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Noelle was not Hermione.
She was not meant to be.
She was something new. Something so vastly different than what everyone expected her to be.
Draco loved her beyond measure.
He’d assumed that she would inherit her mother’s intellect. Her bravery. Her determination. And she had, in many ways. Noelle was clever, fearless in the way that mattered, stubborn when principle was involved.
But there were differences.
Ones that proved she was his as well.
Even though they shared no blood.
She was not fond of books. Stories mattered to her but not for their logic or structure. She preferred music that made her chest ache, art that unsettled her, moments that could not be neatly explained.
She felt her way through the world.
And she loved to fly.
He could still remember her first Quidditch match with unsettling clarity.
It surprised him sometimes, the way certain memories lodged themselves so deeply they felt less like recollections and more like places he could return to if he closed his eyes long enough. He had been standing high in the stands that day, coat pulled tight against the autumn chill, eyes fixed not on the pitch as a whole but on one small figure in blue and bronze hovering just above the stands.
Twelve years old, bundled in Ravenclaw colors, knuckles white where she gripped the handle, curls plastered to her cheeks by the wind. She’d found him in the stands before the whistle blew, eyes wide and searching.
Draco raised a hand and inclined his head, the smallest of gestures.
You’re all right, it said. I’ve got you.
She exhaled visibly.
The game blurred past him in a wash of noise and color, but he barely noticed. He tracked her alone, the way she moved with uncanny patience, hovering just out of the chaos, waiting. He recognized it instantly? The Malfoy instinct for restraint, for choosing the right moment rather than the easiest one.
And then she dove.
The whistle blew.
Ravenclaw erupted.
He remembered patching scraped knees with a healer’s practiced hands and a father’s unnecessary worry. Remembered the way she used to curl into herself when she slept. Remembered how her laugh had once been loud and sweet , ringing through the halls of the manor without an apology.
He missed her.
At least she would be home soon.
The Manor had been decorated beautifully. His mother, even in her old age, had made sure of that.
What had once been a coordinated display of silver and green, perfectly balanced and painfully intentional, was now something else entirely. The elegance remained, but it had been softened, layered over with color and history. Gone were the rigid themes and matching decorations. In their place hung a riot of mismatched ornaments, clashing hues, and hand-painted trinkets collected over nearly two decades.
There was no central vision. No aesthetic decree imposed from above.
The Manor screamed Noelle.
He moved slowly through the drawing room, fingers brushing the lower branches of the tree. A stuffed reindeer dangled precariously from one limb, antlers bent. The button nose had also fallen off years ago. It was an ugly little thing but she had won it at a winter fair when she was nine and insisted it would be a member of their family for eternity. He had never argued. It reappeared every year, patched and well loved.
Nearby hung a collection of ornaments she’d made over the years. One bore Narcissa’s name in looping, earnest script, gifted with solemn pride when she was six. Another, newer but no less cherished, was labeled Dad in careful letters, the paint faded where his thumb had rubbed it smooth over time.
The Floo flared to life just as he finished straightening the garland above the hearth. Green flames roared up, briefly illuminating the room in sharp light, and then she stepped through, boots dusted with snow, cheeks pink from the cold, hair escaping its tie in familiar rebellion.
“Hi,” she said, grinning as she shrugged off her coat. “Please tell me you’re not redecorating. Grandmother will kill you if she finds out.”
He felt his body relax in a way it only ever did when she was near. “I would never dream of it. Your reindeer is still missing his nose.”
“Good,” she said solemnly. “It builds character.”
She crossed the room and hugged him, quick and warm, her arms familiar around his shoulders. For a heartbeat, he rested his chin against the top of her head, letting himself have the moment.
“Are you cold? Have you eaten?”
“I’m fine. I ate at the hospital.” She flopped onto the sofa and kicked off her boots. He poured them both a cup of spiced tea. Her favorite.
“So,” he said lightly, settling across from her. “How is St. Mungo’s treating you?”
She made a face. “I cried in a supply cupboard on Tuesday.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “A promising start.”
“But I helped stabilize a curse victim yesterday,” she added quickly, eyes brightening. “I knew what to do before my supervisor stepped in.”
He smiled, pride blooming warm and steady. “I never doubted you.”
Silence settled comfortably between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the quiet hum of the lights. Sometimes he forgot just how much she looked like her mother.
“What are we doing tomorrow?” she asked suddenly.
He smiled. “Village walk. Lights at dusk. Grave in the morning, if you’d like.”
She nodded. “I’d like that.”
He hesitated, then asked casually, “Anyone joining us for Christmas dinner?”
She looked up too quickly. “What?”
He lifted a brow. “That wasn’t a no.”
She sighed, staring into her tea as if it held answers. “There is… someone.”
His expression remained neutral, though something warm and alert stirred in his chest. “Someone with a name, I presume.”
Her ears went pink. Immediately.
“That would be a yes,” he observed.
“Dad,” she warned.
“I haven’t said anything.”
She hesitated, then muttered, “Andrew.”
He repeated it. “Andrew.”
“He’s a research assistant,” she rushed on, words tumbling over each other now. “He started his internship about a month after I did. He’s nice. American. Makes good coffee. Loves astronomy. And he doesn’t panic when things go wrong.”
“I see.”
“It’s new,” she added more softly. “We’re not…there’s no labels. We just… have lunch sometimes. And he walked me home last week. And he’s taking me to a concert after the holidays.”
He noted the blush creeping across her cheeks, the way she tucked a curl behind her ear in unconscious mimicry of her mother. He smiled gently.
“Is he good to you?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“That’s enough for now,” he said. “Christmas dinner does not require commitment clauses.”
Her shoulders loosened. “So you’re not going to interrogate him?”
“I reserve the right to observe quietly,” he replied. “With judgment.”
She yawned and rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m tired,” she admitted. “I didn’t realize how wrecked I was until I sat down. Did you…”
“Your room is ready,” he said before she could finish. “Fresh sheets. Extra blankets.”
She crossed the room and kissed his cheek. “Good night, Dad.”
“Good night, love. Happy early birthday.”
He waited until her footsteps faded up the stairs before tending to the fire, coaxing it lower until the room settled into a quiet orange glow. Perfect. Just the way she liked it.
He sat back in the armchair and closed his eyes.
It had started the night he had first taken Noelle to the gravesite.
It didn’t happen every night. Not even every winter. Only on Christmas Eve.
He had never tried to explain it. Not to colleagues, not to Noelle, not even to himself. Magic, he had learned, did not always require understanding to be real.
But when he opened his eyes, she was there.
Hermione.
His Hermione.
She sat in the chair across from him, exactly as she always did. White dress. Softly lit. Wild hair that seemed to move despite there being no wind. She looked younger than she had at the end. Healthier. Whole. A familiar, knowing smile curved her mouth
“She’s home,” she said, eyes flicking toward the staircase.
“Yes,” He replied quietly. “Tired. Still terrible at knowing when to rest.”
She laughed, light and warm. “That sounds like someone else I know.”
He felt no fear, no disbelief. Only a familiar ache softened by gratitude.
“She mentioned someone,” she said casually.
He snorted. “Of course she did.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Be kind. She’s happy.”
“I know.”
She studied him then, head tilted ever so slightly. “You’re getting older. There is silver in your beard. And the glasses are new.”
He scoffed. “Getting older tends to happen when you don’t die in the arms of someone who loves you.”
She didn’t react right away. Instead she watched him intently. Allowed him to speak.
“Why did you have to leave?” he asked.
The words were gentle. The pain behind them was not.
Her expression changed, sadness overcoming her features. “It was my time.”
“I know,” he said immediately. “His voice faltered, and he forced it steady. “I keep thinking there must have been something else. Something I missed. A spell. A choice. Anything.”
She shook her head slowly. “You did everything you could. More than anyone ever asked of you.”
“I was a healer,” he said, bitter and quiet. “I should have been enough.”
She stood then, crossing the space between them, kneeling so they were eye level. Though he knew he could not touch her, he felt the warmth of her presence all the same.
“You were,” she said firmly. “For her. For me. You were meant to raise her Draco. Not me. You.”
His throat tightened. “She was so small.”
“I know,” Hermione whispered. “And she’s grown so beautifully. I know your mother is very proud.”
He laughed. “She adores her. They are very close.”
They sat together then, side by side this time. He spoke of small things. Her internship. Her friends. The way they still visited the grave every Christmas morning. She listened like it was the greatest gift she could be given.
When the fire began to dim, her edges softened, her form less solid than before.
“I don’t have much time,” she said gently.
He nodded. He never begged. He had learned long ago that it was pointless.
“I miss you,” he said instead.
“I know,” she replied with a smile. She stood, already fading. “You’ll rest now.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you next Christmas. Thank you for loving her. For loving me.”
And then she was gone.
He sat for a long moment, staring at the embers as they settled into ash, listening to the Manor creak softly around him. Christmas Eve always ended like this.
Eventually, he rose.
His joints protested in a way they hadn’t used to, and he huffed softly to himself as he crossed the room. Passing the tall mirror near the staircase, he slowed, then stopped altogether.
“Well,” he murmured to his reflection, mouth quirking. “She’s right. I am getting old.”
The man in the mirror looked back at him, softer than the boy he’d once been, steadier than he’d ever expected to become. A healer. A father. Someone who had loved deeply.
He turned away and climbed the stairs.
He told himself it was habit. Muscle memory. The instinct that never faded, no matter how many birthdays passed. Noelle was grown now. She didn’t need him to check on her.
He did it anyway.
Her door was slightly ajar, her soft snores spilling into the corridor. He paused, then nudged it open just enough to see inside. She lay sprawled across the bed, hair fanned over the pillow, one arm thrown protectively around a familiar old stuffed unicorn she’d received for her fifth birthday. The rise and fall of her chest was slow and even, sleep deep and earned.
He smiled.
For a moment, he simply stood there, committing the sight to memory as he had so many times before. She looked peaceful. Safe. Home.
He walked in and adjusted the blanket where it had slipped from her shoulder, movements careful. He brushed a curl from her face, just once, then stepped back.
“Good night, love,” he whispered.
Christmas would come and go.
Tomorrow would be like all the others.
He would wake her for breakfast. She would laugh. They would eat birthday cake. Life would continue.
And that, he knew now, was its own kind of magic.
The magic of happiness.