Work Text:
2001
Stepping on the gas, Hermione ignored the pang of anxiety in her stomach. She felt the acceleration press her into the seat of her Ford Fiesta as she reached the speed limit and merged onto the motorway.
“Make sure you leave early, darling. You want to avoid congestion,” her father’s words rang in her ear, and she was grateful she took his advice. Traffic was sparse, even this close to the holidays.
I’m doing it, I’m actually bloody doing it , Hermione thought. Her parents had been less than enthusiastic when she suggested that instead of taking the train she would drive home for Christmas. In the first car she bought herself (used, but in mint condition, the seller assured her), nonetheless. But in the end, they relented. People usually did when they argued with Hermione.
In the corner of her eyes, the countryside blurred into a mushy brown, and Hermione was excited.
2004
Hermione turned off the radio with an exasperated sigh. Another second of cheery Christmas music and she would jump out of the car and run into traffic.
With nothing but the reliable hum of the engine around her, she could finally think. For the past few days she had been preparing mentally for the difficult conversations ahead of her.
No, Ronald, I don’t think the long distance is working. Yes, I am sorry too.
She wasn’t, though, not really. She had known it was not working for a while. Told herself she put off the breakup because it’s more polite to do it in person. More respectful. She just delayed the inevitable.
Her parents would understand. They may have hoped she’d move back home after graduation and settle down, but that was hardly a realistic option. Not when her hometown made her feel like she was drowning, anyway.
Ahead of her, a fork in the road was fast approaching. Hermione switched on her turn signal.
2006
Hermione’s trusty Fiesta slowly came to a stop. As far as the eye could see, lines of red brake lights littered the road, like the world’s most depressing string lights.
It might be the only one I see this year if traffic doesn’t start moving soon, she thought. It was ironic, really, how easily the thing built for high speed travel could turn into flypaper.
Hermione tried not to see the blocked motorway as some cliché metaphor for her life.
2007
“I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know, make my wish come trueee… All I want for Christmas is you, yoouuuuuuuou, baby,” Hermione belted with Mariah Carey on the radio as her car zoomed along the motorway.
She was ready to get home and fully embrace the Christmas spirit. Make eggnog with Mum, and sample it generously with Dad. She would even accept the Weasleys’ invitation this year, she bought gifts for the little ones after all.
She glanced at the box of homemade candy apple slices on the passenger seat next to her. Yes, she would definitely call him - just to say thanks, really.
Hermione thought of the decidedly unfriendly, brooding neighbor who moved into her building that summer. It was a coincidence she even got to talking to him - a coincidence she did not mind at all.
And they weren’t just neighbors now, were they? Neighbors don’t drive each other up the wall so much. They also don’t give each other painstakingly handmade sweets. Or desperate, starved kisses for that matter. Kisses that Hermione could still taste, if she was being honest.
Yes, she would call him, and wish happy holidays. It was only proper.
2008
“You can go the speed limit, you know,” Hermione said, peeking over Draco’s arm to look at the speedometer. “We are expected this Christmas, not next year.”
Speeding by the familiar landscape with someone else sitting at the wheel felt odd. Driving home for Christmas had become Hermione’s little holiday tradition. Not always a cheerful one, but a tradition nonetheless.
“Stop the backseat driving, Granger,” he replied with a hint of a smile. “Maybe I’m nervous. I don’t exactly make the best first impression.”
“Ha! Tell me about it,” Hermione teased. “I should write a thank you note for the postman.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Draco arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, you must remember! The reason we started talking when you moved in? Your mail kept getting delivered to me…”
That was when Hermione noticed a blush spreading on his aristocratic cheekbones. Keeping his eyes on the road, Draco cleared his throat.
“Ah, that. Well I– hmmm” he started. “Granger, I owe you a confession. The mailman didn’t misdeliver all those letters. I did.”
The drive home seemed to fly by after that.