Alcohol had never been her vice of choice. No, Hermione Granger was more of a workaholic, one who threw herself into research and reading as if her life depended on it. And at one point it did. At one point she had been, despite the horrifying circumstances, with her best friend and former lover, hunting down a madman and trying to survive in a world at war. She didn't need alcohol to get through that. She didn't need alcohol to get through the stress of university entrance exams or losing her beloved Crookshanks. No, alcohol only ever came in handy with one thing:

Ronald Weasley.

She'd tried. She tried to make things work between them. Ron liked girls with short hair–she cut hers. Ron loved Quidditch–so she took a position as a secretary with the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Ron enjoyed sweets and pastries–she took night classes to get her certification in baking. Ron wanted to stay close to family–so she moved into a tiny apartment in Ottery St. Catchpole so they were a stone throw away from the Burrow. When he had proposed a year ago and told her he wanted to have a long engagement, she agreed because he would travel a lot in his position as a chaser for the Chudley Cannons. She had given so much to him, for him, that she hardly realized how much she was losing herself.

The day she came home to find Ron in bed with another woman was the last straw. She could deal with the comments about her appearance. She could deal with his critique of her working too hard or too much or not enough. She could deal with the fact he thought she could be a little more adventurous when they had sex. With everything she had given up for him, she would have expected for him to remain faithful. They had been friends before lovers, and she thought he had at least that much respect for her. She had been wrong.

And so, she found herself at this seedy bar, in this seedy neighborhood, drinking her fifth subpar vodka cranberry in a failing attempt to drown her sorrows. She could not research this problem away. There was nothing to figure out, really. She hadn't been good enough for Ron no matter how much she tried to change to suit him. He had been the problem, she concluded, as his ego and desire to feed it outweighed his love for her.

That didn't mean it hurt any less.

It had been a month already. A month since she'd moved out of that smothering little village and into a flat in Diagon Alley. A month since she had spoken to him, or Harry, or any of the other Weasleys for the emotional energy it took to deal with their questions and prying. A month since she had been coming to this bar, drinking the same drink and thinking the same thoughts. She was thoroughly dissatisfied with her life, and at this point, she had no idea what to do about it.

"The liquor here is shit. I didn't think you had good taste, but even this is a surprise."

Hermione didn't need to look up to know who had spoken. She'd heard that same taunting voice hundreds of times before in the hallways of Hogwarts, and the nightmares of war that still plagued her sleep.

"As long as the effect is the same, does it matter?" She murmured before tossing the last few sips of the drink back and sliding the empty glass to the side with the other four.

"Quality, Granger, is key," Draco Malfoy chided, observing her slouched shoulders and half-lidded eyes. "Your standards for alcohol seem to be just as poor as your taste in men."

At this, Hermione's eyes narrowed. Her break up with Ron was no secret from the public, but she would have thought that even if she hadn't gotten over it after a month, at least the rest of the world would have. Figures it would be her childhood bully to remind her of just how much of a spectacle she still was in the eyes of the media, even six years after the war.

"What do you want Malfoy?" She asked, signaling the barmaid to bring over yet another unsatisfying drink. "Don't you have babies to eat or something?"

"I'm watching my figure," he answered with a shrug. "Besides, I was supposed to be meeting someone, and they are late. I supposed I would catch up with you instead. Seemed like a worthwhile endeavor."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You will be most disappointed to know I prefer the solitude of the void while drinking. So, if you could be on your merry way…" She shooed him away lazily with one hand while accepting the drink from the barmaid with the other.

"I think not. I'm quite intrigued by this side of Hermione Granger," Malfoy said, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back in the chair.

"Don't take pity on the poor, poor mudblood. She's had enough of that, thank you very much." She missed the flash of anger in his eyes but could see his lips turn down into a frown. "What? That's all I ever was to your sort, an anomaly that both infuriated and fascinated. I'm not stupid, Draco Malfoy. Far from it. If you want a little plaything to entertain you for a while, you've approached the wrong witch." The slight slur of her words did not hinder her acidic tone.

"Someone's full of themselves," Malfoy snorted. "I have playthings, as you so put it, to spare. What would I stand to gain to make you one of them? I merely extend an offer of friendship in what seems to be a most trying time for you."

Hermione, despite her dulled senses and simmering rage, regarded him carefully. Draco Malfoy had always been a beautiful boy and had grown into an equally pretty man. His hair was swept back from his face in a very effortless style, and skin that once looked too pale to be healthy now glowed with youthful vigor. His color of choice remained black, as indicated by the slim-fit black dress-shirt and subtle, yet beautiful obsidian ring her wore around his thumb. She would readily admit that he was attractive, but that personality of his left something to be desired.

"An offer of friendship?" She finally responded. "Malfoy and the Mudblood does have a certain ring to it."

"I've seen it myself–your blood is the same color as mine." He fixed her with a steely gaze. She didn't challenge him; that day in Malfoy Manor would be one she never forgot, and it was clear he would either.

"I already have friends," she said. Malfoy made a show of looking around the bar and even went so far to lean sideways to peer under the table.

"And where, pray tell, are those friends now? Surely, they would be here with you, trying to talk you out of this sorry excuse for alcohol."

She couldn't argue with that logic. None of the friends she had made in the past six years had done much more for her than give condolences on her broken engagement, and certainly none had offered to come out to the bars with her while she attempted to find the answers in the bottom of a highball glass.

Hermione leaned her head on her hands and gave him a wan smile. At some point in her consideration of his offer he must have ordered drinks for them both as the barmaid arrived to present them with two shot glasses full of a clear liquid that smelled as if they would burn a hole through steel. She snatched up the shot and held it up to toast.

"To new friends," she said and down the shot. Malfoy grinned and followed her lead, masking a grimace at the taste of the cheap spirit.

His meeting forgotten, Draco Malfoy held out a hand for her. "Now, friend, let us find a more comfortable place to get to know each other."