Harry Potter 1. Chapter 1

_This is a good thing, _she reminded herself for what felt like the thousandth time.

Cold feet are deadly, especially when you're trying to make life decisions. This wasn't the first time Hermione had learned this lesson, and it certainly wasn't going to be the last.

She wasn't having second thoughts when she had hassled the teenaged Oliver into toting her across to the island. No.

She hadn't even had second thoughts when she'd clambered off of the small motorboat and onto the hot white sand. Not even then.

That knot in stomach had only made its grand appearance when she dropped her suitcases onto the dusty wooden floor, and it was overwhelming when it did.

_It doesn't matter. _She scolded herself for being so flighty. She had already made the payment for six months, as far as she was concerned, she was stuck.

Gone without a trace.

_First things first, _she began wordlessly as she plopped onto cot that was such a poor excuse for a bed. With a careful glance around her, as though someone would be watching her, Hermione reached into her charmed rucksack and after a bit of rustling around, pulled out her wand. As she strengthened her grip on it, a tingling surge of magic danced up her fingers and across her arm. It had been a while.

"_Repairo," _she murmured with fervent concentration, the mattress returning to its original state. The first charm was followed by a very quick _Scourgify._

Within ten minutes, her small bungalow had running water, a small bit of electricity, and furniture suitable for human survival. She even had a working refrigerator (albeit incredibly small), _and_ fan, thank Merlin. She regretted not having properly researched Australian weather, her decision to come here was spur of the moment. This was quite the statement too, because Hermione was one who rarely did anything without careful planning.

"Maybe things will be okay," she reassured herself as she stretched her arms over her head and took in the ocean-view from the open window.

The bungalow was built sturdily enough to withstand the harsh Australian rainstorms. The doors were wooden, and could be propped open to reveal the screen doors behind them, which could also be propped inwards. Just outside the French doors was a small porch that wrapped around the front and sides, a set of steps leading down to the sands below the house.

Hermione padded around the porch for a few minutes, assessing any repairs that may have needed to be made. With a quick flick, the creaky plank of wood ceased its incessant groaning, and the bench swing was back hanging in the air. Before returning inside to explore all the cupboards and other rooms, she gazed across the long stretch of the beach and the shadowy forest that surrounded the remainder of the island that lay behind her.

As far as she could tell, the privacy she had been promised was as to be expected.

With an optimistic smile, the witch bounded back into her new found safe haven. A place far away from the problems of her past.

Far away from prying eyes, and prying questions.

…

...

It had been a week since Hermione had arrived on the island. Any prior thoughts of worry had disappeared without as much as a fleeting _cheerio then, _and she was content with that.

Today was the second Friday she had been there, which meant she would be meeting Oliver at the docks so she could go into town.

"Mornin' Miss Granger!" he was young, maybe fifteen, sixteen at best.

"Good morning Oliver," they exchanged their usual smiles.

He offered her his hand as she carefully stepped into the boat, and as she found her purchase on the wobbly belly of the boat, a flash of red caught her eye.

"Oliver," she began as she took her seat on the plank opposite him, he hummed in acknowledgement, "whose boat is that?"

"It's so rare to see him that I can't remember his name," he shrugged before starting the motor. Seeing the skeptical expression on her face he continued, "Don't worry yourself over it any, he never bothers anyone. Keeps to himself."

"Mm, all right," she bit her lip as curiosity began wriggling its way into her thoughts.

The ride to the town was about ten minutes on a good, clear day, which they usually were.

Said rides were always pleasant, Oliver proved to be quite the conversationalist when you asked him questions. Which of course, Hermione did continuously. It was something to keep the topic from steering toward her own personal life.

That's how she spent her time, at her little seaside shack, and on Fridays she met with Oliver and he took her into town. Sometimes when she busy baking herself a cake or doing something equally lovely and relaxing, she could swear she heard a motor boat starting up, but the sound was muffled by the constant crashing of waves and birds chirping, so she thought nothing of it.

It was her fourth Wednesday, one month since she'd first gotten there, when she went out into the jungle-like forest searching for raspberries. She'd heard from Oliver that Australian raspberries were delicious. She was learning that neither of them served as very good influences for each other.

She'd quickly found a path beaten down from previous inhabitants of the island, and she followed it deep into the woods.

"_Ah,_" she sighed excitedly, "_Finally!" _she squatted to the ground in front of the shrub and began plucking the ripe berries and depositing the small fruit into the wicker basket she had brought with her.

Just as she popped one of them into her mouth, she let her eyes glance upward and she taken aback by what she saw.

It was huge, at least by her standards, and in comparison to her tiny shack it might as well have been Hogwarts. The entire thing was painted white, and was two stories high with a small screened in porch on the second floor.

Hermione could have sworn she'd seen someone on that porch. Feeling flustered at the closeness to her island companion, she scrambled up to her feet and ran back to her home as fast as she could manage.

There was a part of her that was still as intrigued as ever about the man's presence. Then, the other part, the sensible, non-Gryffindor part of her, warned her to keep her distance.

She had come here for one sole purpose, and that was to _escape, _not make acquaintances. Oliver was her only exception; he had been an accident. Hermione made herself promise to not try to find out who was sharing her island.

…

...

Besides the whole, "no-contact-with-anyone" thing, Hermione hadn't been sleeping well. One could assume the two went hand in hand. She decided to write Ginny a letter on her sixth Monday.

_Ginny,_

_I'm alright, really, I'm sure you understand that I need some space. I'm sorry if I've worried anyone. That really wasn't my intention._

_All of a sudden, life had gotten very overwhelming, and it was going to drive me barmy._

_I'm not quite ready to tell everyone where I'm hiding out yet, but I promise you'll be the first to know when I decide to._

_And please, for the love of all that's good, don't tell Harry or Ron you got this letter. I don't want the search party coming to steal me away and drag me back to England._

_Much love,_

_Hermione _

Hermione heaved out a heavy sigh; she didn't even have an owl to be sending letters. She knew there must be other wizards and witches in Australia; she simply had no idea where to find them. She'd just have to wait to owl Ginny.

Instead of allowing herself to brood over her own thoughtlessness, and wandering curiosity that kept circling its way back to the mysterious man in the white house, Hermione slathered on some sunscreen, threw on an old, too-big shirt and laid out a forest green beach blanket. She was in Australia after all.

It wasn't long before she had fallen asleep, and she only woke up when an unusually large and heavy raindrop fell onto her sensitive belly with a defined _plop._ Her eyes shot open, and she sat up with a start.

She looked across the beach and saw wet dents in the sand appearing; before she could react, they started appearing more frequently with angry _smacks._

She quickly gathered her blanket into her arms and made a dash for her porch. Just as her feet steadied themselves on the wooden planks below her, lightning lit up the scenery and rain began pouring down in buckets.

Thunder followed soon after.

With a pitiful whimper, she disappeared into the house and charmed the doors locked, along with a few quick wards for good measure.

Hermione _hated _storms. Everything about them scared her. Nothing could prevent them, and if lightning decided it was _you _it wanted channel itself through…You can't run away from lightning. She had transfigured her bed into a Queen-size, and had created quite the blanket fort. Childish, yes. But it was keeping her from having a panic attack.

Between the cacophony of the ocean beating the beach, and the battering of the rain against her new home, the Gryffindor had only just fallen asleep.

A particularly bungalow-shaking rumble of thunder roused Hermione from her accidental slumber, "Ugh," she groaned. "Bloody hell."

With a few joint popping stretches, she brought herself back to reality.

A very rainy, very stressful reality.

...

Malfoys were known for many things, but the one characteristic never associated with them was courage. Malfoys cowered in the face of danger, and would jump ships to whichever side they thought would win.

It was a sick game of chance.

Draco had been no different, mind you. Although, his decision had come before those final moments. His opportunity to join the other ranks was simply a bit more public than he would have liked. So ridiculously public. Maybe he could have chosen to run away with his cowardly parents. Maybe he could have just let himself be the only person to know the change that had taken place, but he had been scared - terrified actually - as things quickly began drawing to a close.

It was in that moment when Potter's army swallowed him into the crowd and protectively pushed him back, that he felt safer than he _ever _had before.

Memories of his involvement in the Second Wizarding War had been plaguing him lately. Not that this explained why his glimpse of a girl had been bothering him so much. He could care less about the bloody raspberries, it was the fact that someone was on _his _island. Invading _his _privacy.

_This _didn't explain why he was sloshing through the woods to that ridiculous little shack, though. His black umbrella was faring much better than he had originally predicted.

And _none _of this explained why he was knocking on the worn wooden door. He'd actually just planned on surveying the area, seeing how the little pigpen was holding up.

When the doors opened to reveal who had taken up residence, it took everything Draco had to keep his face an expressionless mask. And not even that had been enough, his jaw had gone a bit slack and his brows had shot up to his hairline.

Granger's reaction on the other hand, had been so overwhelmingly predictable. As soon as it registered with Draco that it _was _in fact the know-it-all, he'd instinctively reached for his concealed wand.

Lucky for him he had, because it gave him just enough time to protect himself from the Gryffindor's onslaught of hexes and curses. He barely managed to deflect her immediate _Stupefy_, his umbrella landing discarded somewhere on the wet sand. Draco stumbled off the porch and into the downpour.

"What the fuck, Granger?!" he yelled over the storm.

"Get the hell away from me!" she shouted dangerously, her eyes wide as they constantly flicked from Draco to the stormy grey sky above them.

"Afraid of a little rain?"

"Shut up, Malfoy!" she sent another spell his way.

This went on for a few more minutes, the two having a one-sided battle as Granger continued to attack Draco. Once she stopped and leaned against the post to catch her breath, he said, "If I turn my back to leave are you going to kill me?" It was an honest question, taking her barrage of abuse as a steady indication of her intentions.

The incredulous look on her face said it all, he was safe to go, but her words stabbed him like a razor-sharp blade.

"I'm not you," and with that she had disappeared into her shack.

He couldn't just leave with a barbed comment like that hanging in the air. With an exasperated sigh, he slowly climbed back up the steps and knocked on the door once again.

"I made it perfectly clear that I want you to _bugger off_," her voice came from inside.

"You owe me an apology," he replied churlishly.

"Matter of opinion," she shot back. A blinding flash of lightning illuminated everything in sight; it was followed by a vicious crash of thunder. He could have sworn he heard a very small whimper from the other side of the door.

"If I get struck by lightning, Granger, the blood is going to be on your hands," the Slytherin shivered, running a hand through his wet hair.

The door was cracked open a sliver, so Draco continued, knowing bloody well she didn't want to be left in that pigpen by herself, "Headlines would say, 'GRYFFINDOR PRINCESS LEAVES DEFENSELESS SLYTHERIN TO DIE,' Skeeter would absolutely eat it up."

The door opened wider, Granger's face visible now, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she continued to worry away at it. Her eyes were completely focused on the black clouds that were rolling towards her pigpen. Finally, after a few moments of silence, her eyes slid to Draco's, brown meeting grey. The silence continued as she kept their eyes locked together, Draco held strong, refusing to be the one to break contact. She'd started this whole thing.

He felt like she was examining him, as if she had unsown him to take a peek at what made him tick. Every fiber of his body screamed for him flinch, but he held strong, noticing the light flecks of gold that speckled her brown eyes.

Another flash broke the spell that had fallen around them, and suddenly Draco was being dragged into the shack by the front of his long-sleeved grey shirt. The doors were drawn shut by the gusts of wind as thunder ripped across the island, goosebumps riddling his skin as his eyes came back to focus.

"I'm sorry," he looked down to see that she had slid to floor, her forehead resting against the tops of knees, her arms hanging gracelessly at her sides. "It's just, what you said about you getting struck by lightning," she trailed off and he watched, as the tips of her ears became a rosy pink.

He couldn't help but laugh at how childish she sounded, she drew her head up, looking amazed that he had any humor in him. It only made him laugh harder.

This entire situation was so ridiculous.

After he recovered himself, he offered her his hand, which she refused, preferring instead, to clamber clumsily to unsteady feet.

"I should be the one to apologize, I shouldn't have come over here in the first place, you have as a much a right to privacy as I do," he stated earnestly, he scowled when his eyes caught sight of her poorly concealed smirk.

"Thank you, I appreciate that," she ran a hand through her unruly mass of hair. "There's no point in just standing around, you might as well sit down," she motioned to one of the high chairs set by the island counter. He conceded, although he was finding the entire situation far too strange for his peace of mind.

He had been sitting on the barstool for a good five minutes, simply watching her buzz around the shack, when another rumble of thunder sent her hurrying toward the area where her bed was, and when she returned she had a blanket wrapped around her torso.

The growing urge to ask her just what her problem was with thunderstorms was quickly snubbed when she murmured, "I'd really rather not talk about it."

"Whatever you say, Princess," he shrugged apathetically, running his hand across the tiles of the counter he was currently seated at.

...

She scowled at him before busying herself at the bookcase that lined one of her walls. She began by pulling down all of the books and organising them into piles. Malfoy seemed perfectly content staring intensely at the counter. Realising she'd never seen him do much else, Hermione decided to leave him alone.

A rumble of thunder startled the heavy hardcover book from her hand, and it fell loudly onto the hardwood floor. She braced herself for Malfoy's cutting remark.

"Why don't you just cast a Silencing Charm," he asked dryly, now inspecting his nails.

For a moment, Hermione considered telling him that she didn't have to explain herself, but she thought it was a reasonable question. "I prefer being aware of my surroundings, even if that means I have to be uncomfortable." She returned her attention to the bookcase.

_Even though your bloody presence is making me uncomfortable… _she thought to herself.

It was quiet for a little while, and the pouring rain dulled the sharp silence.

"The Gryffindor Princess afraid of a little thunderstorm, you know, I find that quite surprising," his lazy drawl interrupted Hermione's busy thoughts.

"Maybe you have a skewed perception of Gryffindors," she quipped.

"Maybe." There was a welcomed silence long enough that Hermione felt she could return to her current task. "Or maybe the Brightest Witch of Our Age is hiding something."

Hermione stiffened at the nickname given to her by the Daily Prophet. "What could I possibly have to hide that hasn't already been dug up?" This wasn't untrue, she was still being chased around by story-hungry journalists when she made her disappearance. She did, however, have a few secrets she had yet to divulge. To anyone.

"I'm sure there are people just dying to know," he replied acerbically (_word choice_).

"I'm sure there are," she said coolly. An unexpected rumble of thunder elicited a quiet gasp from the witch.

"Not even just reporters."

Hermione mulled those words of his around for a little while before completely realising what he was insinuating.

"What are you getting at, Malfoy?" she asked hotly.

"I'm just trying to figure out why you of all people would run away from civilisation."

"I didn't _run away._"

"Semantics."

"Malfoy, I'm not running away from anything," she said tartly.

Hermione knew one thing for sure: Draco Malfoy was a Slytherin, and he never did anything without having already thought it out. He seemed to always have some sort of ulterior motive.

"If you want to know so badly, why don't you just _ask_." She had turned away from the bookcase, and was now facing him with her hands on her hips, impatiently waiting for his answer.

"I don't think you would answer, do you?" the condescending tone in his voice was slowly picking away at her nerves.

"For good reason," she shot back, her eyes trained on his.

"Something waiting for you in London then, Granger?" an eyebrow quirked up, but quickly settled back into his usual mask of indifference.

Hermione clenched and unclenched her jaw. "Not particularly, no, " she answered vaguely.

"Then why not tell me why you're here?" he was leaning his elbows on the counter now, his fingers steepled in front of him.

Hermione was smart. Hermione knew that he wasn't really interested in her life decisions. He was either trying to piss her off or get some other information that was useful to him. She would keep her temper under wraps, and she wouldn't give away anything about herself… or anyone else for that matter.

"I don't really see how it's any of your business."

Malfoy closed his eyes for a moment, and Hermione used the opportunity to gather her wits. Lightning flashed outside.

"Yes, but I'm allowed to be curious, am I not?" his eyes were still closed.

Hermione scoffed, "Slytherins aren't exactly known for being curious, Malfoy." She knew she had him there, and wondered how he planned on tactfully replying.

"You're working hard to avoid my questions, Granger."

_Of course I am_, she thought irritatedly to herself. "Am I?" She replied smoothly, finally moving back to face the bookcase to start shelving her books alphabetically. Having made the decision to be done with the conversation, Hermione planned to be just as irritatingly vague as he was.

"Let's see… Maybe the Gryffindor Princess secretly cheated on her O.W.L.s?"

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I'll take your silence as a _no_," he continued. "What else could you possibly be keeping from the public?" the question was obviously rhetorical because she knew he was smart enough to know she wasn't going to reply.

She'd made it to the "c"s before Malfoy said anything else.

"Maybe Weasel, your former best friend and current lover, caught you in bed with Scarhead. Drama ensued, and now you've run away to escape the pressure of the press and your two star-crossed lovers." Malfoy had his palms pressed against his cheeks in mock interest. She considered asserting the fact that she and Ron were _not _lovers, and questioning Malfoy's reference to Shakespeare, but she instead envisioned her first making contact with his dumb face. His stupid, arrogant, ferret face.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione reminded herself that he was doing everything on purpose. Every word he said had already been carefully chosen to elicit whatever reaction it was that he wanted. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

"Wrong again, Malfoy," she replied placidly. Hermione was pleased with how unfazed she sounded.

Humming in response, Malfoy returned his attention to the tiles, running his finger against the smooth stone.

Hermione glared at him for a few more moments before putting The Canterbury Tales next to Dracula on the shelf. She frowned when she realised there were a few books missing that were supposed to go in between the two.

She wasn't enjoying this intrusion in the slightest. If this was supposed to be some ironic twist of fate because she'd wished for a little companionship, she was prepared to start inspecting her tea grounds.

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them was correctly shelved when Malfoy reopened his surly mouth.

"I've figured it out," he announced with his familiar smirk, and Hermione reluctantly turned around.

The two stared at each other for a few agonising moments, and his harsh, grey eyes reminded her of all the cruel things he'd ever said to her. Every time Hermione's eyes had ever locked on his, too intimidated to look away, her feeling of inferiority almost stronger than her sense of self-assurance and pride.

Voldemort was gone now though, his followers were gone now. The War had definitely had its share of negative effects on her, but it had also taught her that she was a strong witch, and a strong woman. Her blood had no effect on her talent or intelligence.

Even though she'd rather direct her eyes somewhere else, she refused to break contact. As dumb as she knew it was, she found great pleasure in confidently holding his gaze.

Another smirk quirked at his lips, and his eyes slowly dragged to her stomach, which was currently covered with an over-sized, light blue t-shirt.

The realisation hit her immediately, "Get out." A rumble of thunder didn't deter Hermione one bit, and her anger only grew when he didn't move from the counter. Without looking away, Hermione tried to remember if her wand was close enough to be summoned with wandless magic.

"You didn't give me a chance to ask whose -"

"Get out." She demanded again, this time stretching her magic out in the direction she thought her wand was in.

The git slowly stood from the barstool and made his way to the other side of the counter. Hermione knew that she tended to overanalyse things, it was simply in her nature, but there was something about the way he was standing that irked her. He was leaning against the counter, his legs stretched out in front of him with his ankles crossed, and his hands planted firmly on the counter.

He wasn't taking her seriously. Hermione didn't even have to look at his stupid, smug face to know that.

"What an interesting turn of events," he said acerbically. His smirk was only making her even more exasperated. She was practically seething now.

"Malfoy, _get out_." She silently summoned her wand to her, and it didn't go unnoticed by Malfoy.

"Hey now, Granger, no need to start waving your wand around," he pushed up from the counter and drew himself up to his full height.

For some reason, he seemed to think that he still had some amount of power over her.

After everything she had seen and been through, Malfoy the spoiled Slytherin was not intimidating in the slightest. He could throw his shoulders back all he wanted. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand move, and on instinct she immediately lunged forward, the tip of her wand against his chest.

For a fleeting moment his eyes widened, before he resumed his normal bored expression, and held his hands out in front of him. She'd been in too many life-or-death situations by now. It was too soon after the War, and her nerves were still on edge.

"I won't be bothering you again, Granger. You've got some issues you need to sort

out," and before she could respond, he'd Disapparated with a startling _crack. _

Hermione adjusted the blanket around her shoulders and considered if there was anyone she liked less.

There wasn't.

…

...

After Malfoy left, the storm turned into an impressive rainshower. Hermione found rain quite relaxing… it was just thunder and lightning that made her anxious.

Having finally finished shelving all the books, Hermione made herself a cup of hot chocolate and plopped down onto her sofa with as much inelegance as she could muster. Resting her head against the arm of the couch, Hermione closed her eyes and shut off as many of her thoughts as she could. She just let the sound of the rain relax her. There was no Malfoy bothering her, there was no drama surrounding her. Just the rain beating against the bungalow (is it a bungalow?) Focusing on her breathing, she slowly became even more calm, and she eventually fell into a light sleep.

When she woke up she was feeling significantly better about the predicament she'd found herself in. There was something about naps that she found quite enjoyable. Back at Hogwarts naps were practically taboo for her, but now she finally understood the beauty of a midday nap.

With yet another long, joint-popping stretch Hermione shook the sleep off, and slowly got up from the couch. She glanced at the clock on the wall.

It was only seven o'clock, which meant there was time for her to prepare for her next trip to the mainland and to start her dinner.

For the most part, Hermione spent her time practicing magic, writing down her experiences during the War or reading the hoards of books she'd been steadily collecting.

...

Draco, on the other hand, had been spending his time ensuring his privacy from his former comrades, which was actually more difficult than one might think. A wayward owl of Parkinson's had found its way to his windowsill, and it had taken an excessive amount of treats to get the bloody owl to take the letter back to its owner.

Of course, he hadn't thought that putting wards around his house and into the forest was necessary, because he was the only person dumb enough to move onto an empty island fifteen minutes away from civilisation.

He had been embarrassingly mistaken.

Surprisingly enough, even Muggles recognised that they should steer clear of Draco, and while the notion was greatly appreciated, it reminded him too much of his first (and last) walk through Diagon Alley after the War. He'd always lived an isolated existence, so he didn't understand why it was starting to bother him _now_.

Not that he was complaining. Draco much preferred the averted eyes and strange looks of the Muggles on the Mainland over everyone else who knew exactly what he had done. Not only what he had done. What his father had done. Now that his father was hidden away in Azkaban, Draco was left to face everyone his father had ever hurt.

It was quite a list.

Ideally, Draco would have been enrolled in Uni… not that he would know what to study. If circumstances were different, maybe he would have trained to become an auror, but he was completely positive that the Ministry had no interest in the only Malfoy heir. Traitor and coward extraordinaire.

Desperate to take his mind off of things, including his visit with Potter's brain which he would analyse later, Draco walked over to his towering bookcase and scanned all of the titles at eye level.

Not seeing the book he wanted, he muttered a quick, "_Accio_Hogwarts: A History." He really did like the book, and had almost every edition of it, mostly in compensation for his inability to ever read it because Granger always bloody had it.

Looking down at the book that was yet another reminder of _her _presence, he sent the book back onto the shelf and turned in the other direction to go downstairs and into the kitchen.

At least there was a good chance that he wouldn't have to see or interact with her again. Messing around with her had been fun, but she would definitely get just as irritating as she had been at Hogwarts.

The house he was currently staying in was for the most part, unknown. Some Muggle socialite decided to have it built here to get some privacy. This being said, the kitchen still had all the strange Muggle appliances that Draco opted to completely ignore.

...

Hermione hadn't actually given any thought to her bizarre interaction with Malfoy until she was on the mainland in the local supermarket. She wasn't exactly sure why her thoughts had decided to veer off in that direction when she'd pulled her crumpled grocery list from her back pocket, but they had.

Things had gone from dangerous spell-throwing (which she still thought was completely understandable), to strangely cordial, to as irritatingly argumentative as they had always been. What bothered her the most was that she couldn't figure out why he'd found it necessary to ask her all of those bloody questions.

Maybe he _was _stupid enough to actually think she was pregnant. She didn't really know, or care to know. If he was that dumb, she was shocked that he was second in the class (behind her, naturally). Hermione carefully considered Malfoy's overall weirdness while she carefully considered the vast selection of wine and other alcoholic delights.

Vodka.

_Okay, so maybe she'd tried to hex him into oblivion, but he hadn't seemed to mind all that much. He would have taken his snarky arse back to his mansion if he'd been offended._

Rum.

_He'd laughed too. It had been an honest laugh. Maybe she was making things up in her head, but she could swear he'd actually smiled. Not smirked. Not sneered. Smiled._

Whiskey.

_Those first few minutes before he'd started being his usual ferret self weren't… awful. To be entirely honest with herself, she'd enjoyed his silent companionship. Not that she would ever admit that out loud. Ever._

Gin.

It was now that she realised she had filled her basket with various bottles of alcohol. The last thing she needed was to become the weird English girl who may or may not be an alcoholic. She was already the weird English girl who was living alone on an island. In an attempt to make her basket look slightly less pathetic, Hermione tossed in a few snacks for good measure.

Hermione was now making her way to the bookstore to see if they had any books that she didn't.

The bookstore was a pleasant cross between contemporary and cluttered. In the front they advertised new releases and when she ventured into the back rooms, she found older books, like a collection of Shakespeare's sonnets and an anthology of various other English poets. She quickly tucked them against her chest as if someone was going to come and try to snatch them away from her.

Hermione was tempted to just sit down on the floor and start reading, but her rumbling stomach convinced her to pick out a few more books and head back to the docks, but first, she was going to pick up a pizza.

_Pizza. _

The thought of warm, gooey cheese brightened her mood.

…

...

Having taken off her trainers, Hermione was sitting contentedly on the dock, her slender legs dangling over the edge and her toes just skimming the surface of the water. It was moments like these that reminded her of why she had chosen to escape.

Her life was founded on carefully structured routines. Hell, she had been waking up at seven ten every morning for nearly ten years. She had forgotten how great it felt to sleep in until her body was _ready _to wake up.

Here she was pondering her life in England as if it had been decades ago, it really just seemed so far away. Time was becoming an odd concept to her now. She had always compartmentalised her life based on slots of time. Even when they had been out searching for Horcruxes she organised everything they did by hours… days… weeks… In that situation, it certainly seemed reasonable. Harry often told her that her insistent time management was what had kept them alive. Ron stood strong by his opinion that her "insistent time management" was actually "incessant nagging". Hermione knew for a fact that Ron was wrong.

With a slight grimace on her face that was quite unbecoming, Hermione wondered what Ron was doing right now. Probably signing autographs or fending off hordes of witches, or something equally wonderful.

Being the newest recruit on the Chudley Cannons had its perks, you see.

While "Harry Potter's Best Friend" had brought its own share of attention, it had never been quite _this _beneficial.

Hermione's frown only deepened.

_Only two more weeks, _he would assure her when he was off on tour. Then two weeks would turn into two months. At first he'd send postcards from every place he stopped, often accompanied by some sort of story about his adventures as the Quidditch team's new Keeper.

She'd arrive at the Burrow exactly fifteen minutes after receiving a new letter, excitedly relaying the information to Mrs. Weasley.

Then the postcards' arrivals grew further apart, each one prefaced with an apology for the delay, until one day there wasn't an apology at all. Eventually Hermione had to read of his adventures in _Witch Weekly. _

The separation had been tolerable at first, his letters had gotten her through the days that she dutifully ticked off on her calendar while she awaited his arrival back in London. Even after subscribing to _Witch Weekly_ she continued to mark the days she spent waiting for him to come back.

His return had been… extravagant.

A word she'd never associated with the Weasleys.

Ron had dutifully kept Hermione by his side while he graciously answered questions from the press and made his rounds speaking to every person in attendance. When Hermione looked back, she could never remember having any conversations, she simply clung onto him and smiled at every person he talked to. She did, however, remember washing her face of the makeup Ginny had coated on her, and rubbing her sore feet while she waited for Ron to get back to their flat, eventually tiring of waiting and going to sleep without him.

Ron had been content to show her off to the camera. Despite her general distaste for public displays of affection, she allowed him to kiss her. It was later that she understood the kisses were for the _Daily Prophet_, and not for her.

A heavy thud nearly startled Hermione off the dock, and she stifled the instinct to pull out her wand.

With a scolding look, she glared at Oliver who was offering an apologetic smile.

"Bloody hell Oliver, I nearly toppled into the water," her heart was still pounding, and it was taking too much effort for her to keep her hands from shaking.

"Sorry Mione, didn't wanna interrupt all that deep thinkin'."

Hermione simply blinked at him for a few seconds, knowing he was curious about what had her concentrating so hard but not wanting to ask. Well, he would just have to be disappointed.

Not seeming the least bit bothered, Oliver starting telling Hermione everything that had happened while he was in town. _Everything. _Merlin, the boy really needed to find a girlfriend.

While he was talking. he started untying the boat from the dock, his cheery voice carrying over to Hermione with ease. She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead, resisting the temptation to cast a quiet cooling charm. Not that it would do much, she wasn't in a closed area, so the charm would just dissipate into the muggy air. She did, however, cast a quick, wandless heating charm toward her box of pizza.

Hermione realised she'd completely zoned out, Oliver's endless discourse becoming as much a part of the background noise as the splashing water beneath her. Glancing over at him, she was relieved to see that he hadn't noticed her inattentiveness.

Tuning back into the entirely one-sided conversation, Hermione was pleased to hear that Oliver had met a very pretty girl in the bakery. She'd given him a free donut, and now he was practically professing his undying love.

Hermione giggled and rolled her eyes as he dramatically clutched his chest and teetered back on his heels, emphatically describing her long blonde hair.

"Ladies first," he grinned, finally done wrangling with the ropes.

With all of her bags and pizza carefully clutched in her hands, Hermione gingerly stepped into the boat. Even with Oliver on the dock to steady it and keep it in place, the old boat still rocked and nearly sent Hermione off balance. Just like it always did.

Hermione set everything down and turned to grab onto the dock to ensure the boat didn't float away.

"Gentlemen second."

…

...

Hermione had spent her time considering the entire Malfoy situation while she ate. There really wasn't any reason for her to worry about having the arse for a neighbor. If he wanted to do anything to harm her, he would have done it already. Maybe.

She had no bloody idea.

Either way, she wasn't going to waste her time thinking about _him. _She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. That being said, Hermione recast all of her wards. Just to be safe.

She may not be concerned, but she certainly wasn't careless.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been almost a week since their last encounter, and while Hermione spent her day planting flowers around her new home, she glanced toward the shiny red motorboat that undoubtedly belonged to the _other _person on her island. After that minor altercation, she still hadn't seen the ferret. Not even a glance.

Hermione grumbled to herself about sneaky ferrets as she finished potting the petunias she planned to hang from the rafters of the porch. She thought they would look nice along with the lobelias she'd planted in the window boxes along her front windows. Hermione made her way backwards down the steps and onto the sand to see her handiwork.

The starting of an engine startled Hermione, and she whirled around, a comically shocked expression on her face. This expression immediately settled into a scowl of annoyance when she saw Malfoy gracefully stepping into his boat.

They locked eyes from across the stretch of beach, and if he'd contemplated saying something he didn't show it. Hermione, on the other hand, opened and closed her mouth as she considered what to say. In the end, she opted for silence.

In those few brief seconds before she turned and shot back inside, Hermione had noticed a few details she hadn't observed the first time.

For all the years Hermione had had the displeasure of knowing him, Malfoy was always well-dressed and his appearance was always impeccably neat. Today, she had noticed that his white button-down shirt was hanging from his already slim frame, and his cheekbones seemed more prominent than they had at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Something wasn't right, and while Hermione repeatedly told herself it didn't matter, she couldn't stifle her growing curiosity.

As she fixed herself a midday snack - apple slices with peanut butter - Hermione allowed her thoughts to drift back to the annoying blonde.

Personally, she had found that she was looking and feeling much better after only one month on the island. The War had taken its toll on everyone, but even a year and a half after their victory, Hermione had still been struggling to return to her former glory.

Now, she had successfully gained back nearly five pounds, and was significantly less paranoid than she had been in a long time.

Feeling an odd and unappreciated pang of sympathy for Malfoy, she decided that just this one time, she would extend to him a very small act of kindness. She knew it was simply her maternal and obnoxiously Gryffindor traits taking over, but she knew that in the end, he would still see her as the meddlesome, know-it-all Gryffindor Princess, and she kept that in mind as a small comfort.

….

...

Draco was no idiot, he saw the way she was looking at him like he was some fucking house elf that needed a proper dressing gown. Okay, so maybe he was a little sleep-deprived and underweight, but he was a grown man. He knew how to take care of himself, he just didn't care to do so at this time in his life.

Grumbling various obscenities as he tied his boat to the dock, he asked out loud, "Why _her_?" He was positive he could have suffered the presence of any other female. Even Loony bloody Lovegood would have been better.

At the outdoor market, Malfoy had been so focused on thinking about that bloody look of pity from the insufferable witch that he hadn't noticed he was scowling like someone had just kicked his hypothetical Puffskein until he raised his eyes and realised a young girl had been staring at him. She couldn't have been more than four, and she quickly redirected her curious gaze when they made eye contact.

Draco sighed. He didn't particularly want to be the intimidating man he'd grown to be. His life and upbringing had left him a hardened and extremely private adult who hid any and all feelings behind a well-practiced mask of apathy. It was how he survived.

Now held in her father's arms, the little girl chanced another look at Draco. He was ready this time and let a small smile take place on his lips when her round eyes landed on him again.

Stretching her head from behind her father's shoulder, she returned his smile with a cheeky, toothy grin of her own.

After that pleasant encounter, Draco felt much less doleful and treated himself to a bottle of wine - the only thing he bought - and began his walk back to the docks.

Maybe all hope wasn't lost for him.

Glancing up at the sky, which was beginning to take on various shades of orange and pink, Draco let his thoughts wander to his childhood as he walked.

As a Malfoy, there were certain expectations to be upheld. First and foremost was that he was educated on being a well-trained gentleman who exuded class and posture at all times. He vividly remembered chewing with his mouth open whenever his father wasn't looking, which both amused and irritated his mother.

Second was the uptaking of some sort of talent. His father has started piano lessons at the age of three and insisted that Draco do the same. He faintly remembered Lucius's rage when he'd come home to find Draco clumsily - and happily - plucking away at a miniature, classical-style acoustic guitar.

_Guitar is for those who can't afford a bloody piano._ Storming off into his study after blasting Draco's instrument to pieces, Lucius demanded that Draco's mother fix her mistake immediately. Draco clearly remembered the _or else_ that was beneath his father's words.

Once his father was gone, his mother repaired the guitar and continued the lessons whenever Lucius was away. It was a small, private victory that his mother had the pleasure of winning against her controlling husband.

Draco recognised her efforts to provide a happy childhood for him, but she had so many obstacles in her way.

Always maintaining the image of the perfect wife for the public and her husband, she was able to convince everyone of her devout loyalty. Draco was only one who knew the truth, and at the age of nine, he vowed to always endeavor to make the right decision and follow his conscience, as she often advised him to do. They were co-conspirators until the Dark Lord came back to power had drawn an impressionable Draco to the wrong side.

After the War, his mother and himself were pardoned by the Ministry, much to his surprise. He knew his mother would be safe, but he had truly expected to find himself in Azkaban. His father was not so lucky.

His mother and father had been in love once, but she was relieved to be free from his control.

Draco had finally reached the island just as the last shreds of day disappeared over the horizon. He considered his mother's words before he'd left for Australia as he silently passed the know-it-all's shack, her bushy-haired silhouette visible through the curtains.

"_Aim to live without regret. You only get one chance to live this life the way you want to. If you don't like something from your past, fix it."_

She'd said that as she'd tried different colours for the parlour's walls. The Manor was _hers _now even if she didn't want it.

Draco had an immense respect for his mother, and although he hadn't quite figured out how he was going to rid himself of all his grief over what he had done during the War, he knew he wasn't going to live by the orders of someone else ever again.

Upon reaching his house Draco had one thing on his mind. That bottle of wine. He was so enraptured, in fact, that he didn't see the little bundle that had been left on his front steps.

Quickly jumping back and searching for whatever had nearly found itself crushed under his black dress shoe, Draco grunted with confusion at the bowl with a strange metal covering that was sitting innocently in front of him.

At the sight of the Muggle paper - he knew it was Muggle paper because of the peculiar blue lines - attached to the metal. Draco immediately thought of the know-it-all, which in turn prompted him to cast a magic detecting spell. Better to be safe than sorry, and he let out a sigh when he found that there wasn't any magic of the malevolent type.

Carefully levitating it, because he still wasn't sure he wanted to touch it, Draco made his way toward the downstairs kitchen.

Once it was safely set on the counter, he gingerly pulled the paper into his hands.

_Even though you're a git, you need to eat, so I left you some of the spaghetti I made for myself._

_The only magic I've placed on it is a heating charm and a charm to refill your bowl if you want more._

_Oh, there's also a charm on it so it will disappear after ten. _

_P.S. That metal thing is tin foil, Muggles use it mainly to keep things warm._

Ambivalently eyeing the bowl, Draco considered his options. He could go to sleep hungry for no other reason than to be stubborn, or he could eat the Gryffindor's food and… eat.

"Just because I eat the food doesn't mean I have to be nice," he grumbled out loud to himself, because it somehow justified the way his stomach was starting to rumble.

With a sigh, Draco finally gave in and pulled the tin foil from the bowl and tossed it to the side. He would examine _that _later. Everything looked edible and properly made - not that he'd had spaghetti save for only a handful of occasions - the noodles weren't flobberworms and the tomato sauce was evenly mixed throughout. Altogether, it didn't look awful.

Continuing to quietly rant about meddlesome witches, Draco retrieved a fork from the drawer and took the bowl into the dining room and took a small, tentative bite.

A few minutes later Draco was thoroughly irritated, mainly because of how good the food was but also because… of how good the food was. Deciding instead to focus on tearing apart and analysing the letter, Draco continued to eat and reread what was on the wrinkled paper.

Scanning the first line, Draco was content with the fact that the witch was also justifying her actions… "You're still a git," was enough evidence that while she wanted to be her usual overbearing and intrusive self, she also lived her life believing she didn't owe any kindness or congeniality to the likes of him. She was conflicted. Draco also figured that after their interaction - that Draco had happily started to forget - the know-it-all realised that he wasn't completely evil and that she was wrong for believing he was going to attack her.

Deep down, she was trying to make herself feel better. Bloody, righteous Gryffindors.

The second seemed more for her own benefit than his. Granger was well-aware of the fact that he would immediately check for any sort of magic, so she either did it to reinstitute her intelligence and talent as a witch, or it was a habit for her to be a complete know-it-all and showoff.

Draco smirked as he meticulously spun the noodles onto the fork. The bowl was much emptier than he'd thought. He still hadn't decided if he was willing to refill his bowl, he wasn't sure how much that would hurt his pride.

After rereading the third sentence, Draco conjured the time. It was eight forty-seven. He considered attempting to remove the spell, but he knew it would be more time than it was worth, so he sighed to himself and silently agreed to play by the Gryffindor's rules. Why ten?

Was that the bookworm's bedtime? Draco tried to remember when he'd gone to sleep last night, but after a few moments of wracking his brain he realised he hadn't slept last night.

Carefully chewing the last bite of spaghetti, Draco glanced over at the _tin foil. _Well, now she had ruined the surprise, he didn't care to remain curious about it.

He wondered how her handy refilling charm worked, because he was much hungrier than he'd originally thought, and when he looked back, the happy little bowl was full.

_Bloody know-it-all witch. _He thought as he shoveled more food into his mouth.

Hermione was sitting at her island counter, The Importance of Being Earnest held in one hand and her fork in the other. She had read the book before, but she'd been much younger and hadn't really understood all of the plot. It was a much more enjoyable read now.

Taking the final bite from her bowl, Hermione decided to have just a bit more spaghetti. As she scooped some onto the serving spoon and began to drop it into the bowl the noodles simply disappeared.

Her immediate confusion was replaced with a small, satisfied smile. She hadn't expected him to request more, but she thought it couldn't hurt to leave the offer out for his consideration.

When ten thirty arrived, Hermione slowly raised her head and rubbed her eyes groggily. A sunny smile crept onto her face she saw the two empty bowls sitting on her counter. One was the serving bowl and the other was the yellow bowl she'd left with Malfoy.

…

...

The next evening, Draco meandered around the house like he usually when he was bored and had nothing else to do. It was around eight-thirty when he wandered into the kitchen and stared blankly at the cupboards. He'd never gone to the market like he'd planned, which left him with one old - and probably moldy at this point - Granny Smith apple that he'd set in some random, empty cupboard. Sighing to himself as he resigned to the fact he wouldn't be eating tonight, his thoughts wandered to the meal provided by the Know-It-All. His stomach grumbled.

Chiding himself once again for eating the bloody spaghetti, Draco summoned a glass of wine. For Merlin's sake, he'd had enough self control to keep himself as still as possible while enduring the Cruciatus Curse from the Dark Lord himself, yet he couldn't resist a bowl of fucking noodles. He was clearly losing his mind.

As he continued to sip away at his wine, he wondered if perhaps he could trick his stomach into thinking he'd eaten.

Living in the Muggle world certainly had its perks, but its one flaw was Draco's complete lack of knowledge when it came to Muggle life.

Raising the glass to his lips, he wracked his brain for the things he'd learned in the required Muggle Studies class. He scoffed as he rolled the alcohol over his tongue. Draco had never learned a damn thing in that class. He practically slept through it.

Just as he was beginning to thoroughly mull over his life choices, he felt a tingling at the nape of his neck, a signal that _someone _had stepped across his wards. Not just _any _someone, he knew, and as he twirled his wand between his slender fingers he considered what to do.

He knew it was the Gryffindor witch, not only from the obvious fact that there was no one else on the island, but he could also tell from the warning he received when it came to his wards.

It worked like this, when a wizard crossed over Draco's ward, he would feel a tingle, poke, or stab of some sort that alerted them of another wizard's presence. The aforementioned "alert" was generally unique to the wizard, and the severity of the warning tended to suggest the danger associated with them. He wasn't sure if that was the case with the witch.

Some would simply blast away at any intruder, regardless of whether they were friend or foe, some required passwords in order for others to pass across them, and some, like the wards used for Hogwarts to aid in deterring nosy Muggles, would simply rearrange the person's thoughts, thoroughly confuse them, and send them shuffling in the other direction. Draco preferred his own ward, his signature spell that he had created to protect the Manor during the more _tedious _parts of the War.

The Know-It-All's presence elicited a soft tickle at the nape of his neck. It was soft and scarcely noticeable, like someone's breath or fingertips gently grazing his skin. The first time she'd unknowingly stepped past the line of his wards, when she had been picking strawberries or something equally ridiculous, he'd only realised that tingling feeling had been an alert from his protection spells when he'd stepped onto his porch and spotted someone on his property.

When the irritating tingling stopped, Draco felt it was safe to venture to his front door and see what she had been doing lurking around the house.

Slowly opening the heavy wooden door, Draco automatically glanced down and was once again faced with tin foil. Glancing around with something akin to paranoia, he deemed the property free of nosy witches and bent down to pick up the turquoise plate.

Five minutes later, Draco sat at the predominantly unused table again, but this time he was eating "steak and baked potato" as explained in her accompanying - and again unsigned - note. The food was too good for Draco to feel even the least bit guilty.

He liked to believe that it was because of how hungry he was, but he knew her cooking was impeccable, and if he could, he would probably eat it for dinner every day. This was completely true when compared to the whopping nothing he had been eating most days before her arrival.

He had been desperate for food he didn't have to make himself, and the Fates had responded accordingly.

…

...

Hermione was waiting again, she was curious to find out what the surly Slytherin thought of tonight's selection. She was once again teetering on the brink of full sleep, her forehead resting on her copy of The Importance of Being Earnest, when his plate dutifully reappeared at ten thirty sharp.

The plate was empty apart from the potato skin and a few wayward pieces of food. With yet another triumphant smile on her lips, Hermione sent the plate into the sink.

While she had been making the dinner, Hermione had spent quite a while trying to figure out if her desire to feed the malnourished Slytherin was somehow indicative of a horrible side effect of a forgotten head injury. She was sure she'd been bashed around enough over the years that there must have been some overlooked concussion that was just now coming around to haunt her.

After mulling over all of the possibilities, she finally decided that she found it acceptable because she never actually never saw him eating her food, and she never gave it to him face-to-face. It made the entire thing much easier.

On her trek to his over-sized house she'd even imagined for a few fleeting moments that she was delivering a meal to someone like Harry or Ron. When she realised what she had been doing, she reminded herself that Draco Malfoy was _not _a war hero, he'd killed soldiers on her side. He'd taken the Dark Mark.

He'd watched her be tortured.

She wasn't doing this for any other reason than that she pitied him. Now that the war was over, he didn't have anything going for him. He clearly didn't even know how to cook himself a simple meal.

That night as she removed her Disillusionment Charm, cast a final Cooling Charm and pulled her comforter up around her shoulders, Hermione was feeling good about herself and her actions. She was a good person. Gryffindor to the core.

...

That's how it continued for the next few evenings, Hermione making meals portioned for two and dropping half off at Malfoy's doorstep. Every night she would dutifully justify her actions.

_I can't _knowingly _let him starve, _she would tell herself.

She found herself wondering what food he liked, there hadn't been one night where a plate of untouched food was sent back.

It had been a four days since they're odd ritual had started, and today Hermione was due to take a trip to the market.

When she didn't have too many things on her list, she preferred to take a quick trip to the supermarket, but when she had things like meats and fruits or vegetables she preferred the outdoor market that wasn't too far out of her way.

The market took up almost an entire block and just across the street was a butcher's shop that Hermione preferred over the prepackaged meat at the supermarket.

Oliver had once again left her to own devices, and the two had designated a time at which they would meet back up at the docks.

As she walked the uphill trek, Hermione made a preemptive strike against the sweltering heat and piled her hair up into a sloppy bun, and while there were still a few loose tendrils that were already starting to stick to her neck, it was better than having the full weight of her thick, curly hair suffocating her.

She waved at the locals who recognised her and took pride in the fact her social skills hadn't been stunted by living around the same people for nearly seven years. Apart from her general wariness of strangers created by the War and everything that had accompanied it, Hermione's ability to socialise was still intact. She'd expected it to be difficult interacting with Muggles, but she found it comforting to not be seen as _the _Hermione Granger.

On one hand, there were so many witches and wizards who had been affected by the Second Wizarding War, so there was an unspoken connection and understanding among them, but there was also, toward Hermione and the other closely associated with Harry a sort of morbid curiosity and fascination.

For some, they may have had their homes briefly invaded by Death Eaters, or been seized for questioning, and that was terrifying in its own right, but these people were sometimes _too _curious. What had happened to these people was probably the most scary thing they'd yet to experience, but they also knew that others had experienced much, _much _more, and led them to ask questions.

_Wow, what's it like having looked Bellatrix Lestrange in the eye?_

_How close did you get to Voldemort? Did you touch him?_

_Were you _really _tortured?_

_Did you personally see that criminal Black cross The Veil?_

_Do you have any scars?_

And that was only the beginning.

As she finally reached the market she was grumbling to herself for allowing her thoughts to once again wander off to all of the things she'd come here to avoid, or at least ease her mind about.

Attempting to hum, which she hoped would clear her mind and cheer her up, her tune came out as a cross between a sigh and a song that didn't do an awful lot in the way of deterring her cloudy mood. Hermione settled for a sigh that didn't make her feel any better, but it certainly didn't make her feel any worse.

She began at a stand that was selling strawberries and blueberries, and while the sampling of the sweet fruits didn't significantly brighten her mood, it was a solid start. By the time she'd made it to the butcher's, she was sporting a small, nearly inconsequential smile that didn't mean much to anyone else, but to Hermione, it was a small triumph.

...

The thunderstorms had returned, and they had returned with a vengeance. It was almost funny how easily Hermione could give up on her mission of putting a little meat on Malfoy's aristocratic bones.

The first storm had arrived late one night - or early one morning depending on a person's sleeping habits - and woke up Hermione with such a fright that her eyes momentarily welled up with tears.

She only felt guilty for abandoning her project for about two nights. By the third night she was starting to lose her wits, and had managed to think her way out of feeling guilty.

It wasn't _her _fault Malfoy couldn't be bothering to pick up a cookbook. _She _couldn't help the fact that his parents had smothered him with house elves and a neverending supply of hand-prepared meals.

Hermione had been _almost _okay the first day of storming, having spent her day in her favourite place - her blanket fort - reading and copying down her favourite poems. She even drafted a few never-to-be-sent letters to Harry and Ron.

By the second night she was already bored. Not only was she bored she still had yet to become desensitized to the thunder. Nearly every grumble and eruption of thunder startled her, even when she was warned by the flashes of lightning.

It was during the second night that she had copied down the every poem she could remember from memory, and had copied down her favourites from her various books of poetry. It was also during the second night that she remained fastidiously awake, because sleep the previous night had been filled with bone chilling night terrors.

The third day began as drearily as the last one had, and Hermione was beginning to wonder what Mother Nature was trying to tell her. After fixing herself a plate of toast and jam and glaring out the window at the mercilessly pouring rain, Hermione was beginning to wonder what she should do.

She knew, of course, that was being a _bit _overdramatic. It was only rain. _Most _people were perfectly fine with a bit of rain, maybe even a thunderstorm, but, for whatever reason, cloudy skies and all-day rain put Hermione in a generally foul mood. She knew it was partially because of the lack vitamin D, but it seemed that no matter how much orange juice she drank on a rainy day, her mood remained resolutely pitiful.

She managed a bit of sleep on the third night, and her nightmares weren't as terrifying as they had been the first night, these had just been memories. Her mind replaying some scenes she'd rather not revisit.

By the fourth day Hermione had foregone her daily routine of casting a minor Disillusionment Charm over her forearm. There was really no point in covering the scar. It wasn't like she'd never seen it before. She preferred _not _seeing it. It was a grotesque reminder of her "dirty blood", a reminder of why she had always felt just _that _much more compelled to outperform everyone else and prove her worth in the Wizarding World. She was more than just Harry Potter's _other best friend. _

Hermione spent the afternoon laying on the floor in the center of the living room, changing the colours of the walls until she settled on one that she liked. It had taken quite a while.

By the time the sun had set and another thunderstorm had rolled in for the fourth night, a knock came upon Hermione's front door.

Even though she was certain she knew who it was at the door, Hermione still felt a quick a short-lived wave of anxiety wash over her as she quickly stood from the sofa she had been curled up on.

Acutely aware of the sound of her feet shuffling across the floor, Hermione rolled her shoulders back and pulled herself tall. Malfoy already knew about her fear of thunderstorms, and she certainly wasn't going to allow any indication that it was affecting her.

While she knew that believing she'd be able to stop herself from squeaking or jumping was a longshot, she definitely didn't want to give Malfoy any leverage against her.

Before opening the door, she let out a small sigh, her hand tentatively grasping the door knob.

…

...

The door opened and she emerged just enough to lean against the door frame. Draco was observant by nature, but his years spent with the lovely Voldemort & Co. had honed his skill into an ability to take in as many minor details as possible as quickly as possible.

The know-it-all's hair was a mess. The other few times Draco had seen her, her hair had been tamed into gentle curls and waves, but at this moment…. he could easily imagine a few birds nesting in the wreck.

Judging by the dark circles under her eyes, Draco wasn't the only one around here who wasn't getting much sleep.

Despite her rigid posture and ever-present expression of stubbornness and pride, her utter-exhaustion and anxiety were glaringly obvious.

"Hello, Malfoy," she greeted him with about as much hospitality as a hippogriff, and after staring him down in that unnerving way of hers, she briefly turned her attention to the quickly darkening sky.

Deciding against returning the half-assed salutation, Draco instead replied, "Would you mind showing off your impressive talents and irritating wealth of knowledge and show me how to cook. I'm bloody starving."

Her eyes sharpened at the back-handed compliment but she didn't otherwise acknowledge it. "Planning on going out of your way to piss me off?" she asked curtly.

"Not currently."

"Fine."

...

Draco stood beside Granger at her Muggle stove, his hands shoved into his pockets as he listened to her, her voice having taken on the all-too-familiar know-it-all tone.

"Alright, first you turn on the stove," she began, but then as she stared at the frying pan she seemed to change her mind. She turned slightly to look at Draco. "Well, I suppose the _very _first thing you do is put your pan on the burner," her eyes were shining with the knowledge of some unshared joke, and because he found such information extremely useful, he decided against questioning the Gryffindor's humour - or lack thereof.

"Right," she said to herself as she stared down the square hunk of metal that had yet to do anything useful besides hold a frying pan. Draco was starting to question her sanity.

"The second thing you do is turn on the burner," she told him as she twisted the dial on the front of the stove. There was a brief clicking sound and then… flames.

Small flames to be sure, but nonetheless, there was fire blooming from the tin box Draco had previously thought to be completely useless. He wanted to ask how the hell it was doing that, but didn't want to give her any more reason to feel like she needed to tutor him on the many delights of Muggle life.

She continued to teach him how to make a _grilled cheese_, which sounded not only appallingly Muggle, but also low class.

As explained each step he resisted the temptation to ask all of the questions each thing she explained elicited.

He considered zoning out and reconsidering his decision to make an appearance here, but apples could only do so much, and in all honesty, a bit of human interaction didn't sound terribly awful.

The tricky part was paying attention but giving off an "I-actually-don't-care-at-all" attitude. It hadn't been too difficult during his time at Hogwarts, because most of the time he was fairly close to not caring one damn bit, but Granger was unusually perceptive for a Gryffindor, he saw the way she looked at him sometimes, like she somehow knew something about him that she wasn't supposed to.

He found it quite irritating. He also found her kindness toward him irritating. He'd never been able to forget that _she _had been the one making him those meals. Draco Malfoy had willingly eaten Hermione Granger's food, he'd _looked forward_ to eating her food and was, in truth, more than disappointed when the food stopped arriving.

"Are you even listening Malfoy?" she asked petulantly, one hand planted on her hip and the other tapping the handle of the spatula against her chin.

"It's never stopped you from blathering incessantly for the mere pleasure of showing how over-sized your brain is before," he replied in perfect form.

"Well, _actually_," she began with an over dramatic swish of her spatula, "the size of a person's brain has nothing to do with their intelligence, but if this is your backwards way of acknowledging my intelligence, then thank you," she openly grinned at him, and he wondered if she'd forgotten that they're bickering wasn't supposed to be fun for anyone but him.

"Granger, I don't believe it's possible for anyone to ignore how abominably smart you are. Except maybe the Weasel, he seems fairly oblivious to everything."

Draco took careful notice of the way the sparkle vanished from her eyes, but the smile remained for a moment as she turned to face the stove again. Once she wasn't directly facing him, a small frown tucked down the corners of her mouth and her bottom lip was, as usual, being worried away by her teeth.

He considered pursuing the topic, but not only was he planning on eating tonight, he didn't see much benefit in hurting her feelings.

After quietly clearing her throat, she said, "Last step." She once again shimmied the spatula under the sandwich and flipped it over.

"And that's it," he said, eyeing the sandwich with ambivalence. He wasn't sure if he'd ever eaten Muggle food - apart from Granger's tin-foiled deliveries. He wasn't opposed to the idea, but he wasn't sure how felt about this lack of… opposition.

"That's it." She stepped to side, opened the overhead cupboard and pulled out the happy yellow plate.

After she'd safely deposited his sandwich onto the plate he moved to pick it up, but she got it before he did and was already seated at the island counter before he realised his food was gone.

He stared at her as she poured some flat, yellow things that looked like they'd taste like old bread onto her plate. He continued to stare as she took a bite and chewed, her eyes focused on the papers scattered across the counter.

* * *

(Hello everyone! - I'm not sure if this line break will go through to the uploaded version of chapter 2, but I figured I'd test it out.)

I see you guys out there (and by see, I mean I'm checking the traffic count for this story way more than I'd like to admit), and I appreciate the fact that you've even shown an interest, I mean, this story is close to my heart, so the fact that anyone's reading it makes me happy.

Reviews make me very, very happy, as do follows, but I digress. - Lindsey)


	3. Chapter 3

Considering how to best bring up the fact that she was eating _his _sandwich, Draco dropped his eyes from her obnoxiously Gryffindor face - he wasn't sure how to describe it, but there was something decidedly Gryffindor about her features - and instead let the cracked turquoise tile on the counter catch his attention. His stomach growled defiantly.

"So… Granger," Draco started.

"No." She interrupted.

"Excuse me?"

"No."

They stared at each other for a few moments, and as always Draco wanted to squirm under her scrutiny. It wasn't the life or death feeling he got from staring into the Dark Lord's eyes, which induced a squirming feeling all of its own.

"I made myself a sandwich," and that as all she said before returning her attention to the book she had summoned from the coffee table in the living room.

"Fine." Draco replied sourly, turning his back to her and facing the stove.

He just stood there for a few moments, staring at the empty pan, and just when he had decided he was going to start buttering the pieces of bread, she interrupted him.

"You should run the pan under cold water, because if you use a hot pan it'll burn your sandwich or it won't cook all the way through and you'll have unmelted cheese and…" Draco had successfully suppressed a sigh, knowing that it would only offend her, and she seemed to have realised that she was rambling because she abruptly stopped talking, paused for a few seconds and said, "Run the pan under cold water, dry it off and use a different burner."

_Easy enough,_ he thought dryly to himself, feeling a bit miffed by his inability to ignore Granger's instructions.

After finishing _that_, he set to buttering the bread and turning on the burner, which wasn't as difficult as he'd initially expected. Draco - and his pride - was glad that he hadn't had to rely on her Muggle expertise. His stomach grumbled.

The entire ordeal continued fairly uneventfully, apart from Granger interjecting her handy little tips every now and then, and eventually, Draco was sitting across from the bushy-haired Gryffindor, who had finished eating and was contentedly reading her book and completely ignoring Draco's existence.

"What are you reading?" Draco asked as he daintily picked up his sandwich.

"Why?" she replied, her brown eyes flicking upward momentarily to give him an appraising look.

"Am I not allowed to be curious?"

"No."

Draco narrowed his eyes at her when she'd stopped paying him any attention.

While he trusted Granger's culinary skills, he wasn't so sure of his own, but he figured that a poorly made sandwich wasn't going to kill him.

He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then smiled triumphantly.

It was quite the culinary masterpiece.

When he glanced up at her, her round eyes were once again focused on him.

"What?" he demanded, the sandwich still held delicately in his hand. It irritated him that he'd allowed himself to be seen grinning like a bloody idiot.

"Nothing," she snapped back almost instantaneously as if she had prepared for his response.

Draco continued to happily eat his dinner while she read the book she had flattened out on the table - almost as if she was purposely keeping him from seeing it - and ate those weird pieces of old bread.

It hadn't taken very long for Draco to finish his sandwich and he couldn't say he was particularly full, but he certainly wasn't going to ask her for more food. Now he sat staring at the empty plate in front him, acutely aware of the sound of the wind and rain and the crashing waves of the ocean, as well as the occasional crinkle of paper as she turned from one page to another.

Then, just as he was considering making a break for it and going back to the safety of his big, empty house, she shook a few of the crunchy whats-its onto his plate without ever breaking eye contact with her book.

"Potato crisps," was all she mumbled, and Draco was bit perturbed by her complete lack of change in behaviour. He was by no stretch of the imagination a guest, but he wasn't Potty or the bloody Weasel, someone she was used to having around. She seemed all too comfortable in his presence, and while he knew she no longer saw him as a threat, he liked to at least think she'd be at least a bit discomforted by having an ex-Death Eater sitting less than a metre away from her.

With all that being said, he didn't particularly _want _her to feel uncomfortable.

"You know Granger, there's no rule that says we can't entertain a bit of polite conversation," Draco suggested as he, from a distance, examined the "potato crisps".

"S'pose there isn't," she replied smoothly, and Draco resisted the sigh that wanted to escape him.

Deciding to give himself a little while to think, Draco risked mortal danger and popped a crunchy-whatsit into his mouth.

Granger glanced up at him for a fleeting second.

A few minutes of silence, apart from Draco's crunching, passed and Granger finally spoke.

"Why?" she asked as she removed her bookmark and sent the book back to its proper shelf.

"Hm?" Draco responded, not understanding what she was asking.

"Why does it matter if we talk or not?" she retorted, flipping the page much harder than was necessary. He hadn't expected for her to get so riled up.

"Well, I just think it's a little odd that you refuse to have a conversation."

"We have nothing to talk about." Here Draco was, trying to facilitate some sort of _friendliness_ and Granger was being a stubborn twat.

He'd really just come here to eat, since she apparently stopped functioning when there was thunder.

"What are you reading?"

"What?"

"_What are you reading_," he asked insistently.

His demanding tone had Granger narrowing her eyes tempestuously. "It's a Muggle book."

Arching over the back of the chair, Draco dropped his head and looked at the sink behind him. "I do believe I asked a different question."

He heard her sigh and grumble some obscenities.

This wasn't about pushing buttons, Draco had been feeling strange about the entire dinner delivery - not that it had stopped him from eating a week's worth of glorious food - and if it was going to continue, he knew he was going to have to at least be able to tolerate her.

That, and the fact that he had quickly realised that when she got all riled up about something she seemed to snap out of her trance that came with a thunderstorm.

"It's called The Importance of Being Earnest_," _she finally replied.

Draco pulled himself back up straight only to rest his chin against the counter. "And why is it so important to be Earnest?"

"Well, there's this one character, John Worthing and his friend -" she stopped suddenly. "I guess you'd have to read it to understand." He recognised that she hadn't intended to sound condescending, but it irked him regardless.

"The _Importance of Being Earnest_?" he repeated, and he was well-aware of his poorly concealed curiosity, but Draco figured that sounding interested would fare better than sounding condescending.

"That's what I said," Granger replied churlishly, and Draco had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from shooting back and equally irritating response.

If he had wanted to avoid starvation, or at least having to teach himself how to cook, he'd have to keep his lip buttoned.

Watching as she summoned a frosted glass, as well as a bottle of red wine, Draco licked his lips and considered asking her if he could also have a glass, but he knew that was a bit past their current level of congeniality. Glancing from the bottle - which realised he had been staring at - he found Granger's honeyed eyes on him again. Without a word passing between them, another glass was summoned. Although instead of pouring it by hand, she instead used wandless magic, which Draco felt much have held some sort of significance for Granger, he just wasn't sure what it was yet.

The rain had lightened just enough for Granger's shoulders to relax and for Draco to feel safe Apparating home. He guessed it was some time around eight or a little later.

"Is it some sort of Muggle self-help book?" Draco asked, still not ready to let this subject drop, for one, it was the only thing they had managed to discuss without arguing. Well, that wasn't entirely true, but it seemed that way. "Because honestly Granger, I think you'd be better off investing in a book that would help you be slightly less earnest."

Much to his surprise she actually cracked a smile, though to be fair, she'd quickly hidden it by taking a sip of her rapidly disappearing wine. As she lifted her hand he noticed a faint shimmering on her left forearm.

"Why don't you just read the bloody thing and get it over with?" she was grinning, clearly pleased with the idea that she had caught Draco being curious about something Muggle. She probably assumed the result would be Draco being horribly offended by the mere thought, but the idea _had _crossed his mind.

Draco raised a questioning brow, "Would Hermione Granger really trust _me _with one of her precious books?"

Responding first and foremost with an eyeroll and said, "You say that like I'm Madam Pince," she paused as she picked up the paperback book. "You can borrow the book as long as you don't dog-ear the pages or leave food crumbs in the binding."

"Food crumbs?" Draco scoffed, not putting any thought into what he was saying. 'The only food I've been eating is what you give me."

Despite both of them being well aware of this, the confession seemed to solidify the reason for him being being there and for their socialising. This was all the result of Granger fulfilling her innate need to be the hero and mother figure by supplying Draco with food because he was too lazy, depressed, and stubborn to learn himself.

Draco felt slightly better now that it was clear why he was here, but he also felt slightly… less better, a small knot beginning to twist in his stomach. He took a sip of his wine.

The silence stretched on longer than he had intended and he noticed that Granger had started to fidget.

After a few more moments of her picking at her nails and Draco gulping down the rest of his wine, she finally spoke.

"Uh, yeah… anyway here you go." She stumbled with her words as she slid the book across the table. "You can give it back whenever you finish it." Her eyes never met his gaze, her stare firmly fixed on the turquoise tiles of the counter.

"Thank you." He said quietly, his soft words contrasting with the harsh scrape of his barstool as he stood. He could hardly suppress his wince from the sudden sound, and he wondered if Granger noticed. "I think I'll Apparate back now that it's only raining."

"O-Oh yeah, now's probably the best since it's not lightning."

"S'pose so," he murmured lamely, and before either of them could attempt to mend the horrible awkwardness, Draco had Disapparated.

…

"Fucking bizarre," Hermione muttered to herself.

The entire ordeal had been awkward and strange… although not _unpleasant. _Of course there were the usual tense moments, but that was to be expected really. She doubted that she would ever be able to be in the same room with Malfoy without being pissed off by him at least twice.

Hermione continued to analyze the entire evening as she hand-washed the dishes.

First of all, she was still a bit surprised by his willing appearance at her house, of course, he _had _been the one to say that the only he ate was when she was feeding him, so she supposed that he might have been getting conditioned to expect that from her and when he didn't he sought it out himself. She supposed that made sense.

Then there was the curious business of Hermione letting Malfoy in. That was possibly too strange to contemplate without another glass of wine, and so she poured herself one before returning to the sink. She would return to that thought later.

Perhaps she had chosen to _teach _him rather than just make him food because she wanted to help, the least she could do was teach him one useful thing. She was a bit surprised that he had agreed to letting her instruct him and basically boss him around. Not that she was complaining.

He'd used Muggle technology, tried crisps without much complaint, and borrowed a Muggle book. Hermione was beginning to think that he'd maybe gone a bit barmy after the war. Maybe he was just taking the piss. That was entirely possible, Malfoy could just be trying to confuse her and trick her into some elaborate practical joke.

Just as she had finally started to relax, he'd had to go and make it awkward all over again. Hermione didn't understand why it had turned so… quiet and suffocatingly awkward. Hermione cringed just thinking about it.

If she had to be completely honest with herself, which she was having no problem doing now that she was almost finished with her second glass of wine, she had started to enjoy his company. Hermione had spent all that time alone during the storm and it wasn't like she'd gone out of her way to make any friends, so when Malfoy came to her house she wasn't too entirely opposed to the idea, she was more opposed to _him. _

Then he'd put it right out there in the open.

_The only food I've been eating is what you give me._

There it was, the entire reason any of this bollocks had happened in the first place, but for some reason it made her feel more disappointed than relieved as it had when she'd first assured herself that was the only reason she was putting up with him.

That night after the remaining pangs of embarrassment had dissipated, Hermione stood in front of her bookshelf.

…

Hermione was beyond confused when she woke up to find sunlight streaming in through her thin curtains.

The appearance of the sun was enough to brighten her spirits. Brightened her spirits so much, that she almost forgot to apply her Disillusionment Charm.

After showering and getting dressed, Hermione checked on her flowers, and she was relieved to see that they had survived and were looking quite lively.

For the rest of the day, Hermione played records, read The Old Man and the Sea, and collected seashells along the beach.

When the sun was just starting its descent, Hermione was sitting on the steps of her porch, waving her wand in intricate and meticulous patterns as she attempted to transfigure a bowl of sand into a glass vase.

She had no idea why, but the sand just wouldn't stay formed together long enough for her to finish turning it to glass.

Beginning to grow frustrated by what was _supposed _to be a simple spell, Hermione ignored the beads of sweat on her forehead and gave it one last try.

She had the sand slowly swirling in the air and starting to congeal together, which was certainly a good sign, and then she began the final step of the spell.

The sand, which was now in the form of her envisioned vase, shimmered to glass, but before she could give the last _swish _which cemented the permanent transfiguration, the sound of someone clearing their throat startled her from her concentration.

…

She'd been completely oblivious to his approach - which suited Draco just fine - but he was fairly sure that fifteen seconds - he'd counted - of _watching _was bordering on creepy, so he unnecessarily cleared his throat.

Those fifteen seconds were long enough for Draco to thoroughly look her over though…

Hair loose and falling past her shoulder blades, perspiration at the hairline, a white t-shirt that was possibly a size too small with a smudge of dirt on it, and denim shorts that revealed much more of her thighs than he'd ever desired to see… Granger had most likely spent her entire day outside, and was probably in dire need of a cold shower.

The simple transfiguration spell she'd been so focused on completely unraveled as her entire body stiffened and she spun toward him. The glass shattered and as it fell it dissolved into sand.

Draco was, for a fleeting moment, enraptured by the small "o" Granger's mouth had formed, but he quickly raised his eyes to meet hers.

"Fuck's sake, Malfoy!" she exclaimed. "Do you always sneak up on people?"

He smirked, "Well, most people I keep company with are a smidge more aware of their surroundings."

The awkwardness of the previous night melted away, and Draco found an odd comfort in the familiarity of their bantering.

"Hm." Her brows rose slightly. "I wasn't aware that you were _keeping company _with me. That's a new development." The humor was evident in her voice, and while Draco knew it was safe to reply with a quip of his own, he was unsure of what to say… so he opted for silence.

"Well, anyway…" she trailed off, dumping the sand back onto the beach and standing from her seat on the wooden steps.

Her failed attempt at changing the subject only fueled the silence.

It was when she brusquely invited Draco in that he realised where the awkwardness was coming from. They weren't used to speaking amiably with each other. He wasn't sure if knew how to be anything other than rude to Granger.

Draco once again found himself in Granger's abominably small shack, and he counted her visible discomfort caused by his presence as a victory. He chose to ignore his own discomfort for the sake of winning.

Having taken a seat on the couch, Granger sent Draco into a bit of an internal quarrel with himself.

To be entirely honest with himself, he'd prefer sitting where Granger was, if only to avail himself to more opportunities for observation. On the other hand, Draco was painfully aware of the fact that Granger was the type to overanalyze everything.

In the end, Draco chose the seat at the kitchen island.

…

Malfoy was all sharp angles and frantic eyes.

Hermione had the chosen the couch simply because it was more comfortable than the wooden bar stools. Although the apparent turmoil Hermione's decision had sent Malfoy into was deeply satisfying.

After a few moments of deliberation, he chose his usual seat at the counter.

Hermione knew that he knew she was looking at him, but she had to admit that he had mastered the delicate art form of maintaining a poker face.

There wasn't even the twitch of his eyebrow - as far as she could tell - to give any hint that he was aware or disturbed by her staring.

This was first and foremost a sign of his time with the Death Eaters, Malfoy had the same stoicism as Snape. Despite this she couldn't help but feel this was some sort of jab at _her_. Malfoy was making it perfectly clear that her presence was of no consequence to him. She was neither a threat nor a nuisance - yet - and while she didn't particularly want to be either of those things, she wasn't sure she liked having no effect all.

She was overthinking the entire thing and she knew it. Malfoy probably had no concept of regular social interaction. For more than half of his life his socialising was more than likely dictated by Lucius - Papa Malfoy and Death Eater extraordinaire. By the time Malfoy was old enough to give Lucius the bird, he'd been so worn down by fear and the impending war that he had followed the primary example set before him.

Hermione always did her best to not think of Malfoy too much, because when she did, she found it easier to see why he was such a prick. She preferred to simply dislike him, it made everything much easier.

Malfoy finally acknowledged her staring with a quick, inconsequential glance that was so nonchalant that Hermione almost believed he hadn't noticed it.

"You don't mind if I read, do you?" he asked, already pulling a miniature book from his pocket.

"Not at all," Hermione answered, watching as he returned her book to its normal size.

The silence returned, and while Malfoy settled in to read The Importance of Being Earnest, Hermione closed her eyes, slouched down, and rested her head against the couch.

It had been so long since she had been outside that Hermione was really feeling quite knackered, and if Malfoy wasn't here she might've considered taking a nap… or just calling it a night.

After a couple minutes of wondering if her body would even relax enough to fall asleep while he was here, Hermione became aware of how dirty and grimy she felt.

She might not be able to fall asleep, but she was pretty sure she could could take a quick shower without too much issue.

One good thing about Malfoy was that he had zero interest in her, possibly even a negative amount of interest… Which suited Hermione just fine.

"Y'know what Malfoy?" she asked without waiting for any sort of a response, "I think I'm gonna go take a shower."

He responded with a slight nod and disinterested grunt of acknowledgment, which also suited Hermione just fine.

Barely suppressing an unladylike grunt of exertion, Hermione pushed herself onto her feet and shuffled around the coffee table in front of the couch, past Malfoy, and down the small hallway with two doors. The one at the end of the hallway led to the bathroom, and the door on the left led to a small unused room that Hermione had thought about making into her bedroom.

The door to the bathroom got stuck sometimes… Well it got stuck most of the time, so Hermione had to jiggle the handle a bit before she could get it open.

The door to the bathroom also opened on its own sometimes, so Hermione made sure to charm it shut before she started stripping down.

After turning on the showerhead she got an awful crick in her back, so she instead filled the tub and added a bit of bubble bath. Malfoy was perfectly capable of entertaining himself, and he could find something to snack on if he got too desperate.

While the tub filled and enveloped the small bathroom with a relaxing vanilla and citrus scented steam, Hermione took the time to brush her hair until it was soft, something she never bothered to do until her last few years at Hogwarts, and carefully wrapped her curls around into a bun, securing it with a ponytail holder. For good measure, Hermione cast an anti-frizz charm of her own design on the swirling steam.

…

Draco wasn't sure how he felt about this book. He'd sometimes find himself smirking along with the jokes, but then what did that say about Draco?

Here he was laughing along with jokes about upper-class ideals, and while the play was first performed just over a century ago - and had been written by a Muggle - the similarities were still there.

He wondered if his mother had read this. She would probably enjoy it.

At this point, Draco had developed a conspiracy theory.

Granger had purposely drawn him into borrowing the book. She'd known that he would be curious about it, especially if she didn't allow him to see the cover. _Especially _if she refused to entertain the idea of Draco having any interest in it, let alone reading it.

Obviously Draco knew none of that was true, or even plausible in any way… Granger didn't seem quite that cunning. It was far too Slytherin of an idea.

Now he was wondering why Granger would say she was going to take a shower when it was obvious she was taking a bath.

Draco closed his eyes and reminded himself that, _generally speaking_, Gryffindors rarely made any sense. He returned his attention to the book and made a great effort to ignore the growing smell of vanilla and what Malfoy thought smelled like tangerines.

He was determined to finish the play, if only to find a way to use it to irritate Granger.

Definitely not because he was finding any pleasure in reading it. Obviously.

...

_Hiya everyone! Sorry for the long wait, but as always, I'm awfully busy with getting ready for college and work and all that nonsense. I head off to college this Saturday, so I hate to be the bearer of bad news... buuuut my updates will probably get even slower, the next time I'll be able to update probably won't be until around Thanksgiving... But I'll write at every chance I get!_

_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please review with your feelings so far! I love hearing from everyone! _


	4. Chapter 4

Draco had been happily minding his own business while Granger took far too long soaking in the tub.

The smell of vanilla and tangerines was surrounding him now, and her pigpen seemed to have warmed a couple of degrees. He unbuttoned his top button.

Having finally reached the third act of the play, Draco was feelings quite confused and would have already set the book aside if it weren't for Granger's insistence that he would hate it and shouldn't have even bothered reading it. Although it was important to note that he was enjoying the play.

At the revelation that Miss Prism was the nursemaid who was somehow dumb enough to put a baby in the pram and a manuscript in the handbag - _oh bollocks, it's the other way around _- Draco felt he was on the cusp of some astonishing realisation.

Then Granger emerged from the bathroom.

Hermione Granger wasn't supposed to be noticed. Well, noticed for her brains, of course. Not for her smooth shoulders and long legs.

She had come scurrying out of the bathroom clad in only a short orange towel, quickly disappearing behind the partition that separated the living room from her makeshift bedroom.

Draco stared at the book in front of him, but all of the words just blurred together into a meaningless cluster of letters on a page.

He was suffocating. His fingers twitched as he thought about undoing another button. He needed air. He could see her blurred silhouette as she pulled on a shirt.

When had he looked away from the page? He was supposed to be reading. He was supposed to be at his own house drinking wine by himself and ignoring the rest of the world.

This was all just… wrong.

Everything.

Everything was wrong, and he desperately needed to leave.

Hermione Granger was not supposed to be noticed.

"Alright, Malfoy?"

_When did she finish getting dressed?_

"What?"

"I was just wondering if you're feeling alright, you look a bit flushed."

"I'm fine!" he snapped when she'd taken a step toward the counter.

_When had he undone another button?_

Rolling her eyes, Granger rocked back on her heels and raised her hands in the air, "Point taken."

Seeming far too unfazed in her oversized t-shirt and tiny cotton shorts that barely showed past the hem of her shirt, Granger traipsed past Draco and stood in the kitchen with her back to him.

This was so wrong.

"This is wrong." He said, and he didn't completely realise he'd said it out loud until she looked at him from over her shoulder.

"Huh?" her mouth made that little "o" again.

"This entire situation is completely absurd, I'm going home." the barstool scraped against the floor again.

"Without eating?"

She wasn't at all disturbed by his outburst, which only disturbed him more. Unless she'd taken a bath that was mixed with a Calming Draught, Draco couldn't possibly understand why she was so fucking peppy all of a sudden.

"Why do you even bloody care whether I eat or not! I'm the enemy for Merlin's sake!" Draco hadn't yelled like this in a while, he'd been carefully keeping everything pent up where he could ignore it, but Granger had a way of driving him fucking crazy.

"Well, I suppose I had a bit of a revelation while I was in the bath." She was facing away from him again as she began opening cupboards and pulling down various ingredients and bowls.

Draco didn't respond. Mainly because Granger was perfectly capable of encouraging herself.

"I'm all alone here on this island… well alone plus one," a metal bowl clattered loudly to the floor. "I mean, we're completely alone here, so why do we have to be enemies?"

Usually Draco kept his unfiltered responses to himself but tonight… "Because you're irritating as hell!" She bent down to retrieve the bowl and Malfoy quickly averted his eyes.

When she stood back up, she turned just to show her grin, "Same to you mate."

_Mate. _

"You're fucking crazy."

She laughed, but didn't say anything in response, she just continued about her business, humming some song Draco had never heard before.

Left alone to his own thoughts, Draco was finding himself intending to finish reading that bloody play, but instead he was distractedly watching Granger buzz around the tiny kitchen.

She was right, of course, she was always fucking right. There was really no reason for them to remain so opposed to each other.

"I'm leaving," he announced firmly, standing up quickly before he could change his mind.

"Malfoy, sit down," her tone was too soft. Too sweet.

This was wrong.

"Stop being so fucking nice to me! This is all _bullshit_!"

"This isn't any easier for me."

"Then stop! You hate everything about me, Granger, we both know that." He was still standing, which for some reason made him feel much more confident in what he was saying. "I am _everything_ you can't stand, and you can't just stand there and pretend that I'm not."

She was closer now, standing with only the kitchen island separating them. With her hands planted flat against the counter, she leaned forward, and not only was her body invading his personal space, her scent was even stronger than before. Vanilla and tangerines and smooth skin so close that Draco realised she had freckles. Had he gone nine years without knowing she had freckles?

"You're right, Malfoy," she shrugged and her admission snapped Draco from his fog. "You're absolutely right, you're the basic embodiment of what I've learned to loathe the past nine years, but I'm standing here trying to figure out _why._"

"'_Why_' what?" he wondered how long he could go without breathing.

"Why I have to hate you."

"You already know why."

"No, I mean, apart from you being an arrogant tosser."

She smiled and Draco almost smiled back, but then he remembered. "I can't stand you." He didn't notice that her smile had been strained.

Granger rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious," he pressed.

"I know you are." She murmured.

Draco looked up at her and saw the defeated expression on her face. "Now what, Princess?" her eyes darted up to meet his, her dislike of the nickname clearly displayed on her face. "Where does that leave us?"

"I may think that you're an arrogant prick, but I realise that I know nothing about you. But you're perfectly content to continue thinking of me as the…" she faltered, "... as the Mudblood bitch." She stepped back from the counter, and Draco could breathe again.

He could breathe again, but he couldn't speak.

"I was wrong. I thought I could fix things… I thought I could make things better but I can't."

He couldn't look at her.

"Please leave."

He couldn't move. He could feel her eyes on him and he hated it. He hated her.

"Granger."

"Fuck you, Malfoy. Get out."

He took a faltering step back.

How had this happened? When had he lost control of the situation?

He Disapparated and hoped he didn't splinch.

Draco had never really liked Apparating much.

He squeezed his eyes shut and endured the tugging and crushing sensations as his magic pulled him to the first place he had imagined.

"_Draco?_"

The air was thick and cold and Draco was out of breath.

He chose to keep his eyes closed until he was sure all of his limbs were intact.

_Fingers and toes_, Draco wiggled his appendages and felt secure that none of them had disappeared. No pain apart from his back that had hit the ground hard.

"Draco?" _Was that his mother?_

"Draco, darling, are you alright?"

On instinct, Draco said, "I'm fine, Mum," before he even opened his eyes, which he was still reluctant to do, especially now, because he realised where he was.

He became aware of how cold he was once he opened his eyes and saw that he was surrounded by snow.

"Okay, darling," his mother cooed, "but why are you here?"

Sitting up carefully, Draco squinted at his mother who was kneeling beside him. He winced slightly when he noticed that her dress was wet at the knees. He'd offer to clean it for her.

"Well, you see Mum, it's a rather long story that I'd rather not talk about." All of the shame and guilt that had sent him hurtling here in the first place came rushing back.

His mother smiled, "Some tea, then? Yeah?"

"Yeah."

…

Hermione had told herself she shouldn't let her emotions get the best of her, but Malfoy made it _so _fucking difficult.

All she wanted to do was be fucking friendly and not feel like she was one insult away from hexing him constantly. She had been wrong, Malfoy would never see things any other way than what he'd had shoved down his throat all his life.

There was no reason for the prejudice. Except that Hermione was Muggleborn, and that would always be her hamartia, her fatal flaw.

Hermione rested her forehead against the kitchen island and let out a loud growl, hoping it would alleviate some of her frustration. It did. A little.

When she lifted her head, she realised that Malfoy had left The Importance of Being Earnest. She wondered if he'd finished, but then she remembered that she didn't care.

She spent the rest of the night kneading out dough and making a pizza for one, and the whole time she was grumbling about how dumb she was being about the entire thing. Draco Malfoy didn't matter.

It was when she was nearly asleep on the couch, that she realised what she had been missing. It was when she saw Malfoy as anything other than someone to eat dinner with , someone to keep from starving or drowning in all the wine he seemed to be drinking, that everything fell apart. Draco Malfoy didn't matter.

Hermione was feeling a bit better, so she took her sudden surge of optimism and put it toward writing a letter to her friends back home.

The optimism could have lasted longer.

The kitchen island was covered with balls of paper, and some had fallen to the foor.

_Ron, sorry for disappearing so suddenly. Not saying that you didn't _also _disappear into thin air._

Another paper ball thrown into the pile.

_Harry, I hope everyone is going well with you! Hopefully you've gone to St. Mungo's and kept up with your therapy appointments._

After an unsuccessful hour of trying to write letters to her friends, Hermione had only succeeded in creating a monolithic mountain of crumpled paper balls and congratulating Neville on finally working up the nerve to ask Luna to go on a date. Said date had happened approximately… two months ago? Hermione had the paper ready for crumpling.

Hermione spent ten more minutes trying to think of something - _anything _to say to Ron, but she couldn't stop thinking about all of the things she _hadn't _said to him. The things she should have screamed at him.

A paper ball went sailing into the sink.

"Fuck it."

She went to bed, leaving the paper balls to be dealt with tomorrow.

…

Draco was sitting with his mother in the upstairs sunroom. His mother usually retreated there during his father's fits because she found the view of the gardens to be quite comforting.

"Are we going to sit here drinking this awful tea in silence, or are you going to tell me what's going on with you?" his mother had mastered the art of keeping a deadpan expression, something that Draco had learned the importance of early on in his childhood. Lurking under her apathetic facade Draco could see the twinkling sparks of humour in her eyes. She probably thought he had a girlfriend, although he knew that she knew better than that.

"I'm not entirely sure how to word it…" Draco tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, as he tended to do, and closed his eyes for a few moments. He could hear his mother tapping her perfectly manicured nails against her teacup.

He imagined Granger and the way she incessantly chewed on her nails when she thought he wasn't paying attention.

"Darling, if you've gotten some witch pregnant you may as well tell me now so I can have the pleasure of alerting the Daily Prophet," he could hear the smile in her voice. "I _do _love a good scandal."

"Merlin, mum! I haven't gotten anyone pregnant!" he snapped his head in time to see her shrugging coolly and taking a sip of tea, barely hiding her grimace. "I don't understand why you don't let the house elves make the tea like they always have, that's what they're here for."

"One, we - _I _- don't have house elves anymore, and _two, _I would appreciate it if you would stop trying to change the subject and tell me about your pregnant girlfriend or mistress or _whatever_," she drawled out the last word in a way that seemed reminiscent of a Hogwarts-aged Narcissa who liked to portray the idea that she didn't find much of anything interesting.

"And why did you do _that_?" his mother sighed as if the reason was something so _obvious _she was offended by his asking. "You don't know how to cook, you barely know how to clean your own clothes, let alone the entire bloody manor."

"Such faith you have in me darling, but I'll have you know that I'm _learning_."

He couldn't fault her for lack of trying, he just wasn't sure he liked the idea of his mother starving to death in piles of unwashed clothes and dirty dishes.

"And where are the house elves now? Roaming the streets of London looking for a cabinet to bash their faces on?"

His mother gave him the _look_ before speaking, "I've sent them to work at Hogwarts, I think they'll be better suited there instead of all of them trying to care for one person."

"I suppose."

The silence returned, and out of habit, they both drank more tea.

Draco couldn't hide his curled lip and wrinkled nose, "Bloody hell mum, even _I _can make a pot of tea!"

He had expected some sort of sarcastic remark, as was the usual pattern of their conversations, but instead she smiled and began to laugh.

If her laughter wasn't a testament to her newfound freedom and ability to relax, Draco wasn't sure what was. It was out of habit more than anything that his mother would maintain her high-strung and disinterested face when she was with Draco, but now that she was no longer required to uphold the Malfoy name - since his father had single-handedly dismantled it - she was free to be herself.

"You know who I think would _really _appreciate a pot of tea?" she asked, her eyes closed as she ran her slender fingers through her pale blond hair.

"Hmm," Draco grunted in response.

"Your pregnant witch," a sculpted brow twitched upward, as did the corner of her mouth.

"Nobody's pregnant!" he exclaimed before laughing. All this talk about pregnant witches reminded Draco of his first visit to Granger's pigpen. Not something he would call a particularly _fond _memory.

"Well, if nobody's pregnant I don't see why you haven't told me why you Apparated onto my front lawn."

"For Merlin's sake mum, if you _must _know, the happy little Australian island I've been staying on has been invaded by a certain… undesirable." He still wasn't keen on telling his mother that Hermione Granger was making him meals every night. Well, _had been_ making him meals every night. He wasn't hesitant because he feared her disapproval, he was hesitant more so because he wasn't sure he could stand her teasing.

"Oo, _undesirable_," she widened her eyes and flipped a section of her hair behind her shoulder for effect.

Her dramatic response was making Draco cringe, and he knew that if he didn't just tell her everything soon it would only get worse.

"Hermione Granger is living in a shack on the beach and she's been making me dinner and I've been reading her books, but we still hate each other and she kicked me out today, so that's that, and I'd really rather not talk about it."

His mother just stared at him, or at least slightly to the right of him. For a few moments it was unbearably silent. Unbearable because Draco knew it meant she was thinking of something to say. He'd feel much better if the subject was dropped and completely forgotten.

He gazed absent-mindedly at the toes of her bare feet which were peeking out from beneath her gown. Her clothing - apart from her lack of footwear and mud stained knees - was as impeccable as always and Draco realised that he was far from his usual neat demeanor. His shirt was about two buttons away from indecency and his pants were in dire need of being ironed, let alone the fact that his clothes had started to hang baggily from his body.

"Do you like her?" her question was so far from what had expected that Draco coughed in surprise.

"What?" Draco was fairly sure that he had specified that they still hated each other. "No mother, I don't _like _Hermione '_I-can't-keep-my-freckled-nose-out-of-other-people's-business' _Granger."

"And yet you're letting her make you dinner." Draco considered telling his mother that she'd gotten it backward - _she _was letting _him _eat her food - but he figured that wouldn't be helping his case any.

"So, darling, what you're telling me is that you and Miss Granger are willingly being around each other, yet you can't stand one another. Now," she held up one hand, "I may not be the smartest witch in England, but that sounds a bit suspicious. One of you has an ulterior motive."

Before Draco could even respond, his gasped dramatically, "Are you trying to sleep with her?"

"What?!" Draco coughed again.

His mother leaned forward and lowered her voice, "_Are you trying to shag Hermione Granger?_"

"Merlin, _no_, Mum. Granger has all the sexual appeal of a hippogriff."

"Right." She dragged the word out in a way that made it perfectly clear she wasn't going to be dropping the subject any time soon, or at least if she was, she wasn't going to forget about it.

The contemplative silence returned.

Draco considered telling his mother that there _was_, in fact, an ulterior motive - Granger's desire to rehabilitate him into some sort of acceptable wizard, or at least her desire to make herself feel intelligent and useful - but he found it too embarrassing to admit. The mere fact that someone thought Draco was so alone and damaged that they should attempt to establish a new sort of acquaintanceship - despite years of hating each other and him truly just being a complete twat to her - was enough to convince Draco that maybe he wasn't as alright as he was constantly telling himself he was.

"Something on your mind darling?" his mother asked in a much warmer tone that he was accustomed to hearing from her.

Draco shook his head "no" and moved to get up, "I ought to be getting back, it's probably almost eleven there." They both glanced at the clock, which read that it was almost two in the afternoon.

Before he could make his exit, his mother quickly leaned forward in her seat and gently grasped his wrist, "Draco, darling, the time before the War was difficult for all of us, as was the War itself, but I want you to remember who _you_ are. You're not your father, you're not me, you don't have to carry the weight of _our _misdoings," she met his eyes with a watery smile. "You know, sometimes the realisation that the Dark Lord is _gone_ just hits me, and I wish your father could be here to experience all of the new, wonderful things that are beginning to happen. I don't have to worry about whether or not tonight's the night my boys won't come back from a meeting." She paused, and Draco thought for a moment that she was expecting some sort of response from him, but she continued.

"What I'm trying to say, is that maybe you should stop being such a stubborn twit and actually take a look at the world around you."

"I am _not _a stubborn twit," Draco replied with a playful smirk.

"Okay darling," she nodded with a smirk of her own.

He Disapparated with a _crack_, and he knew that his mother had seen how he cringed before doing so.

He appeared in the foyer of his house, his hand immediately raising to the throbbing headache at the back of his head. At first he considered pouring himself a glass of wine to ease the pain, but he remembered that he hadn't eaten. It was one thing to drink when he hadn't eaten simply out of his own neglectfulness, it was another thing entirely when he hadn't eaten because of his own stupidity, which may seem to be very similar notions, but Draco knew the difference. The difference was that Granger had given him that hurt and defeated look that reminded him of what a prick he was.

Feeling decidedly foolish, he headed to bed and suffered the headache until he fell asleep.

Tomorrow he would go to Granger's and try talking with her. The key word being _try. _

…

Hermione woke up feeling much better than she had expected, although she quickly realised that she should have set her usual cooling charms, because a clammy sweat had broken across her skin during the night and she was feeling sticky.

After a long shower, during which she took the time to condition her hair so it was soft and smooth, well, as smooth as her hair could be, Hermione dressed and soon found that her home was just as clammy and sticky as she was. Her bare feet were making a soft tapping sound on the floor, and she could feel the pads of her toes sticking slightly to the hardwood as she lifted them to take a step.

When she'd finally shuffled into the kitchen - after trying to figure out what on earth was making her floors feel like that - she ran her hand over the counter, and when she lifted it up for inspection, she found it covered in flour and other old crumbs.

"Bloody hell am I a slob," she said, laughing at her assessment.

Today would be cleaning day, something she was uncharacteristically excited about.

…

Draco woke up with the same bloody headache he'd gone to bed with, and his realisation that he had yet eat anything wasn't helping any.

Feeling safe in routine, he decided to wait until around six or seven to go down to Granger's shack.

Until then he would… he would do something. Probably.

Hiya everyone! I would apologize for the long wait, but I mean.. what else do you expect from me? I'm sorry for the decrease in word count, I've just started my first year of college, so I mean, you know, priorities... Anyway, I have the next chapter predominantly planned out, so I'm hoping the word count will be significantly bigger.

As usual, I've proofread multiple times, but if you find any errors please let me know, thanks! Reviews make me hella excited by the way.

- Lindsey


End file.
