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Christmas Eve
[Hogwarts headmistress Minerva McGonagall settles into her seat behind the desk, giving a weary, contemplative sigh. She looks immensely tired, as if the weight of the world is upon her, and given the volume of parchment on her desk, her weariness is not soon to be abated. One by one, each of the Hogwarts professors discuss the horrors they have witnessed.]
[Cut to Theodore Nott, History of Magic.]
Minerva: “To the best of your ability, Theodore, please describe the events of this morning in your own words.”
Theo: “Unrepentant fervor. Mass unmitigated panic. Rampant displays of horticultural inadequacy. Apocalyptic disarray. Putrefying, unadulterated, atroph-”
Minerva: “Maybe not those words, Nott.”
Theo: “In fairness, you did say to the best of my ability. If you wanted a subpar answer, you should have been more specific.”
Minerva: [visibly exhausted] “You know what? You can go.”
[Cut to Professor Neville Longbottom, Herbology.]
Neville: “Honestly, I’m just thankful nobody was too badly hurt, given the scope of the damage. And if I’m being candid, Headmistress, the whole thing came out of nowhere.”
Theo: [scoffing] “Please. I knew this was going to happen.”
Minerva: “Nott, who let you in here?”
Theo: “Hm?”
[Cut to Professor Harry Potter, Defense Against the Dark Arts.]
Harry: “Wait. What’s going on?”
Minerva: [distractedly] “One moment, Potter, excuse me—Nott, why are you here for Potter’s interview? I distinctly recall dismissing you.”
Theo: “I have no memory of any such thing, and frankly Professor, given those cheeky new tartans you’ve got on, I think the more relevant question is why you’re here alone for Potter’s interview—”
Minerva: “That’s quite enough, Nott.”
Theo: “Fine.”
Minerva: “But thank you for noticing. These robes are, in fact, new.”
Harry: [with obvious confusion] “Hold on—I don’t understand. Is this some kind of investigation? Is someone in trouble, or—”
Theo: “Yes.”
Minerva: “No, no, of course n-”
Theo: “She means yes.”
Harry: “Well, if I had to identify a starting point, I’d say it all really began around the first of the month, when Professor McGonagall announced she would be choosing a deputy.”
24 Days Earlier
“Now,” Minerva began, “as you know, for the past five years I have not felt it necessary to appoint a deputy headmaster or headmistress. Now that our faculty has been satisfactorily replenished, however, I feel it’s time to begin passing off some of my responsibilities, so as to better prepare the castle for its next generation of growth.”
Draco Malfoy, Professor of Potions, glanced briefly to his left, surreptitiously eyeing the frizzy-haired woman who had served as his constant competition for the past five years (and then some). Meanwhile, Hermione Granger, Professor of Transfiguration, steadfastly avoided the contact, opting instead to stare obtrusively at the small decorative houseplant on the headmistress’ desk.
“You’ve both risen admirably throughout your tenure here,” Minerva continued, “and I feel confident that one of you will be well-suited for my position when I eventually retire. Which one of you that will be, however, is entirely dependent on how well you undertake this particular month.” She paused, giving them an unreadable, searching glance. “As you know, it has long been tradition at Hogwarts for professors and staff to prepare the castle for the holidays. This year, I’d like for the two of you to manage the decorations.”
Decorations? Draco thought with an inward scoff, glancing again at Hermione. She, having opted to return his glance this time, spared him an unsavory scowl, and Draco made a mental note to charm the boards of her classroom floors to squeak again as soon as he was able.
“Yes, Headmistress,” they replied in unison.
They’d both understood there would be some sort of test awaiting them, but still, Draco had thought it would be something a bit more challenging. How hard could some trees and a few floating candles actually be?
“Any questions?” Minerva prompted. “Do feel free to come to me if you need any help.”
“I think we can handle it,” Hermione assured her.
“It’s not like we’re going to burn the place down,” added Draco.
“Well,” Minerva remarked approvingly, “then I very much look forward to letting you both take the reins on this one.”
oOo
“Listen up, people,” Draco announced to the remainder of the faculty. “As you may have heard, Granger and I are in charge of decorating the castle this year—”
“—which we’d like to accomplish with as little fuss as possible,” Hermione supplied.
“Entirely without fuss, actually, if possible,” Draco added. “In fact, anyone guilty of contributing anything within the realms of ‘fuss’ will be subjected to boundless mockery and, if necessary, swift and ruthless corporeal punishment.”
At that, Hermione cleared her throat, nudging him. “That seems harsh,” she remarked under her breath, affording him a dubious glance.
“If I were aiming for harsh,” Draco muttered back, “I’d have threatened to subject them to one of your endless lectures, wouldn’t I?”
“I have a question,” Theo announced before she could retort, rising to his feet. “Yes, hello,” he offered to the room, “Theodore Nott, History of Magic—”
“We know who you are, Theo,” Hermione sighed.
“Just to clarify, are you going to be handling this yourselves? Because if I understand correctly, it’s you two that McGonagall will be watching,” Theo reminded them, “and therefore, this is hardly the usual ‘delegate-to-the-staff’ situation, is it?”
“Excuse me?” Draco demanded.
“I think what Nott’s trying to say,” Harry began, only to be interrupted by a loud cough from Theo. “Right, sorry—Harry Potter, Defense Against the Dark Ar-”
“WE KNOW,” Draco growled.
“Anyway, I think what Nott’s saying is that you’ll have to, you know, up the ante a bit,” Harry suggested, and behind him, the other teachers slowly nodded their agreement. “You don’t really think McGonagall would choose the future of this school based purely on Christmas decorations unless it was some sort of test, would she?”
“Yes, exactly,” Theo agreed, snapping his fingers. “You’re going to have to wow her. Awe her. Seduce her, even—”
“Mm, too far,” Harry warned, shaking his head.
“—by whatever method fits within the realm of your respective comforts, that is,” Theo amended hastily, “but still, the point stands. This is no ordinary year, is it?”
Draco glanced uncertainly at Hermione, who was already looking questioningly back at him.
“Traditionally, we’ve always done the decorations the same way,” she ventured, half to herself, and Harry pointedly cleared his throat.
“Yes,” he permitted knowingly, “but how is McGonagall supposed to decide which of you is better if you do precisely what the school’s always done?”
Draco looked at Hermione again, who sighed.
“I hate to say this,” she began, and Draco grimaced.
“This is the first time I’m saying this,” he agreed, “but I think Potter’s—”
“—right,” they announced in unison, both withering at the prospect.
“Oh sure,” Theo drawled, falling back into his seat. “Since nobody else contributed anything—”
“Maybe we do have to prove ourselves a bit,” Hermione remarked to Draco. “But we can manage that, can’t we?”
“I certainly can,” Draco muttered under his breath, and she spared him a tart grimace, waiting expectantly. “Fine. What do you say, Granger?” he prompted gruffly, holding his hand out. “Shall we just collaborate on this one? If you can keep up, that is,” he couldn’t help adding, and was immediately rewarded with her uninhibited scowl.
“Oh, it’s on, Malfoy,” she muttered, accepting his proffered hand with a violently threatening grip.
oOo
“Nice work,” Harry muttered to Theo. “I really hate charming those candles.”
“Personally, I loathe the wreaths,” Theo agreed. “Who knew it’d be so easy to talk them into it?”
“I have to say, I’m a bit worried,” Neville admitted, his face a tinge green. “Yuletide plants can be somewhat unpredictable, and neither Hermione or Draco listen particularly closely when I discuss—well, anything with them—”
“Oh, cheer up, Longbottom,” Theo cut in gleefully. “Luxuriate in your sudden influx of free time, would you?”
“Besides,” Harry added, shrugging. “It’s not like they’ll burn the place down.”
“That’s true,” Neville warily agreed, glancing mournfully over his shoulder.
Theo: “I don’t think it actually started there. Had to’ve been later, right?”
Harry: “Well, I guess technically it started with the library, then, didn’t it?”
Minerva: “What happened in the library?”
Theo: “Two words: popcorn fiasco.”
Harry: [nodding gravely] “Popcorn fiasco.”
20 Days Earlier
It wasn’t a secret that Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy didn’t get along. In fact, Hermione was fairly certain that he had been responsible for tampering with the anti-squeak charms on her classroom floors, and for convincing the hinges on her cupboards to fall open at random intervals throughout the day. She’d already checked for door-imps. At this point, the only possible explanation was the continued existence of Draco Malfoy.
It wasn’t as if she were wholly innocent, of course. She’d enchanted the laces of his oxfords so vigorously he’d taken to wearing loafers under his robes, and for two entire days she charmed his personal cauldron to turn all of his potions an illuminated fuschia, prompting a near-successful (and much-deserved) descent into madness. The silent feud had been relatively ongoing since they’d both been hired after their eighth year at Hogwarts.
Unfortunately, it also meant that Hermione couldn’t come to him for help once she realized just how vast the castle really was.
“What are you doing?” she heard behind her, nearly toppling from her ladder as she charmed a wreath of holly onto the corner of a bookshelf.
“I’m clearly decorating, Malfoy,” she retorted, not bothering to look at him until the wreath had been tilted satisfactorily to one side. “I’ve charmed the wreaths to ask little yuletide riddles,” she added, unable to prevent a bit of boasting. “Seemed appropriate for the library.”
“Delightful,” Draco drawled, leaning against the shelf as she descended the ladder. “But I meant that,” he clarified, pointing to the Cornish pixies who were vacantly stringing popcorn garlands in the corner.
“Ah, well, I hardly have enough hands to handle this myself,” Hermione informed him. “The library is much larger than your east corridor, so—”
“They’re pixies, Granger,” Draco interrupted snottily. “Or do you not recall what happened during our last pixie run-in?”
“I’ve given them each a low dose of Best Behavior potion,” Hermione retorted. “I’ve still got—” She glanced down, checking her watch. “About half an hour, and I’ll have them returned to the classroom by then—”
“You didn’t happen to take that from my potions stores, did you?” Draco asked, glancing apprehensively at the electric blue creatures before turning to stare questioningly at her. “Specifically, you didn’t happen to take it without asking, correct?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’ll make you some more, Malfoy, if it really matters so much. In the meantime, I have everything here under control, so—”
“I only bring it up,” Draco persisted loudly, “because after Theo took two of my Sober-Up vials last month without asking, I put an accelerator on anything that’s removed without my express permission. But as you say, I’m sure you’ve got everything under control,” he remarked blithely, turning on his heel just as Hermione reached out with a grimace, grabbing his collar.
“How much of an accelerator?” she demanded, glancing over her shoulder at the pixies and pausing, horrified, as one gave a worryingly coherent blink. “How much time do I have before it wears off, then?”
“I think you already know the answer,” Draco informed her, and she glared at him, considering momentarily whether or not he ought to be strangled before feeling a light flick of pressure against the back of her head.
“Oh hell,” she whispered. “Did one just throw popcorn at me?”
Draco nodded grimly.
“Yes, and frankly, you might want to—DUCK!” he shouted, yanking her to the ground as a swarm of pixies suddenly reanimated behind them, pelting both of them with kernels ripped from the newly-hung garlands as they struggled to crawl for cover beneath a table.
“Well,” Draco growled, fumbling for his wand and groaning as a pixie immediately ripped it from his grasp, “this is a mess, Granger—”
“You might have warned me you put extra enchantments on your potions!” Hermione snapped, pulling herself up and aiming her wand only to have it smacked directly back into her face, knocking her gracelessly into Draco’s lap. “Did it not occur to you to, I don’t know, announce it in some way?” she demanded, shoving him away and then promptly dragging him back as a shield the moment another stream of popcorn aimed itself directly at them.
“Ah yes,” Draco retorted, managing to duck the arm motion from a gleefully slap-happy pixie only to get smacked in the face by a book instead. “Because asking me in advance is just so unreasonable,” he muttered, tumbling backwards against Hermione’s chest.
“QUIET,” demanded Madame Pince, just before a group of pixies picked her up by her shoulder pads, depositing her atop the shelves marked ‘Opera’ and drowning her shouts of opposition with a dozen mismatched arias from an avalanche of displaced books. “THIS—IS—A LIBRARY—”
Hermione aimed her wand from behind Draco, finally managing to get a clear shot. “Immobulus!” she shouted, and the pixies froze in place, their many handfuls of popcorn abruptly suspended mid-flight.
Hermione paused, panting, before realizing that the restriction on her lungs was the result of Draco Malfoy leaning against her; she immediately gave him a shove, crawling out from under the table.
“Well,” she pronounced breathlessly, eyeing the wreaths that lay tattered and strewn across the floor. “I’d say that went rather poorly.”
Draco shuffled out behind her, plucking a piece of popcorn from her hair and tossing it in his mouth before shrugging.
“A bit half-baked,” he agreed, sauntering away. “But look at it this way, Granger,” he added over his shoulder, removing his wand from a floating pixie’s grasp and pausing only long enough to smirk at her. “At least you didn’t burn down the school.”
Harry: “They both smelled like butter for at least a week. And frankly, I don’t think Madame Pince will ever care for opera again, which is a real travesty. Irma does a mean Habañera when she’s got enough Buck’s Fizz in her—”
Theo: “Though, really, the library incident was nothing compared to the stripping.”
Minerva: “Stripping?”
Harry: “Well, I don’t know. ‘Stripping’ might be an exaggeration.”
Theo: “No it isn’t.”
Harry: “Yeah, no, he’s right. It isn’t.”
13 Days Earlier
Unsurprisingly, Draco wasn’t particularly good at decorations. It was mostly charms and enchantments, and frankly, he didn’t care for levitation spells. They reminded him of—who else?—Granger, who had come back from her pixie fiasco to expertly (and without mishap, Cornish or otherwise) arrange her half of the Great Hall’s Christmas trees.
Still, Draco assumed that McGonagall would want to see proof of his magical prowess beyond the set of skills he taught, so he set himself to work with the first floor suits of armor, hoping to accomplish something resembling brilliance.
“Okay,” he declared, stepping back expectantly. “So, how about a yuletide dance?”
The armor obeyed, launching into a brief but technically proficient Irish reel.
“Excellent,” Draco determined, feeling smugly proud. “And you?” he prompted, turning to another set. “Charades?”
The armor held up three fingers.
“Three words,” Draco supplied indulgently.
The armor mimicked the opening of a book.
“Book,” said Draco.
The armor pointed upwards.
“Hogwarts, A History,” provided a swotty voice behind him, and Draco turned, glaring at Hermione as she approached.
“I would’ve gotten it if you hadn’t rudely intruded,” he informed her, and she shrugged.
“Is there a theme to this?” she prompted. “Or have you simply Imperiused a bunch of empty metal?”
“They’re supposed to enact Christmas-related activities,” Draco supplied smartly, wondering if she weren’t secretly impressed. “Which will vary from person to person. Although hopefully not to the degree of my French cousins,” he determined distractedly, “because I’m pretty sure their idea of Christmas is something along the terribly deviant lines of—”
“Wait, Malfoy, don’t!” Hermione urged suddenly, grabbing his arm.
“—getting naked and running through the gardens while aiming wild de-feathering spells at my father’s best peacocks,” Draco finished, and then frowned, glancing down at where her fingers had wrapped tightly around his sleeve. “What exactly is this, Granger?”
“Oh, phew,” she exhaled sheepishly, releasing him. “Sorry, it’s just that the suits are highly susceptible to suggestion. It’s the metal,” she clarified. “Ironically, iron doesn’t have much will of its own, so—”
She broke off, startled, as one of the suits of armor tapped her on the shoulder, dutifully beginning to remove the buttons of her robes just as another suit reached behind Draco, giving his belt a graceless tug.
“Uh, Granger,” Draco ventured, the suit of armor holding him in place as it turned its attention to the top button of his trousers, “I didn’t by any chance say something about getting naked, did I? No reason, just checking—”
“What do you think, Malfoy?” she shot back, trying and failing to grab hold of her wand as the suit of armor removed it from her pocket, dropping it less-than-delicately on the floor and proceeding to divest her of her blouse. “Just—DON’T LOOK,” she instructed shrilly, trying unsuccessfully to cover herself, and Draco sighed, resignedly permitting the armor to tug his trousers down to his ankles.
“Fancy knickers, Granger,” he commented unhelpfully, trying to keep the hint of curiosity from his voice as the suit of armor unzipped her skirt. “Wonder who you’re saving those for?”
“MALFOY, I SAID NOT TO—are those golden snitches on your boxers?”
“Yes, Granger, of course they are. I haven’t done laundry, and besides, they’re very soft. And who’s looking now?”
“If you think I’m going to look at your—oh my god, is that your—”
“Yes, Granger, it’s my penis, thank you for noticing. My eyes are up here, by the way—”
“Malfoy, I swear to Godric, if you’re looking at my breasts—”
“Hard not to. You dress so primly, Granger, I’d no idea you’d were hiding such admirable tits under those matronly robes—”
“Do not say ONE MORE WORD about my t- I mean, my breasts, thank you—”
“Need help, ickle teachies?” cackled Peeves, cracking into being above their heads and prompting them both to incoherent frustration.
“NO,” they shouted in unison, lunging for their clothes as the armor moved on to chasing imaginary peacocks.
“SAY CHEESE!” Peeves declared, taking a picture and blowing them each a raspberry before disapparating with a pop.
For a moment, in the aftermath, Hermione only fumed silently.
“Look, at least the castle’s still standing,” Draco reminded her, furtively sneaking another glance before she gruffly fastened her skirt around her waist.
“I might have preferred to burn it down,” she muttered, though he noted with satisfaction that she had to forcibly avert her eyes from his bare chest.
Theo: “So yeah, definitely stripping.”
Harry: “Forced stripping, of course. Which was bad.”
Theo: “Though not as bad as the snow debacle.”
Harry: [shuddering] “The snow debacle.”
Minerva: “Do I even want to know?”
5 Days Earlier
“Granger,” she heard behind her. “You said you needed more powdered unicorn horn?”
“Yes,” she replied, trying not to look too closely at the gaping of his shirt, which she (regrettably) now knew contained the unfairly pleasing angles of his chest. “Seeing as we’re no longer allowed to simply borrow from you—”
“Ah-ah, not without permission. So long as you ask first, you can get it yourself. But here,” he grumbled, holding out a vial for her. “Since I was just seeing the students off to the train anyway—”
“Thanks, Malfoy,” she permitted coolly, pointedly extracting the vial from between his fingers without contact. “I appreciate the unparalleled treachery you risked to walk gallantly from your office all the way up the stairs—”
“What’s it for?” he interrupted. “This,” he clarified, gesturing to the circling of sugar-based clouds overhead. “What’s this?”
“Charmed snow,” she supplied, trying not to sound too pleased. “Muggles use fake snow all the time for decoration, and I thought it might be nice to use a sugar base. The unicorn horn is to add a bit of iridescence,” she added, glancing up at the circling clouds. “And, frankly, to temper the saccharinity. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but all that sugar made it a bit too sweet, so—”
“Sorry to sour your little experiment,” Draco interrupted, still staring up at the slowly condensing clouds, “but did you just say you used sugar, Granger?”
“Yes,” Hermione said, irritated that he would ask, though she noted uneasily that the clouds above seemed to be sparking. “So?”
“Well, it’s probably fine, but—sugar potions oxidize quite easily,” Draco commented, frowning. “And with a charmed atmosphere, Granger, there might be too much—”
He broke off, grimacing, as a loud crackle manifested above them, followed by a burst of light; abruptly, a bolt of lightning struck about ten feet away from them, startling them both.
“Was that—” Hermione swallowed, glancing up. “That was just the one, right?”
Immediately, lightning struck behind them, sparking against the sugar-snow that was already beginning to coat the ground with a slick white sheen.
“Well, that answers that,” Draco said firmly, grabbing her arm and dragging her towards a broom cupboard in precisely the same moment that lightning struck the spot she’d been standing, leaving a faint trail of smoke from where the outline of her footprints still remained. “Come on, Granger—”
“Seriously?” she hissed, yanking herself free the moment he’d shut the door behind them. “What are we supposed to do now, Malfoy?”
“Same with any storm, Granger,” he retorted. “Just wait it out.”
“And what if it doesn’t stop?” she prompted, immediately wincing as three lightning bolts struck in unison.
“We die,” Draco said flatly, and she let out a loud groan, shoving him away.
“That’s not funny,” she wailed, glaring at him, and from the barest sliver of light, she saw him arch a brow. “I don’t want to die in here, and certainly not with you—”
“Oh?” he prompted, taking a step towards her. “And you think I’m happy about this?”
She glanced up, her breath suddenly trapping in her throat as she realized, incrementally: just how small the cupboard was, and just how close he was to her; just how tall he was, and just how broad his shoulders were; just how far away he was, and also just how near, and just how truly, irrepressibly, maddeningly trapped she was, and—
“Why is it you’re always around to catch my mistakes?” she whispered, swallowing hard.
For a moment, she was positive he glanced at her lips.
Positive.
But then he shrugged.
“At least you didn’t burn the castle down,” he remarked, the gap between the door and hinge illuminating brightly from the lightning that struck outside. “Yet, anyway.”
Harry: “You know, in retrospect, I’m beginning to think maybe yesterday was an obvious conclusion, given everything.”
Theo: “Yes. A spectacular finale, if you will.”
Minerva: [exasperatedly] “Will someone just tell me how this happened?”
[Harry and Theo exchange a glance.]
Harry: “Well, it’s actually a relatively short story, Professor. Draco and Hermione were told to decorate the school—”
Theo: “—and instead, they simply burned the castle to the ground.”
This Morning
“I don’t care that Longbottom spent all year grooming them. I’m not putting them up.”
“Oh, come on,” Hermione sighed. “It’s just mistletoe, Malfoy. We put it up every year. There’s no need to be such an uptight little monster about it.”
“Well I hope you’re sitting down for this, Granger, but you and I clearly disagree,” he informed her, straightening to offer her his most unpleasant glower. “I have never once thought that mistletoe was necessary, and frankly, I’m not convinced it’s not infested with little seeds of madness—”
“Malfoy,” Hermione groaned. “Relax, would you? Here,” she offered, levitating the mistletoe to a spot above his head and prompting him to swat it away. “See? It’s fine—”
“Oh, for the love of Salazar’s dimpled balls, they’re multiplying,” he growled, lurching away as the tendrils of mistletoe spread out towards him. “Stop,” he informed it, scrambling away. “Granger, make it stop—”
“Malfoy,” Hermione sighed again, shaking her head. “Just—it’s fine, come over here, one little peck on the cheek won’t kill you—”
“LIKE HELL IT WON’T,” he informed her at the top of his lungs, and reflexively thrust out his wand hand, both of them ducking as a ball of embers spontaneously burst forth from the tip of his wand, catching on one of the enchanted wreaths and erupting in a flare of sparks. “Oh shit,” he whispered, staring at his wand, and Hermione lifted her own, shaking her head.
“Calm down,” she said, as the wreath let out an obtrusive belch of flames, sending the fire across the room until it caught on the charmed lace of the tablecloth, searing along the decorative twigs of holly. “Er, well, we just have to—”
She stumbled, snatching the sizzling tip of her wand backwards just as the bunches of mistletoe beside her also caught fire, their decorative crimson ribbons instantly dissolving to ash. “Well, hm—”
Draco raised his wand. “Aguam- oh, FUCK—”
To his dismay, the suits of armor had charged into the Great Hall, knocking his wand to the ground as Hermione desperately shook ash from hers, burning her finger on the tip of the charred wood before turning to him with a wide-eyed look of panic.
“What’s going on?” she asked, aghast, reaching for him as the suits of armor all collected from the corridor to block the hall’s exit. “Malfoy, did you not alter the enchantments? What on earth are they doing?”
“I did, but—” He broke off, blinking. “They’re roasting chestnuts on an open fire,” he realized with horror, grabbing hold of her arm and searching desperately for a way to escape, the fire already reducing the tables to blazing chunks of seared wood. “Come on, we have to get out before the fire gets worse—”
“Quick question,” Hermione asked hazily, stumbling after him. “Are we going to die here?”
Draco skidded to a halt, wincing apprehensively as he paused before the window.
“Oh no,” said Hermione, and Draco sighed his agreement, grabbing a plank of wood that had once been a table and smashing it against the windows of the hall.
“Oh yes,” he declared flatly, and snatched her hand again, half-jumping, half-falling through the shattered glass to the pile of snow below, both of them landing with sputtered thud on the ground.
For a moment after the impact, they both stared up, catching their breaths.
“Fuck,” Draco finally said in disbelief. “I burned the castle down.”
To his surprise, Hermione giggled; then, without warning, the giggle evolved to a laugh, and then to hysterical, gulping intonations of incoherence, and then from there—alarmingly—she burst into tears, mewling into the palms of her hands.
“Fuck,” he said again, bewildered. “Granger, are you concussed?”
“Y-you set half the castle on f-fire,” she sobbed in response, half of it emerging as a wail, “and jumped out of a w-window—rather than k-kiss me! And I-” she broke off, shaking her head. “It should be hilarious, only it’s devastating, b-b-because—because I—”
Draco sighed, propping his head up to look at her.
“Well, call me old-fashioned, Granger,” he drawled, as she let out a sniffling, delicate hiccup, “but when I kiss you, you’re going to be damn sure I did it because I wanted to. Not because I was trapped in a cupboard, or hiding from pixies, or held captive by some militant plants—”
“W-when?” she cut in, dazed, and he reached out to slide his hand around the curve of her jaw, stroking her cheek once before rolling over her in the snow and positioning his hips securely against hers.
“When,” he promised firmly, and closed the distance between them, feeling the quirk of her tentative smile beneath his lips.
Minerva: “Well. This was a mess.”
Hermione: “Professor, we are so sorry—”
Draco: “But I maintain that this is Longbottom’s fault. No school needs mistletoe, Professor. That’s just common sense.”
Neville: “No offense taken.”
Draco: “Well, then I did it wrong.”
Minerva: “I just don’t understand. How did this happen? The decorations have been the same year after year for decades—possibly even centuries— ”
Hermione: [sheepishly] “We thought you wanted us to impress you.”
Draco: “Why else assign it to us?”
Minerva: “Honestly? Because I genuinely hate decorating.”
Hermione: “What?”
Draco: “That’s it?”
Theo: “We also hate decorating.”
Harry: “Not that you asked.”
Neville: “Personally I don’t mind it, but—”
Hermione: [interrupting] “So what now?”
Draco: “Candidly, I can’t imagine you’re going to choose either of us as your deputy now.”
Theo: “Though if you are, we should really get a new insurance company. Might I recommend whoever insures Seamus Finnegan?”
Minerva: “Well, you’re right about one thing, Mr Malfoy. I can’t possibly choose a deputy at this point, nor should I even bother. Clearly I’m nowhere near retiring.”
Hermione: “Fair.”
Harry: “Fair.”
Theo: “It was a nice but violently misguided thought.”
Draco: “In that case, may we be dismissed? It is Christmas, Professor. Granger and I will fix the damage in the morning.”
Minerva: “Morning?”
Draco: “Yes. We’re sort of busy tonight.”
Hermione: [tentatively] “We have plans. But if you need us to fix it now—”
Minerva: “You have plans—together?”
Draco: “Yes.”
Minerva: “On purpose?”
Hermione: “I know. I was surprised too.”
Draco: “So, are we—”
Minerva: [wearily] “Yes, fine, just go.”
Hermione: “Happy Christmas, Professor!”
[Draco and Hermione leave. Minerva graciously pretends not to see them twine fingers as they go.]
Theo: “For the record, Potter and I also have plans. Not that anyone’s bothered to ask.”
Harry: “I suspect this isn’t about us, Nott.”
Theo: “Put your suspicions away, Potter, we’re doing a thing!”
Minerva: “I need a new hobby.”
Theo: “Might I suggest therapeutic arson?”
Harry: “Too soon, Nott. Too soon.”