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Hermione hummed happily to herself as she shifted the tree one last time, adjusting it so that the bushiest side was facing out to the living room. The scent of pine resin drifted through the room, catching her skin with visions of forests and frosts and woodsmoke in cold air, and she impulsively flicked her wand at the grate on the other side of the room. It wasn’t cold indoors, but she wanted the hissing and crackling of fire, the joyful dance of flames in the background, and it made her smile to remember her friends’ teasing of her when she’d once told them that owning a house with a real, working fireplace had been her dream. But every house has a fireplace, Ron had laughed, his mouth full of treacle tart or apple pie or some other dessert his mother had made for them all, and Hermione had had to explain that no, not all muggle houses did, most had radiators and central heating instead. Trying to explain to him what a radiator was had taken most of the rest of the day.
She shook herself out of her reminiscences as the fire burst into life, and the first spatter of rain fell against the window. It had been threatening all morning, with grey clouds banking up against the sea and an icy chill in the air, and Hermione wondered whether it would turn to snow later. Not that it mattered. It was the first of December, a Saturday, she didn’t have to go anywhere, and there was nothing she loved more than curling up in front of the fire, with softly twinkling lights and a mug of thick chocolate and a book, while the weather was bad outside.
The noise of a door opening and closing upstairs made her smile, and she cast her eyes towards the ceiling. Maybe there was one thing she did love more.
“Do you think your aunt Cissy’s going to come downstairs and help, or are we going to have to go upstairs and fetch her?”
James didn’t answer, of course, but burbled happily on the rug. Hermione reached down to pick him up as he waved his chubby arms in the direction of the Christmas tree. She’d been more than happy to babysit while Harry worked overtime and Ginny struggled with a bad winter cold, and James always seemed to like coming over. But now his eyes were scanning the living room, looking for his favourite person that wasn’t his mother or father or Hermione, and Hermione laughed as she bounced him up and down. She needed to go upstairs for the decorations anyway.
“I know who you’re looking for,” she teased him, tapping him lightly on the nose. “Let’s go see if she’s finished, shall we?”
She carried him upstairs with her, pausing by the large window on the landing to look out through the rain, over the scrubby field to the deserted sand dunes and beach beyond. She still couldn’t believe that the little cottage was theirs. It creaked and rambled and and sighed with the wind, but it was cosy and peaceful and had a fireplace, and Narcissa’s style flared in every corner. Walls were painted colours that Hermione would never have thought to choose for herself, but that she loved. Pictures and mirrors were artfully arranged to make the most of the sea light. Little touches dropped onto shelves or tables - seashells polished by salt that Narcissa had picked up on her walks, bunches of wildflowers or cut flowers, photographs of the two of them on the beach - constantly reminded Hermione of how lucky she felt. She still sometimes couldn’t believe that she’d persuaded Narcissa to live out here, in the middle of nowhere. But she still also remembered how the older woman had chuckled at her surprise, and gently asked her whether she was a witch or not. There is such a thing as apparition, darling.
Hermione often laughingly used that argument now, when Narcissa complained about having to occasionally drag herself back to London for parties and meetings. Narcissa had, she thought wryly, settled into beachside life almost too well.
“Cissy?”she called. “James and I are putting the tree up and we need your help.”
She didn’t wait for a reply before she walked on to the end of the landing, and placed James carefully down on the floor. A quick flick of her wand wrapped him in a protective charm so that he couldn’t crawl away, another flick opened the hatch door in the ceiling. A ladder unfurled itself neatly from the opening. She was halfway up the ladder, her top half through the hatch, when she heard Narcissa’s study door opening and smiled to herself. Seconds later, she squealed when she felt a tickling sensation burst over her bare feet.
“Hey!” She scurried up the last of the ladder and into the attic. “Was there any need for that?”
“I would have done it with my hand if your godson wasn’t already pulling my hair.” Narcissa’s voice drifted up from the hallway. “You should wear shoes up there, darling, I’m not spending the afternoon picking splinters out of your feet again.”
There was a thump behind her, quickly followed by another one; Narcissa had levitated her slippers into the attic, and Hermione huffed playfully as she put them on.
“It took you five minutes to fish out two splinters,” she called down, but her only reply was James babbling in delight as Narcissa tickled him too.
Hermione’s lips twitched as she pulled out one box from behind a tottering pile of others. It was hard to believe, sometimes, that their lives hadn’t always been so seamlessly bound together. She remembered their early awkward interactions, how they had avoided each other as much as possible in the postwar landscape that neither of them had felt particularly at peace in or knew how to navigate, until Hermione had been assigned as Narcissa’s lawyer for her divorce and talking had become obligatory. Talking had turned into coffee, coffee had turned into dinner. Dinner had eventually turned into…..well. Hermione still wasn’t sure how it had all happened, but she’d never been happier.
Brandishing her wand, she carefully levitated the box over to the hatch door.
“Catch this one?”
It floated neatly through the door and down past the ladder, and she heard a soft thud as Narcissa guided it onto the floor of the landing.
“There’s one more….somewhere.”
She located the second box in a corner under the eaves, and sent that one the same way as the first before hesitating. There was also a third, a much smaller one that they’d never opened. It sat taped up and gathering dust in the opposite corner, and Hermione approached it warily. Not because she was worried about what was inside, but because she didn’t know what Narcissa’s reaction would be if she brought it out. It was the only thing that was still delicate, the only strand in their tapestry that still felt a bit fragile.
Shrugging inwardly, she picked it up. This would be their fifth Christmas together, and she thought it was about time. If Narcissa didn’t agree, then the box could simply be put away again until next year.
As she climbed down the ladder with the box tucked under her arm - it was barely bigger than a shoebox, and weighed even less - she smiled. Narcissa was holding James on her hip in the open doorway of the study, while James giggled and waved at the photograph of Narcissa’s son that sat on the desk. The frame was surrounded by colour swatches and sketches, paraphernalia of Narcissa’s interior design business, but as usual Draco was waving back at the baby, blowing raspberries and sticking his tongue out, the sun glinting off the Mediterranean behind him. Narcissa’s blue eyes were soft as she looked from the photo to James and back again. Long blonde hair was clutched in a tiny fist and stuffed into a gummy mouth, but she didn’t seem to care.
“Want a hair tie?” Hermione offered as she reached the bottom of the ladder, and Narcissa smiled.
“It’s a bit late for that.”
Hermione caught Narcissa’s lips in a lingering kiss; she loved seeing the blonde so at ease and so open. She only pulled back, laughing, when photo-Draco cleared his throat and averted his eyes, and Narcissa smirked as she stepped fully into the hallway and closed the door behind her. Her expression, though, became wary as she saw the box Hermione was carrying.
“Darling…”
“We don’t have to if you really don’t want to.” Hermione hushed her with another kiss. “But these things are all part of you, Cissy. I want to share them with you.” She ruffled James’s little tuft of hair. “We’ll start with all the others if you like. Help me get them downstairs?”
Between them they levitated the boxes down the stairs and into the living room. James wriggled with excitement in Narcissa’s arms as he saw the tree again, and Narcissa set him on the rug in front of the fire, protective charms up so that he couldn’t crawl too close to the crackling flames.
They always put the decorations up by hand, without using magic. The first year, Narcissa had seemed to quietly understand Hermione’s need to do it the same way as she would have done it with her parents, and she had helped Hermione untangle fairy lights and baubles and garlands. They still mostly did it that way. Even Narcissa had come to accept that half the fun was lost if all it took was the flick of a wand, but the decorations had been added to over the years and now it seemed like there were hundreds. Some were muggle and some were magical: there were tiny bells that rang of their own accord, round balls that shimmered and shook glitter everywhere, a small hanging dragon that wore a Santa hat and looked as grumpy as Scrooge. Some had been gifts, but most they’d bought together, wanting to create new traditions of their own, and Hermione loved rifling through the boxes each year, remembering the story behind each glittering star or snowflake or bauble.
“Can we please at least do the lights by magic this year?” Narcissa looked at the thick tangle of muggle fairy lights, her expression saying plainly that if not, Hermione would be doing them on her own, and Hermione chuckled as she nodded. She didn’t fancy undoing them by hand either.
“Fine, but that’s all.”
A swift flick of Narcissa’s wrist had the lights untying themselves and spooling into a neat coil, and James squealed in excitement as he watched. His hands shot out to grasp them but Narcissa’s charms held him out of reach, and his excitement turned to brief frustration before he settled down in a grump.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re going to be a little troublemaker too?” Narcissa raised an eyebrow at him.
“He already is.” Hermione picked up a stuffed reindeer with a flashing nose, and crouched down to give it to him to play with before they got stuck into the decorating.
They worked quietly, in a comfortable, warm silence that was only punctuated by the spattering and gurgling of the rain outside, and the hiss and spit of the fire. Wet snowflakes fell too, weighed down with water; the sand on the beach would be drenched, freezing and speckled with ice, and Hermione smiled fondly to herself. Narcissa loved to walk in the bad weather. She knew the blonde would go out later, returning soaked and pink-cheeked and alive because she refused to cast an impervius charm, and they would snuggle and warm up together on the sofa.
They reached the end of the two boxes quickly. The tree looked beautiful, lightly twinkling and sparkling and fragrant, and even James was captivated, looking up from the reindeer antler he’d been chewing at the star that glistened on top. Hermione slipped her hand into Narcissa’s as they admired their handiwork, and then looked at the third box.
“There’s still a couple of branches left,” she said quietly, and felt Narcissa take a deep breath. “At least let’s open it.”
They did it together. The tape fell open under Hermione’s swift slicing spell, and they sat on the sofa, legs pressed together, as Narcissa balanced the box on her knees and slowly peeled back the layers of tissue paper that fluttered with years-old cushioning and protective charms. Nestled at the bottom were two baubles, and even though Hermione had seen them once before, when she’d helped Narcissa clear out the last of the attics in Malfoy Manor, she still gasped. They were still some of the most exquisite things she’d ever seen.
They were both made of glass, thin and delicate, goblin-blown from sand that had been struck by lightning, and would have been the right size to comfortably fit Hermione’s palm had she picked one up. She didn’t. That was for Narcissa. But she watched transfixed as a galaxy swirled in one, stars glittering like flakes of salt amongst the clouds of blue and black and violet. In the other, a tiny daffodil shook snow from its petals, unfurling itself from a tight bud and back again over and over.
Narcissa lifted out the galaxy, holding it tenderly in the palm of her hand, and Hermione saw tears sparkling at the edge of blue eyes. She rested her hand on Narcissa’s shoulder.
“What happened to Bellatrix’s?” she asked quietly. It took a moment for Narcissa to answer.
“I smashed it,” she eventually whispered. “I couldn’t bear to have it here.”
Hermione felt tears prick her own eyes as she slipped off the sofa to crouch in front of Narcissa. She had no idea how Narcissa had managed to do that - delicate as they looked, she knew the glass was almost indestructible - and she couldn’t imagine the force of grief and anger it must have taken. And she knew her girlfriend well enough by now to see the slight tinge of regret.
“You still have a sister, Cissy,” she murmured, lifting a hand to catch the tear that slid down Narcissa’s pale cheek. “I know you miss her.” She didn’t add that she knew how much of a strain it was becoming, trying to avoid all the threads that should have linked their lives together. She’d lost count of the number of birthdays and dinners that Narcissa had missed, simply because Andromeda would have been there too, and she knew from Harry - who was treading a fine balance between being both Hermione and Narcissa’s friend, and the godfather of Andromeda’s grandson - that Andromeda had done the same. “At least try not to shut her in a box anymore?”
Narcissa didn’t speak, but Hermione saw her eyes softening again as James burbled on the rug. With shaking fingers, she handed the glass ball carefully to Hermione.
“Would you…?”
Hermione smiled, and nodded. The glass felt warm in her hands, the stars of the Andromeda galaxy turning minutely slowly in time with the earth, and she got to her feet to find a space on the tree. While Narcissa busied herself with James, Hermione placed it on a thick branch at the front where it spun and then settled, its magic drifting like a cool midnight breeze. She placed the daffodil next to it. The flower made her smile, all the love she had for Narcissa swelling in her chest as her finger stroked the glass. She couldn’t imagine how the Christmas tree had ever looked complete without them.
When she turned, Narcissa was sitting on the rug with James on her knee, her face streaked with a few tears but smiling as a paper bird flew around their heads. Narcissa often did that; she would take small bits of paper and fold them into animals or birds, and they were always perfect. Always beautiful. This time, though, she’d charmed it to change colour, and every time the bird flickered from red to green or blue to orange, she lifted James up to try and catch it. He was giggling, loving the game, his little hands stretching for the bird that always flew just out of his reach, and Narcissa lazily flicked her wrist to send the bird in a different direction.
Hermione crouched down on the rug just behind her girlfriend and her godson, and the paper bird drifted to earth as she wrapped her arms around them both. The fire flickered warm on her back, orange and red shadows jumping almost lazily now in the grate. Her lips found Narcissa’s cheek as she turned them towards the tree, and Narcissa leaned back against her as she saw the two glass balls, so close they were almost touching.
“Thank you,” Narcissa whispered, and Hermione smiled.