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He isn’t captivated by the words he hears, or the people he sees, but only her. She stands opposite him amongst a crowd wearing black, her hair messy and brown, just like he remembers. He watches her as the last rites are read and the coffin is lowered into the snow-covered ground. More words are spoken, and despite how much it hurts, his gaze flits towards his mother’s last resting place before they meet warm, brown eyes.
Her smile is soft and full of sadness, and his smile mirrors her own without much thought. By the time the crowd disperses and the people say their regrets, she’s gone.
It’s not how he ever envisioned celebrating his fortieth birthday.
* * *
She had always been the only one who could help take his mind off anything, after all. And she is doing that splendidly with this gift.
He plays with the small box, tossing it and catching it whenever he is puzzled by work. He likes to flip it over the table when he happens to be bored. He even uses it as a paperweight on days when he is too busy to do anything else but bury himself in work.
Yet, at the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve, when he is alone, sitting near the fireplace in his study and nursing a glass of Ogden’s best, the soft click startles him.
He moves towards the box that had popped open of its own accord and looks inside cautiously. What he finds is a flower. It’s an unassuming bud that blooms the moment he takes it into his hand. He thinks of a memory that is so vivid that it almost seems to have happened yesterday, a memory that consists of warm lips and a happy picnic on a particularly sunny day a long time ago.
He smiles, he laughs, and without meaning to, he cries.
* * *
He first sends an investigator, who spends too much time and money without much result. When he loses hope, he sends his house-elf, who comes back quickly with a place.
He finds her in a shop holding hands with a child who has the hair of someone he hasn’t seen in quite a while. She looks happy as she helps the child pick presents and sternly disagrees with the boy when he chooses something Weasley-worthy. He doesn’t stay long, although the image is burned too brightly in his mind to forget.
* * *
As expected, it opens just as the clock strikes twelve midnight on Christmas Eve. He has seated himself at the desk, glass in hand, waiting for the soft click. The moment he hears it, he leans forward, wondering what gift he has been given this year.
What he finds is a miniature ice sculpture of a woman that is smaller than the palm of his hand. It is cold to the touch as he places it on the desk. She turns and twirls and freezes into a pose that he recognizes instantly.
Turning her back to him, she freezes, looking at him over her shoulder with her tongue sticking out as if to mock him. He had seen that pose so many times, he has lost count. It was a gesture he had seen her make whenever he happened to be right and she happened to be wrong. There was one instance in particular where she promised to spend her whole life proving him wrong.
He keeps the ice sculpture permanently on his desk after he charms it to ensure that it will never melt.
He makes a promise to himself to go see her.
* * *
He further curses the fact that she is too well-versed in spells to let a simple locator charm find her.
Another year passes without him meeting her face to face.
* * *
He asks around and looks for her, but no one seems to know anything more than what he knew. Potter nearly slams the door in his face, while his wife is cool towards him but kinder in her words. She tells him that Hermione doesn’t want to be found and that as her friends, they owe it to her to keep her secret.
He nearly casts a curse when he fails to find Weasley in time.
At midnight on Christmas Eve, the box opens to reveal a key he had once given her. He curses to himself when he finally understands what the gifts mean, Apparating on the spot with the intention of going back to the Manor in time.
He finds her sitting on the grand front steps of Malfoy Manor, wrapped in layers of wool and a Weasley-made jumper. He is not quite sure exactly what to say, but when she looks up and catches him staring at her, he takes her small smile as an invitation and joins her on the snow-covered steps.
“I wasn’t sure if you were coming.”
He curls into himself as the cold wind picks up and shifts so that he can see her. She looks older than he remembers but not so different than how he imagined her to be. “I wasn’t sure if the gifts were from you.”
A simple lie that she recognises because from the way she smiles, he feels his heart lighten. “I must have been too subtle, then.”
He smirks. “You must have been.”
“I’ll try to be more specific next time.”
He looks away from her, wondering if she will leave once he asks the question that he has wanted to ask. He decides to ask her, anyway. “Why couldn’t I find you?”
She stiffens, her eyes widening in panic. “You said you wouldn’t look for me.”
“I didn’t look for you. Not until you sent that first gift.”
He watches as her shoulders relax and she shrugs. “I’ve been travelling a lot, focusing on improving Muggle health and on magical reforms in other countries. A lot of countries are not like England. They don’t believe in the equality between wizards and creatures. Someone had to go there personally and argue for the change.”
“And Weasley?” he asks suddenly, hating how his voice cracks over the name.
She looks at him with honest confusion. “What does Ron have to do with anything?”
“Are you still with him?” He wishes that she hadn’t worn gloves so he could see her left hand and discover the information for himself. “I saw you two years ago in the Weasleys’ joke shop.”
Her face scrunches up with confusion for a moment before realisation dawns. “That was Harry and Ginny’s son.” She shakes her head, her eyes sad. “Draco, I haven’t been with anyone. Not since you and I—”
He kisses her hard and fast, his hand curling around the nape of her neck to keep her close. She responds willingly, and it is no wonder that it takes them quite a while to part. He keeps his grip tight around her and is not disappointed when she determinedly holds onto him as if she will never let him go.
“I thought you hadn’t forgiven me after you didn’t come meet me after the first box I sent.”
“I didn’t understand what it meant until tonight.”
“I was too subtle, then,” she says sadly.
“I wasn’t sure you wanted to see me again.”
“Why would you think that?”
“You told me not to come after you, and I did just that.”
“I asked you to.”
“But, I didn’t have to listen to you.” He raises a gloved hand to lightly touch her cheek. “Mother told me what she had done just before she died.” He watches the way her eyes widen. “That shouldn’t have been a reason for you to leave me.”
“She was dying…” Her smile is gentle as a tear escapes down her cheek. “I couldn’t do that to her.”
His chuckle is small yet pained. “She lived for twenty years more.”
“Aren’t you happy about that?”
“Ecstatic,” he says dryly. Untangling himself from her, he pulls out the third box and gives it to her. “It’s always been yours. Shall we? You must be cold.” There is more he needs to say, but this is not the time.
She smiles as she gets to her feet and opens the box. Placing the key into the lock, she turns it to hear the familiar click that the Manor doors make.
And together, they enter the Manor, hand in hand.