Chapter 1
Hermione Granger lived on the second floor of a sweet old building called Flora Place.
Her flat—number seven—had one bedroom, a small kitchen and a lovely little balcony where Hermione occasionally tried to grow tomatoes.
Hermione was partial to historical architecture, especially after her years spent at Hogwarts. There were just so many things to love about old buildings. At Flora Place, for instance, the ivy grew thick and lush over the red brick walls. The fireplaces were small and stone, their sooty interiors bringing to mind blackened tea kettles whistling over a fire. Even the windows—the glass thick and a little rippled, each pane lined with old-fashioned metal—these were the kind of details you could never hope to find in a new building, especially in modern, bustling London.
Yes, Hermione absolutely loved her flat. And up until today, she had never had a single complaint about it.
“Fucking hell,” she muttered, lying flat on her back and staring up into the dusty recesses of her broken furnace. "Try to cooperate, you blasted machine."
All the appliances in Flora Place were just about as old as the building itself. As a result, they were unusually curmudgeonly and resistant to being repaired. Hermione wouldn’t have assumed this would be an issue. Surely she (top of her class in all three Arithmancy, Charms and Potions) would be more than equal to the challenge of fixing any stove or heater that happened to putter out under her care?
But, as she stared up into the iron underbelly of her broken furnace, trying to ignore the way it occasionally spat dust and metal flakes into her face, Hermione was forced to admit that perhaps she might have underestimated how stubborn it was possible for a furnace to be.
Merlin, this was a terrible experience.
The tile floor was hard as a rock under her back. On top of that, it was absolutely freezing in here. Hermione was wearing two jumpers layered on top of one another, and she could still feel the chill.
Her hands were going a little numb, but after another few moments of fiddling Hermione managed to locate a loose metal lever that seemed promising. Maybe this was what was broken? She held her wand carefully between her teeth to free her hands, then gave the metal handle a little twist, trying to tighten it.
Nothing.
She tugged it again and this time the lever snapped off in her hand, sending a small shower of dust over her face. The furnace made a rattling sound that sounded suspiciously like a raspberry.
Hermione let her arm go limp and closed her eyes, counting backwards from ten for patience.
Maybe she didn’t need working heat. Wasn’t there some recent muggle research about the benefits of cold plunges? Perhaps it was actually beneficial for longevity, living in a frigid flat…
There was a sudden knock at the door.
Hermione jerked up in surprise, instantly hitting her head on the underside of the furnace.
“Ow,” she hissed, rubbing her forehead. “Coming! Just one second.”
She slid clumsily out from under the furnace, trying not to get more dust on herself. She wasn’t expecting anyone—who could that be? Probably old Mr. Neffer, come to complain about some of the other neighbors again.
Hermione opened the door. It was not Mr. Neffer.
Instead, there was a very tall, very handsome and very blond man standing outside Hermione's door.
“Hello," he said. He gave her a little smile. "Oh, sorry—did I catch you in the middle of, um—?”
He didn’t seem to know how to describe what Hermione was doing. He gestured towards her grease-covered hands. Hermione tried to wipe some of the dust from her face, wishing instantly that she was wearing something other than pajama trousers and two jumpers layered over each other.
“I was just fixing something,” she explained, cheeks burning. “Sorry. I, um, don’t normally look like this.”
“It’s no problem,” he said at once. “I—think you look nice.”
They stared at each other awkwardly for a moment.
“I just came by to introduce myself,” he said, clearing his throat. “I just moved into the flat next door. I’m Draco.”
“Oh! It’s nice to meet you. Draco—that’s a neat name.”
“Yeah, thanks,” he said with a laugh. He had a great smile, easy and confident. “I saw in the Owlery room that this unit belongs to H. Granger. Is that… Helen? Hera?”
“Hermione,” she said with a laugh. “Good guesses, though.”
“Hermione,” Draco repeated, sounding it out slowly. His voice was low and attractive. “That's pretty.”
Hermione blushed. She wasn’t used to people not knowing her name, after the publicity of the war. But she supposed that was three years ago, by now.
“Are you in number eight?” she asked, peering down the hall. “I didn’t realize Mrs. Potts had moved out.”
“Yes, I think she’s heading overseas,” Draco said. “She said her daughter in New York is going through a divorce.”
“Oh no,” Hermione said with genuine sadness. She didn’t like hearing about failed relationships. “That’s too bad.”
“It is,” Draco agreed. “Though I suppose it’s sweet of Mrs. Potts to move to a new country, to help her daughter and all…”
Hermione nodded. Draco held her gaze for another moment, then blinked and looked down at his hands. Hermione realized he was carrying a small box, and inside were some small bouquets of flowers.
“Um,” he said, cheeks a little pink. He held up the box. “Would you… like one of these? I figured I’d bribe the neighbors into being fond of me. Everyone likes flowers, right?”
Hermione laughed, delighted.
“How sweet,” she said, peering into the basket. The flowers were beautiful—and there were many different kinds, each bundled in their own bouquet. “You're going to be a big hit around here. Ooh, daisies. Is it alright if I take those ones?"
"Yeah, of course. Please."
The daises were wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with a white ribbon. Hermione recognized the logo on the fabric; the flowers were from a high end florist near Covent Garden. She wondered if Draco worked in that neighborhood. He was dressed for work, in a crisp white shirt and a dark tie. But his tie was tugged loose, like he'd wanted to undo it after a long day.
“Are you planning on throwing loud parties, or something?” Hermione asked, forcing herself to look away from his tie. It was oddly attractive—like she knew Draco wanted to be more undressed than he was. “If so, I’m afraid you might need more than daisies to win Mr. Neffer over.”
Draco laughed.
“No loud parties,” he said. “Just—trying to get better at making friends.”
Hermione smiled.
“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble,” she said. “The flowers are a really sweet idea.”
“Thank you."
He held her gaze again, then—as though remembering himself—smiled and cleared his throat.
“Well, I, er—better continue my rounds. I still have six flats to bribe, you know. It’s really nice to meet you, Hermione.”
“You too,” she said.
Hermione gave him a little wave before closing the door. She looked down at the daises, holding them close to her chest.
They were very pretty. What a nice man Draco was. And he was terribly good-looking, wasn’t he? Hermione liked everything about him, from his height to his voice. He spoke calmly—low and attractive. Hermione had come to appreciate men who were steady and collected.
She fiddled with the white ribbon. Draco had said he was trying to get better at making friends—Hermione had been meaning to make more friends herself. Would he have a housewarming party? Maybe she should bring him a bottle of wine…
Hermione carefully arranged the daisies in a vase with some water. Then, with a resigned sigh, she returned to her work on the furnace.
-
Outside her flat, Draco Malfoy remained standing silently in the hall.
He looked unseeingly at a spot on the worn carpet, his head cocked slightly to the side as he listened carefully to what went on behind Hermione's door. He heard the clink of tools, the faint popping sound of a Fix-It charm.
Her furnace must be broken. The air inside her flat had been chilly—and she bad been wearing two jumpers.
She was prettier than he remembered, prettier than the photos in the Daily Prophet could capture. Those brown eyes...
Draco felt a pang of regret, as he often did, that his parents had opted to send him to Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts. If only he and Hermione had gone to the same school, he could have had years to charm her.
Ah, well. There was only the present to think about.
He strode back into his empty new flat and tossed the flowers Hermione hadn't wanted into the bin.
Daisies were her favorite—he should have known. What darling taste she had.
~*~
The next day was Thursday.
Hermione never looked forward to Thursdays, because that was when her weekly reports at the Ministry were due.
The reports weren’t that big of a deal—not a big deal at all, actually, for the majority of Hermione’s colleagues—but Hermione had very strict standards for herself. Especially now that her personal life had taken a dive (don’t think about Ron, she reminded herself), her reports had taken on a level of detail and fastidiousness that was almost outlandish.
She attached appendices. There were footnotes and color coded tabs.
Hermione stayed late into the evening, working on the notes until she was satisfied.
It was nearly nine o’clock when she finally trudged heavily down the hall of Flora Place. The strap of her heavy messenger bag dug uncomfortably into her shoulder, and her hair was winning the war against the weak elastic trying to hold it in a bun. She realized, as her stomach grumbled, that she’d forgotten to have dinner.
Well, she had some crisps in the pantry. Hopefully those weren’t expired.
As she walked past number eight, Hermione couldn’t help but glance down at the gap under Draco’s door. The lights were on—he was home. What was he doing just now, she wondered? Maybe he was sipping a glass of wine, having dinner. Surely he wasn’t the kind of person who forgot to eat and had to scrounge for hopefully-not-expired crisps.
It occurred to Hermione that Draco very likely had a girlfriend.
She tore her eyes away from the strip of light under his door and walked a little faster.
She dropped the keys twice trying to enter her flat. It was cold outside. She hadn’t managed to fix the furnace yet, and the prospect of her frigid flat was an unappealing one. At least her stove worked; maybe Hermione could make some hot tea.
Finally, she managed to fit the key in and open her door.
To Hermione’s surprise, her flat was cozy and warm.
She dropped her bag next to the door and walked over to the furnace that, just this morning, had been a hunk of unresponsive metal. It was running hummingly now, emitting toasty air with a satisfied purr.
“Well done, you,” she said to the furnace happily. “I knew you’d come around, you crotchety old thing.”
Hermione had been dreading showering, given that she’d have to step out of the water and into a freezing flat, but now a shower sounded wonderful.
She hummed quietly to herself under the steamy water, scrubbing the long day from her skin.
Her thoughts wandered to Draco. She thought—or perhaps hoped—that she could hear his shower running too, through the wall. But that was nonsense and Hermione steered her thoughts firmly away.
~
After work the next day, Hermione received a delivery from Harry. It was a (very late) birthday present.
The gift took two owls to deliver, and they waited indignantly on her second story balcony for over an hour before she managed to rush home and receive the package. The Owlery room was only for small parcels.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said, sliding open the glass door and stepping outside. The owls looked at her with twin glares. She bought their forgiveness with a handful of treats each and then accepted the large wrapped package they’d been charged with delivering.
Happy birthday, Mione read the untidy scrawl.
Nothing else.
Hermione tried to guard herself against the wave of hurt she always felt when faced with the cold shoulder of one of her oldest friends.
She didn’t blame him. How could she? Harry had had to pick a side, and Ron was his best friend in the world.
It was nice of Harry to send a gift, even if it did sort of savor of Galleons spent to assuage guilt. It was a large collection of encyclopedias, with leather covers and golden embossed titles stamped on each one.
Hermione left them on the counter unopened, the gift ribbon still dangling from the uppermost one. She didn’t feel like looking at them just now.
She felt a bit better, though no less lonely, after a hot shower. With a towel wrapped around her hair, she perused her bookshelf for a novel to keep her company.
Something romantic. Something escapist.
She was cross-legged on the couch, halfway through the first chapter, when she heard an unusual sound.
The neighbor’s balcony door had just slid open.
Mrs. Potts had never once opened the balcony door due to her fear of heights. Mr. Neffer—Hermione’s neighbor on the other side—also made no use of his balcony. He complained that the “outdoor air” was bad for his aching joints.
As a result, Hermione had up until now enjoyed full privacy when sitting outside, looking at the crooked garden downstairs and the treetops in the distance with a cup of tea warming her hands.
But now, as Hermione pressed her cheek against the window in an effort to see the balcony to number eight, she found herself not minding that the outdoors might now be shared with a certain blond wizard.
She sat back on the couch, drumming her fingers anxiously on the cushions.
Then, deciding, she stood and shrugged on a jumper before walking out onto her own balcony.
“Hi,” she said with a smile, sliding her door closed behind her. “Fancied a bit of fresh air?”
Draco looked happy to see her.
“Hey,” he said, stepping closer to the waist high partition between their balconies. “Yeah, just taking a break from unpacking.”
He leaned his elbows on the partition, to Hermione’s flustered pleasure. She’d expected him to say a few obligatory niceties before going inside.
“Got a lot of boxes?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, grimacing. “Some of them are still arriving too. Shipped in.”
“Where did you used to live?” she asked curiously.
“Bulgaria.”
“Oh,” Hermione said, surprised.
“My parents sent me to Durmstrang,” Draco explained. “We’ve got family in Bulgaria. Anyway, I graduated a few years ago but I stuck around for work, for a bit.”
“That must have been very interesting,” Hermione said. “I’ve always wondered what it might have been like to go to one of the other magical schools. I graduated from Hogwarts—two years ago.”
“Ah,” he said with a crooked smile. “You’re younger than me.”
Something about the way he said it gave Hermione butterflies. A sort of masculine flirtation, even though the words were innocuous.
“I suppose I am,” she managed to stammer.
He looked at her for a moment, and Hermione turned pink and looked down at her hands.
“Hey,” Draco said. “I've, um, actually got some butterbeers here. Do you want to have one with me? Since we’re both out here.”
“Well, okay,” she said, smiling.
Draco looked pleased. He popped out of sight for a moment, then returned with two bottles, holding them both in one hand. His long fingers were wrapped easily around the bottles’ slender necks, and the glass clinked together as he walked. Hermione couldn’t help but think about how large his hands must be, to be able to carry two bottles so easily.
“Cheers,” he said, handing her one.
She took it and he clinked his bottle to hers, tapping them together near the top of the bottle instead of the bottom. Hermione suppressed another wave of pleasant butterflies.
She took a long sip, savoring the sweet bubbles.
“So—how is moving in going?” she asked.
Draco sighed and rubbed his neck.
“Tiring.”
“I can relate,” she said. “I moved in last year. I still remember how tough it was. I had to bring the boxes upstairs one by one. The lift was broken, even back then… I’m starting to suspect it’s actually a broom closet and the building manager is lying to us all.”
Draco didn’t laugh at her joke.
“You moved your stuff without a working lift?” he asked, looking at her seriously. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.”
His eyes were dark, shaded in this angle of the sunset. For a moment, Hermione thought she saw a flicker of some nameless feeling behind them. Quick and dark, like a shark darting through black water.
She blinked.
“Um, you know,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Not too bad.”
“Sorry,” he said quickly, turning his gaze out at the trees. “The stairs—just seem a bit dangerous in this building. That’s all."
"Yeah," Hermione agreed. "They're definitely a bit rickety. But I think it's a small price to pay. The building is so charming."
“It suits you,” Draco said, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “It’s—warm. Sweet.”
Hermione blushed and looked down.
“Well, I better go scrounge up some food,” she said, her cheeks warm. “It’s getting late.”
"Sure. Er, what do you mean scrounge?"
“I just forgot to do the shopping. But I have a tin of beans I can heat up, and some crisps.”
He just nodded.
Hermione gave him a little wave and then went inside. The outdoors were chilly and Hermione’s newly toasty flat was welcome.
After a moment, Hermione heard Draco’s balcony door open and close too.
She was rifling in the pantry for food when there was a knock on the door. Hermione answered it to find a pimply delivery girl chewing gum and holding a bag. Hermione recognized her—the girl waited tables for Hunan Palace, which was Hermione's favorite Chinese place.
“‘Ere ya go,” the girl said.
She turned to go, still smacking her gum, when Hermione emerged from her confused surprise.
“Hey!” she called. “I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake. I didn’t order this.”
The delivery girl frowned and looked down at a notepad.
“Huh,” she said indifferently, smacking her gum. “You’re not Sharon McPhee? We got a call in order for this address.”
“No,” Hermione said, making to hand the order back to the girl.
But the girl shook her head.
“No take backs. Policy. Go ahead and keep that, we’ll figure out the original order.”
“I didn’t pay for it.”
“Iss paid for. See ya.”
And the girl left, smacking her gum all the way down the stairs.
Hermione blinked and looked down at the bag.
When she brought it inside and opened it, she found pork belly, rice and some fried eggplant. Her favorites!
Hermione picked up a piece of pork belly with the disposable chopsticks and popped it in her mouth. So good. Maybe her luck was finally turning around.