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It was Hermione’s idea.
“A quiet week in the countryside,” she said. “Snow, mulled wine, my parents. Simple.”
Draco had questions.
“Define ‘simple.’ And does it involve electricity? Because last time I tried a Muggle kettle, I nearly summoned a fire demon.”
She only kissed his cheek and said, “You’ll be fine.”
She was wrong.
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It began with the goose.
Jean Granger had rented the cottage from a friend of a friend—quaint, charming, rustic. It also came with a guard goose, which Draco discovered at approximately seven a.m. on the first morning when he stepped outside in his dressing gown for a quiet breath of air and was immediately chased back inside by a furious white bird with murder in its eyes.
Hermione sipped her tea calmly while he clutched the doorframe, panting.
“Oh, right,” she said. “I forgot to warn you about Gregory.”
“Gregory?” Draco gasped. “He’s possessed, Hermione.”
“He’s just territorial. You have to assert dominance.”
“I’m not fighting a goose. I have standards.”
She smirked behind her mug. “Do you?”
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Day two brought new disasters.
Draco, eager to contribute, offered to make breakfast. Jean and Richard watched with barely concealed interest as he tackled the toaster like it might explode.
“What exactly is it doing?” he asked, staring in horror as the bread slowly browned.
“It’s toasting,” Hermione said patiently.
“It’s judging me.”
Later, he tried to help Jean with the dishes. Magic, he figured, was off-limits. But “helping” turned into soaking half the kitchen when he mistook the dish soap for hand cream and didn’t realize the tap needed to be turned off.
Jean raised one eyebrow. “You know, Draco, we do have a dishwasher.”
“I am the dishwasher,” he said grimly, sleeves rolled to his elbows, shirt soaked, dignity lost somewhere under the table.
Hermione peeked in and grinned. “How’s it going in here?”
“I’m being hazed,” he replied flatly.
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Day three: snowstorm.
They were trapped inside. Board games appeared. And Hermione? Hermione betrayed him.
She picked Scrabble.
Jean and Richard leaned in, eyes gleaming.
Draco stared at the letter tiles like they were cursed runes.
“Darling,” Hermione said sweetly, “you do know how to spell, don’t you?”
“I know how to spell ‘impedimenta.’ Unfortunately, that doesn’t fit on this board.”
Jean, who had just played the word “QUIZZIFY” for an absurd number of points, gave him a sympathetic smile that did not feel sympathetic.
An hour later, defeated, Draco slumped back on the couch while Richard passed him a biscuit.
“Don’t worry,” he said kindly. “She’s been wiping the floor with us for years.”
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And yet, somehow, through all the embarrassment, Draco found himself... laughing.
With Jean, who taught him how to bake gingerbread without magic (“No wands, young man. That’s cheating.”).
With Richard, who asked quiet, insightful questions about his research and listened with real curiosity.
With Hermione, who wore wool socks and messy buns and looked at him like he belonged there—even when he nearly set the living room rug on fire trying to light the fireplace “the proper way.”
There were quiet evenings with hot cider and old movies. Muggle ones. He didn’t understand half of it, but Hermione curled against his side and whispered explanations in his ear, and he didn’t care about the rest.
One night, after Jean went to bed humming Christmas carols under her breath and Richard wandered off to find a blanket for Crookshanks, Draco sat on the couch and watched Hermione fold paper snowflakes by hand.
She caught him staring.
“What?” she asked, smiling.
He leaned over and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
He shrugged. “Just thinking this is the strangest, most ridiculous, most... wonderful holiday I’ve ever had.”
Hermione paused, looked at him carefully, then said, “You really like them, don’t you?”
He nodded. “I do. Even if Gregory wants me dead.”
“He only bit you once.”
“And drew blood, Hermione.”
She laughed, and he knew then—no matter how far outside his comfort zone he was, no matter how absurd the holiday chaos became—this was it.
This was home.