Chapter Text
PODFIC:
"Absolutely not."
Hermione looked up from her work diary to find her husband-to-be looking at her over the top of a glossy Muggle magazine (Horse & Hound?!), his face arranged in a way that expressed distaste and the utmost seriousness in equal measure.
"You haven't even heard what I was going to suggest!"
"You were using a not-so-subtle segway about your grandmother’s famed turkey dinner recipe to ease into the suggestion that we serve turkey."
The tone and expression that accompanied the name of the avian species reminded her of his reaction the first time he ever encountered someone wearing socks and sandals while they were on vacation in Corsica. Which had then been followed by Draco handing the very confused Muggle tourist the card for his very magical tailor in London before puffing up and striding away as if he had just offered the general population a great service.
Hermione sighed. Both at the memory, and what was to come.
“Granger, we are not hosting our first Christmas dinner at Malfoy Manor with turkey."
"It's traditional—"
Her rebuttals were weak and futile and she knew it.
"It's pedestrian." Draco flicked the magazine closed with unnecessary force. "Pansy and I have already decided. Beef Wellington."
From her position sprawled across the antique settee, Pansy didn't even look up from her own magazine (Country Living?!?! Where the fuck were this endless supply of Muggle magazines coming from?!).
"With a red wine reduction. And we're doing individual chocolate soufflés for dessert." The short fiery witch left no room for argument in her tone.
Hermione exchanged a look with Neville, who was attempting to hide behind his mug of tea in the corner. His eyes said everything: We're doomed.
"Right," Hermione said slowly. "And have either of you ever made Beef Wellington? Or a soufflé for that matter?"
"How hard can it be?" Draco waved a dismissive hand as he moved onto what must be the “hound” section of his magazine by this point. "It's just... beef. In pastry."
"It's notoriously difficult. Gordon Ramsay screams at people about it. A lot."
"Who?"
"Never mind." Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "The point is—"
"The point is," Pansy interrupted, finally sitting up, "that you are not having a pedestrian” (Draco smiled smuggly at this) “or ordinary Christmas dinner. Not when for the first time in this manor’s history, we are breaking archaic pureblood tradition and hosting Wizarding society’s favourite blood traitors.”
"Will Lucius and Narcissa also be in attendance?" Neville asked, looking slightly ill.
"They're not invited," Draco said adamantly, though the shallow line that formed between his brows suggested he was already regretting that decision. Or perhaps already composing the apologetic owl he'd inevitably have to send his mother when she found out about this dinner through her wide network of spies - both living and framed.
"This is a disaster waiting to happen." Hermione muttered, mentally calculating how many bottles of wine it would take to get through an evening of Draco and Pansy's culinary delusions.
"It's going to be sophisticated," Pansy corrected, "Elegant. Refined. Everything a proper Malfoy Manor Christmas should be. With the notable improvement of not being hosted by people who think acceptable dinner conversation includes debates about bloodline purity and the correct methods for disciplining house elves."
Hermione had to agree with that point, though she wasn't sure replacing discussions of blood purity with Draco's inevitable meltdown over pastry dough was much of an improvement.
The black haired witch then turned to Neville with a swing of her bob and dazzling smile that Hermione had learned the hard way meant either 'You better fucking do as I say' or 'I'm genuinely smitten'.
With Pansy, it was often impossible to tell.
"You agree with me, don't you, darling?"
Neville, to his credit, took a long, deliberate sip of tea before answering. The kind of sip that suggested he was seriously weighing the pros and cons between honesty and disagreeing with his wife in her own domain.
Finally, he lowered the mug with a resigned sigh.
"I think... perhaps we should start with something smaller? Like just the turkey? Work our way up to the Beef Wellington for, say, Easter?"
"THANK YOU—" Hermione started, relief flooding through her that some grip on sanity remained amongst their group.
"Neville Longbottom," Pansy interrupted, her voice dropping to an icy register that matched the cool daggers in her glare, "I did not fall in love with you because you're a quitter."
Then, almost imperceptibly, Pansy’s eyes flicked to Neville’s nether regions and she raised one perfectly arched brow before returning her gaze to his. And like the cheap deck of cards that he was, the sword wielding snake slayer instantly folded at what Hermione assumed was a thinly veiled threat to the future of his sex life.
“Errr– um.. ok yeah you’re right, darling. I’m sure you can do anything you put your mind to.” Neville stammered out to his criminally satisfied looking wife.
The sigh Hermione let loose was departing exasperation territory and entering the realm of an angry Hebridean Black.
"You two, now three–” She shot a disappointed glare at a red faced Neville “do realize that you've never cooked anything without magic? Or with magic, actually. You've never cooked. Period. At all. Neither of you have so much as boiled water."
"That's what kettles are for," Draco said, missing the point entirely.
"Well, obviously that's why we have you and Neville," Pansy said breezily, as if this had been the plan all along and not a convenient revelation. "For the... technical aspects."
"The cooking, you mean." Hermione's eye twitched. Just barely, but she could feel it.
"Semantics." Pansy waved her hand as if dismissing Hermione's concerns along with a particularly persistent mosquito.
Hermione looked desperately at Neville again, a silent plea for him to find the courage of their shared House and help her put an end to this.
"When is this dinner supposed to happen?" he asked weakly. No luck then.
"Saturday," Draco and Pansy said in unison, with the casual synchronicity that must have been a byproduct of two people sharing the same mental delusions.
"This Saturday!?" Neville's voice climbed an octave.
"Is there another Saturday?" Draco looked genuinely confused, as if the concept of future Saturdays was somehow foreign to him.
"That's four days away! "Four. Days. Ninety-six hours. Do you have any idea how long it takes to properly prepare a—"
"Plenty of time," Pansy interrupted, examining her candy apple red nails with her signature detached confidence. "We'll start shopping tomorrow—I've already made a list. Prep on Friday, cook on Saturday morning. Simple. Streamlined. Efficient. Just the way you like it, Granger.”
Hermione’s other eye twitched. More noticeably this time.
Said list popped into existence in Pansy’s hand and she floated it to Hermione with a flick of her wrist.
Hermione scanned it quickly, causing the twitch to be at risk of becoming a permanent incurable facial tick.
"Pansy, this is a list of ingredients. Not a timeline. Not a schedule. And half of these don't even specify quantities. 'Butter'? How much butter? 'Cream'? What kind of cream?"
"The good kind, obviously." Pansy replied with authentic exasperation.
“Seconded. Only the best for our inaugural holiday guests.” Draco chimed in unhelpfully.
"A nightmare before Christmas..." Neville muttered under his breath only loud enough for Hermione to hear before letting his head fall back against his chair with a soft thunk.
Hermione let out a long suffering sigh of defeat, already pulling out her planner. This one was color-coded with tabs and emergency contact numbers and a section dedicated exclusively to 'Mitigating The Impact of Draco’s Excentricity'.
Well, at least it was clear what section this particular project would live under.
She began making notes in her most aggressive handwriting, each strike of her quill against parchment a tiny act of catharsis.
"Right. First things first. We need a proper shopping list. With measurements. With backup options for when you both inevitably decide you don't like something at the last minute—"
"I resent that." Draco interjected at the same time Pansy rolled her eyes dramatically.
"—and contingency plans. Multiple contingency plans. And perhaps," she added, glancing up while the feeling of dread settled more firmly in her gut, "we should pre-emptively owl St. Mungo's. Just to give them a heads up."
"You're being dramatic." Pansy said, though she had the decency to look slightly uncertain.
"I'm being realistic." Hermione closed her planner with a decisive snap. "And realistically, we're going to need a miracle, a bottomless supply of Bordeaux, and possibly a time turner to pull this off."
Draco reached over and squeezed her hand, his expression somewhere between apologetic and determined. "We can do this, Granger. Together. The four of us."
Hermione looked at him—at his ridiculous optimism and his designer jumper and his complete lack of culinary experience—and felt her resolve solidify. She'd faced down Death Eaters. She'd survived a war. She'd rewritten magical labor laws and dismantled centuries of house elf enslavement.
She could survive one Christmas dinner.
Probably.