Work Text:
October
Hermione Granger stood in the darkened living room of what used to be her childhood home, the faint glow of streetlamps filtering in through the dust-streaked windows. The house smelled of disuse with stale air, old wood, and memories that no one had touched since she’d wiped herself from her parents' lives.
Even now, months after the war, the atmosphere still felt hollow, as though the house itself remembered her absence more clearly than she did. She had finally managed to apply for utility reconnection with the Ministry's help, as her family home was technically among the war's collateral damage. Still, it would take a couple of weeks to sort everything out. At least she had that going for her.
She let her mind drift as she moved from room to room, assessing the state of the objects her parents once lived with using a Lumos as the only light source—faded photographs, dusty shelves, boxes of books that hadn't felt a human touch in months. Every corner held something familiar and yet painfully distant, like artefacts of a life she had stepped out of.
Nevertheless, the house was cold, dark, and unwelcoming like a shell rather than a home. After a few hours of picking things up only to set them down again, Hermione conceded that there was no point in forcing progress tonight. She would come back when the utility companies made an appointment to reconnect, as she lived close enough.
In her efforts to restore her family home, Hermione had found a room at Iolanthe, a little hotel on Wildwood Road, a quiet brick house tucked behind a row of tall hedges, barely five minutes' walk from Heathgate.
The owner, Beatrice Camero, a soft-spoken woman in her sixties, showed Hermione the narrow single room with a view of the Hampstead Heath Extension, then mentioned the rate of £60 a night with breakfast. Hermione had negotiated for a long-term stay with breakfast excluded. Beatrice, probably feeling sorry for her or recognising that she was barely an adult, allowed her to stay for £450 a month as long as she worked at the inn for 20 hours a week. Hermione nearly sagged with relief. After arranging for builders and being largely alone for the holidays, it was preferable to being homeless or living in her dark and decrepit home.
She could have stayed with Harry at Grimmauld Place, Merlin knew he would have offered without hesitation, but the truth was more straightforward and far less noble: she didn't want to mother another orphan. The entire Golden Trio dynamic had been too much for her. Harry with his fragile silences and unspoken guilt. Ron with his unresolved anger or envy. She always had to put her own needs and wants last.
Sometimes she thought that they were testing how much she could withstand before she broke. The entire wizarding world seemed to look at Hermione Granger as though she were some endlessly replenishing well of emotional strength.
She knew that she only had herself to blame for that. Overachieving to compensate for how out of place she felt in magical society.
After the trials and the accolades—the First Class Order of Merlin, along with the sizeable Ministry reward that accompanied it—Hermione had hurled herself into helping the wizarding world heal from the devastation of the war. Rebuilding was easier than resting and recuperating. Easier than thinking. Far easier than sitting still long enough to confront the shrapnel she still carried lodged inside her own chest.
The Ministry of Magic and Headmistress McGonagall had put out a call for volunteers to help cleanse the scorch marks and shattered stone littering Hogwarts' ancient halls. Hermione, along with the remnants of Dumbledore's Army and the Order of the Phoenix, stepped forward without hesitation. The spell damage, siege wreckage, and lingering curses were so severe that the school had no choice but to close for an entire academic year following the war.
Restoring Hogwarts to its former glory felt like the right thing to do. It felt noble, necessary and something to devote herself to. More importantly, it offered Hermione a purpose, a distraction sturdy enough to keep her from examining the scars on her body and those in her heart.
Hogwarts was their home, and repairing it seemed like a good way to forget about her actual muggle home, which she hadn't seen since she unceremoniously kicked her parents out of it.
She had noticed, keenly, and not without a curl of bitterness, that not a single Slytherin or anyone aligned with the other side had set foot on the castle grounds to help. No former Death Eaters or children of blood supremacists. None of the people whose decisions, loyalties or silence had contributed to the destruction they were now painstakingly repairing.
The Order and DA combed through every corridor, every scorched classroom, every fractured stone archway, checking for residual curses and malignant enchantments. It stung more than she wanted to admit. They had fought a war started by bigotry, cleaned up a mess created by pureblood arrogance, and now they were left, again, to pick up the pieces alone.
At the start of October, after four months of cleaning, the Order collectively decided to take a break from the castle repairs to focus on their personal lives before the holidays and resume in February.
Personal lives. Hermione let out a small, humourless breath. She didn't have one, but not for the lack of trying.
She was too strange for the muggle world, too strange for the wizarding one, and too exhausted to figure out what strange even meant anymore.
So when the cleaning crew of DA members and Order volunteers disembarked at King's Cross after the Hogwarts Express finally hissed to a stop, Hermione slipped away—quietly, unobtrusively, before anyone could ask where she was going or whether she had plans for the break.
Given the absence of a Patronus or letters, they probably assumed she was somewhere safe and happy, preparing for the holidays.
🎄🎄🎄
December
By the end of November, the utilities had at last been fully reconnected, and most of the house renovated. Hermione informed Beatrice that she would be moving back into her family home in a couple of weeks to take care of it full-time. Beatrice already had a trip planned and asked Hermione to continue helping with the laundry and covering the desk, so the other staff could take breaks.
A small part of her hated the idea of leaving Iolanthe, the familiar clatter of the breakfast trays, the scent of freshly laundered sheets and the easy rhythm of work that required no emotional investment. Beatrice needed the help, too; her returning guests, many from neighbouring towns who travelled to London for business, often tipped Hermione generously.
As much as Hermione would have loved to stay tucked away in this little inn forever, folding linens, staffing the desk, pretending she wasn't a war heroine with too many ghosts, Hermione knew she logically couldn't. Not when her parents were still out there, living a life that didn't include her. Not when she needed real income, stability and answers. Not when simply surviving wouldn't be enough to bring them back.
The front bell chimed, a few bright notes that sliced cleanly through the quiet hum of the empty inn. Hermione straightened from the shelf where she'd been sorting freshly laundered sheets, pillowcases, and blankets, the faint scent of lavender detergent clinging to her hands.
She was the only employee in the building; Beatrice was out of town and was scheduled to return the following day. Hermione didn't mind being alone because it meant that she could use magic in some of her cleaning tasks.
With a practised flick of her wrist, she drew her wand. The linens began folding and stacking themselves neatly, her movements seamless from months of doing cleaning charms at Hogwarts. She locked the laundry room door behind her before slipping out, ensuring that no guest would accidentally walk in on animated bedding floating about like obedient ghosts.
She smoothed down her uniform, tucked her wand safely away, and walked toward the reception desk when she stepped behind the counter, her breath caught.
For a heartbeat, they only stared at each other.
Standing in the foyer was Draco Lucius Malfoy, dripping melted snow onto the carpet, pale blond hair tousled from the cold, and wrapped in what had to be the most unnecessarily expensive set of winter travel clothes she'd ever seen. He wore a tailored white parka trimmed with real fur along the hood, which framed his face in a soft, cold halo. The coat's fitted silhouette accentuated his tall, lean build, with broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist, and the silver hardware gleamed under the lobby's warm lights. A high-neck charcoal cashmere jumper peeked out beneath the unzipped front of his coat. His black gloves were supple leather, perfectly matched to the sleek dragon-hide boots.
His blond hair was longer than she remembered, the strands sticking to his forehead in a way that made him look both polished and slightly undone. His skin was pale from winter and lack of sun, which only made his storm-grey eyes stand out more, flicking over her with the dexterity of someone trained to catalogue threats, insults and weaknesses in a single glance.
A faint flush from the cold coloured his cheeks, but it did nothing to soften him. He looked composed, controlled, almost regal in how he held himself, despite the weather, the snow, and the faint annoyance pinching the corners of his mouth.
He had always been beautiful, in the brittle, aristocratic way of old pure-blood families. But standing in the doorway of a small muggle inn, dripping snow and dressed like winter royalty, he looked infuriatingly out of place.
Hermione's shock must have shown too nakedly on her face, because his cordial and well-practised smile twisted almost instantly into a sharp, reflexive, and unmistakably Malfoy sneer. His eyes swept over her uniform, the cosy little inn, the guestbook on the counter, and then pinned her with a look that was half disbelief, half derision.
His old snide remarks about her appearance resurfaced unbidden, and a prickle of self-consciousness slid over her like an intrusive thought. She suddenly hoped she didn't look as rumpled as she felt. Just like that, the room's temperature dropped further.
"Granger." The word left his mouth like an accusation, crisp and edged.
"Malfoy." Hers was cold but no less loaded.
He lifted his chin a fraction. "My car broke down, and I need a room."
Hermione crossed her arms, unimpressed. "Then apparate to the manor. Or use a floo. Surely the Malfoys still have one or two gilded hearths lying around."
Something in his expression tightened, an almost imperceptible flicker before his face smoothed back into cold indifference. "I didn't realise you'd become the type to rub someone's wartime sentence in their face," he drawled, voice deceptively mild. "How Gryffindor of you."
Admittedly, she had no idea what had happened to him after the trials. By the time the Wizengamot passed sentence on the underage Death Eaters, she and the rest of the cleanup crew had been trapped in endless renovation duty. She had deliberately avoided the Prophet's sensational headlines and post-war scandals, finding solace in diagrams of ward structures rather than in watching the wizarding world tear itself apart with blame.
There had been plenty of talk around her during breakfast at the Great Hall, but she never engaged beyond the obligatory hums and murmurs she gave to appear attentive. Whatever consequences Draco Malfoy and the other snakes received for their part in the war were none of her business. She wasn't their judge, healer or keeper. And she certainly wasn't about to waste emotional energy wondering about it now.
"Fine," Hermione conceded, mainly because refusing him would prolong this awful interaction, and the absolute last thing she wanted was Draco Malfoy continuing to speak to her. "£60 a night. Breakfast included. That's around 12 galleons a night."
Malfoy wasn't listening to a word she said; his gaze flicked pointedly toward the laundry room, where he might have heard a faint shuffle of magically folding linens.
"You're doing magic in a muggle establishment?" he muttered, voice a low, incredulous drawl that carried far too easily.
Hermione stiffened. "Keep your voice down," she hissed, grabbing his elbow and yanking him toward her before he could say anything else loud enough to violate the Statute of Secrecy. The height difference made the gesture look more like an annoyed tug than a threat, and she had to tilt her chin up to glare properly. "What I do with my time and energy has absolutely nothing to do with you. Anyway, for three to four guests, you can request extra mattresses, or you can even book the deluxe room—£150, breakfast included for four." Her tone was crisp, professional, and absolutely unwilling to care about whoever Draco Malfoy intended to share a room with. But he wasn't listening to the pricing. Again.
He leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper, "Can you cast noise-buffering wards?"
Hermione stared. "Can't you cast your own wards?" she hissed, incredulous. His proximity made her pulse jump unwittingly; she could smell peppermint on his breath, the sharp bite of cold air on his clothes, and the faint trace of gasoline beneath his expensive cologne. He really hadn't lied about having a car.
Malfoy’s jaw tightened, the muscle twitching once before he mastered it. "I suppose your insatiable thirst for information didn't extend to reading trial summaries," he muttered, grey eyes narrowing to cold slits. "If you must know, especially since it was your testimony that helped seal my fate, I've been sentenced to three years of exile without magic." Hermione's breath caught at your testimony, but he didn't give her a moment to speak. "Were you too busy polishing your Order of Merlin to bother caring what happened to the rest of us?"
His lack of magic technically made him a muggle. A flicker of empathy welled up, but then she recalled just how thoroughly he'd earned his reputation as a prat and let her tone harden appropriately. "Oh, I'm sorry," Hermione snapped sarcastically, her voice dripping acid. "Did you want Azkaban instead?"
Malfoy’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, they stood close enough for the old war to surge between them like a spell waiting to explode. "Perhaps the Ministry would be delighted to know that their Golden Girl has been doing magic in a muggle establishment," He said casually as if he were discussing Christmas presents.
"I see your exile has done wonders for your personality," Hermione said icily. "I happen to know that access to the Ministry is also impossible for muggles, which you essentially are right now."
"I see employment in the hospitality industry hasn't done a thing for your atrocious Gryffindor manners," he said coolly. "I'll find alternative accommodations."
"I'm sure whoever you bother next can cast your precious wards," Hermione muttered, voice barely above a whisper. She wasn't about to risk a guest overhearing.
With those pleasantries out of the way, he turned around and left.
After a short while, her reliever arrived. After a brief turnover, Hermione finally retreated to her room. She had grown fond of the space. It wasn't large, but it had charm: a sloped ceiling, warm lamplight, and a window overlooking the street below.
On quiet evenings, she would sit at the desk with a cup of tea and watch people pass by. It made her feel connected to the world without having to participate in it. She already knew that was going to miss the view.
Hermione crossed to the window, parting the curtains slightly to check the snow levels outside. But what she saw made her freeze.
There, on the bench just across the street, unmistakable in his white parka trimmed with fur, sat Draco Malfoy. His elbows rested on his knees, his head buried in his hands, snowflakes gathering in his pale hair. He looked defeated. Or cold. Or exhausted. Perhaps all three. And parked a few metres away, half-covered in fresh snow, was a Volvo with its engine hood open, steam curling faintly upward into the night air.
So he hadn't lied about the broken-down car.
Hermione's heart gave a slight and unwelcome squeeze. She expected him to find another place easily, but the sight of him alone on that bench still tugged unpleasantly at her conscience. She remembered finding Iolanthe when she needed a place to stay and realised that she would have been absolutely horrified if the roles were reversed. If she had been seeking shelter, and Draco Malfoy had been on the desk offering insults instead of hospitality.
She pressed her forehead lightly against the cold glass. Perhaps she had overreacted earlier, and because of that, Draco Malfoy was sitting outside in the snow instead of in a heated room.
Hermione shed her work clothes quickly before she could talk herself out of what she was about to do. She tugged the stiff cotton uniform over her head and tossed it onto the chair. By the time she finished dressing, she no longer looked like an inn receptionist at the end of a long shift but someone ready to brave the cold and to retrieve the infuriating blond man currently freezing on a bench outside.
With one last glance at the frosted window, Hermione squared her shoulders and headed for the door. She couldn't, in good conscience, leave Draco Malfoy out in the snow even if he had deserved every sharp word they'd exchanged earlier.
Hermione poked her head into the lobby on her way downstairs. The reliever, Kate, was behind the counter, juggling a flurry of evening check-ins—handing out keys, answering questions, directing one guest toward the lift and another toward the dining area.
"I'm stepping out!" Hermione called over the bustle.
Hermione slipped out the front door, the cold night air rushing up to greet her like a sharp slap. The temperature had dropped further since she last checked the window; her breath clouded immediately, curling white in the dark. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and set off down the pavement, boots crunching softly over the layer of fresh snow.
She wasn't entirely sure Malfoy would still be there. People in distress tended to wander, and Malfoy didn't strike her as the type to sit patiently on a bench waiting for divine intervention. But she knew the spot she'd seen him at was just around the corner.
Sure enough, after a short walk, she turned the corner and saw him.
Draco Malfoy sat hunched forward on the snow-dusted bench, elbows braced on his knees, his hands covering his face. His platinum blond hair caught the lamplight like cold metal. He looked like a defeated version of Rodin's Thinker, if the Thinker had been dropped into a muggle neighbourhood in the middle of a snowstorm with no magic and too much pride.
The sight hit her unexpectedly hard.
He hadn't moved from the position she'd last seen him in. His breath fogged the air in slow, uneven bursts. Snowflakes clung to the shoulders of his expensive parka. And for the first time since Hogwarts, Hermione saw Draco Malfoy as someone who looked profoundly, bone-deep alone. Like her.
Hermione let out a long breath, feeling the cold sting her lungs as she stood there weighing the options. A part of her couldn't help noting the irony of the situation. Draco Malfoy, who once strutted through Hogwarts with all the advantages a pureblood aristocrat could possess, was now sitting on a bench in the muggle world, powerless and miserable. At school, the scales had always tipped in his favour: the Malfoy name, the money, the connections, the casual cruelty that came from knowing the system was designed to protect him. And after the war, while he received exile, she and the rest of the Order spent months repairing the damage created by the side he had chosen. So yes, seeing him like that felt somewhat vindicating.
But another part, a quieter yet more stubborn part, didn't like the idea of walking away. She could still be the bigger person. She always had been, even at the cost of her own safety and happiness. Malfoy had never shown her an ounce of mercy in the years they’d known each other, but he was cold, stranded and clearly with nowhere else to go.
Hermione rubbed her hands together, trying to focus. He wasn't her enemy or responsibility. But he was a person sitting alone in the snow, and she'd never been good at ignoring people in trouble, even when she wanted to. Especially when she wanted to.
With a resigned inhale, she stepped toward the bench, boots crunching in the fresh layer of snow. Whether she liked it or not, she couldn't leave Draco Malfoy out here like this.
"I didn't realise your idea of alternative accommodations involved freezing to death in the snow," Hermione said as she approached. The words came out sharper than she intended. Reflexive, almost automatic. She winced inwardly at herself. Their interactions had always been barbed, defensive, tangled in years of hostility. She wasn't sure she even knew how to speak to him without sounding like she was bracing for a fight.
Malfoy didn't bother lifting his head. "Did you really come all the way out here to gloat?" he asked, disbelief colouring his voice. He sounded exhausted, not angry; although with him, it was sometimes hard to tell where one ended, and the other began.
Hermione exhaled slowly and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Typical Malfoy. Half-frozen, stranded, possibly hypothermic and still assuming the world revolved around his suffering.
"Honestly? No," she muttered. Without drawing attention to it, she cast a discreet warming charm over them both. Warming and cooling spells were among the few that she could do wandlessly, and Hermione had learned during the Horcrux hunt which spells were reliable without a wand. A soft wave of heat seeped into the air around them.
Malfoy stiffened in surprise at the sudden warmth, then slowly lowered his hands from his face and stared up at her, confused, as though trying to reconcile the insult she'd opened with and the compassion that followed.
Hermione folded her arms, trying to mask just how awkward it felt. "You looked like you were about to turn into a depressed Malfoy statue," she said, her voice softer now. "I don't need another war breaking out because a muggleborn dared to let a pureblood freeze to death." She shrugged, attempting nonchalance. "Besides, I didn't fancy your frozen corpse blocking my favourite view."
Malfoy didn't respond right away. He sat there, staring across the street at the rows of lit windows above the inn. His gaze drifted from one to the next, lingering as though trying to work out which one belonged to her. It was strange seeing him silent, contemplative, stripped of the sharp arrogance he used to wear like armour.
Hermione exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the moment settle between them. "Look," she began, shifting her stance. "We have history. And not the pleasant kind. We've spent years hating each other, and I'm not pretending that changes overnight."
He didn't argue or scoff. He just kept looking at her window, then at her, as though her words were prying open a part of him he'd kept locked up tight.
"But you're basically a muggle right now," she continued, more gently than she intended. "And it's the holidays. I can't offer you a truce or pardon because Godric knows you don’t deserve it. But I can offer a ceasefire while you’re here. At least until this snowstorm is over."
That finally made him look at her directly. Really look at her. His expression was a mixture of surprise, confusion and suspicion, all flickering too quickly to decipher as if he were seeing her clearly for the first time without the noise of Hogwarts, house rivalries, or an actual war between them.
Hermione felt her face warm under the scrutiny. "If you want," she added quickly, suddenly flustered by the intensity of his stare. "I mean—leaving you out here to die is still a wonderful option for me." The words tumbled out defensively, her cheeks flushing as soon as she heard herself. It was easier to retreat behind sarcasm than admit she was extending something that looked suspiciously like compassion.
His lips twitched and for the first time that night, he seemed a little less frozen.
“Draco Malfoy,” he said, standing up and offering his gloved hand in a gesture that felt absurdly formal under the circumstances.
“Hermione Granger,” she answered, hesitating only a moment before accepting it.
🎄
Malfoy asked Hermione to dinner in a stiff, awkward way, and she surprised herself by agreeing. Without the years of bitterness weighing down every interaction, she discovered he was far more tolerable than she expected—odd, stiff, unquestionably privileged, but also strangely earnest as he tried to navigate the muggle world. If they had met under different circumstances, Hermione suspected she might have found him eccentric rather than infuriating. Like Arthur Weasley.
Over dinner, they avoided painful topics and instead focused on his misadventures with technology, from nearly blowing up a microwave to taking a Ministry-issued muggle readiness aptitude test. His stories were so absurd that Hermione couldn’t help laughing, and for once, Malfoy didn’t take offence. He even laughed with her, recounting mishaps like buying candles and assuming they’d light without matches and assuming muggles didn’t lock their doors.
For the first time, Hermione wondered who Draco Malfoy might have been if the war hadn’t stood between them.
"I'm so sorry, Hermione."
Kate, the receptionist, gave her an apologetic, sheepish smile, wringing her hands a little as she stood behind the counter. The lobby was bustling again, voices drifting in from the lounge, the sound of luggage wheels scraping across the tiles and the clatter of keys.
Malfoy and Hermione had walked back to Iolanthe after dinner, only to discover that the large crowd she'd passed on her way out had, in fact, booked the inn to full capacity.
Kate gestured helplessly at the reservation ledger. "It's the holidays and the snowstorm, love. We filled up faster than expected. There's another inn down the street. Maybe you could try your luck there?"
Hermione offered a polite smile, but Malfoy stepped slightly closer and spoke just loud enough for her to hear. "I've already tried," he murmured. "All of them. They're full."
She blinked. "All of them?"
"Yes," he said, tone clipped with annoyance at himself rather than her. "Iolanthe was my last option. And no, I wasn't actually planning to seek accommodations elsewhere. I only said that to preserve the last pathetic shred of my dignity."
Hermione almost snorted at that. There was something painfully honest about the admission, something that tugged at the thin thread of sympathy she'd been trying very hard not to feel.
Malfoy stepped up to the counter then, slipping into a disarmingly polite tone she recognised all too well; the same voice he used with professors, donors, and anyone old enough to remind him of his mother's friends.
"Excuse me," he said to Kate, offering a faint but charming smile. "Would you happen to know a mechanic nearby? Someone who could take a look at my car? The engine's shot, and I'd prefer not to leave it on the street overnight."
Kate blinked, taken off guard by his courtesy. "Oh, well, there's Jerry's two streets over. They're closed for the night, but if you leave your keys with me, I can call him first thing in the morning."
"That would be incredibly helpful," Malfoy said, inclining his head with a politeness that bordered on courtly. He handed Kate the car keys along with a neatly folded fifty-pound note. "For your trouble."
Her eyes went wide. "Oh. Oh my. Thank you." She accepted the tip with a mix of surprise and gratitude, flustered in the pleasant way people get when someone unexpectedly treats them well.
Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course, he knew exactly how to charm older women. He'd probably been trained since birth.
"Well then," Malfoy said as Kate excused herself to fetch her bag from the staff room, "that's the car sorted. Maybe I can find a place near the garage." He glanced toward the street, already drawing breath to ask Kate for the address when she returned.
Hermione cut in before he could. "Or… you could stay with me until tomorrow's checkout time," she said, the words tumbling out faster than she'd initially intended. "I can transfer you to the next available room."
Malfoy turned to her so sharply she almost stepped back. He stared as though she had sprouted an extra head. Hermione braced herself, lifting her chin in what she hoped looked confident rather than mortified.
"We're friends," she insisted, immediately regretting her choice of words but refusing to back down. "Friends can stay in each other's rooms."
He blinked. Then his mouth twitched, halfway between disbelief and amusement. "Right," he said slowly. "As long as you won't murder me in my sleep."
"I make no such promises," Hermione shot back, unable to stop a laugh from slipping out.
They headed outside together to retrieve his bags. Malfoy walked a fraction ahead of her, crunching through the snow, still looking vaguely stunned. Hermione pretended not to notice. Pretended she hadn't just invited Draco Malfoy to sleep in her room. Pretended this entire evening wasn't fast approaching the borders of ridiculous.
But she followed him anyway. And he didn't argue.
🎄
A loud scream tore through the darkness, sharp enough to slice straight through Hermione’s sleep.
Her eyes flew open. For a moment, she was disoriented. Heart pounding, she scrambled upright and snapped on the bedside lamp.
The soft yellow light revealed Draco on the floor, tangled in the blankets she’d given him, chest heaving, fingers clawed into the fabric as though fighting something she couldn’t see. His jaw clenched so tightly the muscles quivered, sweat beading along his hairline, his features drawn tight with terror.
“Malfoy,” Hermione whispered, her voice gentler than she expected. She pushed back the covers and knelt beside him, reaching out to carefully touch his cheek. His skin was clammy and cold, despite the sweat. He flinched under her hand, breath hitching like he’d been yanked underwater.
Suddenly, his hand shot out. He grabbed her wrist with a force born of pure panic, and in one fluid, disoriented motion, hauled her down to him.
Hermione let out a startled gasp as her back hit the mattress. In the space of a heartbeat, Draco pinned her beneath him, forearm braced across her shoulder, his body trembling, his eyes wild and unfocused.
He was breathing hard as though he expected an attack, or had just escaped one.
“Malfoy,” Hermione said again, firmer now, though her pulse was racing. She kept her voice low and steady. “It’s me. You’re safe.”
Draco froze above her as if waking from a trance, his breath ragged, his silver eyes were wide and unfocused. It took a moment for recognition to cut through the haze. His grip on her wrist loosened, but he didn’t pull away just yet. He hovered there, suspended between instinct and awareness, staring straight into her brown eyes as though anchoring himself to her very existence.
Hermione could feel the tremor running through him, the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the tension radiating off his body as if he had just been ripped out of something violent and all-consuming.
“So,” she whispered gently, afraid to move too abruptly lest she cause a violent reaction, “this is why you wanted to request a Muffliato.”
Draco swallowed hard. Slowly and carefully, he shifted his weight off her, but he didn’t retreat fully. One hand remained pressed against the mattress beside her shoulder, the other still wrapped loosely around her wrist as if he wasn’t entirely convinced she was real or that he was awake.
“You’re safe,” he said, voice raw and hoarse. “You’re alive…” His jaw clenched. He looked away for half a second, ashamed, as though the nightmare had crawled out of his chest and exposed something he never intended anyone, least of all Hermione, to see.
Hermione eased her free hand up, brushing the back of it lightly against his forearm to encourage him to release her wrist. “Malfoy,” she murmured, soft but steady, “ceasefire, remember?” She held his gaze, letting the silence settle around them.
His eyes flicked back to hers, still wide, still shaken, but now focused and present. He exhaled a slow, shuddering breath, finally letting go. But he didn’t move far. He stayed close, sitting on the edge of the mattress, shoulders tense, hands still shaking faintly.
Hermione lay there, chest rising and falling too quickly, her heart thundering as though she had been the one dragged screaming from a nightmare. Her hand trembled when she lifted it; she wrapped her fingers around the wrist he had pinned moments earlier and winced at the faint throb already blooming into what would become a bruise.
She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know if she was supposed to comfort, scold or pretend none of it had happened. The latter suddenly seemed like the easiest option. If they both went back to sleep, they could wake in the morning and pretend they hadn’t collided in the dark like two wounded animals.
But as she lay still, a single tear slipped from the corner of her eye. Hermione blinked, startled by the wetness on her cheek. She didn’t know if it came from fear, exhaustion, or the strange and intimate shock of seeing Draco Malfoy, of all people, shaking with night terrors on her floor. And she didn’t know which explanation frightened her more.
🎄
The next morning, Hermione awoke to an empty room. The mattress Malfoy had slept on was no longer on the floor beside her bed, pushed neatly to the far corner. The blankets and pillows were folded and stacked on her desk, as though he had wanted to erase every trace of himself before she stirred.
A faint and unreasonable disappointment curled in her chest. He hadn’t woken her or said goodbye. He hadn’t even lingered long enough to ask if she wanted breakfast. For a brief, foolish moment, she’d let herself believe that last night’s fragile glimpse into each other’s vulnerabilities might have softened something between them. But she should have known better. A shared moment didn’t rewrite their history, erase the war or the years of animosity, and it most certainly didn’t make them friends.
Hermione shook her head sharply, mentally scolding herself. Hoping for anything beyond civility was absurd. They didn’t owe each other warmth. They barely owed each other politeness. Malfoy’s absence was just maintaining the boundaries that had always existed between them.
Pushing that thought away, Hermione swung her legs over the edge of the bed and began getting ready for the day, determined to focus on work and routine rather than the confusing tangle of last night’s emotions.
Beatrice returned early that morning, cheerful and sun-kissed from her trip, which freed Hermione from her temporary duties at the inn. She'd already planned a visit to the Christmas markets to keep her mind occupied after the previous night's encounter with Draco Malfoy.
It was better to give herself manageable tasks like buying Christmas lights and garlands, choosing ornaments and picking up modest gifts for people she cared about. She needed to soften the house and brighten its edges to make it feel less like a mausoleum of what she had lost and more like a place where her parents might live again. She needed distractions that didn't resemble memories or nightmares or the sound of Malfoy's scream as he drowned in one.
Hermione bundled herself tightly in her coat and scarf, discreetly cast a wandless warming charm, grabbed her handwritten list and stepped outside into the crisp December air. The cold bit pleasantly at her cheeks, and for a moment, she let herself breathe. Today would be simple, quiet and predictable with no Draco Malfoy.
Frost glimmered along the cobblestones with the tiny shards catching the weak sunlight. St Jude-on-the-Hill appeared as she turned into Central Square, its green dome rising against the cold sky. The Christmas bazaar had already begun. She could hear the hum of conversation, the rustle of winter coats, the low rumble of a boiling kettle drifting out of the church hall.
Paper snowflakes dangled from the rafters, their shadows dancing across the wooden floor reflected from warm incandescent bulbs. Tables stood in careful rows, each one manned by volunteers with kind smiles and decades-old cardigans.
Hermione slipped inside, gravitating toward a stall covered in handmade ornaments. She considered the selection of tiny glass baubles, crocheted stockings, painted wooden robins and gingerbread men. Gingerbread men always reminded her of her dad, who used to bake them with her during Christmas. To her, gingerbread men carried a warm, nostalgic smell that fills a room and wraps around you like a knit blanket.
At another stall, she found delicate paper snowflake garlands and a knitted angel with slightly crooked wings. She added them to her bag, then moved to the preserves table where rows of jam jars stood like soldiers labelled in neat cursive. There were plum, raspberry, apple-cinnamon, and strawberry-ginger. The Weasleys would adore these. She purchased several.
By the time she stepped back into the cold, her arms were full and her thoughts steadier. The sky had brightened, though the air still bit at her cheeks.
Hermione stepped out of the Christmas market, her arms heavy with paper bags that crinkled with every movement. She had spent the better part of an hour wandering through rows of wooden stalls strung with fairy lights, letting the smell of roasted chestnuts and gingerbread remind her of better days with her family.
The cold nipped at her cheeks as she adjusted the strap of her bag. She had just begun the walk toward the bus stop when someone cleared their throat behind her.
"Granger."
Hermione turned around slowly.
Draco Malfoy stood a few paces away, hands buried in the pockets of a beige winter coat, steam curling from his breath in the cold air. His hair was wind-tousled, his cheeks flushed pink from the December chill, looking strangely tentative on the edge of a crowded holiday bazaar.
"Malfoy?" she said cautiously. "What are you doing here?"
He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, gesturing back toward Iolanthe. "I went by the inn after they fixed my car. The woman at the desk—Beatrice?—said you'd headed to the Christmas market." His eyes dropped briefly to the shopping bags weighing down her hands. "So I came here."
There was something almost awkward about the way he said it, as if he wasn't entirely sure he should be there—and even less sure how she'd respond.
Hermione huffed. "…I bought a few things."
"Right," Draco said, lips twitching. "A few."
She shifted her weight, feeling oddly self-conscious under his scrutiny. "Did you need something?"
"Actually—yes." He tilted his head toward the street. "My car's done."
Hermione blinked. "Already? But the engine—"
"Faulty ignition coil," Draco explained. "Volvos are stubbornly durable, so Jerry had it replaced in under an hour." A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. "Apparently, the real problem wasn't the car but letting Theodore Nott borrow it."
Hermione's mouth opened in an involuntary laugh. She quickly covered it, but Draco looked pleased anyway. He nodded toward the High Street. "I'm heading to Camden Town for a bit of shopping myself if you want a lift." A pause. "Since you're clearly one heavy bag away from collapsing onto the pavement."
She bristled. "I can manage fine on my own, thanks."
"I'm sure you can," Draco drawled. "But you don't have to." They stood there for a moment, snowflakes drifting lazily between them.
Hermione exhaled. "Fine. But please don't drive like a maniac."
"Granger," he said dryly. "This is safer than the Knight Bus at least."
She rolled her eyes, but she followed him anyway.
They walked side by side toward the car. Draco unlocked it with a click, then moved around to open the passenger door.
Hermione placed them inside carefully. "Thank you," she said quietly as she climbed in.
Draco paused, then nodded. "Ceasefire, remember?"
🎄
After hours of browsing stalls, sampling Christmas pastries, and weaving through the buzzing holiday crowd, Draco finally drove Hermione back towards the inn. The car heater hummed softly, warming her chilled hands while the bags of presents and decorations rustled at her feet. As they neared Iolanthe, Hermione stared at the familiar street corner and hesitated.
She didn't want to ask. Pride alone urged her to get out at the inn, haul every overstuffed shopping bag down the pavement, and make the five-minute walk home without involving him any further. Telling Draco Malfoy where she lived felt like crossing an invisible line she wasn't sure she wanted to trudge.
Unfortunately, the bags were heavy, the decorations fragile, and she would realistically have to make two or three trips to carry everything from the inn to her house. It was cold, late and logistically stupid not to accept the perfect solution sitting beside her.
She took a quiet breath, swallowing the lump of reluctance in her throat. "Actually…" Hermione began, fingers worrying the edge of her scarf. "If it's not too much trouble, I'd prefer it if you drove me to my home instead. So that I can unload everything directly."
Draco shot her a quick, surprised glance, but he didn't smirk or make a comment. He turned his eyes back to the road, his voice steady. "All right. I owe you for last night anyway," he said. "Just give me the directions."
She told him where to go, carefully keeping her voice neutral. As Draco eased the car into motion and headed toward her family home, she stared out the window, trying and failing to ignore the strange, unwelcome warmth blooming in her chest despite the cold weather.
Hermione's childhood home was a neat, semi-detached brick house on a quiet suburban street, with symmetrical windows, white-painted trim, and a small front garden that had once been lovingly kept but now showed signs of neglect. A single dark shape, a bare Christmas tree, was just visible through the front window, offering a faint, lonely outline against the dim interior. As Draco slowed the Volvo in front of the house, Hermione pointed to the narrow driveway beside it. "You can park there," she said quietly.
As they entered the house, Hermione opened her mouth to make some excuse about renovations, or timing, or how she hadn't been expecting anyone, but the words died on her tongue.
Draco wasn't scrutinising the state of the house but straight ahead, eyes fixed on the mantelpiece.
Hermione followed his gaze. It was a family picture taken during a winter holiday in the Alps. She had been fifteen, cheeks rosy from cold and laughter, wrapped in an oversized bright red ski jacket. Her mother stood beside her, bundled in a patterned wool coat, smiling warmly. Her father had one arm around them both, his grin wide and slightly crooked, as if he'd been laughing right before the shutter clicked. The snowcapped Alps were in the background.
"I'm guessing you have us Death Eaters to thank for the state of your home," Draco said suddenly, his tone flat, as the realisation seemed to settle over him. The emptiness of the house. The stripped-down walls. The way the room echoed slightly when he spoke.
"Malfoy—" Hermione began, not sure what she was going to say.
"If it had been me," he said quietly, eyes drifting from the bare bookshelves to the sparse furnishings and finally to the unlit Christmas tree, her one small attempt at festivity in a house still hollow with absence, "I would have given myself the reception I got, too." He looked back at the photo frame above the fireplace, the static picture of Hermione between her parents, smiling as though the world had never been cruel. "You offered me a ceasefire I didn't deserve," he said softly.
He didn't wait for her to respond. Draco turned, heading back to the car to collect the shopping bags, presumably, and Hermione was left alone in the stillness of her half-empty living room, her thoughts louder than ever.
Hermione busied herself tidying the corner where she planned to arrange the shopping bags, mentally sorting which items would be wrapped tonight and which could wait until tomorrow. She envisioned stacking the finished presents neatly beneath the tree, trying to imagine the house feeling festive rather than hollow.
Then it struck her. She'd crossed off every item on her list, except the very first one. The Christmas lights.
Instead of having a purposeful and efficient shopping trip, she had somehow spent the afternoon indulging in treats and festive nonsense with the one person she would have never have imagined doing it with.
Still, there was an irrational part of her that didn't want the day to end.
"Malfoy," Hermione began, "did you have plans for the rest of the evening?"
Malfoy regarded her carefully and shook his head.
"Do you want to decorate and wrap presents with me?" Hermione asked, gesturing around. "I will be using magic half the time so that it won't take all night. We could maybe make some eggnog too?"
Malfoy looked at her with wide grey eyes and replied in a whispered voice, "Granger I would be happy to stay for as long as you need me. I believe it's the least I can do.” Hesitantly he added, “Actually I’ve learned how to cook a few simple meals since my sentence, maybe I could rustle up a spaghetti carbonara for us? If you want?"
She'd make the most of this ceasefire, she thought. It was important sometimes to step forward without a plan and to take a risk. Otherwise things would never change. Hermione decided she was going to accept Draco’s offer, it might lead to something new but if not, she could always forget about it once the holidays were over.
“Spaghetti carbonara sounds delicious, and you know I might have a bottle of white wine that would match it perfectly,” she smiled in response. “Actually, do you mind if we also pop out in the car again to get the tree lights? I was enjoying myself so much this afternoon that I forgot them and well the tree looks quite sad unlit. It won’t take long but don’t worry if…”
“Granger,” Draco interrupted with a laugh, “I actually have some lights in the trunk, believe it or not. Theo ditched them, as well as some other decorations, when his muggle girlfriend invited him to her place for Christmas. I think you were meant to have them.”
Hermione considered him for a moment and said smiling, “This sounds serendipitous. Let’s use them, then.”
Hermione made the eggnog whilst Draco unpacked the decorations from his car. They strung the lights together and the branches glowed softly for the first time in years. It wasn't a grand reconciliation or even forgiveness but proof that some things only brighten when shared.
At least for this year, the unlit Christmas tree was lit up with the possibility of celebrating with a new friend.
And that, she realised, was enough for now.