It was a dark and stormy night. I didn't know how it could manage to be dark with all that lightning ripping through the sky, but the air that steamed in through my open window was blacker than the hair on a mountain troll's ass. A rumble of thunder rattled the ice cubes that had just gotten comfortable in their bath of scotch. I fished through the drawer next to me for the half-empty pack of cigarettes I knew were hiding behind the parchment and dried quills. Success. "Lumos," I muttered, and lit the crumbling tobacco with the tip of my wand.

Smoke filtered through the air, which was thick and heavy with damp. It made toadstools pop up along the floorboards and caused oily patches of rot to bloom on the old copies of the Prophet that littered the office. The place was a dump. But it was my dump. I had been shacking up in the decrepit old building for a few weeks, nothing serious, just a place to lay my head until the papers decided to run my piece on racketeering in the Ministry. Those bastards couldn't get away with prophecy-fixing forever. They'd either pay for it in credibility or in a hefty sack of Galleons left outside my door. But until then, I'd have to stay here.

My stomach growled in time with the thunder. I shook my head wearily and took a swallow of scotch. Best breakfast, lunch, and dinner a private dick could ask for. At the very least it ensured I would save money on clothes, since it kept me fitting in my old school robes. The scotch burned down my throat and settled warmly in my stomach. The fog behind my eyes lifted a little. Helped the headache, too.

I turned my attention back to the file in front of me. A job. Not a big job, but enough to pay the rent on my shithole flat for another week or two. I shuffled through the pages. Pretty standard cheat job. Amazing how many women ran around on their husbands these days. But with the recession hitting hard in the years after the war, maybe not that amazing. A girl could do worse than to shack up on the side with one of the countless profiteers who had made a little money playing the odds in the surprisingly lucrative battle between good and evil. I studied the top sheet of the dossier and blinked hard. Malfoy? Pansy Malfoy running around on Draco? Sure enough, it was. The ink didn't move so I knew it wasn't some bum enchantment. I wondered why I didn't remember seeing that greasy little ferret come through my office door. A glance at the empty glass next to me and I shook my head. Makes the headaches go away. The nightmares, too. Problem with it is that it also seemed to make everything else go away in the bargain. I scratched my temple with the tip of my wand, jerking it away just in time to prevent singeing off half my hair.

Malfoy, Pansy. Suspected of adultery with B. Zabini, proprietor of the Zabini Grotto.

Zabini, huh? That was even more surprising. With a name like Blaise . . . oh well. I wasn't paid enough to pass judgment.

I looked down at my clothes and sighed. I certainly wasn't paid enough to go traipsing around the Zabini Grotto. I tapped my wand on the tabletop, sending faint sparks shooting out of the end to lay smoldering in the ashtray I kept at hand for that very purpose. Well, for that and the cigarettes.

I stood up and poked around the wreckage of the flat looking for something to make myself look halfway decent. At least the kind of decent I needed to be if I was going to make an appearance at Zabini's. Unfortunately, that was the one kind of decency I didn't seem capable of producing. Screw 'em. They'd have to take me as I came.

I ducked out into the street, avoiding the watchful eye of the landlady who would most certainly start shrieking at me about rent and garbage and anything else that came into her head. Part harpy, I was dead certain. The streets were slick with a rain that had only just stopped. The lightning still came intermittently, lending ominous shadows to the tall stone buildings clustered around the narrow, winding street. A streetlamp guttered and went out.

"Hallo young squire," the toothless hag on the corner croaked. She'd been croaking at me for months, my long hair and still-girlish figure apparently making no difference one way or the other. "Fancy a tumble?"

"Not tonight, Matilda," I replied. "Maybe next week."

She cackled loudly and with a soft pop disappeared from her post. Amazing the number of impoverished witches and wizards who had made this neighborhood their home. But with the near-destruction of the Ministry and the resultant loss of thousands of jobs, maybe not that amazing.

I wove through back alleys and side streets, my long history of hiding making a habit of avoiding populated areas. Helped with the job, too. I had gotten very sneaky over the past few years. It's hard not to when you're one of the most-wanted people in the country. Even though the death sentence had long been lifted, I still felt uneasy in crowded streets.

A few twists and turns and I arrived at the side door of Zabini's place, a dark recess in the stone wall. A flickering neon light was all that announced it. I knew from experience that this particular appearance was deceiving; Zabini had somehow managed to profit insanely in the months following the war. I hadn't figured out how, but I had put it on a back burner in my head. Nothing serious, just something to wonder over on the colder nights when I couldn't work up enough magic to make a proper fire. I ducked in the door and was nearly thrown back out into the street by an arm thick as a Bludger and twice as heavy.

"No riff-raff. Get out," grunted a deep male voice. I rubbed my chest where the arm had made what felt like an inch-deep dent.

"All right there, Grawp," I muttered. "No need to be rude." I looked up at the troll watching the door. "Crabbe?" I cried. Well, it made sense. He was big enough and dumb enough. What else could he get after all this? Certainly not a job in the Ministry, and everywhere else he'd be too stupid to make it through an interview.

Crabbe stared at me. I could hear the tiny gears whirling in his apelike head. Finally a dull light flickered in his muddy eyes. "Granger?" he grunted.

"The very same," I replied. "I've got an appointment with Blaise."

"He didn't say anything about it to me," Crabbe said suspiciously.

"I don't recall a man like Blaise saying much of anything to much of anyone," I replied. "Unless you've got a thousand Galleons hiding under that suit."

"That's just my stomach, Granger," Crabbe said as though I was monumentally stupid.

"Well gosh, Crabbe," I said, turning on the sarcasm. "You could've fooled me. Let me in, all right? I don't plan on staying long."

"I better check with the boss." Crabbe looked doubtful.

I hopped from foot to foot. Great. My first job in a month and I was gonna lose it because of this stupid oaf. "Hey, well, if you leave, then I'm pretty sure that crone will find some way to get in and disturb your paying customers," I said, pointing at Matilda who had mercifully Apparated just down the block. Crabbe eyed her carefully, then looked at me. Doing the sartorial math.

"All right," he grumbled. "But don't make any trouble. I don't want to have to throw you out." I could see from the way he clenched his fists he'd like nothing better. But I'd be damned if I'd give him the satisfaction.

"I promise," I said as sweetly as I could. "So how's Goyle?" It might have been the flinch, or maybe the way he punched the wall, but I sensed I'd hit a nerve. I suddenly remembered Goyle's prone body lying on the floor of the Great Hall and immediately felt bad. "I'm sorry," I said sincerely. "I . . . forget a lot of stuff. From then."

"Yeah," Crabbe whispered. Would've whispered if he wasn't the size of an ogre. "Me too." He stepped aside and I crossed the threshold. Turned back.

"Really," I said again. "I'm sorry."

"Get in before I change my mind," he barked gruffly. I didn't need another invitation. I saluted sloppily and ducked into the club.

Zabini's Grotto was styled after Merlin-knows-what, but it was a paragon of bad taste and fast money. Torches flickered in their cast-iron braces. A badly-enchanted ceiling glittered with what I assumed were supposed to be stars but looked more like blobs of the blue fire I used to carry around in jars. A godawful Weird Sisters cover band was screeching from a small stage near the back. Dozens of witches and wizards milled around, sat at tables, ducked into corners. Not one of them looked up when I entered. Slytherins, all of them. All with that damned Slytherin sense of superiority. I must not smell enough like money and goblin treasure. I walked up to the bar and tapped a sullen waitress on the shoulder.

"What?" she snarled, clearly making a snap judgment her kind were so good at.

"Hey, I don't need the attitude. I wore my best robes," I said. She sneered at me. "It's the new thing," I said. "Hobo chic. All the Muggles are doing it." She rolled her eyes.

"What do you want?"

"I need to talk to the big man."

She raised her eyebrow. "I'm so sure," she said dryly.

"Look honey, don't get upset. I'm sure I can make time for you tomorrow. Come around my place, I'll show you things they never taught at Hogwarts. But right now I've got to talk to Zabini. Tell him it's Hermione Granger. He'll see me."

I didn't know exactly what I was doing. First of all, I wouldn't get caught dead with a Slytherin girl. And considering just how easy it was for me to get caught dead in my line of work, that was saying a lot. Second, it didn't seem remotely likely that Blaise Zabini would see me. But all I could do was hope.

The waitress sighed set down her empty tray, disturbing an enchanted bottle of some kind of liqueur. The glass shuddered and swirled, a tiny golden tornado whirling around inside it. I wondered what it was. And how it would taste on ice.

"Don't even think about it," the waitress said archly. "Fifteen Galleons a glass."

"In that case I'll just have one," I shot back. Not my best line, but I was in a hurry. Well, I wasn't in a hurry, but I didn't like the look I was getting from the greasy old wizard at the end of the bar. He looked vaguely familiar in a creeping sort of way that I didn't like at all.

The waitress sauntered into the back room. I perched on an empty stool and waited. The greasy wizard slid over a stool, sitting next to me. I tried not to look at him.

"Granger?" he hissed, his voice metallic like it hadn't been used in a long time. I blinked. Looked at him again.

No luck. Couldn't place him. Not that I minded. The fewer slimy Slytherin bastards occupying space in my head, the better.

"Vaisey," he said thinly. "Aloysius Vaisey."

The name was vaguely familiar. I still couldn't get a firm grasp on him. Not that I wanted to anyway. In any sense.

"Hogwarts," he said, obviously trying to jog my memory. "We were both at Hogwarts."

"That's nice," I said as noncommittally as I could. The years had not been kind to him. He looked about as old as dirt.

"I remember you," Vaisey continued. He was obviously drunk. His hand was creeping along the bar.

"I don't remember you, Vaisey," I said, "and you'd better be careful about molesting the enemy." The hand stopped. Where was the bloody waitress?

Finally she emerged from the back room and stood at the doorway, looking bored and impatient. I took this as my cue to head over. "Catch you later," I called to Vaisey who hadn't anticipated my departure and fell to the ground. He mumbled something thickly, his mouth smashed against the leg of a barstool.

As I made my way through the throng of people I glanced around. It was my job, after all. No sign of Pansy Malfoy. Just as I made it to the door of Zabini's office I thought I caught a glimpse of a very familiar face. But it couldn't be. No way. Not in a million years. I chalked it up to not having had a drink in almost an hour and followed the waitress into the inner sanctum.

"Hermione Granger," Zabini hissed silkily. The years had only made him sharper, more attractive if that's the sort of thing a person is interested in. I supposed Pansy Malfoy would be interested, from what I remembered of her she always seemed to think the sharper the cheekbone, the better the lay. Not that I would know. No matter what I tried my own cheeks had remained stubbornly rounded.

"Blaise," I said curtly.

"To what do I owe the honor?" He remained seated at his massive desk. It was intricately carved with images of Salazar Slytherin, long snakes winding up and down the heavy dark legs. It gave me the shakes just looking at it. Then again, that's probably what it was supposed to do. The walls were covered in what looked like silk, the color changing subtly every few moments. A large crystal ball stood on another heavily carved stand near the fireplace. I wondered where he hid his stash. Probably in the ball.

"Divination? Blaise, I had no idea." I had an idea, of course, but again I don't get paid to judge.

"What do you want, Granger?" His voice was hard.

"I'm just checking in on all my old friends," I said as steadily as I could. A drink wouldn't have been at all unwelcome at the moment. "Seeing how everyone's making out these days."

"Obviously some of us are doing better than others," he sneered. "And that's all you came for? Just a friendly chat?"

"Sure," I said. "Wondering if you keep in touch with any of the old gang. I see you've got Crabbe working the door."

"We'll have to see how long that lasts, if he can't figure out who to let in and who to keep out."

"Cut the guy a break," I said. I couldn't believe I was defending a Slytherin, even a dumb one. "He only let me in because I said some very insensitive things. That's what you people like to hear, isn't it?" I swallowed hard. I could see Zabini's fingers tensing against the leather blotter. "So Crabbe, that's nice. I was talking to someone about Pansy Parkinson—Malfoy now, I guess. Just wondering what she'd been up to."

"Really," Zabini said coolly. "And what prompted you to think of me in all this reminiscent goodwill?"

"Oh, nothing. Except I heard you keep in touch with her. Malfoy can't like that too much."

The sound of fingernails scraping on leather isn't a pleasant one. Neither is the sound of a wand thwacking against a hand-carved mahogany desk.

"Guess you don't see too much of each other, then," I said hastily. Jackpot.

"I see the years haven't stripped you of all your fabled intellect," Zabini growled.

"Not quite," I said. "Anyway, it's been great seeing you, Blaise, we'll really have to do it again soon." His glare was palpable. "Kidding," I said with a forced little laugh. These Slytherins and their lack of humor. Bad enough most of them hadn't gotten the hang of showering. "I'll just see myself out then."

The bored-looking waitress made a big show of stepping aside. I made a big show of slapping her ass on the way out and not risking looking behind me, though I swear I heard Zabini snicker.

I slipped out—literally, sliding past a group of especially slimy wizards blocking the entrance. As I headed for the door I glanced behind me one more time. For luck, I always said. What I really meant was to make sure nobody was pointing a wand in my direction. Slytherins weren't above hexing anybody while their back was turned, everybody knew that. Just before I was hustled out the door by a disgruntled-looking Crabbe I caught a glimpse of that face. That face that was burned into my brain.

No way.