"In all the spy books" – red pencil skirt – "that I've ever read" – sequined tank top – "or that have ever been published, even," – one black high heeled shoe – "they never" – chequered infinity scarf – "mentioned how bloody difficult it is" – a slightly wrinkled light blue blazer – "to dress for revenge!"

Following the clothes out of the relatively small closet was a frazzled and annoyed Hermione Granger, her wet hair wrapped up in a towel and a bathrobe cinched tightly at her waist. "For the love of god," she sighed, looking at the improvised Mount Everest of mismatched clothing, "this shouldn't be tricky. Honestly, it's just dinner."

Hermione sat down on the edge of her bed, holding her all-too-heavy head in her hands. "But that's the problem," she groaned, hunching over. "It's not a dinner date," – so no bright colours or overly nice makeup - "it's not just dinner with friends" – no jeans and sweaters, damn it – "…it's definitely not dinner and clubbing." – no sequins, no short anything, no low cut anything – "but it's not exactly a professional dinner." – so, no business suits. What the hell does that leave me with?! Grabbing a perfectly inoffensive throw pillow from her bed and chucking it vigorously at the wall, Hermione groaned. "I hate being female," she mumbled, curling up on the bed and trying to be as still as possible.

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM

"Why on earth does male clothing have to be so horribly predictable?!" Draco hissed, throwing yet another relatively boring tie to the floor. "It's infuriating!"

Whirling away from the full-length mirror and simultaneously smoothing his hair back, the blonde shot a questioning glare to the other man in the room. "I mean really," Draco insisted, unbuttoning the fifth dress shirt he'd tried on, reaching for a yet-untouched light blue one in the closet, "it's all about what tie you wear, or what colour your suit is – there's no real choice, is there?"

"I suppose," the second man said, his voice low and slow. "Never really thought about it."

"Then what on earth do you think about when you get dressed every morning?" Draco asked, shucking off the unsuccessful shirt and sliding into the next one.

The man tilted his head and gave Draco a confused look. "Well…I suppose I don't really think of anything at all."

Draco rolled his eyes as he did up the final button with a pronounced flourish. "Why doesn't that surprise me," he murmured, walking back towards the mirror.

"That one looks good, Draco!" the second man said, grinning.

"Well," Draco said, examining his reflection critically, "you appear to have an eye for colour, Greg."

The man positively beamed at the compliment. Draco allowed himself a small smile as he looked his friend up and down, satisfied with his handiwork. "You know, Greg," he said, his voice positively bleeding charm, "you really would make a spectacular waiter."

"A real one though, not a fake one, right?" the man asked, his brow furrowed.

"Yes," Draco agreed, doing up the buttons on the cuffs of the dress shirt. "You really look almost aristocratic in a tux."

Goyle smiled again before asking excitedly; "What tie do you think you'll wear with that one?"

"No tie, I think," Draco said pensively, undoing the top two buttons of the shirt. "But a blazer. Definitely a blazer."

"You might want to wear a black blazer, Malfoy," Goyle said, his voice sounding sheepish and quiet.

"Oh?" Draco said archly, looking at his friend's reflection in the mirror. "Why?"

"…I'm worried that I might miss."

"You won't. I promise you, it's virtually impossible that you'll miss her. She's the one with an infuriating birds nest on the top of her head."

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM

Hermione fidgeted nervously as she got out of the cab, unintentionally crumpling and uncrumpling the money for her fare over and over again. Somewhat embarrassedly, she handed the cabbie the mangled bills. "Keep the change," she said, avoiding the cabbie's critical gaze as she scuttled away from the cab and under the cover of the restaurant outdoor entryway.

Whenever Hermione crossed into this part of town, she ended up feeling incredibly self-conscious. She was fine up to Piccadilly Circus – there were quite a few theatres nestled in and around there – but as soon as she hit the outskirts of Mayfair she'd start fussing. It was as if there was an invisible poison that filled her being with a sense of non-belonging with every breath, a feeling of wrong-ness and of intrusion, planting the idea that she really didn't belong there and should just crawl back to the other side of the Thames.

I'm here for dinner, she thought firmly, glaring at her shoes and pulling her long raincoat closer around herself.

"Ma'am?" a deep voice said from behind where Hermione was standing. "Are you joining us for dinner?"

Turning around slowly, Hermione gave a man in a bowler hat and trench coat a hesitant, embarrassed smile. Doorman. He must be the doorman. "Erm, yes," she said, faltering. "I um, we should that is, have a reservation under 'Flitwick'?"

The doorman gave Hermione a sympathetic – is that condescending? – smile. "You tell the ladies inside about that, ma'am, not me."

"Oh, sorry," Hermione said, flustered. "I'll just go in then, shall I?"

This time, the doorman's smile appeared to be genuine. "But of course," he said, opening the door and motioning with his gloved – gloved? What are we, Victorian?! – hand towards the warmth and light of the restaurant. "Enjoy your dinner ma'am."

"Thanks," Hermione said, giving the man a nervous smile before steadfastly walking into the restaurant. There were a cluster of people in front of the small hostess table, so Hermione pulled off to the side and fished her mobile out of her jacket pocket. Seeing a 'new messages' alert, Hermione felt a stone of panic drop in her stomach. She frantically opened a conversation with a contact named "Donnie". A string of unread messages appeared on Hermione's screen.

I'm totally loving this. Is project "Dragonfly" still a-go?

….Hermy?

...as fun as stakeouts are, I'd love to know that my work is being appreciated here.

And that we're still good to go.

'Cause I love me a bit of sabotage.

…Hermy?

Hermanfish?

Hermyninny?

GRANGER WHERE HAVE YOU GOT TO?

As fast as her fingers would allow, Hermione typed out a quick reply.

I'm at the restaurant, and we're still set to go. Wait for my signal?

It seemed like there was almost immediately a reply.

Righty-roo, Hermy. With one text from you, I will be all over this prick. You said he's hot, right?

Hermione sighed. That was such a Donnie comment.

If you find smug and arrogant appealing, then I suppose so. But that's beside the point. Just do your job, Donnie, pleeease.

Another new message.

No need to get shirty – I'll wait all night for you, there is a tasty barista over here mmmmMM!

Over and out, then. Don't scare him away.

Sod off, keep me posted. J 3

When Hermione looked up from her phone again, the line in front of her had disappeared and the hostess was looking at her expectantly. Blushing profusely, Hermione shoved her phone into her coat pocket. "Erm, sorry about that, I uh….I should have a reservation? Under the name "Flitwick"?"

The hostess looked down at her computer with a relatively pleasant smile. "For three?"

"Uh, I think so."

"Fantastic," the hostess said, grabbing a menu from beside the computer, "the other two members of your party are here already."

Shit.

"If you'd follow me, please miss?"

"I, uh – yes, of course," Hermione stuttered, tingling with nerves. So much of tonight depended on Donnie, and Hermione was desperately praying that her friend wouldn't be too distracted by the barista. Hermione faded back into reality, slowly registering that the hostess was talking to her as they walked.

"….so you're upstairs miss; from there you can see the entire restaurant."

Hermione chose that minute to look around herself, and had to concentrate very hard on continuing to move forwards. She'd seen opulence before – when in the drama world, it was very difficult to only meet modest, frugal people – but this restaurant was slightly ridiculous. Everything was panelled in copper and gold-coloured metal, and seemed to shine with an inherent inner light. Hermione's first thought was one of sympathy to the poor cleaning staff who'd have to polish the entire bloody restaurant every night. The lights hanging above her were ornate brass chandeliers, and even though they were electrically powered the light they gave off was the amber colour of candlelight from a bygone, more romantic era. All the tables were draped with immaculate white tablecloths, and were each enhanced by a small brass vase – more things to polish, poor souls – that held delicate white flowers to match the table cloths.

"What are the flowers?" Hermione asked, trying to make small-talk with the now-silent hostess.

The woman gave Hermione a patient, "dealing-with-idiots" smile that the actress immediately resented. I'm not two years old, I'm asking a question, she thought angrily, keeping her smile plastered on her face.

"That's gyp – sometimes called 'baby's breath', ma'am," the hostess said slowly. "It's not really much of a flower – they're really just bouquet fillers really, but the frost and the recent snowstorms have really wreaked havoc with our greenhouses."

"They're pretty," Hermione said stubbornly, looking at the pale dustings of white on fragile green stems.

The hostess' smile didn't falter, but Hermione assumed that she'd be telling all her hostess friends about this weird chick who liked the weeds that the bosses had put into the vases that night.

"Watch your step," the hostess said, leading Hermione up a set of particularly steep, narrow stairs to the upper landing of the restaurant. "Your table is just in front of you…"

But Hermione had stopped listening to her guide and had started focussing very intently on breathing properly. Draco Malfoy – snarky, arrogant, despicable, rude, Draco Malfoy – looked exactly like a still from an old twenties movie; his hair was slicked back only slightly, leaving it still looking natural and light, and he was immaculately dressed in a dark grey suit and blazer with a light blue dress shirt. The top two buttons had been left undone, and he had decided not to wear a tie, leaving a small triangle of ivory skin exposed,. Maybe it was just the glamorous lighting from the ridiculous chandeliers, but Hermione thought that he looked like he'd just stepped out of a magazine and into her life. For a moment she felt a twist of guilt in her stomach, pulling at her conscience and planting a seed of doubt in her mind.

That is, until he noticed her presence.

"Granger," he drawled, his face poisoned by a condescending smirk, "good of you to join us. Finally."

Perfect vision shattered.

"Come now Malfoy, she's right on time – we were just early." With a start, Hermione noticed Flitwick sitting on Draco's left, wearing one of his usual immaculate three-piece suits. Giving her a genuine smile, the composer gestured to the still-empty chair beside him and across from Draco. "I'd rise to greet you, but it wouldn't make much difference," he joked, chuckling.

Hermione gave the composer a small, tight smile before approaching her chair. "Miss?" the hostess asked, still standing beside Hermione. "May I take your coat?"

"Um…" Hermione trailed off, hesitating for a moment. "I suppose so, sure."

Attempting to be as quick as possible, Hermione undid the belt and buttons on her winter trench coat before slipping it off her shoulders. The cold air hit her bare shoulders, and she shivered slightly. "Thanks," she said quickly, practically throwing her jacket at the hostess before leaping into her chair.

When Hermione looked up, however, her breath caught in her throat; Draco was staring at her! She felt like she should be gloating, savouring this one moment where she appeared to have genuinely caught Draco's attention in a positive way. But, she wasn't gloating – instead, Hermione had the strangest urge to ask for her jacket back before the hostess took it away.

It's not like she was dressed provocatively or anything…but she'd asked for Donnie's advice on what to wear which, she admitted, was probably a mistake. In the end she'd decided on a white dress that was a modern take on the Victorian style; the strips of fabric connected to the bodice that would typically serve as sleeves wrapped around her upper arms, a large belt circled her waist, and the bottom half of the dress became loose and flowing, ending just below her knees. The look left her shoulders bare, and she'd pulled her hair up into a chignon so that her neck was also exposed to the cold air. Stupid for the winter time, she thought, chiding herself for ever listening to Donnie.

"You seem to have rendered Draco speechless, Miss Granger!" Flitwick said, his eyes flicking between the two. Hermione flushed, desperately wishing she'd just kept her jacket on.

The comment seemed to snap Draco out of whatever temporary spell he'd been put under, his sneer reasserting itself. Hermione braced herself for some scathing comment about her intelligence, fashion choice, or the weather, but none came. Tilting her head slightly, Hermione looked Draco up and down. Is he sick, or something?

"So," Flitwick said, rubbing his hands together, "I know that this is technically a business meeting, but ours is a rather different business, is it not?"

Hermione gave a rather forced chuckle, her eyes drifting down to the menu. Seeing that the only thing she could afford was a side of mash, she blanched. She was even more surprised when the menu was whisked away from beneath her.

"Don't worry about the menu," Flitwick said when she looked back up, his smile knowing and kind. "I've selected a three-course set meal for us. The dinner will be my treat, of course – I'm the one dragging you two away from your Friday night!"

Hermione resisted the urge to snort, but heard that Draco had no such qualms; the blonde let out a very loud laugh-cough-snort, raising his eyebrow and looking across the table. "I can honestly say that my plans consisted of doing my taxes and ordering take away," he said, sill not moving his gaze from Hermione. "But I'm sure you had so many plans, Granger," he drawled, grabbing a breadstick from the center basket. "The social scene will positively die without you."

I'm not going to play this game, Hermione thought, tapping down the rage that was beginning to build inside of her. This is going to be a civil, cordial dinner….that is, until Donnie gets here.

"Don't worry Malfoy," she said, her face composed into a calm, benign smile. "I have the ability to record television shows, so I'm sure I can catch up with my social life tomorrow." Satisfied, Hermione saw Draco's eyebrows shoot up. "Besides," she continued, "they're replaying season two of Doctor Who right now – as much as I love that season, I have seen it already."

"You're a fan of science fiction?" Flitwick asked politely, delicately ripping his breadstick into miniscule pieces.

"Not really," Hermione admitted. "Just Doctor Who. I tried to get into Star Trek, but just didn't find the characters or plot nearly as engaging."

"Not even watching Kirk hit on everything that moves?" Draco asked relatively quietly.

Hermione started, realizing that the blonde was still staring at her. And that he'd just made a non-mocking, genuine comment about a science fiction TV show. "Not really," she replied, hesitant. "I much prefer watching Captain Jack do the same thing."

…am I going insane, or did Draco just nod?

Hermione blinked, confused. Just as she was about to open her mouth, a thousand questions dancing on the tip of her tongue, Flitwick started talking again. "Tonight I don't want to talk to Eliza and Henry," he clarified. "All I want is to talk to you; Draco and Hermione."

"With respect, Filius," Draco said cautiously, "I don't really see how that can help you with the song. I mean, it isn't a song about us, it's a song between Eliza and Henry."

Hermione blinked, watching the composer to see what his response would be. Nodding, Flitwick said; "True enough. However, the essence of the song – the melody, the message, the emotions – needs to be conveyed by you two in an honest and sincere manner. It will be far easier to write a song that will resonate with listeners if it resonates with the singers."

Draco nodded, still looking confused. "So, are we going to start a round of Twenty Questions, or something?" he asked, sounding snarky and condescending.

"No," Flitwick said firmly. "We're going to have a conversation – not a flurry of insults, not an attempt to undermine one another; just a conversation."

Looking pointedly at Draco, the composer pulled a small notebook out of his blazer pocket. Hermione felt a wave of unease crash against her diaphragm as she saw Draco's calm, smug expression. He looks far too happy for someone who's been told that he needs to spend the entire evening being nice to me…

"I'll be taking notes," Flitwick continued, pulling a small pen out of another pocket, "but don't mind that, alright?"

"I am expected to maintain a civil, normal conversation with Malfoy for three courses?" Hermione asked flatly, giving Flitwick a desperate look.

"I'll be involved in the conversation as well," he said, offering her a tiny lifeline. "Just…try to pretend you like each other, all right?"

Draco folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. "I'll try if you will," he said, tilting his head towards Hermione.

Inwardly sighing, Hermione straightened her back and smiled. "Of course, Draco – I'd hate to let Filius down."

"And," Flitwick interrupted, his voice surprisingly menacing, "knowing you two I have to emphasize this – no acting. I don't want to see your personas, or a false image; I want to see you."

Hermione deflated, her false smile slipping off of her face. Nodding, Draco pulled out his cell phone and started to type on it. Texting? During diner? Really? Self-consciously, Hermione thought about her phone in her jacket pocket before glancing down at her watch. Donnie was due to come into the restaurant in twenty minutes. Hopefully she didn't get too distracted by the barista.

With a satisfied hum, Draco put the phone back into his pocket and pointed to the third breadstick in the basket on the table. "Are you going to eat that, or will it offend your delicate, female sensibilities to eat bread?"

Hermione frowned and snatched the breadstick, ignoring Draco's wide eyes. "I would describe myself as a carb-ovore," she said, ripping it into smaller pieces on her side plate. "So no, you may not steal my allotted bread."

"There will be three more courses," Draco pointed out. "It's not like you'll have to live on one piece of bread."

"But god knows what the courses will be in a place like this," Hermione said, gesturing over the banner to her right at the sprawling, opulent restaurant around them. "I might end up having to live on one single piece of bread for the entire evening."

"We're having artichokes with béarnaise sauce to start," Flitwick said, piping up momentarily before returning to his notebook.

Draco was obviously about to continue with his rant, but stopped and did a double-take of Hermione. "…you do know what an artichoke is, don't you?" he asked, his voice only slightly condescending.

Hermione shrugged, recognizing her ignorance of fine cuisine. "I've heard of them – there's a line about them in Wicked, I'm fairly certain – but haven't really seen or eaten one. Are they a vegetable?"

"A thistle, technically," Draco said flatly, his eyes wide. Shaking his head slightly, he continued. "I'd have thought that an actress of your….social position would have had access to all sorts of luxury."

Again, Hermione shrugged. "Not really," she said, swallowing a piece of bread. "I had a pretty modest childhood, I never really got to go to places like this or try anything crazy."

"What did your parents do?" Draco asked, fiddling with his cutlery and trying very hard to shrink his eyes to their normal size.

"They were dentists," Hermione said, looking at her now-empty side plate sadly.

"My condolences," Draco said snidely.

Hermione shot him a glare. "They weren't great-paying jobs, but they weren't bad. My parents just really liked a minimalist lifestyle."

"And…now you're used to that?" Draco asked, obviously confused.

Hermione nodded. "Yup. My dinner usually consists of either pasta or frozen waffles." She wished that she could pull out her phone to take a photo of the shocked expression on Draco's face. "What?" she said, trying not to sound overjoyed. "Am I defying your expectations a bit?"

Draco swallowed. "Just a bit."

Hermione felt a surge of anger and a familiar stirring of stubborn pride. "Did you think that I was born sucking on a silver spoon, or something?" she asked, her voice calm and questioning. "That I attended RADA and glided my way upwards?" Draco was silent, his grey-blue eyes focussed unerringly on Hermione's. "Well that's not quite how it happened," Hermione said flatly.

There was an awkward silence at the table where the two just stared at one another, the babble of the other restaurant patrons fading into the background. Draco's face was unreadable, but Hermione quashed the uneasy feeling in her stomach.

"Thought you ought to know," she said quietly, the intensity not fading from her voice. "Just in case you were making assumptions."

Graciously, Draco nodded his head in her direction before lifting his wine glass. "Thank you for correcting me," he said, and Hermione strained to hear any hint of condescension or sarcasm.

Brain transplant, much?

After another moment of silence, Hermione spoke again. "So," she said, her voice light and falsely cheerful, "what about your parents? Were they fans of artichokes?"

An unexpected laugh slid out from between Draco's lips, and Hermione just about fell off her chair; it wasn't his usual bark, or the strange strangled-chuckle he produced when he was laughing at someone. In sounded…normal. Real.

"I had a very privileged, restricted childhood," Draco said, taking another sip of his wine. "My grandfather was a wildly successful architect, and my father inherited all of his money. Since we were ridiculously rich, Mother never worked and Father only worked" – Draco put the word 'worked' in air quotations – "as an investor in the stock market."

"Public school?" Hermione asked, taking a sip of her water and ignoring the glass of red wine to her right. She needed her wits about her.

"Worse," Draco said, wincing and shaking his head. "Public boarding school."

"Ouch."

"All-boys."

"Oh you poor soul."

Draco seemed surprised for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he read Hermione's expression for any dishonesty or condescension. Finding none, his eyes widened again. "It was horrendous," he affirmed. "When I was younger, every time they let me go home, I begged my father not to send me back." Draco smiled wryly, leaving his eyes cold. "After a while I stopped trying."

Hermione could tell that his dislike for his father was genuine. From that example, she found herself thinking that the dislike was justified as well. "What about your mother?" Hermione asked, trying to avoid dwelling on what was obviously a negative subject.

"She was on my side," Draco said, his eyes flickering around the room.

Damn it, Hermione thought, inwardly wincing. Obviously I need to make my questions more specific.

"But she could never go against Father's decisions," Draco said, his eyes finally resting on Hermione's. The doors over his eyes had slid back again, and Hermione imagined that she could see straight through those eyes and into Draco's mind. "She was a wonderful woman though – the only reason why I kept going home after year eight."

Hermione frantically tried to think of a way to change the subject, but the words stuck in her throat. Draco was on a roll, unshuttered, and (supposedly) not acting. If he wants to talk, let him talk. I've already told him more than he wants to know about me, the least I can do is listen to him.

"She's gone now, though," Draco said, his voice shockingly flat. "So I no longer correspond with my father."

"You cut yourself off?" Hermione asked, surprise obvious in her voice. "I'd have thought you'd need his support to continue an artichoke-lifestyle. I've seen the pay checks we both get, so I know how expensive fresh veggies" – she paused – "– or, thistles, was it? – can be by the end of the month."

A small flicker of a smile was Hermione's reward for her attempt at humour, and she was startled by the warm curl that appeared in her stomach when she realized that she'd made him smile. What the bloody fuck, Granger?!

"I can't afford them," Draco answered, the smile still present at the edges of his eyes. "I adapted to a life without artichokes."

"Poor soul," Hermione said, shaking her head. She used the motion to quickly glance down at her watch. Thirteen minutes to Donnie.

"So," she said, trying to fill the now very awkward dead space at the table, "favourite musical?"

Draco snorted, leaning back in his chair as a waiter – Whoah, where did he come from? – put something green and spiky-looking in front of him. Hermione nodded her thanks as one was placed in front of her too, and she paused. Huh, she thought. So that's an artichoke.

"Really, Granger?" Draco drawled, causing Hermione to look away from the cactus-creature on her plate. "Are we really reduced to such small-talk?"

"Fine," Hermione said, trying not to sound petulant, "Would you rather we just sit in silence?"

Draco narrowed his eyes as he ripped one of the pointy leaves off of his artichoke before dipping the flat end into some sort of sauce beside his plate. "Les Misérables, probably," he said, his voice emotionless.

Hermione nodded, trying to mimic how Flitwick was eating his artichoke and failing miserably. With a sigh, she gave up. "Why Les Mis?" she asked, trying to draw out the topic.

"Why not?" Draco replied frustratingly, shrugging. "It's dramatic, emotional, well written; the book was fantastic, so I wouldn't expect anything else."

"You read the book?" Hermione asked, incredulous.

"Yes," Draco drawled, smirking.

"Abridged?"

"Don't condescend, please, Granger – it's low, even for you."

"Sorry," she mumbled, poking at her artichoke with a fork to get a waiter to stop staring at her disapprovingly.

At that point, surprisingly, Flitwick jumped in. "Have you read it, Miss Granger?" he asked, pencil poised over the page.

"Of course," she said, slightly offended. "When I was younger I devoured any book that I came across. I would've probably taught English if I hadn't gone into theatre."

Silence one again shrouded the table, Flitwick scribbling obliviously on his notepad while Draco dismantled his artichoke. Hermione just sighed and thought longingly of the box of pasta in her cupboard at home.

"And you?" Draco asked, viciously ripping off another mutant-leaf-thing.

"Sorry?" Hermione asked, confused.

Sighing, Draco rolled his eyes. "What's your favourite musical, Granger?" he asked, his voice falsely bright and enthusiastic. "I'm dying to know!"

Hermione raised an eyebrow, wishing desperately that Donnie would arrive sooner. "If I said Phantom, would you kill me?" she asked dryly.

Leaning closer to the table, Draco tilted his head. "No," he said slowly, "I wouldn't. The feud between Phantom and Les Mis patrons is just silly, in my opinion – they're both good shows, and are both still incredibly successful." Hermione found herself nodding, completely agreeing with the blonde across from her.

"But is it?"

Lost, Hermione shook her head. "Sorry?"

"Phantom, is it your favourite musical?" Draco emphasized, surprisingly not in an overly-annoyed or tetchy manner. Just sort-of mildly irritated.

"Erm, no," Hermione said, suppressing a flinch. "My favourite would have to be Singing in the Rain, probably - I've actually come to sort-of hate Phantom by now."

Draco's eyebrows shot up. Why, Granger, why do you let your mouth work without your mind's consent? she thought, frustrated.

"Weren't you playing Christine before Christmas?" he asked, pushing away his plate covered in mostly-eaten leaves.

"Yes," she replied, pausing for a second to wonder how on earth Draco knew that.

"You had to have liked the show to sign onto it," the blonde pointed out, reaching for his wine glass, "That is, unless you were incredibly desperate for a job."

Waving her hand back and forth, Hermione shook her head quickly. "No, no, no – I really did like it, it's just….one of my…co-workers was a bit hard to deal with."

"Pushy?" Draco asked, taking a sip of his wine.

"Um, in a manner of speaking…" Hermione was floundering, and was incredibly grateful when a swarm of waiters arrived to clear their plates. Pointedly ignoring the disapproving look she was getting from the waiter who cleared her mostly-untouched artichoke, Hermione stole a glance at her watch.

Seven minutes.

Out of the blue, Draco launched into a new topic; "You're friends with Longbottom, aren't you, Granger?" he asked, swirling the wine in his glass and staring at it thoughtfully.

"Yes," Hermione said, lifting her wine glass, "I would like to think so. Why?"

"Is he officially dating the costume designer yet?"

Nearly choking on her wine, Hermione coughed and spluttered. "Excuse me?" she asked, incredulous.

Draco sighed. "Honestly," he mumbled, "I thought females were meant to be purveyors of gossip." Hermione gave the blonde a pointed glare and Draco rolled his eyes. "Neville," he said bluntly. "Is he dating that…what's her name? Tuna?"

"Luna," Hermione corrected.

Draco smiled his false, empty smile and snapped his fingers. "That's it! Luna, Luna Lovegood. Are they officially together yet?"

"I didn't even know they were unofficially together," Hermione said honestly, somewhat disbelieving. "What led you to think they were seeing each other?"

Shrugging nonchalantly, Draco picked some lint off of his jacket sleeve. "The way they look at each other."

Hermione let out a small burst of laughter, shaking her head. "You watch them?" she asked, sipping her wine now that it was safe to do so again. "That's slightly stalker-ish, you realize…"

"I watch everyone," Draco said quietly, meeting Hermione's eyes directly. The shutters were gone again.

"Why?" she asked, matching his gaze and praying that he wouldn't disappear into himself again.

"For material," he said, his expression honest and his voice unsarcastic. "If you need to act out an emotion, the best thing you can do is witness it and then replicate it."

"Really?" Hermione said, surprised and impressed. "Explain."

Without even a half-hearted protest, Draco began talking about how Neville's uncertainty and devotion could be applied to Higgins midway through Act II, how Flitwick's current attitude of calm, calculated deductions could be used early in Act I, and how Hermione's –

But there he froze.

"My what?" she asked, intrigued. "What about me?"

"Nevermind," Draco grumbled. "You'd just laugh."

"Not at all," Hermione said, resisting the urge to reach across the table and grab Draco's hand. Where the hell did that come from? she thought, panicked. "What about me can you use?" Hermione asked, keeping her voice and her expression open.

Sighing, Draco glanced up at the ceiling before meeting Hermione's gaze. "When you sing," he started.

Uh oh, Hermione thought, thinking of their last discussion that had been about singing, and how that had resulted in the sabotage that was only two minutes away. This can't go well.

"When you sing," Draco repeated, his jaw working furiously, "you become Eliza."

Hermione's mind ground to a halt. Well, she thought, stunned, that's unexpected.

"It's like…all her hopes, her pride, her insecurities….it just comes out of you, and it's amazing."

This is Draco talking, right? Hermione thought, looking the blonde up and down. The tips of his ears were flushed red, but his eyes were open and honest, the grey irises looking almost blue.

"Th-thank you," Hermione stuttered, in a state of shock.

"Please don't," Draco grimaced, leaning back in his chair. "I just realized that I was a complete prat earlier, I just – I really didn't want to admit it, and that was hard, so let's not linger on it alright?"

The words rushed out in a blur, but Hermione caught them all and held them in a little jar of nice things that she kept far away from the angry, rocky section of her brain. There was a nice, warm feeling to the words, and she could almost taste the sincerity in the air. Draco Malfoy was just nice to me, she thought, looking strangely at the pale, suddenly-nervous-looking blonde across from her. He just apologized.

Then, a sudden fact floated its way to the forefront of her mind. Oh shit, she thought, the colour draining from her face. Donnie.

Hermione's head snapped around to look down at the ground floor of the restaurant, and sure enough, there was Donnie weaving her way through the sea of patrons. Of course, you wouldn't immediately recognize her as Donnie through the extravagant fur coat and the sunglasses, but Hermione knew that in one of the many pockets of that coat was a jar. Inside the jar was a small colony of very unhappy fire ants, and Donnie was planning to walk up the stairs and 'accidentally' stumble, fall, and break the jar right next to the apologetic and not-quite-as-snarky-as-he-was-yesterday – definitely not snarky enough to deserve a jar of fire ants up his leg – Draco Malfoy.

Hermione tried to signal Donnie without being too obvious, waving her hand over the railing, laughing loudly at nothing, doing anything to attract attention to herself in a subtle way so that she could show Donnie that the plan was of. Checking quickly, Hermione saw that Draco wasn't paying attention, thankfully – he was frantically texting on his phone, looking strangely nervous and panicked.

But then – oh, thank the lord! – Donnie caught Hermione's eye and looked up at her, confused by Hermione's shaking head and finger drawn repeatedly across her throat. She kept walking though, closer and closer towards the stairs.

But THEN…

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGD

Shit, shit, SHIT, Draco thought, frantically typing out another text to Goyle. She doesn't deserve this, she really isn't that bad….

But Goyle wasn't answering. Draco had sent off the 'good to go' text before the appetizers had even arrived, so Goyle was most likely already in position and ready to execute the plan to the letter.

And, sure enough, Draco saw a strange, rather thick 'round the middle waiter come up through the staff doors, carrying a decanter of very very stainable red wine – enhanced with some cranberry juice, red Kool-Aid powder, and tomato sauce. Sparing a quick glance at Hermione's very white dress, he felt like hitting his head repeatedly against the railing. Why, why WHY did I not listen to Theo? he thought, panicking and desperately sending off another text. Goyle wasn't looking up, so Draco couldn't catch his attention that way.

It looked like this tentative acquaintanceship he'd just formed was on its way to becoming a complete train wreck.

Again.

But then – thank the lord! – Goyle pulled his phone out of his pocket. Confused, he kept walking but looked up to where Draco was sitting. The blonde shook his head frantically, trying to be somewhat subtle in his actions so that Hermione didn't figure out what he was doing.

But THEN….

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM

With a resounding "CRASH!" a woman wearing sunglasses and a rather extravagant fur coat ran into a strange, slightly portly waiter carrying a decanter of wine. The pair were both looking up, which confused the restaurant staff and patrons later when they asked what happened, as neither had seen the other one coming. The strange woman and odd waiter hit one another, and then hit the floor in a spectacular display of fur, glass, and an awful lot of noise.

"What the hell?" the woman shrieked in a very lower-class accent, her coat covered in icky, gloopy red stuff that bore no resemblance to wine whatsoever. "Watch where you're going, blockhead!"

"You ran into me just as much as I ran into you!" the waiter shouted, suddenly scratching his leg frantically. "What've you got in all that fur, lice?!"

The shouting continued as the pair was escorted through the restaurant and out into the street, where they were questioned and eventually released by the doorman who deemed them to be loony and therefore a complete waste of his time.

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM

Just after the crash, however, two very relieved patrons on the upper balcony of the restaurant sagged in their seats. Hermione and Draco both noticed one another's sudden change in attitude, and turned their gaze from the mess below them to one another.

Realization swept over them, both doing double-takes to the mess on the floor with raised eyebrows.

"Excuse me," Flitwick said, watching the pair with a very confused look on his face, "would someone please tell me what's going on here?! Do you know those two?"

Hermione and Draco looked at one another, and there was a pause. Then, with a spontaneity and exuberance that had previously only been seen in events such as the Big Bang, Hermione and Draco dissolved into side-splitting, understanding, and thoroughly genuine laughter.

A/N: Hello, darling readers! Before you start throwing tomatoes, I need to profusely apologize for this late post - life really got away from me, thanks to local natural disasters, school, and work. Plus, as you can see, this chapter is quite the monster and an awful lot happens in it.

Here's Chapter Seven though, with a promise of Chapter Eight in a decent and reasonable amount of time. Pinky swear. :)

Please R&R, and thanks for sticking with me, Hermione, Draco, Eliza, and Higgins!

~sneakyslytherin