A/N: Hello there and welcome to Scripted! I'm so excited (and nervous!) you're joining me for this!

DISCLAIMER: This story was inspired by and based on The Ugly Truth with Gerard Butler and Katherine Heigl. Subsequently, there will be some direct and some altered quotes from The Ugly Truth. Much of the story line will be similar, though I've altered it to correspond to the magical world. I also own no part of the Harry Potter franchise

Before we get started, I wanted to quickly shout out my two wonderful alphas, LadyKenz347 and mcal, for their help and encouragement on this piece. In addition, In Dreams and dreamsofdramione are boss beta babes, and I'm so grateful for their help.

Chapter 1 - A Rock and A Hard Place

"Morning, Hermione! Can you—"

"Hermione! You're looking beautiful this morning! Did you—"

Only seven in the morning and someone was already assaulting her before she'd even made it over the lift's threshold.

Today was going to be just lovely.

A hand settled on her elbow, guiding her deftly between her employees and settling a paper coffee cup in her hand. "Deep breaths—it's too early to yell."

Clinging to the coffee cup like a lifeline, Hermione strode across the office floor. "What is it, Daph?" She reached her office door, once again admiring the curling script across the gilded editor-in-chief plaque she'd had affixed to the door when she'd taken over Witch Weekly. With a wave of her wand, the locking charms lifted, a series of clicks and snaps prefacing the turn of the handle as she slid her wand back in her pocket. She bumped the door open with her hip, reaching a hand back for the folio Daphne held with a quizzical lift of her brow. "Well?"

"The letters from the editor came in; they're don't look pleasant." Folded bits of red parchment peeked out the edges of the folder, and Hermione couldn't help but notice the folder shook with the parchment's rage to escape its confines. "And Susan Bones wasn't able to finish the column on equal pay for women Quidditch professionals. Something about the League blocking her request for comments."

A dull throb began in Hermione's temples, spreading across the back of her skull as she mentally flipped through the issue front to back. "Okay, not a problem. We still have that article you wrote on the dangers of ashwood harvesting, right? The one about conserving Bowtruckle habitats?"

Daphne nodded, jotting down the sub on a pad of paper. "I'll have it updated by press time." With a few more flips of the parchment, making sure everything was in order, Daphne nodded. "That covers it. I'll get these to the printer." A wave of Daphne's wand sent the rest of the issue hurtling out the door and down the hall. She was left standing with a considerably smaller folio, a small grin lighting her features.

Hermione knew that look—the one that spelled more mischief than she was equipped to deal with—and she lifted a brow at Daphne while canting her chin at the folder. "Well, get on with it."

Daphne gripped the sheath of papers, refusing to hand them over before Hermione sat. "I've gone through the list of classifieds in the Daily; most of them are rubbish, but this one…" A folded clipping of newspaper and several photos landed on Hermione's desk with a thud, sending a wave of paperwork to the floor. An apologetic half smile lilted Daphne's cheeks, but she waved her wand and stabbed the end of it against the paper. "This one looks promising."

Though she rolled her eyes, Hermione picked up the clipping, scanning the contents. Single, eligible bachelor looking for a well-rounded conversationalist who likes wine and a good verbal sparring about potions ingredients and the current socio-political climate.

She sat back in her office chair. Well, that was promising. Scanning the rest of it, she refused to show how impressed she was by the remainder of the ad.

Before her, Daphne grinned. "My exact reaction." She pinched her fingers at Hermione, indicating the paper, and Hermione handed it over reluctantly. "There's a Floo address at the bottom—looks like one of those rerouting addresses so he doesn't have to put his home down." Her gaze flicked up to Hermione with a salacious wink. "Smart and single."

Hermione hummed. "But what's the catch?" Her hand dropped to the table's edge, drumming her fingertips impatiently. She hated that she'd stooped to trolling the bloody classifieds for a suitable date. "There's always a catch."

She drew back when Daphne let out a heavy sigh and dropped into the chair across from her. "There's always a catch because you always look for a catch. Hermione, you're a desirable witch at the top of her career. You've got—"

"To loosen up and give someone a chance. Thank you, Daph, for repeating the same thing you've told me at least fifty times now." Hermione waved her hand, flipping through the calendar on her desk to double check her plans for the day. "Davison will be in at noon; we're discussing the direction of the magazine."

The jovial mood quickly drained from Daphne's face, and the other girl drew her lip in her mouth, staring down at the red ink. "What do you think?"

Hermione steepled her fingers together to hide their tremour. Witch Weekly wasn't unsuccessful by any means… but subscriptions had been dropping off lately, and she found that she was nervous to have an in-person meeting with their most difficult—and only—investor. She pushed herself upright, a forced smile pulling painfully at her cheeks. "I guess we'll find out, won't we? No sense in dreading it. Can you prepare a report on our demographic? Particularly what's changed in the last renewal cycle."

With a nod of assent, Daphne stood, crossing the room. When her hand closed on the doorknob, she turned her gaze back to Hermione. "We'll figure it out; we always do."

A tight smile preceded her response. "We will." The door fell to a crack behind Daphne, and after a beat, during which she twirled a quill between her fingertips, Hermione called after her friend. "Daph?"

The clicks of her heels sounded outside the door, and when it opened again, Daphne poked her head in. "Yeah, boss?"

With a decisive snap, she placed the quill back on her desk. "Why don't you give that ad a call?" She ignore the sick roil of nerves in her stomach at the way Daphne's face lit up. "I have a feeling I'll need a distraction tonight."

Hermione loved her job. She truly did. Regardless of the ridiculous bureaucratic tape she had to deal with every day, the disgruntled not-all-men crowd who were louder than their protestations merited, and the subpar pay, she loved it.

What she didn't love was having to deal with Nyles Davison.

He was a narcissistic creep, and though he was mostly harmless, he used his money to try to influence the content of Witch Weekly, a fact Hermione was more than a little perturbed about.

A rustle of papers grabbed Hermione's attention. "You see, it's just that… well, while our numbers climbed for the female eighteen to twenty-four demographic, virtually every other demographic has fallen." Daphne's lips slipped into a frown. "Print subscriptions declined to an all-time low, and…" She sighed, flicking her gaze to Hermione. "The mailing office has reported an increase in Howlers after last month's exposé on creatures' rights."

Nodding to herself, Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Davison beat her to the punch.

"So what you're saying is the magazine is failing." The smug lilt to his voice burrowed in Hermione's forehead, drilling her already irritating headache deeper. When he waved his meaty hand at Daphne in a request for the papers, Hermione nearly screamed.

She took a deep breath to bolster herself, burying her frustration as deeply as she could. "Sir, I know what it looks like, but you have to understand that these numbers are still an improvement over where they were when I took over." Slapping her hands on the desk louder than was strictly necessary, Hermione pushed herself backward, rising so she could lean over the table. "If you look at the numbers in review from this time five years ago, you can see—"

Davison tutted at her, pulling the papers out of Daphne's grasp, and a fresh wave of irritation crashed over her. Only a sharp nod from Daphne kept her from snapping. "I see, Miss Granger, but better than five years ago isn't quite up to par, is it?" He hummed, eyeing the stack of Howlers Daphne had piled alongside the conference table, some still lolling their tongues out as they lazily spewed the remnants of anger they'd been infused with. "In all my years as an investor, I've never heard a backslide described as a good thing."

Hermione's fingers curled in on themselves on the tabletop, a low ringing starting in her ears. "Yes, sir, I understand, but—"

"I don't think you do, Miss Granger. You see, I'm a businessman." He set the papers down, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he stared up at her. "I knew you were on to something when you said Witch Weekly needed an overhaul; I even supported it." His lip turned up a bit at his liberal use of the word supported, as though he'd been anything but a roadblock as she fought tooth and nail to get it where it was. "Backslides mean loss of interest. And loss of interest means lost revenue, which means I won't be happy."

The ringing in her head grew louder, her teeth gritting painfully as she bit back the angry retort that sprang to her tongue.

A coy smile flitted across his lips. "You've had your time to make Witch Weekly what you wanted it. Now, I think it's time some of my propositions were taken into account." He wrapped his knuckles once on the table and stood, extending a hand to Hermione. "It's time we brought on some fresh blood, don't you think?"

Reluctantly, she took his proferred hand, squeezing it harder than necessary to alleviate some of her frustration. "Sir?"

"You've done a lot for young witches, yes, but what about young wizards who need a role model, someone to look up to?" His gaze flickered with amusement even as she bit her tongue and forced her eyes to keep from rolling. "It's time Witch Weekly got another facelift."

Hermione hadn't been able to focus since she'd left the meeting. Witch Weekly didn't need another facelift. It was doing just fine on its own. What it needed was society to get their collective heads out of their arses.

A pit of anxiety had settled in the well of her stomach, inky black and distracting her from the paperwork at hand, so she pushed it away with a sigh. When she propped her head on her hands and stared around her office, her gaze snagged on the awards propped on her bookshelf.

Most Promising Magazine for Young Witches and Wizards 2010.

Entrepreneur of the Year 2008.

Ministry of Magic's Social Change Award - Publications Division 2009.

Hogwarts' Favourite Real-World Mag 2008.

Though the last one made her cringe, all of them were tangible reminders of how much she'd changed the industry in just a few years.

Across from her, Daphne tapped her pen nervously, following her gaze to the shelf. "It'll be alright, Hermione. Maybe we just need to—"

"Need to what, Daph? Abandon the principles we've established because society is too slow to catch up?" She cringed at the scorn in her tone, but she shouldered forward. "I don't want to compromise that because some arsehole doesn't believe in what we publish." Her lips flattened into a thin line. "It's not that I don't think wizards need a role model; you know my stance on the inherent toxic masculinity in magical culture, but Witch Weekly has always been a publication for witches." The argument made her feel crummier than she already did, stuck between a rock and a hard place, and she sighed. "We've just worked so hard to give young witches a voice, to get out from under all that pure-blood dogma we've been mired in for so long. But…"

Daphne nodded, but when she looked at Hermione, her expression was contrite. "But if we don't find a way to meet in the middle…"

Hermione sighed. "We lose the magazine."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them as the clock ticked to five, both witches at a loss for what to do.

Saturday evening arrived too soon, and Hermione stood in the foyer of a new restaurant in wizarding London. Her date had chosen it, and though she cringed a bit at not being asked for any input, she supposed that was one of the perils of having her friend set up her blind dates. He was supposed to meet her there at seven o'clock sharp, but she'd arrived early to scope it out.

It was… nice enough, she reasoned. If one liked spending entirely too much money on subpar dishes she likely could have made better at home for a fraction of the cost. But it was his suggestion, and she couldn't help the side of her that aimed to please. If he thought it was good, then so be it.

She stalked up to the bar, eyeing the ostentatious decor with a slight grimace. It was all swanky blacks and golds, reminiscent of the charity galas she'd been forced to attend to schmooze for investments, and she wasn't sure she liked the falsity of it all. Instead of deconstructing the interior further, she sidled up to the counter and waved a hand, ordering a glass of Elf-made wine.

Time passed as she slowly drained her glass, and after ten minutes with no sign of her date, she crossed the room to the attendant, a young woman clad in expensive black robes and a sleek, blonde bob. The only splash of colour on the girl's face was a deep burgundy stain painted across her lips.

"Excuse me." She tried to keep her voice low, as unassuming as possible in case she missed him though still speaking loud enough to be heard over the restored gramophone strategically placed aside the hostess stand. "I'm meeting someone tonight. He should be arriving in a navy suit, quite smart looking, glasses… perhaps a bit built?" Hermione felt colour rise to her cheeks at the description, but that's all Daphne had given her to go on.

The hostess smiled blandly, lifting an arm to gesture behind her, and Hermione froze when a familiar voice bellowed over the elegant string music. "Hermione!" A Bulgarian accent, entirely too loud…

A set of burly arms wrapped around her middle as her date spun her in a circle ,and her suspicions were confirmed. Finally back on her own two feet, she turned to face him, the world wobbling fractionally as she took in his wide, toothy smile.

"Viktor? I'm here for—"

"A date! With me." The excitement in his tone was endearing, but Hermione couldn't help the disappointment that lanced through her as she took in his navy suit jacket paired with trousers that were two sizes too big and… oh gods, were those ratty old trainers? He had the decency to look a little chagrined as he slipped plastic frames off his face. "I heard through Ginny that you were single and going through classifieds for a date, so I thought…"

When his words trailed off, Hermione pasted a smile on her face and leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek. She made a mental note to send Ginevra Weasley a very strongly worded Howler when she got home. "Let's see what we can make of it, yeah? It's been a long time. The least we can do is catch up."

The hostess barely hid her eye roll as Viktor's laugh barked between them, escorting them to a table near the back of the room. The lights were dim, candles burning in its centre, and the music was drowned out by the quiet chatter of the tables around them. Hermione approached the table first, hoping that he'd take the hint and pull out her chair out, but instead, he edged around her, his hand far lower on her back than was acceptable in public, and he slouched into his seat.

With a sympathetic grimace, the hostess caught her eye as she lowered herself delicately into her own chair. "Your waiter will be with you shortly. In the meantime, can I get you a drink?"

Hermione declined, dipping her head to hide the discomfort staining her cheeks, while Viktor loudly exclaimed, "We'll have a bottle of your oldest elf-made wine. I don't give a nargle's arse about the cost."

Balking, Hermione snapped her head up to look at him. "Viktor, that's really not necessary. I'm fine with—"

He waved her off, stoking the embers of irritation that had been smouldering since leaving the office. "Only the best for my Hermoninny." He smiled like the mispronunciation of her name was their private joke.

A tight smile from the hostess indicated her discomfort, so Hermione acquiesced. "The wine, then."

Silence settled between them as Viktor reached across the table and took both her hands in his. After a moment, he spoke, his thumb swiping across her knuckles. "I know this isn't exactly conventional, but… I thought we might give this a try again considering how it ended last time."

Hermione didn't need the reminder. "Viktor, you cheated on me, with my best friend, no less. That's not exactly the start of a great love story."

"Madam. Monsieur." Their waiter arrived with a poorly affected French accent, flourishing the bottle of wine before them, and Viktor nodded towards Hermione. She delicately raised a glass, allowing the man to pour a sip for both of them before she lifted the glass to her lips, stifling the gag at the strong vinegar edge to the wine. Viktor slapped a hand to his knee though, nodding enthusiastically, tilting his glass for more.

After filling both glasses—much to Hermione's despair—the waiter swept into a low bow. "Has the lovely couple decided what they'd like to eat?"

Hermione started, reaching for the list of dishes, but Viktor tugged it from her grasp. "We'll have the oysters." Her gaze flicked to his, horror rearing up in her as he winked over a sip of wine. "That'll be all."

Sputtering, she reached for her water, desperate to cleanse the vinegar out of her mouth and clarify her order, but the waiter bowed deeply again, leaving her fuming while Viktor leaned back, a salacious smile on his lips. Her voice was weaker than she intended when she finally said, "I don't like oysters. You know that."

Viktor wasn't deterred though, pausing long enough for their waiter to get a few strides away before he spoke, ignoring the tension in her shoulders. "You just need to give this a chance, Hermoninny. We'll be good together." He smiled up at her through his lashes with another exaggerated wink. "Besides, they're an aphrodisiac."

Finally, the tightly wound cord of her frustration snapped. She pushed the chair backwards with a harsh screech on the quasi-upscale wooden flooring, drawing the eyes of the other patrons. A harsh tug drew her hand back into her own lap. "Let's get a couple things straight."

Viktor blinked at her owlishly, all traces of joviality gone as his face smoothed into harsh lines she was all-too familiar with. "Hermione—"

She raised her hand, stopping him before she started ticking points off on one hand, the pitch of her voice climbing with each one. "You took out a fake ad to lure me here on a date after cheating on me with Ron Weasley, of all people." Lifting another finger, she continued, "You know how much I hate people speaking for me, and yet you took the liberty of ordering me a dish I don't even like. This restaurant is dreadful, and— and you don't even wear glasses!" The last two fingers popped up in quick succession, and she applauded herself for lasting longer than the typical three strikes.

Hermione rose to her feet, tucking her clutch under her arm as she tried to smile down at him, painfully aware of everyone watching her. "I'd have gone on a date with you if you asked; I believe in second chances. But this… this is not the way to get a woman to notice you."

Head held high, Hermione swept away, the click of her heels drowning out his plaintive voice calling her name. She didn't miss the flicker of solidarity in the hostess' eyes when she stalked toward the door.

Dating was the bloody worst.

But she didn't want to go home. No, going home to curl up with Crookshanks was a defeat she didn't want to admit, so she made her way down the cobblestone street, cursing silently to herself when her heel got caught in a gap. A wave of her wand transfigured the sexy black pumps into sensible flats she wished she'd worn to begin with. A sigh of relief gusted past her lips before she continued on, marginally more comfortable.

It wasn't that she didn't want to find someone. It wasn't even that she had anything in particular against Krum other than tricking her into a date instead of confronting their sordid history head-on.

She just had such high expectations. Call it naiveté or hopeless romanticism, but she wanted a man that wanted her just the way she was: every last bossy, insatiably nerdy, driven bit of her.

As she rounded a corner, another diner came into view, the large glass windows lit from within by ambient lighting that made the whole place look cozy. Large, overstuffed booths were filled with couples, and she paused, watching the way one pair leaned into each other on the bench seat, laughing at something their counterparts said across from them. When she threw her head back in laughter and he tucked her hair behind her ear with adoring creases around his eyes, Hermione's heart clenched.

She wanted that kind of love.

The stay at home on a Sunday in their pyjamas kind of love. The love of a man who was career-driven, who could spar with her over new research, who didn't mind that she had a system established that denoted exactly where food went in the fridge and outlined how long it could remain there before it went in the bin. The kind of love that wouldn't care when she lost herself in her work and encouraged her every step of the way.

Shoulders slumped, Hermione carried on, making the long trek back to her flat. She could Apparate home, yes, but… she'd dressed up for once, and she didn't want to waste a perfectly good outfit on a night spent moping at home.

Wizarding London was pretty at night, the sky overhead charmed to show the stars despite the light pollution from the Muggle community surrounding them. It was tranquil and relaxing, and—

Before her, a door opened, the sound of muffled laughter spilling out onto the street, and she paused as she chewed on her lip, warring with conflicting curiosity and the desire to just go home. In the spirit of salvaging some of her night, she threw caution to the wind and ducked in the open doorway.

Mismatched tables littered the floor, but her attention was pulled from the decor when a familiar voice drawled at the front of the room, their voice amplified by a Sonorous. "Witches don't know what they really want." Light flickered off the speaker's white-blond hair, and when he turned to face the audience, a sneer worked its way up her lips.

Malfoy.

"They play coy, teasing you until they've got you in their grasp before they back off. Then they have the audacity to blame you!" The crowd—mostly men, now that she looked—muttered their agreement, though a few women sat watching with their arms crossed over their chests. "You know what they really ought to do?"

Someone in the audience shouted, "Get laid!"

Malfoy shrugged. "If the snitch flies… men don't want a woman who lives to point out his every little flaw. We want a woman who talks a little less and does a little more of this." He pumped his hand in front of his mouth with a lewd wink, sending another laugh rumbling through the audience, but Hermione straightened, tension returning to her shoulders as an angry flush burned on her cheeks.

Despite her better judgment, Hermione spoke up when the crowd settled. "You know, there are some men out there—good men," she amended, "who would be happy to have a woman who knows exactly what she wants and makes sure her man knows it."

On the stage, Malfoy lifted a hand to his brow, squinting out into the shadows. "I'll bite, love. What's his name?"

Her pulse stuttered, and she tightened her arms around himself. "Well, he doesn't have a name, but he's sweet and charming. He likes to read, and he loves to debate but is gracious enough to acquiesce when he knows he's wrong."

Someone in front of her scoffed, muttering under his breath, "Good fucking luck with that."

Malfoy nodded. "Are you sure you're not dating a professor? This isn't Hogwarts, love, this is real life."

Bristling, Hermione snapped, "Well, I'm not dating him, but he's out there… somewhere." She bit her lip, already regretting speaking up when Malfoy slapped a hand against his leg.

"So he's fictional! Got it; you're ugly. Look, why don't you go back to your books, and we'll talk when you leave that fantasy world of yours." Another laugh echoed through the crowd, the other men jeering while the women looked on with vague expressions of sympathy.

She didn't wait long enough to hear the laughter die down, tears springing to her eyes as she stomped out the door and Apparated back to her flat, evening ruined.

When her alarm went off Monday morning, Hermione didn't want to get out of bed. When she tripped over her discarded heels from Saturday night, she really considered Flooing in sick. And when she finally arrived in the office with a sour attitude and lacking her usual cup of coffee, she wanted to pull her hair out at what awaited her.

Boisterous laughter echoed down the hall, an irregular occurrence on a Monday morning. A surreptitious glance at her wristwatch told her it was indeed a quarter to eight, and she couldn't for the life of her guess who would show up to work before her other than Daphne.

Suspicion curling up her spine, Hermione crossed the floor to her office, trying to catch a glimpse of the intruders between the slats in her blinds. Nothing. But then… Daphne's voice, laced with begrudging amusement, rang down the hall.

After taking a moment to gather her files and straighten her skirt, Hermione marched across the hall, pushing the cracked door open. Just as she was about to greet her colleagues when she stopped short.

Davison grinned up at her, a piece of parchment clutched in his sweaty hands as he wiped tears of laughter away from the corners of his eyes. "Miss Granger! Just the witch I wanted to see!"

Trepidation a physical presence within her, she eyed him suspiciously as her heart hammered. "Davison. You're in an unusually good mood this morning." She settled into her seat, arranging her quill exactly parallel to her stack of papers.

Inexplicably, he stood, smiling jovially down at her as he leaned across the table. "I know how to save Witch Weekly." The small part of her that had worried he was there to shut it down once and for all leapt with relief, but then she saw the glint in his eyes. "I happened upon him Saturday night, and, well… he's genius if I say so myself."

The piece of parchment he'd held landed before her, but Hermione didn't miss the pronoun that came with it: he. The parchment's surface was covered with tight, curly script, and though she found herself admiring the penmanship, the content immediately wiped the feigned smile off her face.

Wizards want exactly one thing, and that's a witch who understands that wizards are a visual species. You want a relationship? Get on a broom and take some laps, engage that core, and tone up.

The writing went on, but Hermione dropped it to the table, disgust curling her lip. "What kind of utter tosh is—"

"That, Granger, is called quality content, and it's going to save your little magazine."

She knew that voice. Her hackles rose at the suave confidence in it, the swagger she could already see in his step as she turned around. And sure enough, there he was.

Draco Malfoy.

He lounged against the open doorway, a derisive smile twisting his lips as he eyed her up and down. She took the opportunity to do the same, assessing the vee of his tight-fitting t-shirt that showed off a smattering of light blond chest hair. Intricate tattoos snaked up his left forearm, and Hermione wrenched her gaze upward when he started chuckling only to find an appreciative glint in his eye that certainly hadn't been there before.

"What do you know? Little Miss Swot's all grown up."

There's the end of chapter one! I value your thoughts!

This fic is twelve chapters long, and eight and a half of them are already written. Updates will be once a week on Fridays.