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The tent got cold at night.
The war had dragged on for three years and Draco still wasn’t used to it. He told himself this was a bit pathetic. His upper lip should be properly British and stiff and unfazed by Scottish nights and snow and the way the wet air cut to the bone. He shouldn’t be the sort to feel even a bit sorry for himself that neither warming spell nor wool socks ever quite got the chill out of his toes. He was fighting the good fight, wands raised against tyranny, and all that.
It was just so bloody cold all the time.
It wasn’t right to be cold on Christmas Eve.
Draco muttered it to himself out of bed and shoved his feet into his boots. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. If he got his hands on Voldemort, he’d hit the bastard with so many freezing spells, his balls would become solid chunks of ice.
Assuming Voldemort had testicles. He didn’t have a nose so maybe he’d missed a few other bits and bobs on his way into evil immortality. Draco didn’t care. The point was, he was cold, and he wanted his enemy to be colder, but right now none of that mattered because he had an errand to run.
A seasonal errand.
And maybe a bit more. The errand of a lifetime.
Hermione dragged her head out from under the pile of warmed and heavy blankets and eyed him. “Is there something I should know?”
“We’re at war, it’s cold, and I want some tea,” Draco said as if that were the most natural thing in the world.
“Tea?” She sounded incredulous. “You’re going out for tea? In this?”
She had a point. Thick, wet snow was coming down. They’d made camp two days earlier, sheltered halfway behind an overhang, hidden from Death Eaters and Snatchers and any of the do-gooders who’d be delighted to turn Order members in because they were the bad guys, waging a guerrilla war against the rightful government. Draco’d listened to the radio broadcasts and overheard enough casual conversations that he knew what most of magical Britain thought.
Fuckers, all of them.
The Order was right, something anyone who’d had to spend any time around Voldemort would know. Not that Draco would wish that experience on many people.
“There are standards of civilization,” Draco said. “Also, it’s a hot drink, and there’s only so much boiled water a man can drink before he wants it to have a little flavor. I know we said we’d wait the storm out, but I think I can manage a quick apparition without getting caught.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, and Draco swallowed his relief. She bought it. Years of camping and fighting and hiking and together and usually she read him so easily lying was pointless.
Do you still hate Harry? No, of course not. Liar.
Are you hurt? Just a scratch, don’t worry about it. You’re bleeding, get over here.
What do you think of me? You’re a bushy-haired know-it-all horror. I hate being stuck with you. Liar.
It had been true at first. He’d resented the hell out of the way they’d been paired together. Been sure it was the result of someone’s malicious sense of humor. Take the defector, stick him with the girl he bullied, make sure he’s always afraid she’ll go after him in his sleep. And he’d heard some of the stories of things she’d done. Attacked Ron with canaries. Kept that reporter in a jar. Set Snape on fire. She would go after a man in his sleep if he crossed her, not even a question in his mind.
But it wasn’t true now. And she knew it.
“Fine,” Hermione said. “Go out in the snow. But if you get caught, don’t expect me to come and rescue you.”
“I would never,” Draco said.
The blankets only mostly smothered her muttered, “Liar.”
He got out of the wind behind a pine tree and downed the polyjuice potion he’d gotten his hands on a month before. The taste was as vile as always, but the magic turned him from someone very much wanted by the Dark Lord to a blandly-faced man in his forties. His dull brown hair was thinning on top and his waist had expanded enough to strain at Draco’s trousers. He was tediously, boringly middle-aged. It was a nightmare.
It would also be freedom for an hour.
He concentrated on where he wanted to be and disappeared into the squeezing void, then popped out into the alley behind a small shop in London. He had one foot in a rubbish bin, the other atop something foul and squishy. Draco scraped his shoe against the pavement and tried not to think too much about what that might have been and focus instead on the silver lining. It was warm enough in London that things could squish. It had been a while since his world had involved anything but ice.
Of course, that also meant it was raining and a fat drop of water rolled off an awning and landed right on his face. But that was fine. He was here, he was disguised, and he would take care of business. Draco shook himself, stomped the remaining snow off his boots – that would be a dead giveaway – then walked briskly around to the street.
The holiday shoppers were muted – war did that – but they were out. A woman strode by, festive scarf around her neck, two small children dragged behind her. A man said, “This weather,” in disgust as he passed, and Draco nodded in polite agreement. The weather was indeed terrible.
Then he let himself into the shop, announced by a festive jingle of bells tied to the door.
The heat hit him in the face, humid and oppressive and overscented. Everyone who came in here was damp and the shopkeeper had compensated by running heating charms at full blast. His clothes began to dry out for the first time in weeks. Draco glanced at the line, considered how long he had before the polyjuice wore out, and grabbed a shopping basket. Tea, of course. He'd said he was getting tea and she’d never let him hear the end of it if he showed up without it. But also presents: books, chocolate, a few small things, a strand of silver garland, and some Christmas crackers. He even bought a minced pie and some oranges courtesy of a fundraising table set up by a youth Quidditch league. He had the money, after all. Disguise was his shopping problem, not funds.
Time ticked away as he stood in line, one minute in the hot shop after another. Draco knew he was pushing it, but he told the girl that, yes, he’d love to have the gifts wrapped when she asked. It wasn’t like he had a role of paper in the tent and, even if he did, he wouldn’t get any privacy to use it. But it took her longer than he expected, and she had to go in the back to find another pair of scissors, then she got stuck talking to a customer, and – bit by bit – Draco could feel pieces of himself popping back into view.
His robes weren’t anything special so he didn't need to worry about clothes giving him away, but the gut started to fade, and Draco began to fervently wish he had a hat to hide the blond. He’d thought the thinning brown hair was so clever and now he was going to be hoisted on his own petard.
“Could we hurry this along?” he asked, trying to hide any hint of nerves in his voice. He was only tired of standing on his feet. Only tired of waiting in line. He wasn’t at all worried people would start to notice he was turning back into Draco Malfoy. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Sorry,” the shop girl said with a customer service smile. She continued to wrap his gifts with meticulous care. If anything, she began to move more slowly, and, as she folded the bright paper into a perfect crease, Draco’s scalp tingled with the unmistakable feel of magic.
She glanced up.
A drop of sweat gathered along the edge of his hairline and began to itch its way down his face.
“That’s so funny,” she said.
Draco tried to look bored and nonchalant as he sized up her, the shop, and the people in line. Other than one bored Death Eater picking out candles, they all looked weak. If the shite hit the fan, he could apparate away before any of them grabbed him. He eyed the packages on her wrapping table and considered what would happen if he just grabbed them and left. He’d already paid for them, after all. It wouldn’t be stealing. “What’s funny?” he asked.
“It’s just I would have sworn your hair was brown, but in this light, it looks blond.”
Draco ran a hand through his hair with deliberate self-consciousness and forced a laugh. “Probably the grey, I’m afraid.”
She smiled awkwardly, then placed the gifts into a bag one at a time, tucking them in with utter care. In any other circumstances, Draco would have been glad she wasn’t just dumping things in with no concern for whether or not they would break. Right now, he just wanted her to hurry up before his jawline sharpened, the jowls faded, and his brown eyes turned to their distinctive grey.
Time ticked along, each inevitable second weakening his disguise.
She put the last package in the bag, then frowned, seemingly unhappy with how the arrangement worked, and began to take them out again. “I should get a larger bag,” she said. “This doesn’t all quite fit. Could you wait a moment while I go to the back?”
“No,” Draco snapped.
Around him, heads turned. This wasn’t the way to behave in a shop and wasn’t the way to speak to someone who worked there. Not unless you were an asshole.
Or some kind of arrogant pureblood.
With blond hair.
The Death Eater stopped fussing with the scented candles and reached for his wand. Draco snatched up the bag and shoved the final gift down the side right as the last bit of his disguise melted away.
“Grab him,” the Death Eater hissed, and Draco knew the game was up. “He’s worth all your lives.”
But Draco had his gifts, and he had his wand, and he wasn't afraid of a lone soldier in a public place. He was actually relieved after all the tension of waiting. He liked fighting more than spying and liked making fools of his opponents even more. He blew Voldemort's lackey a kiss, knowing the man would hate that. “No one wants those candles, and the Order sends their love. Merry Christmas, everybody.” Then he apparated away, out of the heat and the crowds of Christmas shopping back into the cold woods.
He dropped into an immediate fighting stance, bag at his feet, wand out. But no one had followed him. It was just him, the wet snow, and an angry bird that chittered at him from a branch. The woods were otherwise still. The mingled perfumes of the shop were gone, and a fresh coating of white covered everything with a peace that was magic all by itself.
He was home.
He hoped the Death Eater felt like an absolute idiot. He'd tell Hermione about it later, and she'd laugh. Or at least he hoped she'd laugh. Maybe she'd tell him he was a fool.
Or maybe things would be super awkward and it wouldn't be a good time to share stories. He supposed he would find out. The soft glow of the tent beckoned, his future inside. He picked up his bag of gifts and began weaving under trees, avoiding the drifts, on his way to the light.
Hermione had set up their small table and laid a small Christmas dinner on it. Leftover slices of cheese. What remained of the loaf of bread they’d picked up in a Muggle grocery. It wasn’t much.
It was everything.
She was everything.
Of course, he was also going to die of heat if he didn’t get all the layers off, so he unwound his scarf and shrugged off his coat.
“Did you get the tea?” she asked.
“Mmm,” Draco said. He reached into the bag and tossed the tea onto the table. “Picked up a few other things while I was there.”
She turned at that and laughed when she saw the bag. “A few, huh?”
He handed over the pie and the oranges, then pulled out the garland. “Figured we could use some decorations.” He made a show of sniffing. “Not sure how Muggle families did this, but we always hung the odd bit of tinsel here and there.”
His mother had turned the mansion into a veritable wonderland every year – far more than a few bits of tinsel – and what he had to offer felt paltry in comparison, but Hermione took the garland with a look of wonder that turned it into the most beautiful Christmas display imaginable. “You got decorations?”
He’d made her happy, and that was a rare thing in this war. It had been worth all the risk to see that smile on her face. “It is Christmas,” Draco said with a sniff. He passed over the crackers and she set them on the table with growing delight. “I’m not an animal, Hermione.”
She muttered what might have been “ferret” under her breath, and he amended. “I am not usually an animal.”
That pulled a laugh from her, and his shoulders, still a little tense from the near-miss in the shop, released. This hadn’t been an easy few years, and the reasons for smiles had been few and far between. Making Hermione laugh in the face of all that was a gift beyond price.
Of course, he had a few gifts that were not beyond price, and he’d risked a lot by staying to get them wrapped. And he also had dinner.
“Well, it probably needs heating,” he said with all the sneer he could muster. “No one likes room-temperature pie.”
“I think I can do that,” Hermione said. "Pie, huh?"
He didn’t want to admit how much the pleasure in her voice warmed him. That was being a little too vulnerable. Easier to brush it off as trivial, so he said, “There’s some sort of rule of civility, Hermione. Maybe Muggles don’t have it, but when you see a bunch of kids selling things for a fundraiser, you buy it.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Big supporter of the youth. I always said that about you.”
The words had an edge to them, but she was grinning, and her eyes sparkled. That they’d become the sort of friends who could tease one another was yet another gift. He was greedy, though. He’d been a selfish, spoiled child who’d always gotten everything he wanted, and some habits were hard to break. He wanted more.
But first, the gifts he’d gotten her.
“I like to support small businesses, too,” he said. “Shop owners struggling with the war and all. It’s the least one can do.”
He pulled the presents he’d gotten her, all wrapped up in glittering silver paper and tied with bright red ribbons. He hadn’t asked for those colors – they’d been the defaults the wrapping station used – but he liked the nod to both of their school colors. Tradition was important at Christmas. Something old. But also something new.
At Christmas and weddings both.
He tucked the last gift down into his pocket. This one would need a little explanation. And, besides, all the wrapped books and chocolate he’d gotten her, along with another pair of magic wool socks (“charmed to keep your toes warmed all winter long!”) were already weighing the table down.
“This doesn’t look like the least,” Hermione said. She touched one of the packages. “This looks a bit over-the-top, really.”
“Over the top would have been the scented candles,” he said.
Hermione made a disgusted face. “No one likes those.”
“That’s what I told the man buying them.”
“Well, thank you for skipping that,” Hermione said. She touched the pie, and steam began to rise from it courtesy of magic. “Eat now, or should I open these first?”
Draco reached down into his pocket and ran a finger around the tiny box he’d hidden. His throat was suddenly dry, and his palms clammy, and the possibility this was a terrible terrible idea turned his muscles to lead and made pulling the last gift out an act of will and strength. If he was wrong – if this was a mistake, the rest of their time working together as a team would be miserable. And it wasn’t like the Order would break them up. Ron would think it funny, and they did work well together. They were nearly unstoppable on the battlefield.
“Hermione,” he said, but the word got stuck in his mouth halfway between his tongue and his lips. He tried again. “Hermione.”
She turned, curiosity turning to obvious shock at the sight of the tiny box sitting on his palm. “Draco –” she began.
“I was a right shite to you in school,” he said before she could get anything more out. He’d rehearsed this a hundred times in his head, but it had seemed easier there. It was harder to say it with her watching him, brown eyes wide. If he didn’t get it all out in one go, he might never be able to say the words. “I didn’t like you. You didn’t like me. But I said unforgivable things, and I said them from a position of relative power.”
“That was all a long time –”
He plowed onward. “When they assigned us together, I wasn’t happy.
You weren’t happy. But in the years we’ve spent working together – living together – I have realized you are the strongest woman I’ve ever met. The smartest. The most beautiful. And I know that I’m not worthy of you, but if you’d marry me I’d spend the rest of my life trying to be.”
Hermione picked the box with the ring off his hand, wonder on her face.
“It’s not anything nice,” he said in a hurry, suddenly afraid she expected some kind of Malfoy heirloom. “It’s just –”
She opened the box and he stopped breathing.
She picked out the ridiculous ring. It was the sort of thing you bought a whinging child to shut them up on a long shopping trip. The band was cheap metal so thin it was almost wire and the ‘gemstone’ was glass.
Draco’s soul shrank back and shriveled as Hermione studied it. He prepared himself to pass it off as a joke. No cheap bauble like that could be a serious engagement ring. If they both pretended he hadn’t meant it then it wouldn’t be completely unbearable to live together in this tent. His heart would break, but he could live with –
“I love it,” she said.
Draco’s heart lurched into his throat.
“But I think it’s traditional for you to put it on,” she said and held it back out to him.
“It’s not going to fit me,” he said stupidly before he realized what she meant. That she was saying yes. That this was happening. Then it got hard to breathe and Draco Malfoy – a man who’d faced down a dozen Death Eaters at a time while laughing – felt faint. He took the ring from her as the tent wobbled around him, or maybe he was the one wobbling, and said, “You’re sure?”
“You’re an idiot,” Hermione said. “Of course, I’m sure. I’m a very logical person. Put it on, then I have a gift for you.”
His fingers were sweaty and he almost dropped the cheap ring as he slid it onto her hand. Married. She’d agreed to marry him. He only spared a thought to wonder what she’d gotten him when she pulled a small box out of her endless bag of tricks. He wasn’t sure when she’d found the time to go shopping. She had to have planned ahead, picked whatever this was up ages ago, and tucked it away. She’d even wrapped it, which was impressive. “Thank you,” Draco said.
She watched him with an inscrutable smile on her face as he carefully untied the green ribbon and undid the glossy gold paper. The box was tiny so he was guessing cufflinks, maybe, or a tiepin. They were both impractical for this life, of course, but not much else would fit in her package and they were the sort of things the old Draco would have wanted.
Draco opened the box.
It was not a set of cufflinks.
For the second time in under five minutes, it was hard to breathe. A gold ring sat in a little velvet holder. It was heavy and solid and indisputably a wedding ring. “I don’t know what to say,” he stammered out.
“I know it’s traditional for the man to ask,” Hermione said. “But I thought… something new, you know? Shake it up a little. So… maybe a bit pointless to ask now, but… Draco Malfoy, will you marry me?”
He said yes.
But you knew he would.