Work Text:
DECEMBER 20
’Twas the season to be jolly, and yet all Hermione felt was misery.
It wasn’t that Hermione hated Christmas, really; it was just that she hated everything that came with it: the blinding, migraine-inducing lights, the constant adverts, the never-ending blasting of Christmas music, the expectation to be chipper and cheery at all times.
And that was to say nothing of the the relentless pressure to select the perfect gifts—accompanied by the inevitable feelings of failure and guilt—and the annual reminder that she would not be able to spend the holiday season over Dad’s “Famous Hot Chocolate” paired with biscuits she’d baked with Mum.
(Alright, so maybe she hated Christmas.)
Aside from the occasional Grinch jokes (and one poorly-received lump of coal in her stocking), her disdain for the holiday was typically met with idle curiosity followed by awkward shuffling.
Typically.
Draco Malfoy was not the typical recipient of such news.
As always, Hermione’s position was met with his resistance.
“Granger!” barked Malfoy from across the Auror’s Office. She swiveled in her chair, turning to face him as he strode across the office, wearing an expression of bewildered indignation and a light-up reindeer jumper under his Auror robes. “Please tell me that Potter was referring to another Hermione Granger who’s volunteered to cover nearly every open shift this week.”
“Are you aware of another Hermione Granger in the office?” asked Hermione facetiously.
“Are you mad?”
“No,” she said, freshly annoyed by the exasperation in his tone. “I’m not particularly fond of Christmas,” she said in what was a vast understatement.
“But—everyone likes Christmas!” he sputtered.
Hermione lifted her shoulder in a shrug, struggling to keep her face impassive. “I don’t.”
Grey, speculative eyes began a rather obvious survey of Hermione, scanning her body and concluding with a pointed glance at her desk, which was devoid of tinsel, snow-globes, and other similarly festive items that adorned the desks of their coworkers.
“I thought you were making a point about capitalism ruining the season,” he said finally, as if she were known for that sort of thing.
(She was.)
“And,” he continued, “you’re wearing an ugly jumper, but you’re not wearing an ugly Christmas jumper.”
Hermione crossed her arms over her (perfectly pleasant and entirely inoffensive) beige jumper.
“My jumper isn’t ugly. Unlike that monstrosity,” she added under her breath, inclining her head toward Malfoy’s jumper and matching Rudolph’s beady-eyed stare with a glower of her own.
Malfoy rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “The point of an Ugly Christmas Jumper Party is to wear an ugly Christmas jumper,” he said slowly, as if he were explaining a complicated arithmancy problem.
“Right, well, this isn’t the time for such frivolity,” said Hermione with a sniff. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve got work to do. The tax evasion investigation isn’t going to solve itself.”
He took a step forward to fully stand in her tiny cubicle.
Instinctively, she leaned further into her chair, her shoulders pressed firmly against the leather.
It was dangerous, Hermione had learned, to allow such closeness between herself and Malfoy. It afforded her too many observational opportunities, forced her to learn too much about him.
There was no reason for Hermione to know that Draco Malfoy—her coworker, no, her partner, for Merlin’s sake—had near-imperceptible flecks of blue in his grey eyes and smelled of cedarwood and amber no matter how much they’d physically exerted themselves in the field.
There was even less reason to dwell on such facts long after her shifts ended.
Malfoy tutted in disapproval. “My dear Granger,” he all but purred. “If Yule isn’t the season for frivolity, than what is? Besides, didn’t I tell you? Bromley confessed last night.”
“What? When? Why wasn’t I alerted sooner?”
“You rushed out of here like a Cerberus out of Hades.” He narrowed his eyes at her non-festive jumper. “To shame children for participating in ‘frivolity,’ I presume.”
Hermione responded to the barb like the professional witch that she was:
She kicked him in the shin.
It left a beautiful imprint of her heel on his charcoal grey trousers and a smile on her face.
With a groan that was entirely masculine and not at all attractive, Malfoy bent down to rub at the site.
“And here I thought you’d be thanking me for closing a case.”
“I expect you to Owl me when you make significant progress on our cases,” she scolded.
“Point taken,” grumbled Malfoy.
Then, because he was still rubbing at his leg, and because she wasn’t always a sadistic monster struggling to cope with the holiday season, she rose from her chair, gesturing for Malfoy to take her place.
“I didn’t kick you that hard,” she began in preemptive defense. “But it was still uncalled for. Let me take a look.”
For Malfoy was, historically, content to be fawned over, he did not hesitate. “Don’t sell yourself short,” he said as he sat. “You’ve got a heck of a punter there. Have you ever played that muggle sport—oh, what’s the one with the black and white ball?”
“Football,” said Hermione absently, for she’d just realized she’d gotten herself into a bit of a mess.
First, she’d subjected herself to the sight of Draco Malfoy at her desk. It shouldn’t have been so…evocative, but it was. Undeniably so.
He looked so big, sitting in her chair, with his broad shoulders and his long legs slightly open and taking up space the way that haughty men tended to do.
Second, because she’d found herself lowering to her knees to inspect him since her cubicle was too small to allow for a second chair.
Malfoy didn’t seem nearly as bothered by her position before him. Even as she lifted his trouser leg, he chattered blithely about his introduction to football by Ronald, and his desire to observe a match in-person as a spectator.
Hermione conducted, simultaneously, a cursory examination of his injury—a barely-there pink mark that’d already begun to fade—and a completely thorough one of his calf—muscular, sturdy, and sporting a thin, jagged scar just below his knee.
That was how Harry found them: Hermione, on her knees, holding her coworker’s calf with too much focus to be considered polite, whilst said coworker monologued about the similarities and differences between quidditch and football.
Pushing off the ground, Hermione scrambled to her feet. “You’ll live,” she said to Malfoy. Then, to Harry, she said in explanation, “I kicked him.”
“Right,” said Harry slowly, sending a backward glance over his shoulder as if he were contemplating his escape. “I just came to confirm that you’ll be covering Christmas morning, as well—”
“Christmas morning?” interrupted a disbelieving Malfoy, leaping out of Hermione’s chair with such force that it rolled into the bookshelf and filing cabinet behind them. “Granger, this is ridiculous. You can’t possibly be working the entire Yuletide.”
“I can, and I am,” said Hermione, vexed.
Malfoy scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Potter, even you must find this”—he gestured to Hermione with a jerky incline of his head—“absurd.”
“Harry respects my decisions,” she snapped, speaking before the wizard in question had a chance to even think of responding.
“I feel a bit like I’ve stepped in the middle of something,” said Harry.
Without breaking Malfoy’s penetrating, irritated gaze, Hermione said to Harry, “I’ll be here Christmas morning. Consider that my official confirmation.”
Harry’s responsive, “Got it, thanks!” was delivered at the same time as his swift departure.
“C’mon, Granger,” said Malfoy, who’d entered into the bargaining stage of grief. “You seriously aren’t working over the entire holiday. That’s unhealthy, is what that is!”
“Is not,” retorted Hermione maturely. “I told you: I simply don’t like Christmas.”
“Hmph,” he said, challenge glinting in his eyes. “We’ll see about that.”
DECEMBER 21
On the first night of Yule, Hermione all but skipped to the Auror’s Office in anticipation of an empty office and a quiet evening of solitude and productivity.
With her steps fully pepped, she made her way to her cubicle—her nice, neat, Christmas-less cubicle—shucked her coat off, and started toward the filing cabinet.
She had a to-do list a mile long, and she’d resolved to shorten it to half a mile by the end of her shift.
With her focus elsewhere—namely, on locating the Rayfield file—she failed to register the heavy, approaching footsteps behind her.
She turned to return to her desk, and walked directly into a brick wall.
A brick wall with strong hands that reached out to steady her.
Hands that were now rubbing gentle circles on her shoulders.
“Easy, Granger,” said an amused Malfoy.
In a purely reactionary move, she shook his hands off her. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to mourn or celebrate the loss of his touch.
The contact had addled her brain, surely, for she blurted out an ungraceful, “What’re you doing here?”
“You volunteered us for every shift this week,” he said with an exaggerated eye-roll.
“No, I volunteered myself for every shift this week,” said Hermione, who was not so addled that she was unable to correct Malfoy on blatant falsehoods.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, almost sheepishly. “We’re partners. Where you go, I go.”
“Oh,” she breathed, touched. “Malfoy, you really don’t have to—”
“Like I said,” interrupted Malfoy, holding her gaze. “We’re partners.”
The way he said partners, as if it were something so much more intimate than it was, had her heart skipping a beat.
“In that case,” she started, unsteady, “I’d planned on combing through the Rayfield files again.”
“Actually, I was thinking that we should revisit the Honeydukes theft case.” He pulled a mini notepad out of his Auror robes, tapping it once. “Question Nibley again, re-catalogue the stolen inventory.”
“But we’ve already questioned him.”
“So?” said Malfoy, unbothered. “We’ll question him again.” He grabbed her wool trench from where it hung from the back of her chair, helping her into it even as she protested. “Off to Hogsmeade we go, partner.”
~
To Hermione’s utter lack of surprise, they gleaned no new information from the second questioning of Nibley.
Even less of a surprise was Malfoy’s transparent attempt to coerce her into partaking in Yuletide celebrations.
With feigned ignorance, he steered her away from Honeydukes, toward the town square, and into the crowd awaiting the Yuletide tree lighting.
“Malfoy!” chastised Hermione. “We’ve got to return to work.”
“And we will,” said Malfoy flippantly. “Right after the ceremony.”
He took her by the arm, guiding her through the horde and assuming his place at the front with the sort of confidence that could only have been learned from a lifetime of getting what he wanted, when he wanted.
A rich prat, Malfoy was.
The ceremony had already begun, commenced by the delivery of opening remarks by Minister Shacklebolt and followed by a rather impressive orchestral performance.
“Grand, isn’t it?” said Malfoy, gesturing to the tree.
Grand didn’t even begin to cover it.
Yule was taken quite seriously by the shopkeepers of Hogsmeade, and this year was no different from years past.
At a minimum of 75 feet, by Hermione’s conservative estimation, the Yule tree was outrageously tall. From its branches hung lavish ornaments, glittering, multi-colored tinsel, and strands of delicately carved wooden beads. Unlit (and hopefully, thought Hermione rationally, charmed) candles hugged the tree, accompanied by strings of muggle fairy lights.
“It’s alright,” she said finally, for she wasn’t keen on rewarding Malfoy for shirking his professional obligations.
“‘Alright!’” repeated Malfoy through a scoff. “Just you wait until it’s lit.”
And wait they did, at his great insistence and despite the weakening of their warming charms.
Just as she was set to announce her departure (as Hermione was quite sure of her inability to sit through a third rendition of Jingle Bells), Kingsley reclaimed the stage and led them in a countdown.
It should have been anticlimactic, really; all it took was a single flick of Kingsley’s wrist, and the tree was lit.
But anticlimactic, it was not.
The fusion of tapered candles and fairy lights wrapped around the tree created a warm, jubilant glow, further supplemented by the oversized, illuminated candy canes and gift boxes thereunder. With another flick of Kingsley’s wrist, the Yule trees in front of the shops lit up in an explosion of red, green, and gold.
Roars of glee and delight filled her ears, with only Kingsley’s booming request for volunteers to levitate the tree topper breaking through the frenzy.
Of its own accord, her mouth tugged into a smile.
When she turned to look at Malfoy, she found he was already looking at her. Playfulness—and a little something else, something that Hermione couldn’t quite identify—danced in his silver eyes. It sent a thrill through her, warmed her more thoroughly than any mug of hot chocolate could.
He leaned down to speak to her, his breath tickling her ear. “Grand,” he repeated smugly.
Hermione tried, and failed, to smother her grin. “It’s—nice,” she said, which was as much of a concession as any.
“Pfft. Lying isn’t your strong suit, Granger.”
“Everything’s my strong suit,” said Hermione (accurately) with a sniff.
“Everything except lying,” countered Malfoy. “Next you’ll insist that you don’t want to be chosen to top the tree this year.”
Hermione’s smile dropped. “Don’t you dare.”
But dared, he did.
Cupping his hand around his mouth, Malfoy shouted, “HERMIONE GRANGER VOLUNTEERS!”
Hermione prayed to every deity in existence that Kingsley didn’t hear him.
Her prayers went unanswered.
Though Kingsley’s eyes widened and his brows pinned together in surprise, he recovered quickly, opening his arms in welcome.
“Who better than to levitate the star on the Yuletide tree than none other than a civil servant such as Ms. Granger?” he asked rhetorically.
Malfoy, ever so helpful, pushed her forward.
“Thank you,” she said politely, baring her teeth in what she hoped passed for a smile.
“Not that I mind seeing you enjoy the festivities,” said a curious Kingsley, lowering his voice to a whisper, “but aren’t you on duty tonight?”
One (perfectly cast) Wingardium Leviosa and two (rather severe) glowers Malfoy’s way later, the crystal star found its home atop the Yule tree.
DECEMBER 22
Malfoy reported for duty at two o’clock sharp, armed with two peppermint teas and far too much cheer for midafternoon.
Still, she accepted the tea from his outstretched hand.
“We’ve a lot to do today,” said Hermione pointedly.
“That we do,” replied Malfoy easily. “Paperwork, filing, labeling evidence, and so on.”
Suspicious of his quick acquiescence, she narrowed her eyes slightly. “Lots of paperwork,” she said, awaiting his challenge. “Loads.”
But he only lifted his shoulder in a shrug, quirking his lips in a half-smile. “Best get started, then.”
~
To Hermione’s astonishment, Malfoy worked alongside her without protest, diligently working through their never-ending assignments in near silence.
He was a competent Auror—almost as competent as Hermione—with superior dueling skills and an enviable ability to strategize missions. When he put his mind to it (i.e., when he took a break from his relentless teasing of Hermione), he produced near-flawless work.
It was rare for Hermione to work as seamlessly with someone as she did with Malfoy. As such, she was almost disappointed when the clock struck midnight and Ottley and Ivens relieved them.
She replaced her Auror robes with her coat, watching Malfoy do the same out of the corner of her eye.
Feeling like a fourth year timing out her departure from the library to catch Viktor Krum, she prolonged the process, tidying her already tidy desk as Malfoy gathered his things.
She’d almost resigned herself to dusting her paperweight when he sauntered over to her cubicle, his messenger bag slung over a shoulder.
“Ready?” he asked expectantly.
Hermione’s brain short-circuited. “Ready?” she repeated dumbly. “For…?”
“For our next Yuletide celebration, of course,” said Malfoy, as if it were obvious.
She opened her mouth, poised to resist. The excuses were on the tip of her tongue—“I should get home;” “Crookshanks will be cross;” “We have an early start tomorrow”—but she couldn’t bring herself to let them fall from her lips.
Instead, she found herself saying, albeit warily, “What is it?”
“A Malfoy family tradition,” he said, smiling broadly enough to reveal dimples—a sight that never failed to take Hermione’s breath away. “Wassailing.”
“Caroling?” she asked through a laugh, for she couldn’t imagine Narcissa Malfoy—the witch who’d confided in Hermione, at the Ministry’s summer solstice ball, that she wore a glamour charm each time she went into public to avoid any unflattering photos being taken of her—singing Christmas carols.
“Singing?” asked Malfoy incredulously. “That’s far too—” He paused, wrinkling his nose in thinly veiled disgust before settling on, “Loud. And plebeian,” he added. “Downright garish.
No, Granger, we don’t sing—we drink.”
~
Wassailing with Malfoy was, predictably, a whirlwind.
They’d stopped at Gregory Goyle’s first, who greeted them with a bemused smile and spiked hot cider.
Nott Manor—sans Theodore Nott, Sr., thankfully—was next on their journey.
An already intoxicated Theodore Nott wearing footie pajamas poured his “own concoction” into their matching copper mugs, and sent them on their way after regaling Hermione with a childhood tale featuring a thirteen-year-old Malfoy’s (unsuccessful) attempt to seduce Nott’s charms tutor.
(The tips of Malfoy’s ears had turned pink, the first sign of bashfulness that she’d seen on him. It was boyish and cute and did nothing to temper her ever-growing crush on him.)
By the time they made it to Pansy Parkinson’s, Hermione’s head was buzzing—and not just from the alcohol.
No, she was buzzing from Malfoy’s ever-present touch: on her waist, as he Apparated them from manor to manor; on her arm, as he escorted her down the drives; on the small of her back, as he presented her to his friends.
When she shivered, it was not from the cold, but that didn’t stop her from accepting Malfoy’s scarf upon his observing her tremble.
“I’m terribly sorry, Granger,” he said, unwinding the scarf from his neck. “I should’ve done this sooner—it’s positively freezing.”
“I’m fine,” she mumbled weakly, for he’d stepped closer to her—so close that their chests were nearly touching.
Malfoy scooped her curls off her neck, gathering them with a careful hand. With the other, he wrapped the scarf around her, tucking the excess into her coat.
Her eyes fluttered closed, too intoxicated—by the alcohol, by the contact, by the silkiness of his scarf and the whiffs of cedarwood and amber—to pretend she was unaffected.
His hand was still in her hair when she forced her eyes open. He was flushed, she noted hazily, his lips parted slightly.
She wanted to be his undoing.
The thought jolted her to reality, sobered her. She took a step back, causing Malfoy to release his hold on her.
“Thank you,” she breathed. “Shall we—?”
“Of course,” said Malfoy, his voice hoarse and unsteady.
They made it to Pansy’s door on wobbly legs. She leveled them with a scrutinizing gaze, lingering on Malfoy’s scarf around Hermione’s neck, and sent them off with an entire bottle of elderflower wine.
By the time they Apparated to Blaise Zabini’s, Hermione was quite sure that she’d lost the ability to walk.
She leaned heavily on Malfoy, giggling at the way the laces of her trainers had come undone.
“Draco!” greeted Zabini, reindeer antlers sprouting from his head—grown by a potion of his own invention, Hermione presumed.
“And Granger, what a lovely surprise. If you’ve come to again interrogate me about my very lawful, above-the-board corporate practices—”
“I vehemently disagree with that characterization,” interrupted Hermione, for Zabini's potions had only barely satisfied the Wizengamot’s regulations.
“—Then I request that you use those muggle handcuffs on me whilst you do,” he finished, with a pointed look at Malfoy.
Hermione would have been offended by the crassness of Zabini’s words had their true purpose been to proposition her.
It was, however, clear that his words were meant less for Hermione and more for, curiously, Malfoy.
With his eyes narrowed into slits and his fists clenched by his sides, Malfoy angled his body in front of Hermione, blocking her from Zabini’s view. “What the fuck, Zabini.”
The hybrid reindeer-wizard shrugged. “What? You’ve brought your pretty little partner to my manor and expect me to remain silent?”
“I expect you to act like a wizard and not a tactless oaf,” Malfoy said through his teeth.
“I’m sure this isn’t the first time someone’s flirted with your precious Granger, and I’m quite positive it won’t be the last, until she’s off the market,” said Zabini meaningfully.
Even drunk, she was smart enough to understand that Zabini and Malfoy were having a secret, underlying conversation about her. Finding it positively rude, Hermione shoved her way past Malfoy.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, all too aware of the way she slurred the demand.
“Nothing,” clipped Malfoy, sending a warning glare Zabini’s way. Once satisfied with his nonverbal threat, he turned toward Hermione, taking a hold of her arm. “We’ll be going, now,” he said, and Disapparated them on the spot.
~
They landed inside the gates of Malfoy Manor in a heap. With great difficulty, they stood, facing each other.
“It’s quite—unsafe to Apparate while drunk,” said Hermione through a hiccup. “I should cite you for that.”
“Granger!” exclaimed Malfoy, his voice thick with alcohol and mock indignation. “You can’t cite me—I’m your partner.”
“Nobody is above the law,” she said primly.
He disposed of her concerns with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Pish posh,” he said, inciting another round of inebriated titters.
“Care for another drink?” asked Malfoy once their laughter subsided. He brandished the bottle gifted to them by Pansy with the same flourish that one might brandish an Order of Merlin.
“Tempting,” said Hermione sincerely, catching her lower lip between her teeth.
Too tempting.
She cleared her throat.
“I should get home to Crooks, though,” she finished.
“Of course,” he said neutrally, his smile dimming slightly. “Let’s get you in the Floo, though, yeah? I’d hate to cite you for Apparating while drunk.”
“You wouldn’t!” said Hermione as he guided her through the halls, with the same faux indignation he’d spoken with earlier. “We’re partners!”
“That we are,” he said, depositing her in front of the floo. “And more, I hope.”
“And more,” she whispered, as the flames engulfed her.
DECEMBER 23
When Hermione arrived at the office the morning of December 23rd, she found that her desk was already occupied by a wizard draped in head-to-toe Christmas red, the sight of which only serving to add to her steadily manifesting migraine.
“Can I help you?” she asked the encroacher.
Malfoy whirled around in her chair, not a strand of platinum hair out of place and showing absolutely no signs of hangover.
(She loathed him for that.)
“Oh ho, I’m here to help you,” he said.
“The only thing I need help with is procuring a hangover potion,” said Hermione grumpily.
“Done,” said Malfoy. “I’ll send for Hattie later. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Granger,” he continued, for he’d seen the way she’d begun her lecture on house elf labor at the mention of his own. “Hattie’s on salary. A higher salary than you, in fact.”
“I still—”
“And she’ll be happy to do it,” he added in interruption. “But that isn’t what you need help with. What you need help with is regaining your holiday cheer. You’re almost there, to be sure, but we’ve got to address whatever deep-seated issues you’ve got.”
“I don’t have ‘deep-seated issues,’” said Hermione offendedly, despite having just that.
Because he was not as dim as he sometimes looked, Malfoy merely gave her a look that reiterated her poor lying skills.
“Right, and I’m not the wealthiest wizard in Britain,” said Malfoy facetiously. “Let’s get this sorted, shall we? I’ve done my research,” he said, gesturing to his getup. “I’m Father Christmas. Now, come and sit on my lap so we can solve this together.”
He was looking at her with that daring smirk of his, his grey eyes conveying a challenge that he was sure he’d win.
It was as infuriating as it was arousing. Infuriatingly arousing. Arousingly infuriating.
Surprising them both, she plopped onto his lap.
Later, Hermione would tell herself that she’d done it only to win their unspoken game, to prove that she was a worthy opponent for his little matches.
In doing so, she would steadfastly ignore the way she catalogued the feel of his strong, muscular legs as she sat, and the hardness of his stomach as he pulled her in closer to him.
“There we go,” said Malfoy, obviously pleased. “Now, tell me why you hate Yuletide.”
Hermione shifted in his lap, already regretting her spur-of-the-moment decision. He was so lean and big and it was inciting the most inappropriate thoughts—
“Quit wiggling,” he said tersely, grabbing hold of her waist with a tight grip. (It did nothing to cease her fantasies.) “And focus.”
“The eggnog,” she blurted out. “I hate it, but Harry and Ginny have insisted on serving it at all their holiday parties ever since they honeymooned in the States.”
“That’s an easy solution,” said Malfoy. “Alcohol.”
She blanched, still too hungover to even entertain the thought of brandy.
“There’s not enough alcohol in the world to make eggnog taste edible,” she said.
Then, because the thought of it made her queasy, she continued on through her very comprehensive List of Christmas Dislikes.
“The trees are pretty,” she conceded, “but a hassle. Crooks is constantly climbing up it and breaking my ornaments.”
“You’re a witch, are you not? Charm them to stay on the branches,” said Malfoy decisively. “What’s next?”
“The lights. They’re too bright.”
“You seemed to like them at the Yule tree lighting,” he pointed out.
Because he was correct, she ignored him.
“The overplayed Christmas music,” she said next.
“Turn the—what’s it called? The radio?—off.”
“Everyone’s too cheery,” she complained.
“That’s a good thing,” he countered. “You’re grasping. What’s the real reason?”
The “real” reason, she wanted to scream, was that she missed her parents and she couldn’t do a damned thing about it. The healers were doing all they could, but it’d been five years since the war and still their memories hadn’t been recovered.
If they even could be recovered.
That was a reality that Hermione did not want to face, much less speak in existence.
And so she shoved to her feet, nearly toppling over in the process.
“I—This is ridiculous!” She turned away from him to hide the angry tears that threatened to spill from her eyes, hunching her shoulders forward as if she could disappear if she only made herself smaller.
She heard, rather than saw, Malfoy rise from the chair. “It’s not ridiculous,” he said softly. “Something’s causing you pain. I want to help you.”
“I don’t want your help,” she snapped miserably.
“Granger.”
His hand grasped her shoulder, tugging slightly as if to turn her around. She stood rooted to the ground.
“Stop, Malfoy,” she pleaded. “I don’t want your help, and I don’t want to celebrate the holiday. I just want you to stop pushing me. Please.”
She ducked her face into her shoulder as he moved around her, his steps slow and heavy as if he were waiting for permission to comfort her.
It never came.
DECEMBER 24
After her meltdown the previous day, Hermione expected Malfoy to stay home.
She was incorrect.
He was there when she arrived, his eyes fixed on a stack of paperwork, flicking up to assess her only once.
“Good morning, Malfoy,” she greeted, her tone awkward and stiff to even her own ears.
But it was, to her relief, enough. Malfoy’s shoulders relaxed, his features softening.
“Good morning, Granger. I’ve started my review of the Rayfield case, like you wanted.”
They both recognized it for what it was: an extended olive branch in the form of illegal troll bogey trading.
Malfoy kept to himself more than usual, working without the snide comments and impromptu stretching sessions that Hermione had come to love.
It was a relief, then, when they received the Floo call requesting assistance at an elderly man’s residence.
Parker Donalan —their caller— met them at the door, huddled into a thick, flannel dressing gown and wearing a fierce scowl.
He wasted no time on pleasantries, assaulting their ears with a stream of complaints before Hermione had a chance to introduce herself.
“Those YOUTHS!” he shouted, wagging a finger in the air. “They’ve animated my snowmen—constructed by my granddaughters, Maria and Gracie, who will make fine magical architects one day, by the by—to throw snowballs at me! I can’t even greet my guests without taking a snowball to the face!”
To cover up the laugh that Malfoy poorly disguised as a cough into his fist, Hermione directed Parker’s attention to the front garden. “Both of those snowmen?” she asked, sending a reprimanding look toward her immature partner.
“Aye. That one there”—he lifted a finger toward the short, stocky snowman to their left, with its head bigger than its torso—“is Maria’s. She’s nine. The other was made by Gracie. Now, Gracie is a spitfire, she is. Sorted into Slytherin just this past year. She insisted on a square snowman and wouldn’t hear a word about it.”
“That’s sweet,” said Hermione politely, but not over-engagingly, hoping to curtail further sharing of irrelevant information. “We’d better take a look now,” she continued, as he’d begun to explain Gracie’s other quirky design decisions.
“These are very artistic,” said Malfoy diplomatically once they’d reached the alleged batterers.
“The square snowman certainly makes a statement,” she said.
He huffed out a laugh, his breath visible in the frigid air. “As does the celery nose.”
“Creative children.”
“Not as creative as whoever charmed them to throw snowballs,” said Malfoy, casting a simple diagnostic charm on the square snowman while Hermione conducted the same on the short one.
“Easy enough to reverse,” she declared after a quick glance of the results. “Clever, yes, but uncomplicated.”
She waved Malfoy over to demonstrate a new charm she’d been trying out, one of her own creation. It was meant to be a bit stronger, and longer lasting, than the simple Finite, as she’d laced it with an additional protective charm.
He stood slightly behind her, looking over her shoulder as she narrated the incantation and walked through the wand movements.
The wizard radiated heat, and sparked some of her own deep within her.
When the first snowball hit Malfoy square in the back, they could only blame themselves.
Seemingly forgetting himself, he grabbed Hermione by the waist, throwing her to the ground. She sank into the fluffy snow, Malfoy covering her like a human shield.
Stunned into silence, it was all she could do to simply observe him: his angular jaw, set in determination, the strong point of his chin, the straight bridge of his nose, the fullness of his lips—
The second snowball hit him directly in his perfect face.
Hermione couldn’t help it.
She laughed.
He used one hand to wipe the snow off his face, the other still beside her head to prop himself up.
“Think that’s funny, Granger?” he asked, so affronted that she could only laugh harder.
“In my defense,” she said between giggles, “you did tackle me to the ground. Bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?”
Splotches of pink dusted his cheeks. “I never overreact,” he said haughtily. “I merely wanted to see if you knew how to make a snow angel.”
At that bald-faced lie, a third snowball hit Malfoy in his shoulder, and a fourth was lobbed at the back of his head.
He peeled himself off the ground, fully vexed now. “Enough of that,” he said, and dexterously cast Hermione’s charm on both snowmen in rapid succession.
Her mouth went dry at the sight.
Snowmen taken care of, Malfoy proffered a hand for Hermione, hauling her to her feet as if she weighed no more than a piece of parchment.
Unbidden, images of him tossing her on a bed flitted across her mind.
“We should report back to Parker now,” she said shrilly.
Bemused, Malfoy trotted behind her, casting drying and warming charms on them as she confirmed to Parker that his snowmen—constructed by his genius granddaughters—were no longer criminals.
Dry and warm(er), they opted to walk to the Ministry from their last Floo stop.
They walked side-by-side, their shoulders brushing every few steps. For the first time that month, Hermione didn’t as much mind the wreaths gracing every door, or the colorful lights that lined the shops and houses.
“I meant to return your scarf,” said Hermione as they passed a clothing shop decorated as a gingerbread house and displaying an array of scarves in the window.
His eyes snapped to her throat, as if just realizing its nakedness.
“It’s back at the office. I’ll get it for you when we’re back.”
“I meant for you to keep it. And wear it,” he clarified with a frown. “It looks better on you, anyway.”
“Oh,” she said, both pleased by the compliment and rendered slightly speechless by it.
Taking advantage of her uncharacteristic silence, Malfoy tugged on her arm, guiding her to their favorite cafe.
“Tea? This late in the day?”
“It’s never too late for apology tea,” said Malfoy, guiding her to the cashier.
Confused but intrigued, she ordered her usual—a chai—watching him carefully all the while.
“Apology tea?” she asked after they sat, having tucked themselves into a table in the back corner of the cafe. They sat next to the window, providing them with a full view of the snowy, bustling street, full of last-minute shoppers and families marveling at the festivities.
“I shouldn’t have pushed you this week. I know—Potter—you’ve—” He paused, rubbing his forehead and emitting an atypical air of trepidation.
“The holidays are hard for a lot of people for a lot of personal, private reasons. It was inappropriate and careless of me to pressure you into doing things you didn’t want to do,” he said, pressing his mouth into a grim line. “I just—I want you to be happy.”
His casual, easy admission had her heart racing with deep yearning and desire and adoration and a slew of other emotions she was too stirred to identify.
Taking a leap of faith, she reached across the table, her palm facing up. Shock, then brief, guarded hope, flitted across Malfoy’s face.
He placed his hand in hers, his eyes never straying from her face.
“Thank you, Draco.”
His fingers flexed, tightening his hold on her.
“I—”
“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “I need to get this out. I want to tell you.” She inhaled deeply, steading herself. “I modified my parents’ memories during the war. We’re still trying to reverse the charm but—it’s not worked yet. Christmas was our favorite holiday and it’s—it’s so hard.”
She spoke in a rush, half hoping that, if she recounted it quickly enough, she wouldn’t have to relive her anguish.
It didn’t work.
Draco lifted his other hand to swipe at the tears that fell from her eyes.
“And I’m rubbish at gifts,” she continued, for she figured she ought to get it all out now, all at once. “Mum used to help me, but she can’t. It’s just so much pressure. Nobody likes my gifts,” she finished, partly angry with herself for feeling hurt over something so small, but mostly angry with herself for sentencing her parents to such a fate.
“Granger—Hermione. Look at me. You did what you had to do. Your parents would—no, they will—understand that. I’ll do anything in my power to help. I’ve got Galleons to spare, and a whole lot of time. Don’t even try to argue with me,” he said, interrupting what would have been a worthy, albeit watery, protestation. “I want to see you happy.”
“You’re making it very hard to want to argue with you,” she said through the last of her tears.
“Good,” said Draco, plastering on a self-satisfied smile. “That’s the idea.”
“I did enjoy the tree lighting,” she said, hoping the admission would grant him even a fraction of the happiness he’d given her with his words. “And the wassailing, though I fear I overindulged.”
“Happens to the best of us,” he said, though the cool delivery of his words was belied by his dimpled grin.
“My favorite part of Christmas was always watching holiday films with my parents,” said Hermione, unprompted. “Frosty the Snowman was our usual choice. We’d hunker down in front of the telly with mugs of hot chocolate, in cozy pajamas, and stuff our faces with biscuits and sweets.”
It felt good to share, to speak wistfully about her parents without the attached guilt.
“They sound wonderful,” said Draco gently. “I look forward to meeting them one day. Though I think I could do without the snowman film—I’m feeling a bit traumatized, to be honest.”
As she burst into renewed peals of laughter over the memory, Hermione had the startling thought that she’d not developed an innocent crush on her partner, but had fallen head over heels for him.
DECEMBER 25
Hermione was nervous.
No, it was more than that: Hermione was terrified.
She’d purchased Draco a Christmas gift the previous evening, somewhat on a whim.
It was the least she could do, she’d reasoned, for he’d expended so much energy on her happiness.
It further served as an apology, for all the tasteless fantasies she’d dreamed up whilst laying in her bed late at night, of which he was the star.
(Of course, he didn’t know of those fantasies, but the gift would, at the very least, absolve Hermione of some of her guilt.)
Oh, and she’d also purchased him a gift on account of the fact that there was a not-zero chance that she was in love with him.
The gift, wrapped in the comic section from the local muggle newspaper, was stowed securely at the bottom of her bag. She resolved to give it to him directly before the end of their shift, and then promptly return home so she did not have to face his disappointment.
Like nearly every other day that week, Draco was already at her desk by the time she arrived, but this time, he was flanked by Aurors Weil and Stephens.
It was a surprising sight, for Christmas was historically a quiet day for Aurors—(though the same could not be said for St. Mungo’s, which typically experienced a rush of injured people attempting new cooking techniques, or from clumsy acts while drunk)—such that only one Auror need be staffed.
As a lifelong pessimist, Hermione presumed the worst.
“Has something happened?” she asked, full of dread.
“You worry too much,” said Draco, his tone warm and affectionate despite the accusatory nature of his words. “Weil and Stephens gleefully volunteered to cover our shift for today.”
Hermione glanced sidelong at the aforementioned Aurors, who wore twin scowls and did not look so gleeful.
“Okay…” she said slowly. “It’s no trouble for me—”
“Nonsense,” interrupted Draco, clamping a hand over her mouth. “I won’t hear a word of it. You’re expected elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?” asked Hermione, her question muffled by his hand.
“Elsewhere,” he confirmed and, without a second thought, hoisted her over his shoulder.
~
“Elsewhere” turned out to be a muggle cinema in the heart of downtown London.
Hermione—who was not as cross with Draco as she ought to have been for his earlier manhandling of her, for it’d greatly fueled her fantasies—peppered him with questions.
“What are we doing here? Where are we going? How’d you get Weil and Stephens to cover? Isn’t your mum going to be upset you’re not with her today?”
“I repeat,” said Draco, fishing a key out of the pocket of his jeans, “You worry too much.”
Her jaw dropped open when he unlocked the front door to the cinema.
“Come on,” he said, interlacing his fingers with hers and guiding her through the theater.
The halls were empty, the screens were off, and the concession stand was unmanned. It would have been ominous, had it not been decorated like a winter wonderland.
Glittery paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling, artificial snow lined the halls, and mistletoe decorated the doorframes. The lighting was low and warm, and soft music—not Christmas music, noted Hermione—played in the background.
“Where are we going?” she asked again, slightly breathless now.
“To the North Pole,” Draco deadpanned, inclining his head to the directional sign pointing them to theater seven.
He tugged her into the room, and in doing so, took Hermione’s breath away.
On the screen was the title page for Frosty the Snowman, his smile as familiar to hers as an old friend. In what was surely an impressive display of Transfiguration, the theater seats had been transformed into large, lush sofas, on which thick quilts and cozy knit blankets lay. Between each sofa were tables holding carafes, mugs, and dozens of types of biscuits and sweets.
This alone would have been gift enough to Hermione, but Draco had gone even further.
Not only had he managed to wrangle an entire Christmas tree into the theater—complete with a dozen wrapped gifts—he’d also managed to wrangle her closest friends—Harry, Ginny, Ron and George, Dean, Luna, Neville, all of them waving and smiling knowingly—into a single room, which was quite the feat given the busyness of adult life.
And if that had not been enough, Crookshanks sauntered up to them, weaving between her legs and purring.
Hermione dropped Draco’s hand, moving to face him. “Did you—?”
“Happy Christmas, Hermione.”
“I don’t—I don’t even know what to say,” she said, overcome with emotion.
“Typically, when one says Happy Christmas, the other person returns the well wishes,” said Draco, clearly pleased with himself.
Impishly, she shoved at his chest, unable to hold back her smile. “You know what I meant.”
“I do,” he said, the playfulness disappearing from his features in place of seriousness. “Just say you’ll enjoy today, Hermione. Be with your friends. You deserve it.”
He took a step back, giving a two-finger salute in farewell.
“You’re not trying to leave, are you?” Confused, Hermione grasped at his jumper, pulling him forward. “What happened to partners—and more?”
“I’m not sure if we have the same definition of ‘and more,’” he said lowly, as if speaking in a near-whisper would stop George and Ron from eavesdropping with one of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes’ infamous products.
“My definition is pretty broad,” she said, forcing herself not to squirm under his penetrating gaze.
With a set jaw and determined exhale, he lifted his hands to encircle her waist, keeping his eyes on her face as if to scrutinize her reaction.
“How broad?”
She met his action with an equal reaction, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him down in a kiss.
His lips felt as soft as they looked, and just as skillful as she’d imagined. He gave and he took, nipping at her lips and angling her head back to take more and more and more—
It was, in short, an entirely inappropriate display.
“That broad,” she answered against his lips, once she regained her ability to breathe.
“Mm,” mumbled Draco, already pulling her in for another (entirely lewd, yet earth-shattering) kiss. “Mine’s broader.”
“Can we start the film already?!” called out Harry (rudely) before Draco could capture her lips in a third.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Hermione, dragging Draco to the forefront sofa, blushing furiously at the knowing winks (Ginny, George, Luna), exaggerated eye-rolls (Harry, Ron), and amused smiles (Dean, Neville) of her friends.
Crookshanks met them there, curling into a little orange ball in the dead center of a cushion, as was his Merlin-given right.
Draco settled into a corner, dragging Hermione into his lap before she could even comprehend what was happening. He kept his hands on her, rubbing circles on her hip with one hand and grasping her hand in the other.
“This is a nice tradition,” he said into her ear, as if he weren’t sending her body into overdrive.
“Very nice,” said Hermione, slightly strangled. She leaned back against him, turning her head so she could see him fully. “This puts my gift for you to shame.”
“Doubtful,” scoffed Draco. “You’ve already given me you—there’s nothing else I could want.”
“I’ll just return your gift then.”
“Now don’t go making rash decisions,” he said quickly.
“It was just a tea mug anyway,” she whispered, a bit self-consciously. She returned her gaze to the screen and away from him. “One that’s charmed to keep your tea hot. Since you’re always complaining about your tea going cold.”
“That’s the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever been given,” he said, and kissed the top of her head. Her heart swelled. “Don’t you dare return it.”
“Fine. Now hush, so we can enjoy the film.”
“Bossy,” grumbled Draco, though it didn’t sound as if that bothered him at all.
“Oh,” said Hermione, tilting her face upward one last time, “and Happy Christmas, to you, too, Draco.”