Hermione stepped across the threshold of the flat with more that a little discomfort. The doorman had managed to perfectly convey that sneering dismissal that purebloods liked to throw at her and she didn't look forward to walking past that every time she wanted to leave. Being a war heroine still didn't make her good enough to live in their toniest buildings. However, before she'd been able to say anything like, "Enjoying your Voldemort-free afternoon?" Draco had taken by the elbow and steered her up the stairs to their floor.

"I can have him fired," he said quietly as he held open the door - their door - and she entered what was to be her home, at least until she could figure out a way to fix this, and stood, open-mouthed and gaping.

The place was beautiful. Exquisite. She couldn't even begin to conceive of how much this had to cost per month. Exposed brick surrounded huge windows through which sunlight poured onto the wooden floors. Couches and chairs clustered on feet around a glass table and a small kitchen gleamed with stainless steel.

"It… it came furnished?" she asked, unable to formulate any other thought. How had he done this so quickly? A bookcase stood along one wall, empty shelves begging to be filled. A table sat next to what looked to be a comfortable chair with a reading lamp and space to set a mug of tea. She took another step in and saw a hall leading down to what she assumed were the bedrooms.

At least she hoped there were two bedrooms.

Draco regarded her with condescending amusement. "No," he said. "I asked Mum to do something modern and she flooed her people and they made it happen."

"It's very nice," she said somewhat faintly. He'd said he didn't want to live in a hovel. He hadn't been kidding. She'd have to move her books in. She'd have to move her clothes in. Even this brief interaction with him left her with more energy than she'd had in weeks, though she still felt the dull pull of weakness engendered by long illness. She wanted him to take her arm again. She wanted to feel his hand on her skin, not just her clothing. She wanted to lock herself away and cry that she'd been reduced to this.

"You don't understand money, do you?" he asked, watching her and infuriating in his amusement.

"I wasn't exactly poor," she said, annoyed with him already. "My parents were dentists. We had plenty of money for ballet lessons and travel and - "

He cut her off with a snort. "That's money," he said. "I have money. It's different."

She could hear the emphasis and, looking around, she had to admit he seemed to be right. Only peasants like her tromped around London looking at flats and trying to find the right furniture, and then carrying it up the stairs themselves. People like Malfoy had people who took care of things. She wished, not for the first time, that if she'd had to get this thing, it had somehow latched itself on to Ron or Neville, or even Harry. She knew how to deal with all of them. She liked all of them. Smug, accommodating Malfoy and his money-with-emphasis and his beautiful flat left her uneasy.

"Money," he said, "can solve almost any problem."

"Not Voldemort," she said.

"No," he said. He nodded graciously. "Not that one. Not yours either, it would seem."

That, she thought, was true enough.

He took her by the elbow again and she let herself luxuriate in that for only a second before she jerked her arm away. "You don't need to steer me," she said.

He didn't look offended. If anything he looked even more amused than he had when she'd looked around the apartment like a rube. "Right," he said. "You despise my touch."

"I know you despise mine," she said. She took a deep breath and tried to seem more grateful, though she remembered an old adage that gratitude was a polite word for resentment. "I appreciate what you're doing - "

"I should hope so."

" - but I don't want to put you out any more than necessary."

"You're very considerate," he said. "You are also an excellent excuse to escape my parents." He unnecessarily tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves and held an arm out to guide her, sans touch, down the hall. "I have selfishly decided to take the master bedroom, so you will have to settle for this."

He opened a door to a room and though she should have known to expect something wonderful after seeing what Narcissa Malfoy had managed to accomplish in less than a day with the living areas, the sight of her bedroom made her take a step back in shock.

The feel of Malfoy when she bumped into him was just another shock.

The room was small, but as bright as the rest of the apartment. Heavy curtains on each side of the windows promised she'd be able to sleep in darkness, but she could also curl up in here and read in the afternoon if she wanted to. Someone had lined one wall with more shelves, and a photograph of red smoke hung on the wall. "It doesn't move," she said, gesturing weakly at the picture.

"Muggle," he said. She stepped forward so she could turn and look at him, surprised at that. He quirked his brows up in what she knew was mockery. "Art is art, Granger."

"Right," she said.

"If we can continue our tour," he said, "your bath is across the hall and that door leads to my room, a place where you are not welcome."

She nodded and went to return to the main area to see if there was anything to drink. There was. The cabinets had been stocked with most basic foodstuffs, tea, and a generous selection of alcohol. Her hand hesitated over the kettle. It was early, and she really should have tea. That was the responsible thing to do. Malfoy, however, reached past her to pull out a bottle of Ogden's and said, "Oh, let's celebrate our new home, Granger. Don't be such a stick in the mud."

She let him measure her a glass and took it, careful not to let her fingers brush against his. "To us," he said, raising a toast toward her. "The oddest couple in wizarding Britain."

She took a sip and let the fire burn along her tongue and down her throat. "Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"You'd prefer I let you die?" Malfoy laughed and poured himself into one of the chairs. He stretched his legs out and his perfect shoes gleamed in the sunlight. "Why can't I just be a noble do-gooder like your lot?"

"Because you aren't?" she suggested.

"No?" He regarded her and then tipped his head back. "Probably not, no."

She knew she had to be hovering when he said, "Oh, sit down, Granger. It's your flat too. Put your feet on the furniture, spill beer on the floor if that will make you feel at home. But, for the love of Salazar, don't stand around like a child expecting to be scolded."

She didn't want to sit next to him, or, rather, she burned to sit next to him, so she sat on a narrow chair and tucked her feet under her. They drank in silence that was neither companionable not comfortable until he asked, "What's it like to be Veela?"

"Miserable," she said. One word that shortened months of slow creeping pain, exhaustion, and endless visits to St. Mungo's into three syllables. She was rare. So rare. She'd done most of the research herself after they sent her away with endless potions and bromides that didn't work. An orphan disease, the Healer had said when she'd confirmed Hermione's work. Most people died because, without your mate, you did, and trying to find your mate was a fool's errand. There was no cure, only ways to alleviate the pain. The Healer had almost cried when she'd confirmed the verdict. No one likes to tell a young, vibrant woman that she's dying.

Then she'd brushed against Malfoy in a shop and she'd known.

"No cure?" he asked.

"They couldn't even diagnose it," she said with disgust. "I had to figure it out myself."

"And it's me." He laughed and took a swallow of his drink. "Bad luck for you, Granger."

"Yeah," she said. His face contorted at that and he drained the rest of his glass. Had she, improbably, impossibly, hurt his feelings?

He stood up. "The key's on the counter," he said. "Think about my offer with the doorman because I don't want you made to feel unwelcome, but I'm going out. I assume you can live without my constant attendance?"

"This is already… it's better. Thank you," she said.

He passed by her and, with a smile she couldn't read, briefly rested his hand against her shoulder. One finger brushed against her skin and every nerve flared into life at that touch. If she'd been in some level of pain for months, now she was in whatever was the opposite of endless, creeping discomfort that no potion could eradicate. Skin to skin contact was immeasurably better than his hand on her clothing. Was this soaring high why people took drugs? What would it be like if she touched him? What would it be liked if she - .

"It will be okay, Granger," he said, interrupting her thoughts.

Before she could say anything he was gone and she blinked a few times as if that could clear her head. "Well," she said to what she thought was an empty flat, "that was interesting."

The 'bleerrtttt?' from under the couch was loud and she set her glass down and knelt on the floor to see what it was. An orange kitten looked back at her.

. . . . . . . . .

A/N - I am blown away by the response to the first chapter. Thank you all. I hope the second one lives up to the promise. There is a pinterest board with pictures of the flat and cat, and kitty needs a name.