Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter. Hope characters aren't too OOC, not used to actually writing about this couple.

It was ten, and the Loft was open.

Hermione had always loved the sun, especially the way it was then, its warm rays filtering through the windows of her humble shop. With careless flicks of her wand, the broom and the dustpan in the corner jolted awake and started making their rounds around the shop, while the coffee maker whirred to life like an animal roused from slumber. This was it - 21 Diagon Alley, her safe haven and sanctuary.

Hermione simply adored the Loft. It was a quaint, three-storeyed shophouse in a little corner of the busy street. Books of all nature lined the walls, while a small cafe occupied most of the ground floor. Upstairs were more books, then on the topmost floor was where Hermione lived. A cosy, three-room apartment situated right above her shop - this was where she reckoned she belonged. Life was easy, and pleasant enough, though there were times when the day seemed to stretch on and on as she watched the world from behind the coffee counter. It had been eight years since the battle, and five since she had uprooted from Muggle London, but somehow, she missed the hustle and bustle of the city; the sights, smells and places that she had grown up with and grown to love.

Then she reminded herself once again of the reason why she ran away, why she was here - and that was reason enough to convince her that this was what she wanted, for now.

It was five minutes past ten and the morning chores had been completed. Hermione reclined lazily in the chair behind the counter and perused the Daily Prophet that had just been delivered. It was alike yesterday's, and the day before - a goblin-wizard legal tussle over a fifteen-generation brooch, A Discourse on Broomstick Speeds in City Areas and a Fifty Metre Radius Beyond City Boundaries by Percy Weasley and much, much more interesting news. Hermione sighed and flipped through the paper, scanning through predicatable headlines, just searching for some excitement in someone else's life...

"Good morning."

"Wha-" She jumped and spilt her coffee over the Prophet. Indignant, she glared upward at the individual who had rudely interrupted her morning reading. Her lips curled into a smile as she took in the shock of blond hair and the mischievous smile that spread across the face of said individual, who looked like he was simply glowing in the rays of the morning sun.

"A little engrossed, are we." Draco smirked, leaning casually against the counter. "Never knew you'd find the news so interesting. What with Weasley's rather informative article about a pertinent issue...how groundbreaking."

"Oh, Draco, the usual?" She turned and pointed her wand at the coffee maker without waiting for his reply.

"Things don't change around here, do they."

Hermione snorted as she cleaned up the mess on her paper. The man was more trouble than he was worth.

Draco had been a morning regular since the Loft had opened. At first his presence had made her a tad uncomfortable. He would swish in and order a cup of coffee, then seat himself in the armchair in the corner till dusk, either reading a book from the shelves, or writing notes in his black, leather-bound notebook. They rarely spoke, but once in a while he would glance in the direction of the counter, and her soft brown eyes would meet those piercing gray orbs that seemed to dig deep down into her soul, into the very depths of her being. He would look away to immerse himself once again in whatever he was doing, wrapping himself up in layers and layers of complicated thought that she did not care to decipher.

After all, he was the enemy, wasn't he? Nothing but two-faced Death Eater spawn. Hermione forgave, but she had some trouble forgetting. It wasn't easy, not when she had lost so much.

He had changed much, though, she admitted. Draco Malfoy was no longer the gangly, cantankerous Slytherin brat she had gone to school with. Eight years had done him some good, and he seemed to be faring well, with enough inheritance in Gringotts to last him ten lifetimes, and an avid fanclub following to boot. Hermione wondered just what those swooning fangirls who seemed to be reduced to piles of mush in his presence saw in him - perhaps, apart from the fact that he did seem to be London's most eligible pureblood bachelor, or the fact that he was rather good looking. Yet with all that he had to his name and the world at his feet, he had chosen to stroll in that sunny day when the Loft opened its doors to the public, that devil-may-care smirk spread across his handsome face. She still remembered how she had made him his coffee and watched, disbelieving, as he seated himself quietly in the velvet armchair, his nose buried in Shakespeare for the entire day. Who in his right mind would read Shakespeare through the day anyway? She pondered.

Ron had not taken kindly to Draco's presence. After raging away at an unresponsive Malfoy who seemed to have cast a silencing charm on his surroundings, Ron berated Hermione for even letting him in, for allowing him to sit so comfortably instead of hexing him into oblivion. But Hermione had left him alone in spite of Ron's protests - besides, he was a customer, her customer, and Draco had every right to be there.

So Draco turned up every day at the Loft, five minutes past ten, and he would sit there till night fell and Hermione had to lock up. Hermione wondered if Draco really had anything more worthwhile or constructive to society to do - but she thought not, since he seemed to do nothing but read. This she asked him once, out of sheer curiosity and the need to break the uncomfortable silence; but all he gave in reply was a mysterious smile.

It continued for five years - there he would sit, five days a week, for as long as he could. They spent hours on end together, yet they seldom spoke. All she knew about him was what she picked up from magazines and the Prophet. He was, as reported, the owner of many properties and companies, yet it was rather obvious to her that he was not particularly interested in them, nor did he tend to them personally. She watched him over the rim of her glasses, perched on the chair behind the coffee counter. Most of the time he was deep in thought, or had his nose buried in the book he was holding. But at other times he would stare vacantly out the shop window, watching as people walked to and fro outside - just watching blankly as his eyes glazed over. And it was times like this when Hermione felt like he wasn't there at all.

There were days when she knew he was in a bad mood, and avoided his line of sight as much as possible. He would collapse into the armchair and cover his face with his hands, and there he would stay, just sitting there, leaving the world at the shop door.

Sometimes she thought he was hiding from them too.

One thing stayed true, though, he would always order the same brew, and plonk himself in the same seat - the huge armchair that gave him a view of both the counter and what was going on outside the shop. She expected him, and he would come without fail; and he would stay till the veil of night fell softly on Diagon Alley. Then he would rise, gathering his velvet cloak around him, and with a polite nod in Hermione's direction, he would push the door open ever so softly, and with a tinkling of the bell, he would disappear.

Without a trace.

As usual, Hermione would lock the shop doors and put up the usual security wards before heading upstairs to her warm bed. Extinguishing the lights, she would snuggle up under her comforter and gaze into the darkness inside and outside - but all she would see before she closed her eyes were those stormy gray eyes and his careless, blonde hair.

She knew very well that he would be back when morning came, time after time.

AN: So yep, tell me how y'all like it so far? I've actually got the whole storyline planned out in my head, but just let me know how you think it's going so far! ((: Reviews are always so encouraging.