Tuesday, April 29th, 2003

She walked a quick step, contemplating the idea of hanging herself instead of going to work this early in the morning. Feeling the air escape her lungs as she exhaled in the cold and humid breeze, she wondered if it would remain stuck in there if she were to hang herself at the end of a thick rope, tightly knotted around her neck. Would the pressure, if ever felt more than a few seconds, be unbearable? Or would it feel strangely reminiscent of disapparating? Would her vision blur as she'd feel dizziness wash over her, or would her sight become vivid and acutely precise on one point, while the outskirts of her peripheral vision blacken?

"Hey! Watch it!" She didn't even try to mumble the instinctive apology she felt bubble up under her lips for the passer-by ungracefully knocked off his path. She didn't even spare him a glance, after all, she didn't care.

A wind blow swept her hood back off her hair and, trying to grab it back, she stumbled over the slippery pavement. Missing about an inch falling on her arse, she managed to steady herself, slapping her left hand on the brick wall of the building.

She was soaked on the feet, her smart leather laced shoes now a pool where her toes swam, producing squishy noises as she started walking again.

He was late, again. He hurried his pace along the wet pavement, his wrinkled shirt making another irritating appearance from under his jacket. Tucking it back annoyingly in his pants, he winced in pain as someone knocked him off his feet.

"Hey! Watch it!" He barked at the petite figure that didn't even spare him a glance and kept walking as if nothing. Steadying himself against the brick wall, he growled.

"Rude little piece of …" He cut himself as he saw the hood of her cloak being blown back, releasing a cascade of chestnut brown frizzy hair. Unmistakable. As a small hand tried to put it back on, he watched with glee as she slipped on the pavement, and barely managed not to fall right on her golden arse by slapping a hand firmly to the brick wall. She started walking again, as if nothing. She would soon cross the street or turn a corner and, placing a smirk on his lips, he turned back decidedly. His friend could wait, not running but stepping quickly, he called:

"Granger!" She didn't even flinch nor made any movement betraying she'd heard him, so he called again:

"Oi! Granger!" Either she ignored him or she was deaf. He bet on the first.

"Hey book-worm!" There, she halted. He had almost reached her when he saw her shoulders raise as she inhaled deeply, before hurrying off again. He caught up with her as she was about to cross the street and grabbed her by the fore-arm.

Hermione had no idea who it was, or what he wanted, but she had no strength, whatsoever, for confrontation. The last name and book-worm calling didn't imply someone she liked and, as the few people that still fell under that category were, slowly but surely, being crossed from it, she knew it had to be someone she didn't want to talk to. She didn't bother acknowledging the calls, and just kept walking, hoping that this voice she didn't recognise would give up. Only it didn't and as she looked quickly both ways before crossing the street, a strong black hand grabbed her by the fore-arm.

"Hey Granger? Ignoring your old school mates now?" Her own voice sounded alien as she sighed:

"Go away."

She didn't even turn her face to look at him and extracted herself from his grip with unexpected strength for such a petite woman. She crossed the street, looking straight ahead and as man who could recognise useless efforts, Blaise Zabini gave up. He watched her until she finally turned a corner, probably heading towards the Ministry. Apparently fame hadn't done any good to Granger, and he wondered if the witch weekly gossip hadn't been right. The head of the law enforcement department looked indeed like shit.

Lifting his right wrist into view, Blaise hurried back the right way to the Leaky Cauldron, he was now thirty minutes late.

Draco Malfoy needed a break. That's why he'd called an old friend to meet up before work. Certainly not to watch the wrinkled bald scalp of Tom, the bartender of the Leaky Cauldron, for almost forty minutes. The stool he was sitting on was uncomfortable, and the bar he'd decided not to rest his elbows on, was dirty. The smell of ale and butterbeer mixed with sweat, this early in the morning, was the irrefutable proof that the man, currently wiping a glass with a questionable cloth, needed to retire. The only reason this damned place was still open was because it was the only way to Diagon Alley from muggle London.

"Sorry mate, didn't wait too long?" Blaise slumped on the stool beside him, panting.

"Forty five minutes in this damn place. One more and I could consider hanging myself."

"Always the dramatic. Didn't order?" Draco wrinkled his nose in distaste, pointing his chin to the bartender. Blaise shook his head disapprovingly:

"Come on, there's enough alcohol in firewhiskey to kill any bacteria. Two firewhiskeys Tom!"

"It's not even eight in the morning." Draco argued. He was answered with a shrug:

"Yes, well, when you call like that it's usually what you need."

Two not-so-transparent glasses were served and pushed lazily to them on the counter-top. Draco made the amber liquid, that resumed his breakfast, swirl in it, hoping it would, indeed, kill bacteria. He took a large gulp and as the familiar burning sensation crawled down his throat, he sighed: "Just needed a break is all."

His friend nodded in understanding, and shuffled a bit on his seat. Draco noticed the wrinkled shirt poking out from under Blaise's jacket, as well as his tired eyes and smirked:

"Did I interrupt something with my call?" He asked, knowing all too well what the response would be. Blaise took a sip at his own alcoholic breakfast and winked:

"Kinda."

"Lucky bastard. Who's the not-so-lucky lady?" Blaise chuckled at Draco's little banter.

"Daphne Greengrass." He answered with a smug smile.

"Oh, nice catch. Will she be around tomorrow?" Blaise's eyes widened comically and he shook his head:

"Hell no, good shag, bad personality. Too talkative. Even during …"

"Right, I get it." Draco cut with a scowl and Blaise smirked:

"Might have a go at her sister though. She'll be at commemoration Friday. You coming?"

"Err don't think so. I don't really enjoy being scowled at all evening."

"Come on, no one scowls at you any more, you're being overly dramatic."

"I'm not, they usually spend all evening babbling on about Dumbledore and the Order. It always ends up being all my fault. Plus, Potty and the weasel are speaking again this year …"

"Oh! Speaking of that! Guess who I ran into earlier? Like, literally ran into?"

Draco cocked an eyebrow in question and Blaise didn't need more:

"Granger, and guess what? She looks like shit. I think it's true, she's divorcing the weasel."

"I couldn't care less."

"Mm think about it. A shitty looking Granger, a sad sad sad red weasel, a torn Potter in the middle of the crack that will finally break the golden trio …"

Draco took another sip of his drink in consideration. The commemoration would probably be less united this year. If the golden trio was, indeed, breaking apart, their usual public image of the perfect war heroes would probably shatter under Rita Skeeter's scratching quill, especially if she sensed even the slightest bit of tension. A divorce was always source of tension, and remembering Granger's bossiness and Weasley's short temper, the night promised, in fact, to be interesting.

"I'll go."

Hermione gathered her notes and, pointedly ignoring the flying origami planes that kept poking her in the head, grabbed her cloak and hurried off her office. She passed the secretary desk without a word and entered the lift, her head bowed to her feet, hopeful to avoid small talks with a potential colleague. Her smart leather shoes weren't that interesting but fortunately the lift landed in the atrium without her having to open her mouth. She took a few steps in the large entrance hall and berated herself for thinking she'd been lucky.

"Mrs Weas … Miss Granger!"

She tried to ignore the voice but as she recognised it, knew she'd have to acknowledge it.

"Good evening Caroline. I'm in a hurry ..." She tried.

"I see. It's just that you haven't sent back your invitation for the commemoration. I wondered if you'd forgotten. You're coming of course?" It was more a statement than a question. Hermione didn't like the wary tone the official used with her. As if she thought she was about to cry or something. The insufferable blond witch certainly read those gossipy pieces of crap sold right out those doors and, as well as feeling trapped, Hermione seriously considered making her swallow her stupid heart-shaped earrings. What were they? Four year-olds?

"I don't really have a choice." She spat and turned her back on the stupid girl to stride angrily towards the apparition point. Taking her wand out of her sleeve, she spun on the spot and landed, only a second after, in the cold air of her crappy street. Wondering again how she had ended up there, as if she didn't know the answer to that, she entered the lobby of her building and climbed the flack of stairs two by two, helping herself by pulling and pushing at the banister. All she needed right now was a warm bath, a glass of wine, or maybe something stronger, and a book.

Only someone was waiting at her door. A determined and fierce set of brown eyes and a red head of hair carelessly staked in a quick ponytail, were leaning against her door, arms crossed above her chest. Ginny Weasley was a persistent specie.

"Ginny I'm ..."

"Don't. I'm sick of your lame excuses. Mom's been all over, for weeks now, waiting to hear from you. Ron's a mess. And I won't start on Harry who's right in the middle of it. You stopped answering my owls Hermione!"

"Look Ginny I don't ..."

"What? Fuck Hermione, we're family!"

"Oh, are we?" Hermione spat angrily, loosing her self-control. "Ron's your family. Harry's your husband. I'm your ex sister-in-law."

"So what? You go through a rough patch and end it all?"

"A rough patch?! Fuck you Ginny!" Hurt passed through the younger Weasley's face and she swallowed before speaking again:

"I thought we were friends Hermione. Before the war, even before you dated Ron, we were friends. Doesn't all that matter to you?"

"It did. Now I just can't face it. It's over. Go back home to your husband Ginny."

"All right I'll leave you alone. But you're breaking our hearts. Here I thought all Gryffindors were brave." She challenged pushing herself off of Hermione's door with a hand. Her statement only helped Hermione's anger grow and as resentment settled in too, she couldn't refrain her words:

"I fought in a bloody fucking war Ginny! I'm just capable of letting go when I know things are over. I've learnt that the hard way but you wouldn't know anything about that! You weren't fucking there! Now go away!"

"Right." Ginny Weasley looked hurt and tears were prickling in her eyes but Hermione didn't care any more. She just wanted her gone. Her wish was granted as the usually so self-assured ginger gave up and finally walked away. Hermione hurried inside and slammed the door before Ginny could add anything, and let herself slide down the cold wood. Wine felt like useless juice, she would definitely need something stronger.

Draco opened the cabinet, retrieved an old bottle of firewhiskey and poured himself a glass. Recasting his father's company was the worst job ever. As if he needed to work. Draco had enough money to entertain himself for a few life times that he didn't need to do anything else other than drink his mind into oblivion. But of course as his father's sole heir, he'd inherited the deed, and the post-war ministry rules that came with it. And of course, his money was slowly but surely being swallowed by the dreadful company. Bearing the Malfoy name had always come with a price anyway, but the part he'd played in the war had not helped ease the Ministry's implication in the family business.

He downed his glass in two large gulps and poured himself another. Slightly tipsy and feeling a headache creep up its way at the back of his skull, Draco let himself fall back in the leather chair that faced his home mahogany desk, and pulled at his tie until the knot fell loose. Crumpling the letter he'd just received by a dirty-looking ministry owl, he grabbed his quill to write an answer. But the tip of it ripped on the new piece of parchment he'd unfolded, and he realised he was probably too drunk to keep working. He'll just stop by the Ministry in the morning without an appointment. Stacking the papers in a not-so-neat pile, he found that the invitation for commemoration day sat atop, and that he hadn't yet responded. Sighing, he gripped his quill back, dipped it in the ink pot, and had to concentrate enough to cross the box that said he would attend without a guest. He had no intention of bringing a bint that would later call her shallow company that night, a first date. Then, he pleated his eyes and scribbled something at the end that looked close enough to his signature. He called a house elf to take care of sending it off.