seen since.

She thought about them often. She thought about him often. He had been the subject of many teenage fantasies; he also featured regularly in Hermione's mind when she'd close her eyes and wish the body moving against her was his, not Ron's.

If ever there was a man Hermione Granger longed to have above her, beneath her, touching her, holding her — it was him.

He hadn't been heard of in seven years. Neither of them had. But it never stopped her wondering.

The barman got her attention by waving a ragged dishcloth in front of her face.

"You alright there, my love? What can I get you?"

"What? Oh, yes, I'm fine, thank you." Hermione smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear nervously. "I'll have a But— sorry, a Baileys over ice, please."

"Comin' right up," he smiled, tapping the bar before turning his back to her.

Hermione sat up on one of the old barstools in the alcove, looking around the rest of the pub briefly. There were three other patrons — all male. Two were watching the 19.15 from Doncaster on the small screen to the left of the bar, the other halfway through a broadsheet's cryptic crossword.

Her drink appeared in front of her, accompanied by a wide smile from the barman. She nodded her thanks and settled in silence.

Hermione traced the condensation slipping down the side of the engraved tumbler as time went by, ignoring the sudden sound of the door opening and the brief rumble of the busy London evening that filled the air.

"Raphael, Carlos!" The barman turned away from the horse racing, ripping up a small betting slip. "Usual?"

"Si, grazie, Jerry." A heavily accented reply caught Hermione's attention. She glanced sideways through her hair, spotting two massive giants making their way to the bar. Hermione blinked a few times, shocked to see such well-dressed and obviously well-to-do punters in her dad's old pub.

The sound of fresh coffee beans in a grinder had Hermione choking on her drink. This… this was a man's pub… they had crisps behind the bar and… pork scratchings! Here she was, watching two Italian titans in designer suits being served espresso in tiny cups with shots of Grappa on the side.

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

"One day you'll drink pints for me, lads," Jerry joked, watching with an amused expression as they rinsed out their empty cups with the liqueur before swallowing it down in one gulp. "Boss on his way?"

"Just finishing a call," Giant Number Two answered this time. Giant Number One was receiving a text message.

"He's ready," Number One announced, pocketing his phone. "Same again, usual for Mr M, Jerry."

"Righto."

And the air was once again filled with the scream of shredded coffee beans and the hum of London traffic.

Hermione shifted in her chair to see who this Mr M was, curious to find out a little more about the person who appeared to have… what? Bodyguards? Gardeners?

She smiled at her own joke, nodding at Jerry to replace her empty glass when he was ready.

"Serve Ms Granger first, Jerry, if you don't mind."

Hermione froze, her hammering heart the only part of her moving as it threatened to break out of her chest like Giger's alien. She hadn't heard that voice in years, but she'd recognise it anywhere.

How, in her many fantasies, he'd whisper in her ear as he took her from behind, his breath on her skin, his hands… Merlin, his hands…

She kept staring ahead, trying desperately to regulate her breathing. Jerry placed another Baileys in front of her, frowning slightly at her expression.

"You alright, Miss?"

"I'm sure she's fine," that fine aristocratic voice answered quickly. "Ms Granger is, no doubt, surprised to hear my voice. It has been quite some time since we last saw each other."

"Seven years," she whispered to herself. "Seven years, four months, and sixteen days."

He reached for the drink Jerry had set beside her own. A rich amber liquid lapped around two cubes of ice, she heard them clink together as his fingers slid around the glass.

"You two know each other then?"

"Ms Granger attended school with my son."

"Ah, I see," Jerry replied casually. "Haven't seen Draco around for some time now. He away?"

"Amsterdam. Still working for me but prefers to live over there." The conversation was paused briefly as he sipped his drink. "Ah, the 25 year old. A perfect age… so rich, perfect for savouring, harsh at first but softening as one experiences the… peach for the first time."

Hermione swallowed, her hands tightening around her drink.

It was now or never.

Slowly she turned her head.

The stretch of his left arm as he held up his tumbler showed the glint of an elegant silver watch against a plain leather strap. That caught Hermione's attention for a moment. How… Muggle. In fact, his entire outfit was distinctly Muggle; he was wearing a steel grey three-piece suit, his charcoal tie perfectly aligned in front of a pristine white shirt. She didn't look down towards his shoes but figured they'd be man-made and luxurient. Instead, Hermione looked up.

And gasped.

His shaven skin glowed with health, his cool grey eyes — flecked with the tiniest hints of green and blue — holding a warmth she had never seen before. But his hair…

Holy bloody fuck!

Gone was the long, feather-soft white-blond hair the Malfoy men were famous for. His cut was positively masculine — short at the sides and back, neatly combed back away from his forehead, and the shade of darkest brown that could easily be mistaken for black.

He was beautiful. Elegant. Stunning.

Here.

"Wh-where have you b-been?" She stammered, her eyes wide. "It… it's been—"

"Seven years, four months, and sixteen days," he laughed. "You weren't as quiet as you thought. It's a delight to meet with you again… under different circumstances."

"I-I..."

"Join me? Please?" He indicated towards the back of the pub, where Carlos was already holding open the door to the ladies' toilets.

Hermione jumped off the barstool, her fingers twitching towards the narrow pocket in her jeans that housed her wand. "What are… what's going on?"

He laughed again. "It's… magic," he grinned, leaning down to speak a little closer to her, checking from the corner of his eye that the patrons at the bar weren't in earshot. His breath caressed her cheek, instantly reminding Hermione of her many fantasies involving the man in front of her. "No women come anywhere near this pub, the wards are charmed to repel them. But there's always been one exception, just one. A lock of your hair—" his eyes flickered away from her face, momentarily mesmerized by the lusciousness of her chestnut curls "—procured by Draco years ago was embedded into the wards, on the off chance that perhaps, one day, you'd… drop by."

"How…"

"Oh, he had his ways. I think I remember him telling me he got Miss Bulstrode to pull your hair… anyway, that's neither here nor there. Please, join me. I came as soon as the wards alerted me to your presence, we have much to discuss."

Hermione couldn't think; this was all too surreal. Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world…

Lucius Malfoy was standing in her dad's old pub in Muggle London, looking like he owned the place.