Mr Bartender

by NameisArbitrary

Magic-stripped and exiled, Draco Malfoy is a bartender in Oslo. Hermione Granger is on a solo-backpacking trip to find herself after quitting her job at the Ministry and breaking off her engagement to Ron. Both are struggling to define themselves after the War as habits and trauma get in the way. They meet disastrously, leaving Hermione unconscious and Draco bleeding. What the ?

Hermione closed her book as she looked down the street, then stepped into an alley. She stowed A Traveler's Guide to Scandinavia in her backpack. She was happy to be traveling like a Muggle, leaving behind the expectations which weighed her down at the Ministry. She avoided using magic for most things during the ten weeks she'd been gone so far. Still, there were a few tricks she couldn't give up. She unzipped her pack and reached in for the purse she couldn't live without-her charmed bag with infinite space.

Footsteps neared and Hermione froze, looking out from the alley with wide eyes. She could fight off a mugger with her wand, but if a wizard caught her using magic near Muggles and reported her, she didn't want to imagine the uproar it would cause. A group of friends stumbled by, laughing and hanging on each other. Hermione relaxed and looked down, imagining how she could transfigure her snow boots and cargo pants so the bouncers would let her in. She slid her wand from the sleeve of her sweater and with a few flicks, she felt sexy in tight black pants and a silver crop top. Her belly was cold now but she planned to warm up soon enough. She stashed her wand in the charmed bag and slung the gold chain strap over her shoulder. She strutted back to the street and towards the club in red wedges.

The bouncers glanced at her passport and let Hermione enter. It was early still, only eleven, so the back of the club was empty and cold. This was a big place. Two levels of dance floors and a twenty-foot bar at the front, where four bartenders were serving. Hermione needed to start drinking to get the chill out, so she wove through the small crowd huddled against the bar. She made herself third in line, pushing towards the counter.

The menu was in English, but she couldn't read most of it in the dim light. She felt bewildered, especially after spending so much time alone during her trip lately. It was loud at the bar, and people were pushing up against her. Hermione took a deep breath and stepped back, away. She decided to watch everyone else for a few moments to try and work out what to do. She closed her eyes and took two deep breaths through her nose. On the exhale of her third breath, she opened her eyes to survey the situation more carefully. Hermione shook her head and huffed. As much as she tried to escape from her past, some habits would stay with her forever, it seemed. She had learned the breathing trick ages ago, in third year when she got the time-turner. She used the technique to focus herself and push out distractions. It had served her well so many times in emergency situations, and she had seen far too many of those. But this wasn't an emergency situation. And she didn't choose her breathe-focusing exercise. Yet again, her life seemed out of her control, down to the smallest choices. She left England hoping to leave that feeling behind. Hoping that leaving everyone she knew, every place she'd been, going somewhere foreign without elaborate planning, would free her from the feeling that nothing in her life was her own.

Being part of the "Golden Trio" had too much baggage. Hermione had to question whether anything was hers or because her fame. When she got a promotion, was it because of her work, or because a supervisor wanted to work more closely with the brightest witch of her age? It was hard to be proud of any accomplishments when there was a very real possibility that it was her friendship with Harry which got her ahead. Hermione was too afraid to disappoint the people she loved, so she did what they expected of her. But where did that leave her? She never made any decisions of her own. How could she be proud of anything she had or did, when it was expected of her, or worse, handed to her?

A couple rushed by and bumped Hermione out of her self-reflective reverie. All the sounds of the club came rushing in like she had just woken up in an avalanche. This surely called for whisky. Ron hated it when she drank liquor-but he wasn't here. And that was the point, wasn't it? Leaving Ron, leaving Harry, Molly, Ginny, leaving everyone, to discover who she was without the expectations and obligations.

"Whiskey neat, please." Hermione pushed up to the bar and slapped down some bills. "Keep the change," she smiled. The bartender returned with a glass and she sauntered away from the bar, smiling. What a very un-Hermione-like thing to do. Very unexpected, and not at all frugal. Feeling confident, she sipped her whiskey and leaned against a cocktail table. As the drink warmed her, she even uncrossed her arms to expose her midriff. Looking across the crowd, people-watching, Hermione felt herself relaxing. Whether it was the whiskey or her personal pep talk, she didn't care. She lazily looked around the room.

Then, she saw something that made her breath catch. The hair on the back of her neck rose and so did the goosebumps. A silver-white streak of hair behind the bar. Scandinavia was the land of tall blondes, but in her time here she hadn't seen anything like this. She hadn't seen anything like this in years. Grasping her clutch, she opened the latch and kept her hand near the opening. Hermione didn't know what she was going to do, but she had to get a better look at least. To be certain. She knew she couldn't draw her wand but she could do enough damage with it concealed, if she needed to. She hoped she wouldn't need to. And as much as she sought to shed her past self, Hermione was curious to her core and could never leave that behind. What is Draco Malfoy doing in Oslo?

Why did she suddenly feel so defensive? Malfoy couldn't harm her, not here with all these witnesses. And anyway, hadn't she spent five years thinking he wasn't all bad, that he deserved a second chance? She closed her eyes and took the prescribed three breaths. When her lids rose, her eyes landed on the expensive whiskey in the glass. Be a shame to waste it.

Hermione tipped her head back and gulped the rest of her drink. She set the empty glass on the table a little harder than she meant to. A trio of women walking by snapped their heads to look at her, and she shrugged with an embarrassed half smile. Maybe spending so much time alone wasn't good for her.

How many times had she imagined this conversation? She knew it would never happen, but still couldn't get the idea out of her head. So many things she wanted to say, and the precise order to say them so he wouldn't walk away before she finished. He didn't know she had testified in his defense, for all the good it did. (Which is to say, not much.) He had saved her-and Harry and Ron-when the snatchers brought them to the mansion. When he saw the wound his aunt made on her arm, she saw something in his eyes. Indescribable pain, like he was being tortured in her place. She had watched him swallow tightly. His eyes seemed to beg forgiveness for a sliver of a moment before they hardened and he looked away.

They had been through so much trauma together, each on their own side of the war. She ached to tell him she forgave him. All the death and destruction of the war emphasized the importance of forgiveness for her. The importance of leaving nothing unsaid. Speaking that forgiveness could give her some closure and allow her to start moving on.

The ministry's sanctions stripped him of magic, but at his bar, Draco can control everything. He can't summon objects, but the way he knows precisely where to find exactly what he needs makes it look like glasses simply appear in his hands. Patrons follow him almost like they are under an Imperius. His slate glare is a silencio for Muggles who cut the line. The money notes seem to levitate over the bar and into his till. He makes change so quickly you could be fooled he was transfiguring.

Draco knew he was good at what he did. The only child to a pureblood fortune grew up hearing how just good he was-with his etiquette, in school, playing quidditch-good looking, well-behaved, a joy to his mother, a point of pride for his father.

Or, he had been. Whether his mother could still feel joy, and if his father even knew he existed were open questions. And while knew he was good, he accepted he might never be good. He didn't have any experience in that. He certainly hadn't been good before The War. He felt ashamed in a many ways. It changed by the day, how much he blamed himself for his deeds or forgave himself as a victim of circumstances. He was groomed to be the villain, raised up in hate. He came of age as a prisoner to the orders of a madman. Servant to the most evil wizard ever, with his family counting on him, The Heir.

Draco knew he was more than the expectations and obligations of his past, but Wizarding Britain didn't. Here in Oslo he was no one of note. He worked a lot, drank a lot, slept around, another bartender in black. He did all the things he should have done as a teenager instead of serving the Dark Lord, and then some. He wasn't sure if he was trying to erase his past or re-do it, but he knew he wanted to forget it.

He hadn't used magic since his sentence was handed down. His stint in the holding cells of Azkaban, awaiting trial, scared him too much to risk it. If a chill blew through the alley as he walked home, he glanced around for dementors. His fist would curl uselessly in his pocket without a wand, and a few controlled breaths could bring him back.

But back to what? 23 years old, living alone in a flat in Oslo. His looks and skill with mixing drinks fetched him plenty in tips at the bar, so he was materially comfortable. In spite of the silk sheets and top-shelf liquor it afforded him, he felt dull. Draco couldn't remember how he felt as a child, before the magic awoke in him. Do you remember what life was like before you could read? His magic was intrinsic to him-it was just there when he called it. Damnit! He missed magic more than anything. More than Mother, or Pansy, or Blaze, he longed for the company of his magic. Before the magic was gone, he never realized how much he depended on it. And he'd never noticed how warm it was, how light. Even the simplest accio used to envelop his right hand, starting at his elbow and swirling around his forearm, coming to a point at the tip of his wand. It was a graceful extension of his physical body.

And now? Nothing could replace that. Not any of the beautiful women he had been with, or the pretty boys. Not any drug he had tried. Half of himself was gone, forever. Liquor did warm his throat like the start of a spell, but it was like a climax without an orgasm. It felt good, but he knew it should be getting better and better until the feeling consumed him. The completion of the incantation, casting the spell-or an orgasm that ended with hot cum-it was missing. And all those years before, he never imagined having to live without it. And yet here he was. If he had to live without magic, it was easier to imagine he'd never had it to begin with.

So he tried to forget it all. It could be easy to forget his other life, with all the beautiful people begging for his attention. He could hold his liquor like a man twice his size and usually took shots with the patrons. He got the biggest tips from people he shared a toast with. It was a moment of human connection, the short eye contact over the rim of a shot glass. He was just as hooked on that as the warmth in his throat. Both lasted just a moment, a few seconds where nothing else existed but that feeling. And both were fleeting, leaving him empty and longing.

Between the whiskey or the time alone, Hermione didn't know why she couldn't stop ogling Malfoy. Since leaving Ron, she'd been exploring herself. He'd disapproved of it, insisting he could give her all the pleasure she needed. He was a good man, but a fool about that. Hermione was awakening, trying to catch up on what she'd missed as a teenager. But there was only so much she could discover on her own. As the lust rose in her, Sensible Hermione spoke up. Is this really how to forget your past? You have so much history. He'd never be interested anyway, with only ugly things to say during school. And you aren't interested either, just horny. This isn't moving on. This isn't why you're here.

A handsome college student brushed past her and smiled flirtatiously. The touch brought the flood of club sounds crashing in again. Well, didn't this feel familiar...Malfoy stealing all her attention. The man shouted something over the pounding music. Hermione shook her head at him, shrugging, and looked away. She hoped this was body language for, "Sorry, I can't hear you but I'm not interested" in Norwegian. Hermione had to know more about Malfoy. What was he doing here? Wasn't bartending below his station? And Oslo was so far from his mother in France. Had he been hiding here the whole time? Oslo! Even if she didn't know what to say, she could observe him and puzzle out a few answers at least.

But wouldn't that be just like her? Always curious to the point of danger. Horny Hermione and Sensible Hermione struck an agreement, and she changed her mind.

"Excuse me! Sorry, I couldn't hear you before, I'm Hermione."

"A beautiful name for a beautiful girl," the college student shouted. "Can I buy you a drink, Hermione?"

Draco ran his hand through his silky hair, suavely brushing it out of his eyes. Half of this job was looking good, after all. He finished his glass of water quickly. It was busy tonight and his short break was over. He scanned the crowd as he turned to wash his hands and get back to work. When he leaned over the hand sink, he felt eyes on him. For as much as it ruined his life, death eater training had given him a few benefits. This extra-sensory attention, for example. Draco didn't want the gazer to know he felt eyes on him, so he continued rinsing his hands, looking relaxed. He used the moment of hand drying to look at the mirror behind the bar and examine the room. There were eyes on him! Dozens of pairs, waiting for their favorite bartender to finish his break. And yet he still felt...something else. The air was different somehow. Charged, almost. The forecast called for snow tomorrow, and he forced himself to use the weather to justify the chill that went down his spine. Back to work.

The Norwegian, Erik, bought Hermione a cocktail, and then another. Erik was a student nearby, in his last year of study for something with computers. Hermione was missing most of the details as she watched the bartender over Erik's shoulder. Malfoy had always been one of the thinnest boys in class, but she was not looking at the tortured, skeletal teenager she remembered from his trial. The past five years had been good for him. He was still slim, sure. His shoulders were straight as befit a pureblood. But under the black v-neck shirt, Hermione could see his strong back flex as he hefted a rack of pint glasses onto the bar. When he reached to put the glasses on the shelf, two by two, his shirt lifted a little each time. She couldn't take her eyes off the stripe of smooth skin, porcelain against the darkness of his shirt and slacks. Her gaze lingered on the dimples above his belt. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to grab his hips. Her thumbs would sit right there on his low back, and her fingertips would graze the outside of the V which she imagined framing his abs and inviting her lower. She would nibble the back of his neck and repay him for the shivers he had given her tonight. Gods! Was she really imagining Malfoy's body? How hot and hard it would feel under her, or on top of her, or behind her...Hermione flushed and felt lightheaded at the thought.

"Hermione?" Erik asked. "It's hot in here, right? Let's go somewhere else. My flat is around the corner…" At her name, she finally dragged her attention back to him. He raised his eyebrow seductively. Hermione imagined that usually worked for him, with his strong jaw and broad shoulders. His white teeth flashed when he smiled. He stepped closer to her and put an arm around her waist. "It's so nice with you, I do not want it to end!"

Going home with him would be easy. There was heat between their bodies now that he stood so close to her. "I came here to dance and I haven't yet! Let's go!" Hermione stepped away. It wasn't fair to Erik that she couldn't look away from Malfoy. She needed to give him a chance, and wasn't ready to go home with anyone yet. Erik smiled down at her eagerly and grabbed her hand, weaving through the crowd toward the stairs. He gestured that he wanted Hermione to go up the stairs first. Hermione smirked, guessing his game. She exaggerated the curve of her lower back, lifted her chest, and strutted up the stairs a little more slowly than usual. At the top of the stairs she looked over her shoulder with a half turn. She bit her lip then smiled at Erik. He ascended to the top stair before she had time to step away, pressing against her back. She felt his hardness, just as he intended. She smiled over her shoulder at him, then quickly stepped away.

His chest was heaving slightly, but Hermione knew it wasn't from walking up the stairs. The sexual tension was dizzying, though not as electric as when she first saw Malfoy downstairs. Malfoy, downstairs...her mind felt foggy.

Erik grabbed her attention again with a hoarse whisper in her ear, "You are sure you want to stay?" He put his hands on her hips, pulling her ass towards him. Hermione looked down at hands she did not recognize. They were all over her body but she did not know them. Or their owner.

What am I doing? This didn't seem like her decision. She was acting like someone else, someone she couldn't recognize.

"I need the bathroom!" She choked out, turning so he could hear her but keeping her face turned down. She pulled her purse in front of her body like a shield, reaching in as though for makeup or perfume. "Go freshen up." Erik shot down a knowing smile. "I'll wait here for you, beautiful." Hermione escaped his strange hands and rushed towards the ladies' room across the floor. Her mind was racing, but there was no time or place for a steadying breath, not yet.

She crossed the threshold of the bathroom, but didn't stop there. She squeezed past the ladies leaning over the sinks to apply lipstick, ducking into a stall. Hermione locked the door and leaned back against it. She threw her head back a few times, rattling the door. Her mind was spinning up scenarios and counter arguments about Malfoy. After the fourth thud, the stall went quiet while she rested her head on the door, looking up at the ceiling.

An aching intruded her conscious, tension that had gone on too long without release. It came from somewhere below her waist. She looked down at her white-knuckled grip on her wand in her bag. Oh. Hand relaxing, Hermione took a stabilizing breath or three. She had a small conversation with herself about the merits and risks of following Malfoy. If he went home and seemed alright, she could leave knowing his unfair sentence hadn't ruined him. Or maybe she could leave him a letter.

She decided to make that decision later once she had more information- after observation of Malfoy. She felt she could observe him for the rest of her life and never grow bored of it, the magical way he seemed to move. Gods he was sexy. Finally, Hermione cast a disillusionment charm over herself. She wasn't invisible-she couldn't be, without the Cloak. Instead, she became unnoticeable, blending in with the wall when she stood still, appearing like rustling shadows when she moved. As long as no one concentrated on seeing her, this was as close to invisible as she could get.

Hermione left the stall and slid out of the ladies' room. She bit her tongue to avoid saying "Excuse me, pardon me" as she bumped through the crowd. She went back down the stairs, pressing her back against the wall nervously when she saw a streak of blonde hair at the bottom of the stairs. A woman with short hair walked by and Hermione let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. On the ground floor she snaked her way back towards the front doors. She found a square pillar and leaned against it. Finally standing still, Hermione felt a little dizzy. Erik had been too generous with the drinks. A little pang of guilt for turning him down struck her. Sensible Hermione pointed out that she didn't owe anyone anything. Isn't this the same thinking that kept you with Ron for so long? At the ministry for so long? Just because someone is nice to you doesn't mean you owe them.

Draco flexed his forearms as he shook a cocktail. He reached higher than he needed for the glass, showing off his obliques under his fitted t-shirt. He smirked as the woman's eyes crawled down his body. That was the look of a woman would tip 10 Krone for this martini. He reached a little higher to show his subtle Adonis belt. His hand was now well above the glass he needed. He cleared his throat. The woman's eyes shot up from his abdomen, then followed his arm, skipping eye contact to notice his long reach. Her eyes fell down to Draco's slowly. He winked. She blushed. He slowly poured the martini into the glass he had finally retrieved. She wrote her number on a napkin and took the glass. She put some coins on the napkin and pushed it across the bar. Draco sighed. He hoped she'd drop a bill into the jar. He grabbed the tip jar and swept napkin and coins from the bar with the edge of his hand. The coins made no sound as the landed on the pile of bills already in the jar. Draco looked up. The woman's smile had faded. His movements had been so business-like, impersonal. He figured she'd gotten the hint. He looked past her and raised his eyebrows at the man behind her, as if saying, "Next!"

Maybe that was a little harsh of him, but it was nearing the end of his shift so he didn't much care. He was going home alone anyway. He'd learned a shot of Fireball was easier than a fuck with a Muggle. Not that there was anything wrong Muggles, not to him anymore. He only survived because of Muggles, because their world existed for him to slither into like the snake he'd been. Something was missing, though, with Muggle touches.

The beers Draco were pouring overfilled their glasses, jerking him back to the present. His hands were covered in froth. He quickly wiped the glasses and passed them over the bar. Beer disgusted him. It was only liquor or wine for Draco Malfoy. He turned away from the bar to wash his hands. Maybe he should call it a night. He'd started early anyway. He couldn't fall back asleep after waking up for a piss, so he wanked for half an hour, then came to work to escape the boredom. Draco had always heard that boredom was a sign of a weak mind, but boredom could take him to dark places. So he worked, drank until he slept, then worked until it was time to drink again, occasionally fucking-but less than he used to.

Washing his hands with his back toward the patrons, he had that feeling again. He frowned. He closed his eyes, trying to define the feeling. Opening them, he looked up at the mirrors, scanning. He saw nothing out of place. The crowd filled the floor from the entry doors to the bar. People were tightly packed on this cold night.

Draco's attention halted on an anomaly in the crowd. Something he couldn't define, yet again. Draco spent many nights watching the crowd, so he knew how it should ebb and flow, where the patrons bunched-outside the bathroom, at the bottom of the stairs-or took their personal space back. But the crowd wasn't moving like it should. An eddy swirled in the river of people.

"Draco, go home." Sven tapped him on the shoulder. "I will close up your spot since you opened mine today."

"Thanks. See you tomorrow." Draco dried his hands.

"Big storm's coming. Boss might close it down" Sven warned. Draco pondered a potential day off. He nodded at Sven in thanks.

Surveying the crowd's reflection one last time, Draco pushed the swinging "Staff Only" door. He deflated a little once it closed, an actor finally off stage after the final curtain. He grabbed his coat from its hook, nodding to a woman who on her way in. On a night as cold as tonight, how could anyone take a smoke break? He shook his head, grateful that nasty vice had passed over him. The drinking was poison enough.

Hermione noticed Malfoy reaching for a glass. From her vantage point at the back of the room, it was obvious what he was doing. She didn't enjoy the display any less for it. Still, she rolled her eyes. Was he really so vain and cocky? A shallow wizard, as well as mean, perhaps even cruel…Or was he, technically speaking, a wizard? He'd lost his wand, but could the Ministry take a wizard's magic? That seemed unreasonably harsh. A punishment Hermione would not wish on her worst enemy. Not that Malfoy was her enemy. At least, not her worst enemy. Not anymore, she hoped.

That's how she wound up with aching feet, standing silently still against that damn pillar. She watched the woman huff off with her martini. What had Malfoy said to her? Hermione wished she could hear his exchanges, but she wouldn't risk getting that close and didn't want to use magic in such a public place. He served a couple drinks, then turned away from the bar. Hermione watched him watch the crowd through the mirror behind the bar. Was he paranoid? Or had a potential partner had caught his eye? So shallow! She rolled her eyes, but when she looked toward the bar again, she made eye contact with Malfoy through the mirror. He was at least 10 metres away, but somehow, she knew he was looking right at her. She held her breath. He froze. Did her charm only work on Muggles? Had it worn off? In watching him, did she let it drop? She should have been concentrating instead of daydreaming! Panic grasped her throat. Her heartbeat was louder in her ears than the music.

A man in a black t-shirt tapped Malfoy's shoulder. Malfoy looked at the other bartender and Hermione gasped for air. His eyes held her petrified, and in looking away the spell had broken. A club-goer glanced in her direction and Hermione slapped her hand over her mouth. Her gasp had been audible! She should have spent more time with Harry and Ron under the Cloak; she wasn't used to acting invisible. Hell, she wasn't used to being invisible.

Malfoy glanced up again after speaking with his co-worker. Hermione froze for a second and then he was gone. Damn! A swinging door would be hard to sneak through. The staff was more sober than the patrons so sneaking past them would be much harder. Hermione closed her eyes, breathed three times, opened them. She had to go after him. She had to know, and she couldn't afford to keep coming back. The cost- to her wallet and to her sanity- was too high. She had to follow him. If he lived in a decent place, Hermione could walk away knowing he was doing alright. If he stayed in a dump, well...she could try and talk to him, convince him he deserved better, or at least say her piece, maybe find peace.

Hermione wove through the crowd towards the entrance. She could be noticed now, since Malfoy was gone. "Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me." She pushed against the flow of people as quickly as she could. She squeezed past the startled bouncer with a "Sorry!" and stumbled into the freezing night. It was the sort of cold that knocks the breath out of a person. She was not used to gasping this often. Between the cold, the gasping, and the alcohol, she wavered a bit on her feet. Hermione leaned against the exterior wall of the club. Why had this been such a good idea, again? She thought about finding a hostel and sleeping it off but he was so close. She couldn't stand the idea of being so close to Malfoy and still letting everything go unsaid. It's not like I'm professing some secret love for him! I just have to thank him for trying to save us at the manor, and tell him that I believed his testimony, and that the Ministry made a mistake by punishing him so harshly… None of that probably mattered to Malfoy, but Hermione needed to get it out for her own sake.

Draco traded his bar shoes for snow boots, leaving the shoes in his employee cubby and taking out his scarf. He wrapped his scarf tightly, leaving only his eyes and the crown of his head exposed. He tucked the ends into his coat and zipped it. He buried his hands into his pockets, bracing for the cold, head down. Cold wind whipped through the alley way. "Shit," was all Draco could think. He began his trudge home, trying to decide if he should stop by the store on the way. Shit, shit, shit! How did the pantry look? He supposed he had enough cans of soup to stay home a month. He ran out of food once, when he first moved away from the house elves. His desperation amplified the stress of Muggle grocery shopping; he felt like a lost child in a foreign land. Those were dark, confusing, embarrassing days, when he was first free from Ministry custody. Not looking for a repeat performance, Draco now kept a stock of non-perishables. Straight home, then.

Hermione slid to a stop at the far end of the alley. She quickly looked both ways. The cold probably made Malfoy walk faster! To the left, she saw a bobbing reflection a few hundred feet ahead. Malfoy was wearing a long black coat in the darkness, so the streetlights' silver reflection of his hair was Hermione's only hint. She tried to move as quickly and quietly as she could, both of which were hard in the snowy alley. Malfoy took a right. Hermione hurried to follow. She turned the corner just in time to see Malfoy take a left. Was Oslo a labyrinth or was he trying to lose her? She expected a more direct route in this cold. Determined, she continued to follow but kept her distance.

Draco had that feeling again, of being watched or followed. A shiver went down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold night. He'd taken extra turns to try and shake that feeling, but it was too cold to keep it up much longer. He had to get home. Paranoid, Draco? Steeling himself against that creepy feeling, he put his head down and picked up his pace. He didn't run, even though he could have. He didn't want to start a chase. No one knew him here, he was safe, just being paranoid.

He sped down the alley beside his building, and turned left, tightly hugging the corner. He took a few steps around the front, towards the door, and stopped. If he were being followed, and he probably wasn't, but just in case, a pursuer should not know where he lived. The front of the building was framed by evergreen bushes as tall as him. He backed into them, the hard needles brushing his coat and poking his scalp. With his back to the building, he braced himself to confront...whatever it was. Or wasn't. Probably.

Draco widened his stance, right foot slightly in front of his left. He pulled his arms up to protect his face, holding his breath and listening with all his attention. Snow crunched frantically in the alley and he tensed his boxer's stance. A shimmering shape careened around the corner. Draco desperately wished for his wand. Driving power from his back leg, he punched a left-handed hook, expelling his breath hard and putting everything he had behind it. He didn't expect something so solid. It had looked like a spirit or ghost disrupting the air, and he had hoped it would be. The strike jarred him, sending a shockwave all the way through his elbow to his shoulder.

"AH!" He cried out at the same time a figure crumpled to the snowy ground. It was...a person! A woman? Her hair was wildly covering her face. What the fuck? Draco looked around the yard. No witnesses. He couldn't rightly leave her in the snow, though. She was not dressed for this cold. She was dressed for the club. What the fuck?!

Driven by panic and instinct he squatted down to pick her up. He stepped out of the bushes and stumbled onto the sidewalk leading to the door. Once on the porch, he fumbled in his pocket for his keys. Hands shaking, Draco jostled the body in his arms to allow him to open the door while holding her. The key clicked in the lock and he stuck his boot in the small opening. Using his foot, he dragged the door and caught it with his right elbow, opening the door wide enough to pass through. With his attention on the door, the woman's hair dragged through the evergreen bush, picking up needles. Shit! Her head fell against his shoulder as he tried to cradle her more carefully while he entered the building.

Finally inside, Draco squatted and put her down. He heard a door open and straightened up quickly. "Hey man, everything is alright?" Fuck.

"Yeah, my cousin isn't used to drinking here," Draco quickly lied.

His neighbor chuckled. "Can I get the door for you?"

Draco fumbled with his key ring and presented his neighbor with the key to his flat.

"Thanks, mate." Now there was a witness. Shit. He faked a half-smile to his neighbor and turned to pick her up again. He heard the key slide in and twist. The door opened. His head spun.

"I can just leave your keys in the door?"

"Yeah, thanks. Bye." He hoped to dismiss the other man quickly.

"Uhm, bye." His neighbor shrugged and walked past Draco stooping over the unconscious woman. He continued across the short lobby and left the building. Draco was alone in the lobby again-except for this person seemingly in his care. With his left arm under her shoulders and his right arm wrapped under her knees, he took a breath and stood up. Her neck was unsupported, and her head lolled away from him. Gravity pulled her hair away from her face.

Draco was holding Hermione Granger.

He dropped her in surprise. She fell over the threshold of his door. Draco didn't know what to do, but he couldn't close the door with her there. Heading spinning, he grabbed her under the arms and dragged her into his flat, just far enough to close the door. What the fuck.

Draco did not want to see any witch or wizard, and certainly not her of all the witches in Great Britain! Questions spun through his mind like a centrifuge. Was this a horrible dream? His knuckles ached, betraying the realness of the situation. Should he tie her up? Put her on the couch? Leave her there? Leave the flat himself? Whatever he decided, he needed a drink first! Draco stepped over Hermione Granger and fled to the kitchen.

When Hermione opened her eyes, it felt like the light poured straight into her brain. She snapped them shut and grimaced. It felt like her brain was trying to escape from her skull through her optic nerves. Eyes still closed, Hermione brought her hand to her chest, hoping to find her purse strap. She felt relieved to find it there, though that didn't help the headache. What's the spell for a headache? Her hand slid down the chain slowly. Finally at the clasp of the purse, she twisted it open but her hand grasped nothing but the chasm of her expansion charm.

"Accio wand!"

Draco didn't hear Granger while she was slowly finding her charmed bag. He didn't hear anything but the clink of the ice in his bourbon glass and his own breathing, until she spoke. Accio wand! There was a phrase he hadn't heard in years. He felt the fear like a stone in his guts all the same. The years didn't fade that reaction. Just after he'd heard her call for her wand, Draco was flying around the corner into his entryway, diving for Granger's hand to knock the wand out of reach.

Hermione's relief at holding her wand was short lived. She quickly found herself the target of a painful slide tackle as someone crashed into her, kicking her right hand and shooting her wand out of reach. It clattered on the tile a few feet away. Disoriented, in pain, and now under attack, she reflexively went on the defensive. The momentum of the tackle rolled her from her back to her stomach. With her right arm now entangled in the legs of her attacker, she yanked her left arm from under her body and reached in front of her. She took a breath to call for her wand again. Her breath was sharply dispelled when a body settled heavily on hers, crushing the air away. She struggled to take in a breath with the weight on her back while her lips continued the start of an Accio. The moment her mouth opened, a hand roughly clapped over her face, muting her. She bit the hand as hard as she could, and felt the meat of a palm in her mouth. A scream fell from surprise to pain to anger, quickly ending in a hateful growl.

With her face uncovered, Hermione gasped for air. The only thing she could think of was regaining her wand. Beyond the pain and the fear and the noise of the man's growls, she still saw it nearby. Her right hand was now free again and she desperately reached but her fingers fell short.

Now straddling her back, her assailant hooked an arm around her neck, yanking her head back sharply, painfully. Hermione's head began to throb as the blood flow was quickly cut off within the crook of his elbow. Her vision became encircled in black fog. She wondered if this is how she died. She thought surviving the war precluded her from a violent and painful death. The circle of black fog closed until it was everything.

Granger's body went limp under him. The fear drained out of Draco, replaced with absolute dread. Had he killed her? He scrambled off her back and to his feet, backing away from the limp body in his entry way. Her chest rose subtly once his weight was off her. Not dead, then. Is that any better, Draco? What the fuck are you going to do? With the driving fear gone, with the purely instinctual reaction passed, he had to make a decision.

He saw the wand laying on his white tile, its dark wood in stark contrast. He saw blood. His blood. How had this happened? His eyes followed the short trail of blood from her mouth, across a few feet of the tiled entryway, leading to him. He saw his black socks standing against his carpet. His white carpet, where a bloody palm now dripped.

In moments of emergency, when the adrenaline is trying to keep a body alive and struggles against the shock that is trying to shut the body down, the mind focuses on strange things. Draco saw the blood spreading on his carpet, and it occurred to him that he didn't know how to clean carpet without magic. Sure, he'd bought a vacuum. But blood would need soap, or a chemical of some kind, right? Draco wondered if his neighbor knew how to clean blood out of carpet. Might be hard to explain, though. Would it be the same as cleaning red wine, or tomato sauce? Maybe he could ask for advice on that instead.

Pain. An overall ache punctuated with sharp pains throughout her body. Eyes closed, Hermione slowly expanded her awareness, searching. It took a few moments to realize that anything existed outside of the pain. Not dead, then.

She began an inventory. Her toes wiggled normally, although her feet ached from standing in those impractical shoes for too long. Her legs seemed alright. Her entire torso felt sore. A few ribs were at least bruised, maybe broken. She wiggled her fingers and found her right hand stiff and swollen. Her throat, neck, and head throbbed. She tasted something metallic. She refused to think about that, so: Where am I?

She didn't dare open her eyes. Instead she listened, straining for clues about her location. Quiet. Still. Through her eyelids, she didn't detect any light or movement. She realized she was warm. Laying down, not sitting. Somewhere soft. Probably not in immediate danger. Exhaustion overtook any focus she had. She was so, so tired. Hermione let it take her.

Draco was shaking as he gingerly picked her up. The adrenaline was on its way out, so he had to act before he collapsed completely. He took Granger to his bedroom and carefully placed her on his bed. Seeing his bloody handprint on her shoulder, he went to the bathroom to prepare a warm, damp cloth. Standing over the sink, he realized his palm was bleeding steadily. He yanked a hand towel off its hanger and quickly tied it, tightening the knot at the back of his hand with his teeth. Fuck, that hurt. He froze when Granger groaned, not ready to face her, willing her to sleep. She rustled around a bit before her breathing evened out again.

After a few silent moments, Draco was satisfied that she was asleep. He went back into his room and began to wipe his blood off her chin. He noticed her brow bone and eye swelling and purpling. How long ago had he hit her? It felt like hours. He looked at the clock on his nightstand. The red numbers glowed 4:25 a.m. He had left work less than hour ago, discovered her outside 20 minutes ago, nearly murdered her with his bare hands moments ago. From his attached bathroom, he looked back at her in his bed. How long until she came to? He had to prioritize the time he had left before she woke up, or he passed out. Both were a possibility.

He noticed her shoes were still on, dripping snow on the floor and bedspread. Disgusting and unacceptable. He'd lost so much of his dignity that he clung to cleanliness, remaining neat even when he had to do it himself. He struggled to decide if that was the most important thing to fix. A stabbing pain shot up his arm from the bite wound, and he knew he didn't have long before the shock overtook him. She'll hurt herself trying to get up in those, he justified. Draco crouched by the bed to remove her wedged shoes. His unwrapped hand, bruised from the punch in the yard, shook as he tried to slide her foot out. Draco wobbled, struggling to squat in his unsteady state. He closed his knees around her ankle and wiggled the shoe until it slid off.

A spark jolted through his knees, and he fell back in surprise. Sitting on his ass, he tossed her shoe aside. He rubbed the inside of his knee with his bruised hand but felt nothing abnormal. Maybe it was a static shock from the dry air. He hadn't heard the crackle that usually accompanied a shock from a doorknob, but he'd had a rough night. He let it go.

Granger was still wearing her other shoe. Draco was shaking more now. Anxiety was rising in his throat as the adrenaline faded. His chest tightened. Crouching again, he grasped her ankle firmly to stop his hand from shaking. With his hand was solidly gripping her, a shiver crawled up his arm and down his spine. Goosebumps raised on one arm. He quickly let her go and the feeling left. Now his arm felt cold, like his bones were made of ice. He shivered again, this time from that cold in him. What the fuck?

Draco tested a theory. He closed his hand around her ankle. Goosebumps immediately rose. He let go. Shivered with cold. The ice-bone feeling was terrible, so he touched her again. Goosebumps flooded him but he didn't let go this time. He removed her shoe, tossed it aside, maintained his grip. The anxiety was settling down, his breath coming more naturally. He felt warm, but not from her body heat. The warmth came from inside his chest-sort of like he'd taken a shot on an empty stomach. The feeling spread, coating his insides before seeping through his bones, his muscles, his skin. It crawled up his neck and he shivered again. He closed his eyes and saw gold behind his lids. He opened his eyes and colors seemed more saturated. His sheets were deep emerald like he'd just bought them, though they were faded from washing before he closed his eyes. The feeling caressed his scalp, a hairdresser with golden warm touch. Eyes closing again, he leaned into the feeling like a cat rubs its person's legs. Lost in the sensation, he began to topple out of his crouch and clamped his hand around Granger's ankle more tightly as he caught himself.

He looked at his hand where it touched her. His pale hands looked as warm as they felt. The skin of her foot seemed to glow. It was smooth, flawless. Radiating light from within. The cuff of her pants stopped his eyes from consuming any more of her skin, and he suddenly hated them. The calm warmth inside him churned into hot anger. He let her ankle go as he stood quickly, his hands moving towards her waist, intent on consuming more beautiful skin. When he let her go, the ice-bones returned with anxiety in tow. He shivered. His bleeding hand throbbed. His bruised hand throbbed. The colors around him dulled again, and Draco suddenly felt very sad. He was confused and cold.

He remembered how angry he felt only a breath ago, and realized he had almost stripped Hermione Granger, who was maybe unconscious, on his bed. What the fuck. She was making him crazy, and he needed to get away from her.

Shock was setting in, a heavy cloak threatening wrap him under its dark weight. Draco's throat tightened as he saw the blood on the floor, the carpet. First, he almost murdered a woman with his bare hands. Then he nearly ripped her pants off. He felt dizzy and sick. His stomach roiled in guilt and disgust. Bile rose like his self-hatred. He turned and lunged into the bathroom. The stomach acid mixed with liquor burned his throat. He hadn't vomited in years.

Draco wretched so violently it left him gasping for air. He remembered when he last felt like this. At the astronomy tower, when he couldn't kill Dumbledore. Or when he saw what Bellatrix had done to his classmates. Here he was, acting as violent as his aunt. Maybe I'm a good little Death Eater after all. Wouldn't Father be proud. He huffed out an ugly half-laugh which led to heaving in the toilet again.

Hermione became aware of the pain for a second time. Or was it the third? A quick inventory revealed no improvement. But she needed to see where she was, so she risked opening her eyes. One of them opened normally, while the other refused. Her face ached as she tried to open the bruised eye. She quickly gave up and relaxed the muscles around it. Her open eye saw a ceiling. She scanned as far as her peripheral vision would allow. It was dim in the room. A glow emanating from behind the curtained-windows suggested the sun was up. Hermione concentrated again, this time on remembering.

A club. Drinks. A stranger. More drinks. Malfoy...Malfoy? Malfoy! Running after him. Cold. Darkness. A fight, a physical altercation, with no magic. Magic...my wand. Hermione's heart rate jumped, bruised eye and headache throbbing with the pressure of-Wait. Count to three. Eye closed. Steady breaths. Eye open. Focus returning.

Hermione lifted her head to check her body for damage, but pain shot up her neck and she quickly dropped back down to the pillow. A pillow. That made her feel safer. Someone who wanted you dead wouldn't bother with a pillow, right? After a few moments contemplating pillows, she risked turning her head to the side. Looking left, a door was closed a few steps away with a strip of light at the bottom. Am I alone? It was safest to assume she wasn't.
There was a wardrobe next to the door, and past that was a door which opened into a dimly lit room. Has it been one day, or more? Her vision moved closer, revealing a nightstand within reach. Hermione gasped-then winced as her bruised ribs complained. She breathed out slowly and reached her left arm towards the small table even more slowly. She couldn't stop from smiling when her fingers wrapped around her wand. Safest to never let it go again. A sensation of a memory flashed through her. She had been physically attacked when she called her wand. Hermione snatched her arm back to her side and tucked her wand under her leg, hiding it without letting go.

Cautiously, she looked around the room again. She still seemed alone. Having her wand was reassuring, but she was strongly right-handed. She wasn't good with her left hand, and this was not the time to practice. She lifted her hands to meet on her belly, like she was going to cross her fingers. The wand shifted from left to right, and her arms glided back to her sides. Much better.

Breathing normally, Hermione examined the details of the nightstand for clues about its owner. Her wand had been sitting on a folded tea towel, like it was being presented, gift-like. That was not the behavior of someone looking to harm her, handing her wand over like that. Unless some sicko wants me to fight first. She chewed on that for a moment, the idea a hard caramel.

Beside the now-empty towel was a teacup. A bowl of sugar with a little spoon sat on with it on a wooden tray. A small ceramic pot matched. Why would you offer tea to someone you wanted to hurt -or planned to kill? The set was sitting like it was waiting for her, only one cup and saucer.

English tea would be expensive to ship. Surely Malfoy would have nothing less.

The ministry had destroyed Malfoy's wand in front of her after his convictions as an accomplice to Voldemort (with multiple counts of attempted murder, making terroristic threats, tampering with magical artifacts with the intent to commit a crime, and other charges she'd forgotten). That would explain the physical assault.

Hermione's pondering halted abruptly as she heard the squeaking grind of a faucet being turned off.

Draco pulled the towel off the curtain rod and buried his face in the fluffy grey fibers. One luxury he refused to give up was high-quality linens. He exhaled heavily. Exhaustion. He wanted nothing more than to crawl under the covers and sleep for days. He hadn't allowed himself to shower until he cleaned his mess from the sink, floor, toilet-few parts of the bathroom had escaped his dreadful night. The mopping had been slow. Between the crick in his neck, his bruised and bitten hands, and the soreness in his core from heaving, he could think of nothing he wanted less than to be cleaning up dried vomit. But he had his dignity, damnit! And stepping out of a shower into that mess would have been worse.

He threw the towel over his head and ruffled his hair. He gingerly dried his head using only his bruised fingers. His other hand had finally stopped bleeding and he didn't dare aggravate it. He didn't move it at all, frozen in a useless cup shape. How am I supposed to work like this? His phone pinged. Draco slid the towel off his head, snaked his arm out of curtain and swiped the notifications open with his knuckle.

Text from Sven: Bar closed. Stay home. Will text you tomorrow with next shift time.

Now out from under the stifling hatred of his upbringing, Draco had to admit that muggles were clever as hell. The cellphone felt like magic sometimes. The battery icon reminded him that his phone needed a charge. Not quite magic. He turned the phone over so the notification wouldn't nag him.

He dried off with excruciating care. His skin was raw from an hour of harsh scrubbing. It was impossible to wash away his self-loathing, he knew that. It didn't stop him from trying, though. He moved the towel across his body and down, slowly patting the water away. He lingered in the tub without opening the curtain for several minutes. He'd say it was because he didn't want to step onto the cold bathroom tile, but truly he couldn't face himself in the mirror. A wave of exhaustion rocked him on his feet. He'd slept for a bit but it wasn't restful, and since then he had cleaned and had a rough shower. He was beginning to shiver, too, and his sore muscles complained.

He completed his bathroom routine without looking in the mirror. He cleaned his ears and combed his hair, applied moisturizer to his face and hands. The mundane tasks of self-maintenance freed his mind to wander. How had he left the situation when he dove in there to vomit hours ago? Granger...Was she sleeping, or had she gone? Worse, what if she was still there and ready to fight or confront him. Was he under arrest or in some sort of trouble? Did she intend to take him back? I'd sooner die that put one toe back in Britain.

Hermione slammed her eye shut when she heard the water turn off. Malfoy. The water was running when she woke up, but her brain registered it as white noise or background sound, ignoring it to work on other problems. He has to come out eventually. The dreadful part was not knowing when, the waiting. Hermione used whatever time she had to calm her body and appear asleep. Starting from the top, she smoothed her forehead and relaxed her eyes and mouth. She turned her face away from the bathroom door and forced her breathing to become deeper, slower. She rotated her left hand towards the ceiling and willed the tension out of it. Then she waited.

After 10 minutes (which felt like an hour), she heard the bathroom door handle slowly turn, like Malfoy was trying to be quiet. Does he not want to wake me, or is this defense? The door inched open, and Malfoy let out a stifled breath. Stepping lightly, he approached his wardrobe. Hermione slowly turned her head and heard no change in Malfoy's movement. Drawers slid open, then shut with a small wooden tap. She risked a glance, then quickly shut her eye, focusing on controlling her breath. Malfoy was standing a yard away, a grey towel around his trim waist.

Her heart pounded and she begged it to quiet, but Hermione had to see more. At her first glimpse, she was shocked by his back, his shoulders. She'd already invaded his privacy so much, and he gave her wand back. If he caught her peeking at him, half dressed, or half naked, it probably wouldn't go well for her. She should respect his peace offering. But his skin- is his to show whom he wishes, and only whom he wishes. She opened her eye anyway, shamelessly staring now. Memorizing.

Her eyes went first to the dimples above the towel, his lower back which had caught her attention in the bar. Her vision inched up, taking in every bit of him she could see. Malfoy's skin was angry. Red, irritated. Burned or scratched, she didn't know. Thick scars crisscrossed from shoulder blade to hip, contrasting brightly against his inflamed skin. Wide and silver, products of wounds reopened often before healing completely.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as her attention settled on his shoulders. "MALFOY" was carved into his flesh like the back of a sports jersey. She cringed unwillingly and swallowed hard, fighting to stay in the present. Her memory threatened to kidnap her to the past, to the Manor, to Bellatrix Lestrange. She didn't need to look at her arm to recognize the handwriting. The image was burned into her memory as much as into her skin. She breathed to three, but when she opened her eye again, she didn't feel calmer. Her focus shot back to the savaged skin. Heart-breaking pity and sympathy coalesced with suffocating weight, churning with sadness and surprise to crush her in a flood of repressed memories and vivid emotions.

"Bellatrix got you, too" she choked, accidently out loud.

Startled, Malfoy shouted unintelligibly. He wrapped the towel around his waist tightly in a protective gesture. The room held still for a drawn-out moment, silent but for his slowing breaths and her hard swallowing.

Hermione watched his neck tense, expecting him to move towards her. Her grip tightened on the hidden wand, ready to draw, hand a hair trigger. When Malfoy moved, it was only a half-turn of his head. "Was the tea to your liking?" he asked over his shoulder.

Hermione's brow knit, and she grimaced. Her grip on the wand did not relax.

"Er. Thank you for that." She opened her mouth, and then closed it again, grateful his back was to her. Best to drop her questions about scars, then. "What are you doing here?"

"This is my flat. I live here." Hermione huffed a frustrated chuckle. What more was I expecting?

He had armed her. Stupid, stupid, stupid. One wrong move could get him killed or sent back to Azkaban. He had to be careful. She took so long to answer than he was becoming nervous.

Draco forced himself to relax his shoulders. He had killed his only hope of defusing any hostility when he stupidly replied as though they were in the school yard. His quips were his armor, meanness easier than fear, and anger coming before shame. Nearly naked with all his damage for Granger to see, his old self defenses were not adequate for this moment. He was about say something-anything-to break the tense silence when she probed him again.

"Malfoy, why do you have a flat in Oslo? Why are you here?" Hermione spent the last minute putting the words in the right order, repeating them in her head, adding a gloss of curiosity to obscure any perceived aggression.

It was too much. How fucking dare you, Granger. He sensed her fear rising with his temper and knew he should protect himself. He spat the bitter taste of his self-pity instead. He formed his anger into a dagger, feeling violated and looking to prick her.

"No, Granger. Why are YOU here? You snuck into MY city, found me at MY job, stalked me to MY home! You shattered my privacy and security here, you've endangered me! And you bit me!"

"Oh, I bit you? Was that before or after you choked me out?" Hermione's voice rose to match his. The timeline of injuries and assaults was falling into place. She'd bitten him? Honestly, she felt a little proud. "Look at my face. Look at me!"

Draco felt shamefully stubborn. Or stubbornly ashamed? He thought he was ready to confront her, but now couldn't stand to look at her. He knew exactly how bad it was. It had made him sick before, contemplating what he had done to a woman with his bare hands. The violence in him surprised him with its force. He had acted without thinking, nearly beserking, and that made him scared and ashamed. He thought he might be sick again if he saw his damage.

"Malfoy, you rat bastard. Look. At. Me!" Hermione saw him flinch, a small contraction of his shoulders, a slight ducking of his head. His hands jerked like he was about to cover head, and his knees bent like he wanted to drop into a defensive crouch. He froze, then slowly relaxed like it was difficult. "Turn around." His straight shoulders rose as he took a fortifying breath. Hermione realized she also needed one. How would eye contact feel? Is his chest scarred too? Her stomach knotted nervously. She raised her wand, unsure of what to expect, yet ready to fight back this time.

Malfoy turned slowly, eyes on the floor. His held breath hissed out between his teeth when he was fully facing her. His eyes began to rise but became fixated on the tip of her wand and abruptly stopped. Like a hare making eye contact with a fox, his body tightened, prepared to dodge.

Hermione slowly raised her wand, his eyes following. His fear was almost tangible, and she wanted to return his peace offering, make him relax. After all, she admitted, he was kinda right. I guess I did stalk him, when you look at it that way.

She brought her wand slowly and gently to her face, touching the tip to the bottom of her swollen eye. Malfoy took in the damage he'd done and looked...sick? Shameful? Like he might vomit any moment. Like he wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground and never be seen again.

Draco clenched his fist when her wand began to move. Muggles taught him the idea of Karma. Draco supposed this was his coming for him. Would she petrify him, or kill him on the spot? If she petrified him, where would she take him-the ministry? Probably directly to Azkaban. Draco wasn't sure if he had enough happiness in him to last long under the dementors. He hadn't formed any new joyful memories after the war, and the hindsight he now had tainted memories he had used to keep himself sane before.

The Wizengamot sentenced him harshly-exile for life, never to contact a British witch or wizard ever again. He probably deserved it. But deserving or not, he didn't want to be returned. At first, he felt that death would be preferable to this cold, magic-less life. He'd come to appreciate moments of it, though, and wanted to be left alone.

Thoughts like this spun around his skull. He tensed, preparing for the pain that would surely engulf him. The fresh scab on his palm tore open as he clenched his fist. He realized he deserved it, whatever happened. All of it.

"Episky." The spell took a few seconds to finish, the feeling of relief rising until it climaxed and Hermione opened her eye with a small gasp. She lowered her wand. She pushed her focus out and her vision readjusted across the room.

She heard Malfoy swallow hard, and watched relief washing over him. He swayed a little on his feet. Hermione's newly healed eye came to meet his. Her stomach flopped. She hadn't thought this far ahead.

Pain from his hand laced up his forearm, nearly to his elbow. He didn't process that he was looking into Granger's eyes for the first time in five years. His only thoughts, now that he didn't expect to die soon, were that she needed to leave and he needed a first aid kit. Draco steeled his features into a glare and made sure his volume was low, his tone business-like.

"Granger. I need to tend to this injury. I would like you to leave but Oslo is currently experiencing a severe blizzard and if you apparate then the Ministry will know where I live. You see my dilemma, I'm sure." Granger's eyebrows rose when he mentioned the blizzard, then met in the middle when he spoke of the Ministry. She took a breath like she was about to say something, but Draco would not have it.

"I'm going into my bathroom for a few minutes to tend to this," he raised his hand slightly, palm towards her. "And I would not like to see you when I come back out. In my living room," he emphasized the possessive pronoun, reminding her just where she was. "...is a very comfortable couch. If you would please pull up the cushions you will find yourself a pillow, sheet, and blanket stored there. I only offer my bed to guests, as I'm sure you'll understand. Goodnight, Ms. Granger."

Draco hoped his cold formality stung. Draco also hoped he had bought himself more time to figure out if he was safe now-and why, during his shower earlier, he couldn't stop thinking about the moments when he had touched her.

After Malfoy's harsh pronouncement, Hermione looked away. He strode commandingly to the en suite, like he was in the Manor instead of a one-bedroom flat. The bathroom door clicked shut and she felt more uncertain than she had in years. Hermione was always sure about the right course of action, carefully considering options until settling on the correct one-and then executing her plan at the perfect moment.

But what was the plan? Closing her eyes, Hermione concentrated on remembering. The moment in the club when she had seen him. The flop of her stomach, feeling flushed, Malfoy taking all of her focus. Going over how to say it in her head, again and again. Not what to say. That had been scripted long ago, soon after the trial. But how to get face-to-face, how to get him to listen for long enough.

Hermione couldn't imagine how Malfoy would possibly listen to her now. He's pretty upset about the whole biting thing. And the me-being-here thing. What had he said about apparating? "The ministry will know where I live." She didn't think that was true, especially outside of Britain. However, she didn't want to leave yet, so she wouldn't question it. At least, not out loud to Malfoy.

A plan. She needed a plan.

Draco knew she wouldn't leave like he had asked. The know-it-all princess of Gryffindor couldn't stand for him to have the last word, not in school and probably not now. He was surprised that he had counted to 200 before she knocked, though. He finished tying his pyjama bottoms leisurely. He wasn't going to answer her. Granger had the nerve to tentatively knock again 20 seconds later.

Draco opened his medicine cabinet and pulled out the bandage kit he bought after the first time he cut himself with a cooking knife. He examined the puncture wound on his hand. The wound was deep and wide, not likely to be treated with what he had. Another 30 seconds went by before she rapped again, more loudly and quickly this time. Urgently, almost.

Draco tugged the drawer beside the sink open and reached towards the back. He'd bought a box of gauze after his first big accident at the bar, when he sliced his other palm from thumb to forefinger. (He tried to catch a wine glass as it fell to the bar but instead slapped a pile of glass shards, having moved too slowly). He brought the box out, but only an inch of gauze remained. Why did I even keep this? The knocking became pounding. She was now hitting the door loudly with an open palm, and his irritation nearly overtook the pain.

"Malfoy, let me help you."

Is she fucking serious? She had caused all of this, the mess and the injury and the pain and his confusion. The only way she could help is if she could go back in time and never come to Oslo. She drove his irritation to anger. Yet again, she was making him feel outside himself.

"Help!?" He snapped incredulously, slamming the drawer shut.

"Malfoy, I can fix it." Her voice was muffled through the door, but it sounded tight and stubborn.

"You're going to fix it." He repeated. Maybe if she heard it, she would realize how stupid that sounded. "Did you hear me? I don't want to see you." In his mind's eye, he imagined her hand rising to knock again. She hit the door twice before he rose his voice. "OR hear you!"

There was a pensive silence, and Draco nearly exhaled in relief after an entire minute passed.

"Please." She pleaded from the other side of the door

"It seems you forgot that word earlier, when you followed me home and-"

"It's not like that-"

He cut off her interruption. "It's not? It's not like you found me in exile and came here to gloat? It's not like you stalked me like a criminal?" Anger was cutting through his fog of exhaustion, and his acidic rebuttals were coming faster than he could consider them.

"Malfoy, I-"

"No, Granger. There is no "I" here right now. This isn't about you. No part of my life is about you, not anymore. And I was better off for it." That was wholly and undeniably true.

Hermione knew he was right. She had made a mess of everything. She came here selfishly to assuage her guilt with no consideration of the effect it would have on Malfoy's life. When was there time to consider that? From the moment she spotted him behind the bar, her only though was how to get to him, never why or should I? In the end, whatever justifications she made up for herself weren't good enough. She came hoping to help him, without knowing whether he needed it, without considering if he wanted it, or could accept it from her. After a few drinks, how turned to when. She made up her mind while she watched him, she wouldn't leave without seeing more of him. Couldn't leave, if she was honest. He was a scab that has almost healed but then snagged on a sweater and is now sticking up and needs to be cut cleanly but there are no clippers around so it gets bitten off or ripped roughly instead and there is relief for a moment but then it hurts or bleeds again. Hermione closed her eyes. There was no way to put the scab back on now. She couldn't go back, only forward. Always forward. She rested her forehead against the door, defeated.

"You're right. I'm sorry." She said it quietly, half to herself.

"YOU'RE FUCKING WHAT?" Draco jerked open the door and roared into the doorway chest-first. But before he could take a second step, he froze like she really had petrified him. His breath was sucked out of his lungs by the vacuum that formed in the small space between their bodies.

Granger had been resting her forehead against the door, and now she was a whisper away. His incredulous fury drained. Goosebumps crawled all over him, his skin reaching for hers. He forced himself not to shiver. Felt light headed. Throat tight, he swallowed harshly. Draco forced himself to breathe, loudly inhaling and forcefully exhaling. Breath puffed out of his nose and stirred her hair. She was so close.

He had struggled to keep his head clear since he found her. Like swimming against a riptide, he had only exhausted himself. It was impossible catch his breath as intense emotions battered him in waves. He felt outside of his body, exhausted and confused and ready to be taken under. He gasped against that thought, lungs begging for air that was not found this close to her. His body shivered without permission. Shame at his weakness dragged him under. Self-loathing burned his lungs like he was running out of breath. He felt her warmth without touching her.

The memory of touching her appeared as a life raft. Golden, floating just out of reach. He knew that to grab her energy would revive him. He wanted nothing more than to consume it be on fire again, full of magic. I could grab her and take it and live.

He was afraid to touch her again-of what he might do to her. He focused on holding very, very still.

Hermione gasped when the door jerked open, surprised as Malfoy nearly flew out of the bathroom. She was even more surprised when he froze. She exhaled and took a steadying breath, but it was dizzying instead. His scent was intoxicating, more than anything she drank the night before. Light and clean yet woody and masculine. Her nose was nearly touching his collarbone and she had to hold her breath to stop it from overtaking her. She could feel the body heat radiating off him, they were so close. She shifted her weight back to her heels, regaining a sliver of space between them. His anger seemed to drain out of him, replaced by goosebumps. Her mouth went dry as she watched the bumps raise across his bare chest.

His body was tense, she could see it. And he was so close that she felt his breath on the top of her head. He was overwhelming her by being so close, so she used another old trick for grounding: identifying each sense's input.

She saw his chest was scarred, but only from the Harry's Sectumsempra all those years ago. Gods, we were children. She couldn't dwell on that long though, because she also saw he was just as smooth and hard as she had imagined in the bar. That's not helping. Eyes moving up, she saw his pulse near his throat. Not helping!

She could hear his fast breathing. It sounded primal and hungry. Hermione wondered if she had caused it. This is not working.

She felt the heat flowing between them, almost visible, energy and emotion nearly tangible.

Hermione realized she was more in control of the situation than him, and instead of letting him react, she needed to control the moment. She always felt more sure when she was in control.

She closed her eyes. One. Two.

On three, she looked up. His jaw was tight, teeth clenched. Stubble roughened his pointy chin. His nostrils flared with his harsh breath. His steel eyes were dilated.

Hermione took a step back. Then another.

"I said I'm sorry." She said quietly.

Granger turned around and picked up the tea tray, gliding out of the room without a look back. She closed the door behind her. Air rushed back into the room when the door clicked. Draco sagged against the door frame. Fucking right. She should be sorry, he thought with feigned smugness. Another of his defenses.

Finally washed up on the beach, Draco was able to examine himself. He seemed to have survived for now.

She made him feel volatile and that scared him. No longer the Malfoy heir, he stopped practicing controlled stoicism years ago. It was boring and he didn't need it anymore. Or, he hadn't needed it, until she appeared. Now out of practice, he was not prepared for the emotional turmoil she cast on him. There was no time to practice now. Keeping his distance seemed like the only way both of them could survive. How long could he avoid her in these 800 square feet?

How long will this blizzard last? Maybe I can sleep through it, he thought woozily.

It was worth a try.

His throbbing hand wouldn't let him sleep though. Not yet. Draco turned back into the bathroom with a heavy sigh.

Hermione crossed the threshold and strode across the entryway. She stepped over the mess. Melted snow diluted some of the blood on the white tile, but there were plenty of thick, fat drops on the porcelain squares too. A few steps ahead, red blossomed where the carpet fibers had absorbed it.

Hermione took the dishes around the corner to the kitchen. On the floor, she found a broken glass in a pool of amber liquid. A glass bottle sat on the counter, uncorked. A bourbon man, then. She carefully put the tea set in the sink. Concentrating on the shards of glass, she cast a raparo and put the glass in the sink, too. Then she spelled the kitchen floor clean.

Returning to the living room, she scourgified the floor and dried the tile. Blood gone, she saw her purse near the door and strode over to pick it up. Hermione was relieved to have her purse again. She didn't notice it was missing until she saw it, but her anxiety lost its edge with the charmed bag in hand. Barefoot on the entryway tile, Hermione realized she was still dressed for the club with a shiver. She transfigured her attire into warm yoga pants and an oversized sweater. Feeling a little safer and a lot more comfortable, Hermione observed Malfoy's living room.

An elegant white sofa shared the wall with his bedroom. The low coffee table was metal and glass, with a set of marble coasters in a caddy on one corner. Fancy. Pretentious. A few books were neatly stacked in the middle. Smiling to herself, she perused them. An illustrated encyclopedia of Norse mythology, a Norwegian phrase book, the history of Great Britain in WWII, and her favorite biography of Winston Churchill. On the next wall was a fireplace with bookshelves on either side. Both were full, and she spotted the titles of all the great English and American classics, plus encyclopedias, atlases, and other references and guides.

The hearth had all the tools for a fire and a stack of neatly chopped wood. Ashes remained in the grate. The screen was safely closed. The next wall, opposite the couch, had a small television. Its stand matched the coffee table, and behind small glass doors she could see a DVD player beside a tidy stack of classic movies. He's been doing some homework.

The room was strikingly normal. The decor was a little stark for her taste, but she was surrounded by things so fundamentally Muggle it felt homey to her. Turning back to the couch, she considered where the blanket and pillow might be stashed.

She relaxed as much as was safe, feeling warm and sleepy. Her brain decided she was out of danger, and signaled a new urgent need. I have to pee! She quickly scanned the flat, beginning to feel a little nervous. The only bathroom was in the en suite. With Malfoy.

Draco was finally heading to bed when he heard a knock. He decided to ignore it, because in his state it was just as likely to a hallucination as it was to be Granger.

"Malfoy…" She asked shyly through the door. "Can I use your bathroom?"

He groaned with the realization that to refuse her would be cruel. He ran a few sentences over in his mind before answering.

"Yeah, you know where it is."

The door opened slowly and Granger meekly leaned into his bedroom. "Thanks." She said quietly, speaking to his knees.

Damn. She really is sorry. Draco felt himself soften a little, impressed by her humility. She left the bedroom door open, and he looked out to measure the mess that awaited him tomorrow. To his surprise, it was gone. Curious, he stumbled tiredly out of his room. He had forgotten about the bourbon, and he knew he hadn't left the empty glass in the sink. He forced himself to remain suspicious of her, for his own safety, although it was difficult when he saw the way his floor sparkled. His mouth smiled in spite of himself, just a little. This startled him. How could she cause such chaos in such short time, and how could he smile about it?

Hermione opened the door to find Malfoy sitting on the edge of his bed with his hands in his lap, staring down at them. "Thanks again" she said, more directly this time, hoping not to startle him. He blinked a few times before he looked towards her. His eyes focus somewhere above her left shoulder.

"Sure." He answered vaguely. His hand was no longer bleeding, but it was swollen and red. His skin was no longer inflamed, but he was ashen from exhaustion. His body sagged. His eyes were bloodshot and his whiskers looked scruffy. Honestly, he looked like shit.

Pity surged in her but she resisted the urge to go and embrace him. She remained planted squarely in the bathroom and said what she'd practicing since they had met in the doorway ten minutes ago.

"I shouldn't have followed you and I'm sorry." She felt more confident after he had let her into his space, but she still spoke cautiously.

"I never-I never thought of how it would affect you, only of what I hoped to gain from seeing you." Gauging his apparent lack of interest in her, she tried something to get his attention.

"And although the slide tackle was probably an overreaction…,"

Malfoy finally looked at her. His eyes narrowed.

"...I don't blame you." At that, his eyes flashed open, then darted left over her shoulder and settled there again. His chest rose with a deep breath. He was paying attention.

"I'm sorry about your hand too, but I think you can't blame me either." He frowned, eyes returning to his injury.

"You don't have anything for it, right?" Malfoy looked back at her suspiciously. "I didn't see any wrappers or boxes for a bandage, it didn't smell like alcohol in there, and I see your hand is still untreated. That's how I know. It's not a trick. I'm just observant."

So much for humility, Draco thought. But he believed her. Still, he wished she would stop talking. He was so tired. He might agree to anything just to make her leave his room.

"I can heal your hand. In moments it will be like it never happened. No one else will know. The ministry isn't as sophisticated with tracking as you think. I used to work there, in the Health Department. Plus, there is no suspicion on me so I can use most magic anywhere without anyone noticing or caring."

Expressions passed over Malfoy's tired face. Perhaps he wanted to protest, or call her a know-it-all and challenge her assertion, or just say no. He didn't say anything though. Her prepared words rolled over any half-hearted objections he might have had.

"Give me your hand, Malfoy. It will only take a moment, and then you can sleep as long as you want." That is exactly what he wanted to hear. He gave a small nod, still looking over her shoulder, and Hermione slowly approached him.

When she was only a step away, she started speaking again. "I'll walk you through what I'm going to do, ok?" She paused a moment to let him reply. He didn't. She hesitated. He sighed quietly, but that wasn't refusal.

"I'm going to hold your wrist with my left hand, to steady it. With my right hand, I'm going to put my wand on the skin near the injury, but I won't touch the wound." She searched him as she spoke, looking for any protest or concern in him. "I'll use a modified episky because the damage is pretty deep. You might feel discomfort like pressure or a tugging feeling on your skin. Have you ever gotten stitches?" He shook his head subtly, still looking past her. "Well, it feels like that," she finished lamely. His lack of reaction and input was discouraging. He's tired, she justified. Merlin's beard, so am I. She pressed on.

"If you need me stop, just tell me. It should be quick, though. Okay?" Malfoy closed his eyes with a nod.

"'K." He exhaled. Eyes closing, he offered his hand towards her. That was consent to treat, right? She gently took it, watching his face for any protest.

Looking him in the face for the first time, Hermione had to admit he was good-looking. He had left the pointy, ferret-like features in childhood, it seemed. His face was still sharp, all angles and hard lines, and his chin was a little pointed. But his jaw widened slightly since she last saw him, offsetting the points. His nose had remained narrow and slightly upturned, perfect for the sneer she remembered. Set between his high cheekbones, though, she thought it fit.

Malfoy's eyes were closed. His eyelashes whispered the same light gold of his manicured brows. Does he do them himself or go to a salon? His white-blond hair swooped across his forehead, shorter on the sides.

His hand moved in hers, pulling Hermione's attention down to his injury. Right. She exhaled, clearing her mind and imagining the spell she was about to cast. Wand gripped tightly, she set the point against the edge of the wound. She pictured the magic extending from her arm and into his, the skin growing together as the magic moved through.

"Episky," she cast, adding the extra syllables in her mind. It was a proprietary spell, after all. She had a right to protect her invention.