A/N: THE LAST ONE! I hope you all enjoyed these fics! Thank you for reading & your support.

When Hermione says he needs to get out and have a drink, Harry knows he's a mess. She's about as straight edge as you can get without actually abstaining completely and in their near decade of friendship, he can count the number of times Hermione's told him to take a break on one hand. So now, here he is, eardrums throbbing while Hermione leads the way toward the bar.

Honestly, if it were just for his sake, he might not have given in. But she's been at it non-stop and finally finished negotiations on his new contract with the studio, so he knows if Hermione's suggesting it, she probably needed a night out a month ago. That scenario may make him sound like a slave driver, but a casual review of his messaging history would likely reveal the large majority of his texts are comprised of variations on 'Hermione please go to sleep' and 'Hermione have you eaten' and the like. Hermione is about as Type A, perfectionistic as you can get.

She's also impeccable at getting things done exactly how and when she wants them - as is evidenced by her already completed drink orders despite the wall to wall crowding in the bar. "Bottoms up, Harry."

"Cheers."

After two rounds of shots and a couple of quick pints to chase them down, Harry and Hermione are both pleasantly buzzed for another out of character move for both of them - hitting the dancefloor. He's buzzed, but not out of it enough to not catalogue the strange little groupings on writhing together. There's the 'we're here to get some' grinders, the 'stay away it's girls nighters' and then the group they slip into, which apparently contains mostly DJ groupies.

Hermione's hair glows in the blue lights, his shoelaces bright white in the dark club. He grins at Hermione as another rhythmic number begins thudding over the speakers. "Thanks for making me come out tonight!"

She grins. "Anytime. You know I love to be bossy."

The teasing agreement Harry was about to deliver slips away as his eyes find a flash of red twisting and twirling somewhere in between the girls nighters and the DJ groupies and Harry's really hoping she's negotiable on the 'stay away' bit. It's odd - usually this level of rudeness would earn him a talking to from Hermione but she's fallen still, not even jostled into movement until she trips headlong into Harry's chest and he ends up with a mouthful of curls.

Once they right themselves, Harry notices the flush on her cheeks, the wideness of her eyes and her overall fidgety demeanor that's highly out of character. Except for very specific circumstances. "Where's the guy?"

And if she wasn't two shots, one pint, slightly overtired Hermione she would definitely put up a fight, beginning with steadfast denial. Instead, they skip past all the back and forth and she simply points one pink-nailed finger toward the bar at a tall, slightly gangly redhead with a long nose and booming laugh. "Gonna make a move then?"

"I need another shot for that."

"And look who's right at the bar?"

Her eyes narrow and Harry simply prods her shoulder. "Off you get."

Once Hermione's absorbed into the crowd and he's got nobody to scream lyrics to, Harry's head seems to clear and he realizes that he is indeed still a gawky dancer with barely there rhythm and no style outside the pre-set clothing for official appearances.

To add insult to misery, the mysterious woman has disappeared and he's been shuffled into the sticky floor section which also happens to be in prime DJ induced migraine territory. He twists again and finds Hermione at the bar, downing a shot and straightening her spine before tapping Mr Gangly on the shoulder. Ah, young love.

His musings are cut short when he's jostled again and nearly falls headlong into the land of boa festooned bridesmaids, would have too if not for a freckled hand grasping his forearm. He's pulled upright and comes face to face - or as close as possible given the twelve inch or so height difference - with a sunkissed, red haired, freckled woman he's fairly sure is a siren. "Alright?"

Harry nods, running a hand through his hair, "Sure - uh. You?"

And then her eyes light up in that way he's come to view with a feeling of dread. Sure, he knows an actor who's not recognizable likely doesn't get much work and that's certainly not what he wants. But still, he'd like to have a woman's eyes light up just because she fancies him.

Perhaps his feelings are readable - Variety did say he conveyed a thousand emotions with one look - because the mystery woman bites her lip and tips her head in invitation. "Care for a dance?"

With one glance back at Hermione, she's currently cozied up with Gangly, mid argument. The ideal first date for his best friend. He glances back at the fiery temptress still gripping his arm and smiles, "Lead the way."

She winks, "I'm Ginny, by the way."

Somehow his hands end up on her hips as she draws him in with dark whiskey eyes and he manages to stutter out, "I'm uh - Harry."

"I know," she yells in his ear, "I've seen you around - " and just as he's bracing for the autograph and or photo request, she continues, "I was at the studio mixer which in my opinion was just an unpleasantly elongated photo op."

Harry grins, "I know - Hermione says I can't complain since I decided to be a telly actor but taking photos is just - "

"Not the same!" Ginny finishes and they wander toward the far end of the dance floor, "And it's not like I should be obligated to give up my privacy for all this - nobody needs to know who's warming my bed to like my film!"

And then it clicks, "You're - the dystopian thing?"

Ginny nods, "And you're - "

"Boy superhero turned cold-hearted detective."

She twirls herself out and then back into his arms, somehow still flowery and fresh even amidst the stale sweaty mass of club goers. "S'pose no privacy is old hat for you."

"The network just - well," Harry's tongue is loose, but not enough to forget he's not particularly allowed to disclose certain 'romantic' arrangements with a faux ex girlfriend.

Ginny eyes him for a moment. "You are quite good at the heartbroken act," she holds his gaze before continuing, "Detective Somers mourning the loss of his partner brought tears to my Mum's eyes. Dad locked himself in his shed for a week."

They wander close enough to the bar that Harry's able to get them a couple of pints, each draining half as if they're somehow rehydrating. "And you?"

"It was moving."

Harry lets his fingers tease the side of her hand resting on the sticky bartop. "You know you'dve been right in my target boy hero market back in the day."

"So?"

"Any posters? Tiger Beat did a nice spread when I turned fourteen - very foxy."

She blinks at him, "Sure. If you've got a thing for knobby knees and dorky jokes about Roman numerals."

And just as the words leave her lips, Ginny realizes what she's admitted and Harry pounces. "Just know me from the network mixer, eh?"

"You think you're so smooth - you're just ticking me off," Ginny grumbles, though she doesn't pull her hand away.

"And yet you stay."

"Seriously, you're tragic," she leans close and mutters, "No wonder they had to give you a fake girlfriend."

Harry ruffles his hair. "Well," she blinks up at him, "Maybe if you become my real one I'll learn to be smooth."

"Damnit if that's not working a bit."

Taking a chance, he leans down and presses his lips to hers, short but heated, "That's how I got syndication."

Ginny blinks up at him, her fingers lingering in his messy waves, "Better not be."