Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine, etc. Enjoy.
Prologue
Ever since the war, his life had become rather neat.
He had his socks cleaned and organised in the drawer, his pillows stacked on top of each other, the larger in the back, the smaller in the front, his sheets were turned down before bed by the house elf every night and he would slip between the warm sheets with a leather bound book. He would wake in much the same state as he had fallen asleep in, one hand on his chest, the other curled up, almost like a fist, beside him and he would rouse with a steaming cup of tea beside him. English Breakfast, every morning, black with one sugar. He would sip at it before he slipped out of the warm sheets and pad his way into the bathroom. A hot shower later, he would stand in front of the mirror with his toothbrush, a towel around his middle and brush, swish, swish, swish, for exactly three minutes and then shave, each stroke purposeful and strong before then returning to his bedroom, cross the large room and wandlessly open the long, dark drapes of the left window to let the sunshine in, and step into his wardrobe, selecting a shirt, a tie, a belt and slacks before taking his choice towards the bed and then slowly dressing himself.
He did everything without a word and made extra care to make sure his mark was always covered, no matter the weather.
The Tuesday dawned much the same, he went through his routine easily and quickly and the London apartment he shared with himself was quiet and slow, his routine followed to the letter. He set his cup of tea down onto the dining table that faced the French doors that opened towards the morning sun and let the ray streak in with another wave of magic, hearing the bustling sounds of traffic beneath him.
He sipped at the last of the now warm tea and when he placed the cup down carefully onto the matching saucer, he reached to pick up a slice of lightly golden toast smeared in orange marmalade, bringing it to his lips. He placed the slice down onto his plate, a mouthful of crunchy bread in his mouth and replaced the toast with the front page of the newspaper.
The Prophet was not his newspaper of choice and the name Skeeter that accompanied the first article had him stifling in his seat. However, he read on, intent on finding at least some news within the paper. The wizarding world raged on, laws passed, leaders dethroned and replaced, the dragon trade growing and expanding, exotic animals discovered and then, in the society pages, a curious little picture down in the right hand corner of the Golden Trio.
They had disappeared from public eye as much as he had and he wondered briefly about their wellbeing. In his late twenties, he knew that the petty schoolyard rivalry was long gone but there was still a part of him, the spoilt, brattish part that had been bred into him from birth, still wanted to be part of their exclusive club. Unfortunately for him, the admission price into the inner folds of their club was something he could not purchase; pureness of heart.
He watched as Potter, Weasley and Granger looked away from the flashing bulb and the headline beneath tell a short but succinct story.
Hermione Granger returns to London, reunited with friends.
He didn't occupy himself with too much gossip, he had more pressing matters to deal with but he couldn't help devoting a moment of his time that morning, outside of his schedule to wonder about them.
Draco Malfoy looked up from the paper and out into the sun soaked balcony, watching as a small bird perched itself on the tall oak that grew adjacent to his building. Would she remember the last time they spoke?
Another pressing question bubbled to the surface.
Why didn't she tell him she was returning?
A/N: Reviews are much appreciated.