A/N: Thank you all for your kind comments! I hope not to disappoint - but also keep in mind that this story may stretch out for a while. I am taking it at the pace of the characters, and as you may know: Draco and Hermione are particularly stubborn.

Also, you may have noticed the very intentional and provocative integration of Muggle life in the magical universe. Give it some time and all will be explained. For now, I will just let you and Draco wonder and be a little bit confused. I'll also let you wonder what happened to Draco… It's all a part of the intrigue :)

So, DramionEverlarkPeetatoRichonne, AspenRust and Cindy, thank you all for your comments! HollyGlen, I am very pleased that my Ron storyline managed to break the expected formula and that you are enjoying the direction that this is taking. This too will be elaborated on at later stages.

And now, without further ado, please accept my second chapter down below.

Chapter 2: The deal

One may be wondering, what exactly has occurred that night when Hermione Granger rescued the popsicle-like Draco from the alley near Peter Street. Hermione was not happy to divulge that information because it made her - well, um, slightly uncomfortable. But, as the narrator of this tale, I have decided to completely disregard her feelings and tell you everything in profound detail.

The stench only hit her as they landed in her living room. She choked the raising bile down, instinctively clamping her nostrils shut with her fingers.

No, there is no time for that. The man could die if she did not act quickly. What was he even doing there, lying in a pile of snow, stinking like piss, sweat, and Merlin knows what else?

She pressed her hand to her face, covering her mouth and nose, rocking her brain to remember what to do in the case of severe hypothermia. Cover with blankets? Seems futile at the moment. Drink hot tea? Not appropriate. She was sceptical that he would wake up for a nice cup of Darjeeling at the moment. If he will wake up at all… She needed to work very fast.

Gagging, a memory came to mind - hot water. Shower, bath, anything to warm up the body. She ran into her bathroom, plugged the bottom of the bathtub, and threw the tap open. It will start filling while she was getting the man into the small chamber.

Wasn't he supposed to be in the Caribbean's or some other exotic location? She wandered to herself. Indeed, all the headlines tracking Draco Malfoy disappeared around two years ago. The Witch Weekly stopped reporting his every move right sometime after that scandal in the press. Yes, that headline in the The Daily Prophet, about seizure of assets. Malfoy leaves the country, it said, storms out of the court room.

She levitated the reeking body, trying to breathe through her mouth. It has definitely been some time since he showered. Entering the bathroom, she deposited the lank body on the rug. A rug she will have to wash, a part of her - not the better part, mind you - reflected.

The tub was half filled, scalding water gashing out of the pipe. That's good, the first few minutes would have been waters straight from the glaciers. They should balance each other out. She put her hand in the water, swirling in circles to mix the water. Still lukewarm.

She glanced at the unconscious body. Hm. She would have to strip him. Malfoy would kill me if he was awake, she reflected, but then, he can only kill me if he ever awakes.

The idea of un-clothing Malfoy made Hermione uncomfortable. She bit down on the inside of her mouth and lip. No choice. It's a matter of survival now. No time to be prudish.

The tub was still just over half full, the water getting warmer and warmer, but she decided to put him in already.

"Here goes nothing," she whispered to herself, muttering a spell to remove clothes. This spell was used in hospital scenarios, she learnt from Ron. To administer help urgently, removing an article of clothes when blood has clotted to it, or in cases of serious hex or curse damage where the affected area needed to be accessed immediately.

Averting her eyes from certain regions and fixing her gaze over the nude body, Hermione levitated the naked, grimy form from the rug and gently lowered into the water. Well, at least it helps the stench a bit, she thought.

Not the water though… she deliberated, studying the water as they kept getting murkier and clammier around the body. She looked around uncertainly, half-considering finding a stick to probe him awake.

"Fuck," she whispered, picking up her loofah, and moving toward the still-ill smelling Malfoy. Think practical Hermione, she thought to herself. Remove grime, dispose of water, she listed, picking up his arm and starting to run the loofah up and down his skin, then cast a warming spell to keep the temperature of the water in a cloud around his body, rinse the tub, fill again, drop the nuclear bath-bomb in, wash again.

She grimaced, never expected to be giving a bath to Malfoy, in fact, she imagined what expression she would get had she told her younger self that this would be happening.

She stopped running the water and moved on to his other arm, scrubbing ruthlessly at the dirty skin. Then the chest, the neck, stopping for a moment to regard the sunken features of the man she knew as a boy. A dirty beard, clamps of hair stuck together, (some shampoo would do), dirt on the face. She should feel sorry for him, and maybe she did. But there was no time for that.

She considered his features for one more second, sharper than before, probably because of malnutrition. What has happened to him? She then plunged the dirty loofah into the now-resembling-a-bog water and roughly scoured his face. That not-so-good part of her felt a sense of satisfaction, like that time she punched Malfoy in the face. Only this time she was attempting to save his life. She leaned him forward resting his shoulder against her, and scrubbed at his back, loofah dripping brownish water back into the tub. He was not as heavy as she expected. That was slightly concerning. But practical for the moment.

She grimaced. Oh Merlin, she thought, biting her lower lip, just do it Hermione. She plunged her arm into the water, scrubbing at his legs, and trying to ignore the possibility to accidentally hitting his… delicate regions.

Next, warming spell. Few witches and wizards understand how the spell truly works. It only traps body heat that is generated by the body - and hence would hardly be helpful in the case of hypothermia. Thanks to the heat of the water, though, the spell should keep him from freezing for a the few minutes it would take to change the water.

Methodically, and through quick spell work, she levitated the unconscious Malfoy, disposed of the water, cast a cleaning charm on the tub, and - manually - turned the water back on. This time it was coming in hot from the start. Adjusting the temperature, she reached for the shelf with the basket of bath-bombs. She selected a strongly scented Christmas-themed bomb, something with a nice spice to it, she mindlessly considered as she turned back toward the tub.

Oh God. She looked. It was completely accidental. But she just saw Malfoy's jewels. Shaking her head to clear the image from her mind, she tossed the bath-bomb into the tub, she lowered Malfoy into the gathering waters, pointedly looking over his head.

She washed the loofah in the sink, accepting that after this expedition, it will need to be thrown out. She started scrubbing Malfoy's skin with the soapy water as the tub kept filling. Less murky, less smelly, good. Some shampooing to the hair and the beard, and he would be as good as new. Perhaps better than the version she knew. She reflected that his company was a lot less infuriating when he's soporose, as unfortunate as it sounds.

Water out, and turning the shower on from above, Hermione gave the unconscious man a rinse, and threw a drying spell.

She bit her lip. Clothes… The only male clothes she had were his. The ones she never gave back… wrapping a guest robe over the scarily Christ-looking levitating body, she considered. Giving away his clothes to Malfoy… feels wrong. Not to mention that she hid them and kept them to herself when they broke up. That's not right either, a voice whispered. The voice, of course, did not understand. So the voice can be ignored.

"Shit."

Malfoy's skin was still cold to the touch. She ground her teeth. If she was going to try to save him, she might as well give it her best. It was Christmas Eve, after all.

She tore the offending robe off the blonde still-levitating figure, threw the covers off her bed, and not-so-gently dumped him in.

"Blimey," she muttered, stripping off her clothes.

Draco Malfoy felt guilty, alright. Not a particularly familiar sensation he had to admit, but unmistakable. Tightening in his throat, heavy chest; the uneasy feeling was gnawing at him, but he could think of nothing he could do to remedy the situation. His mouth operated on its own agenda, seamlessly sliding into old habits. But Granger was treating him with kindness, a sort of cold and unembellished kind of kindness, but far more than he has seen in months - perhaps years.

And here he was, a rescued vagabond at best or a stinking nuisance at worse, being nothing short of a twat to her as a knee reflex! He couldn't blame it all on habit, though. When she asked how he ended up in that alley amidst that snowstorm - that same one that was still raging outside - he considered, even for a brief moment telling her his predicament. Divulging his story. But that idea was banished as quickly as it had appeared. Maybe it was something about her, about her connection to his past, their childhood together at Hogwarts, his connection to the Magic World, being childhood enemies possibly? There was just something, something that made him want her to not know how far he's fallen. To preserve some of the dignity he once had.

Of course, he did none of the sort - the dignity vanished into whatever hole his inheritance, name, contacts, status, and all else have gone. No, Draco Malfoy did what he did best: he insulted her. That he did, and did well, with expertise borne out of years of experience. The one skill that he had honed to perfection was the skill of being nasty.

Granger was observing him. She sat across the table, lips pursed into an inclined line - almost a frown but not quite just yet, eyes scanning him up and down. Probably writing remarks in that overactive brain of hers. Was it pity in her expression? Or calculation? He couldn't tell. Odd, she used to be such an open book. He felt uncomfortable under her gaze, it was like being in a healer's office under a body tissue scan spell. But the disconcertment also came from the lack of knowing what had occurred yesterday.

He did not recall much from last night and the information that Granger disclosed was precious little. She stumbled over him in London - she said - didn't see him under the snow, hurt her leg, apparated him sidealong to her apartment. She didn't specify how she cleaned him, and she also didn't explain how or why he awoke naked. But that was not too difficult to deduce. She washed his stinking self - hopefully with one of the housekeeping spells. Slept next to him and shared her body heat. Really, he owed a life debt.

His clothes were gone. She probably threw them out. His wand was in the inner jacket pocket… if it was gone… Draco chewed on his lower lip. No point wondering about that. He could retrieve it later. It was unlikely that the rubbish would be taken out during the zenith of storm. With his own clothes gone, he now sat in a thin long-sleeved shirt too wide for him, trousers too short on his legs, and her socks. Sterched a bit too tight on his feet. He was not the dignified Draco Malfoy of the old days. No, he was a charity case.

One of the few things that comforted him in the last couple of years was that no-one knew him. Or rather, none of the people who knew him saw what has become of him. His pride, in at least one little way, was unhurt. Now even that was gone. Perhaps that's why he was being so formidable - an attempt to preserve that little of his old life that was left to him. Maybe it was also resulting from the bitterness borne out of mourning. Now that his secret was out.

And still he was glad to be alive.

Granger saved his life, she checked on him, fed him, bathed him (oh Merlin, I hope it was a housekeeping spell), and what was his response? Not the thanks she deserved. His stomach was full, he was draining his second mug of tea, and he was so pleasantly warm. The blanket is one prospective haven. And she even gave him the seat closer to the radiator. By all rights, she was close to a saint. A grumpy saint, but he was probably to blame for the grumpiness. He chewed on his lip, eyes darting back and forth across the wooden kitchen floor. He ought to apologise, to express some gratitude - but something was keeping his mouth shut.

Granger broke the silence. "You can stay here." She asserted. It was an offer, he knew. It was the way she spoke (to him?): with authority and coldness. Quite the change from the Hogwarts years. Then she was bossy, not authoritative. She was bookish but never cold. "I do not have a second bedroom, but the couch should suffice for now," she continued, indicating toward the living room. "You can stay as long as it takes for you to get back on your feet. I will help where I can, of course, if you let me. But over time you might need to let me know how I can help…" She trailed off, giving him a McGonagall-esque pointed look. Fine, then. It was a condition, subtle but clear. He swallowed. Without his snarky comments the air was quickly turning awkward. He better say something. Quick.

She was sipping at her second mug as well, expectantly raising her eyebrows at him. An offer? A deal? A contract? The smell of bergamot was hanging heavy in the air between them. A pleasant and rich scent, but also a choice that does not require much creativity. Earl Grey, what a classic choice. Very Granger, Draco assessed. Simple but agreeable. The cream walls, though - not agreeable in the slightest. Better than brick walls in an alley, reminded him a voice. That was certain.

He looked out of the window. Fuck. Here it comes. Draco swallowed, pursed his lips and lifted his gaze to the bushy haired woman. "Thank you, Granger," he said, trying to keep a level voice, "your hospitality would be appreciated for the time being."

She nodded slowly, eyeing him with a slight frown. Was that an odd response? He wondered. Seemed well in line with how he was educated. Perhaps she was not used to his amiable side. Besides, speaking like this charmed the Muggle women in pubs. "Right…" she drawled. "Perhaps I should show you around a bit."

She turned in her chair, stood up and wobbled toward the the kitchen cabinets, opening one by one, and listing their contents. Draco decided against telling her that he could explore on his own and sat mindlessly listening to her detailed accounting of kitchen supplies.

Malfoy is strange, there is no doubt about that in Hermione's mind. First he behaves like a chav, then he is unresponsive, and suddenly he sounds like he walked out of a Brontë novel. Hermione frowned to herself, pulling another cabinet door open.

"… This is where you can find all the root vegetables: onions, carrots, potato, garlic as well. Right now I have two parsnips in here too. Behind there are bags of rice, pulses and such, but they are to refill the jars that I already showed you. Everything you find here you can use. "

She looked at Malfoy, who sat still sat sombre and proper in the huge blanket. The image of the pensive nobleman was entirely ruined by her fluffy purple socks on his feet, poking from under the blanket. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"So that's it for the kitchen. The difficult part for you would be that it's completely Muggle operated. I can teach you how to use the devices," she told him, and after a moment added: "but it's probably best if you do so under supervision the first time."

Hermione waited. Malfoy was still wearing that vacant look that he probably thought passed for wistfulness. "Understood?" She asked impatiently.

Malfoy graced her with a nod. She exhaled sharply through her nose. She might just punch him a second time.

Hands on her hips, she sucked at her teeth, looking down upon the huddled figure. "Right, shuffle along then," she ordered before leaving the kitchen.

"This is the couch," she announced as the blanket-man wordlessly followed her into the living room. "Here is a bookshelf, at the bottom you will find non-fiction, at the top fiction. Alphabetically ordered by author and year of publication. This black thing is called a television. Don't poke it, it's like a fragile window. It shows very long moving photographs with sound. I will explain later."

She motioned to her wine-rack. "Alcohol," she announced, "I'm not much of a drinker myself, but I have it for guests. Try not to consume it all." Another blank look from Malfoy. What is up with him?

"Right…" she drawled, pinching her lips to one side. "Guest toilet through here," she ushered him toward a door near the entrance to the apartment, swinging it widely open. "You will be using this one for everything other than shower. Unfortunately, I only have the one en suite."

Malfoy gave another graceful nod. Twat. Even with the long tangled hair and mess of a beard he managed to look somewhat dignified. She swung her mass of hair as she span away from him and down the corridor, huffing in frustration. She wasn't even sure he was doing something to agitate her at the moment, but this new demeanour felt… mocking.

Maybe she was just allergic to Malfoy. Maybe she still couldn't look him in the face after seeing him in his birthday suit. Whichever it was, Hermione knew she was stuck with him for a while. It's the right thing to do, she reassured herself, he has nowhere to go.

The curiosity to what has happened to him was intolerable, though. If there was one thing that Hermione hated, it was not knowing. Malfoy's most annoying attribute to date was, then, his for once inconvenient silence. What on earth happened to him? Couldn't he at least use magic to clean himself? She wondered. Which reminded her…

"I found your wand, by the way," she announced to him as she lead him through her bedroom to the en suite. "It was deep in your jacket, I barely found it." She withdrew the object from her pocket and held it out to him. Malfoy just stared at it for a long moment, appearing deep in contemplation. Hermione looked right, left, back at him. Malfoy was still staring at her outreached arm with a contemplative look. Maybe the explanation is simple, Hermione wondered, Malfoy just lost his mind and decided to live on the streets of London?

That was the moment he reached out and gently took the wand back, letting it disappear with his thin arm back into the blanket. "Thank you, Granger." He said. First time with a hint of emotion. First time it felt genuine.

Hermione nodded. Alright.

She finished showing him around the apartment, explained light switches and how to use them, including a demonstration that was a little bit anti-climactic. She was used to Arthur Weasley's appreciation of Muggle artefacts, she supposed. As the lights turned on, Malfoy merely looked up, regarded the bulb, and looked back at her. She handed him bedding for the couch, and then levitated a pillow and duvet from a cupboard at the top of her dresser, sending them to the couch.

Why is he so silent?

"Do you have anyone you want to contact?" She asked.

Malfoy swallowed. "I'm afraid there is no one I can contact," he responded.

Hermione bit her lip, standing across from Malfoy still with his bedding in arms. He regarded her back. He knows I have questions but refuses to answer.

"What now?" She finally asked.

"I don't know," he responded, "what now?"

She licked her lips. "We will need to get you new clothes, but it's Christmas day, so we will have to wait for tomorrow."

He nodded.

"Do you have any money?" She asked, unlikely.

"About two quid, but I believe you threw them out with the clothes," the blonde responded.

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line. "They were beyond repair," she excused herself.

Malfoy lifted an eyebrow, "And here I was expecting you to scrub them for me," he sighed, sarcastic.

Did he just make a joke? Hermione frowned. No, this was way beyond computation for now. This day was so strange already.

"Well, I'll have to get you some new clothes," she continued, ignoring the last comment. "And probably a haircut."

"Oh, but that would be such a shame," he moaned, "we were just starting to match in style."

Ah, he's back. Hermione gave him an icy glare. "Fine, no haircut then."

"Wait!"