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The snow was falling gently outside the Granger family home, blanketing the quiet muggle suburb. It was Christmas Day, 1999. Over a year since the Battle of Hogwarts had reshaped their world, Hermione had chosen to spend it with her parents, whose memories she'd restored only months ago. The living room smelled of roasted turkey and pine from the twinkling tree, laughter echoing as her mum passed around mince pies. For once, Hermione felt a fragile sense of normalcy, far from the wizarding world's lingering shadows.
As the night mellows down, the phone rang from the hallway, a shrill interruption to the warm peace. Her mother answered it, her voice muffled. Moments later, she poked her head into the room, holding the receiver. "Hermione, darling, it's for you."
Hermione frowned, wiping her hands on a napkin. Who would call her here? Ron and Harry knew to use owls or Floo if it was urgent. She took the phone, pressing it to her ear. "Hello?"
There was a pause, then a voice: low, strained, unmistakably aristocratic. "Hello, Granger?... I'm sorry... I didn't have anyone else to call."
Draco Malfoy. Of all people. Hermione's grip tightened on the receiver. They weren't exactly on good terms. Hell, they weren't on any terms. The last time she'd seen him was at his trial, where she'd testified neutrally about his coerced actions during the war. He'd been acquitted, barely, and vanished into whatever remained of his family's crumbling estate. But there was something in his voice now, raw and broken. She felt an unwelcome tug at her heart.
"Draco?" she said, her voice sharper than intended. "What the- Why are you calling me? How did you even get this number?"
A ragged breath on the other end. "I... I looked it up. Muggle directories aren't that hard to navigate when you're desperate." His chuckle sounded hollow, defeated. No sneer, no arrogance. Just exhaustion.
Hermione glanced at her parents, who were pretending not to eavesdrop while sipping tea. Her mind raced. This was absurd. Malfoy, calling her? On Christmas? But that vulnerability in his tone... it pierced her, stirring something she couldn't name. Pity? Or worse, empathy? And what was he hoping for? She doubts he even knew.
"Where are you?" she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Another pause. "Outside a pub in Wiltshire. The Leaky Cauldron's too crowded, and I... I can't go home. Not like this."
She hesitated, her free hand already reaching for her coat on the hook by the door. What was she doing? This was Draco Malfoy, the boy who'd called her mudblood, who'd stood by while she was tortured in his own home. And yet, here she was, slipping her arms into the sleeves, her heart pounding with a mix of reluctance and inexplicable resolve. She pulled on her boots as she laughed at herself. Racing off into the night for him? On bloody Christmas? Maybe it was the holiday spirit, that saccharine notion of goodwill toward people, even the ones who'd spent years making your life hell. Maybe she just couldn't ignore someone sounding so utterly lost. She convinces herself that was it.
"Fine," she said, her voice steady despite the chaos in her chest. "Stay put. I'll apparate nearby and find you. But Malfoy, this better not be some prank."
She hung up before he could respond, grabbing her wand from her bag. Her parents exchanged worried glances. "Everything alright, love?" her dad asked.
"Just... a friend in need," she lied, forcing a smile. "I'll be back soon."
Draco leaned against the cold brick wall of the pub, the snow soaking through his thin robes. Pathetic. That's what he was. Utterly pathetic. Calling Granger, of all people? The witch who'd probably hex him on sight. But who else was there? His friends were scattered or imprisoned. The war had stripped him bare, and tonight, with the weight of it all crashing down, her name had been the only one that surfaced in his mind. Ridiculous. He was ridiculous.
A pop of apparition echoed down the alley, and there she was, Hermione Granger, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes narrowed in suspicion. She looked... different. Softer, away from the wizarding world, in muggle sweat pants, and a coat.
"You look like hell, Malfoy," she said, crossing her arms. A jab, sharp and familiar.
He managed a weak smirk, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Charming as ever, Granger. Didn't expect you to show."
She rolled her eyes, but there was no real venom. "Well, someone has to save you from your own dramatics. What, couldn't handle a lonely Christmas without an audience?"
He took it, every word, letting the barbs land like sparks on numb skin. It made him feel alive: her fire, her unyielding spirit. For the first time in months, he didn't feel like a shadow. "Touché. Lead the way, then. Anywhere but here."
Hermione hesitated again, then nodded, extending a hand for side-along apparition.
They reappeared in a snow-dusted park on the outskirts of Wiltshire, the kind of muggle green space with empty benches and fairy lights strung through bare trees for the holidays. The air was crisp, biting, and silent except for the distant hum of carols from a nearby house. Hermione released Draco's arm quickly, as if his touch burned, and stepped back to appraise him under the glow of a streetlamp. He looked worse up close– pale, disheveled, his platinum hair matted from the snow, dark circles under his eyes like bruises. His robes were thin, nothing like the pristine finery she'd remembered from Hogwarts.
"So," she said, her breath fogging the air as she shoved her hands into her coat pockets. "What's so catastrophic that you had to resort to calling me? Did your house-elf finally revolt?"
Draco winced, but a ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. He leaned against a lamppost, trying to look casual, but his shoulders sagged with defeat. Here he was, baring his soul (or what was left of it) to Granger. But her words, that familiar sting, cut through the numbness like a spark. It woke something in him, made the world sharpen into focus.
"Always with the barbs, aren't you? Can't say I blame you. No revolt– just... everything. The Manor feels like a tomb. And I’m… just existing. Thought a walk would help, but ended up here, staring at a phone booth like an idiot."
Hermione arched an eyebrow, fighting the urge to soften. This was ridiculous. She should be back home, warm and safe, not playing therapist to her childhood bully. But damn it, there was that pull again. Maybe it was the season. "Oh, poor little rich boy," she quipped, her tone laced with sarcasm. "The world didn't bow down to you today? Must be tough, not having a horde of sycophants to fawn over your misery."
He chuckled weakly, the sound rough and genuine. No defense, no retort. Just acceptance. It felt good, oddly, like shedding a weight. "Yeah, it is. Pathetic, right? Calling you, expecting... what? Pity? A hex? I don't even know. Maybe some Gryffindor pixie dust to make me feel better. But you're here, so maybe I'm not completely delusional."
She hesitated, snowflakes catching in her curls as she studied him. Her heart twisted a little more. There was no malice in his eyes, just raw honesty. "Delusional might be underselling it," she jabbed back, but her voice was gentler now, the edge blunted.
Draco nodded, pushing off the lamppost to stand straighter. "Insane sums it up. But Granger... Hermione... thanks. For showing up. Makes me feel less like a ghost."
She rolled her eyes, but a small smile crept onto her face despite herself. "Don't get sappy on me, Malfoy. Next thing you know, you'll be asking for a hug. Come on. Let's find a café or something before we freeze. You owe me an explanation. A real one."
They trudged through the snow-dusted streets until they reached a small muggle café on the edge of the village, its windows fogged and glowing with warm light. It was one of those places that catered to insomniacs and holiday stragglers, the kind with mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu with pie doodles. The bell tinkled as they entered, shaking off the cold, and a sleepy barista nodded from behind the counter.
Hermione chose a corner booth, far from the handful of other patrons nursing coffees and regrets. Draco slid in across from her, his posture still slumped but his eyes a bit brighter in the ambient warmth. She ordered two hot chocolates (extra marshmallows for herself, ignoring his raised eyebrow). As the drinks arrived, she leaned back, arms crossed, ready to dissect whatever mess he'd dragged her into. Internally, she was still chuckling at the absurdity. What would Ron say? Or Harry? But call it the magic of the season, she found herself caring. Genuinely.
"Alright," she started, stirring her cocoa with a spoon, "you've got me here. Now talk. What's got the great Draco Malfoy reduced to using a telephone booth to summon his childhood victim for a bailout? Run out of Death Eaters willing to pretend you still matter?”
Draco wrapped his hands around the mug, the heat seeping into his chilled fingers. He let out a low, self-deprecating laugh– pathetic, he thought, how her jabs landed like lifelines, pulling him from the fog. No one else dared poke at him anymore; they tiptoed around the Malfoy name like it was cursed glass. But Granger? She swung hard, and it made the blood rush back to his veins.
“You want to know why a muggle contraption felt like salvation?” he said eventually. His voice was flat, almost clinical.
He didn’t look up.
“The decorations went up the same way they always do,” he said, eyes fixed on the scarred tabletop. “Elves have been doing it for centuries. The tree in the grand hall is thirty feet tall, perfect silver and emerald baubles, enchanted snow drifting from the ceiling that never quite melts. Garlands of evergreen and black roses twined along the banisters. Candles floating in perfect rows. It looks exactly like every Christmas card the Prophet ever printed about us.”
He gave a thin, humorless smile.
“Only now the snow looks like ash. The candles flicker like they’re running out of air. The black roses smell faintly of rot no matter how many preservation charms the elves cast.”
Hermione arched a brow, voice dry. “Black roses. Naturally.”
“Malfoys,” he supplies, as if that explained everything. “Mother walked past the tree once and stopped to touch one of the lower branches. She said, ‘It’s crooked,’ and then just stood there for twenty minutes staring at it. No one fixed it. It’s still crooked.”
His fingers tightened around the mug.
“The house is too quiet for all that grandeur. Every footstep echoes three times. Once in the marble, once in the portraits, once in my head. Sometimes I swear I still hear screaming from the drawing room. Not real screams. Just the memory of them. Bellatrix laughing. Your screams. Ollivander begging. It’s like the walls recorded it and play it back when no one else is listening.”
He swallowed.
Hermione’s gaze didn’t waver from his face, but it was cool, assessing. She took a slow sip of her cocoa, set the mug down.
“I tried to open a window in the east wing last week. The latch was stiff. When it finally gave, the cold rushed in and for a second I saw him standing there. The Dark Lord. Not a ghost. Just… memory overwriting the room. Every room has something like that now. The dining room still has the echo of his voice at the head of the table.”
He finally looked up at her, eyes hollow.
“I thought the season would allow me to pretend everything was still okay. Instead the decorations just made it worse. Like dressing a corpse in its finest robes.”
The silence was thick.
“And so I went out. Had a walk. Had to breathe air that didn’t belong to that house until I found myself staring at a red box and before I knew it, I was pressing your number outside a pub. Absurd, isn't it? All that to beg for scraps from a… muggle-born."
He caught himself wincing, but Hermione just snorted, taking a sip of her drink.
"Oh, go on, say it. Mudblood. Old habits die hard, eh?"
His face drained of what little colour it had left.
She continues, “Though, look on the bright side. At least your haunted mausoleum has matching décor and no risk of the ceiling caving in from ghoul tantrums. The Burrow’s Christmas aesthetic is still ‘hope Ron doesn’t set the tree on fire trying to fix the fairy lights.’”
Draco stared at her, mouth actually falling open a fraction.
A beat.
Then he choked– a sharp, incredulous bark of laughter that turned into something that didn't look like it came from a Malfoy.
Hermione’s lips twitched into a wicked grin. “Too far?”
He dropped his hand, eyes watering, still half-laughing. “You’re a monster.”
“Certified,” she said cheerfully. “Harry’s still got the singed eyebrows from fifth year as evidence.”
The heavy air in the booth shattered completely.
As the conversation flowed, laced with pointed quips and reluctant admissions, the heaviness faded into something almost comfortable. Draco’s dry observations about muggle holiday decorations (“All those flashing lights– do you lot compete to cause the most seizures?”) had Hermione biting back genuine laughter more than once. She caught herself enjoying the back-and-forth, the way he listened when she explained things without the old sneer, the way his eyes lit up with reluctant fascination. She liked his company. Merlin help her, she actually liked it. She would sooner drink Polyjuice than admit it aloud. For a Christmas miracle, it wasn't half bad.
Eventually, the barista started stacking chairs and giving pointed looks at the clock. Hermione glanced outside– snow still falling, the village asleep.
“You can’t go back to that mausoleum tonight,” she said, the words out before she could second-guess them. “Not on Christmas. Come on. I’ll… indoctrinate you to a proper muggle Christmas. My parents will be asleep, and there’s a perfectly good sofa.”
Draco blinked at her, suspicion warring with something softer. “Granger, are you inviting me to your house?”
“Don’t make it weird, Malfoy. Consider it community service.”
He smirked, but followed her without protest.
The Granger home was quiet when they slipped in, the tree lights still twinkling in the darkened living room. Hermione’s parents had long since gone to bed, leaving half-eaten mince pies and an empty cocoa mug on the coffee table. She kicked off her snowy boots, motioned for Draco to do the same, and rummaged in the cabinet beneath the telly.
“Prepare yourself,” she whispered, sliding a worn VHS tape into the player. “This is a sacred tradition.”
Home Alone flickered onto the screen– Kevin’s chaotic family rushing out the door, leaving him behind.
Draco watched, transfixed, as the McCallisters bickered and scrambled. When the camera panned across the sprawling house full of red-headed cousins and shouting aunts, he let out a low, amused huff.
“Wait– the muggle sacred tradition is basically watching the American Weasleys?”
Hermione snorted before she could stop herself– loud enough that she clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. She hadn’t even noticed the similarities until he said it.
“Hey!” she swatted his arm. “Be nice.”
Draco leaned back on the sofa, looking far too pleased with himself. “This is me being Christmas nice.”
She rolled her eyes, but settled in beside him. Close enough to share the blanket she dragged from the armchair, far enough that it could still be called accidental.
The film played on. Draco laughed outright at the pizza scene (“Fifteen pizzas for how many people?”), winced sympathetically at the tarantula, and by the time Kevin set his traps, he was fully invested, muttering tactical critiques under his breath. Hermione found herself explaining muggle burglars versus wizarding ones, defending the practicality of icicles as weapons, and stealing glances at the way the flickering screen lit his sharp features softer than she’d ever seen them.
Hours slipped by unnoticed. Outside, the sky began to pale from black to indigo to the faintest pearl gray. On screen, the burglars were screaming their way through booby traps; in the living room, the only sounds were the occasional sleepy chuckle and the soft whir of the VHS.
Hermione’s head nodded forward once, twice. Then, without ceremony, it came to rest against Draco’s shoulder.
He froze.
Every muscle locked. He didn’t dare breathe too deeply, afraid the slightest shift would jolt her awake and send her scrambling away in horror. Her curls tickled his neck, her breathing evened out into the slow rhythm of sleep. Warm. Trusting. Impossible.
The thieves on screen howled as they slipped on toy cars and took irons to the face, but Draco’s gaze stayed fixed somewhere beyond the television. A small, helpless smile curved his mouth– one he didn’t bother hiding, because no one was watching.
It wasn’t the film making him smile.
Dawn crept in through the curtains, gilding the room in gentle gold, and Draco Malfoy sat perfectly, carefully still, guarding the quiet weight of Hermione Granger’s head on his shoulder like it was the most precious thing he’d ever been trusted with.