Draco had been happily minding his own business while Granger took far too long soaking in the tub.

The smell of vanilla and tangerines was surrounding him now, and her pigpen seemed to have warmed a couple of degrees. He unbuttoned his top button.

Having finally reached the third act of the play, Draco was feelings quite confused and would have already set the book aside if it weren't for Granger's insistence that he would hate it and shouldn't have even bothered reading it. Although it was important to note that he was enjoying the play.

At the revelation that Miss Prism was the nursemaid who was somehow dumb enough to put a baby in the pram and a manuscript in the handbag - oh bollocks, it's the other way around - Draco felt he was on the cusp of some astonishing realisation.

Then Granger emerged from the bathroom.

Hermione Granger wasn't supposed to be noticed. Well, noticed for her brains, of course. Not for her smooth shoulders and long legs.

She had come scurrying out of the bathroom clad in only a short orange towel, quickly disappearing behind the partition that separated the living room from her makeshift bedroom.

Draco stared at the book in front of him, but all of the words just blurred together into a meaningless cluster of letters on a page.

He was suffocating. His fingers twitched as he thought about undoing another button. He needed air. He could see her blurred silhouette as she pulled on a shirt.

When had he looked away from the page? He was supposed to be reading. He was supposed to be at his own house drinking wine by himself and ignoring the rest of the world.

This was all just… wrong.

Everything.

Everything was wrong, and he desperately needed to leave.

Hermione Granger was not supposed to be noticed.

"Alright, Malfoy?"

When did she finish getting dressed?

"What?"

"I was just wondering if you're feeling alright, you look a bit flushed."

"I'm fine!" he snapped when she'd taken a step toward the counter.

When had he undone another button?

Rolling her eyes, Granger rocked back on her heels and raised her hands in the air, "Point taken."

Seeming far too unfazed in her oversized t-shirt and tiny cotton shorts that barely showed past the hem of her shirt, Granger traipsed past Draco and stood in the kitchen with her back to him.

This was so wrong.

"This is wrong." He said, and he didn't completely realise he'd said it out loud until she looked at him from over her shoulder.

"Huh?" her mouth made that little "o" again.

"This entire situation is completely absurd, I'm going home." the barstool scraped against the floor again.

"Without eating?"

She wasn't at all disturbed by his outburst, which only disturbed him more. Unless she'd taken a bath that was mixed with a Calming Draught, Draco couldn't possibly understand why she was so fucking peppy all of a sudden.

"Why do you even bloody care whether I eat or not! I'm the enemy for Merlin's sake!" Draco hadn't yelled like this in a while, he'd been carefully keeping everything pent up where he could ignore it, but Granger had a way of driving him fucking crazy.

"Well, I suppose I had a bit of a revelation while I was in the bath." She was facing away from him again as she began opening cupboards and pulling down various ingredients and bowls.

Draco didn't respond. Mainly because Granger was perfectly capable of encouraging herself.

"I'm all alone here on this island… well alone plus one," a metal bowl clattered loudly to the floor. "I mean, we're completely alone here, so why do we have to be enemies?"

Usually Draco kept his unfiltered responses to himself but tonight… "Because you're irritating as hell!" She bent down to retrieve the bowl and Malfoy quickly averted his eyes.

When she stood back up, she turned just to show her grin, "Same to you mate."

Mate.

"You're fucking crazy."

She laughed, but didn't say anything in response, she just continued about her business, humming some song Draco had never heard before.

Left alone to his own thoughts, Draco was finding himself intending to finish reading that bloody play, but instead he was distractedly watching Granger buzz around the tiny kitchen.

She was right, of course, she was always fucking right. There was really no reason for them to remain so opposed to each other.

"I'm leaving," he announced firmly, standing up quickly before he could change his mind.

"Malfoy, sit down," her tone was too soft. Too sweet.

This was wrong.

"Stop being so fucking nice to me! This is all bullshit!"

"This isn't any easier for me."

"Then stop! You hate everything about me, Granger, we both know that." He was still standing, which for some reason made him feel much more confident in what he was saying. "I am everything you can't stand, and you can't just stand there and pretend that I'm not."

She was closer now, standing with only the kitchen island separating them. With her hands planted flat against the counter, she leaned forward, and not only was her body invading his personal space, her scent was even stronger than before. Vanilla and tangerines and smooth skin so close that Draco realised she had freckles. Had he gone nine years without knowing she had freckles?

"You're right, Malfoy," she shrugged and her admission snapped Draco from his fog. "You're absolutely right, you're the basic embodiment of what I've learned to loathe the past nine years, but I'm standing here trying to figure out why."

"'Why' what?" he wondered how long he could go without breathing.

"Why I have to hate you."

"You already know why."

"No, I mean, apart from you being an arrogant tosser."

She smiled and Draco almost smiled back, but then he remembered. "I can't stand you." He didn't notice that her smile had been strained.

Granger rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious," he pressed.

"I know you are." She murmured.

Draco looked up at her and saw the defeated expression on her face. "Now what, Princess?" her eyes darted up to meet his, her dislike of the nickname clearly displayed on her face. "Where does that leave us?"

"I may think that you're an arrogant prick, but I realise that I know nothing about you. But you're perfectly content to continue thinking of me as the…" she faltered, "... as the Mudblood bitch." She stepped back from the counter, and Draco could breathe again.

He could breathe again, but he couldn't speak.

"I was wrong. I thought I could fix things… I thought I could make things better but I can't."

He couldn't look at her.

"Please leave."

He couldn't move. He could feel her eyes on him and he hated it. He hated her.

"Granger."

"Fuck you, Malfoy. Get out."

He took a faltering step back.

How had this happened? When had he lost control of the situation?

He Disapparated and hoped he didn't splinch.

Draco had never really liked Apparating much.

He squeezed his eyes shut and endured the tugging and crushing sensations as his magic pulled him to the first place he had imagined.

"Draco?"

The air was thick and cold and Draco was out of breath.

He chose to keep his eyes closed until he was sure all of his limbs were intact.

Fingers and toes, Draco wiggled his appendages and felt secure that none of them had disappeared. No pain apart from his back that had hit the ground hard.

"Draco?" Was that his mother?

"Draco, darling, are you alright?"

On instinct, Draco said, "I'm fine, Mum," before he even opened his eyes, which he was still reluctant to do, especially now, because he realised where he was.

He became aware of how cold he was once he opened his eyes and saw that he was surrounded by snow.

"Okay, darling," his mother cooed, "but why are you here?"

Sitting up carefully, Draco squinted at his mother who was kneeling beside him. He winced slightly when he noticed that her dress was wet at the knees. He'd offer to clean it for her.

"Well, you see Mum, it's a rather long story that I'd rather not talk about." All of the shame and guilt that had sent him hurtling here in the first place came rushing back.

His mother smiled, "Some tea, then? Yeah?"

"Yeah."

…

Hermione had told herself she shouldn't let her emotions get the best of her, but Malfoy made it so fucking difficult.

All she wanted to do was be fucking friendly and not feel like she was one insult away from hexing him constantly. She had been wrong, Malfoy would never see things any other way than what he'd had shoved down his throat all his life.

There was no reason for the prejudice. Except that Hermione was Muggleborn, and that would always be her hamartia, her fatal flaw.

Hermione rested her forehead against the kitchen island and let out a loud growl, hoping it would alleviate some of her frustration. It did. A little.

When she lifted her head, she realised that Malfoy had left The Importance of Being Earnest. She wondered if he'd finished, but then she remembered that she didn't care.

She spent the rest of the night kneading out dough and making a pizza for one, and the whole time she was grumbling about how dumb she was being about the entire thing. Draco Malfoy didn't matter.

It was when she was nearly asleep on the couch, that she realised what she had been missing. It was when she saw Malfoy as anything other than someone to eat dinner with , someone to keep from starving or drowning in all the wine he seemed to be drinking, that everything fell apart. Draco Malfoy didn't matter.

Hermione was feeling a bit better, so she took her sudden surge of optimism and put it toward writing a letter to her friends back home.

The optimism could have lasted longer.

The kitchen island was covered with balls of paper, and some had fallen to the foor.

Ron, sorry for disappearing so suddenly. Not saying that you didn't also disappear into thin air.

Another paper ball thrown into the pile.

Harry, I hope everyone is going well with you! Hopefully you've gone to St. Mungo's and kept up with your therapy appointments.

After an unsuccessful hour of trying to write letters to her friends, Hermione had only succeeded in creating a monolithic mountain of crumpled paper balls and congratulating Neville on finally working up the nerve to ask Luna to go on a date. Said date had happened approximately… two months ago? Hermione had the paper ready for crumpling.

Hermione spent ten more minutes trying to think of something - anything to say to Ron, but she couldn't stop thinking about all of the things she hadn't said to him. The things she should have screamed at him.

A paper ball went sailing into the sink.

"Fuck it."

She went to bed, leaving the paper balls to be dealt with tomorrow.

…

Draco was sitting with his mother in the upstairs sunroom. His mother usually retreated there during his father's fits because she found the view of the gardens to be quite comforting.

"Are we going to sit here drinking this awful tea in silence, or are you going to tell me what's going on with you?" his mother had mastered the art of keeping a deadpan expression, something that Draco had learned the importance of early on in his childhood. Lurking under her apathetic facade Draco could see the twinkling sparks of humour in her eyes. She probably thought he had a girlfriend, although he knew that she knew better than that.

"I'm not entirely sure how to word it…" Draco tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, as he tended to do, and closed his eyes for a few moments. He could hear his mother tapping her perfectly manicured nails against her teacup.

He imagined Granger and the way she incessantly chewed on her nails when she thought he wasn't paying attention.

"Darling, if you've gotten some witch pregnant you may as well tell me now so I can have the pleasure of alerting the Daily Prophet," he could hear the smile in her voice. "I do love a good scandal."

"Merlin, mum! I haven't gotten anyone pregnant!" he snapped his head in time to see her shrugging coolly and taking a sip of tea, barely hiding her grimace. "I don't understand why you don't let the house elves make the tea like they always have, that's what they're here for."

"One, we - I - don't have house elves anymore, and two, I would appreciate it if you would stop trying to change the subject and tell me about your pregnant girlfriend or mistress or whatever," she drawled out the last word in a way that seemed reminiscent of a Hogwarts-aged Narcissa who liked to portray the idea that she didn't find much of anything interesting.

"And why did you do that?" his mother sighed as if the reason was something so obvious she was offended by his asking. "You don't know how to cook, you barely know how to clean your own clothes, let alone the entire bloody manor."

"Such faith you have in me darling, but I'll have you know that I'm learning."

He couldn't fault her for lack of trying, he just wasn't sure he liked the idea of his mother starving to death in piles of unwashed clothes and dirty dishes.

"And where are the house elves now? Roaming the streets of London looking for a cabinet to bash their faces on?"

His mother gave him the look before speaking, "I've sent them to work at Hogwarts, I think they'll be better suited there instead of all of them trying to care for one person."

"I suppose."

The silence returned, and out of habit, they both drank more tea.

Draco couldn't hide his curled lip and wrinkled nose, "Bloody hell mum, even I can make a pot of tea!"

He had expected some sort of sarcastic remark, as was the usual pattern of their conversations, but instead she smiled and began to laugh.

If her laughter wasn't a testament to her newfound freedom and ability to relax, Draco wasn't sure what was. It was out of habit more than anything that his mother would maintain her high-strung and disinterested face when she was with Draco, but now that she was no longer required to uphold the Malfoy name - since his father had single-handedly dismantled it - she was free to be herself.

"You know who I think would really appreciate a pot of tea?" she asked, her eyes closed as she ran her slender fingers through her pale blond hair.

"Hmm," Draco grunted in response.

"Your pregnant witch," a sculpted brow twitched upward, as did the corner of her mouth.

"Nobody's pregnant!" he exclaimed before laughing. All this talk about pregnant witches reminded Draco of his first visit to Granger's pigpen. Not something he would call a particularly fond memory.

"Well, if nobody's pregnant I don't see why you haven't told me why you Apparated onto my front lawn."

"For Merlin's sake mum, if you must know, the happy little Australian island I've been staying on has been invaded by a certain… undesirable." He still wasn't keen on telling his mother that Hermione Granger was making him meals every night. Well, had been making him meals every night. He wasn't hesitant because he feared her disapproval, he was hesitant more so because he wasn't sure he could stand her teasing.

"Oo, undesirable," she widened her eyes and flipped a section of her hair behind her shoulder for effect.

Her dramatic response was making Draco cringe, and he knew that if he didn't just tell her everything soon it would only get worse.

"Hermione Granger is living in a shack on the beach and she's been making me dinner and I've been reading her books, but we still hate each other and she kicked me out today, so that's that, and I'd really rather not talk about it."

His mother just stared at him, or at least slightly to the right of him. For a few moments it was unbearably silent. Unbearable because Draco knew it meant she was thinking of something to say. He'd feel much better if the subject was dropped and completely forgotten.

He gazed absent-mindedly at the toes of her bare feet which were peeking out from beneath her gown. Her clothing - apart from her lack of footwear and mud stained knees - was as impeccable as always and Draco realised that he was far from his usual neat demeanor. His shirt was about two buttons away from indecency and his pants were in dire need of being ironed, let alone the fact that his clothes had started to hang baggily from his body.

"Do you like her?" her question was so far from what had expected that Draco coughed in surprise.

"What?" Draco was fairly sure that he had specified that they still hated each other. "No mother, I don't like Hermione 'I-can't-keep-my-freckled-nose-out-of-other-people's-business' Granger."

"And yet you're letting her make you dinner." Draco considered telling his mother that she'd gotten it backward - she was letting him eat her food - but he figured that wouldn't be helping his case any.

"So, darling, what you're telling me is that you and Miss Granger are willingly being around each other, yet you can't stand one another. Now," she held up one hand, "I may not be the smartest witch in England, but that sounds a bit suspicious. One of you has an ulterior motive."

Before Draco could even respond, his gasped dramatically, "Are you trying to sleep with her?"

"What?!" Draco coughed again.

His mother leaned forward and lowered her voice, "Are you trying to shag Hermione Granger?"

"Merlin, no, Mum. Granger has all the sexual appeal of a hippogriff."

"Right." She dragged the word out in a way that made it perfectly clear she wasn't going to be dropping the subject any time soon, or at least if she was, she wasn't going to forget about it.

The contemplative silence returned.

Draco considered telling his mother that there was, in fact, an ulterior motive - Granger's desire to rehabilitate him into some sort of acceptable wizard, or at least her desire to make herself feel intelligent and useful - but he found it too embarrassing to admit. The mere fact that someone thought Draco was so alone and damaged that they should attempt to establish a new sort of acquaintanceship - despite years of hating each other and him truly just being a complete twat to her - was enough to convince Draco that maybe he wasn't as alright as he was constantly telling himself he was.

"Something on your mind darling?" his mother asked in a much warmer tone that he was accustomed to hearing from her.

Draco shook his head "no" and moved to get up, "I ought to be getting back, it's probably almost eleven there." They both glanced at the clock, which read that it was almost two in the afternoon.

Before he could make his exit, his mother quickly leaned forward in her seat and gently grasped his wrist, "Draco, darling, the time before the War was difficult for all of us, as was the War itself, but I want you to remember who you are. You're not your father, you're not me, you don't have to carry the weight of our misdoings," she met his eyes with a watery smile. "You know, sometimes the realisation that the Dark Lord is gone just hits me, and I wish your father could be here to experience all of the new, wonderful things that are beginning to happen. I don't have to worry about whether or not tonight's the night my boys won't come back from a meeting." She paused, and Draco thought for a moment that she was expecting some sort of response from him, but she continued.

"What I'm trying to say, is that maybe you should stop being such a stubborn twit and actually take a look at the world around you."

"I am not a stubborn twit," Draco replied with a playful smirk.

"Okay darling," she nodded with a smirk of her own.

He Disapparated with a crack, and he knew that his mother had seen how he cringed before doing so.

He appeared in the foyer of his house, his hand immediately raising to the throbbing headache at the back of his head. At first he considered pouring himself a glass of wine to ease the pain, but he remembered that he hadn't eaten. It was one thing to drink when he hadn't eaten simply out of his own neglectfulness, it was another thing entirely when he hadn't eaten because of his own stupidity, which may seem to be very similar notions, but Draco knew the difference. The difference was that Granger had given him that hurt and defeated look that reminded him of what a prick he was.

Feeling decidedly foolish, he headed to bed and suffered the headache until he fell asleep.

Tomorrow he would go to Granger's and try talking with her. The key word being try.

…

Hermione woke up feeling much better than she had expected, although she quickly realised that she should have set her usual cooling charms, because a clammy sweat had broken across her skin during the night and she was feeling sticky.

After a long shower, during which she took the time to condition her hair so it was soft and smooth, well, as smooth as her hair could be, Hermione dressed and soon found that her home was just as clammy and sticky as she was. Her bare feet were making a soft tapping sound on the floor, and she could feel the pads of her toes sticking slightly to the hardwood as she lifted them to take a step.

When she'd finally shuffled into the kitchen - after trying to figure out what on earth was making her floors feel like that - she ran her hand over the counter, and when she lifted it up for inspection, she found it covered in flour and other old crumbs.

"Bloody hell am I a slob," she said, laughing at her assessment.

Today would be cleaning day, something she was uncharacteristically excited about.

…

Draco woke up with the same bloody headache he'd gone to bed with, and his realisation that he had yet eat anything wasn't helping any.

Feeling safe in routine, he decided to wait until around six or seven to go down to Granger's shack.

Until then he would… he would do something. Probably.

Hiya everyone! I would apologize for the long wait, but I mean.. what else do you expect from me? I'm sorry for the decrease in word count, I've just started my first year of college, so I mean, you know, priorities... Anyway, I have the next chapter predominantly planned out, so I'm hoping the word count will be significantly bigger.

As usual, I've proofread multiple times, but if you find any errors please let me know, thanks! Reviews make me hella excited by the way.

- Lindsey