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Draco makes one crucial error.
He forgets the most important rule about making plans.
Nothing ever goes according to plan.
In hindsight, if he's honest with himself—and Draco rarely is—the ruination of his misanthropic Christmas plan is his own damn fault.
After months of designing a failproof strategy to combat everyone's scheming to get him back to England, it works like a charm.
Draco thwarts Pansy, Goyle, and Blaise's attempts at coercion all while navigating his mother's guilt trip. When Lovegood, the sacrificial lamb, invites him to meet her and Potter's newborn, he's armed with impenetrable excuses.
His first day of the winter holiday is spent at home, toasting his success at being a scheming bastard.
The second, he catches up on the sleep he lost trying to get final grades in on time.
But it's the third day when reality and a part-time friend remind Draco that even the best laid plans inevitably go awry.
For Hermione, international travel became significantly harder two years ago, when she declined a second date with the head of the Portkey Office. The sabotage is subtle and infrequent, but noticeable enough, given Hermione's position as the International Ministry Liaison.
She travels often, and her trips mostly go to plan.
Some Portkey activations only give her a warning tingle before hurling her through time and space. Others land her far from the destinations she requests. Thus far, all reported malfunctions have been attributed to human error.
Hermione believes it's more likely due to the fragility of the male ego, but both unwilling and unable to prove as much, she keeps it to herself.
Today's derailed plan features a cancelled Portkey, which was supposed to return her to London a week before Christmas.
Apparently, due to a backlog, it can't be fixed until after the New Year. Hermione is trapped stateside in Salem without a Muggle passport.
She makes one call.
Draco answers on the first ring. "I told you not to call back until you agree that nearly all abstract expressionist art is devoid of composition and ignorant of colour theory."
Hermione nearly hangs up on principle.
"I'll never agree, but I'm stuck in Salem and I know a person who lives in Balsam Grove, which is twenty miles away. It's a great town, even though he constantly complains about it."
"Ha ha, but unfortunately I'm—"
"Liar." Hermione rolls her eyes as if he can see. "Let me guess: you're twiddling your moustache with glee about manipulating everyone into leaving you alone for Christmas?"
There's a sulky huff. "Even if I had a moustache, I would never twiddle it. Least of all with glee."
She laughs and can hear Draco smiling.
A beat of silence follows. Then another.
Hermione switches the phone from one ear to the other. "Are you going to invite me to stay?"
"Are you going to ask?"
How Draco maintains a decade-long, part-time friendship with Granger is a phenomenon.
Like déjà vu, dark matter, or the Placebo Effect.
As too many things do, it began with Potter.
Three years of Ministry-appointed exile and therapy rescued Draco from drowning in misery and guilt. He was living in America, atoning, accepting things he couldn't change, and trying to be a better human.
Then Potter interrupted.
Armed with a pardon, Potter showed Draco that old habits truly did die hard. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he accepted freedom and showed remarkable restraint by only slamming the door in Potter's face.
Draco thought he'd never see a member of the winning side again until Granger appeared on the same university campus he'd been attending in blessed anonymity.
He managed to avoid her for a full semester.
In February, she sat at his table in the library and glared when he tried to intimidate her into leaving.
In April, he initiated conversation.
In June, she left for Australia to visit her parents and Draco realised that he missed her badgering.
They talked and wrote through July and August.
When Granger returned in to Salem in September, he was waiting for her at the Portkey drop.
From then on, they were just… friends.
After years of bickering and debating, arguing and fighting, they discovered they had more in common than not. Bizarrely, even with the pauses in their friendship, she's still one of the closest he has.
Though there's more—far more—to the tale. Details she doesn't, can't, and won't ever know.
Like all the times he's wanted more, though the moment is never right. Like all those times he was too afraid to change it.
His chance is over and done.
It's fine.
He doesn't even have feelings for her anym—
Draco opens the door.
Fuck.
Okay, so he's a goddamn liar.
The truth is, Granger is only his part-time friend because Draco only wants to be her friend part of the time. He spends the rest of the time quietly yearning for what's much easier to ignore when they're speaking through mobiles or Floo—when there's distance between them.
"Granger."
"In the flesh."
Either magic or wind sweeps through her hair, leaving it in voluminous curls. Her cheeks are flushed, lips chapped from the cold. Swaddled in an array of winter wear, she carries her signature beaded bag like a weapon.
Considering what she has inside, it's certainly dangerous.
Granger's focus rises over his head. "Was that a—"
"What?"
"I thought I saw mistletoe."
The dread he feels is as heavy as a lead cauldron. "It's probably Bart."
"Who?"
"It's a long story. Come in."
While Granger sheds her layers and babbles about the idiot who sabotaged her trip home, Draco looks around for the pest—an unintended result from one of the many hijinks particular to his town. But when he looks out the window, there's only a dusting of snow and a centaur walking her dog.
Draco closes the door.
Bart has never bothered him before.
Surely it wouldn't start now.
Draco's house isn't modest, far from it, but it's warm and comfortable. There's not a speck of dust in sight. Neutrality bleeds through the colour palette, furnishings, and décor.
Hermione likes it. Not that she'll ever confess this to him.
Just another secret to add to her endless list, amongst such entries as: Draco gets more attractive with age.
"Did you have any trouble finding me?"
Hermione wrinkles her nose at the absurdity. "It's the only undecorated house on the street, which makes zero sense."
"Why would I decorate?" Draco makes a face.
"Why not?" Hermione points at the corner. "I think a tree would look good there."
He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales.
She has another idea. "I should probably confess that I don't like abstract expressionist art."
"What?" he deadpans.
"It reminds me of Divination. I look at some pieces and see squiggly lines and odd uses of colour theory. I never see the deeper meaning, only paint."
"Wait." Draco squints. "You're telling me that we argued for two weeks about art you don't even like?"
"I enjoy hearing you rant." Hermione offers an unapologetic, one-shoulder shrug. "Now that the argument is over, can we get you a tree?"
"No."
"How about a wreath?"
"Never."
"Lights?"
"Absolutely not."
"A Santa Claus hat?" Hermione rubs her hands together when Draco opens his mouth. "You can't say no. It's for my head."
Draco exhales a losing sigh. "Fine, but we'll have to go into town tomorrow."
Draco wakes to the sound of swearing.
Ah.
The caffeine addict has learned his secret.
He throws on a t-shirt and walks to the kitchen. "What's a twatwaffle?"
Engrossed in her angry pursuit, Granger whirls around, complaints ready to lodge, but when her eyes land on him, she stops.
Blinks.
"Uh."
Draco suddenly remembers that he's neglected to put on trousers.
Granger recovers. "When did you stop drinking coffee?"
"When it started giving me heartburn. There's a place—"
"Say no more."
Hermione is fixing her earmuffs when Draco rounds the corner.
Her eyes start at his face then travel south to his coat, dragonhide gloves, black trousers, and shoes before snapping up to his parted blond hair. The subsequent thought dies when he offers her the same once-over. Which means—
Nothing.
Like yesterday's intense staring when she arrived, Hermione excuses the lapse in his sanity by telling herself that he was in shock over her wild hair and appearance.
Or… something.
He walks past her and opens the door, then closes it quickly. "I should warn you that the town is odd."
"I like odd."
"Of course, Granger. Look at your other friends." A smirk appears, but then he rubs the back of his neck. "This is an understatement, but the town I live in—the people are festive. If you see charmed holiday decorations, just keep walking. If anything shakes, run."
"Like the mistletoe?"
"Bart is something else entirely."
"Still waiting for this story." Her smile widens at Draco's scowl. "How well do these people know you?"
"I bought this house after Astoria and I separated, so they've realised over the years that I don't share their love of—well, anything."
"Ah. You're the town's Grinch."
Draco looks severely put out. "I'm ashamed I know that reference."
Hermione busts out laughing. "Surely it can't be that bad."
"It is. Each holiday, they make it their mission to out-do the prior year, but every year something goes wrong. Last year, cursed garland trapped everyone in the Mayor's office for two days."
"Are you serious?"
"Yes!" Draco looks long-suffering. "The carollers sang songs to the garland in hopes that it would release them."
"This is chaotic in all the best ways." Hermione knows her grin is positively manic. "Tell me more."
"I feel like I'm going to regret inviting you here."
"Probably."
Granger's favourite holiday is Samhain, but Draco can't tell from the way she's swanning about the town.
From the candy cane decorated light posts, which dance in time to their flickering light, to the enormous tree in the town square, whose ornaments change colour on the hour, she drags him around to explore it all.
She pokes mundane garland like it's going to come to life and cheers when wrapped gift boxes spin on command. He can't ignore that she sings every holiday song, utterly swept up by the insufferable cheer of everyone around them.
People watch them because seeing Draco out and about during the Christmas season is akin to witnessing a unicorn puke rainbows.
It never happens.
Fortunately, the town's magic—and its people—are on their best behaviour.
"I thought you needed caffeination," Draco says when she goes heart-eyed over a rare bookshop.
"I do."
The mistletoe appears. It's a glowing clump of waxy green leaves dotted with white berries and topped with a bow, but there's something odd about it; three seeds are a rich, deep red, vibrating with energy.
Granger waves. "Hello there!"
"Stop talking to the foliage." He grabs her hand. "I'm starving."
The Bronze Hog is one of his favourite places; one of the first he visited when he moved to Balsam Grove. Or, rather, fell into when he was not-so-calmly fleeing a floating trumpet blaring Yankee Doodle Dandy to celebrate America's independence. Mrs Graves, the old and wonderfully cranky owner, took pity on him with free food and a rundown of the town's insane holiday celebrations; even she can't escape.
Today, the inside of her diner looks like a Christmas magazine. The cider he orders after they sit at a window-side table more than makes up for the garish décor.
Draco shifts uncomfortably when Granger moans, blissed out after taking her first sip of coffee, which she's loaded with sugar and cream.
"This is incredible."
He blinks. "The coffee?"
"That too, but this town. It's lovely. Thanks for taking me in." Granger's cheeks still carry the flush from outside. "I hope Clara isn't upset that I invaded your plans. Where is she? I'd love to meet her."
"We broke up months ago."
Clara was his latest distraction in a string following his divorce. None have lasted for reasons he knows but ignores.
And keeps ignoring, even now that his problem sits across from him—here in the flesh.
Granger looks away. "I had no idea."
"Wasn't worth mentioning." He sips his cider. "What about you? How's—what's his name?"
"I don't know who you're referring to. I've been on a few first dates. No second or thirds."
A weighted moment passes.
Draco ignores what's staring him in the face.
It's a talent.
He's single.
Hermione ignores the traitorous voice.
The days of having feelings for Draco Malfoy are over.
Firmly.
Or so she tells herself.
They crept up after his graduation, when he was across the country completing a potions apprenticeship. Not only was he physically unavailable, but he was emotionally unavailable, too. Draco was trying to please his parents, all while suffering through an arranged courtship and marriage neither he or Astoria wanted.
Hermione kept her distance, buried her feelings, and moved on.
Months after Draco and Astoria separated, Oliver Wood abruptly broke it off. A few weeks later, she found out that Draco was in London to finalise his divorce, and Blaise was throwing a party to celebrate his legal freedom.
It's a bit of a blur how they ended up blitzed out of their minds, talking like years hadn't passed since their last conversation, but Hermione remembers kissing him on impulse.
It was clumsy and messy, she recalls with sober eyes, but Draco had reciprocated. They ended up in a back room, pulling at each other's clothes, and—
He all but ran from her.
Hermione spent the following days wondering how the hell she'd misread the situation.
He doesn't talk about it. Neither does she.
It's just as well.
Time marched on, their friendship resumed, and now, four years after that night, Draco Malfoy is a firm no.
But… Is he?
Hermione scoffs.
Thoughts like that are for those who like to chase, to play, to shake things up from the ordinary.
Not at all who she is.
After indulging in a second cup of coffee and the best breakfast she's eaten in a long time, Draco pays. As they're leaving, Bart appears over them.
"Shite."
Hermione looks at the glowing, floating mistletoe, then at Draco, who glares as if it's the single most offensive thing on the planet. She rolls her eyes, lifts up on her toes and presses a dry kiss to his cheek.
Bart vanishes.
"There. It shouldn't come back."
Behind them, Mrs Graves laughs. "You should tell her, Draco."
Hermione tilts her head. "Tell me what?"
"Nothing."
When it comes to getting what she wants, Granger is a dog with a bone.
Right now, she wants information.
"Fine." He exhales a breath of crisp air. "Bart is short for Bartholomew."
"After the massacre?"
Draco looks at her like she's gone mad. "Or the Apostle."
"Oh, the one who was flayed alive. Why did the town name a mistletoe after him?"
"No idea, but Bart is an invasive irritant."
"Explain."
He gestures towards his house, and she falls into step beside him. "It's been here for over two hundred years. It doesn't care about the holiday, it just appears whenever it wants."
"A rogue mistletoe." Granger's brimming with the same dangerous intrigue that leads to research binges where she doesn't resurface for days. "Tell me more."
"The official story is that it's a Christmas decoration attempt gone awry."
"Unofficially?"
"Local birds ate magical mistletoe seeds, which germinated and grew large enough to force people from their homes. The townspeople fought the mistletoe horde off with magic. Or a lot of snogging." Draco winces. "Everyone has different accounts."
"If they won, why is Bart still around?"
"A warning about the dangers of reckless magic, but there's some magical mishap here almost every year. No one's learned their lesson."
"Sounds like they can't get rid of Bart."
"I think something happened when they destroyed the rest of the magical mistletoe. Whatever it was made Bart resistant to both Muggle and magical herbicides."
"And now your town has a mistletoe mascot." She barks a laugh. "This is the best thing I've heard all year. Can Bart appear in the summer?"
"Yes."
The mistletoe materialises over their heads.
"And a kiss is the only way to get it to leave?" Granger eyes him. "Is that what Mrs Graves wanted you to tell me?"
"Not exactly." Draco watches Hermione's smile fade into something serious, her brown eyes curious, searching. "It has to be an actual kiss."
Like it's nothing, Granger lifts up onto the tips of her toes and turns his head towards her with a finger on his chin. The kiss is a quick catch of lips, light and soft. Casual without intent.
She looks up. "See, it worked."
One of Bart's three red seeds vanishes before it does.
Draco spends the rest of the day wishing the lingering tingle of her lips would do the same.
The kiss doesn't work.
Bart keeps returning, glowing like a star.
After four days, Hermione can admit the thrill is gone. She's no longer laughing. She wants to be left alone.
But Bart is there each morning when they open the door.
It follows them while they walk to town.
It hangs between them at the diner and trails them from store to store.
When Draco offers to give her a tour of Ilvermorny, where he teaches Potions, Bart takes the tour with them.
It's Christmas Eve and Hermione is either going to figure this out or get creative.
She opens the living room curtains and waits for Bart to arrive.
Draco sighs behind her. "I wonder if Fiendfyre will work."
"We'll revisit that idea later. I'm not that desperate… yet."
"How calm you are about using cursed fire on foliage is terrifying."
"I've made a list. Fiendfyre is option thirteen, but before I start, I thought about the origins of the mistletoe mythology."
"Nothing says a mother honouring her dead son quite like bird faeces, tree parasites, and poison."
Hermione laughs. "There is a part about plucking a berry from it each time you kiss beneath it. That part of the mythology came into relevance near the time of the town's mistletoe invasion."
"I've never heard of this."
"When the berries are all plucked, the privilege ceases. When I kissed you, one of the berries disappeared."
Draco looks out the window. "There are two more."
"Exactly."
He turns to her. "Do you think—"
"Nothing beats a failure but a try. But If I'm right, you're getting a Christmas tree."
"Deal."
They face each other. Waiting.
Now that Draco knows they're about to kiss, his thoughts drift.
They shift and morph into something he fights to keep down.
Maybe now?
As far as Draco is concerned, he missed his chance years ago. Back then, he could have stayed. But a drunken shag with a newly single Granger right before his divorce was technically finalised was a horrible idea.
He's a coward, which means he's okay with pretending it never happened.
But with increasing frequency, Draco wonders what would have happened if he'd been braver. If he'd taken the leap, followed through, and changed the course of their friendship.
What if he'd invited her back to his home? His bed? His life?
What if they tried now?
Would they crash and burn? Slowly fizzle out? Fail to launch?
Or could they survive the odds?
All hypotheticals, of course.
As they wait for Bart, Draco is able to admit that, if he had the opportunity to change one thing in his life, it would be that night.
Her.
Bart pops into existence.
Draco stops thinking and moves, tilting her chin up and dropping his mouth to hers. It's little more than a brush of lips that deepens gradually. His hand cups her cheek, and fuck does he mean it.
Granger's flustered when he pulls away. Her tongue snakes over her bottom lip, like she's tasting him again.
The visual goes straight to his cock.
They exhale shaky breaths and look up.
Another trembling red berry is gone.
Only one remains, buzzing with magic.
An invitation. Glowing red and shining bright.
Draco takes the lead once more, kissing her with every bit of pent up desire he possesses. Licking into her mouth, he draws soft, whimpers from her chest.
The final red berry vanishes
As does Bart.
Neither notice.
They're wrapped up in each other, kissing and touching, and when they finally part, for a second Draco swears she tastes like the possibility of something unexpected:
A second chance.
Hermione barely sleeps.
Hours pass with her staring at the ceiling, silently screaming and panicking after those kisses.
The moment dawn breaks, she schools her features and checks to see if her hypothesis is correct.
It is: Bart isn't there.
She drags Draco from the house as soon as possible to collect her winnings. And clear her mind.
Despite the sun shining, it's cold at the tree farm; the pine scent is heavy in the air. Draco has been too quiet and Hermione's stalling.
She has to say something.
"It's weird without Bart stalking us." It's not the best opening, but it breaks the awkward silence they've been wading through.
The look Draco gives her is reserved, if a little shy. "Bart isn't gone. When I picked up your coffee this morning, Mrs Graves told me that it showed up in her shop today to terrorise someone else."
"Glad we didn't kill the town's relic." Hermione forces a laugh. Before silence can return, she steels herself. There's no turning back. "Can I ask you something? The night of your divorce party, why did you leave?"
Draco takes his time responding, like he's treading on eggshells, afraid to crack a single one. "I wasn't quite divorced, and you weren't over your ex yet. The timing was shite."
"Fair." Hermione feels bold in the face of his reservation. "Why has it taken us four years to talk about it?"
"When have I ever been good at facing the consequences of my own actions?"
Hermione starts to say more, but she spots a gorgeous Fraser fir she can't pass up. Draco pays the proprietor, and they shrink the tree for the trip back to his house.
"We need decorations."
She isn't surprised by his answering groan.
Granger lights the tree just after sunset.
"My eyes!" Draco shields them with his hands.
"Oh, shut up." She shoves him playfully before grinning at the result of their intense hunt for last-minute decorations for their tree. "Now it feels like Christmas."
Multi-coloured lights, snowy garland with ugly, fake pine cones, a mishmash of ornaments, and silver tinsel clash wildly with the gold star at the top.
She rests her head on his shoulder. "It's okay, you can admit it. It's not that bad."
"No, it's… not bad at all." Draco doesn't move. He can hardly breathe.
"You're allowed to like something, Malfoy. You have my permission."
"I like many things."
Pulling back, she gives him a challenging look. "Really? Name one."
"Y—" Draco fumbles, recovers, and looks at her with a resolve he's never felt before. "You."
Granger's smile slips.
As he closes the space between them, he waits for her to tell him no.
She doesn't.
"Absolutely asinine of me, right?"
"You said it, not me." It should be a taunt, but her words come out breathless. Her body is flush against his; her hands slide around his waist.
Draco kisses her for no reason other than he's wanted to for hours.
Days. Weeks. Months. Years.
"I should give up."
"And walk away," she whispers.
There is no mistletoe to justify the way she comes back for another kiss.
No other excuse to explain how she peers up at him with an invitation he will never decline again.
Draco leads her to his bedroom, a trail of discarded clothes in their wake.
"I'd tell you I've been ignoring it for a while." He settles between her parted legs, kissing her lips once more before mapping a course down her body, listening to her sighs.
"And—and I'd tell you the same. But then Bart—"
"That dung-twig."
Granger's moan cuts off her throaty chuckle when Draco parts the lips of her cunt. She tastes like sin on his tongue, but he's no saint.
Taking his time, he chases every sigh and moan with his fingers and tongue while Granger fists his hair. Draco's far beyond the edge, drifting into the abyss with no intention of surfacing until he's satisfied her.
And himself.
In no time, Granger's shaking, clinging, nearly strangling him with her thighs as he works her through her orgasm.
"That was—"
He starts his way up her body, kissing her stomach, her breasts, her neck, until he finally drops a light one on her mouth, pulling back and relishing the way she chases him.
"My turn." Softened from the first act, ready for the next, Granger pushes him off and straddles his hips before he can blink.
Her wet cunt rubs his cock. He's never been harder in his life.
"It's a shame we're years too late." She lifts her hips, positions his cock, and slowly sinks down.
They gasp together.
Draco holds his breath until he bottoms out inside her.
It's going to be embarrassingly quick.
That's his final thought before Granger's thick hair falls over them both as she leans forward. She moves, rising and falling in pure sensation, breasts bouncing.
Draco captures one pert nipple in his mouth and tweaks the other.
The sound she makes ruins him.
He swears, demands, pleads as she rides him harder, chasing the high they both need. Neck tilted, he offers himself, and Granger accepts the salt of his skin with a greedy tongue, fingers digging into his shoulders as he grips her arse.
The first time her cunt flutters around him, a sharp stab of urgency twists low in his stomach.
He plants his feet on the bed and takes over, driving up into her. Long and hard, his strokes are rough, their bodies meeting in a rhythm without restraint.
Granger swears and moans his name, clenching and strangling his cock, and fuck he can't hold back another minute, another second—at all.
Draco's low growl is muffled by sheer will as he comes.
"I shouldn't have said anything."
Granger trails a fingertip down his bare chest. "And maybe I shouldn't have come here."
"We live too far apart."
"It'll never work. We'll argue all the time."
"Pretty sure we'll kill each other."
"Or worse."
Their fingers tangle, lock, and hold. "I think we're done with excuses."
"I think so, too."
"Then don't move… ever."
They wake to dozens of missed calls from friends and family. Hermione decides to ignore them for another round in the shower and breakfast at the diner. They're both starving.
Afterwards, they walk to the town square where everyone is gathering for the town's Christmas play.
"Let's just go for a minute."
Draco relents with a muttered, "'Tis the damn season."
He only enjoys himself because one of the angel's charmed wings gains a mind of its own and sends the poor, screaming wizard soaring over the audience, through the trees, and then back again.
Most of the crowd watches in horrified fascination. Some of the actors try to end the spell without success.
Hermione leans over. "Should I help?"
"No." Draco is red-faced from laughing. "They've got it under control."
The man whooshes over their heads, arms and legs flailing as he tumbles, spinning and twirling in the sky.
"On second thought, maybe we should go."
When they've made their exit, Draco bumps her shoulder. "Next time you come, we'll—"
He stops.
They both do.
The panicked yells of onlookers and the mayor's Sonorous instructing everyone to remain calm serve as chaotic background noise. Hermione ignores it all, determined not to let another thing between them go unsaid.
"I was thinking, we can start planning—"
"No plans." Draco rests his hands on her shoulders while her arms slip around his waist. "I spent months creating a failproof plan to be alone for Christmas, and now I'll never know peace again."
"Peace was never an option."
"I'm realising this."
"I'm not bound to London," she blurts, months before she's ready. "I can do my job anywhere. In fact, moving might save me from dealing with the Portkey office's mistakes. It'll take until the summer to move, but I could find my own place in Salem—"
"Or…" Draco takes her hands in his. "I could buy whatever coffee you like and keep it in my kitchen. It would be our kitchen if you lived with me."
Live together.
Hermione likes the idea. "Can I decorate for every holiday? Or even better, can we dress up for Halloween? I know a green costume that would be perfect." She leans in as if whispering a secret. "You are the town's Grinch."
Draco steps back in abject horror. "Offer rescinded."
"Too late! I could be Cindy Lou Who, but that's boring." Hermione snaps her fingers. "Oh! I can dress as the Christmas Tree you're stealing."
"This is the worst day of my life."
"Lies." Background applause indicates the winged actor's safe return to Earth. "I'm curious to see how they celebrate New Years."
"Well…" Draco shakes his head. "A few years ago they had to call in MACUSA because the spell they used on the fireworks wouldn't stop relighting themselves for four days."
Hermione's already excited. "Consider our New Year's Eve plans made."
"I hate everything."
"Stop your whinging, you know you love it."
Draco stares at her then tilts his head. "Maybe I do."
His confession is quiet, barely a whisper, but it's earnest, honest, and real.
And so is hers. "Maybe I do, too."