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She stared, just stared at Ron for a very, very long time, as though if looking him in the eye long enough might suddenly make him laugh aloud and say he was only taking the Mickey. But she knew that wasn’t true, he wasn’t going to take it back, and what she had expected to be her perfect future with him was nothing more than imagination. Still, she couldn’t stop looking at Ron, who couldn’t meet her eyes.
Hermione opened her mouth finally, to say something, anything, but nothing came out. What was there to say, after all? Well, she thought, there’s quite a lot she ought to say and even more that he should be saying, but honestly, none of it would do either of them any good at this point. So, instead of voicing the multitude of questions she couldn’t form, Hermione gathered her few belongings and left without looking back.
The snow softly drifted down around her once she stepped outside. It had to be close to two degrees, but Hermione was too numb to notice.
Nearly five years they had been together, dating and then finally getting engaged a year and a half ago. Ron was perfectly all right with simply living together. He relished their privacy, the Spartan style of their flat. Growing up as overcrowded as he had, he truly appreciated the spaciousness, the freedom, which was surprising, at first. Hermione always worried that he would want to get married and start a family as soon as possible. Apparently, this was not her first misconception about the young man she’d been in love with most of her life.
Her footsteps increased with her racing brain as it caught up to her new reality. Where was she going to live? How could he do this to her, to them? What would Ginny think? What about Molly and Arthur – everyone in her extended family? Did they already know? What was she going to tell her parents, who had paid in advance for many of the wedding arrangements? The date had been set for 27 December, the final Saturday of the year, and he waited until just two weeks prior to call it off.
Hermione had no idea she had been crying until her nose had begun to run as well. She wiped her face roughly with her mittened-hands, scrubbing harsher than she ought.
She was well past the Apparition point at her former home, and despite her current distress, she couldn’t care less if she was seen by any Muggles. Hermione Disapparated to the Leaky Cauldron, not knowing where else to go for the night and not yet ready to face her parents’ shock and disappointment.
***
The salt in this gaping wound was that after his announcement, she was, essentially, homeless. She was in no state – emotionally or financially – to secure a flat before the holidays arrived, so she had temporarily moved back home with her parents. To say it wasn’t ideal would be an understatement. Hermione loved her parents, and they fully supported her, especially in this predicament, but she was too old to be dependent on them again. She promised them, and herself, that come the New Year, she’d be out of their way. They were wonderful, and she was quite thankful not only for their understanding and support, but also for the temporary setup. However, after only a week, she was beyond ready to find her own place.
Hermione flipped through the latest edition of the Daily Prophet, scouring the rag for any mention of their breakup. Of course, their engagement had been posted in the paper several months back; however, everyone had been alerted personally about the cancellation as the last thing any of them wanted was a public scandal, which was why she had threatened Rita Skeeter that if she published any mention of it whatsoever, she would expose her as an unregistered Animagis. To be honest, Hermione was surprised just how much mileage she still got out of that threat after so many years. Still, she would do whatever she had to do.
“Is this what the Ministry pays you so handsomely to do? Read the gossip columns?”
The hairs stood up on her neck, as though someone had scraped his fingernails down a chalkboard. There was only one person Hermione knew who had such an effect upon her. “Is there a reason you’re here, Malfoy, or are you simply lost again?” She lowered the paper and batted her eyes condescendingly.
Draco seethed. “That was just once -” He cleared his throat and touched the knot of his tie. Surreptitiously his eyes darted around her office. Satisfied with what he found, he spoke quietly. “I know, Granger.”
“Know…what, Malfoy?” She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips in exasperation, impatient for him to spit whatever it was out and get out.
“Oh, come on!” He rolled his eyes, his voice rising slightly. “Do you really think that word wouldn’t circulate faster than an office floozy that you and the Weasel were done?”
Her eyes narrowed and her mouth parted in shocked disgust, but a part of her wasn’t so surprised. If Draco Malfoy, of all people, had heard of her disastrous breakup, then there was hardly any point in threatening Rita Skeeter; the entire Wizarding world must know! With a huff, she gathered a stack of parchments, tapped them aggressively into alignment, and made to walk away from him. Unfortunately, he followed.
“I won’t say I’m surprised. I never could understand what you saw in him, anyway. All that horrifying red hair, covered in ghastly freckles. Tell me, though, is he covered head to toe in them? Never mind,” Draco laughed, easily keeping pace with her, despite her increased speed. “I really don’t want to know! Can’t imagine how you could withstand them, though.”
They had reached the lift and she turned to look at him pointedly.
“But yours, on the other hand,” he instantly backpedaled, “are hardly noticeable. In fact, one would have to be really close to even spot them, pardon the pun.”
Cutting him off, Hermione asked again with a great deal of irritation, “What do you want?”
The lift doors closed. They were fortunately the only occupants, yet neither had selected a floor. She felt her cheeks burn, and she silently wished he would jump out into the shaft and leave her in peace. Mentally, she counted the passing empty seconds, having decided that he if didn’t speak quickly, she would hex his bollocks to the size of grapefruit. Two seconds before her limit, he finally spoke, to her mild disappointment.
“Since you’re not getting married this weekend,” he began in a most irritating fashion, “would you like to have dinner with me instead?”
Hermione had half turned towards him, ready to curse him for bringing up her cancelled wedding again, but was completely shocked by his request. She stared up at him, speechless. The parchments slipped from her hands, scattering all across the floor of the lift. When Draco broke their silent gaze to retrieve the fallen pages, Hermione’s senses returned.
“Where do you get off talking to me like that, Malfoy? Have you no shame at all? First, you come into my office to gloat about my failed relationship. Next, you ridicule the man I loved, just to rile me up. Now you have the audacity to insult me further by mocking me? Is this what you do in your spare time, make others feel about this big?” She pinched her finger and thumb close together before snatching the pages he held. The tears were threatening to spill over, but she absolutely refused to break down in front of him.
After she stood up, she jabbed a random button and the lift jerked to life. It didn’t matter where they were going; wherever the doors opened first, that was her destination. She clutched the muddled parchments almost for dear life and stared down the lift doors, waiting impatiently. Her ears were enflamed from the mortification. At least no one else had been present for his stunt.
“The man you loved?”
She glowered, her shoulders hunching. Draco cleared his throat as he shifted and spoke again.
“Hermione, I’m completely serious. I am sincerely asking you to have dinner with me. I,” he sighed, one hand coasting over his hair to make sure it was in place. “I know we don’t have the most… amicable of histories, but we’re adults now. I know I’ve changed. And I’ve wanted to get to know the adult you for quite some time, but you’ve always been with Weasley. Out of respect for your… situation… I did wait until you seemed ready -”
“’Ready’? It’s barely been over a week since my five-year relationship with the only man I’ve ever loved ended! I was supposed to be married in four days, and you think I’m ready to date again? Date you?”
The lift jerked to a stop, shuffling Draco and Hermione into each other briefly. He caught her arms and kept her pages from scattering a second time. Hermione wouldn’t look at him, even though she knew he was watching her carefully, seemingly unperturbed by her outburst. The doors opened and then shut again when neither moved to exit. This time, Draco pressed a button without looking and they were moving once more. Hermione took the opportunity to put space between them.
She cleared her throat. “Who told you that we’d broken up, anyhow?” Of course, she wasn’t attempting to deny it, but rather wanted to know whom the culprit was spreading her private business around. She mentally calculated her revenge in the scant seconds before he replied.
“Oh, I heard it on the wind.”
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Please, don’t patronize me any further. Who was it? Patil? Wilkins? It was Bethany Wilkins, wasn’t it?”
“Like I said, I heard it on the wind. You see, Granger,” he hesitated, grimacing. “I… I can talk to snow.”
Once again, the lift doors opened and neither moved, except this time it was Draco who avoided her gobsmacked stare. Surely, she heard him wrong, so she politely asked him to repeat himself, which he did. Hearing a second time that Draco Malfoy, Slytherin bully and former Death Eater, could talk to snow didn’t make it any more believable.
Her mouth opened and closed a few times, no words actually forming until at last her mind clicked over. “How exactly does that work?”
Draco took a deep breath and glanced up at the ceiling. “Not sure, to be perfectly honest. It’s something I’ve always been able to do, it seems, ever since I was a child, before Hogwarts. My mother would allow me to play out in the snow, building snowmen and having snowball fights with her or the house-elves. The snowmen were much easier to understand, you see, because they had actual mouths, yet I could sometimes make out what the pressed balls said. When it snows, it’s like listening to a chorus of locusts buzzing, soft murmurs.”
“What does it say?” Hermione stared at him in utter fascination, her own humiliation forgotten.
“Sometimes it’s quite difficult to make out anything coherent. It’s as though each flake has its own voice, its own message. Just like the snippets of any conversation in a crowd – the snow carries so many different discussions. I’ve learned over the years to ignore it – who would believe me, anyway? Not to mention just how bizarre it sounds – look at you, for instance. I’m only telling you this, first, because you asked how I heard about your break-up. Word travelled through the snow, through the coal-lined mouths of every snowman between here and there, and naturally, it reached me. And secondly, I’m telling you that I can understand the whispers of snow because I know you -”
A snort escaped through her nose and soon turned into a snicker, then full-out laughter. Bizarre hardly covered it. Ridiculous was more like it. Of all the crazy excuses and out-right lies he could have given, whispering to snow was the most outrageous, and she couldn’t help but laugh hysterically.
“- wouldn’t laugh.” Draco cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I see I was wrong.”
“Oh, Draco! Oh, I’m terribly sorry. What a ludicrous story!” The stack of parchments shifted as she wiped away errant tears from her eyes.
He stared down at her and spoke earnestly. “It’s the truth, Hermione, every word of it.”
Suddenly, it was no longer funny. She stared back at Draco for a long moment. Not for the first time, she wished she were a Legilimens to know what the truth was. A niggling feeling within her heart told her he wasn’t lying and she had no idea what to say or do. When the lift doors opened again, she practically ran through them.
***
The snow was falling steadily outside, adding yet more inches to the neighbourhood. Every little thing reminded her of Ron, Harry, or the Weasleys, and she couldn’t stop herself from missing them all, despite the heartache. As she watched the flakes fly about before settling down, blending into the blinding banks surrounding her, her mind replayed her conversation with Draco. The sting had worn off, leaving behind curiosity and fascination.
What if he was telling the truth? Was it possible to actually communicate with snow? Snow was, after all, a constantly reincarnated entity: water vapour becomes ice crystals in the clouds, and then the snowflakes descend to the earth, becoming a blanket of snow, which eventually melts away and returns to water. Again and again, never ending.
Life eternal.
If Draco was telling the truth, if snow could communicate, imagine how much it would know of the world. So much more than mankind could know. Hermione’s mind reeled at the possibilities. However, she couldn’t fully accept the notion.
She shook her head to clear it, and then snatched her coat from the hall closet. With a quick shout to her parents, she headed out into the snow. The sun had set on this Christmas Eve as she slowly walked through the neighbourhood, taking in all the wonderful decorations. A few front windows displayed Christmas trees, brilliantly lit up and shining. She imagined the perfectly happy families or couples within, making final preparations for the morning; children of all ages eagerly awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus, bringing presents and pre-packaged happiness to them.
She couldn’t help but think once more about Ron and what he might be doing this evening. The cold somehow found its way past her heavy coat, so she wrapped her arms about her stomach and tucked her chin into her scarf. Her fingers were quite cold, having lost her mittens. It was silly to think that a walk in the snow would wipe away her heartache, so she turned around to head home.
That was when she saw Draco, standing across the street a few houses down. He wasn’t watching her, she noticed, but rather seemed to be addressing a snowman. Hermione watched from a distance as Draco adjusted the purple scarf wrapped carelessly around the thick snowy neck, securing it properly. Draco stepped back, his lips still moving. It was mesmerizing, to see him have a one-sided conversation. Hermione couldn’t decide whether she ought to simply walk on or contact St. Mungo’s straight away.
Most of all, she was surprised to see Draco turn towards her and smile. When had she crossed the distance? He stood not five feet away now, half turned towards her. In his hands, he held a pair of orange mittens, which she stared at, wondering why in the world Draco Malfoy would have such garish things.
“They’re for Harold,” he said, as though hearing her thoughts. She looked up at him abruptly, her eyes wide. “The children who built him didn’t remember to give him gloves, so I bought these down at the corner store. Terrible colour, but Harold,” he nodded towards the snowman, “doesn’t mind a bit.”
“He told you that?” Hermione quietly asked as she took another step towards them both, her eyes darting between Draco, the mittens, and ‘Harold.’ Draco smiled. She blurted out, “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you, to wish you Happy Christmas,” he answered quietly, his smile transforming into a smirk. “Also, I thought I’d see if you’d changed your mind about Saturday night dinner.”
Ignoring the last part, she asked, “What else were you and ‘Harold’ talking about?”
“You.”
“Me? What about me?”
Draco considered her question for a moment, fiddling with the snowman meanwhile, until finally he answered, “About how you don’t deserve what Weasley did to you, especially after how long you two had been together. I mean, if a bloke is gay, then -”
“Hold on,” she interrupted, her hand raised as though to hush him. “Who… What do you mean, Ron is gay?”
He crossed his arms and rolled his eyes down at her. “Come off it, Hermione. Harold told me everything.”
“He did,” she asked incredulously, and Draco nodded. “You’re telling me that this … inanimate, ridiculous snowman told you that my fiancé -”
“Former fiancé,” he interjected.
Hermione frowned. The heat in her cheeks spread to her ears, and she wanted desperately to demand that Draco keep his voice down. She blustered, unable to complete a single sentence as Draco ushered her towards a snow-covered garden bench to sit. She was close to tears when Draco spoke once more.
“No one else knows, Hermione. Of course, you haven’t told anybody the truth, and I have my doubts that Ron’s worked up the courage to tell his family, has he? What is he telling them all about your break-up, anyway?”
Hermione whispered, “He’s admitting he’s been unfaithful to me, but we agreed to not to disclose with whom. It would break Ginny’s heart.”
“Like it has yours,” he said, cupping her flaming cheek gently. She met his eyes. “I won’t tell a soul. Years ago, I would have rejoiced at sharing such a scandal – Ron Weasley and Harry Potter: Poofs? Probably would have had buttons passed out as well,” he said with a chuckle. “But not now. I don’t care a whit what it would do to either of those prats, but for you, I’d do anything, Hermione.”
She sat silently, processing the news. The night Ron had called off their engagement and broken her heart, he had said that he was in love with someone else: Harry Potter. The shock of it all was overwhelming and shamed her greatly. How had she not known? Was she really so oblivious? She knew their relationship was deeper than hers with either of them, but she honestly had had no idea just how much so. Regardless of her heartbreak, she loved both of her best friends too much to reveal their secret relationship, even after Ron’s betrayal – their betrayal, actually.
What she could not fathom, however, was how Draco Malfoy knew. It was impossible. Unless…
She looked at him closely, earnestly. Unless he was being honest about his ability to talk to snow. Her mind could hardly wrap around the notion, so she tried to think of any other possibility. Draco took advantage of the opportunity to explain.
“Harold heard it from another snowman, and he from another, and so on and so forth, and I heard it, too. I didn’t want to mention it at the Ministry; too many eavesdroppers,” he said conspiratorially, and for not the first time, she thought him a little mad. “Ron doesn’t deserve your love or friendship. Neither do I, for that matter. However, I’d like a chance.”
“Draco,” she sighed. “This is all too much. Prove to me that you can actually talk to snow.”
He gave her a perplexed look. “Isn’t knowing that your former lover is queer evidence enough?”
Hermione snatched Draco’s gloved hand and trudged back towards the snowman. “Prove it to me. Talk to him.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now! Show me! How do you do it?”
“Don’t know! I just … can. What do you want me to…?”
“I want to see you talk to snow. I want you to convince me that you’ve not escaped St. Mungo’s or are a terrible gossip.” Hermione planted her feet next to Draco, who she positioned directly in front of the snowman he called ‘Harold’, and watched expectantly. After an awkward moment during which Draco fawned with ‘Harold’s’ scarf, he began to address him.
“Merlin, Harold! She wants me to prove myself! Suppose I ought to have anticipated this, huh? Yes, I know. Let’s see, what can we do?” Draco stared at the snowman so Hermione focused on him as well.
She wasn’t sure what she expected to see happen – possibly to witness the snowman come to life as Frosty had in his story from long ago, or perhaps to see his coal mouth animate in a cartoonish manner. Whatever she thought ought to happen, she was greatly disappointed, because nothing happened whatsoever. Not a twitch or shake, not a single piece of coal moved. Her heart sank, to her surprise, but more surprising was that Draco apparently saw, or heard, something she could not, for he nodded his head and spoke once more.
“Despite Harold’s policy against parlour tricks, he says he’s willing to help me, for your sake.” He briefly smirked, but then continued before she could question him. “Harold would like to know what you’d like to discuss.”
With a roll of her eyes, Hermione muttered, “How about the weather?”
“Obviously, the – ow! Damn, Granger! Must you be so violent?” He rubbed his shoulder before relaying ‘Harold’s’ message. “According to Harold, you are staying with your parents through New Year or shortly thereafter, until you secure a new place of your own.”
The look she gave him demonstrated just how unimpressed she was with this bit of knowledge. However, before she could say as much, Draco raised a hand to still her as he ‘listened’ to the snowman.
“He says that you used to build snowmen with your father when you were a little girl, but that instead of making standard snowmen, you made… snow monkeys? Is that right?”
Mouth agape, she stared at Draco. How could he possibly know that? She had been very young, long before Hogwarts. It wasn’t even something she had shared with Ron, yet Draco knew. Urgently she grabbed a hold of his elbow and demanded to know more. With a nearly silently laugh, Draco obliged. Their peculiar conversation continued for several minutes, Hermione thinking of many questions for the snowman, the answers to which Draco good-humouredly relayed, even after she delved into his privacy. In the span of ten minutes, Hermione learned much more about Draco Malfoy than she ever would have supposed.
Soon, she was laughing loudly, often at his expense, and wished desperately that she could also hear ‘Harold’, for she was certain Draco did not express everything the snowman had to say. The smile on her face hurt her cheeks and she realized it had been far too long since she’d been happy. She had Draco Malfoy to thank for that.
When their laughter tapered off, both were smiling at one another.
“So, how about it Granger? Want to have dinner with me Saturday night?”
She considered him for a moment longer. “All right,” she agreed with a sigh. “It’s not as if I have anything better to do.”
His hand clutched at his chest in mock pain, and she gently slapped his arm. “Cheer up, Hermione. A new year’s ahead. Happy Christmas, Harold,” he nodded towards the snowman and Hermione imagined a twinkle in his button eyes.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Happy Christmas.”
Draco crooked his arm and she instantly placed hers within, and together they marched through the deepening snow back to her parents’ house. Draco was absolutely right: Next year would definitely be an improvement.