Archive of Our Own

There are certain things that are special in life. Draco knows this. Hermione knows this. It’s a fact of life, something that is irrefutable even among the most stubborn of beings. 

When he was a child, the special things were rides on his broom around the gardens, his father helping to teach him how to fly. They were bedtime stories from his mother, which would have been frowned upon by his other parent. They were new books, books that he had requested, gifted to him for birthdays. His home and his family were the special things to him. 

When he was in Hogwarts, most everything was special. The train ride to school was special, allowing him the chance to catch up with old friends and feel like he belonged. The first night he and his mates inexplicably stayed up far past curfew, drinking firewhiskey and playing games they should not have was special. The first Quidditch game was special, especially when he played as Seeker. 

Malfoy Manor quickly lost its charm though, almost as soon as he started at school. Sure, he appreciated the time at home with his parents, appreciated the break from the facade he forced up at school, but coming home reminded him that he wasn’t the child he was before. All of the special things granted to him earlier, broom rides with his father, bedtime stories and chats with his mother, and beautiful gifted books, had disappeared. 

And when the tides of war began to become visible on the horizon, well, he couldn’t even appreciate being home as a special thing. Home was where He was, home was where Mum didn’t come out of her room and where father cowered. 

Father didn’t cower. Mum didn’t refuse to be seen out and about her own home. 

Hogwarts eventually lost its novelty, lost the part of it that made it special. For, not long after Draco realized how special the place and its memories were, the castle became tainted, became a place that was just as entrapping as the home he didn’t have. The train ride to school was filled with dread at the tasks he would have to complete within the walls of his former haven. The late nights spent drinking with his mates weren’t filled with games but instead, long bouts of silences and inaudible tears, their fates tearing them apart at the seams. He didn’t even get to take part in Quidditch anymore.

Draco knows that certain things are special in life. He knows this deep in his soul, because somehow, his life is filled to the brim with special things. 

Lunches with his mother every other week, as long as their schedules allow. A job that gives him the opportunity to work himself back into the good graces of wizarding society. A house that is a home.

A wife. 

Yes, he has a wife. It’s wholly exhilarating and partially unbelievable, all things considered. But Hermione Granger-Malfoy is unbelievable in her own right, wholly incapable of being captured accurately with the limited lexicon of the English language. She is above the plane of normalcy, transcends into the stars and galactic realm with every word she says. With every breath she takes, she creates art in the form of her love, in the form of her perseverance and determination. She is but the stars, the sun, and the moon, shaping their world in the most productive and alluring way possible. To sum it up, she is the best person on the Earth. 

And she is Draco’s wife. Somehow, against all the odds, she is his wife. 

That is the most special thing of all. 

Except, Draco knows that, to Hermione, there are other special things besides them and their relationship and their house and their life together. While, to her, the most basic things are in fact special, there are dozens of other things in her life that gain that title of novelty. He understands, of course, understands that her healing from the war has brought her to a place where she’s not afraid to bask in the glory of happiness and freedom. He understands that, even if it’s not his truth. 

His truth is darker, more convoluted, wrapped in the past. If he’s honest with himself, he’s afraid. For in the past, everything of his that was special inevitably became tainted. It’s taken him a long time to even get to the point to recognize what he sees as the few specialties in his life. 

But, Hermione— his witch, his wife— doesn’t bear that burden. She understands his reasoning just as he understands hers, but it doesn’t stop her from possessing a plethora of special things. In fact, ironically enough, it’s one of the things he finds most special about her.

They moved into their first house together at the beginning of the year. Almost twelve months ago now, though he can’t really believe it. Moving in together, into the house that would be theirs for the rest of their lives, was one of Hermione’s wishes for before their wedding. Last year, they had practically been living together, the pair of them spending virtually all of their time together at her flat, but he still had his flat, so they hadn’t officially moved in together. 

January 2006, they moved into their home together. May 2006, they had been married. 

Come now, it’s December. 2006. Their first holiday season together, not just as a married couple, but in their own home. 

In years past, they had spent the holidays together, but never like this. Never with their own space to call home and decorate as they choose. Never as a family.

Draco still cannot comprehend the fact that he has a family, that his home is hers and that they get to live the rest of their days together. 

It is 1 December, 2006. The start of the most special time of year, for his wife. He wonders how this will turn out for them. 

[3 DECEMBER]

It’s a Sunday. Draco wakes up in the morning to an empty bed. He doesn’t expect it. On Saturdays, he expects it, knowing that Hermione usually gets up to make herself an early breakfast before reading and going to meet the Potters for an early lunch. But this is Sunday. 

He sits up abruptly, feeling the change in their situation deep within his soul. Where is she? Is she okay? Is something wrong? What reason would she have to get up and leave him alone in their bed?

He’s on his feet not a second later, his wand in his hand as he makes his way through their room on high alert. She’s not in their ensuite, not in their closet, nowhere to be found in their private living quarters. 

Venturing out into the hall is perhaps one of the scariest things he’s ever done. His mind swirls with fears, worries that he might stumble across her body, that someone who is family used to be affiliated with came through and took her out without him even realizes. But her body isn’t on the floor, nor is it in any of the guest rooms on the second floor. 

His feet carry him down the stairs next, his alert only heightening with every step he takes, with every breath he inhales during which he cannot see her safe. 

Only when he sees her contentedly sitting in their living room, opened boxes of what seem to be decorations around her, does he feel as if the weight is lifted from his chest. 

“Where the hell have you been?” he asks, lacking apprehension of any kind as he closes the space between them and positions himself to be seated behind her, his hands coming to rest around her waist as he holds her to his body. “I thought something happened. I thought you were hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” she hums, turning her head to place the gentlest of kisses on his cheek, her fingers entangling themselves with his as they rest around her middle, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Burying his head in the curls atop her shoulder provides him a moment of comfort. “You never leave our bed on Sunday morning.”

Hermione squeezes his hands in the way he knows that she knows he loves, a comforting gesture that never fails to soothe his qualms. “I know, but I was too excited to stay in bed today. It’s the one day we have to properly plan everything.”

That peaks his interest. 

“Plan everything? What exactly do we have to plan, you witch?” he asks, adding the playful term of endearment to his query in an attempt to shake the negative feelings from his body. The act, combined with her presence, confirms his desires, fulfills them. 

She’s turned around in his arms before he can even think. “It’s Christmas, Draco. There’s a lot that has to be done. We need to plan how we want to decorate everything, inside and out, plus, we have a lot of people to see this holiday season. We need to figure out a calendar of events.”

Yeah… she’s lost him.

“Why don’t we just… decorate when we can? Go see people when they invite us over?”

Gauging by her reaction, he’s just committed a heinous crime. 

“We can’t just— this is not—” she splutters, practically gasping for air as she incredulously studies him. “The holidays are not something to just wing, Draco! We need to get a tree eventually, decorate the tree, put up our other decorations, work on the outside, and probably figure out when to have people over ourselves. It’s our first Christmas both in a house together and married. That’s a big deal.”

Sighing, he makes note of the time shown on the clock over the mantle. It’s not even nine in the morning. “I never said it wasn’t a big deal, Granger. I’m just not too keen on giving you up for more time than I have to.” 

That seems to soften her, to erase the edges that had arisen in both of them. It’s too early to fight and they know it. “You don’t have to give up time with me. Who said we weren’t going to do all of this together?”

Now she may be asking too much. “Hermione—”

“I know you aren’t very big on holidays, especially this one, but I think doing all of this together could be good for you,” she coos, her eyes barely meeting his. She’s ashamed, hesitant almost. “You’ve never experienced a real holiday season with me and I want to make the most of it, especially since it’s our first one while married. There are so many things I want to do and show you.”

Well, she’s gone and made his heart swell in his chest. How can he deny her anything when she seems so vulnerable, when she’s so insistent on making sure he gets to take part in her traditions? The short answer is that he can’t, that he won’t. 

Still, he allows himself a minute to at least act as if he’s considering it. As if his mind wasn’t made up on the matter from the first second she wouldn’t meet his gaze. As if he wasn’t determined to give her everything the minute he laid eyes on her the first time they reconnected after the war. 

“I… guess that I can do some of these things with you this holiday season,” he grits, only a small part of his heart truly reluctant for whatever she has in store. At the very least, he’ll be spending time with her, and that is simply his favourite thing to do. “I don’t want to ruin our first Christmas together as husband and wife.”

His words put the biggest grin on her face that he’s seen in weeks. It lights up his soul, warms his magic all the way through. He will never be able to get enough of her smile. “Perfect!” she shrieks, the sound of it girlish in a way he doesn’t expect, in a way that sends his heart reeling. “Do you want to talk about it over breakfast? I can make us hot chocolate.”

By the end of their meal, every waking second of their time is planned out from now until the end of the holiday.

[8 DECEMBER]

They decided last Sunday that today would be the day they would gather their tree. Each of them would leave work early, take half a day so that they could properly go about the tradition in the way Hermione wanted. 

I.e., so that they could cut down a tree and lug it home without magic.

Draco is not excited, not for the fact that he will certainly have to be carrying a wickedly heavy pine through the streets of London until they reach their home. Though, he is excited for his witch, excited to see her smile, excited to give her every inch of happiness that he can. It’s why he married her and why he has decided to give her everything since then. 

He’s waiting for her now, having prepared to the best of his ability as he stands in the foyer of their home, his hands shoved deep within the pockets of the extremely expensive coat he has chosen to wear on this outing. His feet are safely tucked away within the warm confines of his boots, his trousers pressed ones that aren’t very appropriate for the occasion but are by far the most suitable when ocmpared to everything else in his closet. 

“Ready?” she finally asks, emerging as she shrugs on her own coat, zipping it up all the way to her collarbone. 

She’s decked out in far more protective gear than he is, her hands covered in the fabric of gloves, long socks sticking out above the tops of her boots, her wild mane of curls somewhat tamed and captured under a hat, and a scarf wrapped around her neck. 

It seems that as he takes her in, she does the same to him, for not even a second later, she’s conjured similar items for him and is placing them on him, wrapping the scarf around his neck, slipping the elastic of the hat over his neatly combed blond hair, and even starting to pull the gloves along the length of his fingers. Before losing any more of his pride, he finishes the job for her, warming his hands with the fabric without hesitation as he continues to study her. 

“You look much more ready now,” she happily coos, the corners of her lips lifting in a smile. “Are you in agreement?”

Those four words, the quick question at the end of her statement, send his heart reeling. She’s positively adorable in her quirks, in the language she uses, in the unique ways she has captured his heart and continues to possess it. 

“I am most certainly in agreement,” he hums, offering her his arm as he begins to turn towards the door. “Though, maybe I shouldn’t be, seeing as you completely mutilated my hair.”

He hears her scoffing as he opens the door for them, following her out towards the car she decided to buy shortly after they moved in together. “I did not! And even if I did, would you like your ears to fall off from frostbite?”

He rolls his eyes as he opens the driver side door for her, watching her as she gets in before going around to the other side and sliding himself in next to her. “I still don’t understand why we can’t cast a warming charm.”

“That is not how we get a Christmas tree, Draco. We’ve been through this before.”

They have. And this is her special time of year. He needs to make sure it’s as special as she wants it to be. She’s special to him, this is special to her, therefore this is special to him. Or, he must act like it is. 

Sighing, he covers her hand with his own as it rests atop the shifter. “We should go before we lose sunlight.”

-*-

Idyllic can’t even begin to describe the afternoon they are having, if he’s being honest. It had started snowing on the drive to the lot of trees, just enough of the soft flakes flying through the air to coat everything in a layer of white and add to the aesthetic of the season. Hermione has gone above and beyond in her preparation for the day, stocking their car— her car, really, seeing as he doesn’t know how to drive and has no intention of learning— with candy canes, CD’s of Christmas music, and even thermoses of hot chocolate to keep them warm. 

With the snow falling and the gentle hums of Brenda Lee and alluring croons of Frank Sinatra, Draco can almost see why his wife likes this time of year so much, why she finds it so special. It makes him almost feel like a child again, almost gives him that sense of magical whimsy that coated everything so intensely in his youth.

Of course, the euphoria of those moments had been lost the moment that they had found their tree. And now, standing before it, Draco is hit with the realization, once again, that he must lug this thing back to their automobile. 

Why he must be cursed with such laborious things, he isn’t sure. But, it’s for Hermione, so, he will take it in his stride. 

“How are we supposed to get this thing out of the ground again?” he asks, unsure if he even wants the answer as he turns to take in the pure glee on his wife’s face.

And Merlin, is that glee intoxicating. Her smile is as brilliant as the snow under their feet, as shining as the lights will be that they are set to place atop the branches of the pine, and as beautiful as the scene before them. 

He can almost see the mirth in her eyes as she finds his gaze, as she caresses the words that flow from her tongue. “We have to cut it down,” she answers, gesturing to the saw currently in her hand.

It’s metal. A flimsy piece of metal that doesn’t seem as if it should be able to do a whole lot of anything, much less conquer a tree that has been here for Merlin knows how long. The rust atop its surface is concerning. Will he contract some sort of disease should he touch it? Is that why his witch insisted that he wear a pair of gloves on their excursion? Are muggles that sadistic to the point where they would taint something that is—  allegedly—  supposed to provide them with joy?

Yet, he doesn’t voice any of the thousands of thoughts swirling in the forefront of his mind. Instead, he closes the space between them, pressing his half frozen lips to her forehead as he slips the midevil-looking torture device from her hands into his own. 

Apprehensively, using all of the determination he can conquer to push through the seemingly unending reluctance, he finds the tree, crouching to his knees on one side of it before pausing. What is he supposed to do now? How is he supposed to start the process of removing the tree from the ground with the seemingly ineffective former slab of rock in his palms?

As if he isn’t embarrassed enough already by the compromised position he finds himself in, Draco forces himself to turn and glance at his wife from over his shoulder, silently pleading with her to aid him in at least one way or another. Luckily enough, she senses he must be worthy of her help, for not even a second later she is crouched on the opposite side of the tree. 

“We have to get it up close to the base of the trunk, okay? Once it’s there, we just alternate pulling it towards us while applying force onto the remaining trunk and it’ll cut right through.”

He’s sceptical. He isn’t quite sure how effectively this will work for them. 

Still, he nods, beginning to close the space between his body and the base of the tree when—

“Ouch!” A poking— “What the fuck?!” Another— “What the fuck is stinging me?!”

Draco practically throws himself away from the somehow-living object, landing in the snow behind him, his arse cold and most-assuredly soaked now. But that is the least of the worries, seeing as some facet of Mother Nature’s imagination seems to have it out for him. 

Hermione’s laughter pushes through all of his theories without abandon, parting his mind as if she’s a goddess who has the power to do such a monumental thing. Although, he supposes she is, at least to him, in his eyes. 

“What are you laughing at?” The words are bitter as they roll from his tongue, as they slap against the harsh coldness of the world around them. He wonders if maybe this demeanor is appropriate for the climate. 

She’s shaking her head profusely, her giggles failing to cease as a gloved hand covers her mouth. “Nothing is stinging you, Draco,” she clarifies, the mirth from her eyes earlier now having moved to inhibit her tone. “You’re feeling the pine needles; you just need to be careful with the branches. We don’t want you to poke your eye out, now do we?”

Poke his eye out?! Absolutely not! What was Granger thinking, bringing him on such a dangerous mission such as this?

He settles for shaking his head relentlessly as an answer, his eyes wide as they take her in. 

“I personally suggest moving the branches out of the way with one hand while using the other to lead the saw in towards the bark,” she softly adds on, only genuine care in her disposition.

The Slytherin trusts her with everything, with the safety of his heart, with the guarded thoughts of his mind, and with the preservation and care of his body. He chooses to trust her with this, too, using his left hand to sweep aside the branches in his way while slowly moving forward, bringing the rusty death contraption with him as he does. 

When its surface finally reaches the outside of the tree trunk, he’s so relieved he might cry. The worst part is that what he has just endured isn’t even the worst of it. That was the easy part. The exertion is only beginning. 

“So we just… saw?” he tentatively begins, raising one pale eyebrow at her as he finds her face between the branches and demonic pine needles he has decided that he now has a vendetta against. 

“I’ll pull it towards me first and then you can pull it back towards you, okay? You kind of have to pull on an angle though, to ensure that you’re making progress on cutting all the way through and not just redoing the same spot over and over again. Does that make sense?”

Not allowing her to see his damaged pride in this vulnerable state at the sting of her well-placed and good-intentioned query, he scoffs. “Yes, it makes sense, Granger. I might not have experience in this particular field but that does not mean I am wholly incapable of performing the duties that other people do around the holidays. I’m not an idiot.”

Although, he did just think that he was being stung when, in reality, he had just encountered the reality of pine needles. He hopes she isn’t thinking about that in the present moment. 

A bit of shock passes over her features before they morph into one of neutrality and disassociation. “All right. I guess I’ll start, then.”

Waiting for her to pull the saw most of the way through is torture. Enough time passes so that he is freezing, the too-expensive coat around him failing to completely keep out the cold. He’s tempted to cast a warming charm, even a fading one, nonverbally so that the witch across from him cannot detect it, but he knows better. She’ll know he’s broken her rules. How she will know, he isn’t quite sure, but he just knows that that will be the outcome. And, believe it or not, he isn’t all that thrilled to get on her bad side. 

Once she does finish her half of the job, though, he is elated, quickly jumping into the task at hand.

It turns out to be much harder than he expected, and he expected it to be awful. The blade barely wants to move against the grain of the material, each of the notches along its bottom seeming to become stuck with every little puff of energy he exerts on the motion of tugging it at just the right angle. He’s not even pulled it a quarter of the way back to him before he’s panting. 

Meeting Hermione’s eyes through the mosaic of branches doesn’t make him feel much better. “This is supposed to be fun?” he falters, half of his words barely audible over the sound of his slight wheezes. He’s sure that his face is as red as a beet, perhaps even as red as the colour appointed to this menace of a holiday. If this is retribution for his sins somehow, in a strange roundabout way, he despises it. He despises it no matter what, honestly. 

The worst part is that the glimpses of her expression that he manages to steal reveal that she’s laughing. She’s laughing at his pain, laughing at the fact that he can’t manage to pull a flimsy piece of metal through one of Mother Nature’s seemingly indestructible creations. 

“Are you telling me you’re not having fun, Draco?” she manages, the humour resulting from her tiny tittles of laugher completely dissipated from her tone. 

He pauses in his efforts to deadpan meet her gaze. “No, Hermione, I am not having fun. I still don’t understand why we can’t use—”

“You know the rules,” she interrupts, determination strewn across her features. 

Damn it, of course he does. This is a special day for her. A special season for her. And she is special to him. It’s like a mantra running through his head, the amount of times that he repeats it to himself. He wishes he could just have a different mantra, one that doesn’t imply that he needs to do manual labor. 

Begrudgingly, he relegates himself to said manual labor. If only his parents could see him right now.

It feels like the longest of eternities has passed when the indestructible fortress of the tree they chose finally decides to topple to the ground. Draco is so relieved he might cry, the only thing holding him back from such an expression being the very real possibility that such an action would result in the freezing of his tears against his face. That wouldn’t do any good for his already pallid complexion, the tips of his ears and the end of his nose already coated in a layer of red splotch.

Still, he allows himself the slightest reprieve of flopping back into the snow behind him and sighing like he's never sighed before. He’s convinced that this feeling is better than any and every orgasm he has ever experienced, that the release from this hell he has been suspended in is wholly unbeatable in terms of satisfaction and relief. 

He can see Hermione from the corner of his vision, standing above him like some sort of angel. Aren’t angels included in biblical tales? He’s not sure. It feels appropriate though, given the season they’re in. 

By the grace of God, or Merlin, or literally whatever higher power exists at the moment, he doesn’t care he’s so fucking exhausted— she allows him more time than she probably should for him to catch his breath, for him to breathe evenly and feel like a somewhat normal human being again before offering him her hand.

The gesture can only mean two things. First, it means that they’ll be returning home soon. Second, though, it means that he must lug the tree to their car. And off the car, once they return home. And into their house. 

He’s convinced that his wife is determined to torture him for the rest of time. It’s the only logical conclusion. 

The groan he releases as he takes her hand and permits her to help him stand is perhaps the most ungodly and obnoxious one he has ever created in his entire life, which is saying something, given the person he used to be. But then again, the person he used to be never had to do manual labor to the extent that he just had. 

As soon as he’s standing though, his feet securely located underneath him, it all seems worth it, for Hermione’s lips find his as if they belong there. They do, but he won’t tempt fate by saying it aloud. Unless he just did? Whatever, he doesn’t care, because his witch is kissing him and he is going to reward himself by kissing her back, damn it. 

Pulling away is another form of torture that he doesn’t expect, one that signifies the next leg of their “adventure” is upon them. 

“What comes next?” he half queries, half places no inflection into as he breathes the words into her lips. Her soft, soft lips, lips that feel like snow pillowing against his, lips that he can get lost in, lips that fit so nicely against his—

“Well, we have to bring the tree over to the employees over by the exit so that it can be wrapped up and then we place it on top of the car,” she answers, as if it's the most normal thing in the world, as if it isn’t going to absolutely destroy his back for the next eternity. 

Without waiting for further instruction, he places himself at the end of the tree, his hands coming to rest around the width of the trunk so that he can attempt to move it towards the exit. 

Why the hell is it so heavy? 

Draco finds himself praying to a god that he doesn’t believe in as he grunts and starts to pull the natural bag of dead weight away from its gravesite. 

He can do a lot of things, he thinks. He’s a brilliant academic, second in his class only to his wife, which is a compliment in and of itself. He is a stellar Quidditch player. He excels at his job, goes above and beyond to show his wife that he would do anything for her, loves her more than he thinks is possible, and is a mediocre chef. One thing he can’t do, he’s determined, is manual labor. At least, not any type of manual labor that involves any sort of pine tree. 

He feels as if he’s aged to the end of his days when he finally reaches the muggle man who is perched at the chute that collects and wraps the trees. How it works, he has no clue, but his curiosity has been completely squashed by the ever-growing need to get home and never lift a pinky again. 

It’s for Hermione. It’s for Hermione. It’s for Hermione.

That is what he tells himself as the machine coats the branches in a wire that wraps it up into a true cylindrical shape. That is what he tells himself as he pays the man for the dirty piece of nature that they now get to bring into their home. That is what he tells himself as he contorts his body into wicked shapes to not only manoeuvre the tree onto the roof of their car but also secure it so that it won’t fly off as they drive home. He will be damned if all of his hard work ends up being for nothing. 

Yet, somehow, against all odds and the laws of physics— whatever that is, he just hears Hermione using that phrase and has since adopted it— they end up back in their car, the music from earlier continuing without missing a beat, the comforting sounds of Bing Crosby’s croon wafting through his ears. And even further against the odds, they make it home without losing the tree to the forces of the wind as they drive. 

It is now that Hermione uses her magic, a quick flick of her wand, to be specific, to aid their mission by cutting the ropes holding the special object against their metal container of death. 

(Draco Malfoy has very strong feelings about very many things. They only truly come out to play though, when he is exasperated, i.e., at present.)

A glimmer of hope shoots through him at the prospect that, perhaps, he may be able to use his own magic to levitate their tree back into the living room, maybe even going so far as to use the extension of his soul to position it just how they like. However, one glance at his wife provides him a contradictory answer to the one currently saturating his brain, that magic is still not allowed. Why she’s allowed to use it, he doesn’t understand, but arguing isn’t going to get him anywhere.

It’s for Hermione.

The tree slides off the top of the chair without much struggle, though Draco does struggle with lifting it onto his shoulder. It’s the easiest way he can think to transport it inside, not wanting to drag it against the ground and possibly ruin its beauty and most certainly not wanting to bring his wife into this. He knows that if she were to be asked, she would absolutely help him, but both his pride and his insane desire to please her, to give her the special time of year he knows she desperately desires keep him from doing just that, from asking her. It’s part of the magic, as she would say.

Somehow, he just barely scrapes by under the threshold of the doorframe, only the outermost parts of the tree skimming the surface as he walks into their living area. They had prepared it in the days prior so that there would be a place for the natural decoration, planned it so that the beautiful pine could stand proudly in the middle of the bay window adorning the front of their sitting room. 

And stand proudly it does, after a long bout of bickering and adjustments and finagling on Draco’s part. 

Though he’s in pain, a lot of it, at that, the smile that erupts on her face at the finished sight of their mounted tree in the middle of their living room alights the heavens in her beauty, completely swallowing his pain in a burst of pride and joy. He’s kissing her not a moment later, savouring the moment so that maybe it can be just as special for him as he knows it is for her.

[9 DECEMBER]

Earlier that day, shortly after he had awoken, he had been surprised for two reasons. First, there was a piece of Mother Nature in his living room that he had somehow forgotten, a surprising occurrence given the constant pain flowing through every muscle within his body. Second, though, Hermione was in the kitchen, her face covered in what looked to be flour. She was supposed to be out or preparing to go out to meet the Potters for lunch. Why had she still been home?

Come to find out, Hermione had been very adamant in regards to her Christmas planning this year, even going so far as to pull the Potters into it. They had decided to place their Saturday meetings on a brief hiatus for the month of December, agreeing to return to their routine once the holidays were over. Her reasoning had apparently been that she wanted to ensure that her first Christmas with Draco in their home was as special as it could possibly be. He didn’t object, of course, seeing as her presence in their home meant he would see her more frequently than before the last month of the year had begun. 

Their morning had been lovely so far, although it hadn’t exactly been all that long since he had emerged from their room. In the time that had passed, they had each made and eaten breakfast— she had waited to eat with him, how adorable!— read the Daily Prophet, and discussed their plans for the day, all before Hermione had pushed him up the stairs and insisted that he take a nice shower. 

Emerging back downstairs after his momentary reprieve from her constant application of the holiday spirit, he takes note of a few things. Their plans for the day include decorating the tree, baking cookies, and whatever else they can manage to accomplish in the realm of decoration. However, when his feet touch the floor of the first story of their home, he notices that she’s already knees deep in their plans. 

The tree is already strung with lights, white ones that bring out the jade hues of the needles along each of the branches. His witch is currently situated in the kitchen, the flour on her face from earlier only coating her skin further, her arms now covered in it too. There are boxes strewn across the floor of the living room in every direction, their tops open and their contents exposed. 

Draco isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do next, if he’s being honest. But, there’s one way to find out, so he decides to close the gap between him and his wife, wrapping his arms around her middle as his chin comes to rest in the corner of her shoulder. He catalogues the sight of the bowl in front of her, her curls thrown up in a haphazard bun, a few of them slipping free as she continues to stir the ingredients within the container. 

“What are you doing, Draco?”

He knows her tone, recognizes the hint of danger within it. Well, danger is a bit of an exaggeration, but it definitely does set him on edge. It’s the type of croon that alerts him that he is treading on thin ice, that she may break out and lecture him at any moment. 

Still, he dares to respond with snark. “I’m holding my wife?”

She snorts, ungracefully, in the precise way that made him fall in love with her all that time ago. “What you’re actually doing is disrupting me. Do you want me to accidentally poison your Christmas treats?”

He comically attempts to ponder this for a moment, humming slightly. “Well, as long as they taste well—”

Turning around in his arms, she managed to playfully slap a very flour-covered hand on his chest, leaving an imprint of the tiniest adult palm he has seen— to this day— on the crisp fabric of his shirt. “You are a prat, you know that?” she taunts, the corners of her lips turning upwards ever so slightly as she gazes up at him, all of the menace in her tone having left completely. 

Acting as if she’s wounded his pride, he dramatically winces, one of his hands flying up to cover his heart before dropping the act and finding her eyes again, beautiful in the way they shimmer with elation. “And yet you still decided to marry me.”

Her lips are slanted against his not a moment later, giving him the opportunity to caress her silky skin, mould her hips to his in a way that’s comfortable yet just as electrifying as the first time. His tongue sweeps into her mouth, practically demanding entrance as she parts for him, her dirty hands coming to course through his hair without abandon. But just as he prepares to sweep the counter free of whatever forgotten treat she is planning to prepare, she pulls away, sneaking out of his hold and manoeuvring herself over towards their tree.

The groan he lets out is devastating. “What the hell was that for, Granger?”

“It’s Malfoy now,” she snidely corrects, her fingers diving into the boxes of ornaments and pulling out two bulbs that he recognizes from the trees she used to keep in her prior home. “And besides, there will always be time for that later. Now, though, we need to be decorating the tree so that I can bake the cookies.”

“Well, I could bake the cookies if you wanted,” he offers rounding around the couch as he closes the distance between them. 

As soon as those words leave his lips, though, he knows just how wrong they are, just how truly hysterical they are. Not a second later, they’re both keeled over in laughter, Hermione’s sounds of glee pinging loud and clear through their home, Draco’s heart clenching in adoration at each of the sounds she makes. 

By the time they’ve calmed down, he’s taken his place directly at her side, his eyes appropriately focused on the tree in front of them as she turns to him with a demure smile. “If you’re good and make sure to help me with decorating, maybe I’ll let you help with the cookies.”

His proposal was only partially genuine, but he accepts her compromise, mumbling the quietest, “Deal,” as he leans in to capture her lips in one more brief chaste embrace. 

“So,” she begins, squaring her shoulders as she takes in the tree, “there are a few things you need to know before we get properly underway with this, okay?”

With the smallest and proudest of smiles, he nods. “Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it, Granger.”

The blush that coats her cheeks is one of the prettiest he’s ever seen on her skin. “Well, all of the ornaments I have are sentimental. Most of them hold memories, or are from family holidays, or even are in my possession to mark a special occasion or milestone. They’re important, so when you go to place them on a branch, you have to make sure that the branch is strong enough to support them so that they won’t fall and break. That’s rule number one.”

“Rule number one: don’t place decorations where they won’t be supported so that they don’t end up broken,” he repeats back to her, knowing that’s what she wants from him. “Got it. What’s next?”

“In my family,” she begins, “usually the man of the house places the star on top once all of the other ornaments have been placed. It’s the final thing to go on the tree, so it can’t be altered once the star is on. And given that you’re the man of the house, it seems that you’re on star duty.”

Fleeting moments of the past float like clouds behind his eyelids, prompting him to turn his head as to properly take her in. “We had a similar tradition when I was a child,” he softly admits, afraid that by speaking louder, the moment will somehow be lost. “Of course, we weren’t the ones to decorate any of the trees, but Father would always be the one to place the star atop the tree in the drawing room, the one that we used for holidays.”

Draco can see the way his anecdote touches Hermione, the gears in her mind that turn until she reaches the conclusion that this is right, that they are perfect for each other, that somehow, against all odds, they are the happiest they have ever been and perhaps are the happiest they will ever be. Maybe there is something special about this holiday and its strange traditions after all. 

Yet, she hesitantly approaches the next condition, her voice filled with trepidation, uncertainty, apprehension. “I’m honestly not quite sure if you have any other traditions regarding the Christmas tree,” she confesses, her words barely audible. “I know some people like to make popcorn garlands, or use tinsel, but my parents always just had us use lights, ornaments, and the star. But if you want to do any of those other things, we can. I just don’t… I just don’t know what else you usually do.”

There’s a reason she doesn’t know, a reason why Draco is determined to give her everything he can in regards to this holiday yet isn’t too keen on it himself. He has always been reluctant to share with her the darkness of his past. Of course, she’s worked most of it out of him over the years, things regarding his time at Hogwarts, his formerly unpleasant demeanour, the war, but things like this are different. 

Christmas is supposed to be something that is sacred in families, a day and a season, even, when love is at the forefront, when families gather together to show their gratitude for each other and spend time with one another. 

That held true consistently for the first five years of Draco’s life. By age ten, it couldn’t even be applied in the slightest. The Malfoys did gather with each other, both in private on Christmas Day and in public with their friends and societal acquaintances before the holiday, but it all seemed to be a formality. Draco would dress in his finest dress robes on both occasions, charm the people he was meant to charm, and graciously accept any gifts he were to receive. There was limited wonder, limited fun, the holiday full of nothing that reminded him of what it should have been like. It was full of none of the things that made it so special to Hermione. 

That scared him. Every single time he remembered that fact, the fact that she was raised in such a different way compared to him, it sent him reeling, his stomach knotting in discomfort. She was light, filled with happy memories and raised by a loving family and wholly good. He was darkness, filled with an absence of comfort and warmth, raised in a world where the most intimate interaction was a handshake, not a hug, wholly unsure of his place in the world. 

Draco Malfoy was determined to make the holidays perfect for Hermione Granger because deep down, some part of him was afraid of disappointing her in the way that his parents disappointed him. He never wanted to rob her of the whimsical magic that she was overcome with during the holiday season, would do anything if it meant preserving the glee she wholeheartedly felt in regards to the special time of year. 

But they are married now, bonded to each other for the rest of time, lest something go wrong and they become inclined to undergo the painful un-bonding process. And marriage is different than anything he has experienced before.

Marriage is support. Marriage is knowing that she is there for him, there to hold him up, to hear him out, to help him work through the things that are painful.

He takes a chance when he breathes, “You don’t have to worry about any of that. The last time I had a proper Christmas, I was a child, so there aren’t many traditions I can actually remember.”

Even just speaking it into existence provides him a sort of relief that he doesn’t expect. It gives him comfort, strength, when he can feel her palm on his arm, squeezing him ever so slightly in understanding. 

Her action draws his eyes down to hers, silver meeting amber in such an otherworldly display of compassion that he isn’t quite sure the moment is real. It feels too picturesque, too perfect, too… 

Good. 

“Why don’t we make a new tradition then, hm?” she suggests, her tone soft, reverent, cloud-like. “My parents had an unspoken rule where each of us had to place an ornament that represented us on the tree first, before any other ornaments were to be placed. I think I have a better idea.”

Smiling ever so slightly, he beams down at her. “And what would that be?”

The secretive crook of her lips is enchanting. “The first ornament placed on our tree can be the one with the picture of us from our wedding.”

He knows which one she’s talking about before she’s even removed it from the box. One of her family members gifted it to them, a little glass frame that has their names at the bottom, featuring the date they were bonded and an image of two golden rings. Hermione took the liberty of filling it with her favourite picture of them from their wedding, one of when they were dancing, completely enraptured with the other as they swayed. She doesn’t know, but that picture is his favourite too. The way she looks at him in it, the movement on a loop for the rest of time, reminds him that everything is worth it, that she loves him even when he doubts his place in her life. 

Not quite sure how to respond, or even if he’ll be able to make sounds, he nods, his heart aching in his chest at the thought that she wants to make a new tradition with him. In her most special time of year, the season where everything is coveted, she is willing to change, willing to upend her traditions to make him comfortable, to make sure he feels as if he has a space there. Thinking about it too much makes him emotional, so he chooses not to, instead, watching her as she pulls it from the box and stares at it for a moment.

She watches their prior selves move in the same way she watched him that night. It makes him feel as if he can’t fall any more in love with her than he already is. Yet, he knows, in that moment, that he’s falling even deeper into her, surrounding himself so entirely with her that she is his heart, his mind, his magic, and his soul. 

“Would you like to help me hang it up?” she asks, eyes as wide as a doe’s as they study him, a wayward curl falling between them.

He manages a puff of air out of his nose as he reaches to push the curl back. “It doesn’t take two people to hang up an ornament, Granger.”

Her face flushes red in the pretty way he’s so enamored with. “I know it doesn’t,” she defends, her tone quickly turning sheepish, “but, I just thought that it would be nice to do it together. It’s our first Christmas together and this is a big moment so I just thought it should be special.”

There’s that word again. Special. Hermione wants it to be special. And who is Draco to deny her?

The moment that his hands find hers somehow feels like the first time they touched, the electricity and hidden passion and torrents of emotion flowing through them, between them, without hesitation. It’s part of the reason they’ve worked, part of why they’re so good at being with each other. And now, it’ll be part of their memories for years to come. 

Draco knows deep down that this will be a new tradition of theirs, that, without failure, the first ornament placed on their Christmas tree for the rest of their life together will be this one, that their hands will work together as they are now to place it on a branch. Maybe someday, little hands will join their own. Maybe someday, the ornament will change, morph into one of them and their family, if that is what fate has in store for them. Whatever the specifics are, he knows it’ll be special to her. Maybe it will become special to him too.

So, when the decoration is deposited on its homely branch, the shift around them is palpable. They’ve been married for a while now, but they haven’t truly cemented themselves as a family, as a unit. But this, this moment, with their wedding picture hanging on their tree in their home, with their hands in each others and their love flowing freely between them, they are a family. They are living a life together. 

They both know the shift has occurred, each of their eyes searching for the others until they finally connect, until the vulnerability and the joy is wafting around them so physically, until they’re unable to contain their smiles and are wrapped in each other's arms. Draco holds Hermione as if he’s unable to process that she’s truly there, his arms around her waist pulling her towards him until no space exists between them. Her arms are thrown around his neck, her face buried in the soft skin there as he buries his own face in her curls, breathing her in, breathing in their life together, breathing in the hope for their future, for the world they’ll create. 

It feels impossible to separate themselves in that moment, but when the time comes, he places her gently back on the ground, slanting his lips against hers, pouring all of his adoration and love into her, unable to tell her just how much this moment has meant to him with words. She gives him all of her right back, her hands cupping his face with such a reverence it almost makes him tear up as they move against each other. 

Pulling away feels right, feels as if they’re stepping into their future together, as if they are creating their story in real time, picking and choosing the words to describe themselves with a purpose, knowing that they get to make their life whatever they want it to be. 

“So…” she begins, the slightest hint of mirth recognizable on the outskirts of her tone, “I’m assuming you understand the rules of decorating the Christmas tree?”

Rolling his eyes is the only thing he can do as he attempts to hold back the little laugh that bubbles in his throat. “Yes, wife , I understand the rules of decorating the Christmas tree. Believe it or not, it’s not all that complicated.”

The easygoing chuckle she provides as she walks back towards their kitchen warms his soul. “You say that now, husband , but you’ll be eating your words when I come to inspect your work and it’s not up to snuff. I like my Christmas trees a very specific way, you know.”

“Why on Earth then am I decorating the tree?” he asks, teasing loudly. “If you want it a certain way, it makes a lot more sense for me to work on the cookies while you decorate.”

“Ah yes, because if you were to bake the cookies we all wouldn’t end up with food poisoning. My apologies, I forgot. Now, get to it. It looks weird with only one ornament.”

[14 DECEMBER]

Christmas seemed to be creeping up on Draco faster than he ever remembered it doing in years past. It seems like only yesterday was the first of the month, that it was mere hours before when they fetched their tree and decorated it in their home, tangible memories hanging from the branches in the soft light of the season. As it is, there are only eleven days left until the holiday, until he needs to woo his wife off her feet with his gift for her. There are only eleven days left until they wholeheartedly can declare themselves a family, having survived the holidays together for the first time.

Originally, he did not plan on shopping for this very important gift only a mere eleven days before the holiday. Originally, he had planned on going at the beginning of the month, having a few ideas tucked away that he wanted to investigate. But once the season had started, he had discovered just how much time he devoted to attempting to make the holidays as special for Hermione as possible.

Today is the only day in which he has time by himself to go out and find her the perfect gift. She is at work— where he should be— at the Ministry, making the most of her recent promotion into the Department of International Magical Cooperation. He would be there, continuing his Potions work in the Department of Mysteries, but he has taken the day off, and is instead waltzing through the streets of London.

If he’s being honest, he has no fucking clue what he’s going to get her. He thinks he wants to find two gifts for her, given the occasion of this first holiday together as a married couple. Of course, each of them will be elegant to the nines, but one gift doesn’t just seem to cut it. He wants her to know just how special she is to him, just how much these seven months as husband and wife have meant to him.

It isn’t until he passes a little boutique that he realizes exactly what one of his gifts to her will be. 

The establishment looks Muggle— not a problem to him, all of his former prejudices having been buried in the earth far before the end of the war. He notices first the outfits hanging and draped across mannequins in the large window out front of the shop, articles of clothing that look somewhat like what Hermione wears. That is what clues him in first, what captures his attention long enough to prompt him to scour the remaining parts of the display that his eye can see. 

When his eye catches on a gold necklace resting around the neck of one of the mannequins, he knows. His feet carry him inside before he can think another second, and before he can process what is happening, he is at the counter.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” the girl behind the counter asks him. She looks young, their age, perhaps, and her welcoming smile calms all qualms that have now arisen in him.

Clearing his throat, he offers a small smile. “There’s a gold necklace on the mannequin in the window display,” he states, gentle in his tone and his words. While he has patroned many Muggle establishments since the end of the war, he’s always wary, always wondering if he’s doing something wrong or offensive. “If possible, I would like to get a closer look at it.”

The employee nods almost reverently at his words, crossing behind the counter to a different section of the glass container. “You have good taste, Sir. I was expecting that one to have already sold out for the holidays and it almost has. There’s only one left other than the display, so it’s a good thing you’re here.”

Something akin to both relief and victory courses through his veins at that comment, his eyes widening as they watch her movements underneath the counter. When the necklace is removed a few seconds later and placed before him, his beliefs from earlier are cemented. 

For Draco Malfoy is currently looking at the first of Hermione Granger-Malfoy’s Christmas presents. 

Typically, he knows that Hermione doesn’t see herself as a person to be draped in jewels. Draco knows this, has known this for a long time, understands that jewelry is not a gift to be given frequently and that if he is to gift her a piece, it has to be for a reason. She likes earrings, though not ones that are too heavy or too gaudy. She wears her wedding ring and her engagement ring, of course, but those are tame in comparison to the jewels he would love to drape her in, the two pieces created exactly for her, specifically for her taste. Bracelets are a no-go unless it’s a special occasion.

Necklaces, though, are the thing he usually can get away with gifting her. Simplicity is at the centre of her taste in jewelry, less gems are preferred over more. Honestly, he loves that about her, loves that she possesses such a contradiction in thought regarding this one thing in comparison to the thoughts possessed by the people he grew up around. It’s something so simple yet so telling for him. It challenges him in a way he has never expected. 

And this necklace, well, it’s perfect. The chain is gold, not too thick yet not too thin that it would be seen as understated. It is present, and the hue of the metal will make a striking contrast against his wife’s skin, calling attention to her beauty in the most poetic way. At its center are three jewels, small enough ones that he doesn’t think Hermione will object.

On the left, a circular cut of garnet, wrapped in the tiniest string of diamonds, encased in gold. On the right, a circular cut of green sapphire, wrapped in a matching string of diamonds and encased in the same gold. In the center, a pearl.

It’s so cliché that he thinks he might laugh, but the beauty and understatedness of it encapsulates Hermione in a way that he just knows is perfect. One of her things about jewelry is sentimentality; she likes to have jewelry that has a meaning. Looking at the necklace in front of him, Draco cannot see a better meaning of this gift for their first Christmas together. The colours represent both them and the season they find themselves in. He quite literally could not have found a better traditional gift. 

“I’ll take it.”

The shocked look on the saleswoman’s face is one that he’s used to seeing while shopping. Surely this necklace is much more than expensive, especially in Muggle terms. It is simple, yes, but the quality of the gems— yes, Draco was taught how to appraise gemstones with just his eye as a boy— are priceless, and the row of diamonds around each of the stones cannot come cheap. Luckily for him, he has plenty of vaults at his disposal. “Are you sure, Sir? This is quite the purchase—”

Nodding, he interrupts her. “I will take it.”

It is a few minutes later when he is back walking by the shops, taking in the products in the windows in an attempt to discover a perfect second gift for his witch. He strolls down the sidewalk for what feels like forever, losing hope with each passing step until a stationary store catches his eye.

Usually, he is wary of those. They have books and journals and nice pens and other things that Draco would much rather purchase at Flourish and Blotts but that Hermione prefers to own from Muggle establishments. However, those types of gifts are ones that most people give to her. They’re traditional, unpredictable, and almost insincere, in his opinion. They might be things that she likes, but everyone knows that she likes them. He wants something more personal.

Yet, his feet carry him inside of the door without a second thought. Maybe today will be the day that he will actually find something in one of these establishments that has meaning. 

Walking through the aisles, he’s disappointed. There are plenty of books, all titles that Hermione has read before. The plethora of pens and other writing tools are nothing special, some of them even seeming to be cheap kid-like ones. The journals have merit, he has to admit, the moleskine covers the exact quality that he knows his witch loves. 

But nothing stands out to him as special, as something that he feels is personal enough to gift to her. He’s determined to leave, relegating himself to wandering through more shops that have shelves stocked full of impersonal and insincere gifts until something in the far corner of the shop catches his eye.

Approaching it is one of the most comically terrifying moments of his life. He so desperately wants the object to be usable, to be the perfect present, so much so that his heart is pounding in his chest as nervous adrenaline courses through his veins. It’s hysterical how desperate he is. 

Once he can make it out, he’s not entirely sure what it is, if he’s being honest. It looks like a book, almost like a journal, only larger and shaped differently. He picks it up carefully, willing not to break it or otherwise ruin it as he opens the cover.

The contents inside the covers provide him a bit more clarity. He’s pretty sure he’s seen it before, heard Hermione refer to it as a… scrapbook? He thinks that is what it is called. The pages are covered in a plasticky material, the paper between them nothing more than a simple white flimsy type. If he’s remembering correctly, he’s pretty sure Muggles use books like this to place pictures, notes, and other sentimental things—

He pauses, replaying his own words inside his head. 

Pictures.

Notes.

Sentimental things.

Suddenly, he knows what his second gift to his wife is. Clutching the empty book to his side, he brings it to the counter, paying for it quickly before leaving the shop and beelining to owl one Harry Potter. To make this gift perfect enough to be classified as special, he is going to need help.

[16 DECEMBER]

Having taken care of the dilemma regarding his gift for Hermione two days earlier, both of her presents wrapped and hidden in his study, Draco has started to allow himself to just exist during the holidays. He still goes above what is necessary to ensure that his wife has the most special time of year, but it’s easier for him, feels as if there is less of a weight on his chest. 

Except for today. Today has been… a day, to say the least. 

It is a Saturday, a Saturday that, once again, Hermione did not take to spend with the Potters for lunch. For, it is a Saturday in which they are seeing practically every important person in their life. This morning, it had been her parents, lunchtime had brought his parents, and this evening will bring their friends.

Usually, he doesn’t have any issue with seeing their family. The Grangers are wonderful people, truly, people who have accepted him into their arms and their traditions without apprehension. His parents are a different story, all tight-lipped smiles and curt nods, terse words and formidable expressions. They’ve come around, now that it is very apparent that Hermione isn’t leaving Draco’s life any time soon, but they still act haughty when she is around. Though, their haughtiness is something that Hermione has taken in stride, and Draco still calls out their bad behaviour when necessary. The rhythm they have developed with each other’s families is one that he has come to love and cherish. 

Breakfast this morning had been lovely. The four of them had discussed their plans for the holiday and nailed down when they would get together to exchange gifts over homemade scones and a brilliant brew of coffee. Christmas afternoon, they had decided. 

Then, they had made their way to the Manor, an object of contention in Draco’s relationship with his parents. Once upon a time, the Manor had been home, had been the place where he could exist without judgment, surrounded in love, special in every meaning of the word. Then he had grown up. It had taken months for Draco to convince Narcissa to remodel, and once he and Hermione had started seeing each other, he was so thankful he had been successful in those efforts. Though, it had also taken a while for Hermione to feel comfortable enough to visit his ancestral home. 

He didn’t blame her for that, never had and never will. They both had been through hell there and she had almost died at his feet. They had done a lot of work in regards to their trauma from the war, had talked through the things that they had been through and came to a place of peace, had made amends with what had happened to them and moved on. 

The pair of them have reached the point where returning to the Manor isn’t something that sends them home in tears, where they can exist in that space and honour his parents while also prioritizing themselves and knowing their limits. He is so insanely proud of them for that fact.

Earlier today, though, pride was not an emotion that he had been filled with while at his home. His parents would not stop with the snide comments, would not cease with the discussions about this time of year and their “traditions,” things that Draco knew they were making up on the spot to make his wife feel unwelcomed and out of sorts. They were tag teaming her and he didn’t know why and he hated it. 

Leaving that place had never felt better in his entire life. 

And now he was able to be present at the Potters, a place that has no bad memories, unlike the Manor. With Hermione tucked close to his side, he feels good, pushes away the discomfort from earlier while watching the others interact as if they’ve known each other for their whole lives.

They have known each other for their whole lives, he supposes. 

That fact just eggs him on in his discomfort. He’s only uncomfortable because the pace of the day has been so heightened, because they’ve been going since the moment they woke up. It makes him feel on edge, reminds him that the holiday they’ve been preparing for is less than ten days away and that he’s running out of time to ensure that his wife has every special thing that she wants. 

Without warning, Hermione laughs, her nose crinkling up as her smile beams. The sight and feel of it as she nuzzles into his side is addicting, wholly enchanting as he looks down at her. He hasn’t made an awful mess of everything, has he? They’ve gotten this far, have placed a tree in their living room, hung more garland than he knew existed, and draped lights over the outside of their house in a manner that would have his parents disowning him if they only knew. 

“I’m just having a hard time picturing Malfoy partaking in the manual labor of cutting down a Christmas tree and lugging it to your car,” Potter explains, the corners of his lips lifted in mirth as Hermione continues to giggle into his arm. 

Rolling his eyes, Draco sneaks his arm around his witch’s waist, tugging her closer. “Then stop picturing it, Potter. There is no reason that you need to be imagining me in that state.”

“Well I, for one, would like to see it firsthand,” Potterette exclaims, standing abruptly, jostling the tiniest bit of her drink out of its tumblr and onto the floor with the movement. Before Draco can attempt a witty retort, though, she’s moving over towards where they’re sitting on the sofa, holding her hand out towards his wife. “Hermione, come with me, won’t you?”

His witch, his partially sloshed witch, looks up at the redhead with a curiosity that he feels too. “Why would I come with you when I’m comfortable?” she asks, making a point of it to snuggle closer into Draco, the movement bringing a snarky smile to his lips.

Fiery in her nature, Potterette makes a show and puts on her most determined and serious eyes, leering down at his wife with a vengeance that even has his spine tingling. “Because I need to talk to another witch for a moment. And because I would like to relive that memory in our Pensieve.”

Draco can sense Hermione’s reluctance as she stands, her tumbler of spiked cider in her hand as she haphazardly makes her way out of the living room and down the hall, Potterette close on her heels. 

“I’m glad I’m not another witch to you, Weasley!” Pansy calls after her, making a point to sip from her tumbler of Firewhiskey as the two witches disappear. 

“You know what she meant, Pans,” Theo croons, his head resting in Blaise’s lap as the latter plays with the former’s hair. “She wanted her Granger time.”

It’s at that moment that Longbottom returns from the kitchen, a plate full of cookies in his hand as he takes his seat back next to his witch. The eight of them, including the two witches currently elsewhere included, made an interesting group. They had all reconnected after the war, forming their bonds over growth and the possibility that people can change. 

This gathering was meant to be their “Christmas,” the one time that all of them could spare to get together and exchange gifts and drink and be idiotic adults together. Because they are idiotic adults, adults who have somehow survived a war and grown up and found love and friendship in the most unsuspecting places. They had already eaten, exchanged their gifts, and had more than enough to drink, evidenced by Hermione’s very apparent state of being sloshed.

When Potter invites Draco into the kitchen, asking him to help him with something, he follows, knowing that the wizard wouldn’t ask something of him unless he needed something. Standing in the kitchen, hovering over the island, each of them with a tumbler in their hands, he waits patiently until the Gryffindor speaks.

“Is the gift finished?”

Allowing a puff of air to pass through his nose in humour, Draco nods, his lips turning upwards with the hint of a smile. “Yes, I finished it that day while Hermione was still at work. Thank you for all of your help with it.”

Potter’s smile matches Draco’s own, secretive in the best way. “It’s my pleasure, mate. I know how rough Christmases with her can be and I am more than available to help you get through them. Sentimental gifts are the way to do it, and a scrapbook of all of the pictures of the both of you and notes you two have written to each other? That’s genius. I wish I had thought of it for Gin. Anyways, how are you holding up?”

The Slytherin’s pride disappears the instant the Gryffindor asks his question. “I’m good,” he lies, not wanting to admit to the strange feelings swirling in his chest regarding this holiday season. “It’s been a lot, rather busy, but it’s fun. Anything to make Hermione happy.”

A hand is clapping his shoulder before he can duck out of the way of it. “I cannot tell you how happy that makes me. I’m really glad you two found each other, Malfoy.”

He’s gone not a moment later, having left Draco in the kitchen alone, to his own devices, stuck in the mud of his thoughts. Taking a few slow steps back towards the living room and leaning against the doorframe, he allows his mind to wander, allows himself the chance to take stock of his feelings in the way Hermione has told him to before, in the way his therapist would be proud of.

Christmas is a conflicting time of year for him. On one hand, it shows just how far he’s come, shows him that it is happy to be joyful and rejoice after everything he’s gone through. On the other hand, it reminds him of all of the bad, reminds him that this joy could have existed all along if his life had been a little bit different. It reminds him of what he didn’t consistently have as a child, reminds him of the world he grew up in, reminds him of everything he doesn’t want to be reminded of.

But this time of year is supposed to be special. It’s not, not to him, given the fact that it just stirs up unhappy memories, but it is to almost everyone else. It’s special to Hermione. Hermione is special to him. Hence, this time of year is indirectly special to him. But at the same time, it is not. 

He’s been more than happy to do all of the traditionally joyous and celebratory things with her, has even found a bit of happiness in those moments when he has. However, it still isn’t enough to make the season special to him. Spending time with Hermione is special in its own right, and maybe that will someday allow him to accept the holiday as special by association. But for now, it’s just another day, another season of decorations and things that he can’t seem to care about. 

She makes it better though, helps him through it, even if she doesn’t understand his struggles completely, even if he hasn’t shared those struggles with her.

When she appears at his side, seemingly sober from her escapade with Potterette— did she take a sobering potion?— he cannot help the smile that graces his face. “Hey you,” he gently croons, wrapping an arm around her back and leaning down to place a kiss on the top of her head, smushing her curls into his face. “Did Potterette get everything figured out she needed to?”

Hermione snuggles into him reflexively, resting her head against his chest for a moment before pulling back to find his eyes. The caramel amber of them lures him in, reminds him that this time of year can become special, cements that it will someday, because her enchanting allure is something he will never be able to stop chasing. 

“Yeah,” she calmly hums, averting her eyes as her cheeks cover in blush, her hands quickly searching for his. “Are you ready to go? I’m quite tired.”

Sensing that something isn’t quite right, he doesn't press her, doesn’t object. Instead, he only nods, twining their fingers together and leading them over to the Potters to say their goodbyes before using the Floo to go home.

Once having arrived back in their house, her arms are around his shoulders, pulling him down to her so that he’s hunched in a rather uncomfortable position. She’s removing all space from between them, melding their bodies together in a way that doesn’t hint at anything more than adoration, nothing more than the desire to hold and be held. 

He obliges her silent request willingly, his arms finding purchase around her waist as he pulls her towards him, breathing her in and attempting to soothe whatever qualms she has at the moment. When she doesn’t pull back but instead holds him tighter, he apparates them up to their bedroom, flicking his wrist to start a bath for them before divesting each of them of their clothes and sliding underneath the surface of the water, holding each other all the while, only parting when absolutely necessary. 

It is in this moment that he realizes, no matter the novelty of the season, there can and will be darkness. Life does not exist in an echo-chamber of light. Without darkness, there cannot be light. Without darkness, they cannot appreciate the light, cannot find joyous moments like Christmas special. 

[25 DECEMBER]

Waking up on the morning of Christmas is something that Draco once found exciting. It used to be filled with promise, filled with the hope of material gifts and hours spent with his parents. It was tainted not long after then, filled with nothing except the gloom of another day and the threat of death hanging over his head. 

Now, though, he feels excited again. He’s practically buzzing with energy when he opens his eyes, and when he looks down at his wife snuggled against his chest, he feels as if he’s on top of the world.

They’ve made it. They have gotten through their first Christmas season together, largely unscathed. All they have to do is make it through the day, exchange their gifts to each other and host for her parents, before they can officially say that they’ve survived Christmas together as a married couple. Merlin, it's a relief. 

He takes a moment to watch his wife, to catalogue the freckles covering her nose and the gentle swell of her chest as she breathes. She hasn’t opened up to him about what happened the night of the Potters’ Christmas party, but that is okay. She doesn’t have to share anything with him and he knows if she wants to, she will tell him. 

That night, though, changed his thought process about the holidays. He’s not ready to outright call the season special yet, but he can admit that it has a novelty he wasn’t expecting to find in it. A novelty that he wasn’t ready to admit to. 

When he thinks about it, he sees how stupid he was, recognizing that he should have admitted to it weeks ago. He’s spent every waking moment he has been able to with his wife, making her happy in every way he physically can, determined to reveal her joy and bask in it. They’ve done things he never thought he would do again. 

He’s not ready to admit that Christmas is special, but he can admit that certain activities associated with the season are in fact special. He used to think of them as her special things, but he sees now that they’re his too.

A grumbled moan erupts next to him as Hermione shifts, throwing her leg over top of his as she buries her face into his chest. “Happy Christmas,” he hears her whisper, the sound of it barely audible yet filled to the brim with happiness. 

“Happy Christmas, love,” he whispers back, wrapping her up in his arms and holding her tightly to him, soaking up all of the light coming from her. 

They stay in bed for much longer than they should, yet when they emerge, Hermione heads straight for the couch, grabbing a present from underneath it and sitting down before he has the chance to process what is going on. Draco looks over to her, an eyebrow raised in question at her departure from their track to the kitchen.

“I think we should do presents first,” she asserts, patting the seat next to her on the couch, willing him to follow in her pattern of movement. “When I was a kid, my parents always had us do presents first and then we did breakfast.”

“Sounds interesting,” he says, picking up both boxes of her gifts and sitting across from her on the couch. “But since you’ve commandeered our plans this morning, I think it is appropriate for you to indulge in my wishes to gift you my presents first, don’t you?”

He watches the gears turn behind her eyes before she sighs, begrudgingly nodding her head as she places the box with her apparent gift to him to the side. 

Deciding which gift to give to her first is a tough task, but he eventually decides on giving her the necklace first. Watching her open it is anguishing, and the gasp she lets out at the sight of it almost prompts him to have a heart attack. Her eyes light up with the radiance of the stars as her gaze meets is, and he barely has a voice as he croaks out, “Do you like it?”

The smallest and uncharacteristic of tears dribbles down her face as she nods fervently, repeating, “Yes, yes, yes,” over and over again as she crawls towards him. “Can you help me put it on?”

He very well can do that, taking the gold chain from her and watching as she turns herself around, lifting her curls from her neck with ease. He swells with pride as the tips of his fingers brush against the soft skin of her neck, relishing this moment with all of his being.

When it is clasped and securely resting atop her collarbone, she turns in his arms, pressing her lips against his with the intensity of a heated meeting in private quarters. “It’s perfect,” she breathes against his lips, gently carding her hands through his hair as she stares into the depths of his silver eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he breathes back, capturing her lips again for another quick embrace. “Now, would you like your other gift?”

Sitting back on her heels so that there is a bit of space between them, Hermione looks away. “You didn’t have to get me two gifts. I only have one for you.”

“You are a gift as it is,” he croons, gently placing the second package in her hands. 

She tears the paper away haphazardly, tossing it off the couch and focusing on the contents of the box. When the lid is removed and she’s staring down at the top of it, the cover featuring the same picture from their wedding that was the first to grace their tree, she gasps again, her eyes filling with tears once more.

“It’s a scrapbook,” he explains, apprehensively watching as she opens the cover and begins to flip through the pages. “I filled it with all of our pictures and the notes we’ve sent each other and some other little things. I thought it would be a nice thing since it’s our first Christmas—”

In the middle of his explanation, she jumps up, grabbing her gift for him from where it rested on the table and shoving it towards him.

“I wasn’t—”

“I need you to open this right now, okay?” she asserts, one hand quickly wiping at the tears that have fallen from her eyes as a sniffle escapes her. 

Is something wrong? Is she leaving him? Oh Merlin, is she serving him divorce papers on Christmas?

“Nothing is wrong,” she promises, taking her seat across from him again and leaving the box in his lap. “I just need you to open this now because… well, because I need you to.”

Normally, he would argue with her, but her emotional state and the insistence in her tone convinces him to do otherwise, his fingers instead working at the paper with a speed and intensity he hasn’t possessed since he was a child, desperate to find a kneazle under his Christmas tree.

Lifting open the box, though, doesn’t reveal a kneazle. The first thing in the box is an ornament, a glass ball that seems very similar to the ones she placed on the tree with him.

“You know how my parents had the tradition of each of us placing an ornament that represented us on the tree as the first decorations to go on the tree?” At his nod, she continues. “Well, now we all have one, even if we aren’t keeping the tradition.”

We all? They both already have their ornaments, which prompts confusion to float through his brain. 

There’s more in the box, though, so he continues to rifle through, choosing to believe that perhaps the answer lies inside. Placing the ornament to the side, he suddenly comes face to face with—

A onesie? A red onesie that reads Baby’s first Christmas?

“You’re… y—you’re pregnant?”

The biggest smile he’s ever seen graces her lips as she nods almost imperceptibly so, the movement just barely visible. 

And at that, he knows. He knows that he is ready to admit how special this damn holiday is.

With her, it is so fucking special.