Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Draco

Draco strode down the long empty corridor, strewn with garlands and fairy lights, cursing under his breath. Cursing himself and his obviously terrible, horrible, no good, very bad judgement. In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever done anything quite so ill-advised his entire life, and that was…well, it was saying a lot, really. 

He stopped at a set of large double doors, almost knocking over a massive potted topiary, and looked into the drawing room. At the roaring fire in the hearth. The festive decorations. And the much too-large – much too elaborate — Christmas tree. It had to be what? At least ten feet tall. Maybe more. Strewn with ribbons, lights, and too much tinsel.

It wasn’t necessary. 

Any of it. 

He honestly couldn’t figure out what had possessed him to tell the house elves to decorate as usual. Nothing was as usual this Christmas. Nothing at all.

And it never would be again.

The manor was empty. His father was, of course, still serving a life sentence — with no furloughs and absolutely no chance of parole. And his mother…well, his mother had passed suddenly two months ago — a ruptured aneurysm. One minute she was discussing how to put the gardens to bed for the winter, and the next she was gone. Instantly. There’d been nothing he could do.

There just wasn’t any point in decorating anymore. He certainly didn’t care.

Nor did the dog. Although…that was maybe debatable.

Draco frowned, watching the rescued greyhound lying contentedly in front of the Christmas tree. It’d be an almost perfect holiday scene if it weren’t for the fact he was chewing on the latest in a string of stolen ornaments. The dog had somehow managed to thwart each and every one of the house elves' anti-tampering, anti-theft, and anti-breakage charms. He’d be proud of the canine if he wasn’t so worried he was going to kill himself in the process. Or at the very least cause an intestinal blockage of some sort.

“Drop it,” he commanded, drawing out the first word. 

The dog paused and looked up, his eyes wide and innocent, effectively asking who me? 

“Atlas,” Draco added, a touch of discipline in his voice. Atlas’ mouth hung open, dropping the now barely recognisable sparkle-encrusted ornament. “Good boy. Now come,” he said, while slapping his lap with two quick taps.

The dog jumped up and ran to Draco’s side, following him out of the drawing room and into the corridor, all the way to the library, where he immediately found his squeaky Cornish Pixie toy, settled by the fire and began chewing.

Draco, meanwhile, made his way to the bar cart in the corner where he picked up a decanter of Firewhisky, unstoppered it, then paused. Shook his hand put it down, the golden liquid sloshing around inside. Unpoured.

He couldn’t drink…He was on call tonight. Another terrible fucking decision in a string of miscalculations and errors. Especially considering all he wanted to do was get shit-faced, go to bed, and forget all about Christmas this year.

He sighed and looked at the grandfather clock in the corner — ten minutes to midnight. He gave up. Surrendered. Reached and pushed his glasses out of the way to rub his eyes, then sighed again, looking down at the dog, asking, “Bed?”

Atlas cocked his head, then jumped up to follow Draco as he left the library and made his way upstairs, and finally to the bedroom. He walked in, lighting the room with a wave, then began unfastening the top buttons of his shirt. Abandoned them halfway down and pulled his arms out of his suspenders, instead. Sat down on the large four-poster bed, kicked off his shoes, and then resumed unbuttoning his shirt.

He almost didn’t hear the light tapping on the window. It was barely discernible. 

Draco frowned and got up. Moved across the bedroom and pulled aside the heavy curtains to find an unfamiliar owl sitting on the windowsill, a telltale cuff around its ankle.

It was from St. Mungo’s.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, sliding the window open and untying a small scroll from the bird’s leg. It flew off immediately — exuding an air of self-importance — while Draco flattened the envelope, broke its seal and opened it, pulling out a small slip of parchment and a button. He sucked on his teeth, and read its contents:

—

December 24, 2006, 11:29pm

::: URGENT ASSISTANCE REQUIRED :::

St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries requests your immediate presence at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to assist in the treatment of large-scale poisoning by an UNKNOWN substance or potion.

::: HEALERS ON CALL :::
Healer D. Malfoy
Healer H. Granger

—

He took a deep breath, took off his shirt and walked into the closet to fetch a new one. Put it on, pulled up his suspenders and stopped by his bureau, pocketing a few Invigoration Draughts — it was going to be a long night, after all.

A long night with Granger, of all people.

~*~*~*~*~

Hermione

“Mum, where are the green sprinkles?” Hermione asked, shuffling through the cabinet of baking supplies.

“They’re on the table. I pulled them out ages ago.”

Hermione turned to find a small army of sprinkle containers lined up like soldiers — red, silver, gold, and an obscene amount of edible glitter her mother had insisted on buying. No green. 

“Did you forget to buy green?” Hermione asked. 

Her mum glanced over from where she was measuring ingredients. “I pulled it out…” 

Hermione heard the knocking and rolling coming from under the table. The pitter-patter of paw pads on the kitchen floor. When she looked, a large orange cat stared back at her. Crookshanks had jumped on the kitchen table and batted the sprinkles to the floor to play with.

“Crooks!” Hermione scolded. 

Her mother snorted behind her. “At least it was only sprinkles this time and not the entire turkey.” 

That had been quite a disaster a few years ago. Hermione was surprised her mum still welcomed Crookshanks back.

It smelled delightfully of butter, vanilla, and nutmeg — a Christmas Eve tradition Hermione had fought hard to reclaim. While she and her mother baked cookies in the kitchen, they could hear her father’s booming laugh echoing from the sitting room where he watched A Christmas Story for the hundredth time. They would all end up in bed around midnight and sleep in before spending Christmas day together. It was one of the rare occasions Hermione slept in her childhood bedroom.

Hermione collected the green sprinkles from her cat while her mother started mixing the butter with the confectioner’s sugar to make the frosting. The cookies had already cooled for an hour. They were in various Christmas shapes — snowmen, stars, candy canes, Christmas trees, stockings, but decorating was always Hermione’s favourite part. 

“And Ralphie’s going to shoot his eye out,” her father quoted from the other room, laughing as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

Hermione grinned, wiping her hands on her knitted jumper decorated with a large cat wearing glasses and a Santa hat and sat at the kitchen table to get started, chatting with her mother about work and recent family gossip. 

Hermione picked up a star-shaped cookie and unceremoniously slathered it with green frosting using a knife. “Mrs. Henderson still giving you grief about the hedges?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe—” her mother launched into a story about the neighbour’s complaints, gesturing with her piping bag. A dollop of frosting landed on the table, but went unnoticed.

“What about you, love? Are you still seeing that boy?” Her mother asked, distributing red frosting onto a candy cane cookie with a piping bag. She even used a toothpick to ensure it laid just so.

“What boy?” Hermione asked, flipping up the cap on the sprinkles to dump them liberally on her star.

“The redheaded one.” 

Hermione paused, her hand hovering over the cookie. “Ron?”

“Yes! How is he?”

“Ron and I broke up nine years ago.”

“Oh.” Her mother’s brow furrowed, that small crease of confusion that always made Hermione’s chest ache. “Was it that long ago? I could have sworn.”

It had taken seven years.

Seven years of careful memory reconstruction, of sitting at this very kitchen table with photographs and stories, of watching her parents slowly remember they had a daughter. Seven years of rebuilding trust, of proving she would not disappear again, of making Christmas matter.

This would be their third Christmas since she’d restored their memories. There were still gaps, and sometimes, they struggled to recall things Hermione told them about her life. She could understand why — she had focused the memory charm on her existence all those years ago. She was going to war, and her parents weren’t safe.

Her mum and dad tried to reassure her that they weren’t angry about what she did, but the guilt lingered. 

“It’s okay,” Hermione said, forcing brightness into her voice. “He’s actually married now. To Daphne Greengrass. I told you about her? Blonde, works in the Department of Mysteries, makes these little dark chocolate truffles that are absolutely divine—”

Hermione let the initial blow run off her as she told her mother all she knew about Daphne Greengrass with more enthusiasm than necessary.

A soft tapping sound distracted her.

An owl sat on her windowsill. Unfamiliar, but official-looking.

Hermione’s stomach dropped. She stood, dread pooling as she crossed to the window and unlatched it. The bird flew in, extending its leg with an urgency that confirmed her worst fears.

She untied the scroll and read the missive.

Holiday calls were part of her career, but there were almost never emergencies severe enough that she was called in. 

Her eyes scanned the words “large-scale poisoning” and “unknown substance” with increasing despair. 

“Hermione?” Her mother asked. 

She continued reading. 

—

The enclosed PORTKEY will activate at midnight to take you to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

—

Hermione reached in the envelope and pulled out a small button.

She checked the time — 11:54. She only had six minutes. 

“What is it?” Her mum asked, giving the owl a disgruntled look as it plucked at a cooling cookie. 

“I’m sorry, mum. I have to go.”

Chapter Text

Hermione

Hermione landed in the familiar entry hall with the grace of a drunken hippogriff. The Portkey’s pull left her dizzy. She steadied herself and spotted Malfoy across the hall.

He must have arrived at the same time, but unlike her, he looked infuriatingly composed in pristine healer’s robes, his dragonhide bag at his side. He wore a simple pair of spectacles perched on his nose like a model in an ad. His pale hair was mussed from travel, but somehow that only made him look more—

Hermione cut off her line of thinking. She needed to be professional.

Their eyes met, and something flickered in his expression — surprise, maybe, or amusement. His gaze dropped to her jumper, and she could have sworn his lips twitched.

Damn! She forgot to change before leaving the house! She was still wearing the ugly Christmas jumper with a Christmas cat and a fine layer of flour. At least she remembered her beaded bag containing her healing supplies.

“Granger,” he greeted, crossing toward her with an efficient stride. “Festive.” He nodded at her jumper.

“I was baking,” she said, hastily brushing away the flour with her hands. “The Portkey didn’t give me time to change.”

“I see.” He pulled out his wand and waved it at her, vanishing the mess with a simple charm. He was definitely trying not to smile. “Well, Pomfrey’s waiting in the Great Hall. Apparently, half of the Yule Ball attendees ingested some sort of poison. They set up a makeshift hospital wing there.”

“Didn’t you just get here too?” 

“I sent a Patronus requesting more details. Wanted to make sure I brought appropriate supplies.” 

Hermione flushed, feeling utterly incompetent. She had been so flustered when the owl arrived. It hadn’t occurred to her…

She shook it off. Now was not the time to berate herself. She would learn from this experience and do better next time.

“Any idea what this unknown substance might be?” she asked.

“Not yet.” They fell into step beside each other as they walked towards the Great Hall. He stood close enough that she caught the faint scent of his familiar cologne — woodsy and clean. She told him she liked it a few weeks ago, and now he wore it more often. Or maybe that was just her imagination. Why would Draco Malfoy care if she liked his cologne? 

This was not the time to be noticing these things!

“Any details regarding symptoms?” Hermione asked, refocusing on the problem.

“Mix of nausea, dizziness, euphoria, hallucinations, shortness of breath, syncope, and some convulsions,” his voice shifted into a clinical tone that she found unreasonably attractive. “But I don’t think they are seizures. Convulsive syncope—”

“I know what convulsive syncope is!” she snapped, trying to scrape her wounded pride off the floor.

“Of course, I didn’t mean to imply,” his lips twitched as they rounded the corner. Ivy decorated the bannisters, and wreaths hung from the walls. They passed a suit of armor wearing a Santa hat struggling with the belt of the matching Santa suit. Hermione missed Christmas at the castle.

“Madame Pomfrey stabilized the worst cases,” he said. “But there are a handful of other patients that they requested backup for triage and treatment.”

Hermione wondered just how many were poisoned. Hopefully, they could handle it between the three of them. Would they have a way to get students to St. Mungo’s if they should need a higher level of care? 

She didn’t voice the question out loud.

He pushed open the massive door to the Great Hall. “The working theory is someone must have spiked the punch. We will need to get a few samples to test—”

He stopped talking 

Hermione understood why. 

The room was decorated with icicles, Christmas trees covered in snow, and beautiful ice sculptures. It reminded her of her own time at the Yule Ball with Viktor. It was magical, with a winter wonderland feel. Soft flakes of snow dusted from the enchanted ceiling but never accumulated in the room. Candles situated around the hall created a warm glow. 

The Yule Ball occurred every twelve years when the Triwizard Tournament was held at Hogwarts. Despite Cedric’s tragic death, they continued to rotate the tournament between the competing schools every four years. 

Luckily, thanks to heavier safety measures, no fatal accidents have occurred. 

Half of the hall was filled with conjured cots. Students lay in various states of distress — some curled on their sides with buckets, others thrashing, and a few were ominously still. 

“Granger! Malfoy! Thank Merlin,” Madam Pomfery stood in the centre of the chaos, beckoning them over.

Hermione spotted Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout moving about the room, cleaning up and administering potions. Tiny Professor Flitwick scrambled by on his two stubby legs with a tray of potions. 

“I got these from the dungeons!” He called out, setting them on a table with various other bottles. Hermione wondered what they were using.

They approached Madame Pomfery, inspecting the students as they passed. The older witch looked haggard. “I’ve stabilized the critical cases, but I need help. The counter-potions aren’t working as they should.” 

“What can we do to help?” Malfoy asked, flipping open his healer’s bag. 

“Well—” Madame Pomfrey trailed off, looking flustered. “I still need to figure out what exactly they were poisoned with.”

Hermione’s mind shifted into assessment mode. She and Malfoy developed a rhythm over the years of working together. 

“I’ll start with diagnostic charms,” Hermione said. “Map out who needs what.” 

“I’ll get samples from the punch bowl and start the analysis. Figure out what we are dealing with. You are faster with the diagnostic charms than I am, anyway.” 

It was true, but his acknowledgement of it made something flutter in her stomach. 

He stepped aside towards the abandoned food and drinks, pulling supplies from his bag. It didn’t surprise Hermione to find he had a makeshift potion station on him. He had magically expanded his bag, like Hermione had done with hers. 

She pulled out her wand and approached the first row of cots. 

“Hi there,” Hermione said, kneeling beside the bedside of a girl wearing a purple evening gown, who gazed up at her with glassy, unfocused eyes. “I’m Healer Granger. Can you tell me your name?”

“Eugenia.”

“And where are you right now?” Hermione went through the basic orientation questions as she moved her wand to cast the familiar diagnostic spell. 

The student answered the questions accurately, but grew pale. A silver thread of magic spread across her torso, changing colours to indicate vital signs and mapping out internal distress. 

“Can you tell me what you drank tonight?” Hermione asked. 

“Just punch. And champagne. My date brought it.” Her face went green. “Merlin!” 

Hermione conjured a fresh basin just in time. Then she reached in her bag and produced a notebook, jotting down the elevated heart rate, mild respiratory distress, nausea, and non-bloody, non-bilious emesis.  

She moved to the next cot — a boy in Beauxbaton-blue dress robes who couldn’t stop giggling, speaking rapidly.

“I can fly!” he said earnestly in French, making swooping motions with his arms. “Je peux voler! Tout ce qu’il me faut, c’est de sauter d’un endroit suffisamment haut...”

“You absolutely cannot fly,” Hermione replied in perfect French, casting her diagnostic charm. Euphoria, hallucinations, delirium, grandiose ideas, tachycardia, hypertension, mydriasis. “Promettez-moi que vous ne tenterez pas.”

“Mais oui, je sais que je peux le faire—”

“Promettez-moi.” 

She considered whether it would be safer to give him Dreamless Sleep to prevent a disaster, but he nodded, looking childishly disappointed. Then returned to rolling restlessly on the bed. It appeared someone had already put a sticking charm on him so he wouldn’t wander off. 

The next student was a Durmstrang girl, thrashing and muttering in what sounded like Bulgarian or Russian. She was scratching at her skin, saying something about bugs. 

Hermione administered a mild calming draught before running diagnostics: paranoia, anxiety, and hallucinations. 

She found one boy being tended to by Professor McGonagall who gasped for air, her eyes rolling in her cot. 

“Try Strengthening Solution mixed with a touch of Calming Draught. They work synergistically. A little Calming Draught will go a long way,” Hermione advised the headmistress. 

The older witch thanked her and went to retrieve the recommended potions. She would have a hard time getting the distressed student to drink it.

Hermione was still working with the wizarding community on implementing IV formulations of potions — with little success so far. Several weeks ago she had talked to Malfoy about it during one of their late shifts together and, to her surprise, he whole-heartedly supported the idea, agreeing that having an alternative route of access, should oral administration not be feasible, could really change the world of healing.

His enthusiasm for the project had flattered her. He made her believe it had real potential and was worth fighting for. 

She had to wonder if there were multiple substances going around. It didn’t seem like all the children had ingested the same thing, given the wide array of presentations. While some thought they were invisible, others believed they were dying.

A Ravenclaw sixth-year insisted she could solve any problem if Hermione would just listen to her brilliant plan. A Beauxbaton girl in an elaborate ball gown kept herself curled in a ball and whimpered about shadows. A Durmstrang boy kept insisting he needed to go duel someone right now to prove his worth. Then a Gryffindor seventh-year could do nothing more than vomit.

The variety was unusual. Too extreme for a simple poisoning. 

She glanced up to find Malfoy standing by his potions station. He’d shed his outer robes, working in a white shirt and waistcoat, sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

Her mouth went dry. She licked her lips.

He looked up at the same moment and met her gaze, his expression glowing with excitement. “Granger!” he called.

She shook off whatever Malfoy-induced daze she had been in and rushed to meet him.

“I’ve identified the base,” he said, holding up a vial of punch. “Felix Felicis. Badly brewed. Heavily diluted.”

“What?!”

“Mixed with Firewhisky and Ageing Potion?” he continued. 

Her mind swam with the information, trying to recall potion interactions and toxicity effects.

“There are also trace amounts of what I think is Essence of Dittany.” He set the vial down, running a hand through his hair. “The interaction is creating varying effects. Some students are experiencing euphoria, hallucinations, and grandiose ideas from the toxic brew of Felix Felicis, but others are having the opposite reaction with anxiety and respiratory depression.” 

“Bad batches of Felix Felicis can be dangerous.”

“Destabilized further by the Ageing Potion.”

“And the Firewhisky is probably inducing nausea. Horrid combination.” 

“Luckily none of this should be life-threatening, but the interaction prolongs the half-life of the potion, meaning it could be days before it gets better if we let it run its course.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. While the symptoms themselves were manageable, they couldn’t leave the students to suffer for so long.

“Why Essence of Dittany?” Hermione asked, her brow furrowing. 

Malfoy sucked his teeth in a gesture that Hermione did not notice or stare at. Then his eyes met hers. They both had the same thought. They had done this before on late shifts, when an answer came to them. They would talk over each other, finish each other’s sentences, and exhilarate in the puzzle that they solved together. 

“We need to counteract the Felix Felicis first,” she said

“Agreed, then stabilize with a standard bezoar for the alcohol and potion interactions.”

“It takes forty minutes to brew the counteragent.” 

Malfoy smirked. “Not if we modify it.” He was already pulling ingredients from his bag. “Strip it to the essential base. Then speed brew. It isn’t protocol—”

“I trust you,” Hermione interrupted. 

He looked taken aback. “You trust me to change a restricted potion on the fly?” 

“I—” she hesitated. His piercing grey eyes watched her with an intense heat behind them. Something twisted low in her abdomen. She licked her lips before answering. “Of course. You have always been brilliant with potions.” 

~*~*~*~*~

Draco

His gaze lingered on Granger for maybe slightly longer than was strictly necessary. She really did look ridiculous in that hideous jumper — she also looked adorable — with her cheeks flushed and her curls pulled back into a messy bun sparkling with some sort of…was that glitter?

She raised her eyebrows in inquiry, and he blinked. Snapped out of it. “I’ll get started then,” he said with a dip of his chin, and got to brewing.

***

It was a long night, despite the speed brew and the practiced efficiency with which he and Granger worked together. They made a good team. Professionally speaking, that is. It didn’t mean anything that he couldn’t stop looking for her — he was only checking if she needed assistance, though she never did. Not really. Granger was an excellent healer, and had a bedside manner to match. She spoke kindly with her patients. Empathised with them. Put them at ease…which was something Draco always struggled with. He was an exceptional healer — there was no doubt in his mind about that — but he was abrupt. Efficient. Some went so far as to call him rude.

A guttural moan interrupted his meandering thoughts, followed by a heaving sound as one of Draco’s last patients, a young witch in a frilly purple dress, vomited all over his dragonhide shoes.

Draco took off his glasses and closed his eyes. Pinched his nose, muttering, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” under his breath.

“It’s okay, Eugenia. Let me help get you cleaned up.”

He opened his eyes to find Granger had swooped in and was already helping the girl — Eugenia, apparently — clean up the spittle on her chin, and settle her back in the cot, while he…stood by and watched his coworker bend over.

Granger had a phenomenal arse. 

Not one of those flat ones that gave you nothing to grab onto—

“Malfoy?”

Draco frowned. 

“Could you hand me a towel, please?”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied distractedly, looking at where Granger was pointing and tracing a straight path from her hand to…a pile of towels at the end of the cot. He leaned over and grabbed one, passing it to her. She finished wiping Eugenia up and then turned to him and huffed.

“Now you?” she asked, gesturing towards his shoes. “Do you need help getting those cleaned up?”

“Nah,” he shrugged. “They’re ruined.”

“Malfoy!” she exclaimed, shifting her weight onto one foot. She planted her hand on the opposite hip. “You’re a wizard, for crying out loud, scourgify them.”

“Not worth it.”

“Honestly,” she sighed in exasperation, reaching up and pulling her wand out of her hair, then waving it at his feet, cleaning his shoes. 

He put his hands in his pockets, rolled back on his heels, then stood up straight. Looked down at his pristine shoes and sucked on his teeth, shaking his head. “Nope. It’s not the same,” he declared, trying hard not to laugh at the expression of disbelief on Granger’s face.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“It’s possible. Apart from work my only conversations are with house-elves and a dog.”

Her brows drew down in the middle. “But…” she started, then trailed off, understanding dawning on her face. 

He was alone.

“You have a dog?” 

“I do,” he nodded, noticing but not acknowledging her pivot. He looked up at the enchanted ceiling. The soft flurries from earlier had become decidedly more dense. Ominous. A heavy blanket of snow falling rapidly.

“You know,” she smiled and cocked her head. “I honestly can’t imagine what kind of dog Draco Malfoy would have…something sophisticated or elegant looking, I should think. A purebred, for sure. A Dobermann, maybe? A Poodle? Oh! What about a Borzoi?”

Draco bit his lips and glanced around. Confirming there were no new patients needing to be tended to, nor any previous ones, for that matter. Most had responded well to their treatment, been stabilised, and sent back to their dorms to complete their recovery. Only the worst cases remained in the Great Hall, requiring more careful observation, and Madam Pomfrey was already arranging for their relocation to the hospital wing. His eyes flicked back up to the enchanted ceiling – the sight of which caused a slight dip in his stomach – and slowly started moving away from Eugenia’s bedside. Granger followed him — as if there was an invisible string pulling her along — throwing out the names of more dog breeds she thought he might possibly possess. Honestly. She was just naming random dogs at this point. He rolled his eyes, making his way out of the maze of cots and exiting the makeshift field hospital. 

He took a deep breath. 

The air was clearer on this side of the Great Hall. Less hot. Less sticky. Less smelly. 

“A greyhound, Granger. I adopted a former racing dog named Atlas,” he finally told her.

She stopped and looked at him. “Oh,” she frowned. “You got a rescue. That’s…actually really great, Malfoy. How long have you had it?”

“Not long,” he replied, moving around miscellaneous cocktail tables towards the windows. “Maybe a few months?” He paused and looked at her. At how open and inviting her expression was. He felt like he could tell her anything. “After my mum died,” he admitted, no longer looking at her, but out the hall’s tall arched windows. “Fucking hell,” he breathed. 

The snow looked far worse than what the ceiling reflected.

It was coming down fast. Big fat snowflakes fell in dense sheets, creating what looked like an impenetrable wall of white, except for the odd squall that would blow and toss it about, making it appear that the snow was falling up, rather than down.

It felt like being inside a snow globe that had just been shaken.

“Is there a lot of accumulation?” Granger asked, her tone full of worry. She was standing next to him, leaning against the castle wall, up on her toes, but still unable to properly see out the window.

She really was short.

“You might say that,” Draco responded, wincing, as he took in the massive snow drifts accumulating in and around the castle grounds. They had to be over a metre deep in some spots. “I don’t think we’re going anywhere tonight,” he added.

“But it’s Christmas,” she exclaimed, looking up at him in alarm.

“It’s a blizzard, Granger,” he replied, pointing out the window. “There’ll be no Apparating through that. The floo network will be closed. I wouldn’t even trust a portkey in such severe weather.”

“But…” she looked up at the ceiling, then back down at the cat on her Christmas jumper. Her face fell.

“I’m sorry you’re going to miss spending Christmas with your family,” he said, attempting to mirror her disappointment.

But the truth of the matter was, Draco wasn’t disappointed at all. Hell, he’d been planning on spending his holiday alone. Well, alone with his dog. He was pretty sure that with this turn of events, his Christmas had just gotten infinitely better.

Chapter Text

Draco

“So what are we supposed to do?” Granger asked, looking around herself helplessly. “Just stay here?”

“Until we’re sure all of our patients are stable and Pomfrey doesn’t need us anymore, we’re stuck here, anyway.” Draco shrugged. “Afterwards, I guess we try to make our way through the snow to Hogsmeade and see what’s what. I remember reading a few years back that the Three Broomsticks was part of some new experimental floo network? I don’t know if it ever came to fruition, but it might be worth having a look.”

She frowned.

“What?”

“You seem remarkably calm about all of this.”

“There’s nothing we can do, Granger. We’re stuck here. There’s no point being upset about it.”

“I’m not upset…” she started, then trailed off. Shook her head and licked her lips in a positively tantalising way, her tongue just peeking out ever so slightly. In and out. Draco’s eyes narrowed. “It’s just that I’ve worked so hard to restore my parents' memories…to rebuild and re-establish our traditions so they have something tangible they can hold on to…something to help them remember…” She heaved a sigh, seeming utterly dejected. “And now I won’t be there…” 

It was strange seeing her this way. So unlike what he was used to — carrying herself with the utmost confidence and assuredness in her healing abilities and treatment plans…and with excitement. There was nothing Granger loved more than solving a complex diagnosis. From helping someone. 

But now? 

Now she was unsure of herself. Vulnerable. 

Everyone at the hospital knew what Granger had done to protect her parents during the war. And everything she’d done since to try and restore their memories of her. To reintegrate herself into their lives. It couldn’t be easy — on her, or her parents. And now she was missing such an important event — such an important tradition…well, Draco felt an irresistible urge to…to comfort her.

Yes.

That’s what he felt.

That was all he felt.

“You need a drink,” he finally said, apropos of nothing.

She looked up at him and frowned. “Malfoy, we are literally on site, in an emergency. It would be highly irresponsible––”

“I’m not suggesting you get hammered, Granger. Just have a little something to take the edge off,” he interrupted, moving towards a table filled with refreshments leftover from the ball and scanning the options. “If we serve Butterbeers to thirteen-year olds, surely a healer on call can have one,” he went on, reaching across the table and grabbing two bottles of cold Butterbeer.

“That’s fair,” she conceded. “But I prefer my Butterbeer hot,” she added, gesturing towards an arrangement of large beer steins, still steaming thanks to a well-applied warming charm.

“Do you?” He asked, turning to look at her. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

Draco bit his lips, attempting not to smirk. “Granger. As you pointed out mere moments ago, we’re on the site of a medical emergency where beverages were spiked with a series of potions, resulting in a mass poisoning––”

“I know where we are, Malfoy.”

“––and now you’re telling me you’d prefer to drink from an open stein that’s been sitting out on the table…”

She sucked in a breath and bit her lips as she realised what Draco was telling her. “You’re absolutely right,” she said, shaking her head. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Completely understandable under the circumstances,” Draco replied, holding a cold bottle of Butterbeer next to the table, aligning its cap on the edge, then forcefully slamming his other hand down on it to pop it off. He handed the open bottle to her, then repeated the process on his own. “So tell me,” he started, taking a swig. He moved along the table to where it was empty and perched himself upon it. “What holiday traditions were you trying to rebuild tonight before being called away?”

“I was baking with my mum,” she replied, the ghost of a smile pulling at her lips as she stepped up on the bench and sat next to him on the table. 

“So late?”

She took a sip and nodded. “It took us a while to get started…we started off looking through old photo albums of when we used to do it…”

“What were you baking?”

“Cookies.”

“And you didn’t bring any for me?” he asked, leaning over to push her shoulder with his own, his tone mock-insulted.

“They weren’t finished,” she replied, taking another swig of Butterbeer to cover a smile.

“And your dad? Was he helping?”

“No, he’s never been much of a baker…if he were to participate, he’d accidentally use salt instead of sugar, and then burn everything anyway, so it wouldn’t matter,” she laughed. “He was watching A Christmas Story.”

“I don’t know what that is, Granger.”

“A classic holiday film about a little boy who wants a Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas.”

“I don’t know what that is, either,” Draco admitted, looking at her. 

She was trying not to laugh at him — or at his complete lack of awareness of muggle popular culture. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright with amusement. Her upper arm completely against his, almost leaning into him.

It felt…nice. Really nice. Comfortable. He started wondering what it would feel like to put his arm around her shoulder — to have her snuggle right in––

“What were your plans for tonight?” she asked, interrupting his wandering thoughts.

“Being on call,” he replied, not particularly wanting to discuss himself or the empty manor. He took another swig of beer as she hummed non-commitally in response. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she commented, gesturing around the Great Hall and its elaborate Yule Ball decorations. “I remember ours so vividly. It felt positively magical.”

“It actually was magical,” Draco smirked. “What with all of the enchantments and fairies, and such.”

“You know what I mean,” she laughed, giving him the side eye.

Her laugh was magical.

“I do,” he nodded, biting back his own chuckle. “Though I can’t honestly say I remember much about the decorations.”

“No?”

“Nah.” He scratched the stubble on his chin and looked down at her. “What I do remember with certainty, though, was you.”

“Me?” she asked in disbelief.

“Indeed,” Draco replied, standing up and getting them both another Butterbeer. When he returned he didn’t sit back down on the table, but instead remained standing in front of her. “That was the first time I really saw you for what you were…” He went on, pointing his bottle at her. “Once you had all of that hair out of the way.”

“That was all the Sleekeazy,” she laughed, then grew serious. “But what did you see?”

He sucked his teeth and shrugged. “Someone I desperately wanted to dance with, but was too afraid to ask,” he admitted.

Her mouth dropped open.

“I’m not scared now, though,” he went on, placing his bottle of beer on the table and extending his hand. “Will you dance with me, Healer Granger?”

“What, now?” she asked, her expression looking…honestly, Draco wasn’t sure how to interpret it. Was she surprised? Flattered? Mortified?

~*~*~*~*~

Hermione

Hermione gaped at his open palm. “But — but there’s no music,” she argued, her face flushing. She glanced over at the cots. Most students had recovered and were told to go to their beds, with the instruction to report to the Hospital Wing in the morning. Those still experiencing symptoms were escorted to the Hospital Wing for the night. All that remained were a few scattered professors, vanishing the conjured cots and mess. 

“We don’t need music,” he said.

“I — do you know how to dance?” she asked, feeling foolish, still not looking at him. 

He scoffed. “I had all the etiquette training one would expect of a wealthy pureblood child,” he said it in a way that sounded self-mocking. “Do you know how to dance?”

“Of course!” 

She returned her gaze to Malfoy, who had a strange expression on his face. Almost hurt. Like he genuinely feared she might say no.

He schooled his features and stood with a dramatic flourish, dipping into a bow. “Then dance with me, Hermione.” 

Any hint of prior unease vanished. He became every bit the proper pureblood prince that he was — elegant, sophisticated, handsome…

And if she were honest with herself, she wanted to dance with him. 

She wanted him to hold her close as they swayed across the Great Hall. She had wanted that all those years ago too…it was a forbidden attraction from her school days that she never paid much mind to, but sometimes, late at night, she would let those fantasies of Draco Malfoy play in her mind. 

This isn’t a fantasy, she thought as she reached for his outstretched hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. This is really happening.

Maybe she would blame the Butterbeer — which she knew was crazy considering its negligible alcohol content. 

Like she hoped he would, he tugged her closer, her body pressing against his, and they danced. It wasn’t anything exquisite. They didn’t waltz across the dance floor to the sound of the wind blowing against the windows. In fact, for all the fanfare about insisting they both could dance, they did nothing but sway from side to side, his hand firmly held on her hip while she gripped his shoulder. 

Neither of them mentioned the weather. They didn’t consider their obligation to help — since that was their purpose for being here. Hermione didn’t worry about how she would get home now that it was Christmas morning.

For now, this was enough. 

Draco’s hand shifted, his fingers spreading wider, pulling her infinitesimally closer. Hermione’s breath hitched. She was acutely aware of every point of contact between them — his hand in hers, her palm on his shoulder, the way her chest brushed against his with each sway. 

She wished there was music…something to distract from this intensity. From the fever that raged under her skin.

“I’ve thought about this,” he said, his breath brushing against her ear. 

“Thought about what?” she sounded breathless. As if the slow rocking they pretended was actual dancing was physically exerting.

“Dancing with you. Being this close.” He paused, and she felt him swallow. “More than I probably should have.” 

Her heart hammered so loudly she was certain he’d be able to hear it. “Draco—”

“I know.” He started. 

What did he know? She didn’t even know what she was going to say. She spoke to fill the tension between them. Hoping to break the spell instead of letting him draw her in deeper. 

His thumb traced a small circle on her hip, the touch burning through the knitted fabric of her ugly Christmas jumper. Then his palm shifted, splaying across her lower back and drawing her closer. She was grateful for his hold on her — it kept her grounded.

“I know this is complicated,” he continued. “I know we have history. I know all the reasons this is a terrible idea.” 

Was it such a terrible idea? What was wrong with it? 

“Why—” 

“Because I can’t stop thinking…about you, about the possibility, about your arse when you wear those bloody denims that drive me crazy.” His fingers stroked lower, running over the edge of the denim fabric in question. Just a hair further and he would be decidedly holding her arse.

Part of her wished he would move that tiny distance. That he might cross that threshold once and for all.

Maybe…

Hermione tilted her head back to look at him properly. His grey eyes were so dark in the candlelight, surrounded by his silver-rimmed spectacles. He was more than handsome…he was beautiful. She had always known it, but this was the first time she had allowed herself to acknowledge it — to not fight against the pull that she had felt between them for so long. 

His gaze dropped to her lips and then back to her eyes as if asking permission. 

Her fingers slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck, threading into the soft hair there. 

He leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull away, to stop this and be sensible. 

She didn’t.

She smelled the Butterbeer on his lips. Was ready to taste it — to taste Draco Malfoy… 

Her eyes fluttered closed.

They were a breath apart. Less than a breath.

It was as if the air from his lungs breathed clarity into her mind. Suddenly, every single reason this was a terrible idea crashed into her — they worked together, they had formed a friendship. What if this ruined it? What if this was just the adrenaline of the emergency tricking her into this strange sense of intimacy?

What if he regretted it tomorrow? 

“Wait—” she pulled back, her hand dropping from his neck, stepping away from him and almost falling over in her haste. “I — we should—” 

Draco hesitated, his expression shifting from open and vulnerable to blank in the space of a single heartbeat. 

“I’m sorry!” she gasped. 

“It’s fine, Granger,” he said, his stiff posture relaxing.

“No, I—” she was supposed to be a Gryffindor, and she pushed him away like a coward. It was all so overwhelming, and she needed to pull herself together. She closed her eyes and placed a hand on her chest, taking slow, deep breaths. “Maybe we should get to Hogsmeade.” 

Chapter Text

Hermione

She felt like a fool. Completely out of her element, but Hermione straightened her spine and restored her professional veneer — at least, as much as possible for someone in denims and an ugly Christmas jumper with a cat wearing spectacles and a Santa hat.

“Anything else you need from us, Madam Pomfery?” Hermione asked the older witch when they found her in the Hospital Wing ten minutes later. 

She looked exhausted, but she sat behind her desk, no longer scrambling from bedside to bedside. Only six students slept in cots, while the rest recovered and went back to their own beds. 

“No, I think that would be all. Thank you for your help.” 

Professor McGonagall entered behind them, escorting another student to one of the cots. She got the student settled before approaching Hermione and Draco. 

“I have taken the liberty of sending a Patronus to Madam Rosmerta. She is not adept at sending a Patronus back, and owls will not get through this weather, but she should be expecting you.” 

“Do you think her Floo is working?” Hermione asked. 

McGonagall looked skeptical, her mouth forming a thin line. “You can ask. It would surprise me.” 

“How do you suggest we get there?” Draco asked. He looked annoyed about something, but Hermione couldn’t quite pinpoint what. 

“Abeforth has kept the passageway to the Hog’s Head open for us to use. He seems quite thrilled about the surge in business from the Hogwarts faculty now that there is a direct route. They are open 24/7. It is easy to leave for Hogsmeade through the passageway, but there are strict security measures in place preventing just anyone from returning.” 

“What passage?” Draco asked, his brow raising. 

“Oh, um. It was created just before the Battle of Hogwarts…Neville used it to get food for everyone hiding in the Room of Requirement. And that’s how we got Order members into the castle.” 

Draco looked taken aback. “I wondered how you managed to sneak so many people in.” 

“We wanted to keep the specifics of the passageway out of public knowledge,” McGonagall said. “For safety reasons.” 

“If you need anything else, send us a Patronus,” Hermione said. 

McGonagall nodded, and then, to her utter surprise, the elderly headmistress pulled Hermione into a hug. “It was good to see you again, Miss Granger.” She let go and turned to Draco. “And you too, Mister Malfoy.” She shook his hand, then turned on her heel and left the Hospital Wing. 

***

The passageway to the Hog’s Head was dark and narrow, forcing them to walk in a single file. Draco went first, his wand lit, and Hemione followed close behind, casting regular warming charms to keep her teeth from chattering. 

She watched the way Draco’s lean form navigated the rocky passage. Admiring how he ducked occasionally to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling. He was tall. He climbed over rubble, lean but strong body remaining steady.

She had her hand on that shoulder recently…it was as broad and firm as it looked. Had she ruined everything by pushing away? Would he still be interested in discussing the possibility of…more… 

Did he want more? What did more mean for him? 

She was overthinking this.

They emerged into the Hog’s Head to find Aberforth polishing glasses behind the bar. He didn’t flinch at their appearance, merely stepped aside to allow the portrait to open. 

Over the years, the tavern, previously a dark and dingy place, had undergone a noticeable transformation. Even though the pub was well-maintained, a few unsavoury characters sat huddled in the shadows.

“Healers,” he said, then cocked his head at Hermione, his blue eyes twinkling in recognition. “Ah, Miss Granger. It has been a while.” 

“Hello Mister — uh… Dumbledore.” 

“Call me Aberforth. McGonagall mentioned you would come through. It’s a right mess out there.” 

Hermione could almost feel the wind despite being indoors. It howled as loud as a werewolf on a full moon. Her eyes glazed over as she glanced out the window. The frost obstructed her view, but she could still see the shadows of snow as it blew by.

“We were headed for the Three Broomsticks,” Draco said, looking suddenly doubtful. With so much magic at their disposal, there was nothing they could do about natural weather patterns. There was plenty of research on the topic, but any attempts to manipulate the environment caused catastrophic effects. 

“Good luck.” He gestured to the door with his rag. “It’s only a few buildings down, but visibility is shite.” 

Hermione’s stomach dropped. She didn’t have anything but her jumper on to keep her warm. At least it wasn’t far. Before she stepped outside, she felt the weight of a thick coat being draped over her shoulders. 

“Malfoy, you don’t—”

“I’ll be fine. I like snow.” 

It was a load of rubbish, and they both knew it. She put the coat on — the bottom falling past her knees. It was wool and finely made. She imagined it must’ve been expensive…and it smelled like him.

As soon as they stepped out, Draco let out a rather loud expletive in direct contradiction to his previous proclamation that he loved snow.

Aberforth was right. The fierce wind made her eyes water as soon as she stepped outside. She could barely force her eyes open, struggling to see the path ahead. The snow was knee deep and Draco had his wand out, melting the path in front of them with some difficulty. 

“Here!” Draco grabbed her hand, his fingers lacing through hers. “I don’t want to lose you in this!” He had to shout to be heard. It was an unnecessary gesture. It was hard to wander off with the snow so deep and him forming the only existing path to their destination. But her chest constricted, and she allowed him to hold her hand.

Despite Draco’s efforts to clear the way, the wind blew the snow back in their path. They hurried. He shivered in front of her. She tried to cast warming spells on him, without much use. In the end, she pushed herself against him, allowing him to share in her warmth…that was all. Mere practicality. He released her hand and slipped his entire arm inside her coat, resting his hand on her lower back as they moved through the storm. His skin was biting cold, but she didn’t care. 

She wanted him closer. 

She shouldn’t have pushed him away earlier. 

Finally, they spotted the warm glow of the Three Broomsticks through the snow. Draco pushed the door open, and they tumbled inside, both of them shivering. 

“Merlin’s beard! I didn’t think you would make it!” Madam Rosmerta looked up from where she had been dozing by a blazing fireplace. She bustled over and vanished the snow from their clothes and hair. 

“Where in Merlin’s name is your coat!” she scowled at Draco. “It’s freezing out there!” 

Hermione flushed with guilt. 

Draco didn’t answer. 

Madam Rosmerta gave Draco a strange look, then Hermione realised the issue. Draco had used the Imperius Curse on her in his sixth year. She had publicly forgiven him and refused to press charges, but there was an uncomfortable edge that remained between them.

“Professor McGonagall said you would be coming by,” she said, turning to address Hermione. “Terrible business up at the castle. Are the students all right?” 

“Yes, everything is sorted,” Hermione said.

Rosmerta swept behind the bar and poured two mugs of what smelled to be Firewhisky and thrust them into their hands. “To warm you.”

Hermione wrapped her frozen fingers around the mug and took a long sip. The liquid burnt all the way down, but the warmth spread through her chest. 

“Is the Floo network operational?” Hermione asked after a moment. 

“Did you come all this way to use the Floo? In this storm?” She frowned, leaning against the bar. Draco hadn’t sipped from his own cup, staring at it with a blank expression. “The Floo won’t be running again until the storm is over. Several hours, I suspect.” 

Hermione’s heart dropped. Why had they come all this way, then? She wouldn’t make it home to be with her family after all. 

The whisky in her stomach soured, and she set the mug down. 

Draco took a tentative sip from his own glass. 

“I had thought you were coming here for a room. I’m unable to produce a Patronus myself; otherwise, I would’ve informed you I only have one room available. Lots of business given the storm and the Triwizard Tournament.” 

Draco cleared his throat. “One room?” 

Madame Rosmerta’s lip twitched as she addressed him. “I’m afraid so. But it’s a lovely room. Nice and warm with a proper bed, it’s yours until the Floo works again.” 

Hermione hesitated, her face flaming. She was grateful for the dim lighting of the tavern. 

“You are also welcome to wait down here by the fire. I expect the breakfast crowd will be down around six. Not a big bunch, mostly those already staying here. I can’t imagine any of the locals going out for breakfast in this.” Her laugh sounded stiff. “But the fire—”

“The room is fine,” Draco said, his voice carefully neutral. “We will take it.” He reached into his dragonhide bag and pulled out a coin purse, setting several more galleons than necessary on the bar. “Thank you.” 

~*~*~*~*~

Draco

What had he done wrong? Why had she pulled away?

He’d been positive she was as open to the idea of something more between them as he was. Positive he’d read the signs right. Her cues. Tonight and…well, for years, really. They’d been dancing around each other since their residency, and tonight? Tonight Draco had been convinced was the night. When he could finally bridge that gap between being just co-workers and becoming something more.

Something much more.

But now?

Now everything was awkward as fuck, and he’d had to resort to occluding to keep himself neutral. To prevent himself from looking hurt, or saying something he’d later regret.

Even with the forced distance his occlusion provided, he didn’t dare look at her as they climbed the stairs and walked down the hallway. As they rounded a corner and finally found their room. As he opened the door and ushered her in. Looked up, and muttered “Fuck me,” under his breath.

The room was perfect – for a romantic getaway, which…this was clearly not. Landscape tapestries covered the walls creating warmth, a huge four-poster bed with rich red draperies, Persian rugs, and a roaring fire with a loveseat facing it.

“There’s only one bed,” Granger stated, despite the fact they already knew there was only one bed in the suite. Draco followed her in and immediately distanced himself from said bed, moving as far away from it as possible, positioning himself on the opposite side of the room, by the window.

“You can have it,” he told her.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. I’ll take the…” he looked at the small settee, and clenched his jaw. Gestured towards it, confirming, “...I’ll take this.” 

She bit her lips and looked at the loveseat – her expression doing nothing to hide her guilt at taking the bed. “It’s too small for you, Malfoy,” she protested.

“It’s fine,” he assured her. “I’m much too wired to sleep, anyway.”

“Really? Because we can share, if––”

“No,” he interrupted her, adamant they would not share a bed. Not after what had happened earlier. He just…couldn’t. “I’m fine with this.”

“You’re sure?” she asked

“I’m sure.”

She nodded, her gaze lingering on him, as if waiting for him to change his mind. “I’ll go wash up, then,” she said after a few moments, then turned and made her way to the en suite bathroom.

Draco sighed and pushed up his glasses. Turned to the window only to find it completely frosted over – impossible to see through. He leaned forward and breathed on one of the window panes, using his hot breath to melt the frost, allowing him to look through. Furious snow squalls continued to blow, matching the howling sound of the wind. Visibility remained close to zero.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Trying to calm himself despite the stressful weather. Kicked his occlusion up a notch. Traced a star shape with his finger on another pane. A Christmas tree. A moon. A gingerbread man. The Draco constellation.

The en suite door opened and he turned around, immediately realising he would need to occlude much, much deeper to get through the night. Granger emerged, her curly hair loose, her face dewy and rosy, and wearing…a bathrobe. Her clothes folded in a neat pile in her hands.

Draco cleared his throat uncomfortably as he looked down to see her bare calves and feet.

“I took a quick shower,” she declared, placing her pile of clothes on a chair and moving towards the bed. She pulled back the coverlet, and continued, “After dealing with sick all night, I needed to be clean…” She trailed off and looked at Draco, her eyes flicking momentarily over his shoulder at the window and his drawings in the frost.

Her eyes brightened at the sight of them.

He nodded, then ran a hand through his hair. “I think I’ll do the same,” he said, moving towards the bathroom and attempting to avoid watching her climb into the bed at all costs. The hint of bare thigh as she pulled her legs in. The gap in the neckline of her bathrobe.

He got into the bathroom and shut the door. Took his glasses off and leaned on the counter, breathing deeply. Counted backwards from ten while looking at his fuzzy reflection in the mirror. 

He could do this.

He could just go back to the way things were before he’d held her in his arms tonight. 

He had to.

***

When he exited the en suite — fully dressed again to avoid any possible misinterpretation of impropriety — Granger was fast asleep. Draco stopped at her bedside, taking in her smooth brow. Her hair spread out on the pillow behind her. Her slightly parted lips.

She looked so peaceful. So gorgeous.

So—

Not interested.

Draco shook his head and moved away from the bed. Sat down on the loveseat — at least it was comfortable — and lay down, his head propped up on one end, and his feet on the other. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the ceiling.