Chapter 1: The Unwanted Neighbor
The late afternoon sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling window of Hermione Granger’s new flat, turning the floating dust motes into flecks of gold. She hummed a vague tune, something she’d heard on the wireless, as she slotted the final row of books onto the sprawling shelf. The room smelled of old paper, fresh paint, and the bergamot scent of her cooling tea.
It had been a spectacular first day. The research wing at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was everything she’d hoped for: quiet, respected, and intellectually demanding. She had a stack of pending legislation on wand-use precedents waiting for her annotation, and the thought made a pleasant, proprietary thrill run through her.
She took a step back, wiping her hands on her jeans, and surveyed her sanctuary. Boxes were still piled in the corner, but her books—her army, her friends—were already standing guard. The bay window was a masterpiece, framing a narrow slice of London skyline and the charming, brick-faced building directly across the alley. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet away. She’d loved the proximity when she’d signed the lease; it felt cosmopolitan, connected.
A flicker of movement caught her eye.
She focused absently, assuming it was a pigeon or a trick of the light. It wasn’t.
In the window directly opposite hers, a man stood, perfectly framed as if on a stage.
He was shirtless, leaning against his own window frame with a casual arrogance that was instantly, infuriatingly familiar. Platinum blond hair, slightly tousled. Sharp, pale features. A lean torso marked with the faint, silvery lines of old magic—a map of a war they’d both survived. He held a cut-crystal tumbler of amber liquid in one hand, and he was looking directly at her.
Not looking. Watching.
Draco Malfoy raised his glass in a slow, deliberate toast. His lips curved into a smirk.
Every ounce of contentment evaporated, replaced by a white-hot surge of indignation. Hermione froze, her own teacup halfway to her lips. She didn’t blink. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her startled.
He took a sip of his firewhisky, his grey eyes never leaving hers. They were brighter than she remembered, lacking the haunted shadow that had lived in them during their eighth year. This was something else: amused, challenging, deeply inconvenient.
With a deliberate slowness she hoped conveyed utter boredom, Hermione turned her back to the window. She picked up a random book from a box, pretending to examine its spine. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. What in Merlin’s name is he doing there? He was supposed to be in some dreary manor, or a sleek penthouse in wizarding London, not here. Not in her view.
She couldn’t stand it. She glanced over her shoulder.
He was still there. He’d moved, now sitting on the wide sill, one knee drawn up. He was saying something, his mouth moving with clear, articulate shapes, but the glass between them silenced him completely. He smiled, a flash of white, and shook his head as if she’d missed a joke.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered to the empty room.
This was her place. Her fresh start. He was a relic, a smear from a past she’d neatly catalogued and shelved. She strode to her window, grasping the latch. The sensible part of her brain, the one that had just reviewed international magical statute, screamed that this was childish. The part that had wrestled a troll and survived Bellatrix Lestrange won out.
She yanked the window open. The sounds of the city rushed in—the distant laughter from a café, the rumble of a bus, the chatter of pedestrians in the alley below.
“Is there a particular reason you’re staging a one-man exhibition?” she called across the gap, her voice cool and carrying.
He didn’t seem surprised. He leaned forward, resting his free arm on his raised knee. “Granger. I was wondering how long you’d pretend to be fascinated by… what is that? Advanced Arithmancy Principles?” His voice was exactly as it was in her memory, but smoother, lacking its old sneer. It was languid, confident.
“My reading habits are none of your concern. What are you doing here?”
“Living,” he said simply, taking another sip. “Well, investing, technically. I own this building. Found the upper floors had an interesting view.” He let his gaze drift meaningfully around her flat, over her bookshelves, her unpacked boxes, her. “Just moved in?”
A hot flush crept up her neck. He’d been watching her unpack. She crossed her arms. “Recently.”
“It looks like you. Organized chaos. All the books are standing at attention.”
“And your aesthetic is… reclaimed derelict?”
He chuckled, a low, genuine sound. “Something like that. It’s a workspace. Less stuff to break during… experiments.” He swirled the liquor in his glass. “Heard you landed at the Ministry. Congrats. Should I be worried about any surprise audits?”
“That depends on whether your ‘experiments’ comply with the Controlled Substances Act of 1972.”
“Always.” He grinned, and it was disarming. It wasn’t the cruel grin of their youth. This was edged with a wicked, knowing humor. “So, neighbor. Seems we’re in for a familiar sort of standoff. Only this time, there’s no teachers to run to. And considerably better scenery.”
Hermione refused to acknowledge the twist in her stomach. “I have no intention of having a standoff. I intend to ignore you completely.”
“Of course you do.” He pushed himself off the sill and vanished into the dimness of his flat.
She stood there, breathing in the city air, feeling absurdly like she’d both won and lost the exchange. She was about to close her window when he reappeared, now wearing a thin, grey linen shirt, hanging open. He didn’t bother to button it.
He lifted a small, potted plant—a succulent with sharp, angry-looking spikes—and placed it on his windowsill. He gave it a pat, then looked back at her, raising a single eyebrow.
Then, with a final, lingering glance that felt like a physical touch, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the depths of his apartment.
Hermione shut her window with a firm click. The golden light felt suddenly too warm, too exposing. She cast a quick, nonverbal Obscurus spell, and the glass frosted over, turning the view of his building into a blur of muted colour.
Silence settled back over her flat, but it was a different silence now. It hummed with presence. With history. With the unmistakable, annoying truth that Draco Malfoy was back in her life, or at least within impeccable shouting distance.
She looked at the frosted window, then at her half-unpacked life around her. A strange, restless energy replaced her earlier calm. He was over there, probably pouring another drink, probably laughing at her.
Fine. Let him watch. Let him try.
But first, she needed to know exactly what kind of "experiments" a reformed Draco Malfoy conducted in a private flat across the alley. And, more pressingly, she needed thicker curtains.
Tomorrow, she decided, pulling her wand from her jeans pocket and pointing it at the nearest box, which began to unpack itself with frantic efficiency. Tomorrow, she would find out.