A/N: Good evening. Now, I know this is coming after quite a few months of silence. I want to reassure you that this story is just beginning and once I take a few things off my plate (PhD thesis for one), I will be more consistent.

As a couple of you noted in the reviews, I could use a beta - if you want to offer your services, I would be delighted. My academic writing has proven that typos or other editing issues are a whole other level of evasive. I am definitely not too prideful to graciously accept your help :)

One more comment. In reading this chapter, my international readers, keep in mind to stick to a British lexicon. I.e. trousers are what Americans would call pants, and pants are what Americans would call underwear, and thongs in Australia are not undergarments. The last one is random trivia. But seriously, I'm anticipating confusion.

Chapter 6: In the limbo

Draco went to shower almost immediately after Granger returned from her shopping trip in the early evening, but not before he was made to vow not to remove any of tags unless he was certain that he would be keeping the item.

Considering that that morning did not start well for Granger with what seemed like an autrocious hangover, Draco thought that she made an almost miraculous recovery by the evening. In any case, she looked significantly less grumpy. When she appeared in the doorway, she unceremonously threw her shoes at the shoe rack (did she make a habit of that?) which then arranged themselves in a neat row alongside the other pairs. Granger then draped her Muggle coat on the standing rack and proceeded to toss an unholy number of bags filled with garments at him - extracting the lot from an unsuspecting purse-sized bag. With all the Muggle trinkets cast around the apartment, Draco almost forgot that she was a witch.

As to avoid agitating the unstable witch, Draco thrust some freshly baked cinnamon buns her way and loudly complained that she had no cardamom, which undeniably would have made the buns nicer.

During her absence from the apartment, which lasted quite a few hours actually, Draco had time wrap his head around his new situation. And to snoop - nay, to intimately acquaint himself with her house. To be honest, he was not sure how she managed to spend so many hours out of the house on Boxing Day. When she announced that she would be getting him new clothes earlier in the day he was not sure if she would find anything open at all… but then, he didn't object. Aside from his dire need for clothing items, he was used to a solitary existence - and even if not, Granger would not generally make it to his top hundred list of the people he would like to be stuck in a small flat with. So he nodded along to her plan.

And here she was, having successfully shopped and recovered from her ailments. He supposed that life found a way. Or magic found a way. In any case, baking and cooking a delightful dinner hardly occupied a stretched out couple of hours, so Draco set to exploring. He browsed through Granger's books, selecting a couple to potentially read at a later point. He then solved all the runic equations that she had laying around her apartment. Once that spell of entertainment was over, he sat down with the company of a nice brew to think about his new role in life.

The kitchen window opened up to a nice view of a snowed in park. Well, maybe not exactly a park. There was a few trees, some shrubs, a couple of paths through the snow. It was comforting to look at the scene from above all the while engulfed in the warm athmosphere produced by freshly baked cinnamon buns, tea, and lived-in-homeliness. This reminded him of his childhood at the manor. It was cold in general, but after he would go out to play in the snow - often with Crabbe or Goyle, if they were brought in to visit - he would warm himself by the fireplace, drink hot tea, and stare out onto the falling snow. How charming it looked when he was but five, living in a manor, provided with everything he could think of. Yet how ominous it looked when he was sat in his home alley in London, stinking of piss, losing feel in his limbs. He took a deep breath in, near inhaling his pastry, and pushed aside those thoughts. He was no longer in a manor, he was no longer in the street. He was in a Muggle apartment block, in the flat of Hermione Granger. He was planning to stay.

In the end, Draco decided to settle on the role description of a reluctant but accommodating feline-style housemate. He needed to work out his character strategically. Granger changed since their Hogwarts years so he could not rely on some Golden Trio, War Hero, Order of Merlin, and whatever other titles she held, goody-ness. She has a shorter fuse than before and she has become more calculating. But if Granger could play mind games, Draco was brought up on them. No, better yet, he invented them.

So, while he could not alter his image too abruptly, Draco also could not risk being too condescending, lest she decides to leave him to battle the elements. It would be a tough balance to strike, he reflected: be too accommodating and Granger would get awkward, but be too annoying and he faces the risk of annoying himself out of her house. Not that he would expect her to cast him out, really. That Gryffindor save-the-universe obnoxiousness that saved his life, well, he didn't think she would be able to resist whatever that was. She wouldn't kick him out unless he really really worked his way into twisting her knickers. Thankfully, Draco had no plans of being anywhere near her knickers. So there it was, he had to be an accommodating yet a sassy, domesticated Draco; he would cook for her, he will make her comfortable, in fact, he resolved to becoming her new pet for as long as it would take him to find an alternative arrangment. Really, it was lucky for him that Granger liked cats, he was perfect for the role: snarky, independent, but pretty to look at (unlike her former Ginger cat… what happened to that beast in any case?).

The key to his plan, however, was to divulge his story in parts. He must keep her interested, feed her enough information to keep stringing her along. Her curiosity was the most reliable part of Granger's character. If her kindness, Gryffindor save-the-world-y-ness, and all else fail him, he knew that her thirst for knowledge was what would keep him safe. It's what will keep him warm, and fed, and clean, and alive, Draco thought while standing in the shower savouring the feeling of hot water falling on his shoulders and back in a heavy stream.

Feeling refreshed and newly warm, Draco tried article after article on, finding most loose on him, at best. Some seemed to be made for hippogriffs. But that was just half the problem. See, it would be a stretch to say that Draco was happy with Granger's choice of clothes for him. It would even be a stretch to say he was unhappy with them... It seemed that Granger has missed her most recent eye healer appointment, Draco thought as he gazed down at the misshapen pile of garments featuring an intoxinating array of colours.

It is true that she was generous. She purchased a good selection of trousers, shirts, jumpers, socks and undergarments, as well as a jacket, hat, scarf, and a pair of gloves for him. She also picked up a couple pairs of sturdy-looking boots for him, all items of various sizes. There was one of anything he might need.

But the witch lacked style. She must have picked up the clothes right off the rack, with barely a glance at more than their size. They truly looked like a random assortment. There was mustard-coloured trousers that existed for Merlin-knows what reason, an azure jumper, purple socks with dancing yellow ducks, a magenta assortment of pants with various patterns, Christmas-themed red pants with little gingerbread men… There was even a toxic green shirt with silver buttons in the mix (very much unlike the stylish Slytherin green, Draco remarked to himself). Pulling the different articles on, Draco muttered a few curses about the poop-brown trousers that she selected for him, and how they reminded him of the aftermath of one of Hagrid's classes back in Hogwarts. Not on him, of course. On the ground, obviously. Obviously.

To his delight, that particular pair of trousers was too short on his legs. Indeed, as it turned out, many of the articles fit badly. Apparently, clothes for his current frame were difficult to find.

Staring at himself in the mirror, Draco was horrified to discover how thin and lanky he has become. He bitterly watched medium sized red pants (with gingerbread men) barely hang on his hips. His bare legs revealed pointy knees and sunken ever-too-pale flesh. He turned around, unsettled to discover that his behind looked small and sad in them. Draco never thought he would be mourning the loss of arse, but life was full of surprises. There was a deep-burning embarrassment in the background that Granger has seen him like this. The Draco that stared back from the mirror looked sullen and unfamiliar. A different Draco.

He was never particularly corpulent to begin with. In fact, he prided himself on his athletic, lean-muscled build, founded upon hours upon hours of Quidditch training. But the year on the street reduced him to little of his former self. Quite literally. He has lost much of his bodyweight and of the faint colour that he had gained before. Now he was thin, tall, and ghostly pale. His skin was stretched over his bones, hips and ribs, all too visible, and the sharpness of his jaw and cheekbones taking a comically exaggerated appearance. Draco cast his eyes at the ground, licking his cracked lips. He hardly recognised himself in the figure in the mirror. The thin man with long blonde hair, pertruding hips, and bony legs. That was not him. It reminded him of his father, in his last year in the Azkaban, looking at the wall all day, not knowing his own son. Not remembering himself.

Draco turned his back upon from the mirror and its horrible images. Or memories. Who even knew the difference.

He would have to get a second helping of the cinnamon buns, Draco resolved. Get flesh back on the bones, and if lucky, also colour into his cheeks or meaning into his life. For now he could entertain himself by solving puzzles. He ought to find out if Granger had any more boxes with Runic problems laying around. That was, in the very least, entertaining.

At least his bones remained where they were, he reflected bitterly. His shoulders were still broad. Probably the only recognisable feature in him. And his eyes. Draco decided that perhaps it was best to focus on these features when encountering mirrors in the near future, lest he decends into an identity crisis.

He sighed and dressed in Granger's idea of a pijama. A fluffy light blue starred thing. It was cozy, sure enough, but the design? It was clear enough that he was going to sleep in it, so what was the point of all the stars?

When he exited the bathroom, Granger was sitting on her bed, reading a book.

She looked up at him and asked, "any good?"

Not even a greeting, then?

"I'm afraid very few" he responded, choosing tactfully not to mention that her choice in clothes for him was grandfatherly at best. Instead, he said, "most of the clothes were either too large or too short. I selected this pair of trousers," he lifted a black denim garment, "and a shirt and jumper that fit well enough. The rest may need to be returned." Particularly that hideous grey patterned christmas jumper, Draco added in his mind.

"Very well," said Granger, "you will come with me to the shops tomorrow after I return from work. Be prepared to leave at 4 sharp."

With that she looked down at her book. Did she just dismiss him in a McGonagal fashion? Draco blinked in surprise, resisting the urge to huff. She was doing him a favour, he reminded himself, buying him clothes, feeding him, letting him live in her home. He studied her for a moment, standing near the foot of her bed. She was midway through a book filled with runic lore, her long hair falling over her eyes, concealing her expression. Didn't seem like a light evening reading, the type of romantic literature that his mother and a few of his female Slytherin counterparts would read in the common room. But then this was Granger. Different standards apply to her. The book was something he would have to poke through tomorrow.

He noted the empty plate on her bedsite. Aha, she had a cinnamon bun. That's one win for Draco.

He headed out of the room victorious, bidding her good night upon his exit.

Draco awoke early. He's become a light sleeper in the last year and the sound of Granger moving around in her room alerted him from his slumber. He took a deep intake of air and sank back into the couch, exhaling the warm air from his lungs. The distant sound of the running shower lulled him into a sense of comfort and tranquility. He cast a look around. In a house. Warm and comfortable. Sleep tried to pull him back in; the sounds of the running water and the gentle clinking noise of the radiators relaxing his muscles and mind. The cushions of the sofa were threatening to devour him, suffocate him in comfort. He almost let them.

Draco took another deep inhale and pushed himself up, his abdominal muscles complaining. He sluggishly made his way into the kitchen and switched the oven on. He set to brewing a coffee for his landlady in an Italian coffee maker he found at the back of a shelf. He yawned. Then, Draco popped some cinnamon buns into the oven to reheat and stalked off to brush his teeth.

By the time Draco was back in the kitchen, Granger was already there, staring at the contraption on the stove with evident horror.

Draco burshed past her, trying to pay no mind to how unsophisticated he must appear in his light blue starry suit. He grabbed two mugs from the shelf and removed the coffee maker from the stove as it started to bubble.

"How do you know how to use all these things?" Granger asked, breaking the silence. Her tone was somewhere between accusation and astonishment.

"Good morning to you too. I trust you slept well, Granger?" Draco said smoothly, and at her Medusa-like look, he sighed. "I know many things, Granger," Draco responded, pulling a pastry one after another from the oven onto a platter and setting it in front of the witch.

Granger sat down, letting Draco serve her coffee and reaching out for a bun.

"You have always been good at the memorising game, Granger," Draco continued, helping himself to their European breakfast as well, "which is what always set us apart in Hogwarts. You spent days and nights studying at the library, committing everything to memory. I studied too, but nowhere near as much."

He looked up, he had her attention. Perhaps she was interested in what he had to say, perhaps she was still too sleepy contradict him.

He continued, "it's the fault of the Muggle education system really. The system you spent your childhood in instills some very unhelpful behaviours that are difficult to unlearn. The Brazilian philosopher Paulo Friere calls it 'the banking concept of eduction'; they make you commit everything to memory instead of explaining how things work and why - they don't enforce understanding on you. My tutors in my youth taught me systematic thinking, understanding patterns, learning rules. That's why I was always great at potions."

"So you're saying you're privileged," Granger concluded for him.

"I'm saying I can cook delicious meals," Draco corrected her.

Granger took a bite of her cinnamon bun, shrewd eyes on him. Why is she always looking at me like I might sprout a second head? Doesn't she get tired of it?

"Sounds like a fine arrangement to me," she said after chewing, "I don't particularly like admitting it, but I'm rubbish in the kitchen."

Draco bit his tongue. He almost commented on other things she may be rubbish at. Proud of his personal growth, he flashed her a charming smile and sipped his coffee. Distasteful liquid, really, but he gulped it down. He will get used to it.

"No worries, I am happy to cook for the duration of my stay here." Draco said, "but I may need to expand the repertoire of ingredients."

Granger nodded, "after the clothes shopping we will go to Tesco."

"Brilliant," Draco agreed. They ate in silence, drinking their coffees, each occupied with their own thoughts.

"Malfoy," Granger spoke suddenly. Draco lifted his gaze, meeting hers. In that moment he reflected that she probably met his eyes only twice since she brought him to her apartment two days ago. It felt like a lifetime.

"Yes, Granger?" He asked her. Her eyes were piercing, the intelligence in them both intimidating and captivating.

"I've been wondering," she started, suddenly awkward, suddenly unsure of her footing. "I have noticed you do not use magic. Why? Are you able to? I do not mean to pry. I just don't understand…" she trailed off.

Draco licked his lips, weighing his options. He could tell her, it would be a gesture of trust. He scratched at his beard, considering his wording.

"You found my wand and returned it to me, which I am very grateful for," he began. "It has a sentimental value to me, you see…" he trailed off for a second, "do you know of the Wizarding burial customs, that witches and wizards are buried with their wands?"

Granger nodded, uncertain at what he is getting at.

"But do you know why?" Draco probed.

"I imagine it is some silly old tradition," Granger said, "the old Wizarding families have a lot of outdated customs that make no sense nowadays - "

"Only this one does," Draco cut in. He hesitated, then pushed his long hair back. Draco pulled his wand out of his pocket, handling it with great care and reached it out toward Granger.

"The wand chooses the wizard, Olivander told you that, didn't he? When you went to pick up your first wand?" He asked.

She frowed her brows at him, staring at his outreached hand. She slowly reached for the wand and took it, carefully.

"Feel it," Draco said, "what do you sense from it?"

Granger's eyes were closed in concentration. Then she opened them startled, her brown eyes flickered from his wand to his eyes, confusion clear in them.

"Nothing," she said, "there is nothing. How can that be?"

Draco licked his front teeth, "Well, you see… this wand isn't mine, not really. My mother chose it for me, when I was about to go to Hogwarts. It's her wand. Was her wand."

Draco lifted his eyes to Granger. Her image almost prompted him to plaster that poker expression on his face, disguise his emotions, pretend they never existed. But he has done that in the past and where did that take him? He was too tired. Still holding Granger's gaze.

"The wand chooses their witch or wizard, Granger. The wand then is buried with their witch or wizard when they die because the wand can't live without them. The wand dies too. And this wand passed away shortly after my mother." His gaze fell back on the wand in her hands.

They sat in silence for a moment, a second, or an hour.

"That is so very sad," Granger finally spoke, raw emotion in her voice. She craddled the wand like it was a lost infant. "So you've been carrying around a dead wand?" she whispered.

Draco nodded. He hadn't expected so much sympathy from Granger.

"I wanted to take it to her grave and reunite them," he explained (inner, younger Draco cringing on the inside at the outed weakness, Malfoys do not reveal weaknesses, they do not speak with emotion. Draco silenced that Draco), "but I haven't been able to return to the Wizarding World to do so."

Granger nodded slowly, eyes fixed on her coffee. "Well," she spoke, her voice slightly cracked. She gave him a small smile, the first he's seen on her directed at him, "that is something I believe I will be able to help you with."

A/N: Well, that's that for this chapter. I think this one was important to cover some important ground... but from now on things will accelerate. Buckle up.