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Hermione Granger didn’t particularly approve of dishonesty. In fact, she was regularly accused of being too blunt, too direct, too forthright. This didn’t bother her. Better to tell the truth, that’s what she always believed. And so she did. With enthusiasm.
While it did great things for her conscience, it did poor things for her social life. Hermione had always considered this to be an acceptable trade, or at least she had until now.
But here she was in early December, and for the first time in her 29 years of life, she was positively marinating in deception. There was no way around it - she was a fraud. Every workday, every conversation that brought up holiday plans, Hermione found herself peddling a complete hallucination, thrown together with some shaky facts and a bit of contrivance.
“Where are you spending the holidays, Hermione?” asked a variety of well-meaning colleagues.
“I’ll be staying with my boyfriend Charles and his family.” Pleasant smile, change of subject. When pressed, she said they lived near Canterbury, and that his parents were accountants.
Absolute rubbish, but there it was. This year, it felt easier to lie about her holidays than to tell the truth.
Nobody noticed the glaring omission because nobody knew it was there. The actual truth was that she and Charles went on four whole dates over the summer and then agreed they weren’t well suited. It was barely a relationship to begin with, so she hadn’t told anyone about the split. Not a soul. But Charles had met Harry after the second date, and Harry liked him well enough, which meant that he told the Weasleys, which meant the Weasleys knew she was back in the dating world and not still mooning over Ron, which in turn meant that nobody was worrying about her.
That sort of peace was not something she would give up easily. When people thought she was happily coupled, they left her alone. They assumed her broken heart had mended.
It was easier this way.
The truth was stickier, as it usually was. The breakup with Ron left a bruise deep, deep down, nestled in her ribs. It hadn’t healed, far from it. Hermione was stuck in her sadness, continually shoving it deeper in the hopes that it would sink back into the soil. No luck so far. Just a festering wound that refused to improve.
Ironically, it was Ron’s genuine honesty that had made the breakup so painful. He had picked Boxing Day to do it, which must have made sense in his head somehow. Allowing them to enjoy one last Christmas with his family before returning to their flat and ripping it all up.
When he started into his speech, Hermione thought he must be joking. She was doing the washing up, the Muggle way of course, because it soothed her. It was the tone in his voice that made her look up from the sink. Much too serious for a post-Christmas chat.
“Surely you can see that this hasn’t worked for a long time, Hermione,” he said, and he said it quietly, as if he were trying not to startle a wild animal. Ron had the tiniest lines around his eyes now, from years of playing Quidditch out in the sun. It made him look softer. Kinder.
It was a bloody ruse.
Hermione couldn’t believe what she was hearing, and she spluttered, a teacup in one hand and a dish towel in the other. The teacup slipped out of her fingers, bouncing on the countertop and causing the handle to snap off and ricochet, landing at Ron’s feet. Small, pink flowers bloomed up the broken curve. It was a lovely design. Ron never noticed that sort of thing.
“Fuck,” she had said, her voice too high. “I liked that cup.”
“I think we’re together out of habit,” said Ron, again, much too quietly, as he leaned down to pick up the broken ceramic. “We’re too different. You like to stay home with a book. I like to go out. You like to budget your money. I like to enjoy life a bit. You’re happy working at the Archives for your whole career. I want a bit of adventure.”
“We don’t need to be clones of one another to be compatible,” she replied, embarrassed by the desperate sound in her voice.
“Maybe not, but we don’t have much in common anymore. We’ve been together for a decade, Hermione. Don’t you ever wonder what else is out there?”
The truth was that she hadn’t. She liked her life. She liked her life with Ron, and hadn’t even realized there was a problem. She’d always believed that Ron appreciated her habits, her hobbies, her frugality. She thought he really knew her, and loved her for it.
How could she have been so wrong?
“I’ve had my adventure, Ron,” Hermione said, still clutching the dish towel, her emotional support scrap of fabric that was suddenly being twisted into knots. “The War gave me enough adventure to last a lifetime.”
Gods, she hated the way he was looking at her. As if she were something to be pitied.
“I made it through immense loss,” she continued, trying to make him understand. “I’m happy to live a peaceful life now.”
Ron shrugged. “I know. And we’re different that way.”
Hermione swallowed down her next comment, which was to say that her frugality had created a significant pot of savings that they could use if they ever got married. Compound interest was a beautiful thing when you knew how to use it. She had enough to buy a house – several houses, if the market continued the way it was going.
Perhaps that skill was like all the others. Too boring to ping the radar. Not exciting enough for Ron to stay.
“But… But we’ve been together for so long,” she said, and now her voice was shaking, her brain catching up to the fact that this was real. Her emotional support towel made a small tearing sound, a sympathy break to mirror her heart. “I love you.”
It was a sad sound, that I love you. It left her lips and vanished into the ether.
Ron placed the broken handle on the counter and looked down at his feet. “I’m really sorry, Hermione. But there’s no point in stretching this out.”
It was not lost on her that he didn’t say it back.
If anything, the following day was even worse, because Ron moved out of their shared flat so quickly that she realized he must have already been packing. Quietly organizing his things, sneaking boxes out to a new place across town. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed because she had kept busy buying gifts and writing cards. Or perhaps she hadn’t noticed because apparently she didn’t notice anything anymore. Didn’t even notice her partner falling out of love. Maybe it had been happening for years, and she just didn’t see.
Ron moved out the final box and then quietly slid the extra key through the mail slot. Hermione watched it fall to the ground from inside. It bounced twice on the carpet.
The panic attack that followed was so extreme that she crawled into her closet to block out the world, gasping for breath in the dark. The attacks continued, unrelenting, almost daily after that. Harry became worried. Molly started dropping by. Ginny too.
And she hated the looks on their faces. Pity. Because she hadn’t noticed what was happening, and clearly everyone else had. Everyone knew that Ron was going to leave, and nobody had said a word. Were they trying to protect her? If so, they failed.
It all stopped with Charles. He was fit, slightly nerdy. Doing a masters in magical law, played Muggle polo on the weekend. They met at a conference, hit it off, and started to date. Hermione introduced him to Harry quickly, keen to prove that she was through the worst of it.
But while they enjoyed each other’s company, there was very little spark, and it was clear that they weren’t meant to be lovers. Acquaintances, perhaps. Colleagues. It was all very civilized, the breakup. There wasn’t really anything to break.
Which is why she didn’t mention it. It made sense at first. Keeping her peace and all that.
Now look at what she’d become. A liar. A manipulator. A coward.
And the holiday season was nipping at her heels.
***
As far as a career went, the Archives were an absolute dream. Sturdy wooden shelves to infinity, the smell of paper and dust, centuries of knowledge crammed into this rarely-visited corner of the Ministry. It looked more like a church than a government office, which is probably why Hermione liked it so much. After the chaos of her younger life, she was content here in the calm.
Ron was right about that one thing, although it pained her to admit it. Hermione loved her work. Loved the Archives. It was safe and it was quiet, it was interesting and stimulating, and the chances of being murdered by a psychotic dark wizard here were reasonably low.
The only real downside was that sometimes the patrons were… Particular.
One patron especially.
As if on cue, Draco Malfoy, celebrity Ministry barrister and full-time annoyance opened the heavy wood door, whistling to himself as he sauntered in. Hermione bit down a groan. Her former classmate was a regular at the Archives, popping in every day or two. It was really the only complaint she had about the job – this narcissistic, smarmy prat of a man that couldn’t seem to stay out of her peaceful space. Stupid Malfoy and his stupid hair. Walking his stupid walk.
See? She was already getting worked up.
Out of necessity, because there was literally no other option, they had developed a lukewarm rapport.
“Granger,” smirked Draco, straightening out the shoulder on his designer robe and flipping back his blond fringe. The muted light made his eyes look distractingly clear.
The bastard.
“Good god, is that thing made of silk?” Hermione asked, wrinkling her nose at his robe. “Can’t you wear wool like the rest of us?” She found herself stacking papers to keep her hands busy. Otherwise she might wag her finger at him. Again.
“Venetian silk, Granger,” Draco said, checking his reflection in the glass of a decorative case. “While you might be content looking common, I have a reputation to uphold.”
He winked at her. The boor.
Hermione glared at him. Draco Malfoy could flirt with a brick wall, so she didn’t feel particularly flattered by his mercurial attention. She was limping towards Christmas now, truly in the final stretch of her self-made perfidious wasteland, and she was not going to let this egotistical nitwit hobble her further.
“Fine, wear what you like,” she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “It’s not my problem if you look unusually shiny. What can I help you with today, Malfoy? Family records again?”
“You know me so well, Granger,” he said, leaning against the counter, running his finger suggestively along the edge.
It was tempting to correct him and say that knowing someone and regularly pissing someone off were not the same thing. Turning back towards her shelves, Hermione liberated the stack of records Draco seemed to request most often. She had even assigned him a dedicated section within close reach because he came back so frequently.
Not that she’d ever tell him that. The man hardly needed the ego boost. Imagine being so self-centered that you read your own family’s birth records in your spare time.
“What are your plans for the holidays, Granger?” he asked as she methodically stacked his records in a neat pile between them. “Something with the Weaselby’s as usual?”
“I’m sure you remember that Ron and I broke up last year,” she replied, tartly. “And no, I’m spending the holidays with my boyfriend Charles and his family.”
The words tasted grainy in her mouth. Repetition didn’t smooth them out, it just made them more sour. Merlin, it would feel nice to tell someone the truth. A burden lifted. But she wouldn’t dream of handing a weapon like that to someone like Draco Malfoy. Imagine how quickly the word would spread if she told him her true relationship status.
Hermione Granger, quite alone actually.
“Ah yes, Charles. So you’d mentioned. You’ve been with him what, five months now?” Draco had a look of disinterest on his face, and was inspecting his nails, but the comment still caught Hermione off guard.
“Yes, five months or so,” she said. How had Draco remembered that? She wasn’t counting on anyone paying attention to her love life, or lack thereof. Nervously, she placed the last stack of papers down on the top of the pile and yelped when they started to slide.
“I’ve got them, I’ve got them,” Draco said, tutting at her while he collected the stack. “Calm down, Granger. So tightly wound.”
“And you?” she said, trying to look reasonably wound. “I assume you have impressive plans of your own?”
“Obviously,” he replied, hoisting the papers up and over to the nearest study table. “I’ll likely be engaged over Christmas. Maude Fleury, daughter of Dominik Fleury, the potions master who perfected veritaserum – I presume you know the name?”
“A famous Pureblood family,” Hermione said. “How nice for you. Going to create your own little empire, Malfoy?”
“It is my duty as the Malfoy heir,” he said, depositing the last of the papers on the table and turning towards her with a dramatic bow. “Don’t be discouraged, Granger. While I may be destined for wealth and greatness, at least you have Charles the accountant.”
“He’s a master’s student!” she protested, quickly shutting up once the words were out. Charles wasn’t real, not in the way she was pretending he was. No sense defending his imaginary honour to someone like Draco Malfoy.
“A master’s student,” Draco murmured to himself as he began to leaf through his parchments. Smirking, he looked up and caught her eye. “Funny way to say he’s unemployed.”
Hermione spent far too long debating the merits of setting Draco’s records on fire, but even she couldn’t imagine destroying family ephemera like that.
“Enjoy your studies,” she replied through clenched teeth, and spent the next hour aggressively dusting until she was calm again.
***
As the days ticked on, the whole situation became increasingly complicated. Not only was Hermione lying to everyone she knew, but she was also barrelling towards a lonely Christmas. A Christmas without family or friends. Her first ever.
Harry thought she was with Charles.
The Weasleys thought she was with Charles.
Charles didn’t think about her at all. They weren’t together, of course.
Her parents didn’t know who she was, so they certainly didn’t fuss about her imaginary boyfriend.
Ron hadn’t talked to her in nearly a year, and he wasn’t about to start now. Anyways, last she heard he was dating a new witch every week. Maybe one of those relationships would keep him warm over the holidays.
Despite knowing all of this, Hermione had still fallen into her regular pre-Christmas routines. Her festive habits were deeply ingrained and unbothered by pesky things like reality. She had bought a turkey. She had picked up cider and wine. She had grabbed a fruitcake and some mincemeat pies. She even had a tree, a plastic one, disassembled, out in her living room and waiting to be prettied up. She had boxes of décor hoping to be liberated.
What was she to do with all of this stuff?
When she started her little white lie, it was still summer. It felt like she had all the time in the world to figure out how to manufacture a breakup. She didn’t realize what would happen to her holidays if she didn’t decide on an appropriate end date.
Now it was December 23rd, and Hermione had decided to ignore the problem, because what else was she supposed to do? There was no obvious solution, and the Archives were surprisingly busy with a number of people coming in to do last-minute research before they went on break. Draco Malfoy, consistent as ever, had also spent the morning at his usual study table.
It was strange, but she could swear he looked worried when he thought nobody was watching.
“Working tomorrow, Granger?” Draco said, returning his stack of files with a frown line between his eyebrows. Odd to see someone like Draco Malfoy anything other than boastful and loud. Hermione privately wondered what had him so bothered.
“Yes, just until noon,” she replied with a manufactured smile. “Then off to see Charles.”
“Right,” said Draco. “I’ll be in as well. Some reading to do before I head to France.”
“Naturally,” said Hermione.
“Naturally,” said Draco. And he smiled at her, a real one, a sad one, which quite threw her off. “See you tomorrow then, Granger.”
Hermione didn’t reply, but she watched him leave, trying to decide what was happening in that funny brain of his.
Once she returned to her flat, she felt it keenly. The panic. All those Christmas things, the food, the décor… Her home was teeming with it. Was she just going to let it all go bad? Was she going to sip wine and stare at boxes of decorations before moving them back into storage? This was the most ridiculous, stupid, pigheaded thing she’d ever done, and that was saying something. She’d let the lie run for too long. Now it had legs.
Hermione’s breath sped up, and she looked around desperately for a way out. Snatching a shopping tote, Hermione ran – ran! – away from her home. Spending another minute there would send her into a proper panic attack and she didn’t want to spend the evening gasping for air in her closet. Instead, she opted to dodge crowds in the shops, buying things for people who had forgotten about her. It was loud and chaotic, but it distracted her, and that was enough.
When she finally made it back to her flat, exhausted and deeply anxious, she dropped the gifts in the hallway and purposefully kept the lights off so that she wouldn’t see the utter mess she had made of her life.
One more day.
***
It was Christmas Eve, and Hermione was curiously watching Draco Malfoy deep in the throes of dismay. At his favourite study table, oblivious to her spying, Draco kept running his hands through his hair as he read and re-read a piece of parchment, hunched over the paper like some kind of corvid.
Today, the Archives were almost completely empty, with the majority of Ministry employees wisely staying home to spend time with their families. In fact, Draco was her only patron, and she couldn’t help but wonder what was keeping him in such an agitated state. Wasn’t be supposed to be meeting his new fiancé by now?
Something in those files was upsetting him.
Had she caught on sooner, she could have had a little peek at the records to puzzle it out for herself. Honestly, she’d always assumed that Draco’s ego was the sole reason for his reading habits. Presumably, he was memorizing the glorious history of the Black and Malfoy lines so that he could recite them verbatim when asked.
Perhaps she had been wrong.
While it was almost noon, the supposed end of her workday, Hermione was in no rush to leave. What would she go home to? A flat that was a testament to her own dishonesty? A depressing tableau of holiday misery? No, she’d rather stay here as long as she could and delay the inevitable. Hermione made herself tea and kept herself busy with organizing while Draco fretted over his files. Time passed, and Hermione got into a comfortable groove, tidying and straightening as she went. She spent an entire forty-five minutes polishing a bust of the Archives’ founder until it was sparkling. It was so quiet and calm, she almost forgot what day it was. A blessing, that.
After a long while, Draco looked up with a start.
“Granger! It’s 2pm!”
Hermione looked up from the stack of mismatched records she was taxonomizing. Ah, so it was. Pity that he had noticed.
“Yes,” she stated helpfully.
He gave her an exasperated look, standing abruptly and gathering his papers with a frenetic energy. “Didn’t you say you were leaving at noon, you silly witch?”
“Hey!” she grumbled. “Don’t you ‘silly witch’ me. I happen to have lots of work to do, and you seemed quite absorbed in your records. Far be it from me to kick you out before you’re done.”
Draco dropped his stack of papers on the counter, a look of frustration on his face.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” he groused. “I know you have plans. You told me as much. You have my permission to kick me out.”
Hermione collected the files slowly, determined to stretch out the time as much as possible.
“It’s fine, Malfoy. I’m not late or anything.”
Draco was watching her, she could feel it, but she pretended to be unbothered, moving each stack onto the shelves at a steady speed.
“And your darling Charles?”
Hermione snorted, unable to stop it in time. She looked up and met his gaze, still with that worried crease on his forehead.
“My darling Charles knows I’m running late. Don’t worry yourself about nothing.” Truly nothing, as in non-existent.
Draco nodded, looking away. “Good. That’s good. When do the Archives reopen again?”
“Not until the second of January.”
Draco nodded again, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Right.”
“Right,” Hermione said. She had stretched it out as long as she could, but his records were put away, and her work counter was gleaming. The entire office was in top shape, really. She’d outdone herself.
There was no excuse now. It was time to close up.
“I’ll see you in the new year then?” she said, putting on her best smile as they walked towards the exit. “With the next Mrs. Malfoy on your arm?”
Draco chuckled, but it wasn’t a comfortable laugh. “Perhaps, Granger. But yes, I’ll see you in the new year.”
“Happy Christmas, Malfoy.”
“Happy Christmas, Granger.”
When she stepped out of the Ministry doors, a beautiful dusting of snow had begun. Of course. Perfect Christmas weather. Just to twist the knife a little deeper.
Hermione walked home, taking every detour she could think of trying to stretch time, manipulate it somehow. Eventually though, she was standing at her front door, feeling the panic as it warmed up, ready to unleash itself on her peace.
With nothing left to keep her away, she went inside.
***
Christmas Eve, or what was left of it, was easy enough to ignore. Hermione grabbed an apple and a book and locked herself in the bedroom, where nary a Christmas ball existed. She spent the evening reading and resolutely ignoring the festive explosion that was her living space. Her friends sent their customary Christmas cards and letters, but most of them said say hi to Charles, betraying the breadth of her lie. Everyone thought he was real. Nobody thought to question it.
Christmas morning was another matter entirely. Gods, Hermione could feel the grief in her throat from the moment she woke up. She had never spent a Christmas alone like this. As a child, her parents made the holiday utterly magical. Music, decorations, carols, home cooked meals, love. Once she was an adult, it was all Ron and Harry. Still family, but with literal magic this time. A joyful thing. An extended circle.
Now her parents lived a world away and didn’t think of her at all.
Her friends had accepted her deception and assumed she was having a wonderful time.
Ron was happy with his choice. He probably had multiple witches on his arm, women more interesting than her, more adventurous, more impulsive. The fact that she was reliable and loving meant very little.
Hermione had never felt so lonely. Nobody missed her at all. The success of her lie had ruined her.
Perhaps she could still reach her friends, say that something had some up. Ask if she could join their celebrations.
But that look of pity – no. She’d had her fill of it. Her heart couldn’t handle that look again.
The main room was too awful to look at, with the disassembled tree and the boxes of decorations that had been left untouched. Tears were already filling her eyes, blurring her vision as she rushed to get dressed.
No matter what happened today, she had to get out of this flat. She needed to stop looking at the evidence of her own hubris. Gods, she was such an imbecile.
Hermione walked as fast as she could away from her home. Tears ran down her cheeks as she half-ran, half-stumbled through the neighbourhood. The Christmases of her youth had started replaying in her mind, a loop of memory that never ended. Being with Ron for so long had let her bury these memories, let her stay distracted, but there was no more distraction now.
She’d had a wonderful childhood. Her mum and dad had given her everything. They loved her so much. And look what she did in return.
It wasn’t just about losing Ron and lying about Charles anymore. Hermione was sure there was a pattern. As she tripped her way down snowy trails, panic in her stomach, it became increasingly, irrefutably clear to her. She ruined everything good in her life. Give her something special and she inevitably found a way to destroy it. This Christmas was her penance. She deserved to be alone.
But good god, she missed her parents.
Now she was sobbing, sobbing so hard she couldn’t walk, and she sat down heavily on a snow-covered bench, burying her face in her mitts. The snow had crusted on the surface of the wool, and it scratched her skin as she cried and cried. Cheeks stinging, she let the sadness flatten her, a wave of misery that she had put off for too long.
The sounds of her sobs were muted by the snow, and Hermione lost track of how long she sat there, coming apart at the seams in the wettest, ugliest way possible. Time no longer existed for her. Only loss. Only despair. She missed. She missed. She missed.
The grief was so consuming that she didn’t hear anyone approach. And so, when a voice said, “no Charles, then?” Hermione shrieked and jumped to her feet, whirling around to find Draco Malfoy watching her, a curious look on his face. He was dressed more plainly than usual, all black, as if he were on his way to a funeral.
Hermione knew she was a decent liar when she had to be. Better than decent. She could peddle a story in a pinch.
But she was exhausted, and he had caught her completely exposed. She did not have the energy to try and save herself. Oh, this was going to hurt. But it had to be done.
Hermione shook her head, eyes still streaming, face red, nose dripping, hair partially frozen where it had gotten wet.
“Charles and I broke up over the summer. It was never… It was never much of anything.”
The admission felt hollow somehow. She waited for him to laugh, or smirk, or preen, but instead he nodded.
“I see,” he said.
“I didn’t want anyone to know, so I just… I just…”
“Yes, I see, Granger.”
“And now I’m –“ but the grief cut her off again, and she broke down in fresh sobs, covering her face with shaking hands.
“How long have you been out here?” Draco said. “You’ve got ice in your hair.”
Talking was out of the question, so she didn’t bother replying and simply turned away from him, hoping he would vanish if she wished it fervently enough.
“You live south of here, near the station, yes?” she heard him ask, and then there was a hand at her back, guiding her away from the bench, walking vaguely in the direction of her house. Her feet moved out of habit. She fell into step beside him, feeling disoriented. Was Draco Malfoy… Walking her home?
“I remember you telling me about your flat,” he continued. “Near the French bakery, I think. You mentioned the croissants. I’m reasonably sure that I made fun of your pronunciation, which was terrible, for the record. At any rate, I don’t live too far from there myself. I’ll just get you started in the right direction.”
Hermione managed to whisper a shaky “okay.” How was she supposed to respond? She couldn’t recall ever being so embarrassed. Hermione willed her feet to keep moving so as not to make a scene.
“Honestly, I can’t blame you Granger,” he said smoothly as they made their way down the sidewalk. “Much easier to peddle a white lie than to deal with the Weasleys for an entire day. Unthinkable. I don’t know how you did it for so long.”
“But I don’t like lying!” she wailed, his hand on her back guiding her down the slushy lanes and through street crossings. “It’s not something I enjoy! I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand!”
“Sometimes it’s the better option,” he countered, manoeuvring them both around a fire hydrant which would have taken her out at the knees. His other hand rested on her shoulder as he steered her. “Sometimes it makes the most sense. It doesn’t mean you’re a terrible person.”
“I’m sure that’s exactly what it means,” she mumbled.
“No offence, I suspect you wouldn’t know how to be terrible even if you made yourself an efficient ‘to do’ list on the topic,” he replied.
Hermione couldn’t tell if he was insulting her or complimenting her, which would have been a point of contention if she wasn’t busy drowning in shame. After that, they walked in silence, Hermione discretely correcting his direction, his hand warm against her coat, his presence steady and unnervingly calm. Quite unlike what she had understood him to be. Quite unlike what she would have expected.
Eventually they ended up outside her front door.
Hermione sniffled wetly and stared at the ground between them. Merlin, this was awkward. She couldn’t even meet his gaze. She was a rumpled, half-frozen mess. He was, as usual, terribly well put together, despite his subdued garb. The thought of making eye contact with someone that finessed made her recoil. It would be like a toad staring at a prince. A prince with stupid hair and a stupid walk.
This whole thing was utterly humiliating.
“Thank you for getting me home,” she croaked, squinting at his chest. “Goodbye.”
“Oi!” Draco said, and she could tell he was annoyed even without looking at his face. “I’ve just found you drowning in your own fluids, Granger –“
“Gross, really?!”
“And I have no intention of leaving until I’m sure you’re properly settled inside. So if you’re thinking of making yourself a pitying cup of tea, I’ll have one too, thank you for asking.”
“Unbelievable!” she huffed, opening her front door and dangling her foot over the threshold. “Look, see? I’m inside. No need to escort me in.” Hermione made the mistake of looking at his face.
He looked quite nice, predictably. Wind-blown hair. Slightly pink cheeks. Those clear eyes. Ugh, she hated him. Probably.
“Tea, Granger,” he smirked, and then pushed past her before she could stop him.
***
“Circe’s tits,” Draco said, whistling low. Hermione’s cheeks were already red from the cold, but now they positively burned. He was looking at her Christmas mess. It looked even worse now with the daylight streaming in. A tree in pieces. Tinsel trying to escape from its plastic enclosure. The Christmas balls stacked in boxes haphazardly strewn around the room.
“Yes, I know, it’s a disaster,” she moaned, covering her face with her hands, trying to grapple with the reality that her most annoying client and former school nemesis was currently watching her life fall apart in high definition.
Draco stood, staring at the scene, appearing to consider his options. “Wait, if you got the décor out, does that mean…”
He turned slowly towards her kitchen.
“Don’t!” she shrieked, grabbing his face with her hands and wrenching him back to look at her. “Don’t look at the kitchen! I can’t take the embarrassment.”
Draco cocked his head at her, and she realized belatedly that she was essentially caressing his face with her hands. She snatched them away, mortified.
“Let me make sure I understand,” he said, slowly, one finger absently touching his cheek where her hand had been. “Despite not having Christmas plans, you still… Got everything ready?”
“Not exactly,” she sniffed miserably. “I bought the groceries but I didn’t cook them. And I bought the gifts, but I didn’t wrap them. And I took out the decorations, but…” she gestured vaguely to the room.
“Hmm.” He looked like he was thinking. Under no circumstances did she want him to think.
“It’s just muscle memory. I do the same things every year. I didn’t think it all through this time. I was hoping I’d figure it out before Christmas actually arrived.”
“Well, you’re certainly thorough,” he said, poking a Rudolph figurine and then jumping when it started singing carols at him.
“DECK THE HALLS WITH BOUGHS OF HOLLY!” shrieked Rudolph.
“Listen, Malfoy,” said Hermione over the noise.
“’TIS THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY!” yelled the toy.
“Malfoy, the thing is – “
“DON WE NOW OUR GAY APPAREL!”
Hermione made a strangled sound and grabbed her wand, pointing it sharply at the noisy offender. “Incendio!”
Rudolph was rendered into ash.
“Much obliged,” Draco said, looking a bit impressed. “One less abomination in the room.”
“Listen,” she said, trying desperately to drag the situation back to normalcy. “Thank you for getting me back home. I have no idea why you did it, but I appreciate it. That said, I got myself into this mess, and if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to wallow in despair alone today. Besides which, you’re supposed to be in France. So how about you let yourself out and let me lament in private, as nature intended.”
“Lament in private!” Draco said, looking amused. “And leave you to your misery?”
“Exactly!” Hermione said.
“I think not,” said Draco.
“Uh, pardon?”
“I think not,” he said again, looking around the room. “I can’t in good conscience leave you in here. You’d suffocate on tinsel and die and I would have nobody to fetch my files once the break is over.” He smirked, as if to incense her further.
Hermione felt her mouth drop open. “Heaven forbid! And since when do you have a conscience?”
“I think,” Draco said, ignoring her completely, “that we could make this place a little more cheerful. No sense in letting your efforts be completely wasted.”
“Be serious,” she snorted. “Are you suggesting I actually decorate?”
“And cook,” he nodded, walking over to the kitchen and opening the fridge. “Ah, a turkey! Excellent! I was just starting to get hungry.”
“Draco Malfoy!” Hermione snapped. “We are not making Christmas happen today!”
“What other day are we supposed to make it happen?” he replied with his mouth full. The bastard was eating her mince pies. “It’s literally Christmas.”
“No day! None at all! I am not doing Christmas this year.”
“Come on Granger,” he said, pulling out her bottles of cider. “It’s much too depressing to spend Christmas alone. I don’t wish that on you, even if you are a swotty – “
“Oi! Put that turkey away! Do you know how long they take to cook? It won’t be done until tomorrow!”
Draco paused his machinations to turn and frown at her. He looked completely exasperated, which seemed unfair to Hermione, really. He was the one in her kitchen being an absolute turd.
“You ridiculous woman,” he said. “Are you or are you not a goddamned witch?”
And with that, he pulled out his wand, pointed it at the disassembled tree and whispered decora festiva. An entry-level spell. An obvious choice. The room started to transform.
Hermione felt quite silly, watching it all come together. Yes, of course. Magic. That thing she was really very good at. The tree assembled itself. The Christmas balls hung beautifully from the branches. The tinsel threw itself artfully around the room. The air sparkled.
In the kitchen, the turkey was stuffing itself, which looked rather obscene, and a glass of wine had been summoned and was floating towards her.
“Take the wine, Granger,” said Draco, a mischievous smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. “My plans got delayed, your plans never existed. The least we can do is get drunk and make a day of it.”
Hermione goggled at him. “Malfoy!” she huffed. “We do not get drunk together! This is not in our repertoire of interactions! We exchange a limited number of phrases and then go about our own business. Surely you must know that.”
“That doesn’t sound like appropriate Christmas behaviour, does it?” Draco was pouting. POUTING. Hermione could smack him. “Surely two people who’ve known each other for decades can share a festive beverage or two, no?”
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. She was simply too tired for this, which made it difficult to think of a good reason to say no. The truth was that the thought of sipping wine and eating tarts was deeply appealing. Besides which, this meant she wouldn’t have to do it alone. She would have preferred someone less annoying to be festive with, but it could certainly be worse. Couldn’t it?
Hermione sighed. This day was turning out to be quite an affair.
“As long as you get that damned turkey to stop pleasuring itself, I’ll have some wine.”
Draco grinned. “You don’t like it? I rather thought the technique was intriguing.”
“Malfoy!”
“Fine, fine. As you wish.” He waved his wand at the bird, which ceased its somatic explorations and plopped down onto the tray with a splat.
“We’ll eat, we’ll drink, and we’ll be merry, or die trying. Cheers, Golden Girl.”
Watching those posh lips call her a golden girl made Hermione feel a little dizzy. Had she fallen into some sort of lucid dream? What on earth was happening? Why was he being so nice to her?
But Draco was holding up his glass with a look of simple expectation on his face, and she couldn’t bear to argue. Not when he was finally behaving like a normal person. He hadn’t mentioned his superior breeding once this whole time. It was progress. It must be.
“Cheers, you infuriating oaf,” she murmured.
Hermione downed the wine in one long pull.
***
Drunk, was much too she.
Wait!
She drunk was much too.
Argh.
She was much too drunk. Sometime after her third glass of wine, Hermione realized she hadn’t eaten anything since that depressing apple the night before. No wonder she was currently showing Draco Malfoy her childhood ballet routine while he lounged alcoholically on her sofa.
“Granger!” he chirped. “You are a natural talent!”
“I always liked dancing,” she grinned, spinning into a wobbly pirouette.
“What did they put in this cider?” Draco asked, squinting into his glass.
“Alcohol?” Hermione suggested, doing a jete in the direction of her oven to check on the turkey. Hardly any time had passed, and all the food was ready. Goodness, magic was just the best.
“Magic is just the best!” she gushed uselessly.
Draco laughed from his nest on the couch.
“Are you ready to crawl to the table?” she called. “Everything is ready, and I need food in my stomach to absorb all this alcohol!”
“As do I,” Draco replied. “I haven’t been this drunk in years.”
“What was the occasion last time?” she asked, levitating a dazzling array of dishes to her dining table. Cranberries, turkey, potatoes, beans… It smelled divine. It smelled like Christmas.
“Oh, three years ago I found out that my family is broke,” he said, sliding into a chair. “Had quite the evening in an effort to cope. Not that it helped, of course.” Grabbing her plate, he proceeded to fill it up with a bit of everything. Hermione watched as he worked, cheerfully giving her the best cuts of the meat.
He handed her plate back without an explanation and proceeded to serve himself.
“Uh, thank you? Wait, what do you mean you’re broke?”
“It means I don’t have any money, Granger,” he supplied, popping a green bean in his mouth.
Hermione scowled. Bastard. “I know what it means! I meant how is your family broke. Aren’t you one of the wealthiest families in Britain?”
“Once, maybe. Generations of Malfoys frittered it away, and then we had to pay reparations after the War. Took care of what was left.”
Even while drunk, even while relaying awful information, Draco was neat and precise as he speared the food on his plate and placed it delicately into his mouth. The pedigree of his upbringing was evident.
Hermione was completely flummoxed. “But… Your fancy robes?”
“Designed to find myself a rich wife, I’m afraid. Save my parents some stress. Alas, my success rate is rather dismal. Turns out the Malfoy brand is ruined. Dark Lord association – very unsexy.” Draco winked at her and then tucked back into his meal.
Hermione swayed in her seat, trying to see through the cloud of booze to understand why he was telling her this so casually. The implosion of the Malfoy fortune would absolutely seize the papers if news ever got out. He was handing her extremely sensitive information. Surely he knew that. Didn’t he?
Hermione felt like she had to scramble to bring the conversation back from the abyss. “So I assume this is why you’re getting engaged to Maude Fleury? That’s bound to help, yes? I’m sure her family is terribly wealthy.”
“Ah, I think I’ve rather bolloxed that up, my dear Granger.” Draco was pouring gravy over his salad. Hermione decided not to tell him.
“How is that?”
Taking a long pull of cider – hang on, when had he switched to Firewhisky? – Draco swallowed and then sighed, looking decidedly less cheerful. “When you marry into a family like that, they check familial records rather meticulously. Ensuring purity and all that. It’s not really done here. Everyone knows who we are. While I had no reason to suspect anything, I thought I’d go over them in advance just to be sure there was nothing worrisome.”
“What did you find?” Hermione asked, although she was starting to understand, despite all the wine in her stomach. This is why Draco was one of her regulars. This is why he visited every day. He was trying to save his family title.
“One marriage, two hundred years ago or so, to someone who does not have a Pureblood name. Most likely a Muggleborn marrying into the family. Tastefully hidden but not quite hidden enough.” He tossed something into his mouth and then smiled at her. Dishevelled, melancholy, very drunk, and terribly handsome. “What excellent boiled potatoes!” he exclaimed. “Really a banner meal, Granger. I applaud you.”
“Wait,” Hermione said, closing her eyes with a frown. “Wait, Draco. That’s not small news. Are you going to be okay?”
He shrugged, drunkenly helping himself to another serving of potatoes. “It’s anyone’s guess. The engagement was expected. If it falls through, other Pureblood families will start to become suspicious. Regardless, we’ll lose the house soon. I’ve been supporting my parents with my Ministry salary, but I can’t cover the house as well. The funds only stretch so far. I doubt we’ll be able to keep it beyond the next year.”
“But that’s terrible!” Hermione said. “And surely no Pureblood family is actually completely pure – you’d all be completely inbred if that were the case!”
“Probably true,” he said. “But in trying to marry into the Fleury family, I unknowingly opened a Pandora’s Box. It was a miracle they agreed to the match in the first place. They have some skeletons in their closets as well, which is why we could convince them, but I doubt they’ll miss that line in the records.” Draco observed his fork, woefully without a potato on it. He turned his inebriated attention to the cranberries.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, the wine making her feel warm and worried at the same time.
Draco bit into a cranberry and looked at her. He seemed blurry at the edges, like an attractive stumble in the shape of a man. The juice from the cranberry coloured his lips red. “So that you understand when I tell you that everyone is peddling some kind of deception. Life is messy. Inventing a boyfriend is small transgression, Granger.”
It should not have been such a monumental challenge to look away from his lips. “What are you going to do?” she asked, hoping to distract herself.
“Well, I can’t doctor the records. Tamper-proof, as you know.” He shot her a winning smile. “So I either need to call off the planned engagement, or I need to go along with it and hope they don’t notice. I haven’t quite decided what to do yet. Made the mistake of telling my parents what I found and now they won’t speak to me.”
Ah. That explained why he was alone on Christmas too. Hermione stayed quiet, ruminating on the dramatic turn of their dinner conversation. For his part, Draco seemed unperturbed, eating his way across the plate with vigour.
“It’s still important to you then? Marrying a Pureblood?”
Draco snorted. “Merlin, that hasn’t mattered to me in years. No Granger, I don’t give a goblin’s dick if I marry a Pureblood. I promised to give it a genuine go for the sake of my parents, but if it all falls apart now, at least I tried. Quite overrated, this Pureblood business.”
Apparently done with the conversation, Draco summoned the remainder of the tarts and an unopened bottle of bubbly. “What time is it, anyway?” he asked as he popped a pastry in his mouth. “Too early for prosecco?”
The clock said 2pm. In Hermione’s mind, yes, 2pm was far too early to open prosecco. Not one for convention, Draco cheerfully poured some for them both. Did she want to argue? Not especially. Anyway, it was Christmas, and both their lives were falling apart.
They clinked glasses and drank, Hermione allowing the feeling of the liquid to slide all the way down her throat and into her belly. She considered her situation:
- Draco Malfoy was as drunk as a skunk, inexplicably in her home on Christmas Day, spilling all of his secrets.
- She was as drunk as a skunk, but she was doing festive things despite her worst fears for the holiday, and she was having a lovely time.
- Draco, when his walls were down and he wasn’t putting on an act, was actually rather fun.
Bizarre, the whole thing.
Draco, someone she previously considered to be a pompous, egotistical, vain braggart had turned out to be a pompous, egotistical, vain, thoughtful person. It was likely the alcohol, but he had shared more with her just now than any of her friends in recent memory.
Hermione decided to repay the favour.
“Ron broke up with me on Boxing Day,” she said after he had taken a particularly big bite of fruitcake. “It turns out he had been planning it a while, and I think everyone knew except me.”
Pausing his chewing, Draco swallowed heavily and scowled. “Well that’s simply not on.”
“I’m sure they had a reason for not warning me, but of course I feel a bit betrayed. It totally took me by surprise. He didn’t think we were compatible anymore, but the examples he gave… Honestly? He seemed to feel that I was boring.”
Draco stared drunkenly at her. “Boring? Boring! Has he met you? Pain in the arse maybe, but boring no.”
Hermione held back a smile. “It’s as if he had this collection of things that bothered him, you know? He didn’t like that I preferred to stay home and read. He didn’t like that I was frugal. And he seemed to think my work was dull.”
“Oh dear,” said Draco, rolling his eyes theatrically. “I suppose having a well-read, fiscally responsible chief librarian is too much trouble for the Weasel.”
Hermione didn’t know what to do with Draco’s open compliment and felt her brain short out before coming back online. “I… I appreciate your enthusiasm, Malfoy. At any rate, it hurt terribly. And then he moved out in, like, a day. I started having panic attacks.”
She moved the food around on her plate. It made her feel ill to think about the panic attacks in any real detail.
“When I met Charles, I made sure everyone knew I was fine again, that I was over it, because I was dating. I wasn’t over it, not at all, but I wanted some peace. When things with Charles didn’t work out… Well. You know the rest.”
Draco sipped his prosecco. “It sounds like you told a small lie to protect yourself and then neglected to end it. Not the worst thing in the world, is it?”
Hermione watched the bubbles fight to the surface of her glass. “I suppose not, when you put it like that.”
“And now look at you! You’re having a delightful time with a charming wizard on the brink of ruin.”
“A charming wizard?” she smiled. “How wonderful! Where?”
Draco mimed getting shot in the chest by an arrow.
Hermione giggled. “I will concede that I am having a delightful time. And yes, you are on the brink of ruin.”
“That’s the spirit!” Draco roared, his cheeks flushed pink. “Is it too early for vodka?”
***
Christmas became a blur.
By 7pm they had consumed all the alcohol in the flat, Draco lounging once again on the couch with a permanent grin on his face, Hermione stretched out on the floor, covered in a blanket, humming along with the carols on the ancient radio. When Oh Holy Night came on, Draco sang the harmony.
Perhaps he had been classically trained. It was the only way to explain how beautiful it sounded, how clear, how controlled his voice was. The harmony sent shivers up her arms, but Draco just continued singing, oblivious to the effect it was having on her. The entire thing was so unexpected that all Hermione could do was close her eyes, listening to the words filtering in through her ears as her breaths became slow.
When she opened them again much later, it was midnight, and Draco had slipped out into the dark. Oh Holy Night was playing on the radio once more, no doubt making a second round for the revelers, but it still felt like a curious coincidence. A small note was visible on the stove, the writing loopy and wild.
Granger,
Thank you for spending your Christmas with me, although I realize I didn’t give you much choice. Apologies for eating all your tarts. I am praying to various gods that I still have a hangover draught somewhere in my flat because otherwise I will be in immense trouble come morning.
Yours,
Draco
Hermione did a slow blink as she finished the note. Gingerly, as if the moment could break, she made her way to the bathroom and pulled out a sober-up draught of her own. She’d use the hangover one in the morning if necessary. Regardless, she needed to be sober to read this note again. Clearly she had misread.
Yours.
The tap was dripping into the sink, and it echoed off the tiles as she stared at the word on the page.
No, she had not misread. It was there, scratched right onto the paper. Drinking the minty concoction, she replayed the day in her head as her mind cleared. From humiliation to hilarity. From despair to delight. A Christmas 180.
Yours.
Now why did he sign it that way? Was this a Pureblood thing? Was it considered good manners? She felt like she had missed a clue somewhere. Draco Malfoy was not hers, not by any stretch of the imagination. She could never be part of his world, not like that. Squinting, she read it again.
Yours.
Hermione looked at her flat. It was beautiful, empty of the sadness that had strangled it for so long. It’s as if this strange experimental Christmas had reset her. She felt fine. Better than fine. She felt content.
Yours.
Obviously she was not going to solve the mystery of Draco’s sign-off this evening. Hermione changed into her pyjamas and slid under her covers, marvelling at how the day had shifted so drastically since morning.
“Happy Christmas Hermione,” she whispered to herself in the dark. And this time, it was true. It was a happy Christmas after all.
***
Boxing Day arrived, a whole year since the breakup, and Hermione awoke to the realization that she didn’t feel sad. Instead, she rose languidly, got dressed, cut herself some leftover fruitcake, steeped her tea, and reflected on the puzzle that was Draco Malfoy.
It was tempting to think she had imagined the whole day, but Draco’s note was locked up in her dresser drawer, and her recycling bin was full of empty bottles. It had happened. There was even an indent on her couch where he had settled in and sang that harmony. She had yet to disturb the dent – it was evidence, you see, that he had been there.
Despite finding out about her shameful lie, Draco didn’t seem bothered in the least. Didn’t judge her. Even shared his own embarrassment.
Hermione poured her tea, considering. It was hard to admit that she’d been quite wrong about him, this Pureblood playboy who swanned about her Archives and delighted in pissing her off. He was also just a man, and a reasonably interesting one at that.
It would take a while for her brain to catch up.
Just then, a pleasant chiming noise filled the air, and Hermione froze with her cup halfway to her mouth.
“It can’t be,” she whispered to the empty room.
Years prior, Hermione found a charm that let her assign a sound to Ron when the wards could feel him returning to the flat. She used to love that sound. It told her that her partner was coming home.
The chimes hadn’t rung in a year. She’d forgotten about them, honestly. Just another relic of an old life. They certainly had no business ringing today of all days, an anniversary she was hoping to ignore.
But now they were sounding off, and that could only mean one thing. It meant that Ron had decided in his infinite wisdom to visit her exactly a year after he broke up with her.
A knock echoed through the flat.
“’Mione?” said a familiar voice at the door. “You in there?”
The panic was instant. Uncertain what to do, Hermione slid to the floor like some sort of traumatized noodle and crawled silently into her broom closet. In the dark, she recited her grocery list, waiting for him to leave. While it didn’t make sense for her to be hiding – Ron had returned his key after all, and he wasn’t going to come barging in – she felt better in here. Calmer. More in control.
Eventually the chimes petered off, and Hermione crept out of her closet to look through the peep hole. Instead, she found a small box and a note pushed through the mail slot.
Hermione,
Merry Christmas. Sorry it’s been so long - I miss you.
Love,
Ron
It was the second odd sign-off from a wizard that she’d received in the last eight hours. And while Draco’s sign-off puzzled her, and perhaps made her cheeks feel hot, Ron’s inspired a different reaction.
Hermione felt her lips curl into a snarl. She was livid.
An entire year of nothing, and now this? Not only this, but on the anniversary of their breakup? The expression seeing red had never made much sense to Hermione until this moment, but as she clutched the note in her shaking hand, she could swear the paper was changing colour.
Also, her hand was starting to hurt.
“Ouch!” she hissed, dropping the note and stomping it out. Somehow she’d accidentally set the thing aflame. The smouldering mess charred her rug as she watched in fascinated horror, the edges shrinking into black curls where the flames had eaten away at them.
Heart hammering, Hermione allowed herself a brief moment of satisfaction, knowing that her power knew what to do even when her brain did not. She’d never lit anything on fire by accident before. Apparently fury had side effects.
Grumpily eyeing the gift, she wondered what it could be. The note could mean one of two things. One: he missed her and loved her as a friend. Two: he wanted her back. With only a bit of trepidation, she wrenched off the lid and looked inside.
A necklace with a heart pendant. Decidedly not a gift between friends.
The scream that tore itself out of her throat had been building for a year. A year of gasping for air in the dark. A year of quietly smiling and nodding and pretending things were fine. A year of mourning the loss of a life she had been so sure about. Hermione had been left to singledom so abruptly that she didn’t have time to react.
Well, it was time to react now.
“You fucking idiot!” she screamed to the empty room. “You had everything! You had everything and you burned it down and now you want it back?!”
She whipped the box at the wall, watching the necklace fall to the floor as the package fell apart. Grabbing her coat, Hermione let her anger fuel her as she stomped out of her flat and into the snowy outdoors.
What on earth was Ron thinking? Hermione always tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the truth was that Ron had a rotten understanding of emotions and tended to completely step in it as a result. Of all the ways he could have approached this, he chose the stupidest option.
One thing was certain: she would not fawn over Ron’s spectacularly bad instincts. She would not second guess the happiness she awoke to this morning. She would not give up her newfound calm.
Instead, she would exercise her new skill set.
A bit of well-meaning deception, this time in service of someone who actually appreciated her.
And where best to do it but at the Archives?
***
The Archives were so quiet. Everything was still, minus the floating dust motes caught in a single beam of light. It was rare to see the office like this – even more rare to see it without Draco Malfoy at his favourite table.
Hermione wondered about that as she hung her coat and put the kettle on. While she would have previously denied it, Draco was a fixture here. It didn’t feel like the Archives without him. If she were being honest, she’d come to like his company.
She’d come to like him.
Well, her timing was atrocious, admitting a crush right when she needed to get used to life without his constant presence. If her plan worked, she might not see him for a very long time.
Pulling out his stack of family records, Hermione carried them to Draco’s table and sat down for a morning of research. As she reorganized the piles, her kettle started to whistle, and she looked up to her desk at the sound.
She could see it perfectly. Perfectly. This was the best seat in the room to have a clear view of her reception station. The place she worked. The spot where she stood. And Draco sat here every day. Watching her.
Unsure of what to do with that information, Hermione went to make tea, rolling everything around in her mind as if it were sea glass in the ocean. Buffing off the edges. Making it softer to handle.
Did Draco sit there on purpose? Seemed unlike him to do anything without a reason.
She tossed the thought around, in and out of the waves, pulling it through the sand. Making it into something she could hold.
Did he… Did he like her too? Was all his flirtatious nonsense perhaps… Not entirely nonsensical? She assumed that he flirted with everyone, but the truth was that she’d never seen him flirt with anyone else. The assumption was based on what she knew of his character, and she’d recently learned that a lot of his character was for show.
Then of course there was the sign-off. If she accepted the premise that he sat here on purpose, she might have to accept the premise that the sign-off meant something. When he wrote yours, perhaps he meant… Meant…
Could it be?
She held the idea up to the light. The possibility of Draco liking her that way made her feel very nice, but very sad, because she was here to offer him the future he wanted. A future that didn’t include her.
With a sigh, Hermione sat back down and started leafing through the parchment. He said the record was 200 years old. That gave her a decent starting place. Hermione read, deeply focused, stopping only to drink tea and make notes.
In retrospect, the entry was obvious. Perhaps more obvious to her than anyone else. It’s possible Draco hadn’t even made the connection.
September 14, 1805 – Marriage between Abraxas Jasper Malfoy and Shoshana Bluebaron.
Shoshana Bluebaron was not a Pureblood name, at least not one from this region. But that’s not why Hermione noticed it. It was a name that she already knew very well.
At the realization, her pulse jumped a little.
Standing up, Hermione walked swiftly towards the entrance of the Archives. On Christmas Eve, she’d spent a decent chunk of her day polishing the bust of the Archives’ founder, and her name was etched deep into her mind. Shoshana Bluebaron. A legendary thinker. A troublemaker. A powerful witch. A Muggleborn. And a woman who wanted a proper library for all the magical records that had been languishing in storage.
Hermione looked at Shoshana’s satisfied smile, captured in bronze so long ago, and wondered how it happened. How a Muggleborn witch fell for a Malfoy. How he fell in return. How they were willing to defy convention for each other.
Perhaps she already knew the answer.
Hermione walked back to the table and sat down, the weight of her mission even heavier now. Draco had joked that the records were tamper-proof. This was true. But as Chief Librarian, Hermione was able to remove the charm with no trouble. Normally she would only do this for routine maintenance or to check for corruption. Today, she would do it because she wanted Draco to have the life he deserved.
Murmuring the spell to lift the enchantment, Hermione wondered what she should choose. She wouldn’t do anything permanent, of course. That wasn’t the goal. The goal was to get Draco married off without a scandal.
In the end, she chose a simple distraction charm. Anyone reading the records would not be able to focus on Shoshana’s name. Their eyes would slide over the text and onto the next entry. It was over in seconds – amazing how something so quick could have such a deep impact. Hermione sealed the document back up and allowed herself a moment to rest her head in her hands, counting the ins and outs of her breath.
Inexplicably, she felt like crying.
Perhaps in an alternate timeline she would have chosen to be selfish, to let things fall apart so that she and Draco could have the option, if they wanted it. But Hermione had never been good at being selfish, and the thought of tossing Draco to the wolves was a complete non-starter. She’d rather be alone than allow that to happen.
Packing up the records, Hermione took a moment to scribble a note to Draco. She would send it by Ministry owl, formally requesting that he attend a meeting with her here, tomorrow. That way he could see it for himself. Maybe he could even be engaged by New Years.
It was a depressing thought.
When she arrived back home, Hermione took a moment to enjoy her Christmas decorations before grumbling to herself and dragging her feet to the corner where she had tossed Ron’s necklace. It would probably be very pretty to someone else, the delicate heart on the gold chain, the tiny diamond in the middle. She’d return it to him eventually, when she could trust herself not to set something on fire.
“It’s been ten years, Ron,” she said to the bundle of gold in her hand as she put it away. “Don’t you ever wonder what else is out there?”
***
The records were open to the correct page. The tea had been made. Now all she needed was for Draco to show up.
He had thirty more seconds before she considered him late.
“Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven…” Hermione murmured to herself as she polished an already clean counter. She was uncharacteristically nervous. Something about realizing that she liked Draco, and that perhaps he might even like her in return, made this visit feel extremely charged.
“Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen…”
Hermione could hear her voice shaking ever so slightly. Not acceptable. Draco would notice and he’d somehow piece it together. There was no point in complicating the situation further. There was no point in telling him how she felt. She barely understood how she felt.
“Twelve, eleven, ten, nine…”
What would he be like today? It was obvious now that he put on a bit of a performance during his daily visits. The Draco she got to know at Christmas was quite a different creature. Which version would she get? She rather hoped it was the Christmas one. The one that sang to her.
She really, really liked that one.
“Four, three, two…”
“Granger!”
Hermione looked up and felt a genuine smile break over her face. In strolled Draco, dressed slightly more casually than usual with a lopsided smirk.
“Decided to grace me with your presence, I see,” she grinned.
“I’m not late,” he scoffed. “And besides, I wouldn’t miss a special meeting request with the Chief Librarian. Quite intriguing. Are we continuing our Christmas celebrations in a different location?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “No, we are not getting drunk in the Archives. Believe it or not, this is an actual work matter.”
Draco deflated somewhat, looking disappointed. “I see. Pity. I don’t think I got to see the end of your childhood ballet routine. I’ve been on tenterhooks, Granger. Have some mercy.”
A blush was creeping up her neck. The way that man spoke to her. “I think that makes you the only person I know who is interested in my childhood ballet routine, Draco.”
“I’m interested in everything you do, Hermione.” There was no mistaking the tone of the banter. They were both flirting. The only difference was that Hermione finally realized it. Ugh, if she’d been honest with herself sooner, they might have stood a chance.
“You’re a terrible flirt,” she said, trying but failing to look annoyed.
“You like it,” Draco whispered, leaning in.
Oh Merlin. She needed to stop this. Now.
“Observe,” she said with sudden desperation, gesturing at the parchment between them. “Observe the pages before you.”
Draco looked down, realizing quickly what page she was on. “I already know it’s here, Granger,” he said with a sigh. “You don’t need to point it out.”
“Apologies,” she replied. “But despite your guidance, I wasn’t able to find anything. Could you please show me the location of the offending entry?”
Squinting, Draco moved in closer, reading the lines carefully. Hermione heard a sudden intake of breath.
“Granger!” he said in awe. “What have you done?”
“Nothing permanent,” she said quickly. “But hopefully enough so that you can get that engagement you’ve been so worried about.”
Draco kept trying to re-read the entry, eventually giving up with a beaming smile. “I can’t believe it! You’re brilliant!”
Hermione shrugged happily, pleased that it had worked. At least she had that. “I wanted to help. You were very nice to me on Christmas Day. It would have been a terrible holiday without you, honestly. I’m grateful.”
The full weight of his attention shifted to her. It felt it like a physical thing. Hermione found herself studiously picking at her notepad to avoid getting caught in it.
“You deserve to be treated kindly, Granger,” he frowned. “You didn’t owe me anything. Besides, you saved my Christmas too. I would have walked around aimlessly to pass the time if I hadn’t found you.” He leaned in closer, so close that she could smell his cologne. Hermione fought to keep her focus. “Anyway, it turns out you’re quite saucy after a bit of wine. Delightful discovery.”
“A bit of wine?” she laughed. “I’m reasonably sure that I finished the bottle!”
“You’re just not scared of a challenge, that’s all,” he smirked.
Hermione felt herself blush again. “Well, I suppose we’re both lucky then.” Now that she’d shown him the records, now that her main job was done, she felt a sudden need to flee. To leave these pesky feelings behind. To bloody run.
However, there was still one thing left to do. “Do you want to know about her?”
Draco raised his eyebrows, uncomprehending.
“Your relative. I know who she is.”
“Of course you do,” he smiled. It was such an openly affectionate smile that it made her stomach ache.
“Come, Draco.” Hermione walked quickly towards the entrance, eager to distract them both. Stopping in front of Shoshana’s statue, Hermione felt Draco step close to her, pressing up against her shoulder.
“You’re not serious,” he said. “She’s the founder of the Archives?”
Hermione nodded. “She was a brilliant woman, a real renegade. I know it’s not what you wanted, but –“
“Shhh,” Draco said, resting his hand against her back, exactly the way he did it when he guided her home. “Quiet Granger. It’s wonderful.”
Knowing she would likely never get to be this close to him again, Hermione let herself sink into it, memorizing the press of his hand, the sound of his breathing as he read the plaque, the susurration of his shirt against hers. Her eyes drifted shut just for a moment, taking a mental capture of the feeling. Of her happiness, even sharper now because she knew it wouldn’t last, sharp enough to hurt.
It was the type of moment that, if it stretched on too long, would become something much more complicated. With some difficulty, Hermione eased herself away and started to walk back to her desk.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, and then noticed he hadn’t followed her. He was staring at the statue.
“Malfoy?”
Sighing, Draco shook himself out of whatever thought he had been stuck in.
“I guess this means I’ll have to talk to my parents,” he said, and it wasn’t a happy statement.
“I imagine so,” Hermione said.
“And then I suppose I’ll need to head to France in the next couple of days.”
“Yes, that would make sense,” Hermione said.
“And then I guess I’ll just… Stay there?” Oh gods, his smile was heartbreaking. “You know, I had started preparing myself for things to fall apart. And what might happen after it was all done. The sorts of things I would be able to do.”
The unspoken part was clear. The way he was looking at her was clear. But Hermione had used up all her bravery doctoring the records, and she wasn’t sure she could handle confessing to the truth now. She picked at her notepad, avoiding his eyes.
Hermione didn’t particularly approve of dishonesty, but it seemed that she was becoming an expert.
“I guess now you won’t need to worry about any of that.” The smile she plastered on her face was fake. She wasn’t fooling anyone. She knew she looked unhappy. Draco knew it too.
Walking towards her desk, he looked at her with an expression she couldn’t quite place. If she had to guess, it was a question, a silent one that she wasn’t prepared to answer.
“I’ll really miss you,” she whispered, and she heard her voice crack ever so slightly. “I can’t imagine who will annoy me on the daily when you’re gone.”
It was her answer. It was all she could do.
Draco nodded with a heavy sigh before he straightened up and inspected his nails, feigning boredom.
“I’ll miss you too, Granger. With nobody to keep me in line, I imagine I’ll become quite insufferable.”
“My dear Draco,” she tutted. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s physically impossible to be more insufferable than you are now.”
“Granger,” he murmured as he turned to walk away. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
He left, not turning around, which was probably a blessing because the tears finally made a break for it, cascading down her cheeks. Hermione stayed at her desk for a long time before she patted her face dry and headed home.
***
Hermione had taken to conversing with her houseplant, a poor unsuspecting variegated pothos that had done nothing wrong but still had to listen to her endless angst.
“You know what’s a truly stupid holiday?” she asked the plant, making the sort of intense eye contact that would be alarming if she were speaking to a human. “New Years Eve.”
After that charged interaction at the Archives, Hermione had decided to hibernate. Several days indoors, alternating between glaring at Ron’s necklace and gazing longingly at the indent on the sofa, had made her a bit squirrely.
“Many different cultures celebrate a new year,” she told the pothos as she dried the dishes. “Some even have the presence of mind to do it when the weather is nice. But us? No, no, no. We can’t possibly do that. We need to celebrate a new year when it’s raining slush.”
The weather was indeed frightful, and while she was relieved to have no specific reason to go outside in that mess, she also knew that she was driving herself insane staying indoors. Without external distraction, all she managed to do was imagine Draco sliding an engagement ring onto Maude Fleury’s finger. On a loop. Forever.
“And not only that!” she shrieked, which was odd, because the plant could hear her perfectly well, “but we are expected to find someone to celebrate with! Perhaps for individuals blessed with multiple suitors this would be fine, but for people like me – “
There was a knock at the door.
Hermione stood at the sink, dumbly letting her dish towel swing for much too long before she set it down and walked to the door. The chimes hadn’t rung, so it wasn’t Ron. It wasn’t Ron. It wasn’t Ron.
Frantically, she pushed down the tiny spiral of hope that was trying to root in her stomach.
She opened the door.
“Granger!” said Draco with a wide grin, leaning suggestively against her door frame. “I was hoping you’d be home!”
Hermione’s mouth dropped open as Draco let himself in, gently pushing past her with an armful of food, flowers and champagne.
“I said to myself: Self? Would Granger enjoy a visit on this dreadful holiday? And you know me, I can’t resist an opportunity to impose on you.”
Already installed in her kitchen, Draco unpacked a tray of sushi before rooting around in her cupboards for a vase.
“Cupboard above the fridge,” she said in a daze, watching him work, appearing quite unbothered.
“Thank you darling,” he replied, and Hermione decided she might throw up or swoon.
“Why… Why?” she managed to stutter, and Draco simply grinned at her, pulling out plates and chopsticks.
“Isn’t it just terribly interesting?” he said, grabbing glasses for the champagne.
“What’s interesting?”
He popped the cork with an ease that made her feel a little weak in the knees. Strong hands. Dexterous fingers. “The chances. What are the chances, I ask you?”
“Chances of… ?” she asked, now completely flustered.
Draco filled up the flutes, and only then did she notice a slight tremor in his hand.
“The chances,” he said, sounding slightly nervous, “that two Malfoys would fall for a Muggleborn Chief Librarian. I mean, it seems rather unlikely, doesn’t it? What an intriguing coincidence. Fate, one might say.”
The silence that followed gave space for Hermione’s brain to trip, fall on its face, and then stand up again.
Was she imagining this?
“Am I imagining this?” she asked quizzically.
Draco set the bottle down and then walked over to stand directly in front of her, close enough that she could hear his shaky breaths.
“Please tell me I’m not making a fool of myself here,” he whispered. “Please tell me I’m not misreading things.”
Hermione knew she was probably being quite stupid, but she had spent several days straight imagining his engagement to someone else, and she was having trouble making the leap.
She took a step closer to him. “Are you… Not engaged?”
“I am not,” he said, and he was really very close to her now, almost touching. “And I would rather not be. Not to Maude, anyway. I would much rather be yours in any way that you would have me.”
The tendril of hope in her stomach shot up into a full-grown tree.
“I would have you in many ways,” she said carefully, “if that suited you.”
Draco sucked in a breath. “Suits me just fine, love.”
Reaching out, Draco took her hand and slowly raised it to his mouth. Without breaking eye contact, he pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles, and she watched his eyes flutter shut for a moment before he opened them again and smiled.
“It’s 2pm. In your expert opinion, is it too early for a midnight kiss?”
Hermione grinned, and then pushed up on her toes, because she didn’t want to talk anymore. Talking was boring. Kissing was better.
The thing was, Hermione hadn’t really allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to kiss Draco Malfoy. The whole situation was too new – it crept up on her. So when she pressed her lips to his, she didn’t have any particular expectations.
She didn’t expect the way he snaked his arm around her back to pull her close.
She didn’t expect him to gently open his mouth to hers, so softly that it felt like muscle memory for them both.
She certainly didn’t expect the low moan he made, and then his hand coming up to cup her face, and then his tongue against hers.
She was surprised to find herself wrapping her legs around him as he lifted her to the couch, depositing her on the indent she had so carefully preserved.
And she certainly didn’t anticipate being snogged within an inch of her life before being served the fanciest sushi she’d ever tasted.
Hermione Granger didn’t particularly approve of dishonesty, so perhaps her resolution this year would be to break up (ahem) with Charles and tell her friends about the new love of her life. Previously a narcissistic, smarmy prat of a man who had turned out to be the partner she’d always wanted.
They had time to sort out the details and wait out the scandal. They had time to do whatever they wanted, really. But if this worked the way she suspected it would, she could probably eliminate a rather large stress from the picture and simply buy the Manor for him. For them. For any purpose at all.
After all, compound interest was a beautiful thing when you knew how to use it.