Chapter Text
***
Picking out gifts is torture, far worse than Crucio. What Hermione finds useful is what others find makes them snore or fall asleep instantly. She is never given quills or parchments, though the former are constantly broken and the latter has been disappearing from her room lately. Klaus, Ravenclaw's head boy, carries a mini pair of binoculars everywhere he goes (once telling Hermione four hours about the four constellations while her nose, hands, and feet were freezing up) and practices the unpleasant hobby of being a fan of Puffskeins. One of them is called 'Sweetie', though Hermione would rather call her 'Lightning Disposer'. She has a sniff for very important, very necessary entries for Hermione. She is selective in her taste: she eats only the freshest. Yesterday Hermione had tried to find the seating plan for the Christmas dinner, but instead she found a spit-up scrap of paper with the name "Dra" scrapped on it.
Hermione's patience is wearing thin that night. Klaus responds to her grievances by promising to give her what? That's right, a Puffskein. For this, his blue tie with an ink stain, carefully enchanted by Hermione, chases him around their Tower, whipping him on the cheeks, and then follows him to breakfast, where he spills pumpkin juice and causes displeased exclamations.
If Klaus were that real bellybutton existing in the Christmas reality myth person, children would wake up not to the smell of ginger cookies, but to a rough tongue in their nostrils. It would be a tragedy for her in that afe. When Hermione had two huge front teeth and couldn't pronounce "Christmas" without mangling the sounds, she asked Santa for one thing: to make her a wizard. Of her entire group at Hampstead Sunday School, only her letter was read to her parents because it was too literate and neat for her age.
Luckily, she didn't know then that in six years her wish would come true, and in fifteen years she wouldn't be able to decide whether to wrap presents for Ron and Harry with her hands or her wand.
Now Hermione had one goal and one desire: to put the planning out of her mind, drop her heavy bag of textbooks, and visit the new store in Hogsmeade, which was rumored to have a first edition of a collection of ancient Celtic spells. She needs it for the collection locked away in her personal bookcase. One reason: Harry and Ron unpacking the twentieth chocolate frog and doubting her ability to recognize famous people from their collodographs annoys her almost on Klaus' level. They don't believe that the man who disappeared from the card is Oswald Beamish. Though they can't think about goblin rights when they have a Quidditch match the day after tomorrow. Their eagerness is astounding: more active than in the previous six years. Of course, Hermione guesses why the boys need the competition so much. Each of them is trying to pretend to be a child in their final year at Hogwarts. Although Hermione is sure - each of them lost their childhood in July back in nineteen ninety-five.
Hogwarts smells like cranberries and cinnamon today, the smell of December mornings when her mother brings cocoa and she doesn't want to get out of her warm bed. This is the second vacation Hermione hasn't gone to her parents' house.
As Hermione steps out into the courtyard, a snickering Peeves flies past, throwing tangerine bones at a scrawny freshman whose robe is covered in gingerbread crumbs. Squeak. Hermione steps over a snowdrift. Not once, but as many as five times a barbaric attempt is made to throw a snowball at her. On the fifth, Hermione doesn't dodge.
"Bingo!"
Right in the face.
"You should have aimed lower, you idiot. Are you blind and can't see where her ass is?"
There is whispering and rummaging. Theodore Nott peeks out of the snowdrift: red ears, snub nose, a sly look. His curls sticking out in different directions make him look like a misbehaving elf who has mixed up not only the presents but also the addresses of the destinations. His wide smile is about to crack his ruddy cheeks. Horrible, horrible boys! They're all the same.
"Granger, where are you headed?"
Hermione wipes her face with her palm, snorts, and walks past with a proud gait, ignoring the rolled eyes of the sullen Malfoy who has risen from their hiding place. A grunt is heard: the inimitable laughter of Nott Junior.
***
The bookstore she was looking for was to the left of the "Magic Rutabaga", in a notable nook. To get to it, Hermione shook the goblin chorus that blocked the passageway and falsified it terribly. Small round windows, like holes in cheese. A bright light burns in them. The lanterns look a little like lily pads from Black Lake. The door is unusual: round with a scorched spiral, a little hypnotizing. A few broken dials hang from a crooked sign. It's covered in snow: Hermione reads, "Baldur's Nonsense." The next second, a page of The Prophet flies past her face. Warm air scorches her face - the door creaks open, catching a fluffy fir tree. It shakes off its white cap as Hermione walks past, causing her to jump in surprise. A recognizable, and therefore hateful, laugh echoes behind her. Unexpected, the Slytherin catching her off guard.
Hermione turns around and raises her chin expressively to look at least five centimeters taller. That winter coat makes his elongated, gaunt figure look bigger, or maybe he's stretched out a lot in the post-war year, like Ron. Either way Hermione doesn't like feeling small. In response, Malfoy, who has his hands buried in his pockets and a red plaque in place of his nose, throws his head back and snickers again. Exhaling steam from his mouth, he squares his shoulders and squints. The black color he likes best (not that Hermione watches him in her spare time, only occasionally in the Great Hall when classmates discuss him and giggle) is diluted by a green stain - in one second the scarf comes undone and falls at his feet. That's right: Malfoy had better be black and white, printed and certainly not colorful. Like the front page of the Prophet on the family's acquittal at the Wizengamot: that issue she wouldn't even finish reading. Like in sixth year, when he looked more like a ghost. His smirk made Hermione's chest grow irritated, but the dimple that appeared on his cheek destroyed the feeling. Instead, it felt hot between her ribs, as if from the mulled wine she planned to drink at the end of today's research mission in Hogsmeade.
Half the girls at Hogwarts like Draco Malfoy. It was a mystery what was cute about his lanky figure, sharp smarmy face, and sarcastic tone. It's not Hermione's place to determine the criteria, though. She has other priorities: purely academic, as teenage ones are always contemptible. Hermione doesn't need to like anyone: there is no need. When there are exciting rune tasks in the world, guys lose their attraction. Taking classes on free evenings is more interesting than gossiping about who kissed who behind the dragon statue by the bottom staircase.
"Are you following me, Malfoy?"
"What!?"
She narrows her eyes, and Malfoy responds with a sly, not angry look. Everything about him is unaccustomedly lax today. A gust of cold wind makes Hermione flinch, and Malfoy sways from foot to foot.
"I want to buy a book. Isn't that forbidden-" he dragged the end of his sentence unbearably, making Hermione clench her teeth in anticipation of the name-calling. "Head Girl?"
"I found this store first."
"He's been open a month, Granger."
"So? I came here first."
His blond eyebrows rise in feigned bewilderment:
"And?"
"You can't go in there! It's my turn."
"Yes, I can, Granger."
"You can't! Otherwise, I'll-"
She doesn't finish the sentence, of course. Malfoy lets out another chuckle, which makes Hermione tense up a hundred times more than if he'd given his usual response.
He walks past her, exhaling a draughty breath into her face.
"What are you goning to do to me?"
Hermione only had to hear the door slam, resign herself to her flushed cheeks, and reach for her wand to bait the scarf. It was a waste to have it lying around like that.
***
Hermione loves books a little less than reading itself. She has a dream of opening her own bookstore, where wizards could take Muggle literature for free use. True, she can't think of a name for it yet, only imagines a two-story building in her head. Upstairs her sleeping ned, downstairs a reading room with bookshelves. Hermione would enchant volumes to create pieces depending on the holiday. For Christmas, there would probably be a tree made from copies of History of Magic. Hermione would hang a huge sock knitted by Mrs. Weasley on the window, and the counter would be littered with postcards that only romantics send. Customers would wait for the check, look down and remember how once upon a time, not on the streets of gray London, they had laughed under the stars or run barefoot in the rain, in love and free.
Hermione would have liked to send a postcard from the cliff of Moher's herself right now, rather than trying to ignore Malfoy. His hair was damp: snowflakes had melted into the strands. His cheekbones are painted with a pinkish blush, and his shoulder blades are visible under the fabric of his turtleneck. She has to lift her gaze to the bookshelves to keep from staring for long.
Books are almost like people. The cover doesn't always say what's inside. Some books will be read overnight, while others will remain closed forever. Hermione can write an annotation if asked about Malfoy, though she would never read his story from the prologue to the ending.
Hermione glanced at the round wall clock: the hand was striking five to five. The store is empty, as if it had just been left. There is a chipped coffee cup on the table, a quill still in the inkwell. Garlands of oculus blossom as Hermione walks along the left-hand rack of scrolls. The only thing that distinguishes it from the usual bookcase is the mistletoe curling up from the ceiling. There are no self-flammable books, no volumes wanting to bite off a piece of your finger, no languidly sighing muscular men on the covers of bestsellers. Just floating candles, and a parasitic plant. It was worth controlling the distance between her and Malfoy.
Hermione doesn't have time to check the title of the book taken from the second shelf, Malfoy's voice interrupts her.
"What's that?"
She shifts her gaze to him. In his fingers is a small round bell wrapped in gray twigs. Malfoy leans over the table and examines it.
"You shouldn't ring it, Malfoy. It's probably the owner's."
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Maybe he's under a spell. You don't want your fingers to stick together, do you?"
He wrinkles his nose. Hermione has never seen him do this before. She has to admit that it's a contentedly cute sight.
"Oh, come on. It's just a piece of jewelry, that's all."
"I don't think so. Leave it alone. Maybe it's something dangerous."
Smirk.
"Isn't that your thing, Granger? A little risk? A little danger?"
"I've had enough danger last year, Malfoy. It was enough."
He grimaces.
"You always ruin the fun, don't you?"
"Unlike you, I'm capable of using my head."
"Or you're a bore, Granger. That's right, a bore."
She decides to ignore him, and Malfoy picks up the bell, studying it meticulously. A thoughtful expression is frozen on his face. Hermione squints at him disapprovingly.
"Malfoy, put it down," she asks quietly and adds. "Please. Ask the owner what it is."
"Whoa, did I mishear you? Did you say "please"?"
Hermione sighed heavily. It's just a waste of time.
"Fine, do whatever you want. I don't care," she gestured weakly in his direction." You'll deal with the consequences yourself."
The corner of his lips twitched.
"Well, if that's the case.:
A melodious chime reaches my ears. The hour hand stops, the candles go out and flare up again. A shower of sparks explodes in front of her nose: a small silver fairy appears out of thin air. Hermione takes a long look at her thin, shiny wings, her branchy hair, and her dress, which is a shriveled leaf. The fairy giggles nonstop, unkindly.
"Hey!"
The creature snaps her nose and pulls her hair, knocking over a few books and flying over to Malfoy, leaving a shimmering trail in the air behind it. The nasty giggling continues. Hermione watches as Malfoy brings his eyebrows together on the bridge of his nose.
The fairy clutches her belly, breathes frequently, and finally stops. It takes a minute before she squeaks out a message.
"The Ha-Ha Fairy's security system has been activated. The "Ha-Ha" fairy bell can only be used by the master, but you are not the owner, and therefore I am forced to take action as instructed! Hooray, hooray! I won't let you out!"
"You won't let us out?!" Hermione is outraged. "Are you going to lock us in here?!"
"Yeah, yeah, lock you in here! Heh-heh-heh, that's the way to do it!"
Malfoy jumps up in an attempt to catch her, but the fairy dodges.
"Silly, hee ha! You haven't stolen anything yet, like some past bad-boy visitors, and so I'll lock you up, but I won't giggle you to death."
"Merlin-" Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is absurd."
"|Look, why don't we make a deal? Maybe we can offer something useful? We didn't mean to steal anything. Right, Granger?"
"Yes, yes. And I didn't summon you," she nods toward Malfoy. "He has no brains, so he was just curious."
"I didn't ring the bell because I was curious, Granger."
"That's the only reason so far."
"I called because I was curious to see your reaction."
"What a great idea, Malfoy! Now what are you gonna do? Why don't you eat a puking pastille to see how I react?"
"I'm not dumb enough to go for that."
"Oh, you're, uh."
The fairy shrieks, and they are interrupted.
"Heh-heh-heh, I got an idea, I got an idea. The little bad children will get out of here, but on one condition. A little, tiny, tiny condition. Yeah, yeah, great!"
"I don't like this," Hermione says weakly. "What's the condition?"
The fairy unwinds and flies up to the ceiling.
"I have served my owner for so long, but never once have we had such a beautiful boy and girl stop by! Cute, clever, honest. Master's mom would be so happy if she knew what I was going to do," a thin hand touches the mistletoe. "Phew, very, very happy."
"What do we have to do?"
The fairy giggles again, makes a few circles and sits down on the table between her and Malfoy.
"A kiss! Hee-haw, one kiss! A tiny, tiny, tiny kiss! Not on the cheek, but right on the lips! Don't you dare cheat! Master's mother made mistletoe into a flower of love, and you broke the rule! " She's throwing her arms out to the sides."You can come out when you kiss! Heh, good luck! Bye!"
A sheaf of silver sparks - the fairy disappeared into thin air. Hermione shifted her angry gaze to Malfoy, who blinked several times in disbelief.
Merlin, they're doomed and will grow old here. Hermione would rather kiss a toad than Malfoy.