A/N: Yes, it has been a while. I know and apologise... but some good news: this story is continuing and will continue. Despite occasional gaps in the publishing of chapters. I have a PhD thesis to write, uni students to teach... so, yeah. Deadlines.

I hope that you nevertheless enjoy this chapter!

Chapter 5: And a shopping trip

Hermione woke up with mixed feelings.

And a bad hangover.

A really bad hangover.

Through the mist in her brain, Hermione started piecing together the events of the previous day. Swallowing what felt like a dune of sand, she decided that getting a glass of water was a matter of urgency. She then quickly changed her mind - as soon as the stupid bed gave a horrendously loud creak under her shifting weight. Hermione collapsed back among the covers and waited for the room to stop spinning.

Blimey, she moaned miserably. Wrecking her brain, Hermione tried to remember what got her into a state worse than her after-break-up roll up to the pub. For one, she suspected that the purple pain-duller potion may have also dulled her sense of intoxication, so she may or may not have had a few glasses too many. She also suspected that the purple potion, or the alcohol, or the combination of the two also brought out new sides of her.

A new form of bravery, Harry would probably diplomatically call it. Slimy manipulation, Ron would probably object.

Argh, headache and dehydration, Hermione decided, burying her head in her pillow and silencing the imagined voices of her oldest friends.

Draco woke up vary. He listened to his surroundings and when nothing sounded too suspicious he cracked one eye open and then the other.

Granger was unpredictable. Unpredictable was scary. Unpredictable could mean crazy. And Draco knew one crazy aunt too many to know when to sleep with one eye open. Not that he really needed to tonight. When Granger passed out on the sofa yesterday, Draco - definitely not ready to surrender the bed he had just acquired - grabbed her under the armpits and dragged her to her room. He considered dumping her there unceremoniously, feeling somewhat entitled after being subjected to the inquisition-via-Granger earlier that night, but he reconsidered upon entering her room. The bed where he woke up reminded him of the stern but considerate Granger from the morning. Rolling his eyes at his own sentiment, Draco proceeded to remove the covers, deposit the drunken madwoman kindly in her bed, and tuck her in.

She saved his life. As nosy and bossy as she may be, she deserved to be treated with respect. And better yet, she was at receipt of it while unconscious, so no remanent 'debt' would be left behind. Draco pictured the multiple scenarios of the morning after if Granger was conscious. In one, Granger was awkwardly thanking him, in another she starts questioning her conception of Draco's persona, and in the third - worst by far - she starts expecting this sort of behaviours from him.

No, none of that would do. Draco was comfortable with sticking to the status quo. The rhythm, if you will: acknowledgement, insult, snarky comment - repeat. That's the safe dynamic that both are comfortable with and serves to keep Granger ontologically secure.

Stretching and sending an admiring look to the radiator under the window, Draco decided to crawl out of bed and head toward the kitchen to boil some water. Nothing better than some hot tea in the morning. Funny how before the universe has gone mad and cast Draco out he took all these things for granted. Breakfasts were made for him, hot water for showering was always available, and he would even reject nice mugs of tea because he wanted a different leaf in them… all that seemed ludicrous now.

Draco grabbed a couple of eggs from the fridge and stopped.

He glanced at the door to Granger's room and considered. It is true - it was ludicrous, how picky and spoilt he was in his childhood. He was also unkind and entitled. After a few months wandering the Muggle world, trying to make a living there, he became sorely aware of where it all came from. He was prideful.

It is easy to be proud when you have everything handed to you on a silver - or gold as it was in the Malfoy manor - platter. It is easy to be arrogant when you are always reassured that you are right. But take all that away and all that pride gets smashed into bleeding pulp. In the Muggle world, Draco quickly learnt he wasn't worth a knut. His estate gone, family name meaning nothing, and all magical education entirely worthless or even dangerous. Draco was left to find his own worth.

Sweet talking and knowledge of fine things seemed to do the trick. Wines, art, looks and his general charm were things Draco excelled at, he soon found out. If being charming was his trade for over a year, then why was he being an arse to Granger? Even more importantly, why was he insisting on being his teenage self, when through tough circumstance he indeed learnt who he was without the money and the title?

The kettle finished boiling and Draco sighed.

Fine, he surrendered to his mental voices, scowling. She was probably terribly hangover anyway - and as Draco now knew - he was not above basic human decency.

Brewing a mug of camomile tea and grabbing a glass of water, Draco marched toward the door down the corridor. He stopped right before it, listening.

Silence.

No. Some miserable groaning and whimpering. And sniffing.

He assumed it was Granger feeling sorry for herself but to be safe, he gently knocked on the door.

Silence. "Yeah?" came a hoarse and low snivel from the room. Merlin, she sounded a hundred years old.

"I've got some water for you, may I enter?" he said loudly.

More moaning and then another weak "yeah…"

Pushing the door open, Draco found Granger looking like the potions classroom after the first year's class: shabby yet eerie. The curtains were drawn and the room was submerged in a spectral twilight. Granger looked like something between a zombie and a ghost, an effect pronounced by her Mourning Myrtle-like sound effect. Still in yesterday's clothes, her hair a tangled mane around her head, eyes bloodshot and red. Pretty as a picture, Draco remarked to himself sarcastically, walking into the room with glass and mug in each hand.

But then again Draco had no doubt whatsoever that he looked much worse than Granger when she helped him. He had even less doubt on the matter that she did much more for him than hand a glass of water and a steaming brew.

Draco crossed to room toward the cadaverous woman and stood over her holding out the glass. As she struggled to sit up, her tawny skin getting a hint greener in the process, Draco reflected that this should really remain tête-à-tête - his and her conditions over the last few days. In fact, this may even be good for him. It might just keep her from spilling the beans over his state.

As Granger gulped her water, Draco considered - maybe they came across each other in Hyde Park. Maybe that's what the story could be should he ever returns to the Wizarding World. Met at a a bar in the Shard? Yes, this could work.

"Thanks," Granger gasped, handing an empty glass over and putting her head against the headboard.

"You might want to go a little easier on the drinks," Draco suggested thrusting the tea mug into her hands, "as much as I enjoy seeing you pissed and brusque, I am not sure I can take care of the aftermath. That's camomile."

Granger cringed at his words, rolling head to meet his eyes, "listen, Malfoy, about last night -" she began.

"I am going to cook some eggs," Draco interrupted, "if you can stomach that, I'll meet you in the kitchen." And he headed out.

He did not need the Gryffindor speech.

Granger did not emerge from her room for the rest of the morning. Draco ate in blissful silence, sipping his tea and watching the snowflakes through the window as they calmly drifted down to join the white canopy on earth. The snowstorm has calmed overnight and the view outside the apartment was that of uninterrupted pristine snow. Over buildings, over cars, and over what he assumed in summer is a small green grass area in front of the apartment building. He was wondering which London suburb he was actually in. The apartment buildings were unlike the old townhouses he'd seen in central London, but it was also not the glass new-builds in the newly popular neighbourhoods. This place could be anywhere. Only the spacious enough distances between buildings really gave away that it was somewhere in the outskirts of the city. Leaning back in the kitchen chair by the window, Draco sighed in tranquility. Suburban, quiet, warm. It was simple and comfortable. He could see what attracted a dull character like Granger to this life. Before his exile from the wizarding world, he would have scorned at the little apartment in its insignificant Muggle neighbourhood. But that was before, and now is now. Now he was happy to hold on to a hot brew and content to feel the omelette being digested in his full belly. The simple things in life can be so undervalued, he reflected.

Apart from the times Granger was in the house, his stay with her was exceeding expectations. It was even pleasant. It was warm, and while the apartment was very minimal and uninspiring at best, Draco found that it was a comprehensive minimum standard. There was few enough spices in the kitchen to make a simple dish, there were few decorations in the living room but enough to make it not entirely barren. That was just it, Granger's life (if it was at all was reflected in her apartment) was just enough. Had she also stopped at enough wine last night, Draco reflected sourly, she may have also had delivered on her promise of new clothes.

While everything was comfortable to an extent, Draco was starting to feel the familiar and mildly terrifying itch of increasing grime. He hasn't showered since Granger assaulted his modesty to his own benefit. It was just a day (and now a half) ago but he felt the roots of a panic start to set in. He was starting to no longer feel clean. If he showers (provided that he can go past the moaning bed-ridden gargoyle) he would still have to crawl back into the clothes he's been wearing longer than a day. He tugged at the too short sleeve and pulled the blanket closer to his body, pulling his knees to his chest. The clothes were too short on him. Whoever was their previous owner was much shorter than Draco, and broader set. But then, perhaps a less starved version of himself would have filled them out nicely, but as it were at the moment, they were quite uncomfortable. Well, if he was not going to get the aforementioned new attire, he would at least get a shower. For that, he needed Granger out of that room.

It was around 2pm when Draco has finally lost his patience. He was never particularly patient to begin with, he reflected as he strode purposefully toward the door at the end of the corridor. He was indeed quite an impatient child as he was growing up, and as much as his intimate acquaintance with the Muggle world has changed his habits and perspectives, it did not change his character.

"Alright, Granger," he announced as he threw the door open, startling the witch, "that's quite enough of feeling sorry for yourself."

She was sat on the bed, leaning against the boards when he came in, but now she straightened her back and was blinking at him in astonishment.

"Don't you have some rehydrating potions you can take?" he snapped at her, motioning vaguely toward the bathroom door.

He rolled his eyes when she weakly shook her head. "Well, why the hell not?" he probed, before muttering "and she calls herself a witch."

"Right then," he commanded, "get yourself washed up and come to the kitchen. A toast will do you good to set your stomach."

And he marched out. This better make a point. This better not get his behind kicked out of the apartment.

Draco bit his lip and stood outside of the closed bedroom door listening. It was a gamble, really. Granger might pull whatever trick she pulled out of the hat last night, and behave unpredictable and conniving. Or she might be the usual Granger from school, in which case assertiveness with a Madam Pomfrey undertone might work.

After two minutes of silence in which Draco was holding his breath, he finally heard a cracking of the bed, a muttered curse which did seem to imply the Merlin did not wash his socks as often as he should have, and then the shutting of the bathroom room and running of water. Thank Merlin, Draco sighed in relief before darting to the kitchen to finish preparing the light lunch that might keep him off the streets.

Draco made a simple chicken soup using some chicken thighs he found in the freezer. He threw in some carrot and whatever elements of a bouquet garni that he could gather around the kitchen, and sat down to wait. It was unlikely that Granger was able to stomach much more than that and since he had time to consider his predicament in detail this morning, he came to the conclusion that he should show his usefulness to Granger. In the very least, he would have a place to stay - and if he was lucky, she would stop behaving like his personal horseman of the Draco-polypse.

When Granger emerged into the kitchen, Draco realised that he would never have to wonder what a zombie-vampire might look like (and since he already witnessed a ghost/zombie earlier in the day, he might as well keep gathering undead crossovers). Granger had a sickened green-hued look to her, he eyes swollen and walk sluggish. Her recently washed hair was tossed around her head like a wet mop, and when she passed the window, she lifted her paler-than-usual arms to shield her from the light, a cringe and a hiss emerging from her throat. Not for the first time, Draco wondered how Granger was not single.

She half-sat, half-collapsed into her kitchen chair and lifted heavy eyes at Draco.

"Morning sunshine," he said sarcastically before getting up and serving them both soup with bread.

As Granger started eating, she kept lifting her eyes and fixing them on Draco. Suspicion blooming.

"You can cook," she finally said.

"Fine observation," Draco remarked in retort.

"But it's a Muggle kitchen," she responded.

"Yet another fine observation," he said, "you're on a roll."

"What I mean is how?" she snarled.

"You don't know?" he asked in fake wonderment, "well, that would explain quite a few things. Look, this button here," he pointed at the induction hob, "turns on the hob - "

"I know what it does," she cut him off, "how do you know how to operate a Muggle kitchen?"

"Ah, well," Draco said, "that is an entirely different question, Granger."

"Fine observation," she responded sarcastically.

"I've used them before." He said shortly and finally.

"Where?" Granger pressed.

"Are we launching another investigation, Granger?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. "Yesterday night you were quite keen on reviving the Spanish inquisition," he reminded her, watching her expression shift from annoyed to guilty. There it was. That was something he could use.

Another gamble worked out for Draco, he smiled inwardly. Today Granger wasn't feeling manipulative, which sets Draco as the only cunning arsehole in the flat. Which then puts him at an advantage.

Quickly, before Granger changes her mind, Draco added: "How's the soup?"

She swallowed a spoonful. "Surprisingly good," she said, "I didn't know you could cook."

Point for Draco. Call him a personal chef. "Ah, this is nothing. You should see my laksa."

At the blank expression on Granger's face, Draco quickly assessed that she had no idea what he was talking about. "It's a south Asian soup," he prompted, "based on lemongrass, shrimp paste, ginger, and garlic, among other things…" Oh dear, she has no clue what lemongrass is? Draco thought in horror.

"Right," Granger drawled.

They ate in silence for a while, watching suspiciously at each others movements.

"You won't tell me anything," she said at last.

Draco pursed his lips. There was one thing he hated most: Gryffindor straightforward-ness.

"What is it that you so desperately itch to know, Granger?" Draco asked, exasperated.

"I want to help you, Malfoy," she responded.

"That's not what I asked." He said firmly.

"I want to understand what happened, so I could get you the help you need," she said, giving him that typical Gryffindor-sincerity-in-a-bottle look. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"You're going to have to be more specific than that," he said dryly, tilting his bowl and spooning the remainder of the soup. "The help I need at the moment is a pair of nice long trousers and a jumper that will cover my forearms." At that, he lifted one of his arms and flashed a nude forearm (not the one with the hideous tattoo).

She pursed her lips and Draco noticed a twitch to her eye.

"And you need some rehydrating potion," he insisted, gesturing toward her head. "Why don't you have some? Why does a witch insist on living in a fully Muggle neighbourhood, in a fully Muggle house?"

Granger sucked at her teeth as she considered him.

"A deal," she said at last.

Draco inhaled and exhaled deeply. Then he looked her right in the eyes, locking her gaze.

"I am listening." He said.

"An answer for an answer. Specific, clear questions, and no one is forced to answer that which we do not want to," she said, her voice attaining that authority of the previous day.

Draco considered. She was protecting herself. There was things that she was also uncomfortable sharing.

"You've got yourself a deal," he finally said, leaning back in his seat.

"Why did you leave the wizarding world?" she shot.

"I was forced to," he responded, "why don't you have potions in your house?"

"I don't need them," he said, "who forced you to leave?"

"Circumstances," he answered, "and that's a lie, you owe me another question. You obviously need potions, why are you not keeping them in your house?"

He saw her grind her teeth, "because I choose to live in a Muggle way," she said irritably.

"Why?"

"Because, Malfoy, I have personal reasons to. I do not want to talk about this any further." She said, tensely.

"So be it," Draco relented, "but you know that you can keep your Muggle stuff and have potions, right? You've got all those runes and magical books. In principle it is the same."

"You've noticed it." She said. It was not a question.

"What are the runes for?"

"For work." She said.

"What do you do?" he asked.

"Ah!" she raised a finger, "now it's my turn: what circumstances forced you out of the wizarding world?"

Draco considered her question for a moment. "Bureaucratic," he said in the end.

"Why don't you order in potions when you need them?" he asked, curiosity nagging at him, "then you won't break whatever ridiculous moral rule you have there."

At this, Granger frowned, "whatever do you mean?"

"Order in," Draco said slowly, as though chatting with a simpleton, "you know, a delivery. You've got those WizPhones, surely you have deliveries."

Granger glanced at her phone on the table, at though seeing it for the first time.

"Surely, if you have Muggle technology, you have deliveries. And with magic, deliveries must be instantaneous. It cannot be that the creators of the WizPhone had not thought of that." Draco said scoffing.

"They have not…" Granger said, staring at her phone.

It seemed like through mutual mute agreement, Draco and Granger decided to resume the questions-answers exchange later. They got up, moved their plates to the sink and Draco set to washing them while Granger stared into space with a far away expression. Draco wasn't sure whether he accidentally broke her and there was nothing going on behind that blank expression, or whether he simply set her off on a new mission of some sort. Regardless of that, he had a clear mission of his own, which involved sending Granger into her bedroom to change and set her off to inner London to pick up some clothes for Draco. And to grab some potions in Wizarding London. As long as he is staying there, he will not have any more of this silliness. A few threats regarding common and preventable yet life-endangering magical ailments seemed to do the trick. Granger still looked unwell when she was adorning her Muggle jacket but at least some colour returned to her cheeks.

When she finally left, Draco settled in to watch the next episodes of The Good Place, but his attention kept drifting to the box of runes and wires. Now that his curiosity was piqued, he was keen to discover what Granger's occupation was. If she did not speak of it, perhaps it was as simple as an Unspeakable in the ministry? But then, they are not allowed to bring their work home as far as he knew. Could it be an archivist for the Great British Magical Library? But what would wires and chips have to do with anything? Unable to contain his curiosity, Draco reached for one of the boxes and sat down to rampage through it.

Hermione still felt queasy when she stepped out of her apartment building and started plowing through the snow to the nearest apparition point. She could have apparated directly from outside her apartment, but she decided that some fresh air would be in good order. Hermione loved snow; there was something mesmerising about watching the world turn white and fluffy under the cover of frozen water. She loved the sensation of the crisp coldness filling her lungs and the crunching sound fresh snow made underfoot. She took a deep breath in and started feeling some of the fog that filled her mind dissipate. She partly blamed her headache on Malfoy, being the arse that he was, but she also acknowledged that it was a little bit petty. Malfoy did help her in the morning, and then the lunch he made was remarkably considerate of her state and indeed helped to settle her stomach.

Hermione stretched her neck from side to side as she walked. Indeed, the cold served to clear her mind. She was feeling better already. Or perhaps it was putting some distance from Malfoy that helped. He knew all the right ways to rile her up. It was the mere presence of her childhood nemesis that vexed her. Snarky comments, being all clever with word choices, and what not. Arse. Annoying prick. That's what he is. With a gust of wind, Hermione shivered and hunched her shoulders, raising her scarf to hide more of her face. Perhaps she ought to get herself a nice hot mug of coffee and think things through. She needed to be away from Malfoy for a while.

Reluctantly following Malfoy's proddings, Hermione's first stop was at Mr Mulpepper's Apothecary. Perhaps it was wise to keep a few potions against common magical ailments, Hermione decided. It would do her no good if she burst into Green Burns without a healing potion. Oh, Merlin, what would her neighbours think if they saw her? It was bad enough that all Muggle images of witches showed a witch afflicted with the ailment. No, that wouldn't do at all, Hermione decided firmly as she walking into Mr Mulpepper's, her mouth in a determined line. Besides, she needed to stock up on some potion ingredients for some time.

An efficient shop later, Hermione made her hasty way through the Leaky Cauldron back into Muggle London. She dashed through the pub, making herself appear in a hurry, sending nods of acknowledgement and greetings toward any witches or wizards that locked eyes with her. There was no time for "quick chats" with acquittances today. Not if Hermione wanted to arrive in TkMaxx before its closing time to pick out some discounted clothes for the ferret. But more importantly, Hermione wanted to get some peace and quiet to sit and think over a cup of coffee.

That was indeed her next stop, a little way off Charing Cross Hermione saw a quaint cafe covered in Christmas vines, with red letters announcing Brigit's Bakery. It was a fine establishment. Hermione found a seat at the window, ordered a coffee with a scone, took her jacket off and sat down. Pulling the sleeves of her jumper up to warm her hands, she sat for a while watching the world go by outside the window and feeling her nose slowly thaw.

There was a lot to consider, really. But everything has been going on so quickly, so hurriedly. However, this morning her brain refused to cooperate, which reminded her... Hermione opened her bottomless bag, thrust her hand into it and summoned the rehydration potion. She pulled the cork out of the little black bottle and took a swing. The effect was immediate. As though someone wiped clean a window she wasn't entirely aware she could hardly see through. She sighed in relief.

An elderly lady at the next table was looking at her, a judging expression on her face.

Hermione pursed her lips, "cough syrup," she explained weakly. The lady returned her eyes back to her companion, looking unconvinced.

Soon Hermione's coffee and scone were brought to her and finally taking a sip of the marvellous liquid, Hermione let tranquility wash over her. A pleasant chill went down her body. Yes, this was what she needed. She sat back and started analysing the situation.

What were the facts she knew and what has Malfoy revealed so far? First, he was homeless. Second, he left but more likely was removed from the Wizarding World about two years ago. Third, he said the reason for his exile was "bureaucratic" which coincides with the media scandal about war time reparations. It was a court case. Could it be that Malfoy was exiled for his father's crimes? Hermione and Harry testified in Draco Malfoy's court case on Death Eater membership. He was found not guilty of harm to the magical community. It could not be that he would be tried for his father's crimes. Dark Artefacts, if found, are recovered within a tight deadline by Aurors. Something was amiss. Well, this is a thread she will have to keep pulling on. What else did she know? Fourth, Malfoy did not spend all his time in the Muggle world homeless; his familiarity with Muggle kitchens alone could prove that. Fifth, and one that Hermione was not proud of in terms of the manner of extraction of this information: Malfoy did not have friends who could help him. Could it be because they were no longer in contact? Could it be because they were not in position to help?

Now that Hermione thought about it, she occasionally saw people from all years and houses in Hogwarts. On the streets, in pubs, in gatherings, in work meetings… but Malfoy was probably the only Slytherin of her year that she saw in the past half decade. She frowned, tapping her mug and biting at her lip. Something about all this really did not seem right.

A quick text to Harry later, Hermione booked him in to have lunch in two days. If there was something to be known about Dark Artefacts in the Malfoy Manor, Harry will have heard of it. As long as there is nothing confidential, he will be able to help. But as for Malfoy… no matter how allergic she seemed to be to him, she could not send him back to the streets. He did not have anyone who he could draw on for assistance, at least at the moment, so he would have to stay with her. But at least he can cook, reminded her a part of herself, you can't even boil water right.

Scowling at her own inner voices, Hermione took the last swing of her coffee, paid her bill at the counter and left the cafe. The sooner she found out what was up with Malfoy, the sooner she could get him out of her hair. But for now, she will have see if he can deliver on whatever that asian soup he was rambling on about.

A/N: And... that's that for today. There will be more. Truly. I am also curious to how Hermione would react to a laksa.