Author's Note: Hello, lovelies! Obviously, this is a new story. This story is the one that I've been working on for about a few months now. It's only twelve chapters, and I have two more to go. This will also be posted on Ao3 under the same username. I know that I'm setting Breathe Again aside but as I promised before, I will finish that story - no matter how long it takes. This story's updates will be once a week. Hope you enjoy reading this one! Thank you so much, guys! - Love, Ste.

Dedication: Lightofevolution, Ariel-Riddle, and LashesToAshes - who worked tirelessly to read through, comment, and put up with my annoying giddiness over this story. Thank you so much for everything! :)

Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

One

"When Draco falls from Heaven"

.o.O.o.

"Got caught running up a tab
Couldn't drive home so I had to share a cab
Introduced herself by her last name

…

But the alcohol made its way down
She was the last thing that I saw last night before I hit the ground"

(Right Girl, The Maine)

.o.O.o.

October 2001

Of all nights, it has to be tonight.

This definitely isn't how I planned my evening.

I want to think, it's nothing but a joke. A sick, unpalatable prank that ends with someone bursting out of nowhere to tell me that I've been played. But soon, I realise that I have been waiting for nothing.

A million other things were more likely to happen than this incident. But of the million options, fate chose this cruel – and very unusual – event to ruin my evening. I turn back to the cabbie standing behind me, terror evident in his eyes.

"He… h-he appeared out of nowhere," he stammers, pulling his hat off and crushing it in his hands, "Oh God, I – I killed him, didn't I?"

I look back at the unconscious man lying on the snow-covered concrete. His black trench coat now covered in sleet. He lies face down with his arms splayed above his head. But it isn't the fear that we've killed a man which has me twisted. It is the fact that I know him – though not very well – and of all nights, I did not want to deal with… this.

Merlin help me. I sigh, ambling around the bumper of the cab to nudge the unconscious figure with the tip of my shoe. He makes no move. I prod his leg more insistently and finally, a soft groan escapes from the man.

The cabbie lets out an uneasy chuckle, but I remain stiff and unaffected. I hold my breath, deciding to crouch down and flip the unconscious man onto his back.

Shite.

His face comes clear in view with a few strands of stray hair cast upon his closed eyes. I gently push back the stray hair covering his eyelid and examines his face for any cuts or bruises - nothing. As I lean back, I inhale sharply and catch a whiff of... ugh, gross. He smells as though he took a bath in a tub of bile and whiskey. I wave off the cloud of odour before I proceed to inspect his body for injuries.

I slowly pull my wand out and shielded it away from the cabbie's sight before muttering a quick spell, "Rennervate - "

Without a second longer, the unconscious man responds with a surprised gasp and a choking sound - wide and pale eyes searching, dilated and disoriented, shock draining the remaining colour of his face. I hear the cabbie shifting behind me, trying to catch a glimpse of what is happening -

"Where - am…" He coughs, failing to speak clearly.

"Ssssh," I hush him down, cautiously glancing back to the Muggle - confusion and suspicion masking his chubby face - before I turn back to the man on the ground and whisper, "You're all right, don't worry - "

Before I can finish, his eyes begin to roll to the back of his head and shakily closes - finally dozing back to sleep. I let out a huge breath, internally reprimanding myself for being a decent human being.

Afterwards, I glance back at the cabbie and say, "He's just drunk. Come on, let's get him inside the cab." The old man nods and hurries to help me drag the man to an upright position. We carry him to the cab and settle him inside the backseat before I squeeze myself into the crowded vehicle and the cabbie rushes to his seat.

Slowly, the cab hums to life before it speeds back onto the street. We drive in silence - until I hear a loud and incredibly gravelling snore coming from the dark lump of a man next to me. I do my best to ignore the noise, focusing on the bursts of light provided by the passing street lamps.

"I think we should take him to the hospital, ma'am. There's one, only twenty minutes away from here." The cabbie assures, still driving. He shifts his gaze between the rearview mirror to look at me.

The man right next to me shifts his position, interrupting my train of thought. I didn't plan this, no, and for someone as organized as I am, this mess is completely unwelcome. My time is valuable, and wasting it on someone that I can't be bothered with is utterly annoying.

What am going to do? This is insane. A shiver runs down my spine. I shake my head. "No, don't bother. He's my idiot friend, I can take him home." I almost gag at what came out of my mouth. I force the bile back down my throat and roll my eyes, thinking how this happened.

The cabbie looks at me uncertainly. His eyes flit between me and the road ahead while we take our next turn. I slouch against the cushion and wait.

"Are you sure, ma'am? He could be really hurt." The cab comes to a standstill at the next intersection, the red glow of the stoplight illuminating the interior of the cab. I take a conscious look at the sleeping man next to me.

He is, I think. But I can't just give him to the Muggles. God, what would my friends say? What would Ron say? Should I even tell them? Maybe not… yet. And no, of course, I'm not sure. I'm mad – this is mad.

I feel the urge to yell as loud as I possibly can; instead, I bite my tongue to keep from making a noise.

If my friends found out what had happened, who knows where they'd send me. Maybe to St Mungo's for a psychiatric evaluation.

"I can definitely handle him," I assure the cabbie, tasting the uncertainty on my tongue. I swallow the lump sitting in my throat, checking back in on sleeping figure to my right.

After an uneasy silence, the cabbie mutters, "Alright. If you say so, miss." Then, the car jerks into drive.

.o.O.o.

Soft beams of light push through the open balcony doors while the crisp October breeze rolls in, just hard enough to flutter the sheer white drapes in the air.

I'm sitting at my worn kitchen table, scanning through the headlines of the Daily Prophet and stirring a warm cuppa to my side.

He – the man I'd dragged in from the street last night – sleeps soundly on the sofa, completely unaffected by both the sunlight scattered across the room and the sound billowing in from the street. A splash of silvery blond hair drapes over his eyes. I've never seen like this before, so defenceless… messy, even. His expensive robes were dishevelled, and one of his dragon-hide shoes was thrown across the living room floor.

He looks… human.

I stifle a small yawn with the back of my hand, still exhausted from the night before. After the cabbie and I had settled him on the sofa, I immediately collapsed into bed without even changing my clothes, only to be transported into this half-asleep hellscape. I tossed and turned restlessly until I felt the heat of the sun sear through my skin, announcing the arrival of a new morning.

I live in an impressively small – no, affordable – flat in Muggle London. Not that I don't have money to rent a larger flat, possibly even a house, but rather because I would prefer to spend time on my career rather than mopping the floor or wiping the window glass. So instead, I've claimed a flat near Charing Cross rd – one bedroom, a kitchenette, a living room with enough space for a petite L-shaped couch and two shelves, a bathroom, and a balcony the size of a large plant box overlooking a good view of the city. I've never needed many things, only the necessities: a place to eat, sleep, sit, work, and a few shelves worth of books for both leisure and research – another reason that this flat is the perfect size for me.

I live alone. Sometimes, Ron stays with me when he gets a break from his Quidditch training. His official address is still the Burrow, but he spends as much time as he can manage here with me. Besides the fact that we both enjoy spending time together, we haven't discussed this part of our relationship.

I exhale and take a bite from one of the brittle biscuits sitting on the other end of the table. Merlin, if only Ron knew who is sleeping right now on the sofa… he'd certainly flip.

A soft groan distracts me from my worrying. My eyes snap over to the man on the sofa, noting that he'd finally woken up, and his arms trying to block the warm light beaming toward him. He groans louder, his arms stretched above his head and lazily pulling himself into an upright position. My face hardens into a casually irritated mask, straightening my back up to hide my exhaustion, but nothing about this situation is casual; especially the erratic heartbeat in my chest telling me that this is a very stupid idea.

"Where the hell am I? What happened to – "

"You're in my flat, Malfoy," I interrupt, trying - though, unsuccessfully - to hide my nerves by using a disinterested tone.

His head swivels around to my direction, eyes narrowing and then widening. He slumps back against the sofa, rubbing his eyes to remove any sleep dust.

"Granger?" He grumbles, hissing in pain when he flexes his shoulders. "What the fuck happened? Why do I feel so fucking sore? Did I get trampled on by a pack of centaurs?" His eyes raise to look at me again, puzzled but I only avert my eyes.

"Honestly, that would've been a lot easier to explain. But no, you were hit by a moving cab. My taxi cab," I inform him, taking slow, deep breaths in attempts to calm myself. I turn my attention back to the Daily Prophet, trying to ignore the gaze burning into the side of my face.

I brace myself for some sort of scathing remark, but to my surprise, he says nothing. All I hear from him is a resigned sigh. I sneak a careful glance at him and notice the crease between his thick pale eyebrows. "Do you want anything to eat or drink? Biscuits? Tea? Coffee – "

"Whiskey," he interrupted, "I want whiskey. Do you have it?"

I respond with a glare, but he only watches me expectantly. Is he serious? I scoff and shake my head, "No. I don't have it. I only have tea, coffee, and tap water – so you'll have to settle for one of those."

He drops his head back against the sofa, and as silence surrounds the flat again, I decide to pour him a cuppa and walk over to hand it to him. He looks up at me, his expression dripping with scepticism.

"What?" No answer. "Oh for God's sake," I roll my eyes and take a sip from the cup, "See – no poison? If I wanted you dead, trust me, you'd already be rotting in the ground. I do know how to get rid of a dead body."

When he finally accepts the cup, I return to my kitchen table and sit back comfortably on the dining chair. I twirl a strand of curly hair that has escaped from my messy, tangled bun, and watch Malfoy unfold from a distance. I feel the urge to run to my bedroom – but the flat is small, there is no point in hiding anyway. Why am I playing hostess? We aren't friends and yet here I am, offering him tea like we're some old colleagues who hadn't seen each other in a very long time. This is –

" – sweet…" He mutters and places the cup on the coffee table. I look up in surprise; he recognises the confusion in my eyes and clarifies, "The tea – it's very sweet." Oh, right.

I open my mouth to say something but my words fail me yet again; instead, I look away to hide my heat rising up on my cheeks. After a few moments, he breaks the silence again. "Are we the only ones here?"

I clear my throat. "I live alone, yes - if that's what you're asking. Though sometimes, Ron stays over whenever he gets a break from training. He plays for the Chudley Cannons."

Malfoy only hums in response. I watch him look outside the balcony; the sunlight brightening his face. I realise how pale he looks. I passively examine his face: the sharpness of his jaw and the stubble around it, his high cheekbones, the flutter of his eyelashes, the quiver in his pink lips. I drag myself out of my thoughts - why the hell am I even looking at him - and switch gears, deciding to ask him about last night.

"Where were you last night, by the way? I mean, you suddenly fell right into the street."

"I, um… I think I was coming from Blaise's. He had a little party, and to be honest, I can't remember anything after I've had so many shots except that I disapparated from his flat – " Malfoy explains, shrugging, " – and now, I guess here we are."

"You disapparated – drunk?" I echo, a soft laughter bubbling in my chest.

"I realise now how foolish it was – "

"You think?" I huff. "I'm not a big drinker, but honestly, I can't even trust myself to apparate after one glass of wine. Seriously, what if you splinched yourself? What if it hadn't been me who found you? What if someone else saw you and – "

"And here I thought you didn't care about me," Malfoy says smugly. An arrogant smirk tweaks the corners of his lips. My mouth hangs open, struggling to formulate the right words.

"I – I do not!" I bark, inwardly cursing myself for being so obvious.

He maintains his smirk, clearly amused - which made me clench my teeth in irritation. He shakes his head. I scowl and turn back to the newspaper laid out on the table, trying to ignore the growing tension inside of me before miserably failing when Malfoy speaks again.

"Why did you bring me here?"

Oh sweet Godric –

I wish I knew. I've spent hours thinking about it, and yet I've failed to come up with an answer. I still think that this is a huge mistake, a lapse of my better judgment – but for some reason, here we both are, sitting comfortably in the quiet.

Curling my lip, I catch the expectant look on his face, still waiting for the answer that I'm not sure I can give.

Sighing, I only shrug.

Neither of us speaks for what seems like minutes, the quiet lingering longer and longer until all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears. Eventually, Malfoy clears his throat and stands, "Well, I think I've outstayed my welcome. I, um… I think I should probably go."

I frown, but I stand anyway and point him the front door. He moves, heeding my direction, and I smell him as he nears me. The smell of alcohol from his clothes has waned already - wait, why am I even smelling him?

I shake my head.

A lump stalls in my throat. I remain stiff from where I stand, a hand cautiously running over my arm. I can see his stormy grey eyes, dilated and downcast and somewhat ashamed before I hear him, "Granger – um, I… t-thank you for last night."

I frown, pressing my lips together.

"Sure. Anytime," I stutter – what is happening? I shake my head, letting out a nervous laugh.

He doesn't move, and our eyes lock in a long gaze that seems to be exploring the depth underneath each colour. As time stretches, I break away and keep my eyes on the floor, "So… I'll see you around?"

"Right," Malfoy quickly replies, suddenly aware of his surroundings. He resumes his short walk to the door. A click echoes and he slips out of the flat without saying another word.

I release a sigh and glance across the empty flat. I notice the forgotten tea on the nightstand, the unfolded blanket which I draped over him last night, and the sheer loneliness that wraps around me, accompanied by an ice-cold realisation -

I'm alone again.