The fog encircled her ankles as the sky darkened from vibrant pinks, purples and yellows; darkness hung over her, a cloudless blanket above her head as she stood in the middle of a quiet, paved street. Buildings of all sizes loomed off in the distance, reminding her that she was not quite alone. The air there was damp, close, and smelled of overcooked cabbage. Or maybe rotting fish. It was hard to tell the difference sometimes. She felt stifled even though there were miles of street laid out in front of her.

Her hands were at her sides as she gazed around, biting on her bottom lip; when she tasted the coppery-tone of blood, she let up and nervously ran a hand through her tangled mess of hair. A hat would have done nicely to tame her wild hair, but no matter how well she usually planned ahead, she'd forgotten to stick a hat in the huge bag that was her purse. To someone who didn't know her, the bag would look like a suitcase. Because she, being of the boy scout philosophy, wouldn't leave anything at home. No, not even the kitchen sink; it was clanking around in there somewhere.

And now here she was, alone, on an unknown and dark street, despite the subtle glow of the streetlamps that were placed sporadically down the lane. She may be physically prepared for whatever came at her (she did remember to pack the nun-chucks and mace) but emotionally, she was drained. Not to mention nervous; this was her first job alone, and in this neighborhood, with God only knows what waiting for her, she just didn't feel particularly brave. In fact, she would have liked nothing better than to go right back to the safety of her London flat.

But that wouldn't get the job done.

And Hermione Granger was one to get jobs done, no matter what tried to get in her way. Even if it was just her own fluttery heart.

Remembering the task at hand, she pulled a crinkled piece of paper from the depths of her bag. Her precise scrawl penned a name, and an address. Simple, yet effective.

She began noting the numbers on the buildings around her. When she got to 106 Crescent Street, she was less than pleased with what she found.

A pub. Possibly one that she wouldn't have even noticed if she hadn't been looking for it. It was small, discreet, and dark, but with a dim yellowish glow falling onto the street from the small windows.

Everything about this place embodied darkness. But, then again, everywhere she went these days seemed dark. Whether or not it actually was, was a completely different subject altogether.

Had she been wearing high heals, she felt sure that the click-clacking would have echoed around her as she crossed the street to the pub; instead, she was wearing black boots, sans heals, and an nondescript Muggle outfit that provided her with a certain bit of anonymity since no one gave her a second glance. Even first glances were fleeting, and she was confident that she wouldn't be remembered by anyone who passed by. If anyone did, that is.

She pushed the heavy oak door open, a creaking sound announcing her approach; the smell of stale smoke hit her nostrils as she closed the door behind her. As she surveyed the darkened pub, her nose thought she was in a brewery, but that may have been because of the patrons of the pub; most of the people sat at the bar, on tall bar stools, and only a few looked her way when she entered.

There were tables in the very back, cloaked in darkness; there were lamps back there, but only a few, and most of them were worse for wear. She started walking slowly towards the back, sure that this was where her contact would be sitting.

A hooded figure sat alone in a fairly large booth in the very back; she could only see him slouching there because light from a nearby lamp was reflecting off the rim of the mug clutched in his hands.

"Hello." She was glad to find her voice worked properly, even if it did seemed strained, and unusually soft.

He didn't move. She was about to give up and walk away when he said, "Sit," in a voice that surprised her. It was a bit more high-pitched than she would have thought for. Then again, she'd probably just assumed again. Hermione tended to assume an awful lot when on the job; sometimes, like tonight, this did not work to her advantage. It left her feeling wrongly footed and under-prepared.

Hermione slid into the other side of the booth and pulled a weather-beaten notebook from her bag; she extracted a quill and poised it over the notebook while she flipped to a vacant page.

"You have some information, I gather?" She didn't look up at him; if he was shrouded by his hood, there was no point in being polite and looking the person in the face while you talked to them.

"Yes." She heard shifting of the seat and then the rustling of clothes; she assumed he was pulling something from his pocket.

After a moment she heard a gasp; startled, she looked up into gray eyes that looked both surprised and amused.

Draco Malfoy did not like being caught off-guard; he never let anyone get the upper hand, therefore he never allowed anyone the pleasure of seeing him surprised, but seeing her sitting there caused him to become rather wobbly in the stomach. He hadn't meant to meet with her, hadn't even known that it was a possibility.

He hadn't seen her for years; a small part of his brain had assumed she'd moved, or died, or something. Seeing her sitting there was nerve-wracking. Suddenly he was catapulted back to Hogwarts, to the days when he taunted and teased. Nothing had changed since then, of course, except he'd lost the constant target when the Dream Team had disappeared from his radar.

"<i>Malfoy</i>?" Her lips made an 'O' of surprise.

An eyebrow quirked up; immediately he let it slide down again so he didn't look anything other than stoic. "Granger."

His voice was like ice cubes being slid down her back; she shivered and looked away from him. She wished, for the first time, that she wasn't alone on a job. Moreover, she wished she hadn't chosen this profession at all.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione glanced around nervously, suddenly feeling distressed and anxious; she was alerted to the fact that this could easily be a set up, and she may be in grave danger.

"I'd ask you the same, but---" he gestured vaguely with his hand. "---I've already figured it out." Slowly, he reached to take a sip of his drink; he set the glass down with a small thump and surveyed her placidly. "I didn't know you were an Auror."

"Well, why would you?" She snapped, her eyes flashing dangerously; all the anger and resentment she'd had towards him in the past was resurfacing. She didn't like this one bit. This had to be a trap; she'd have to get out.

Draco watched her curiously as her eyes darted to all the possible exits, then looked him over to see if he was carrying a wand, or any other sort of weapon; a smirk slid onto his lips. He had her squirming. This afternoon, when he had called the Ministry anonymously, he'd assumed he'd meet with a dreary old Auror and keep himself hidden while he told them what he knew. When he'd heard a female's voice, he'd decided to reveal himself just to see. It was not in his blood to see an opportunity and not try to achieve it. Even if it was just bedding some random Auror.

She still looked the same, he mused. Same frizzy, uncontrollable hair. Same brown eyes filled with hatred. Same scowl. Same clothes, more or less, except no school uniform, which was a bit surprising. He couldn't picture her without it, so it was weird to see her so dressed down, even if she still looked completely frigid and business-like.

He noticed, however, that there was one difference in her appearance.

She was taller.

"Can we get on with this?" He drawled after a moment; he was tired of analyzing her. Mostly, he was miffed that he wouldn't be getting any action; there was no way he'd try anything with Hermione Granger. Just the mere thought of it caused him to shudder.

"Please." Hermione inclined her head slightly, but the look of malice on her face did not diminish.

"I contacted the Ministry to alert them of the location of the next attack," he said evenly, finishing off his drink; he wiped his mouth and then stared at her, willing her to question him; part of him wanted it to be like old times. A little bit of him wanted to fight like they used to, even if it meant her slapping him again. Anything to get him out of the monotonousness that had become his post-Hogwarts life.

"Did you, now." Hermione's voice was hard, condescending; she'd admit that it was a bit less professional than she usually used in these circumstances, but there was just something about Draco Malfoy that got under her skin. She needed, no wanted, to cause him as much pain as possible. Even if she was only using some carefully worded insults.

"You don't need to be snippety, Granger." He would have said more, but found that he couldn't. What he wanted to do was explain to her how badly his father had treated him over the years, and how badly Draco wanted to get back at him. The only way Draco could do this, he figured, was to take away the element of surprise that his father and lovely Lord Voldemort had been enjoying during the past few attacks.

That, and give away their one weakness.

"What do you want me to be?" Hermione spat, the quill shaking in her hand as her body trembled in rage.

Draco didn't justify this with a response. When he spoke next, his voice was deadpan and serious. His face was grave, and grayer than usual. "They're planning to attack Hogwarts."