Chapter Thirty-Eight
Hermione wakes to a bright morning on a day she feels should be dark.
Outside, the winter sun shines upon snow that sparkles like diamonds and crystals. Everything is blanketed in white; white that covers the truth of Voldemort's cold, malevolent world. For one day, that malevolence has been hidden, tucked away in favor of Christmas. For one day, they can all pretend there's goodwill for all and peace on Earth. For one day, Hermione can pretend to be happy.
No.
She can allow herself to be happy. Because her old life is gone and she's come to terms with that. Her parents, lost to a continent she'll likely never see. Harry, his memory crumpled in the depths of her mind like his body had crumpled in the Hogwarts courtyard before she lost sight of it in the frenzied crowd. Ron, his goofy smile after their first and only kiss forever etched into the skin of her lips as something that would never be. Her friends, ghosts of their laughter in the Gryffindor common room, flickering like the fire that's given her the fuel to keep living in this dark, empty world.
A fire that's tended by Tillian, stoked by Faye, and controlled by Pinky.
A fire that almost died before Draco Malfoy added wood and brought it back to life.
Christmas this year is different. It's sad and nostalgic and different. But it's not cold. She has her little makeshift family in this little makeshift home, and today, she'll allow herself to be happy about it.
After bathing, she dresses in a pretty set of red silk robes that drag a small train of chiffon along the floor. The bell sleeves touch her fingertips and the bodice sparkles with tiny diamonds. She's long gotten used to the casual opulence with which she lives in the Malfoy Manor, and for the first time, she doesn't feel like wearing diamonds casually on Christmas is too much. In fact, she rather likes the way they shine.
As she sits down on the bench before her vanity to do her hair, she stops at the sight of her reflection. She looks at her skin, her neck, her lips, her eyes, her cheeks. Every pretty thing she sees about herself that she never saw before, and she thinks back to the night before. Thinks back to the party, to the salon , to the armchair outside the Floo. The things they did, and the things they said. Everything.
She kissed him.
Hermione Granger kissed Draco Malfoy.
It's almost laughable. She can't even imagine what the younger version of herself would think or say if the notion was ever even implied. What she can imagine is the faces of Harry and Ron if they were alive to find out about it. What would they say if they knew how she and Draco had been living? Because this is her life now. This is the closest thing to a "family" she has. Pinky. Moe. Tillian. Faye
Draco.
They are her family. The Malfoy Manor is her home. This is all she has to cherish.
She doesn't think Harry and Ron would ever understand that
Hermione brushes the tips of her fingers across her lower lip, feeling the dips and ridges of her skin and remembering the way his kiss felt. How it sizzled all the way to the tips of her toes and burned her blood. The way it felt to be in control for once, the master of his undoing. The spider behind his woven web. He kissed her like she was his air, and she kissed him like he was hers.
They're connected. Tied together by their shared experiences. By the Hell they've endured together. It's a Hell that no one but them can understand. She wonders if he feels the same.
Will he Occlude today?
She's just finishing finger-combing some mousse into her coils when the pop of Pinky's appearance rings out behind her. Hermione sees the little elf behind her in the mirror and grins. She's wearing an extravagant pink dress that reminds Hermione of Cinderella.
"Well, don't you just look beautiful, Pinky," she says, turning to look down at her. "Happy Christmas."
"Happy Christmas, Miss!" Pinky is all smiles as she offers Hermione a small parcel. It's rectangular, wrapped in shimmering red and gold with a frilly bow to match. "This is from Pinky, Moe, and Dipsy."
Hermione grins as she eagerly tears into the wrapper. It seems morbid, to be so excited over Christmas when the people she cared about in the past are dead. To be cheerful and in the holiday spirit when she's living in the manor of a monster who she just-so-happens to have feelings for. Someone she kissed, Someone she plans to kiss again.
"Oh, my goodness!" Hermione exclaims in delight as she reveals a first edition leather-bound copy of Hogwarts: A History. "I love this, Pinky. Thank you."
"Master says this is Miss' favorite book,"
"He did, did he?" she says in response to Pinky's claim.
Pinky nods and her smile brightens. "Master always knows how to make Miss happy."
Hermione's heart skips a beat. How does Draco know her favorite book? She's never told him that before.
Unless.
Unless Tracey's offhand comment weeks ago had been correct. Perhaps Draco did have feelings for her in school, as absurd as that is. She can still recall the conviction in his voice and anguish in his eyes the day of his mother's funeral when they'd argued at the top of the stairs.
"Turn you in? Just like that. Drop you off to be skinned alive and dismembered in front of me? Fantastic. Exactly what I've dreamed of for for fucking years."
Had he been watching her from afar? Had it started as a crush and developed into something more? Or was it something darker, some macabre fascination with someone he thought was beneath him? During their Fifth Year, Draco wasn't on her radar. She was too busy worrying about her exams, Dumbledore's Army, and Umbridge. Her experiences with him that year were few, with the most interaction being the day Umbridge tried to Crucio Harry. She hadn't paid Draco any attention, but maybe he'd been paying attention to her.
Hermione is a girl. She understands what it's like to fancy someone and think you've fallen completely in love with them from afar. It's plausible that Draco had simply fancied her, only to have it develop into something more. Or maybe he fancied the idea of her; of having someone care about him in a world where his friends were glorified lackeys and his parents sacrificed him to a madman.
But fancying her when he was fifteen is a far cry from risking his life lying to the Dark Lord to keep her hidden. The way he looks at her...the things he's done for her...the things he said to her...it shows her that whatever this is, it's not just fancy. It's something deeper. Not love—no, of course not. Draco can't possibly love her. She isn't sure if she could ever love him .
And yet.
And yet she's sitting at her vanity in a room he gave her, holding a first edition copy of her favorite book because he paid attention to her when she thought no one was looking.
It doesn't make any sense at all, but since when have matters of the heart ever made sense?
After a small conversation, Hermione and Pinky make their way to the sitting room where the presents are. The Christmas tree is the only light source in the room, the shadows showing Hermione it's still fairly early in the morning. Tillian and Faye are there waiting on one of the couches, bundled up in pyjamas and blankets and whispering to one another. There are House Elves everywhere , both adults and children. Hermione can't count them all. She realizes as Pinky joins them that they're most likely the twenty-seven members of her family, aside from Dipsy and Moe. Pinky tries to introduce every single one of them to Hermione, aunts and uncles and wives and husbands and nieces and daughters and sons and nephews, but the names start to blur together and Hermione's unable to stop her brain from tuning them all out. All she can think about is Draco, last night, their kiss, and the fact that she's actually spending Christmas in the Malfoy Manor with thirty House Elves.
Hermione takes a seat beside Faye on the couch. "Morning, you two. Happy Christmas."
"Good morning, Hermione," Faye says, giving Hermione a tight, warm hug. "Happy Christmas."
"Yeah," Tillian says with a smile that isn't powerful to hide how sleepy he looks. He yawns. "Happy Christmas, Hermione."
"Is Dra—" Hermione cuts herself off. "Malfoy. Is Malfoy here yet?"
Faye elbows Hermione in the side. "Hmm, I would have thought you'd be sleeping in his room."
"Faye!" Hermione elbows her back. Her cheeks are scorching hot. She lowers her voice to a whisper. "You weren't supposed to see that."
"I'm sorry I interrupted. You looked like you were having a good time. But I won't pretend I understand the blood kink you clearly have."
"Oh, honestly , Faye," Hermione shakes her head and covers her face with her hands. "That's ridiculous."
"It was everywhere."
"It was not everywhere . It was on my neck."
"And your chest. And his mouth. And your mouth. And—"
"All right, all right!" Hermione tries not to laugh. "Shh. Don't make a big to-do about it. We had an...intense evening."
"I'll say. Who knows how badly you would have defiled that chair if I hadn't interrupted."
" Faye!"
"What?" Tillian interrupts. "What are you two whispering about?"
"Nothing," the girls say simultaneously, stifling giggles.
In short order, the present opening begins. It takes a solid three hours for the House Elf children to rip through their gifts. Hermione almost falls asleep. It's only the unearthly sobs of gratitude they make at each and every gift that keeps her awake. She and Faye laugh so hard they each need to use the loo in turn.
By the end of the entire present-opening experience, everyone is happy and content. Hermione herself is quite pleased with the gifts she's gotten from Faye, Tillian, and the Elves. There's books both Muggle and magical, sweets, and a hand-knitted Gryffindor scarf and winter hat that brings her such nostalgia that she has to wipe tears from her eyes. One of her favorite gifts is a small golden music box that Moe gave her. When opened, it plays a light melody and a charmed faerie figurine with shimmery blue wings dances to the tune.
While Tillian and Faye both have gifts from Draco, Hermione is surprised to see that she does not. To her surprise, she doesn't feel upset by this. She's curious. Draco wouldn't just not give her a gift while giving some to her friends. That wouldn't make sense.
He must have something else in store.
Soon, the Elves trickle to go out in the snow. Draco still hasn't appeared, so Hermione, Faye, and Tillian decide to leave his own gifts under the tree for him and go eat breakfast.
As they eat and chat, Hermione finds herself growing more and more nervous with each moment that goes by that Draco hasn't shown up. It's giving her more time to think and fret and worry and daydream. She doesn't know if he regrets their kiss and the agony of waiting to see him aches. She's half-expecting him to march in there and give her some dramatic demonstration of why she should stay away from him and why he's the dark denizen of Hell who will only tear her throat out, or something equally ridiculous.
Faye is in the middle of telling the story of her first Christmas at Hogwarts when one of the large double doors opens. Draco enters, his hair perfectly coiffed into place and his white button-up and grey trousers pressed. Hermione's gaze immediately locks onto his as he enters the room, his eyes unreadable. Her nerves are so twisted that she feels herself suffocate for a solid ten seconds. Her stomach loops and flips over, and she takes several deep breaths to try and calm herself. Quickly, she looks down at her plate.
"Malfoy!" Faye cries out happily. She skips over to give him a hug, like she normally does, and as surprising as always, he returns the embrace with one arm. "Happy Christmas!"
"Thanks," he says quietly. He nods to Tillian, who gives him a half-smile and a return nod, and then he heads toward Hermione's side of the table.
"Happy Christmas, Draco," she manages to choke out as he pulls out the chair beside her.
He pauses before sitting down, eyeing her with something akin to wariness.
"Happy Christmas," he murmurs, as though they're the only two in the room.
She's glad they're not. If they were alone, she might have fainted at the sight of him. She's never felt this keyed up before. This nervous. Shy. Even after her first kiss with Viktor, she wasn't this on edge.
"We saved your presents," Faye says chipperly as she chews a bite of her breakfast. She's bouncing in her chair, happy as can be. "But Pinky and the Elves couldn't wait to open theirs, so we opened ours, too. Thank you for the..."
Hermione isn't listening. She's not breathing, either. Draco's presence beside her feels like being thrust in the depths of a volcano. Sweat is starting to bead at her temple. She's just so damn nervous. It's not just the kiss they shared. It's everything else, too. Their fight before the party. The things that happened at Carrow's party. The fight they had when they got back. The absolutely mental way she had challenged him. The necklace. The chair. His body, hardened beneath her. His whimpers his pleading. Her hand around his—
What the Hell is wrong with her?
Merlin's beard. She's going to pass out.
What's worse is that she knows he can hear every single thought that's running through her head right now.
Hermione remains lost in her tornado of emotions as Tillian joins in sharing his childhood Christmas experiences. With her stomach as upset as it is, she can't muster the energy to eat. She pushes the remnants of her food around on her plate, tormenting herself with her embarrassment and shame. She can't believe she did that. She can't believe she'd allowed herself to get that lost in her anger. What if he'd only kissed her back because he was angry, too?
"What about you, Malfoy?" Tillian asks after taking a sip of his water. "What's the first Christmas you can remember?"
Hermione isn't sure he's going to answer that question. Maybe when he was a kid—when he was a poncy First Year prat—he'd love to brag. He'd likely be pompous about it, too. She's fairly certain the entire school knew what gifts he'd gotten for Christmas by dinner the day school resumed.
But that was a long time ago. This is now, and this is here. Now and here, in a secluded world where Voldemort rules while the rest of the world turns. In a world where he's a slave to not only the tyrant, but the very blood that runs through the veins of every person he encounters. It's a dangerous game he plays, keeping Hermione and himself alive while he's quite literally roasted alive for every little mistake he makes. He tortures people for a living, drinks blood to stay alive, and Occludes to get through it all.
Draco hangs from a tree grown by Voldemort with a noose tied by everyone in his life who has failed him. And below him stands Amycus Carrow, watching him choke.
She wonders.
When exactly was he turned?
Hermione chances a glance in his direction, seeing that his gaze is fixed on his empty plate. He's slouched in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. The moment her eyes rest upon him, he looks at her. It causes her heart to flutter, so she looks away.
"I was seven," Draco says, his voice almost too soft to hear. In her peripheral vision, Hermione can see he's returned to staring at his plate. "My father woke me when it was still dark, and my mother was still asleep. He told me he had a gift for me, and that it was outside. I remember it was cold. So cold that my lips were numb..."
The room is deathly-silent. So silent, that Hermione's afraid to breathe. She's heard Draco say many things, but she's never heard him tell her anything about his life. His past. All she knows of it is what she was privy to at Hogwarts. This is different. This is a piece of himself that he's giving to her and her friends.
Perhaps he sees them as his friends, too.
"I asked him where we were going, because we were getting so far away from the house. I knew what Apparition was; I just didn't know that was what it was called. I couldn't understand why we weren't doing it. Why were we walking all the way there? But when we got to the other side of the hedge maze, I saw the reason why."
He pauses long enough for Hermione to turn her head and look at him again. He's rubbing his jaw absentmindedly with his fingers, grey-eyed gaze haunting in the way he's looking into his childhood.
"It was a white Abraxan."
Hermione can't help but answer. "It's a type of winged horse. A Pegasus."
"I named him Scorpius," Draco goes on. "I wasn't old enough to ride him on my own yet, so my father rode him with me for a few years. Those were the only times when I wasn't afraid of my father. I..." He swallows, his throat bobbing. "I cared for Scorpius."
"Where is he?" Faye asks. "Can we see him?"
Draco stares at her for a solid five seconds before replying, "He's dead."
Faye gasps, her hands flying to her mouth. Tillian's eyebrows shoot up. Hermione feels sick to her stomach.
"How?" Tillian asks, setting his fork down. "Was he sick?"
"The Dark Lord had him executed during the summer after my Fifth Year." Draco's voice has gone flat. The wistful tone is no more. His arms are crossed over his chest again and his expression is as blank as slate. "One of the many punishments I was given for my perceived failures. I'm sure everyone knows the Dark Lord was holed up here in the Manor. Apparently, after my father lost the prophecy and was taken to Azkaban, the Dark Lord accused him of disloyalty in front of his inner circle. He then turned it onto me, saying that I should have been paying closer attention to Potter. That if I had, I would have been able to somehow stop any outside interference."
Hermione scoffs in spite of herself. "What, you mean us? Ron, Luna, Ginny, Neville, and I would have followed him to the Ministry no matter what. There's nothing you could possibly have done to keep us from doing that."
Draco shrugs without looking up from the table. "Didn't matter. The Dark Lord spoke with my mother to find out what was most important to me. And then he told her to get rid of whatever that was."
"Scorpius," Tillian says, shaking his head slowly. "It was Scorpius."
Draco gives a short nod. "My mother was as humane as she could be. She put him to sleep before casting the curse. I wasn't allowed to see him or bury him. He was just...gone."
Hermione thinks back to Sixth Year. To how haunted and forlorn he'd looked from the first day. He'd had a hollowness to him that she knew had to go deeper than fear over the task that the Dark Lord had assigned him. Now she knows—there was something missing from his heart. She thinks sadly of Crookshanks, and how she doesn't know what happened to him after the war. She doesn't know if he's alive or dead and she loves that damn cat. That's painful enough. She can imagine how sad Draco had to have been at sixteen to lose something he cared about so much while sharing
"So," Tillian says, "you probably don't like Christmas anymore, do you? Since Scorpius was a Christmas gift."
Draco seems to consider his question carefully before saying, "I haven't had anything to care about since he died. At least, until now."
Tillian is saying something, but Hermione's got air rushing past her ears.
Does he mean...?
"Well, I think we should make it a good Christmas," Faye says with a bright smile. She claps her hands together. "Shall we go outside?"
"Sure," Tillian said. "The Elves have been out there for hours now. We might as well join them."
Faye sits up straight in her chair. "Malfoy, do you think...do you think it might be okay for Hermione to come, too?"
Hermione opens her mouth to tell her no, but Draco beats her to it.
"Yeah."
Hermione looks at him sharply. "What?"
"You can go outside."
Hermione's jaw hangs open. She's having a difficult time processing. There's so many reasons why it's not a good idea to be outside, namely that if anyone saw her, they'd have to explain themselves. But then again, who exactly is going to be flying over the Malfoy Manor on Christmas morning? It's not like Voldemort has pigeon spies. Hermione's never even seen an owl.
Faye and Tillian are beside themselves with excitement. They scramble out of their chairs and out of the room to get dressed for the cold. Hermione and Draco are alone. Hermione shifts in her chair, turning toward him.
"Really? I can go outside?"
He studies her face, his gaze falling to her lips for a prolonged moment. "Would it make you happy?"
"Erm...well, yes. I love the snow. And it's been so long since I was last outside. The last time I breathed fresh air was right after you took me out of the Oubliette."
"Then yeah. You can go outside."
"Will you come, too?"
"Do you want me to?"
She blinks, taken aback. He seems so...calm. Like he did last night, right before she left for bed. How he looked at her with faint amusement while she fussed over him and gave him that final, quick kiss.
"Yes. I think that it would be nice."
"Then I will."
Hermione tries to decide what she should do. Should she bring up last night? Should she pretend it never happened? Should she kiss him again? Should she throw herself at him and knock his chair over in her pursuit to get her hands on him? Or should she ask him for a coat?
She needs to remember that he can read her thoughts, and knock it the Hell off. She's going to embarrass herself.
"I don't have a coat," she says, fidgeting with her fork.
He waves his wand nonchalantly and with a small pop , a large gift appears on the table beside her plate. It's rectangular, clearly a garment box, and it's wrapped in shining green.
"What...what do I do with it?"
"Open it. Obviously."
She hesitates before pushing her plate out of the way and pulling the gift closer. She tugs at the ribbon and tears into the paper. Inside the box, which looks nice all on its own, is some sort of clothing article. She stands up so she can pull it out and hold it up.
It's a coat.
The coat is a rich burgundy velvet with gold buttons and intricate gold embroidery along the arms and hem. It has a fur hood and a skirt that flares at the waist so that it looks like a dress. It's by far the most expensive coat she'll probably ever own, and it's extremely pretty.
Hermione stares at it. She had thought to herself earlier how there was no way he wouldn't give her a gift. But now that it's in front of her, it almost feels like a glitch in space and time. Draco Malfoy has just given Hermione Granger a Christmas gift.
"Go get dressed," he says, rising from his chair. "Before I change my mind."
Hermione purses her lips in disapproval but when she starts to snark back, he's already walking away. She waits until he's left before she makes her way back to her room.
When she gets there, she rifles through her wardrobe, frustrated that everything she has is a dress, dress robes, or an evening gown. She doesn't want to call for Pinky since it's Christmas, but she has no other choice. Fortunately, Pinky isn't upset, and she's more than happy to help. The Elf snaps her fingers and warm clothing appears on Hermione's dresser—a pair of denims, a long-sleeved shirt, and some knee-high boots. It's the most basic outfit in existence, but Hermione doesn't care. She just wants to hurry up and get out there.
No matter how anxious she is, she can't deny that things have changed between them. She doesn't know exactly what has changed, or how, but she knows that the way he looks at her is new. The calm demeanor may only be temporary, but in his eyes, she had seen not warmth, but a distinct lack of his usual emptiness. There's something there now that wasn't there before.
Frankly, she's a young woman, he's a young man, and she's eager to spend some time with someone she cares about on Christmas. No matter how morbid the nature of their relationship is.
She buttons up her new coat, pleased with its satin lining and the way it fits her form. It's both feminine and practical. Wrapping herself up in the scarf and hat that Faye knitted her for Christmas, she inspects herself in the mirror. She's not wearing any make-up and she isn't sure she should put any on. It would be too...noticeable. Draco might think she was doing it for him. Which she would be, and that's why she can't put any on. Instead, she makes sure her long curls are fluffy and full, and heads out into the hall.
As she descends the stairs, she sees Tillian, Faye, and Draco waiting by the double doors in the entryway. While her friends are bundled up in their scarves and coats, Draco's wearing a black pea coat over his trousers, which have been tucked into his heavy black boots. His pale skin and white hair stand out against the backdrop of all that black clothing, lending him an altogether striking appearance. The high ceiling and dark stone walls make her feel like she's being swallowed up, but the way his eyes seem to burn as he watches her helps her keep breathing.
She supposes he doesn't technically need a coat, given that he's a vampire. Maybe he just wants to fit in.
"You're wearing the hat and scarf!" Faye says, beaming up at Hermione as she approaches. "Oh, I'm so glad you like it. And that coat! So cute."
"It's from Draco," Hermione says, holding her arms outward and doing a little twirl. "And yes, I do love the hat and this scarf. They're very warm."
"Looks great, Hermione," Tillian says with a grin. He nods in the direction of the doors. "Ready to go outside? We decided to play a game in the hedge maze."
Hermione arches one eyebrow. "Oh, really?"
"Yeah, and Malfoy says he's going to play, too!" Faye says excitedly. She links her arm around Tillian's and hugs herself close to his side.
" Really?"
Draco rolls his eyes. "I'm not a complete bore, Granger."
Hermione puts her hands on her hips. "You're telling me you're going to play a game in the snow with us?"
"Yes."
"What's the catch?"
Tillian snorts a laugh. "Hermione."
"No, there's got to be a catch. He doesn't play in the snow."
"I don't play in the snow," he agrees, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat, "but I'm going to go into the hedge mazes and do whatever it is that you want to do."
Hermione opens her mouth to demand to know why, but Faye cuts in.
" Brilliant! It'll be fun. Let's go."
Draco waves his hand in another nonchalant display of wandless magic, and the doors swing open. Hermione narrows her eyes up at him as he waits for her to walk past before following her. She doesn't want to think the worst of him, but she's so confused after last night that she doesn't know how to predict his actions. She wants to think he's finally letting go, or that he's dropping the drama for a day because it's Christmas. But she can't forget everything that was said between them—especially before they left for the party.
" I'll call you a Mudblood and tell you I don't give a fuck about you as many times as it takes for you to stay the Hell away from me."
"You might have other people in your life now, but me? I've only got you. You're everything to me, and I don't want you anywhere near me."
"If I let you in and I lose you, it will fucking break me."
The sky is a whitish-grey and the snow crunches beneath their feet as they walk. Hermione doesn't have room in her mind to focus on where they're going, to look around at the estate, or to enjoy the way the fresh air cuts through her lungs. All she can think about is how dejected he'd sounded to be admitting those things to her. How resigned. He spoke as a man who'd already decided he would never allow himself to break. Who'd decided that Occluding it all away was the only future he had.
Outside, the cold air is crisp as it nips at the skin on her face. Her coat has some sort of built-in warming charm and she's grateful for it. As
"Where are the Elves?" she asks aloud.
"They're over on the other side of the Manor," Tillian says. "That's where we usually go. But we've wandered around the hedge mazes a few times before, haven't we, Faye?"
"They're so fun," Faye says, skipping along like they're headed to a parade. Her impossibly long hair is pulled into twintails that flutter along behind her. "I got lost the first time, though. It took an hour for Tillian to find me."
"I'll admit, it was a little scary," Tillian says, looking back over his shoulder. "For a second, I thought I might have to get you, Malfoy."
Draco doesn't say anything. He walks beside Hermione in silence, the only proof that he'd heard Tillian being the way his eyes meet his.
"But you were terrifying when we first got here," Tillian continues. "So I just kept looking until I found her."
"Terrifying?" Faye giggles. "He's not that scary. Just a little...unhinged."
"Come off it. Don't you remember how he was when we first got here? Blimey. I thought he'd melt our skin off with his glaring."
"He's a teddy bear," Faye says cheekily, with a bit of sarcasm.
Draco turns his face down, but Hermione can see him hiding some sort of smile or smirk. It makes her have to hide one of her own.
"If you think he's a teddy bear," Hermione says, "then I'm concerned for your head, Faye."
"What? Oh, goodness. He's not as scary as he wants us to think he is." She grins at Draco. "Right?"
"No comment," Draco replies.
"See?" Hermione says. They're coming upon the entrance to the hedge maze. The dark green hedges tower up above them. "He's no teddy bear."
"Then what am I?"
Hermione can't stop herself from bursting out a laugh. "A vampire."
There's a few seconds of quiet before Tillian starts to laugh. He laughs as though it's the funniest thing he's ever heard, even though it's not that funny. Nevertheless, it's infectious and it has Faye and Hermione falling into fits of giggles that force them to stop walking. Draco's response to their raucous laughter is to shake his head and throw his gaze Heavenward again.
They come to a stop at the mouth of the hedge maze.
"So, what's the game?" Hermione asks, shoving her hands deep into her pockets for warmth. Her fingers had started to tingle with numbness.
"It's simple," Tillian says. "We'll go into the maze, and then you two have to come find us. But we get a head start."
"That's boring," Faye says. "Why don't we do it this way...Boys chase the girls, but no one's on the same team. So if you get caught by anyone, that counts."
"I..." Tillian scratches the back of his head. "What?"
Faye stomps her foot in annoyance. "You're not listening. You never listen."
" Faye! Yes, I do! I'm listening."
"No, you don't." She's pouting. "Now I feel like it's stupid."
"Oh, come on!"
Faye starts to stomp away, prompting Tillian to follow and leaving Hermione with Draco for a moment.
"Do you remember our Third Year?" she asks, her attention lingering after Tillian and Faye's backs. "Outside the Shrieking Shack?"
Draco looks perplexed. "Huh?"
"Remember? You were being a little prat, as usual, and then all those snowballs kept hitting you. You ran away."
"I did not."
"Yes, you did. And you whimpered like a little baby, too."
Draco blinks as though he didn't hear her correctly. "I did not whimper ."
Hermione's grin is vicious.
"It was Harry, you know."
"Potter?" Draco's eyes narrow. "But he wasn't there. It was only you and the Weaselbee."
"The what ?" Hermione laughs incredulously. " What did you just call him?"
"What are you talking about? How was Potter there?"
Hermione's lips curl up into a smirk. "He had a cloak that made him invisible. It's a long story, but it was a family heirloom, of sorts."
"Of course he did. Tosser always finds a way to be in places he shouldn't."
"Well, Harry was the one hitting you with snowballs. You know, when you whimpered like a baby and ran away."
"And you're saying all this, why?"
"No reason. Just reminding you what a coward you used to be."
Something familiar flashes in Draco's eyes, almost predatory as he gives her a once-over.
"Is that so?"
"Mm-hm." Hermione gives him the sweetest smile she can muster. "Gotta give you a reason to chase me, you know."
He takes a step toward her, the snow crunching as he does. "You think I need a reason?"
"You wouldn't dare think of it otherwise."
He lets out a laugh that he clearly hasn't meant to let escape because it dies immediately. It's replaced by a small smirk.
"I don't need a reason to chase you, Granger. I only need you to run."
A shiver runs the length of Hermione's spine. Before she can retort, Tillian and Faye return. Faye looks much happier than she did when she was pouting.
"Okay, here's how it's going to go," she says. "We're going to do our own thing, because you two don't seem like you want to play tag. Also my rules were too confusing."
"That would be correct," Hermione says. "About not wanting to play tag."
"Sorry," Draco adds with a grimace.
Tillian smirks. "You're not sorry. But it's okay. Meet up later, Hermione?"
"Sure."
A few more words are exchanged before Tillian and Faye go dashing off, leaving Hermione and Draco alone.
Again.
She turns back to face him, seeing Draco already watching her with a studious expression. There's walls back up in his eyes that Hermione can't see past, and it makes her feel somewhat sad. Not for the first time, she wonders what it would be like to look into his eyes when he's not Occluding. When it's him—the version that she saw a glimpse of last night in the armchair.
That memory makes her cheeks go hot, especially given that her mind is an open book to him, so she's quick to try and divert.
"Do you like the snow?"
His lips quirk upwards at the corners. "I've never been fond of the winter. I prefer autumn."
"Why, because everything is dying?"
"Hilarious," he drawls. "For the record, I fancy autumn because I like the colors and the weather. I like the rain. It has nothing to do with things dying ."
"Forgive me," she says with sarcasm as she begins to pace back and forth through the calf-deep snow. "I thought your cold, dead, black heart was proof enough that you enjoy death and despair. That, and the consumption of blood. The murder. The like and such."
"Not forgiven," he says. "What are you doing ?"
"I'm getting my bearings." She continues to pace, trying to get used to the depth. It's about six or seven inches. Difficult to traverse, but manageable. She blinks when fresh snow begins to drift down around them, collecting in her lashes. "Do you want to have a snowball fight?"
"No."
Hermione huffs. "Well, you're no fun."
"Fun isn't exactly part of my personality."
"Clearly."
She turns to look at the hedge maze. It looks so much bigger from up close. She's seen it from afar, from the windows of the upper floor. It reminds her of Fourth Year, of the Triwizard Tournament. The cup. Voldemort's return. She'd been so full of dread back then, unsure of their future and scared of change. She's never liked change.
Something hits her back.
Confused, she looks over her shoulder before turning around...
...only to receive a face full of snow.
From a snowball.
Draco smirks. "You should see your face right now."
Hermione fixes him with a glare and then reaches down to start gathering up her return weapon.
"Snowball fights are serious business, Draco. They are sacred. "
"Oh?"
"Oh, yes. You're breaking every rule that has ever been created by attacking before I'm ready."
Another hit. This time, snow splashes her on the top of her bent head.
"Draco, you arse! You can't get in three hits before I even get in one !"
She hurls her fresh snowball at him. It smacks him directly in the center of his chest.
"I said I wasn't fun," he says, juggling another snowball between his hands. "I never said I fought fair."
Hermione grins, holding a large clump of snow between her two hands. Her fingers sting from the cold, but she doesn't care. She just wants to hit him with a giant ball of snow.
"I seem to recall you being rather terrified of snowballs. Third Year. Shrieking Shack. You, a whimpering baby."
"I don't recall," he lies, pacing to the right like a stalking panther. He tosses his snowball up into the air and catches it. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Convenient memory loss. Is that a Slytherin diversion tactic? Because I—" His snowball crashes into her face. She spits out snow. "Draco! It's my turn!"
He then does the unthinkable.
He sticks his tongue out at her.
"Oh, now it's happening, you cheating Slytherin!"
They prance about in the snow, hurling balls of snow back and forth at each other until Hermione's hands are so numb that they're trembling. She says nothing about it, hoping to hold onto this small, little moment of happiness so she can memorize it.
Because here in the snow on Christmas, they're just two twenty-year-old kids, not vampire and blood source. They can forget about everything—the Dark Lord, Carrow, Lucius. The past. The future. Everything. Here in the snow, she can think his smile makes him look handsome, and he can watch her lick snow off of her lips and have the decency to smile.
A real smile.
When Hermione drops a snowball due to her fingers being nearly-frozen in painful place, she's forced to call the game off. Draco's gaze falls to her hands, which she's got held out before her. They're wet from melting snow, quivering violently. She grimaces in pain.
"Help?" she says with a weak smile.
"You're the one who's a baby," he says with an overexaggerated sigh. He comes to stand before her.
"I'm cold," she says, her mouth falling into a pout. "And I wouldn't be if you hadn't started the Third Wizarding War with me."
"Just come here," he snaps irritably, reaching for her hands. She watches with wide eyes as he rubs each one with his hands, alternating between doing that and breathing hot air upon them. He looks so focused that she has no desire to remind him that he's a wizard, and that warming charms would be sufficient.
Plus, she likes the way it feels to be close to him and to feel his soft skin against her own.
She looks up at him, at the blond hair falling forward on his forehead, not as perfectly coiffed as it had seemed. At the pink tip of his winter-cold nose, down to the curve of full lips that hide razor-sharp fangs. As he massages the life back into her hands the same way, she realizes that she really is happy. She should feel guilty about it.
But she doesn't.
Here, in the snow, they're just a man and a woman who'd kissed and who would likely kiss again. She certainly wants to kiss him again, and all she would need to do is lift herself up onto the very tips of her toes, and—
Draco jerks back suddenly, and it feels like the world resumes its careful turning. Her heart sinks in her chest. He'd heard her thoughts. He had to have. He always hears her thoughts.
Does he not want to kiss her again?
Hermione turns to look at the hedge maze, breathless in her frenzy to push the feeling of rejection deep inside of her. She should have been logical and known that of course he doesn't want to kiss her again. He'd told her he wanted her to stay away from him.
She's foolish.
The snow crunches as he comes to stand beside her. His platinum hair looks comparatively darker against the whiteness of the winter wonderland around them.
"You know, there's simple charms to warm hands up," she says, her fingers feeling clammy even though he'd worked so hard to warm them up. "We learned them in First Year."
"I know. I'm using one for my feet right now."
"Why didn't you use one for me?" she asks, sounding almost offended.
"What sort of prince would I be if I let a witch's fingers go numb without my strenuous effort to stop it?" He was smirking.
"Oh, honestly. Everything is so dramatic with you. You would fancy yourself a prince."
Hermione tries to pretend she doesn't notice how close he's standing to her. His body is warm against her side.
He snorts. "Like you don't fancy yourself a princess."
"I don't."
"And yet you get whatever you want, whenever you want it."
"I do not." She raises her voice. "And even if I did fancy myself a princess, there's nothing wrong with wanting to be a—"
"Stop shouting."
Hermione's heats to a sudden boil. "I'm not shouting!"
"My ears are bleeding."
"Fine!" she shouts as loudly as she can. "Forgive me for wounding the prince!"
"Do not shout in my ear." He glares at her. "Brat."
"I'll shout in your ear if I want to! You're a pompous—"
" Pompous ?"
"—arrogant—"
"Don't make me laugh."
"—git if you think—"
"The only one here who's pompous is you, little Miss I Fancy Myself a Princess."
"—that you would be a prince just because you think the entire world revolves around—"
"Fuck off. I do not think the entire world revolves around me."
Hermione throws her head back and laughs. "You are delusional. When we were kids, you made sure we all knew how important you were. You strutted about with that stupid smirk on your face, moaning about Mudbloods in the castle and the lack of House Elf presence in the dorms. I heard you in the Great Hall once, complaining about the tea not being up to your standard. You had a standard, Draco. For tea. Tea! You can't besmirch me for wanting to be a princess when you've thought you were a prince for no reason, and everyone's treated me like a royal vizier since I showed I could read faster than them!"
The entire time she's been ranting, her shoulders moving, rolling her eyes, and face pulling mocking expressions, he's been staring at her with a deadpan expression. His gaze traveled back and forth between her eyes, studying her. Analyzing her.
He faces her, and he's so close that the scent of his cologne fills her nostrils.
"Granger, people saw you as an advisor because you put yourself in that place. You made yourself into Gryffindor's resident walking encyclopedia. That's why you were always the vizier, never the princess."
Hermione can't breathe. She can't even blink. It feels like he's stealing the breath right out of her lungs, keeping her frozen.
"I don't think anyone had the ability to see you for who you really were because you wouldn't let them. You wore a mask of intelligence and you defended yourself from behind it with big words and haughty analyses of those around you. But you know what? I made you out the second I realized you were surpassing me in every subject other than Potions."
Hermione looks at his lips. "I'm surprised you could see me past the mud you were so convinced poisoned my blood."
"Men always seek to overthrow the queen."
"So what was it, then? Jealousy?"
"Envy. There's a difference."
Hermione frowns, alternating between confusion and the desire to understand what was going on in his head. Envy? What could he possibly covet that she had?
"I had nothing you wanted," she says with a note of bewilderment in her voice.
"You had the only thing I wanted, Hermione."
She doesn't know why hearing her name on his lips sends such a deep chill down her spine. She feels like a butterfly caught in a net. She feels like she belongs to him.
And she's okay with that.
"You have me now," she whispers, her eyes never leaving him as her heart races. "So what do you want to do with me?"
She's asking because she doesn't know what she wants him to do with her. She's asking because she's afraid of what she suspects she wants. She's asking because of the way he makes her feel.
She's asking because she wants him to answer, "Everything."
His eyes slowly, slowly drag down to her lips. Snowflakes dust the tops of his lashes and Hermione feels the distinct urge to pull him down to her level so she can kiss them away. Or lick them. She doesn't know which. She just knows her stomach is twisting the way it does when he's got his tongue between her legs. She's burning.
Sadly, she can tell by the darkness in his eyes that he isn't happy with the turn the conversation has taken. It's just unfortunate that with the pinkness of his nose and rosy flush to his cheeks from the cold, he looks a little like a cherub.
Hermione covers her mouth with her hand to stifle her laugh.
"What?" he growls, moving back. "What's so funny, witch?"
"' You should see the look on your face ,'" she teases, mocking his earlier statement.
He stared at her blankly with the most serious expression she thinks she's ever seen on his face.
"I'm gonna chase you through the hedge maze," he says.
She waves a dismissive hand. "Yeah, right. You said fun wasn't in your personality ."
He raises one eyebrow. "You sure you wanna test me?"
She does not.
"All right," she says, and then she holds up a finger. "But...! But, but but! You have to give me a head start. No vampire tomfoolery."
"What the Hell even is that?"
"Boy, you know exactly—" She jabs him in the chest, one hand on her hip. "—what I'm talking about."
" Boy?" He gives her another scathing onceover, causing her to take a step backward just in case. "Thin ice, Granger."
"I don't care. You have to play fair. And let's play a game!"
"A game? I thought you didn't want to do that."
"I do. Let me think of something good." She taps her chin. "Oh! I've got something. It'll be like Marco Polo."
"Marco Polo? The Squib?" He looks confused.
"No, no. It's a game that Muggles play when swimming. I'll run into the maze, and you give me a ten second head start. Then you call out something, and I respond. You can follow my voice and find me."
"Granger, I can smell you from a kilometer away."
Her upper lip curls. "You liar. No, you can't."
"Vampire."
"Oh...Well, pretend you can't! No vampire speed, and no vampire sniffing."
He pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "Granger."
"Play along, or die."
"All right, fine. What do I call out?"
"How about, you call out one year of school, and then I'll answer with a secret I held that year."
He looks intrigued. "Secrets of the Golden Girl? Color me interested."
"But you have to give me a head start."
"Your secrets better be good," he warns. "Don't tell me something meaningless, like I once took an extra slice of toast at breakfast. I want to hear about how you fantasized about Flitwick during Charms, or how you snogged McLaggen under the Quidditch stands."
Hermione gasps in indignance. "I did not—"
"You'd better start running, little girl."
With a shriek of delight, Hermione whirls around and takes off into the hedge maze. She can't help but giggle like a schoolgirl as she runs, turning left and right, not paying attention to which direction she's taking. The maze is large and she's likely to get lost, but she isn't worried about it. She's sure he'll eventually cheat.
As she dashes every which way, around corners and across pathways in the snow, Hermione marvels at what she's doing. Playing a twisted game of Marco Polo, running through a hedge maze on Christmas. She feels like this could be she's living in a reality alternate to her own, and her boyfriend is chasing her around for a laugh.
Boyfriend.
He is certainly not her boyfriend. She doesn't know what he is.
"First Year!" she hears him call out. He sounds further away than she thought she would have been able to get. Good. He isn't cheating yet.
She pauses to catch her breath, mulling over her answer. Briefly, she wonders if Tillian and Faye are still in the maze, or if they'd already exited. She supposes it doesn't matter.
"I slept with a stuffed pink rabbit in my bed every night for the entire year!"
Silence and then he calls back, "That's boring!"
Hermione snorts with laughter and keeps running. She has no idea where she's going, but she figures as long as she keeps running, she'll be able to outsmart him. If she wins, maybe she can get him to tell her a secret of his own. She's sure he must have something juicy that he's hiding from his school days.
"Second Year!"
She knows exactly what she's going to say. It's her most mortifying moment that year.
"In Transfiguration, I got caught reading a book during one of her lectures," she calls as she crunches her way through the snow. "Well, it was a bit of a romance novel. Professor McGonagall made me read it aloud to the class as punishment. Harry and Ron liked to pretend it never happened."
"What did it say? What did you say?" He sounds like he's moving closer.
Hermione remembers the look on Professor McGonagall's face when she realized what Hermione had been reading, and how the only reason why she didn't deduct points from Gryffindor was because she was so flustered. She'd apologized and excused Hermione from that day's homework. Hermione did the homework anyway.
"Trust me—it was awful!" she calls. "The last thing a twelve-year-old wants to read to their teacher is, ' he inserted his pulsing member into her womanhood .' I just about died. I don't even know why I was reading it. I was morbidly fascinated and disgusted."
"I'm sorely disappointed I missed that."
The hedges directly beside Hermione rattle and she nearly screams. He's right on the other side! She flaps her hands wildly and dashes off in a direction other than the one she'd been going. Another few seconds and he would have walked right around the corner.
"Third Year!"
"...I had a crush on Neville for two weeks!"
"Boring. Give me something better." His voice sounds closer, and Hermione feels a burst of playful panic in her chest. She changes direction.
"Erm...I used to double back to the kitchens to get seconds on dessert right after dinner."
"That constitutes a toast story. I don't like it. Give me another one."
She lets out a sigh, changing direction again. How is he so close? That prat had better not be cheating.
"You're so demanding!" she cries. "All right, fine! When I studied for long periods of time, I wore diapers so I wouldn't have to get up!"
She regrets it as soon as she says it. Thirteen-year-old Hermione had not been the most hygienic girl. She hadn't even thought of wearing chapstick until she was in her Fifth Year, and even then, she avoided it because she didn't like the texture. Not to mention, Third Year she had so many classes that she couldn't afford to waste a second. Even to use the loo.
"You mean like... nappies?"
Hermione runs faster. She's mortified. " Yes !"
She hears him howling with laughter, and she nearly halts in her tracks so she could glare in the direction she'd heard his voice coming from. It's not fair that the first time she hears him laugh—when he's not drunk, that is—is in the wake of her admitting an embarrassing secret.
"That is good !" he calls. "I don't think I'll ever forget that."
"Drop it, you overgrown mosquito!"
"How often did you change the nappies?"
" Drop it!"
"Fine. Fourth Year?"
He sounds like he's getting further away. Excellent. She rounds a corner and dashes across to another aisle.
"I had a bit of a crush on Ronald back then," she admits, "and I was so angry with him for not asking me to the Yule Ball that I wore his favorite color on purpose."
"Weaselbee's favorite color is periwinkle ?"
"Yes, it was. And he..."
She trails off and almost stops running. Draco remembers the color of her Yule Ball dress?
"That secret wasn't very salacious," is his reply, "but I'll accept it because I'm good to you. Fifth Year!"
Hermione rounds another corner, this time to the left, and then she searches through her memories. Fifth Year, she'd been preoccupied with the D.A., Umbridge's reign of terror, Voldemort's return, the prophecy, the Death Eaters...
"Sixth Year!"
Hermione takes her time replying and when she does, she isn't sure why she says it.
"I watched you a lot," she says, and she doesn't bother trying to shout. He's a vampire. He can hear her. "You looked so ill. Like you were wasting away. And I could tell you were lonely and...and scared...I think I was worried about you."
He doesn't reply.
"You looked so empty," she continues. "Like someone had reached inside of you and scooped out the version of you that we all knew. It was like they scooped it out, and left nothing behind but emptiness."
"Found you."
Hermione looks up, seeing him standing at the end of the aisle. He's about five meters away. He cocks his head to the side, brows twitching together as he catches sight of her expression, and then he takes a step toward her.
She turns and flees.
Hermione doesn't feel like playing anymore. She feels overwhelmed. Her emotions are pummeling her from all sides, thoughts of Harry and her friends and the way everything had fallen apart after they failed, threatening to rip her into pieces. They mingle with her bittersweet memories of her childhood, twenty years of life screaming at her back like a wicked reminder that she's alone. Being the Brightest Witch of Her Age meant nothing if she wasn't bright enough to overcome the darkness of Voldemort's regime before it even began.
Suddenly, a hand wraps around her wrist, yanking her backward. She whips around only to be enfolded in his arms and crushed against his chest as though he's trying to absorb her into his flesh. She trembles with her hands at her sides, barely holding back tears and gasping for air. No matter her before, this is her after. Draco is her after, and she has to find solace in that.
They stand there in the snow and silence for what feels like ages. Hermione leans into Draco, the boy who saw her for who she was, and the man who would kill for her. She leans into him and lets all of her pain and fear and self-hatred go for as long as she can. She relishes in the selfishness of just being a girl in the arms of a boy who'd just chased her through a hedge maze on Christmas.
Draco's head drops to her shoulder, and it feels like he's enveloping her with his whole body. Her head is pressed to his chest, cheek against the fabric of his coat, and he doesn't feel the slightest bit cold. In fact, he feels warm, like fire. Warm and comforting and...
Safe.
"Granger," he whispers, "that was a long time ago. All right? A long time ago."
"And yet still, I look at you and you're empty. I look into your eyes, and there's just...nothing."
He doesn't say anything. He only tries to hold her tighter. They both know he isn't truly empty. He's too full, and he hides it behind a wall so it doesn't crush him.
She hates it.
Hermione's body is rigid in her distress. She doesn't feel like a person anymore. She doesn't know who she is, or what the point is in a world where her friends are dead and Voldemort rules. Her emotions are piling up behind a thin dam that is seconds away from falling apart. She is seconds away from falling apart.
Her words spill out like wine from a discarded goblet.
"I feel like I'm lost. I'm lost without Harry and Ron. Without my parents. My life. I'm lost, and I've lost who I am. I'm lost, and I don't know if I can ever be who I was. After everything that's happened." Her voice breaks. "After the things I've done. The things we've had to do. I'm just so...ashamed."
"You're not lost," he murmurs, his arms holding her so tight that it nearly pushes a sob out of her. "I found you, remember?"
"Draco—"
"I found you." He practically growls it. "I found you, and you're mine, and I won't lose you. You aren't lost."
Finally, Hermione finds the strength enough to wrap her arms around his waist. His body relaxes and he lets out a breath before burying his face against her neck. She pulls him as close as she can, basking in his scent, his embrace, him . Around them, the snow continues to fall in light flakes. She watches them melt into the rest of the snow and piling up on the leaves of the hedges.
"What if—" She lets out a sob. "What if they take me away? What if something happens, and he gives me to Carrow?"
"Then I'll find you, and I'll rip his heart out." He grabs her shoulders and pushes her back. A low fire burns in his eyes as he cups her face in his hands and holds her firmly in place. "I found you. I'll always find you."
His words drag each tear out of her eye, one-by-one, ripping them out of her unwillingness to let the last of her resolve go. And then she's crying, her entire body sagging until he's the only thing holding her up. She gazes up into his eyes, her cold hands gripping the fabric of the back of his coat tight enough to numb them again. His hands continue to grace the sides of her face, and she sees his gaze flickering up and down between her lips and eyes. He tilts his head to the side.
"New game," he murmurs. "You run, I catch you, and then I kiss you senseless in the snow."
Hermione's breathing hitches and she laughs through her tears. She can't help it. She wishes she had seen this Draco in school. She doesn't know if the outcome of the war would have changed, but perhaps they could have had a lot more than just a few months together.
"Then I guess that's my cue," she says.
The chilly air dries the tears on her cheeks as she runs. She takes haphazard paths to try and throw him off of her trail for a bit. She hears the gentle crunch, crunch ing of their feet in the snow, their delighted breaths pushing out into the air, and she feels for the first time like everything is going to be okay.
Her heart pounds like it did when she was a young girl, having her first dance at the ball, and her fingers tingle with the anticipation of running them through his hair. She wets her lips, wondering how something as inconsequential as snow, Christmas, and a hedge maze could make everything else fall away so easily. She thinks about how soft his lips were last night. How soft they are compared to the harshness of his personality. How soft, when the dark world around her is rough and unforgiving. How soft, when there's nothing but razor-sharp edges to the pain she feels over her lost past.
Right as she turns to round the end of a hedge, she skids to a halt.
Draco.
"Caught you, love," he purrs, his eyes alarmingly bright. "And I didn't even have to run."
He flashes forward, his hands going to her waist as he pushes her up against the thick hedge beside them. She starts to speak, her head spinning, but before she can, his lips are against hers. Soft skin presses to soft skin, and hot tongues greet as they open their mouths to one another. Hermione can feel her soul hovering outside of her body, leaving more room for her to let the pleasure of his kiss wash over her.
The kiss is surprisingly gentle compared to their kisses last night. His fingers caress her cheeks and the sides of her neck as he tilts his head to the side. It deepens the kiss, the slow press of his tongue against hers causing something warm and delightful to curl and dance in her belly. She holds onto grips of his coat at his waist, pulling herself flush against him.
There are parts of her that wish she could climb inside him and fill everything that was scooped out with her light. She wishes she could chase away the darkness for him. Even though this—whatever this is—started with animosity, it's so much more complicated now. It's about more than blood. It's about every broken thing, pieced together wrong in their search to make it fit correctly.
She wonders if they need only switch pieces.
Draco pulls back, looking her in the eyes. She's only a little dismayed to see that the wall is still present inside him, but pleased to see more cracks in the ice. He's still Occluding, but it's not to a degree that would overwhelm.
She'll take it.
"I have a present for you," she blurts out before he can kiss her again.
He raises one eyebrow. "Is that so?"
"Well, there's a few. Two under the tree, and the other is in my room. I don't know why, but it feels like something I should give you when we're alone."
"Okay," he says before he does kiss her again. It's even gentler than the last was. His fingers slide into her hair at the back of her head as he holds her close, kissing her lips again and again. He doesn't seem to want to stop.
Hermione doesn't want to stop, either.
"Let's go inside," he says after she's been kissed as senselessly in the snow as he promised. "It's cold, and only one of us is alive to feel it."
Hermione lets out a sound that quickly turns into peals of laughter that make her stomach ache. He watches her laughing as though she's grown multiple tails out of her arse, and that thought only makes her laugh harder. She tries to stop laughing but the absurdity of the circumstances makes it impossible.
She just spent twenty minutes snogging a dead guy on Christmas.
The cackling intensifies.
Draco rolls his eyes and reaches for her hand. "All right, let's go, Chatty Cathy. Before the hypothermia reaches your brain."
Hermione thinks she might need to use the loo.