Listen, I know I am awfully procrastinating my other fiction but I am struggling to write angst at the moment. I will continue at some point, in the meanwhile here you have a silly story!

One year in and navigating the streets of Muggle London hasn't gotten any easier.

People are everywhere and they all seem hell bent on getting in his way. Scowling, he clutches his disposable cup of overpriced coffee close to the chest, so as to avoid any accident with the over-eager elbows of the many tourists that appear to multiply every time he turns a corner.

He hates people.

He hates coffee, too. Taking a sip, he grimaces, vowing to remember the sugar next time.

The girl at the shop has drawn a little smile on the cup, and he squints, bringing it closer to his face. There is a little squiggle next to it that could be interpreted as a heart, if one were to be generous. Annoyed, he wonders if it's a jab at the perpetual frown he has been wearing ever since the sentence.

An invitation to be more cheerful, perhaps.

As if.

His fingers twitch around the cup, gripping it too hard. Some coffee splashes down the rim and onto the ground, narrowly missing his shoes.

Sidestepping the mess, he doesn't notice the chewing gum that lodges itself right under one of his soles. Not until it's too late, that is.

His foot sticks uncomfortably onto the pavement with every movement, and he curses whatever power has made him leave his bed that morning.

Some days aren't meant to be.

He has just stopped to check the damage, balancing precariously on one leg while he looks under his shoe, when a body crashes into his.

Some days aren't meant to be. This day, though, could take the cake.

Coffee goes flying, sloshing down his front and onto the white jumper of the idiot that stands in front of him. He just notices small hands clutching at the soaked fabric, a dainty, intricate ring shining on one of the fingers, before he looks down to survey himself.

What a day to be wearing light grey. Brown splotches pepper his own clothes, a particular large one right over his crotch.

Perfect.

"Are you fucking bl-" He snaps, and then freezes.

His assailant's apology dies on her lips.

With shocked, wide eyes they stare at each other, before he hisses. "Potter!"

"Malfoy." She replies, sounding oddly defeated.

Involuntarily, as if in a trance, his gaze drops to her hands once again. She is twisting the ring nervously, around and around, seemingly unaware of doing it.

She was always a nail biter, for as long as he has known her, but he doesn't remember ever seeing her looking this uneasy around him before.

"What are you doing in London?" He asks, pleasantly enough considering their usual interactions.

"I live here. Not that it's any of your business." She says, and her green eyes roll behind her glasses. The new frames are a huge improvement from their school days, sitting on her face harmoniously.

Draco sees her relaxing slightly, but her fingers don't leave the ring.

"Now, now, Potter. Be polite." He smirks, a taunting pull of his lips that feels like a routine between them.

Instead of the annoyed reaction he was expecting, though, she stiffens. Her mouth parts.

"I'm sorry."

"W-what?"

She looks horrified.

"What did you say?" He asks again.

"I'm sorry." She repeats. Forcefully. It doesn't sound genuine.

"Say it like you believe it." He tells her, not particularly sure why, if not because it's so easy for him to antagonise her.

"I'm sorry." She says, for the third time. This time, though, she sounds it.

"Uh." Draco frowns, at loss for words.

She backs away, ready to turn. She looks ready to flee.

"Stop." He says, and laughs when she stills mid movements and almost loses her balance.

"Look at me." Her pale face flushes with fury, tilting up towards his own. There are a handful of freckles on the bridge of her nose and, oddly, he thinks that they have never been this close without curses flying.

"Interesting." He comments. With a building sense of glee, he notices that she doesn't seem able to look away. "I don't think it's very nice to leave before fixing the mess you have made, do you? At least, clean my clothes."

The Potter he knows would have wiped out her wand and hexed his balls off. So, when she actually produces a wand out of her sleeve, he jumps backwards.

She couldn't possibly be attacking him. Not when she knows that…

"Scourgify." She mutters, like it pains her.

The stains vanish from his clothes and Draco gapes. She has just done magic. In broad daylight, in the middle of a busy street full of Muggles.

"What the fuck?" Draco cries, frantically checking around to see if anyone has witnessed it.

He probably has to be grateful to Potter's usual sheer, dumb luck that nobody seems to have.

"Put that wand away." He hisses, shielding her from the public with his body. "Tell me, what the fuck where you thinking?"

He wants to grab her and shake her. She is never this stupid, and that's saying something.

To his relief, the wand slips back into her sleeve.

"You told me to." Her voice is a soft whisper, anxious and fearful in a way that he is not familiar with.

Part of him suspects what's happening. Mostly, though, he doesn't understand why.

Or how.

"Since when do you do what I tell you?" He says, searching for the challenging spark in her eyes.

She doesn't answer, looking skittish. Her gaze darts around wildly, reminding him of several of the prisoners that have passed through his father's dungeons during the war. Draco thinks he will never forget the hopelessness on their faces. Still, most would search for a way out, even when death was only a matter of timing.

He realises with a jolt that it's not a look he particularly likes to see on her.

For all their famous disagreements, it has been a long time since he has truly hated her.

"I have to go." She says, and he wonders at the pleading in her tone. It's all wrong.

"No." He tells her firmly, and it's almost comforting that it reignites the familiar gleam of fury in her eyes.

"Don't take out your wand." He whispers, smiling a little when she actually glares. "Don't make a scene." He adds, before slipping his hand into hers. "And come with me."

He pulls gently, and she follows. She has to, he thinks.

What a powerful thing to acknowledge. A thrill of excitement runs down his spine, but it quickly fizzles away, leaving him a bit sick.

He tries not to think about it, about what it could mean. Her hand feels small and warm in his while he guides her down the road.

Whilst outwardly compliant, she still mutters under her breath. "Where the fuck are you taking me? Let me go!"

The fear has gone from her posture, her chin high and mutinous.

"Try to at least look like you are enjoying our stroll. Please." He adds, because the matured part of him knows how fucked up this is.

Her face changes in an instant. He isn't prepared to see her beaming up at him with fondness so believable it feels real. It leaves him rather stunned, actually.

Sweetly, at odds with her words, she tells him. "I am not afraid of you. I am the one that still has a wand."

He scoffs, because that hit a little low. It makes him marginally less charitable towards her. "I don't think you will use it. Not when I have told you not to."

"You are despicable." She says, her lips still curved up like she is having the most pleasant conversation with a friend.

It's very eerie. He gives her hand a gentle squeeze, unsure of his own motivations for taking it in the first place.

She stares at their intertwined fingers in confusion, like she doesn't understand him either. "I can walk on my own."

"You have very small hands." He responds, aware it's a quite disjointed answer. He doesn't let go of her.

Some days are doomed from the start. Others throw your childhood nemesis right onto your chest when you least expect it, and Draco isn't one to question fate.

"And, yet, they have helped me catch the snitch from under your snotty nose every single time." She quips, and he has to laugh because she finally sounds like herself.

She doesn't seem to appreciate his reaction, though. If it's possible to glower when forced under a cheering spell, that's exactly what she is trying to do. He wonders if her eyes are gonna pop from the strain.

"Are you going to murder me?" She asks after a while, when the silence has stretched long enough. She doesn't appear unnerved by the possibility.

He is not sure what to think about that.

"No, Potter, I won't try to hurt you. In any way." He feels the need to clarify.

If he is correct in his suspicions, the power he currently holds over her head is huge. There are lots of things that others would do, in his position. Hell, not that long ago, he himself would have been the first to take advantage, although he likes to believe he has always been above a certain brand of horrors.

And, as for the immoral side he did have, that has mellowed significantly over the years.

War tends to do that. It either turns you into a monster or it forces you to grow up.

The person he is now would feel little to no joy in humiliating her.

He observes her subtly from the corner of his eye. Her jumper has taken the brunt of the coffee and it's dripping slowly down her black skirt. That aside, she looks cosy.

She looks… well, very Muggle. Quite inconspicuous, not someone you would pick in a crowd.

She also looks healthy. The oddness of this observation makes him realise that she never used to, always too thin or too stressed.

Her hair is cut in a nice bob that curls a few inches below her chin, shorter at the back. She kept the messy fringe covering her scar but has lost much of the underfed look she had at school.

Feeling his eyes on her she tilts her head in his direction and asks. "Are you going to tell me where we are going? Or are you just planning to take me for a tour of the city like a couple of long-lost friends?"

"Home. I mean, my flat. We are going to my flat."

She sights. He knows it's probably not what she wanted to hear, but there is something wrong with her and he has the irrational desire to understand what.

"There is something wrong with you."

"Aren't you a clever boy!" While it still appears like she is enjoying herself, she must undoubtedly be plotting his murder in her mind.

He wonders how long whatever spell she is under is going to last. He doesn't have a wand, after all.

Despite the risks, he marches her towards the tube station that would bring them home faster. She follows without a comment, but arches an inquisitive eyebrow that makes him shrug. This is his life now.

Once they reach the ticket barrier, he lets go of her hand.

"Remember, don't run away. You are happy to come with me."

There is a brief moment in which a complicated mix of emotions passes through her face, before the masks of convincing cheerfulness softens her features once again.

She actually smiles at him, and he feels a jolt of regret for his wording.

She bounces her legs from her seat on the train. There was only one left and he let her take it, choosing to stand awkwardly in front of her, one hand gripping onto the support more out of nerves than necessity.

"Tell me what you are thinking." He can't help asking, bending lower so that the other passengers won't hear.

She stares at him, relaxed limbs and big eyes. "I was just thinking how lovely it is that I get to spend the afternoon with you."

Nothing in her voice, posture or face hints sarcasm. He takes a shaky breath and stumbles backwards, accidentally stepping on someone's foot.

After quickly apologising to the owner of said foot, he turns back. She is looking around, a content half smile on her lips. He barely recognises her.

She is happy to come with him, just as he has told her. The realisation is pretty horrifying.

Not enough, though, for him to change his plans.

When their stop comes, he takes her hand once more and, together, they walk in the direction of his flat.

He tries to reason with himself that she could be in greater danger out there, cursed as she is to obey, than here with him.

As she enters his home with nothing more than an inquisitive look upon her face, he can't be sure his motivations are really that selfless.