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He stands outside Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop on Christmas Eve morning, per tradition.
Through the frosted, gilded windows, the shop appears empty, also per tradition. No one needs parchment and quills the day before Christmas, least of all Draco. Narcissa keeps the manor well stocked. He can pop in and select whatever suits his fancy at a moment’s notice.
What he does need is his yearly fix. He does not permit himself many indulgences these days. There’s only this and the occasional owl to stoke the undying embers of his heart. Or as Theo puts it, with his trademark combination of laughter and pity, “Time for your annual dose of torture, is it?”
He pauses on the cobblestones to brace himself. He straightens his collar and adjusts his cuffs, smoothes down the dark wool of his overcoat, pats his coat pocket in reassurance, and finally runs a hand through the front of his hair to tousle it just so.
Does he cut a dashing figure? There’s only one opinion he cares about.
He enters the shop, inhaling a sharp breath at the familiar tinkle of a bell overhead.
Four years ago
He visits the morning of Christmas Eve. Just to browse. One can never have too many quills, after all. And extra parchment never goes to waste. Scrivenshaft's is a purveyor of top-quality merchandise, with a globally acclaimed line of magical inks and wax seals. A visit to the shop is long overdue.
He sees her as soon as he walks through the deep mahogany door, his hand still resting on the polished quill-shaped handle. He winces as a bell jingles a melodic series of notes, noisily announcing his entrance. But she pays no mind, busy explaining the different properties of self-correcting inks to an elderly woman wrapped in the most voluminous purple fur coat he’s ever seen. The woman looks frenzied, explaining that she just needs a Christmas card for her nephew and hasn’t time for anything else.
This gives him the opportunity to observe discreetly.
Merlin. She’s more beautiful than ever. In fourth year, he despised himself for finding her pretty. But denying it was pointless then and grew increasingly futile as the years stretched on.
The corners of his mouth curl up, seeing her. He feels like a schoolboy again. Her eyes still gleam with intelligence and mischief. Her chin still lifts proudly when she speaks. Her hair still rises up in wild defiance.
She moves to the back counter to ring up the purple-coat lady’s order. He turns to the side and busies himself amongst the luxury quills. Needing something to do with his hands, he runs a finger across a brilliant gold phoenix feather.
“Happy Christmas Eve. Can I be of any assistance?”
He steadies himself for a beat before turning around. “Hi, Granger.”
“Malfoy,” she responds calmly.
“I expected more shock and awe.”
“I recognised your hair from across the way. Can I help you with something?”
He searches his mind for the excuse he had prepared before leaving his flat but finds only a dull void and the pulse of blood in his ears.
“... Or are you just curious to see the golden girl in her new habitat?”
“Oh, er…”
“Come to poke fun at the brightest shop girl of her age?”
Shit. This was an awful idea.
“If so, you wouldn’t be the first,” she bites out, before adding in a resigned tone, “But it gets boring quickly. It’s me. I’m here. Helping customers at Scrivenshaft's. Now that you’ve had your fun, you can leave.”
“No, erm, I–I need some new quill tips.”
“You need quill tips on Christmas Eve,” she repeats in disbelief. “Planning a lot of writing in the next few days?”
“It’s a gift,” he supplies. “For Theo Nott.”
Her brows crease politely. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
“He’ll die when he hears that,” he chuckles, relieved at the turn in conversation. “He was in our year at Hogwarts.”
“Really? I’m not sure how I don’t remember him then.”
“He wisely kept his head down. Quite the opposite of myself.”
She hums in agreement, or disinterest, or disgust. He wishes he knew.
“Well, if you’re really interested in quill tips,” she says, “we do have a wonderful selection. We have practical brass tips for everyday, silver or platinum tips for precision use, and gold or mother-of-pearl inlay for an artistic touch. We also have several enchantments available and all our tips are charmed for lifetime durability. May I interest you in a test run?”
She leads him over to a glass case lined with royal blue velvet, the quill tips displayed proudly on silver stands, the sterling plaque descriptions glinting in the warm light. She tugs a scroll-shaped knob to open a dark ebony drawer underneath the glass, revealing a smooth seamless writing surface.
“Is there a particular use these quill tips will serve?”
“Calligraphy,” he replies promptly. See? He’s prepared.
She selects a varied assortment, expertly attaching the tips to quills before gesturing for him to begin.
He picks up a quill and is poised to write when he asks, “Will you sample them with me?”
She hesitates but then takes a quill in hand.
He looks down to hide his upturned lips and begins writing his name, the first word he practised in calligraphy lessons as a child. He cannot count the number of times he has seen Malfoy scribed in elaborate calligraphy, embossed on parchment, engraved in wax seals, carved into crests.
He hates the family seal now, detests its tainted black serpent flanking the shield, abhors the dragon overhead that reflects too much of himself, and above all, loathes the words that poisoned his childhood: Sanctimonia vincet semper.
“You have a lovely hand,” she says, before correcting herself, flustered. “I mean, lovely handwriting.”
He peers over at her writing. Per aspera ad astra. Her letters look modern and sleek, with a simple elegance that renders the few flourishes all the more distinguished.
Then he writes her name, taking his time looping the o and the e’s, making the capital G the centerpiece of the composition. A bold initial stroke that tapers slightly on the downward curve, the horizontal crossbar anchoring the roundness of the letter and, finally, an intricate ribboning effect at the very heart of it.
She lets out a little gasp. “How did you learn to write your G like that?”
“From you,” he says quietly, raising his head slightly to see her reaction. At her skeptical brow line, he goes on. “Every book I read at Hogwarts, you read first, you know. I saw how you wrote your name on the library cards. I’d never seen anything like it and always remembered it.”
She gives him a proper look then, her eyes bright with that spark of curiosity he remembers so well. The full weight of her gaze sets his heart racing and his palms sweating.
“I work too,” he blurts out.
“Huh?”
“I mean, I’m an auror. I trained in France, but I’ve been with the ministry for a few months now.”
“Oh, yes.” She looks like she’s considering how much to say. “Harry mentioned you were no longer a wealthy layabout.”
He cringes at what else Potter has to say about him. His field work is unimpeachable but he cannot quite tamp down his instincts to spar with anyone who exhibits incompetence or disagrees with him in meetings.
“I think I’m a good auror,” he says carefully. “I’m trying to do something good with myself.”
There is so much he wants her to know.
She nods and asks which quill tips he prefers, then begins to tidy up the writing station.
At the register, she starts to chew her bottom lip.
“I know everyone thinks it’s strange that I work here,” she says quietly.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“No?”
“Beautiful and well-crafted tools make writing a joy. What’s not to like?”
She smiles in a way that’s nearly fond and the flames in his chest surge upwards to his throat.
“I’ve always enjoyed enchantments and spells in simple things,” she says. “You’d see it every day if you grew up in a magical home. But I saw it all for the first time at Hogwarts and it’s never lost its lustre. And parchment and quills! Feels like I’m in another era, not just another world.”
She shrugs a little in embarrassment. He is so astonished that she has chosen to reveal something of herself he only gapes in wonder.
She wordlessly wraps his chosen quill tip set in gleaming silver paper adorned with red and green ribbons. They exchange wishes for a happy Christmas. As the bell tinkles faintly behind him, he steps out to face the bright morning sun and exhales for the first time in what feels like hours.
On Boxing Day, he sends her an owl with a note of thanks, explaining that Theo loved the quill tips. He includes a sheaf of thick card stock, on which he painstakingly sketches a simple crest, an otter and a lion joined together over a shield, below which he writes:
Hermione Jean Granger
House of Granger
First of her name
Three years ago
He returns on Christmas Eve morning. He needs a gift for Pansy.
There is no silent period of observation this time. In the midst of moving wares, she collides with him as soon as he steps into the shop, the sound of the bell clinking melodiously above them.
“Oof,” he grunts, managing to catch the boxes she was transporting in his right arm before they fall to the floor.
“Oh goodness! I’m so—” then she is looking up again. “Oh, hi.”
“Happy Christmas Eve, Granger.”
He revels in the pink flush of her cheeks.
“Oh god. I’m really sorry about that,” she sputters. He reluctantly returns the boxes. “Thank you, these are crystal quill stands, quite fragile.”
She ducks her head as she moves to set the boxes on the back counter.
He follows.
“I, erm… actually, I’m glad you’re here,” she says, still facing away. “I feel so bad I never responded to your owl last year.”
“It’s alright,” he says. He’s relieved she’s not angry with him. It was a wild, hopeless gesture. It was overly forward. He revealed too much of the burning in his chest. Life has taught him he does not get the things he wants. If she is still talking to him—then it’s good, it’s alright.
She turns towards him, her hands nervously twisting together.
He reaches into his robe pocket and carefully withdraws the item he had tucked away. “I’ve, er, brought you something.”
Her expression softens, then crumples when she spots the small potted bouquet of pale silver blossoms. “Are these… moonflowers?”
He nods, unsure how to interpret her wide sodden eyes.
“You saw the piece in the Prophet then.”
He runs his hands through his hair. “I did. I know it was—”
“A total hatchet job!” she exclaims, her voice abruptly incensed. “That wasn’t how it happened at all. They made it sound like, like … I wanted to kick my parents out of the country, like I didn’t care about the repercussions for them at all.” She shakes her head furiously. “But that’s not at all what it was like. What happened, what I did to them, it tore me apart.”
She sniffles noisily.
“I know. Really, I do,” he says gently, letting one hand rest on her shoulder as his other retrieves a handkerchief. “Weasley, er, he may have filled in the details. He mentioned you were having trouble with the memory enhancement potion.”
She nods, looking down and messily wiping up her nose and eyes. “I’m quite close, actually. But sourcing fresh moonflowers has proven impossible. How did you—?”
“I began cultivating them in my gardens. The soil there is adaptable, and the greenhouse is charmed to mimic the natural habitats of diverse flora and fauna.”
“It’ll be so helpful to have a fresh source,” she says softly. She examines the thickness of the stems, touches the leaves to gauge their firmness. “They look fully mature. When did you do this?”
“Started in February,” he admits, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“Thank you,” she whispers, before going on a bit frantically, “It’s not a sure thing. And even if the potion works, I don’t know if they’ll ever trust me again. But with this, maybe there’s a way. Thank you, thank you.”
“You deserve every chance.”
She lets out a watery laugh. “I also appreciate a good extension charm,” she admits, nodding to his robe pocket.
“This old thing?” he grins.
She leans back against the counter, a mix of surprise and intrigue sweeping across her features. “I hear you and Harry are partners now.”
“Oh, yes. He’s completely reckless and literally cannot make a plan to save his life, but aside from the whole Voldemort thing, he’s the luckiest git I’ve ever met. Dodges every curse. His expelliarmus always hits.” He pauses before adding, “I reckon we make a decent team.”
“He says you’ve changed.”
“I’m trying.”
“Well, I’m still a shop girl,” she laughs lightly. “Sorry, I don’t mean… I quite like it here. That’s why I’ve stayed this whole time. I’m surrounded by beautiful things. I can help people with what they need. And then at the end of the day I do whatever I want. My mind doesn’t linger here...”
She stops short, looking slightly horrified. “Goodness, I’ve gotten quite sidetracked. You wanted a gift for Pansy. Is this, er, a courting gift?”
“No! Just a friendly gift. Pans is Lady Flint now.”
“Of course, that’s right. In that case, may I interest you in our new line of paperweights?”
On Boxing Day, he opens his window in the early morning hours at the increasingly urgent pecking of a polite elderly owl. He unties a pale blue envelope from a scaly leg. Pouring out the contents, he finds his cleaned handkerchief and a note.
I cannot properly express my gratitude for the live moonflower plant. Anything I can think to say sounds inadequate. But please know this chance means everything to me. I promise to update you on any progress.
Two years ago
Another Christmas Eve morning.
He inhales deeply, patting down the chest of his coat where her gift rests in the interior pocket, and steps into the shop, the sound of a tinkling bell greeting him.
She’s there, like she was waiting for him.
“Oh, hi! Draco, I was hoping you’d come.”
She gives him a bright smile and tucks her loose curls behind her ears.
He falters, searching for a response. Just a couple months ago, he saw her at the Potters for brunch. They chatted easily about her parents and their holiday plans—a conversation he replayed in his mind for weeks.
But now, here, his mouth is too dry to speak. She looks all done up. Her hair is in sleek ringlets, her eyes somehow larger and more sultry. She is not wearing her usual jumper and trousers. Instead, she’s in a dress, a dark slinky number that shows off her shapely calves and, Merlin, it’s quite low cut.
At his lack of response, her face tenses and she looks away to restock the shelves with vanishing ink pots. He takes the opportunity to adjust his trousers.
His heart leaps in his chest before sinking to his feet. Does she have a date after work?
“You look beautiful,” he ventures.
She turns and beams at him. “Thank you. I, well, I’m glad to see you. I–I have something for you,” she grins bashfully as she pulls something out from a hidden compartment behind the counter. “I know you already have all the nicest things money can buy. But here you go.”
He tears the wrapping paper neatly to find a small book of Latin phrases and translations. He raises a quizzical brow at her before flipping through the pages.
“I did some reading on the origin of mottos for families like yours, after we last talked. The magic to instill a motto in the lineage—or to change it, like you want to—is arduous, but not too complex. Blood magic, of course. You’ll be properly exhausted when you make the change, so you’ll need to prepare well and rest afterward.”
She talks like he already has a plan, like he knows what to do, and he can feel her confidence in him propping up some torn weathered part of himself.
“Anyway, I thought there might be some… I don’t know, rules about it all. Like, what you can or can’t have as a motto. But apparently you can just make up whatever you want! The more I think of it, the more being an adult feels like that.” Her voice lowers. “I thought there’d be a certain way to do things, that there’d be obvious signposts, but it’s all just…”
“Making things up along the way,” he finishes. He knows just what she means.
“Yes, exactly,” she replies, appraising him. “Isn’t it wild? You can just make up whatever you want . And whatever you decide will be on all your family crests and heirloom jewelry and everything for generations.” She gives him a cheeky grin. “Since it’s all up to you, I thought you might need to brush up on your Latin, and this book,” she lightly pats the volume, “might give you some ideas.”
He cradles the gift in his hands. “Thank you. This is the most thoughtful present anyone has ever given me.”
She presses her lips together, then slowly releases them. Her words come out more deliberately now. “I hope it’s helpful. You’ve really been so… I mean, all the owls you sent while I was with my parents. All the research you did, and your kindness when I was having a tough time, which was sort of all the time, it just, it really meant a lot.”
He blinks. This moment, he would like to relive it over and over.
“Oh, and I have news!”
The thought that she is eager to share news with him makes his heart sing.
“I’ve decided to pursue a healing mastery.”
“That’s brilliant.”
It really is. He can see it. She would be the most dogged healer there ever was, going to the ends of the earth for her patients.
“I learned quite a bit about healing in the field, erm, during the war. I found it all rather rote back then, more of a necessity than anything else. But working with my parents has really made me think about it differently. The spellwork isn’t mechanical at all—it needs to be calibrated to each particular patient. There are so many different factors that go into a successful recovery—it’s really very interesting.”
“And you’ll be able to help so many others.”
She nods, bouncing a little on her heels. “Yes, that’s the hope! There’s also, well, I’ve been thinking a lot about… the, you know, the importance of mental recovery too.” She pauses to assess his response.
“It’s been hard after the war,” he says firmly.
“It really has been,” she says, choking up a bit. “No one talks about it.”
He doesn’t say anything because they both know it’s true.
“I just think, it’d be easier, if more of us talked about it.” She continues on, her voice steadying with determination. “I think I could help with that. I’m not really sure how yet. I have so much to learn first. But there are all sorts of therapies available in the non-magical world… some of them worked really well with my parents, the combination of muggle and magical methods seemed most effective. Isn’t that interesting? We keep everything so separate, but is that best? Oh, sorry, I’m rambling now. There’s just so much to think about. And, maybe, I don’t know, I think maybe I could start something good.”
She looks up, brimming with hope and anticipation.
He wants to say he’s proud of her. But he has no right to say those words. Who is he to feel proud of this creature in front of him? She is a wondrous, precious gem who has taken the wizarding world by storm once already and is poised to do it again.
A sour heat begins to creep into his belly. He cannot bear to stay much longer.
He has waited too long to respond.
She starts fidgeting, like she’s eager to get on her way.
“So you have a date later?” He lifts his hand, gesturing to her outfit.
“Oh, erm, well, I thought—“
She is too embarrassed to tell him. Sensing her hesitation, he decides to kill two birds with one stone—spare her any more discomfort and silence her before she can reveal things that will inevitably haunt him later.
“It’s ok. I don’t need all the dirty details. He’s a lucky bastard, whoever he is,” he confesses, unable to stop himself. Then he feels like a git so he adds, “I, erm, I have plans later too. I mean, it’s Christmas Eve, of course we both have plans. I just stopped by because I need some quill feathers for Blaise. I’ll take the peacock ones—inside joke, you know—then I’ll let you get on with your day.”
She nods briskly, her face turned from him as she sorts the knickknacks by the register. When he falls silent, she rushes off to retrieve the quills. She wraps them slowly, a look of consternation clouding her expression. She still takes care as she nestles the delicate feathers in tissue paper, using the same silver paper and green and red ribbons.
On Boxing Day, he sends her the gift he failed to give her in the shop: a novel that reminded him of her. The main character is brave, brash, kind, giving, made anxious by life’s setbacks but forever holding out hope for the future. The book’s conclusion is open-ended, but she meets someone towards the end who seems like a good match, who can slot seamlessly into her life like a puzzle piece. He wants that for her.
One year ago
This Christmas Eve morning, he is prepared both mentally and emotionally.
She has been dating, a revelation that causes his very soul and body to fold in on themselves. They do not discuss this fact in their owls, or when they see each other at the Potters or at the occasional gala. But he susses out details from Potter and Weasley. Sometimes a man just needs to know, even if that knowledge comes at the price of suspicious eyebrows and knowing smirks and a throbbing ache in his heart. What he cannot glean from the dynamic duo, he finds in the Prophet.
She was with Oliver Wood, for a bit. After that, a few dates with Terry Boot and a few with Ernie Macmillan.
They are good blokes, he knows. But none of them measure up to her and the thought of her with someone less than what she deserves makes him sick. She will find someone better. It’s only a matter of time. The image of her at the Hogwarts fall ball floats into his mind: the deep crimson dress, the angle of her collarbones and gentle slope of her shoulders, the hypnotic sway of her hips. Her smile when she saw him.
He clenches his fist, nails biting into the edge of his palm.
Then he breathes in deeply and enters the shop, triggering the familiar jingling bell.
After looking around at the empty shop, he follows a faint rustling sound and finds her in the back room, sorting inventory.
“Oh! Hello there,” she says, standing up and brushing off her trousers when she sees him. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be in today.”
He is prepared. “I need parchment and envelopes for my mother.”
“Sure, yes. We have some lovely parchment that just came in with runic borders, or maybe celestial accents would be more to her liking. May I interest you in a look?”
She leads them to the far corner of the shop where scrolls of parchment are arranged in cascading tiers of varied textures and hues. Delicate crystal holders display parchment sheets infused with subtle spells.
He traces his fingers over the tiny labels detailing each parchment’s unique properties.
“Have you been well?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says, an inscrutable expression crossing over her. “It’s been a bit chaotic, to be honest. Working here part time and completing the mastery as well. But it’s been exciting. I, erm, I’ve been seeing a healer too. I think it’s helped a lot. Though there are so few mind healers, and still so much stigma around it…”
He nods. “I see a healer too.”
She looks at him in surprise. “How do you like it?”
“It was hard at first, knowing what to say. The idea that I could say anything. There’s so much history, I didn’t know how to convey everything or even why I was there. It was hard at first, it felt like such a burden to describe all those experiences, to relive them.” He eyes her carefully. “But I think it’s helped. You know, the thing I mentioned, about my job—”
“Yes, you’re leaving the Auror Department?”
“I’ll be moving to a different position for now. More research and investigation, less field work. My healer is the one who helped me realise I wanted to do something different.“
“I think it’ll suit you.” She pauses. “You don’t need to catch baddies to prove you aren’t one.”
“Hasn’t entirely sunken in yet,” he grins at her, scratching his chin. “Anyway, I think it should set me up for other positions that I’m interested in long term… I haven’t told anyone else this, but I’d actually like to apply to be an Unspeakable, down the road.”
“Draco, that’s incredible.”
“I haven’t done anything yet,” he says with a huff of laughter.
“You’ve done so much! All the work it took to get to this point. I hope this isn’t weird to say, but, well, I’m proud of you.”
How can she make him feel so capable and so undone at the same time?
“I don’t know if Potter will still invite me around, now that we’re no longer partners.”
“Oh no, once you’re in with that lot, you’re in forever. No backsies.”
“So I’ll still be seeing you at brunch?”
She nods, smiling.
“There was something else I wanted to tell you,” she begins. “I’ve been thinking a lot about how out of place I felt in the magical world growing up. And then after everything with my parents, how out of place I felt in the muggle world too.”
He cringes, remembering his role in making her an outsider.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a slip of card stock, his sketch of a crest for the House of Granger. “I don’t know if you remember. You made this for me a few years back. I keep coming back to this idea… a magical crest for my muggle family name.”
“A blend of worlds, just like you.”
“It’s a little silly. Just decorative, really. If I get married one day, I don’t know what would happen to it. It wouldn’t really be family magic anymore, that gains power through generations, it’d just be lost…”
“You could design something new with your future husband,” he says thickly. “The magic would carry over. You wouldn’t have to give anything up.”
She toys with the edge of the parchment, pressing it between her fingers. “Perhaps.”
He swallows. “I know an artisan in France who could help refine the design and handle the charmwork if you wanted the words engraved in magical artefacts or family heirlooms.”
“Really? That’d be… you could put me in touch?”
“Absolutely.”
She finishes pulling out sample parchments and envelopes. She unties the velvet ribbons around the scrolls so that he can examine the edges gilded with varied shimmering patterns, from runes to celestial objects to magical creatures. She explains some of the magical enchantments: self-cleaning pages, flame resistance, mood-charmed colors, and even self-repairing capabilities.
As he surveys the options, she asks, “Any progress on your own family motto?”
“Lots of ideas, nothing nailed down,” he frowns. “I’m not sure the name deserves to be redeemed. Bad faith. What kind of legacy is that to pass on?”
“Malfoy,” she says slowly, letting the word settle on her tongue. He could never have prepared himself for the sound of his name dripping like honey on her lips. “How far back does it go?”
“Eight hundred years, at least.”
“That’s so much history,” she glances up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “There must have been good people along the way. People like you.”
He looks at her for a long moment. “That means a lot coming from you.”
“I know you still get comments in public,” she says, her lips tugged downwards. “But those people don’t really know you.”
The hint of intimacy spurs him on.
“To tell you the truth, for a long time now, you’ve been the person I want to impress,” he divulges. “When I’ve been faced with a choice, you’re the one I want to make proud.”
“It’s, that’s… an honour I don’t deserve.”
He shrugs helplessly and takes her hands in his. “Do you remember Per aspera ad astra? You wrote that once when we were testing quill tips. Through hardship to the stars. That’s the motto I like most.”
“I remember,” she whispers.
“But in the book you gave me, I saw a phrase that made me think of you too. Dum spiro spero. While I breathe, I hope. You’ve never given up on anything in your life. Maybe, for your seal…”
“I love it.”
He gives a little squeeze before letting her hands go. “I’ll take the set with the gilded roses.”
She rolls up the parchment, reties the scrolls with velvet, and wraps up the set. Silver paper, red and green ribbons.
“Will I see you at the New Year’s Ball?”
She nods, her hands resting lightly on the countertop.
“Do you have an escort?”
She shakes her head, then tucks a curl behind one ear.
He tries to hide his delight, then silently scolds himself. It’s not his place. Still. He takes her hand and presses his lips to the back of her palm.
“I’ll see you there, then.”
On Boxing Day, he sends her a delicate pendant necklace, its centerpiece a tiny glass vial encasing a preserved moonflower blossom. The necklace gleams softly, infused with a protection charm.
On the note, he writes: Congratulations on achieving the halfway mark of your healing mastery. I have no doubt you’ll help many, many people.
Now
She is sat behind the counter at the far end of the shop, writing Christmas cards with an elegant swan quill.
This year, they crossed paths often: at the Potters’ monthly brunches, where they would find themselves huddled in a private corner, deep in quiet conversation with glasses of wine in hand; at the ministry, where she was campaigning tirelessly to establish a Department of Health and Healing and where they engaged in animated chats in busy corridors or the atrium cafe; and at bar nights after work, where they would both get cheerfully tipsy and he would be rewarded with occasional, excruciating touches of her nimble fingers against his hands, or his arms, or, most memorably, his thighs.
A year of delicious agony.
“Happy Christmas Eve, Healer Granger.”
“And you, Draco,” she smiles. “Here for a gift?”
“Yes, I need something for a friend. Well, it’s more that, er, I need gift ideas, for a friend. I mean, my friend needs gift ideas.”
She rests her quill on the counter and looks up at him. “That’s a bit different.”
He nods, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “He’s in a difficult situation.”
“Oh?”
“He wants to get something for the most amazing woman in the world, but he’s just a worthless sod.”
She cocks her head. “The best gifts come from the heart, not the wallet,” she says sincerely.
“Oh, he has plenty of money. It’s everything else about him that’s worthless.”
“And he’s still a friend?”
“Yeah, kind of stuck with him, actually,” he says wryly.
“What’s the woman like?”
“Brilliant, beautiful, too good for him by half.”
She looks down. “And he is… romantically interested in her?”
“Ardently so.”
She huffs a quiet breath and runs her hands over her hair before pulling it forward to drape over one shoulder. “How long has he been pursuing her?”
“Give or take four years.”
“That long?”
“No one would ever call him brave.”
“Has he ever asked her on a date?” she prods.
“Not as such.”
Her eyes narrow. “And why not?”
“Well, he had this idea that he’d become her friend, and he’d be useful to her, support her endeavors, share in her aspirations.” He bites his lower lip, considering his words and the fate of the embers burning in his chest. “And he hoped that maybe over time she’d come to rely on him, grow fond of him, miss him when he was gone, maybe even need him. And then when he took his chance, if she said yes, he’d know she was all in. Like he is. Like he has been, all these years.”
“I see,” she breathes. “And is all going to plan?”
“Not exactly. There was a fatal flaw. Actually, a few,” he frowns.
“Oh?”
“She dated other people,” he grimaces.
She scowls at him. “You mean she didn’t wait patiently for their one meeting a year that wasn’t even a date?”
He licks his lips. Merlin, he enjoys her temper. “That’s not even the worst part.”
“It’s not?” she laughs.
“No, the problem is he doesn’t know if she feels the same way. If he only has one chance, he doesn’t want to waste it. But he doesn’t think he can wait any longer.”
Her lashes lower and then lift as her eyes drift down his form then back up. “He truly has no idea how she feels?”
“They’re friends. He values their friendship more than anything.”
She moves to stand in front of the counter and takes his hands. He lets his thumbs caress the soft skin of her palms.
“Draco. Take your chance.”
Does it count as brave that he’s here? That he is about to unleash every hopeless hope he has ever harboured in his desperate, smouldering heart, even as said heart prepares to pound out of his chest and flee, leaving him collapsed in a heap on the floor?
“I dreamt of you for years. You were a made-up vision in my head. Radiant. Exquisite. The dream of you haunted me, followed me wherever I went, until I had to seek you out.”
He breathes in, giving her fingers a squeeze. “And then you were real. I thought the dream I made of you was perfect, but you are the real marvel. Every second spent being with you, talking to you, thinking about you, has been the best in my life. I could spend my whole life falling in love with you.”
“Draco.”
He raises a hand to let his knuckles graze against her cheeks. She turns her head, her nose nuzzling against the tips of his fingers. He swallows.
“I don’t expect you to feel the same. You must think I’m mad. It’s just—I’m yours, Hermione. Whatever you say, however you feel, know I’ll always be in love with you. I’ll always be rooting for you. I’ll always carry you in my heart.”
“Draco.”
“I’m on tenterhooks, my love. Please speak gently.”
“Do you ever wonder why no one else is in the shop?”
“Never. You’re all I think about here.”
She pulls back and stares at him. “Draco, we sell quills and parchment. It’s Christmas Eve. Hogwarts is on break. Hogsmeade is quiet. For years you’ve been the only sale we make on this day. Mr. Scrivenshaft always says to just close up, but after that first year…” Her mouth forms an uncertain line. “I always wanted to see if you would come back.”
His heart clenches and threatens to never release.
“Hermione.”
She pulls his hand from the side of her face and brings it to her lips, her eyes fluttering shut as she presses a kiss to his knuckles.
“Draco. I’ve been here, waiting for you.”
“Hermione.”
“Kiss me.”
“Yes, dear.”
He gathers her in his arms and their lips meet, as soft and tender as the night is long. Each press of her sweet, warm mouth to his heats and soothes the eternal fires of his heart.
He presses his forehead to hers. “Spend the day with me.”
“Yes.”
“Spend Christmas with me.”
“Yes.”
“Boxing Day.”
“Yes.”
“And the days after.”
“Yes.”
He closes his eyes. What a precious gift, to hold her in his arms. He will not waste it.
He thinks about the gift in his robe pocket. There will be time enough for it all. He places a gentle kiss on her forehead and she exhales a pleased, contented sound.
Leaving the shop hand in hand, she unlatches the bell from above the door and places it in his open palm. “I’ve come to love this sound. The sound of your arrival. The sound of our time together. Let’s take it with us.”