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Chapter Text

December 22, 2000

Hermione

The rain hadn’t stopped pouring since that morning. It was one of those grey, drizzly days that made you want to stay curled up in the window-seat of your sitting room with a good book, the fireplace roaring, and pizza ordered for delivery.

The foot traffic in Diagon Alley was low, which was to be expected with the downpour; however, Hermione found she quite enjoyed running errands in the rain. The town-home she shared with Ron could get stuffy at times, and she found being out and about with water falling from the sky to be one of the best ways to clear her mind. This wasn’t a popular opinion, it seemed.

But today, Hermione wasn’t out running errands. One of her employees called out sick this morning; so, on this day, she found herself, hair curled up in her wand with loose tendril curls framing her face, dressed casually in an off-the-shoulder white t-shirt and stylish jean overalls behind the counter of her very own bookstore. Well, The Wandering Quill Café, to be precise, but that’s a bit of a mouthful. Hermione opened her bookstore/café six months after finishing her Eighth Year at Hogwarts, and she’d been successfully running the business for a year now.

Yes, everyone thought she was headed straight for the Ministry, right to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. A preposterous name, anyway. She thought she'd have been there, too. However, life had other plans.

While she was back at Hogwarts finishing Eighth Year, Ron and Harry started at the Auror Academy. They both were offered positions in the academy immediately following the Final Battle. While Harry had absolutely excelled, Ron had dragged behind. Harry helped him, of course, but there’s only so much The-Boy-Who-Lived can do; the rest, Ron Weasley had to figure out on his own. And he had. Kind of. Eventually. Well… he’d definitely made it Through.

Unfortunately, his ego had been more than bruised and he had felt more and more like the sidekick of Harry Potter rather than one-third of the Golden Trio. Hermione could sense this in the way he had been hesitant about her starting a career at the ministry. “You’re brilliant!” Ron had exclaimed. “You can join the Ministry and rise in rank anytime! Now or two to three years from now. They’d be lucky to have you, and I bet they’ll be chomping at the bit when you do decide to join. But…why don’t you do something that won’t take up all of your time to start out? We just fought in a war, for Merlin’s sake. We’ve been apart for school and Auror training. Don’t you think we should take time to focus on us?”

Hermione had definitely seen his point, even if she had been a little reluctant to agree. So, she had bought Flourish and Blotts from the previous owners—who had gone into retirement after the war, as older witches and wizards were wont to do these days, having seen and lived through two wars and whatnot—and had rebranded it as The Wandering Quill Café, Wandering Quill for short. She had a variety of books, and she had single-handedly brought the muggle coffee culture to Diagon Alley.

The Wandering Quill Café had the distinct, welcoming charm of an old library—timeless and brimming with secrets yet to be discovered. The air was thick with the scent of rich coffee beans and aged parchment, creating a fragrant symphony that seemed to soothe any weary soul. The shelves were lined with leather-bound books—new and old, muggle and magical—while delicate dust motes danced lazily in the soft glow of the antique lamps attached to the ends of each bookshelf. The wooden floors creaked underfoot, which Hermione felt only added to the nostalgic ambiance. There were various velvet armchairs, each different in color, some of which seemed a bit too deep and inviting. The dim, amber lighting created by delicate crystal chandeliers overhead gave everything an ethereal glow, as though time itself had slowed down within these walls. At the front of the shop, thick velvet curtains hung at the windows, their rich burgundy hues softening the light that filtered through from Diagon Alley, casting everything in a soft, magical haze, a subtle nod to the days Hermione spent curled up in the Gryffindor common room.

There was something more here—something unseen but felt in every corner. Hermione was proud of what she had accomplished here, indeed. Somewhere anyone seeking peace, sanctuary, or reprieve could find it. This was something her generation was in desperate need of, even with the taboo of seeing Mind Healers reducing significantly after the war. 

It’s then, as Hermione reminisced on all of the decisions she’d made in her adult life, that the bell to the shop rang out to signify a customer.

Odd, she thinks. It’s barely 2:30 on a Friday afternoon. A chilly, rainy Friday afternoon, to be precise. Patrons weren’t normally out at this time, especially in the rain. Even if it was three days before Christmas.

“Good afternoon!” Hermione calls out, but she doesn’t get an answer. No matter, she thinks, and she begins to place her book under the counter and tighten her apron behind her back.

“Oh, Draco!” Hermione hears, and her ears immediately perk up as her heckles raise. 

Draco? As in Draco Malfoy? Ha! The day Draco Malfoy steps foot into a Muggle-born-owned establishment is the day hell freezes over.

“This is so… quaint.” Cheap. “And cute.” Last-season. Hermione could practically hear the words that weren’t being said in the tittering, metallic feminine voice. “How have we never been here before?”

“Well, seeing as my house-arrest has been lifted only a week, I daresay it wasn’t on the list of approved rendezvous spots before now,” a deeper voice answered the first.

House arrest?? Maybe hell has frozen over. And pigs have got to be flying, too. Maybe she should write to Luna.

The woman let out a shrill, tinkling laugh (ouch and ew) before responding with a forced, “Don’t be morose, Draco.”

Merlin, spare me, Hermione thought.

She heard the couple rounding one of the bookcases before coming into her line of sight and approaching the counter. Hermione, while not able to plaster on a full-blown smile, offered a small grin to her new customers. Draco-Fucking-Malfoy and Tittering-Metallic-Voice.

When was the last time she even saw Draco Malfoy? It must’ve been at his trial after the Final Battle. She and Harry had both testified on behalf of him and his mother, much to Ron’s vehement disapproval. Did he say his house arrest ended a week ago? Merlin, has it already been two and a half years?

It seems he has grown up a lot in these last two years. Maybe it's a new hairstyle? Maybe he’d outgrown the slicked back look? He had let the top grow out some, and it had a slight wave to it, but the sides were shorter, closer to being shaved. He’s no longer pointy, she noted, just…sharp. Sharp eyes, sharp jaw, sharp shoulders, sharp suit. Of course, though, right? It was Draco More-Money-Than-Morgana Malfoy. If he didn’t look like he was dipped in wealth, was he even doing his family name justice?

The woman he was with seemed familiar, but Hermione couldn’t place where she knew her from. She was definitely old-money beautiful, the exact kind of Pure-blooded witch one would expect Draco Malfoy to end up with. She had dark hair that was curled perfectly around an angelic face (not wild, autonomous curls like Hermione’s), ethereal blue eyes, beauty charms applied precisely, not a hair out of place or wrinkle in sight. However, Hermione was slightly thrown off by the woman’s prominent baby-bump.

That’s right! Hermione remembered reading in the Prophet six or so months ago that Malfoy had married the youngest Greengrass daughter when she graduated from Hogwarts. Estelle? Arabella?

“Astoria,” Malfoy began. Right! Astoria! “Please. You wanted to come out, we’re out. You wanted to try the ‘quaint new coffee shop’, we’re here. Now, please tell the kind lady…” Malfoy trailed off when his eyes left Astoria, and he saw Hermione for the first time in two years. Hermione, to her credit, was able to keep her small grin in place. Malfoy, on the other hand, nearly choked on his shock before he got himself back under perfect, stoic control. “...what you’d like. Hermione Granger, as I live and breathe,” he continued.

“Malfoy,” Hermione nodded. “What can I get started for you two?”

“Wait,” Astoria cut in. “Granger? Hermione The-Brightest-Witch-of-Her-Age Granger? Oh my gosh! What a treat! You two know each other?” 

Astoria, to an untrained plebeian, eyed them back and forth like the cat who had gotten the cream. Hermione, on the other hand, felt no such excitement. And, as a trained plebeian (thank you very much) who had been under many-a-spotlight and been to numerous charity events and galas since the end of the war, she noticed straight away that Astoria’s enthusiasm was as genuine as gold-brushed nickel. It was there, right there in the uptick of Astoria’s lip and slight flare of her nostril. At this moment, Hermione couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but it certainly wasn’t delight.

“Yes,” Draco answered Astoria, peering down at her. “Granger and I were in the same year at Hogwarts. I was a right bastard to her during our formative years, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, goodness me. How terrible, Draco! Surely you’ve apologized?” Astoria batted her eyes up at him in a false reprimand.

Draco coughed. “Well, actually I…”

“He has not,” Hermione finished, still, miraculously, holding her grin. Really she should win some award for her great acting. They’d never know she was screaming for them to leave in her head. Unless one of them is a Legilimens…no! Stop. Hermione held her hand out to Astoria. “But that is neither here nor there. Nice to meet you…?”

In the most finite instant, Astoria eyed Hermione’s hand hesitantly before deciding it would do more damage to not take the Golden Girl’s offered introduction and returned Hermione’s handshake. Briefly.

“Astoria Malfoy, a pleasure to meet you Ms. Granger,” Astoria simpered before pulling her hand back and coyly wiping it on her robes. (It wasn’t coy, and Astoria was a dolt.)

Ah, Hermione thought. There’s the stem of the false enthusiasm. Astoria, it seems, is a blood purist. 

“You as well, Mrs. Malfoy. Is there anything I can get started for you two? Lattes? English Breakfast tea, perhaps?” Hermione questioned. Please leave, she thought to herself.

It isn’t that Hermione held any real vitriol toward Malfoy still. She didn’t, not really. She had forgiven him when she had decided to testify for him. They were all children in an adult’s war, after all. However, that did not mean that today, on a drizzly Friday afternoon—during the holidays and in the middle of her shop, no less—was the day Hermione felt like confronting the past and Malfoy’s numerous misdeeds.

Thunder rolled outside the shop causing the ancient storefront windows up front to rattle. A fortuitous sign, no doubt.

Hermione’s eye twitched.

“Oh!” Astoria exclaimed, tightening one hand around Malfoy’s arm and the other on her pregnant stomach. “Draco, dear, I’ve just remembered. Narcissa has asked us to join her for afternoon tea today. How forgetful of me. We mustn’t spoil ourselves beforehand. You know how she is.”

Malfoy turned from where he had been Staring at Hermione. He raised an eyebrow at Astoria and drawled, “Are you quite certain?”

“Oh, yes,” Astoria replied, flapping the hand clenching Malfoy’s arm—as much as any part of the upper echelon of society could flap, mind you—before turning back to Hermione. “I am so sorry to have wasted your time, Ms. Granger, but, really, we must be going.”

“Of course,” Hermione returned. Thank Godric for small favors and weak excuses. “You wouldn’t want to keep Lady Malfoy waiting.”

“Indeed,” Astoria replied, turning to head back through the shop.

Malfoy rolled his eyes as he started to turn after his pregnant wife. As they were nearing the bookcase to round back toward the entrance, however, he stopped and turned back to Hermione. “It was nice seeing you, Granger. Maybe some other time,” he remarked.

Hermione was slightly taken aback and offered him a single nod. “Malfoy,” she returned.

Hermione closed the shop up at 5:30 p.m. and headed home. The town-house she shared with Ron was located a few blocks away from the entrance to Diagon Alley. It was a charming three-story Victorian building, its weathered brick façade worn but full of character, with a wisteria tree standing proudly out front. Winter stole the soft, purple blooms from her, but she smiled at the tree nonetheless, her hand trailing the cast iron railing of her front stoop, as she made her way inside to start dinner for her and Ron. She hadn’t been able to run to the grocer today, so it would probably be Shepherd’s Pie. 

The old home opened into a foyer that immediately made you feel welcome. Hermione hung her coat and scarf on the stand by the door and placed her bag on the marble top entry table. She hadn’t done many renovations, just painting most of the walls a milky-cream color to brighten the space up. The red-mahogany oak floors still creaked enough to remind you of the home’s age.

The entryway was adorned with a vintage brass chandelier that allowed a soft glow to fall over the space. She trailed her fingers along the dark, floral wallpaper as she made her way over the threshold into the next room. The wallpaper had to be one of her favorite parts of the home. It was faded in places, but she loved the deep hues of eggplant, burgundy, moss green, and touches of gold.

Past the entryway was the oak staircase that curved upward toward the bedrooms, its banister intricately carved with floral patterns. To her right was the sitting room, and the kitchen was located straight back.

The sitting room walls were painted in a warm, earthy tone—a soft sage green that Hermione adored. It was the only room in the place, aside from the entryway, that didn’t have white walls. A pair of large, vintage windows framed the room to the right of the entry, their wooden shutters drawn halfway open, letting in just enough of the outside world to make the room feel connected to the street beyond. In the center, a worn but comfortable sofa sat—with worn yellow upholstery, slightly frayed at the edges. A couple of mismatched throw pillows rested against the armrests.

Against one wall was an old wooden bookshelf, shelves sagging slightly under the weight of well-loved books, their spines faded. Across from the entry into the room was a brick fire-place. On the mantel were magical photos of Harry and Ron during Auror training, last year’s Weasley family Christmas, the Golden Trio during fourth year, Harry and Ginny on their wedding day, and one muggle photo of Hermione’s parents. She convinced Ron to get a telly, and it was displayed proudly above the mantel on the wall. Hermione made her way into the room to start the fire.

To the left of the sitting room was another doorway that led through to the dining room that led left into the kitchen. All the rooms on the ground floor connected, and Hermione treasured the ebb and flow of the space. 

Once she made her way to the kitchen, she began pulling out vegetables from the fridge to prep for the pie when the front door opened.

“Oi!” Ron bellowed through the house.

“In here!” Hermione returned. She set the oven to preheat and began peeling the potatoes.

Ron bustled into the kitchen, heading straight to the fridge to pull out a muggle beer, something he had learned about from Harry. He plopped himself at the dining room table, popping the tab of his beer, taking a swig, and toeing off his boots.

“How was your day?” Hermione inquired as she added the potatoes to a pot to boil before moving to start browning the ground meat and chopping the onions, carrots, and celery.

“Shite,” Ron mumbled, taking another deep swig of his beer. “Guess what wonderful news I learned today?”

“Oh,” Hermione started. “I don’t kn-”

“Our best friend is being promoted. Again.”

“That’s excellent news, Ron! Oh, I should Floo call over and offer Harry a congratulations!”

There was a beat of silence before Ron slammed the can down on the dining room table causing Hermione to jump.

“Shite!” She shouted, rushing over to the sink. She turned on the faucet to run water over the cut from the knife.

“Merlin, Hermione! Are you okay?” Ron exclaimed, rushing to her side. “Let me see.”

Hermione held her hand out for Ron to examine, hissing when he grabbed at it.

“Fuck, sorry,” he mumbled, grabbing for his wand. He whispered a mediocre healing charm, and the cut sealed haphazardly. “It shouldn’t scar, it was just surface level. Godric, Hermione. You should be more careful.”

Hermione, still a bit frazzled, just nodded and went to wash the knife before finishing up with the vegetables and adding them to the pan.

“Anyway,” Ron started, walking over to the table to grab his beer and finish it in one go. “Yes, by all means, Floo call and congratulate Harry. But what about me Mione?”

She cringed at the nickname. “What do you mean, Ron?”

“I mean,” he continued loudly, tossing his empty can on the table and heading to the liquor cabinet. “I’ve been there just as long as Harry has, and I’ve not had one promotion. This is his third!”

“Oh,” Hermione mumbled, grabbing and draining the potatoes before beginning to mash them and setting them back on the burner.

“Oh?” Ron started pouring himself a tumbler of firewhisky. “That’s all you have to say is ‘oh’?”

“I mean, yeah, that sucks, Ron. But what do you want me to say? I’m sure you’re doing your best.”

“Oh, you’re sure, are you?” He mocked before draining his firewhisky and pouring another. “Well if The-Brightest-Witch-of-Her-Age is sure, then I must be.”

“Ron, please,” Hermione began with a sigh, beginning to shift in place and stirring the mashed potatoes.

This was happening more and more recently, Ron picking fights from seemingly thin air. And Hermione found herself caught in the same old pattern—her instinct, as always, was to face it head-on with the same stubborn resolve Ron often wielded. But she was tired. She had been bullheaded through the war, because survival demanded it, and through Eighth Year, because perfection and progress were the only ways to cope with the aftermath, familiar coping mechanisms and whatnot. But now, as life moved on, she realized she no longer wanted to force her way through every struggle. She no longer wanted to meet every challenge with the same relentless tenacity that had once been her shield.

Life, she realized, no longer needed to be approached as a series of battles to be won. She didn’t want to have to bullhead her way through it any longer, as though each moment was just another war to survive.

Ron, it seemed, held no such sentiment.

“You don’t get it, do you, Hermione?" He asked, the tenor of his voice carrying a sharper edge. "It’s not just about the promotions. It’s about how everything just seems to fall into place for Harry. It’s like he’s always the one who gets what he wants. And me? I’m just...stuck.”

Hermione paused, her hand hovering over the spoon she’d been using to stir the mashed potatoes. She could feel the frustration and bitterness in his words, but she also knew he was lashing out. She turned toward him, her eyes firm.

“You think I don’t get it?” she asked, straining to keep her tone even; her voice was tinged with exhaustion. “Ron, you’ve been working hard, and I know that. We have all been working hard—in our jobs, in our lives, to move on from the war. But Harry doesn’t have it easy, either. Just because he gets promoted doesn’t mean things are always easy for him. You know that better than anyone.”

Ron’s laugh was hollow. “Yeah, sure. But it’s not about him, Mione. It’s about me. I’m the one who’s been there, putting in the hours, doing the work. And it’s like no one notices.”

She bit her lip, feeling as though she were addressing a brick wall and not wanting to make this worse.

“Ron,” she started carefully, “what do you really want? To be promoted because it’s your time, or... do you just want recognition? You’re important, you know. But you have to see that for yourself.”

He stared at her for a long moment, before dropping his gaze to the glass in his hand.

“What are you making, anyhow?" He questioned. "I hope not Shepherd’s Pie, again. That’s the third time this month.”

Hermione gaped at him.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is Shepherd’s Pie. Again, as you so eloquently put it.”

“Godric, can’t you make anything else?” Ron chided.

“Of course I can, Ronald, don’t be absurd. Besides, I don’t see you rushing home to start dinner.”

“Me?” Ron exclaimed. “Why would I cook dinner, Hermione? Now who’s being absurd? I work at the ministry all day lo-“

“And I run my shop all day-”

“Oh, woe is you. How taxing it must be to read and make coffee all day,” Ron sneered.

“Ron!” Hermione scolded, cursing herself for letting him bait her into a verbal sparring anyway. “You are clearly spoiling for a fight, and I am not going to give you one. Obviously you’re upset about Harry, but that isn’t fair to me!”

Ron rolled his eyes before draining another glass of firewhisky.

“Whatever, Mione. Cook whatever you like,” Ron stated, setting his empty tumbler on the counter. He made his way back to the dining room before grabbing his boots and pulling them back on. “I’m going out.”

He started to make his way out of the kitchen.

“That's it? You're just going to walk away?” Hermione called after him, making to follow behind. “Ronald Weasley, where are you going?”

Hermione reached to take Ron’s arm.

“Hermione stop!” He shouted, pulling his arm from Hermione’s grip. Just then, the smoke alarm started blaring, and Ron abruptly turned back around. When he pulled his arm and turned, though, the back of his hand struck Hermione across her brow.

“Fuck!” Hermione cried as she fell to her knees. Her ears started ringing as she brought her hand up to her brow and winced in pain. Her world slowed and felt like it was going in and out of focus on a tilted axis. 

She thought she heard someone calling her name, but she couldn’t focus. Chaos felt like it was quickly ensuing with the ringing, the tilting, the smoke alarm blaring, the pain in her brow throbbing.

She squeezed her eyes tight and tried to focus.

“Hermione!” A panicked voice above her urgently prodded. “Hermione, please, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“It hurts,” She rasped out in a whimper, blinking slowly.

“Hold on, stay right here,” the voice urged. 

No problem, she thought bitterly, hand still held tightly against her head. She thought she could make out the sound of someone bustling about toward the direction of the kitchen.

The smoke alarm stopped.

“Hermione? Are you okay? Can you hear me?” Ron. It was Ron. She felt him take hold of her hand and she flinched away from him.

“Godric, Hermione, I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve got ice for your head,” he stated, sounding more than a little offended.

Hermione slowly looked around where she was sprawled on the floor and brought her legs up to hug her chest. She looked up at Ron wearily. He was, indeed, holding an ice pack.

“Not going to…to hurt me? Ron, you hit me!” She started.

“Mione, no!” Ron cried. “That was an accident. I’m so sorry, Mione. I didn’t mean to. The smoke alarm started to go off, so I turned around. You were right there! My hand caught you as I was turning to run back to the kitchen. I didn’t realize you were so close. I swear, Mione. I would never hurt you on purpose.”

Hermione eyed him cautiously. That makes sense, she thought. But he did turn right as the smoke alarm started, or was it right after the smoke alarm started? Merlin, help me. Everything felt so convoluted now. She slowly nodded, reaching out to take the ice from him and bringing it to her brow.

“What happened?” she asked as Ron helped her to her feet and led her to the sitting room. She pulled the ice pack away, forcing herself not to shy away from his touch.

She blinked as Ron took her hand and helped her unto the couch, rubbing the ice pack over her brow again, wincing when it shifted slightly.

Why was she uncomfortable with him all of a sudden? Ron had been frantic when he’d apologized, his voice full of panic, almost like he was pleading for her forgiveness. It was an accident, she told herself. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, hadn’t intended for it to happen, but the lingering sting in her skin made it hard for her to feel completely calm about it, not to mention completely comfortable with his touch.

“The potatoes scorched, smoking up the entire kitchen. I pulled them from the burner and charmed away the smoke, but I think the potatoes are a lost cause. We should just order a pizza tonight. You shouldn’t keep cooking, anyway,” Ron informed her.

She nodded, sitting on their plush, worn sofa. “Sure, Ron.”

“Great!” He cheered, "I'll call the pizza place on the telly-phone and place a delivery order.”

“Oh! The oven,” she blurted out, starting to get up from the couch.

“No, I got it,” Ron chuckled, gently pushing her back before heading to the telephone in the kitchen.

The pizza arrived a short time later, and Hermione kept her disappointment to herself at the order. Hawaiian pizza, Ron’s favorite. Definitely not hers.

Ron settled in next to her on the sofa, another muggle beer in hand. He leaned forward to grab the TV remote and a slice of pizza before leaning back into the couch.

Hermione reached for a slice of pizza, slowly picking at it as Ron flipped through the channels until landing on football. Lovely.

Ron’s favorite Premier League team was playing. As the game went on, Ron let out one whoop and cheer after another, taking generous swigs of his beer, and constantly jostling Hermione in the process. By halftime, he was on his third slice of pizza and third beer of the night. Hermione was still on her first slice.

“What’s wrong?” Ron asked, staring down at her picked apart slice of pizza. “You’ve barely eaten.”

“Oh,” Hermione started as she slowly rose to her feet. “Nothing, I’m just tired and this ache in my head is growing. I think I’m going to head up to shower and turn in early.”

Ron stared at her and he looked annoyed, almost like he was going to protest before he thought better of it.

“Right,” he agreed. “You should get some rest. That was a nasty spill you took.”

“Right…” Hermione nodded back and went to throw her pizza away in the kitchen.

All of the pots and pans, cutting boards, knives, and preppings were still out in the kitchen. Ron’s empty beer can still sat on the dining room table and his empty firewhiskey tumbler still sat on the counter. Hermione sighed as she made her way to the trash, letting out an audible gasp when she saw the oven was still on.

She rushed over to turn it off. Her blood began to boil. Was she a house-maid?! That man! Could he not do anything?  She rolled her eyes and pulled open the bottom cabinet next to the oven where they kept the trash can so she could throw her pizza away. The trash was overflowing.

Hermione stared at it for a moment before deciding she actually wasn’t going to be dealing with any of this tonight. Her head was pounding, and she had ended up having a Day. An emotionally tumultuous day, to be precise, no thanks to Draco Malfoy, of all bloody people.

Draco Malfoy! She thought suddenly. I didn’t even get to tell Ron that I had seen Malfoy today.

She stuck her head in the dining room to peek into the living room. Ron was nodding off, head lolling to the side against the back sofa cushion.

Hm, she thought. No matter. She determined that she could always tell him tomorrow before making her way back to the hallway and up the stairs.

A nice hot, steaming shower, fluffy pajamas, and a good book. That’s what Hermione needed right now. Why stress over anything else tonight?

Yes, she thought, tomorrow is perfect.

Chapter Text

December 22, 2000

Draco

Draco tore out of Granger’s shop with Astoria swift on his heels.

“Draco! I’m six months pregnant, for Merlin’s sake! Would you slow down?” Astoria called from behind him.

Draco whirled around to face her, the rainy drizzle of the day gliding down his jaw, piercing her with a menacing glare. If Astoria were wearing pearls, she’d be clutching them.

“What?” She questioned him, taken aback by the thunderous look on his face.

“What? Really, Astoria? You’ve been bloody dying to give this place a go, and suddenly we have tea with my mother? A non-existent tea, by the way. I’m not daft. If my mother were expecting us for tea, I’d be the first to know. What gives?” Draco all but shouted.

Astoria shiftily looked around them, noticing the stares his raised voice was drawing from the sparse crowd of Diagon Alley. “Draco, please, keep your voice down.”

“I won’t! Tell me why the sudden need to leave Granger’s shop,” he challenged.

“Because,” Astoria hissed under her breath, “Nobody had mentioned that Wandering Quill was owned by her.”

“Her? You mean the Golden Girl? War-heroine, Order of Merlin First Class recipient, one-third of the Golden Trio her? Hermione Granger? That her? What could the issue possibly be?”

“No, I mean her, that mudbl-” Astoria stopped, looking around, lowering her voice, and straightening her shoulders before she continued. “Muggle-born…I know they won the war, but that does not mean that I have to lower myself by purposefully setting foot into an establishment owned by someone of her kind.”

Draco stared at her absolutely gobsmacked. Not that he was actually having this conversation, in the rain, but that she was saying what she was saying. He knew that she was raised with the same values of blood purity shite that he was, but he never realized to what extent she actually believed any of it. Had his head really been stuck so far up his own arse?

Sure, she carried on with Lucius about how the world had gone to the dogs since the Dark Lord was defeated, but he just assumed that was her way of trying to stay in Lucius’s good graces before he passed away. 

Apparently not. Merlin, how did I end up married to her? Draco thought to himself. Surely it had to be karma or some other cosmic joke from the universe for being a massive twat his whole life.

But he had been a kid. He didn’t know any better, and he just wanted his father to be proud of him. What young boy didn’t? And when his father prattled on about his duty to his family not wavering even under the circumstances, Draco had been so melancholic after the war, ashamed for his part in it, that he hadn’t argued. He had long since stopped idolizing Lucius Malfoy, for obvious reasons, but he couldn’t find it in himself to put up a fight about it. He just continued to soldier on under more choices that were made for him.

His father presented the betrothal contract for Astoria two weeks after he’d been sentenced to house arrest, and he barely looked at it. He’d known about it, of course. It’d been in the works since he was still at Hogwarts. And he had remembered Astoria from school. She had been two years behind him, and she was pretty enough—in a vapid, Pure-blood sort of way. He thought he remembered her being charming. What else could he ask for? He had known his whole life that he’d have no say in who he got for a marriage partner, so at least she was pretty and charming, right?

Wrong, he thought bitterly. Everyday he learned more and more about the type of witch she was, and he resented it. She may have been pretty by societal standards, but her heart, her soul, was grotesque. And it took her treating Granger like she wasn’t fit to lick Astoria’s polished heel for him to really see it.

He no longer believed in the blood purity nonsense. How could he? Granger took everything he thought he knew about muggles and Muggle-borns and completely flipped it on its head. And when she had been tortured right in front of him? By his aunt?

Draco shuddered before recomposing himself and pinning Astoria under his infamous icy glare, a look so cold that it competed with the chill of the damp December air they found themselves in.

“You’re an imbecile,” Draco sneered. “That has absolutely got to be one of the most idiotic things I’ve ever heard you say, Astoria, and I’ve heard your conversations with my father.”

He turned on his heel, unintentionally and dramatically splashing a puddle as he went, and started making his way toward the apparition point.

“Draco!” Astoria called after him—in a very unlady-like manner, mind you—hurrying to keep his pace. 

He waited for her at the apparition point. She was six months pregnant, after all; she couldn’t apparate on her own. Draco wasn't completely fond of her her, sure, but he wasn’t a complete monster, either.

When she caught up to him, Draco didn’t waste a moment once her hand touched his arm before disapparating them both back to their wing of the manor.

“That was very rude, Draco,” Astoria scolded once they were on steady ground. “What has gotten into you?”

“I don’t know, Astoria,” Draco sighed, running a hand down his face. “I just don’t see how, after everything we’ve been through, after everything our families have put us through…How can you still believe in any of it?”

Astoria’s head reared back in shock. “What are you going on about? What we’ve been through?”

It was then that Draco looked at Astoria. Really looked at her for the first time since they were married six months ago.

Her dark curls framed her porcelain face perfectly, too perfectly. Her blue eyes pierced through him in confusion and hurt, her red lips tugged down in a pout. She was wearing the latest witch’s fashion robes from Madam Malkin’s, a soft blue with fur lining the collar and the cuffs of her sleeves. She didn't even look like they'd been caught in the rain! She was the epitome of Pure-blood beauty and grace. She was charming, the way every Pure-blooded witch was taught to be. But it was all superficial, he realized. Another realization that struck him as he stood there seeing her?

She had been too young to experience the war as he had.

This, for some reason, struck him deep in his core, down to his weary bones. She had been tucked away safely at Hogwarts, far away from the machinations of the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters. Far away from the decisions her father made, the decisions his father made, the orders they carried out at the bequest of their precious Lord. She didn’t see that muggles and Muggle-borns bled the same red that they did. She didn’t hear that their screams sounded just like theirs under the Cruciatus curse. She didn’t know that the life draining from their eyes looked just the same as theirs did when struck with the killing curse.

Could he fault her for that? No. Honestly, he was a bit envious that she didn’t have to face the horrors of the war as he had. However, he couldn’t forgive her for her Willful Ignorance either.

“There is no difference between Pure-blood, Half-blood, or Muggle-born, Astoria. It’s a lie we’ve been told our whole lives to make us feel better about ourselves, to give ourselves some kind of power in this world. Don’t you see that?”

“Stop that, Draco,” Astoria breathed quietly, shaking her head. “You don’t know what you’re saying. It’s been a long day, maybe you should get some rest.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. He knew he wasn't being fair. They had never really talked about any of it before, and it was largely his fault. He had withdrawn into himself after the war, and he had just been going through the motions day in and day out. Unfortunately for Astoria, though, Draco was a bit emotionally stunted from the war, and his patience had run out.

“Maybe you should reeducate yourself, Astoria, instead of regurgitating the same bullshite that our fathers and mothers have fed to us. I’m going to Theo’s. Don’t wait up.”

With that, Draco stalked over to the fireplace in the reception area of their wing, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, and stepped into the hearth. He threw the powder down, calling out for Theo’s address as the green flames whisked him away.

He stepped out into Theo’s receiving room and called for his friend, but he didn't receive a reply. No matter, he thought, dusting the powder and ash from his sleeves before making his way to his friend’s cigar room.

The heels of his dragon-leather boots clicked and clacked against the lacquer floor as he made his way down the hall. Theo was precisely where Draco thought he’d be, indeed—sprawled out on the posh, velvet green sofa that sat perched in front of the grandiose, marble fireplace, cigar in one hand and book in the other.

“Theodore,” Draco drawled as he made his way over to the drinks cart in the corner of the room to pour himself a finger of firewhiskey.

“Drakey!” Theo cried, immediately sitting up and tossing his book aside. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your illustrious company?”

“Can’t a bloke just drop in on his best mate?” Draco retorted, pouring a second glass for Theo.

“A bloke could, yeah. But you’re no bloke. You’re Draco Woe-Is-Me-I’m-Stuck-In-A-Black-Hole-And-Have-No-Desire-To-Leave-Because-I’m-A-Brooding-Arse Malfoy,” Theo smirked.

“Oh, fuck off,” Draco snorted, settling down next to Theo on the sofa and handing him his drink.

“Cheers!” Theo downed the firewhiskey in one go and placed the tumbler on the side table next to the sofa. “So, tell me, what good deed have I done? Which old lady did I help across the street? Which abandoned orphan have I given shelter to? What have I done to have been blessed with your presence today?”

Draco rolled his eyes at Theo’s dramatics. “Nothing, Theo. I just needed a break from Astoria.”

“Oh?” Theo was obviously intrigued. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Please,” Draco scoffed. “Since when has my marriage ever been paradise?”

Theo pretended to think for a moment. “Well, I do recall hearing about the sexcapades from your wedding night?”

“Is that a question, Theodore? Please, spare me. You should know better than to listen to Pansy. Our wedding night was anything but. A perfunctory, vanilla task of conceiving an heir for good ole Lucy.”

“May he never rest in peace,” Theo intoned.

“Cheers!” Draco downed the rest of his firewhiskey. He turned to his oldest friend and met his eyes.

“Oh, grief. Hold on," Theo lamented with a sigh, holding up his finger as he flounced away from the sofa. "This is going to be one of those serious talks, and I’m not adequately prepared.”

Draco then watched as Theo busied himself about the room like a hummingbird flitting from flower to flower. He pulled on the flowing, silk robe he brought back from Japan last summer, straightened the fuzzy socks on his feet, and stalked—gracefully, which was an odd sight to witness—to the drinks cart. Theo snatched up the entire bottle of firewhiskey before ambling back toward Draco. He perched on the edge of the sofa before turning to give his full attention to his solemn friend.

“Proceed,” Theo declared.

“Oh, thank you, your highness,” Draco groaned. Theo nodded. “So…this is going to sound like I’ve had my head up my arse, and I know I have, Theo, but…Did you know that Astoria still believes in blood purity?”

A smile threatened the edges of Theo’s slender lips as he tried to hold in a laugh. It was all for naught. Theo let out the Most Annoying laugh that Draco had heard this century.

Draco snatched the bottle of firewhiskey from his “friend” as Theo doubled over in an attempt to get a hold of himself.

“You dramatic arse! I’m trying to have a conversation with you!” Draco exclaimed.

“Oh!” Theo cried, wiping the edges of his eyes with the tips of his lanky fingers. “Oh, I know. But come on, Draco! You never noticed? How could you have not ? Her family is more traditional than either of ours ever were! Not to mention, you've been married to the witch for six months!”

Draco frowned.

“Astoria is the epitome of Pure-blood etiquette and ideals. She’s been parroting everything she has been told by her parents since she was in diapers,” Theo stated.

“But so did we, Theo!”

It was Theo’s turn to frown.

“Well, I did, anyway,” Draco muttered, taking another sip from the bottle of firewhiskey. “But I don't anymore. I grew out of it. The war changed things. Everything.”

Theo looked intently at Draco for a beat, at least three full seconds.

“Yes, it did,” Theo mused. “However, Astoria never experienced the war. Not like we did. She was a good little Pure-blood princess protected by her blood-status and Slytherin house assortment when the Carrows descended upon Hogwarts. And everything that came with that and them only reiterated everything that she had been taught. I’m not saying I agree with it—or her—I’m just saying that I see why the war wouldn’t have changed things for her the way it did for us. For her, her whole world has been turned upside down by the outcome of the war, rather than being turned right-side up for the first time ever. Like it did for us.”

“So I’m seeing,” Draco groaned.

“What’s brought this all on, anyhow?” Theo questioned.

“Well,” Draco paused, trying to get his thoughts straight. “I just felt like I saw her, I mean really saw her, for the first time today when we visited The Wandering Quill Cafe in Diagon.”

“The Wandering Quill? Isn’t that Granger’s new shop?” Theo asked.

“The very same. And Granger was there, and she was trying so hard to be kind to us, to me, and Astoria treated her like dirt!”

“Interesting,” Theo drawled.

“What’s interesting?” Draco demanded.

Theo hummed. “You’re telling me that you saw Granger. In her shop. And she didn’t immediately kick you out on your arse?”

“Oh, would you be serious!” Draco all but yelled.

“I am!” Theo laughed. “You were a right prick to her in school, it's a wonder she didn’t have wards put in place to keep you out in the first place.”

“I know. Gods, Theo…I know. She’s different now, Granger.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know,” Draco mused, remembering the way her t-shirt fell from her slender, freckled shoulder. “It seems she’s removed the stick from her arse, I guess.”

Theo eyed his friend with a mad gleam in his eye. “Maybe she never had a stick up her arse, mate.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Theo purred, seeing right through his friend, “maybe Astoria isn’t the only one you saw, really saw, for the first time today.”

“Yeah…” Draco replied, taking another sip from the bottle and staring into the glowing fire. “Maybe.”

Later that night, Draco laid awake thinking about the events from the day—ruminating, if you will—and the revelations he’d made.

For some reason, he felt as though he had woken up for the first time today after a long slumber. A slumber he had been in since Sixth Year, at least. And the only thing he could think of that was different about today was seeing Granger for the first time outside of Hogwarts or the war. And the way that Granger had smiled at him and Astoria, even when Astoria all but insulted the witch to her face, it was as though she were completely unbothered. Her smile never wavered.

Draco thought to himself that he would like to know what that’s like. How does one carry such an air of…of freedom or unbotheredness, if that was even a word, that not even their childhood bully could bring them down? He determined, then and there, that he was going to find out. Tomorrow.

Yes, he thought, tomorrow is perfect.

Chapter Text

December 23, 2000

Hermione

Hermione greedily turned the page of the new Florence Flairington novel she’d just received in a shipment that morning, Blood in the Shadows. It was the next installment of the saga Flairington had started publishing before the war—a riveting tale of an ex-Auror, Ronan Blackwood, who’d turned into a vigilante after his wife and daughter had been murdered by a dark wizard while he was out of the country on a top-secret mission.

It was all she could do to keep her mind distracted from how disheartening it had been to wake up this morning to find the house in complete disarray. She had expected it, of course, as she had grown to. That’s why she had woken up early enough to deal with it. That didn’t mean that she was okay with it, though. Why couldn’t Ron show the initiative to keep the place clean, too? Or to pick up after himself?

She should really have a talk with him to reestablish boundaries and what they expected out of each other in their relationship. Every time she thought about bringing it up, though, she shriveled up.

Ron was a piece of her that she had had since long before the war really started. What if they were no longer in the same place? What if they no longer saw eye to eye? She’d lost her parents during the war, through no one’s fault but her own—thanks to her obliviation. The Weasleys were the only family that she had anymore. Sure she had Harry, but it wasn’t the same as having a mother figure and father figure to turn to. Plus, Harry was Ron’s best friend first. Does that sound childish? Maybe. But Hermione might be a little emotionally immature when it came to thinking about these sorts of things. Who could blame her? The latter part of her formative years were spent fighting and running for her life thanks to the war.

What if she decided to talk to Ron and hash it all out and it didn’t work? What if she ended up losing them all?

She just couldn’t bear to risk it, not right now. Besides, Ron wasn’t all that bad. Just a typical boy, really…Right?

Maybe that was her problem. She didn’t want a boy. She wanted a man.

And with everyday that passed in their relationship, it felt more and more like Hermione tended toward mothering Ron rather than being his romantic partner. And maybe that was her fault.

Hermione jerked out of her spiralling thoughts when a finger tapped the counter in front of her. She looked up into the amused looking face of none other than Draco Malfoy. Hermione blanched before pulling herself together and attempting to, discreetly, look around for Astoria.

“She’s not here,” Malfoy supplied, looking entirely too proud of himself.

“I beg your pardon,” Hermione coughed. “Who?”

“Astoria.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Malfoy,” Hermione deadpanned.

“Right…” he trailed off.

Hermione was seconds away from being Stuck in an awkward stalemate with the Slytherin standing before her before she decided that she was Better Than That and offered him a small grin.

“What brings you in today? Is there anything I can get started for you? A book I can help you find?” Hermione questioned, tightening her grey apron behind the back of her cable-knit scarlet sweater.

“Oh, erm…” Malfoy started, seemingly distracted by her movements before shaking his head. “Yes, please. Could I get a single espresso? And have you gotten the new Florence Flairington? I heard it should be arriving in shops this week.”

Consider her flabbers ghasted.

“The…the new Florence Flairington?” She basically squeaked, eyes trailing down to the copy she left open on the counter. “Yes, we just received them this morning.”

“Perfect!” Draco cheered. “Could I get a copy with the espresso?”

“You read Florence Flairington?”

“Didn’t I just ask for the newest addition? Do keep up, Granger.”

She gaped at him, turning around to start the espresso grinder before selecting her preferred portafilter for the grounds because she couldn’t fathom what else she was supposed to do.

Draco Malfoy wanted a copy of Blood in the Shadows, so what? Florence Flairington was a very popular author in the Wizarding World. It wasn’t as though this was some staggering insight to the blonde wizard who stood opposite her counter. 

Once she fit the portafilter into place and started pulling the espresso through into a tiny espresso cup, Hermione turned to the shipment box, tucking her hair behind her ear as she did so.

“Merlin, Granger!” Malfoy exclaimed.

The sound of his loud baritone startled Hermione so badly that she jumped and dropped the precious new book in the process.

“What?” She cried, whipping her head around to look for the imminent danger or insect. Or dangerous insect.

“Your face. What’s wrong with your face?”

She sneered up at him.

“Oh, har har, Malfoy. Didn’t get it all out while we were at Hogwarts? Had to come to my place of business to taunt me some more? You know what, I don’t have time for this,” she stated harshly, picking up the book and slamming down on the counter before him. “Here’s your book.” She turned back to grab at the espresso before slamming it down next to the book. “Here’s your espresso.” She glared up at him. “That’ll be three galleons, if you please.”

Malfoy looked startled by her sudden change in behavior.

“What? Granger, no, I just meant,” he paused, running his hand through his hair and biting into his lower lip. His eyes trailed the length of her body, and Hermione crossed her arms. He met her stare again before continuing, “I just meant the erm, the bruise.”

“Bruise?” Hermione parroted back.

“Yes, just here,” Malfoy uttered, motioning to the brow and cheekbone of his own face.

Hermione gasped, suddenly remembering the events of last night before rushing over to the corner next to the espresso machine and pulling down the mirror she kept there.

“Oh, bugger,” she mumbled.

The bruise on Hermione’s brow had blossomed quickly, already darkening by the following day. It was now a deep purple, spreading from her forehead across her cheekbone in a jagged curve. The skin was tender, and the slightest touch sent a sharp, throbbing ache through her skull. She could feel the weight of it each time she turned her head, a heavy reminder of the chaos that had unfolded in the kitchen yesterday.

Hermione still felt a sense of unease about it all. It had been an accident, hadn’t it? He was just trying to turn around…because the smoke alarm was blaring, the kitchen was filling with smoke. She hadn’t been paying attention. She had gotten too close, too caught up in his movements, and it was just a slip-up. A moment of clumsy movement, typical Ron.

But even as she pulled out her wand and recast the glamor she had put in place that morning before leaving, there was a tiny, nagging feeling that wouldn’t go away.

Ron had been acting strange lately. More on edge. More quick to anger. And yesterday, after she’d grabbed his arm, he’d jerked away with such force—his eyes wild, like he couldn’t stand her touching him. She could still hear his sharp shout, his face reddening. "Hermione, stop!" The words had been harsh, abrupt, and she hadn’t been prepared for them. They hadn’t felt like the Ron she knew, the Ron she trusted.

Maybe that was another reason she was so hesitant to talk to him about their relationship.

And then, when the smoke alarm went off and he’d turned around so suddenly? His hand had struck her face with such force, she hadn’t seen it coming. She remembered the sting, the shock of pain, and then the world spinning as she dropped to the floor.

But he didn’t mean to, she reminded herself with a shake of her head. It was just an accident.

She untucked her hair from behind her ear to be safe and put the mirror back before sheepishly reapproaching the counter.

“My apologies, Malfoy. I didn’t mean to revert back to being a rigid bitch,” she laughed unconvincingly. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“You are not and have never been a bitch, Granger,” Malfoy uttered, brushing off her apology.

She shuffled shyly on her feet before daring to meet his eyes. His brow was pinched, and he was looking at her as though he was trying to see through her. Hermione shivered.

“What happened, Granger?” Malfoy inquired.

“Oh,” Hermione huffed out a small laugh. “It’s nothing. Ron and I had an unfortunate accident in the kitchen yesterday.”

“Weasley did that to you?” he gaped.

“What?” Hermione exclaimed. “No, he didn’t. I mean, yes, he did, but it was an accident.”

Malfoy eyed her skeptically. 

“Godric, Malfoy, we had an incident with burnt food and the smoke alarm. What do you care, anyway?”

“I don’t,” he immediately supplied, mostly from habit.

“Okay, then. Great,” Hermione stated, eyeing Malfoy cautiously. “Now that that’s settled, it’ll be three galleons for the book and espresso.”

“Oh, right,” he said, fishing out his pouch of coins and handing the galleons over. He was still looking at her as though he didn’t believe her. “Is it alright if I sit? To read, and drink the espresso, that is.”

Hermione quirked a small smile at him. “Not only is it alright,” she started, gazing over the various comfy spots to choose from in her shop, “It’s encouraged.”

Malfoy turned to peer out at her shop over his shoulder, a blush starting to stain his cheeks.

“Right,” he coughed, taking his book and coffee. “Cheers, Granger.”

With that, he sauntered over to the slouchiest armchair in the far-right corner of Hermione’s periphery from behind the counter. It was, coincidentally, her favorite spot.

Malfoy sat his espresso on the low, polished table that sat before the chair as he took his seat. He leaned back and, for the first time since Hermione had had the pleasure of making his acquaintance yesterday, she noticed the tension drain slowly from his shoulders.

He flipped the book open and immediately set to devouring the pages. Hermione couldn’t help but to smile at the sight. Draco Malfoy, of all people, seemed as though he might have the same taste in books as she did.

With that thought burning at the back of her mind, Hermione took her own copy of Blood in the Shadows and flipped it open to where she left off—Ronan Blackwood had just picked up a trail that may lead him closer than he’s ever been before to catching the dark wizard who’d stolen his loved ones. Hermione rested her chin in the palm of her hand and picked up where she left off. 

Unbeknownst to her, a certain blonde wizard was eyeing her from the corner of her shop, his own book forgotten.

Draco

A few hours later, Granger was bustling around her shop putting away the new shipment of books. She had already spent most of the morning gathering last minute Owl-Post orders for Christmas and sending them off. She was a hurricane of nonstop energy, that one.

He wasn’t sure exactly what he planned to accomplish when coming here today, but he just needed to talk to Granger again. He wasn’t ready to confront their past or apologize. It didn’t feel like it was enough to just say sorry. It didn’t seem to fully encompass the shame he felt for his past misdeeds.

He just knew that the shift from being asleep to waking up to the world around him happened after walking in here with Astoria yesterday, and Granger was the common denominator. Not to mention, she hadn’t immediately kicked him out upon seeing him grace her shop with his presence again today.

That was a good sign, right?

Draco stood from his cozy position to walk over to where she was stretching on her tiptoes to put a book on a shelf just out of reach. He rolled his eyes.

“Granger, you’re a witch, for Salazar’s sake,” Draco drawled from behind her, causing her to startle and drop the book. “Levitate the books to their places.”

Granger bristled as Draco bent down to retrieve the book.

“I know I’m a witch, Malfoy,” she spat. “But I am also a Muggle-born witch, in case that’s escaped your notice, although I don’t see how it could, all things considered.”

Draco, being in a rare altruistic mood, chose to ignore her very pointed comment.

“What does that have to do with using your brilliant magic to levitate books?”

Granger rolled her eyes.

“It’s got everything to do with it. I find it relaxing to do things the muggle way, not to mention lazy to rely on magic for everything,” she stated matter-of-factly.

It was Draco’s turn to bristle.

“Lazy? How in Merlin’s name is using your gods-given magic, lazy?” He questioned.

“Consistently using magic for mundane or simple tasks,” Granger said with a renewed fervor, her golden eyes emitting a warmth of fierce conviction, “doesn’t lend a witch or wizard to significant personal growth—in my humble opinion, of course. Doing things the muggle way sometimes—working through a problem, putting in the effort—means fully interacting with the physical world around you. Magic can solve so many things, but if we use it for everything, we lose the value of actually learning and growing. How could constantly depending on magic lead to the same satisfaction that comes from a job well done through skill, critical or creative thinking, or plain effort? It's lazy to depend on it for the simple stuff, and, I believe, it could lead to stagnation, both intellectually and intrinsically. There's a certain satisfaction in doing things the muggle way, and it keeps you grounded to actively and physically engage with the world."

Draco paused, his brow furrowing as he seemed to genuinely consider her words.

"I must admit, Granger, I’ve never quite thought of it that way," he said, his tone shifting to something more reflective. "I’ve always seen magic as a means to an end—efficiency, simplicity. But perhaps there’s merit in doing things the muggle way. Earning the result, rather than just taking the shortcut. It's an interesting perspective..."

She was stunned silent.

“On the other hand,” he continued with a mischievous smirk, and Granger scoffed, “it's also a bit of a noble perspective. Very Gryffindor of you. I think I’ll stay on my throne of galleons waving my wand about to accomplish my tasks.”

As he finished his statement, he winked at her, flicking his wand to levitate the book to the place on the shelf Granger was previously attempting to reach.

He couldn’t place why he decided to goad her. He did see what she meant, and he agreed. Even if he had never thought of it before. But sparring with Granger on neutral—almost friendly—ground was a titillating notion, as she was quick-witted and sharp. It was a new concept as he had only ever baited her in school with cruel intentions, even if she never let him get away with it.

Granger huffed, and Draco laughed. Genuinely laughed, the corners of his silver eyes crinkling with mirth as a dimple formed in his cheek. In all her years of knowing him, she couldn’t recall a time that she had seen Draco laugh in such a carefree way that didn’t immediately follow a snide remark or belittling comment made at somebody else’s expense.

Granger glared at him, her arms crossed tightly as she stared at the book, now placed back on the shelf as if it were Innocent in this whole thing and had No Business being part of this conversation. Draco could feel her getting worked up again, her annoyance creeping back, and for some reason, it only made him more amused.

"Of course you'd just do it," she scowled, her voice laced with dry sarcasm. "Why take the time to stretch your muscles when you can just wave a wand, right? Not like there's any pride in accomplishing something the muggle way."

Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the verbal joust. "Oh, but Granger, where’s the fun in sweating over something when you could simply...not?" His voice was dripping with feigned innocence as he leaned back against the bookshelf, his smirk widening. "You really think magic can't give you the same satisfaction? What’s the point of magic if not efficiency?"

Granger snorted, shaking her head, but her eyes were still burning with that passionate glow that Draco had to admit—albeit begrudgingly—he found somewhat endearing.

“Efficiency, Malfoy? Efficiency’s all well and good for those who just want to get by, but it’s not enough for someone who wants to live fully. Magic isn’t meant to be a shortcut; it’s supposed to enhance our lives, not replace the work we should be doing ourselves.”

Her golden eyes flashed, and Draco could see the challenge in them. She wasn’t backing down.

"Enhance our lives?" Draco echoed, amused. "You make it sound like magic is some kind of soul-sucking cheat code. Let’s face it, Granger, without magic, we’d be stuck in the Stone Age. I’d hardly call it 'lazy' to use a tool that was literally designed to make our lives easier."

Granger's lips pressed together in a thin line. "And that's the problem," she snapped, her voice rising slightly. "It's too easy! That's how people end up stagnant. Why bother putting in the effort when you can just wave your wand, flick your wrist, and get exactly what you want? You miss the process. The growth. Magic takes away the journey. The journey is where the satisfaction comes from, not just the end result."

Draco didn’t respond immediately. He was staring at her now, intrigued. He hadn’t expected such a fervent defense of the Muggle way, but he should have. She looked almost...radiant as she spoke, her whole body engaged, her eyes alight with a passion he rarely saw in anyone, let alone her. To be fair he had never spent much time with her in any scenario that didn’t involve bullying, torture, or being testified for.

After a pause, Draco tilted his head, still smiling. Needling her was much fun, indeed.

“So, what you’re saying is, you’d rather struggle with something just for the sake of it? Work harder, even when there’s an easier way?”

Her eyes flashed and jaw tightened. “If it’s the right thing to do, yes,” she said firmly. “It’s about being present, engaged. Magic can help, but it shouldn’t replace everything.”

Draco found himself momentarily lost in the intensity of her gaze. For a split second, he forgot he was only teasing her so he could stop to wonder if she'd realize how much of her argument could easily be applied to his own life—how he’d used magic to Occlude during the war in order to avoid confronting things he should’ve worked through.

A subtle shiver raced down his spine before he decided to not entertain that thought for long, Granger huffed in frustration, her arms uncrossing as she gave him a Look.

“I suppose that’s it, then. You’ll stay on your throne, waving your wand and calling it efficiency. Just don’t come to me when you realize you’ve missed out on all the things that actually matter."

He couldn’t help but laugh—genuinely laugh, the sound bubbling up from his chest, warm and light.

“Oh, Granger, you're a perfectly insufferable swot when you’re on that high horse of yours.”

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a bemused half-smile. “And you’re a terrible arse when you’re pretending to be clever,” she shot back, but there was no bite in her words—only a playful edge that matched his own.

Ah, he thought. She’s caught me.

Draco gave a mock sigh, his lips quirking up again. “Alas, the great Granger has once again changed my worldview. Ten points to Gryffindor. However will I go on?”

Her golden eyes narrowed, but there was a soft humor behind her gaze now, the tension between them dissolving. “You’ll think of something, Malfoy. I’m sure of it.”

“If you’re sure of it, Granger, I’m confident that it must be true,” he smirked. “Brightest-Witch-Of-Her-Age and all that.”

Granger’s smile faltered slightly, and her eyes took on an almost vacant gaze before she quickly snapped out of it.

“Please, spare me the moniker,” she cringed.

“Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy it,” Draco declared.

“I don’t, actually,” she concluded.

“Oh? And why is that?”

Granger sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She moved toward the back of the shop, where another box of books was waiting to be sorted.

“Not sure I want to get into it, really.” She sounded tired now, more subdued than usual. “We’re not friends, Malfoy. We barely know one another.”

Draco paused, a flicker of something crossing his face. She was being blunt, but he couldn’t say she was wrong.

“True,” he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “Why is that? I’m fascinating.”

She chuckled dryly. “Oh, I’m sure you are, Malfoy. Endlessly fascinating.” She paused before continuing, “And it isn’t like you ever tried to get to know me. What, with that blood elitist stick shoved up your arse? How’s that fairing by the way? Need to have a Healer examine it? I know one or two who would be happy to help.”

He grinned. “Har har. I’ll have you know it’s been extracted, thank you. Anyway, we’ve got plenty of time to get to know each other now, don’t we? Or are you too busy sorting through books to really engage?”

Granger raised an eyebrow.

Draco chuckled, reaching out to take the box of books from her hands. “Please, allow me to stretch my arms and practice this manual labor notion you seem to be so fond of.”

She gave him a small smile as she handed the box over, though she still looked a bit wary. “If you’re sure, Malfoy. I, on the other hand, am not sure you’re up for it, honestly. You’ve probably never touched anything that couldn’t be levitated before.”

He scoffed, holding the box out with exaggerated effort. “Granger, I assure you, I can lift a box. Might not be your idea of manual labor, but I can manage.”

“If you’re sure you’ll survive,” she said dryly, turning toward the shelves. “I’ll not have your solicitors contacting me on behalf of a sprained wrist or some such nonsense."

Draco snorted. "I deserved that."

"Indisputably," she nodded. "Anyway, to refer to your original statement, as much as I’d love to have a deep and meaningful conversation with you about nicknames and monikers, I don’t think it's a good idea. No offense, but... I mean it when I say I don't truly know you. Not really. We’ve known each other since we were eleven, and yet, we’re practically strangers.”

Draco’s eyes flickered over her, trying to read her face. “Fair enough,” he said. “But we’re not really strangers now, are we? I mean, you did just let me carry your box.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying his attempt at charm. “Oh, yes. Box carrying, the first step in any solid acquaintanceship.”

Draco gave her an exaggerated shrug. “So we’re still strangers, then?”

“For now,” she quipped, walking off to another bookshelf, pulling a few books from the box. “Let’s see how well you hold a box while I stock the shelves.”

He stared at the box in his hands for a moment, then grinned to himself. “You’ll be impressed by my technique, Granger. I have an entire strategy for holding boxes.”

Granger shot him an amused look as she turned back toward him, arms full of books. “Can’t wait to see it.”

And just like that, the playful tension was back.

“Not to mention,” she went on, “you’ve already needled one tangent out of me today, and it isn’t even noon yet. I’m not sure you could handle another. By now, Ron and Harry would be checked out and on their way to play with sticks or something.”

“Sticks or something?” Draco snorted. “My, that’s a high opinion you have of your boyfriend and Boy-Wonder.”

She shrugged. “Conversation about anything other than family, work, or Quidditch isn’t really their strong suit. I’ve accepted it.”

“That’s awful, Granger,” he intoned. “You’re basically trapped in an endless cycle of superficial banter. ”

She gave him a pointed look, her lips twitching. “What can I say? I’ve learned to survive. Besides, someone’s got to balance out their charm.”

Draco grinned, shifting his posture as he held the box and followed behind her. “I don't think 'charm' is the right word. But I digress. I like to think I’ve proven myself at least a semi-worthy conversationalist for the great Hermione Granger.”

She shot him a skeptical glance, her lips curling into a playful smirk. “The jury’s still out on that one, Malfoy.”

“Oh, Granger,” Draco started. “I bet I can have you calling me your friend and the best converser you’ve ever met by New Years.”

“Is that a wager, Malfoy?”

Draco paused to think on what he’d said, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. Granger’s eyes tracked the movement before she reached into the box to grab another book. She turned around, scanning the shelf for its rightful place.

Was it a wager? Did he want to be friends with Hermione Granger? He replayed the morning in his mind, recalling how easy it was to banter with her. And not just about nothing. She had genuinely given him new insight to how magic could be viewed and an interesting perspective to think on. It was a bona fide conversation with the last person he ever thought he would be talking to in any amicable sort of way.

Not to mention, he couldn’t get the darkened bruise that covered her brow out of his mind.

Was she actually okay like she said? It didn’t feel right, but he had no reason to not believe her. They were strangers, after all.

“Yes,” he decided as he set the box down. He extended his hand to her to shake on it. “It’s a wager. By New Year’s Day, I bet I can have you calling me your friend.”

“And what happens if you lose?”

“What do you want?”

Granger paused, the book she’d been about to place on the shelf now hovering in mid-air as her fingers tapped lightly on the spine. She glanced over at him, a bemused look on her face. “What do I want?” she repeated, a teasing lilt in her voice. “Well, I suppose if you lose, you’ll have to admit that I’m the better conversationalist. And maybe even agree that doing things the muggle way has its merits.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, pretending to think hard about it. “Let me get this straight. If I lose, I’ll have to admit that you’re the superior conversationalist and that you’re right about the muggle way? That hardly seems like a punishment, Granger.”

She shot him a knowing look, her smile widening. “You really think you’re that good, do you?”

He spread his arms in mock modesty. “I’m confident in my abilities, Granger. But I’m not one to back down from a challenge. Do you have anything more interesting to offer as a wager?”

Her eyes narrowed, clearly intrigued. She chewed on her bottom lip a moment before her eyes lit up. “I've got it! If you lose, you’ll have to spend a week helping me organize the back room of my shop. Without magic.”

Draco reared back, pulling his hand to his chest. “No magic? That’s just cruel.”

Granger raised an eyebrow, her expression completely unrepentant. “You wanted an interesting wager, Malfoy. I'd say watching you stagger and flounder about my stock room would be quite interesting.”

He chuckled darkly, eyes twinkling with a mix of mirth and something more reflective. “Alright then, Granger. It’s a deal. But if I win, you have to—”

Before he could finish, Granger waved him off. “If you win,” she cut him off with a grin, “we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

She turned back to the shelf, slipping the book into its place with practiced precision.

Draco stood still for a moment, his hand still hovering mid-air, half expecting her to shake on it, but instead, she was already moving on to the next task. 

He lowered his hand. “Fine. We’ll leave it open-ended then.” His voice was quieter, thoughtful, and for a second, Granger’s gaze flickered to him.

She didn’t respond right away, but he could feel her glance, warm and knowing, as if the wager had already started to solidify a new friendship between them.

“I’ll hold you to that, Malfoy.”

Chapter Text

December 24, 2000

Hermione

It had been too long since Hermione had been together with her girlfriends.

After the war, everyone that survived was so shocked by the weight of it—of the air in their lungs, the blood in their veins, the beat in their hearts—that they had had a silent agreement to cling to the life that was still here. Hermione and Ginny became closer than they had ever been in Hogwarts. Along with them, Padma and Parvati Patil, Luna Lovegood, Susan Bones, Hannah Abbott, and Pansy Parkinson—of all bloody people—made up their inner circle of girlfriends.

For the reader who enjoys ✨background✨ for character insight and development:

Pansy was not convicted after the war (playing no big part in it like her father had) and took Magical London by storm. She refused to enter into a contractual marriage, seeing that her family’s track record for good decision making was not The Best. This led to her being cut off and disowned by the Parkinson Patriarch, and her mother did not argue. Good riddance, was Pansy’s attitude about it all. She found herself moving in with one Theodore Nott Jr., and he lent her the money needed to get her new clothing line up and running. She bought a space in Diagon Alley—not far from Wandering Quill—and ran into Hermione one day when she was out for lunch. Pansy—with all the Pure-blood etiquette that she’d been raised with—refused to have skeletons or bad blood, so she swallowed her enormous pride and extended an Olive Branch to the beloved Golden Girl. Hermione accepted and the rest was history.

Padma had gone on to study healing at St. Mungo’s, and she’s in a relationship with one Blaise Zabini. While her family disapproves that he is neither Hindu nor Indian, they are at least happy that she is in a healthy relationship with Someone, unlike her sister, Parvati.

Parvati Patil became a journalist for Witch Weekly, and she is still as boy crazy as she was the day Hermione met her and Lavender Brown at Hogwarts. So much so that Parvati is the lead on compiling Witch Weekly’s Most Eligible Bachelors each year. At least it was a lucrative hobby.

Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones pulled their funds together to purchase The Leaky Cauldron. The two renovated the entire establishment to resemble a warm, inviting countryside inn, blending rustic charm with modern comforts. It is something that inherently speaks to the souls of both women. Hannah is someone who enjoys simple pleasures in life and can find joy in even the smallest things. And Susan is someone who enjoys simplicity for simplicity's sake.

Luna Lovegood, of course, took over her father’s publishing. She expanded his work by renting an office next to Pansy’s shop in Diagon Alley. She hired a full staff to run The Quibbler while she was out hunting rare and exotic Magical Creatures.

Ginny Potter (née Weasley) joined the Holyhead Harpies right out of Hogwarts. She also married Harry, and the two already had James. How she could keep up with her Quidditch schedule and be the best mother and wife Hermione has ever known, all before the age of twenty (wowza), is still a mystery. But Ginny does it with grace and finesse.

While plenty of witches and wizards in their generation went on to start families right away after the war, there were still plenty that did not. Hermione and the rest of her girlfriends were a testament to that. Ron had proposed after she opened her shop last year, but she couldn’t bring herself to say yes. She championed Ginny with everything inside of her, but she felt that she was too young. Or that she and Ron weren’t There yet. Whichever way you’d like to look at it.

The girls tried to get together for a Girl’s Night at least once a month, and they made the decision that night would be Christmas Eve in December. The host always rotated, and, tonight, it was Hermione’s turn. 

Harry had taken James over to the Burrow to spend time with Molly and Arthur while Ginny was at Girl’s Night, and Ron would be joining them there so that he could hang out with Harry—probably to play with sticks or something (i.e., the newest Quidditch racing broom, the Lightning 2000—a broom model manufactured and named in honor of Harry).

Hermione was flitting about the downstairs of her home, straightening up the tinsel and garland that hung about. Christmas had to be one of her favorite times of the year. Twinkling lights on the tree, the glow of warm fires in nearly every room, and curling up with a book and a cup of hot cocoa were all simple pleasures Hermione would never get over. For her, Christmas represented a time to honor what’s been lost, cherish what remains, and look forward to a brighter, more hopeful future, all while being surrounded by the warmth of the season’s comforting atmosphere. And spending Christmas Eve with her friends only made it better.

She put up her tree a week ago, but she’d been waiting until tonight to decorate it. This might become a new tradition for their Christmas Eve Girl’s Night. Decorate the tree of whoever happened to be hosting. That way they could have an excuse to carry on with the Secret Santa ornament exchange. They’d all decided that a typical Secret Santa was too much pressure—having to come up with an ideal gift for whoever's name you chose. But an ornament? Light-hearted, festive, and girly. They were just girls, after all.

Food and drinks were also rotating responsibilities so that the host didn’t have to stress about everything. Split responsibility and all that. Girls really should run the world.

Food for tonight would be split up between Padma, who was in charge of main dishes, and Susan, who was in charge of sides and a dessert. Drinks would be split between Pansy, who would try to give everyone alcohol poisoning, and Ginny, who didn’t want to have to deal with a screaming baby whilst hungover.

It would probably be fine.

And, because she was who she was, Hermione ended up making an additional side, dessert, and cocktail item. For options, obviously.

On her way to pull the bread budding from the oven, Hermione ducked into the half bath underneath the staircase to check that her ruby red lipstick hadn’t smeared and gave her appearance a final glance over.

She had tamed her riotous curls into soft waves that framed her face, pulling half her hair back into a velvet green ribbon to match her dress. She wore a tight, long sleeve white turtleneck under her velvet green overall dress with a square neckline. She readjusted the thin, gold chain of her necklace so that the otter charm Harry had gotten her last Christmas fell just right onto her chest.

She looked at herself in the mirror to make sure the glamor on her bruise held, nodding to herself when she saw it had, before slipping back out into the hall.

As she was placing the bread pudding on the sideboard in the sitting room, the Floo lit up green, the first of her guests stepping through.

“Really, Hermione?” Susan deadpanned.

Hermione whirled around, tucking her hands behind her back like she wasn’t just caught placing her own dessert out.

“What?” She feigned innocence.

Susan gave her a no-nonsense look, rolling her eyes as she stepped over to add her dishes to the sideboard—mashed potatoes and green beans for sides and chocolate-dipped raspberry-blueberry clusters for dessert (because Hermione was allergic to strawberries).

“This looks great, Susan. Thank you,” Hermione tried to flatter.

“Yeah, yeah, save it. What else do you have in the kitchen?"

“Erm…I don’t have…whatever coul-”

“Please stop before you give yourself an aneurysm,” a new voice joining the duo chimed in. Pansy sashayed in, levitating two bowls of punch behind her. Christmas punch. Filled with lots of liquor.

“Pansy!” Hermione greeted. “I didn’t hear the Floo.”

“Who would over that feeble attempt to convince Bones that you don’t have more treats in your kitchen?” Pansy retorted with a wry grin.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Hermione flapped her arms and scurried back to the kitchen to grab the boat of onion gravy and pitcher of sparkling cider.

When she made her way back into the living room, the rest of the women had shown up. Luna was chatting with Pansy and Hannah. Ginny was placing her drinks next to Pansy’s, laughing at something Parvati was saying as Padma neatly arranged the platters of ham and ratatouille she brought.

Hermione tried to tiptoe in unannounced to discreetly place down the gravy boat and cider, but she forgot that she was not only 1. Hermione Granger but also 2. The Host of The Party. 

“Oh, hello, Hermione,” Luna called in her soft, lilting voice.

Hermione cringed, pausing mid-step.

“Really, Hermione?” the rest of the group rang out.

“Okay, okay!” Hermione acquiesced. “I’m sorry. I have a problem, I know. I promise to seek professional help in the new year.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Padma chirped. “I have a few recommendations.”

“Blah blah and bah humbug to you all,” Hermione gruffed out, placing down her remaining items on the sideboard.

The women snickered before resuming their previous conversations. Hermione took up the remote to turn on the telly and found a channel that was running Christmas movies for the next twenty-four hours. Currently playing was Home Alone.

“Oh!” Ginny squealed. “I love this one! Harry made me watch it last year. That kid reminds me of the three of you at Hogwarts. Imagine having the three of you in one kid? I’d go insane!”

“He sort of does, doesn’t he?” Hermione mused looking from the telly to her friend. “Would you all like to do the gift exchange or food first?”

“Drinks first!” Pansy called out.

“Hear, hear!” Parvati agreed.

Pansy took up residence next to the sideboard to serve as that evening’s bartender.

“Alright ladies! We have Christmas punch, brought by yours truly. I’m not going to lie to you, there is a lot of alcohol in this. Do not drink it if you are not willing to go for a wild flight. Next, hot toddies, brought by Ginevra. I can only assume that, with a baby at home, this is not that dangerous,” she peeked at Ginny for confirmation who gave her a nod. “Right, and last, but certainly not least, cider, provided by our generous host”

They all gathered around Pansy to get their poison of choice. Luna, Parvati, Hannah, and Pansy went with the Christmas punch—a decision that had Padma immediately calling not it to taking care of a wasted Parvati later in the evening. Hermione, Padma, and Susan went with hot toddies; Ginny went with cider.

“Now that’s settled, food?” Susan suggested.

“Yes, please!” Ginny agreed. “I have not been able to look away from that ratatouille since Padma brought it in.”

“Just spare some for Parvati and me,” Padma giggled as she got in line behind Ginny.

With their plates made, the girls piled onto the couch and sitting chairs around the fireplace, settling in with the soft glow of the telly and the light of the crackling fire dancing over the scene.

“So, Padma,” Ginny started, taking a satisfied sip of her cider. “Will you tell me the secret to your flawless skin, or is it an ancient, Patil-family secret?”

Padma shot her a teasing glance, fork halfway to her mouth. “I’ll have you know, it’s all natural,” she said, her tone playfully smug. “No mysterious family magic, magical potions, or expensive creams. Just lots of rice water and the occasional cucumber mask.”

“Lies,” Pansy chimed in from the other end of the room, her voice dripping with mock suspicion. “You definitely have some special magic going on. There’s no way you can get skin that perfect with just rice and cucumbers.”

“I mean it,” Padma snorted before giving an exaggerated wink. “But thank you for the compliments, ladies. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

The group laughed, and Hermione took a sip of her hot toddy, feeling the warmth spread through her.

“How’s work going at St. Mungo’s, Padma?” she asked.

“Busy as ever,” Padma replied, her tone taking on a more serious edge. “We’re working on a research project for magical infertility treatments. It’s difficult. Not much glamour in it, but I like that. It feels meaningful, you know? And it brings me one step closer to graduating and becoming a fully fledged Healer.”

“Wow, that’s incredible,” Susan said from across the room, her voice soft with admiration. “Helping people in a way that really matters. I’m proud of you.”

Padma smiled, grateful for the kind words. “Thanks. It’s not easy work, but it’s important. You wouldn’t believe the decline in births we’ve seen since the war ended, especially in the area of magical infertility.”

Hermione looked up, her brow furrowing in thought. “I’ve read something about that—how trauma might be affecting people’s magical cores. There’s this theory that the prolonged stress and fear, even over-exposure to dark magic in some cases, during the war could’ve weakened people’s magic. It’s like their cores were damaged, or just…changed. Some researchers think that when you’re under constant pressure, your magic becomes more unpredictable, even blocked.”

“Unpredictable?” Pansy raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like a nightmare for anyone in the magical world.”

“It is,” Hermione said with a sigh. “People might not even notice it at first. But if your magic isn’t flowing properly, if it’s suppressed or unstable, it can affect everything—how you cast spells, how you connect with your magic. I guess even fertility. It’s not just physical trauma. The emotional scars we carry from the war can warp the way magic works within and through us.”

Padma leaned back, her expression thoughtful. “I’ve seen it. Some people, no matter how hard we try, just don’t heal the way they should. It’s like their magic’s holding back, waiting for them to be ready. It’s frustrating, because it’s not something you can fix with a spell or a potion.”

Luna, who had been quietly listening, spoke up in her usual calm demeanor. “Maybe it’s not lost, though. Just dormant. Magic needs trust to thrive. Perhaps it’s waiting for people to trust themselves again.”

Padma nodded slowly. “Maybe. But it’s hard, isn’t it? It’s not just about magical healing, it’s emotional. Some people are so broken, they can’t even imagine a future, let alone a future where they feel whole again.”

Hermione took a quiet breath. “I think that’s the hardest part for everyone. It’s not just about waiting for magic to come back. It’s about learning how to live with the scars, and hoping that in time, everything can heal—magic, heart, and all.”

A tense silence hung in the air before Pansy decided that that was Enough Of That and changed the subject.

“Another round of drinks?” she began, to which everyone heartily agreed. When she was done, she leaned back on the couch with her new glass of punch, “Speaking of important work…I’ve been thinking of branching out a bit with my business next year. You know, expanding beyond clothes and accessories. Maybe...magical home decor? What do you think?”

“Magical home decor?” Ginny repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Intriguing. Say more words.”

“Oh, you know, floating candles, enchanted mirrors, things that make a room feel more…I don’t know. Magical, obviously,” Pansy said with a shrug, clearly enjoying the attention. “Nothing too gaudy, of course. Just a little extra something for those who want their homes to look like they belong in Hogwarts.”

Luna, who had been quietly nibbling on her food and staring at the television, perked up at the mention of enchanted decor.

“Oh, I think it’s a wonderful idea,” she said dreamily. “I’ve always thought there should be more magical furniture. My father’s office at home was full of all sorts of odd things, but they were mostly practical. Floating desks, self-writing quills, but nothing decorative. You could make quite the collection, Pansy.”

“Oh, and I’m sure everyone would want a floating chair that tells them what they’re doing wrong,” Parvati said with a sly grin, adding on to Luna’s idea. “Who doesn’t want a self-sufficient house that gives them unsolicited advice?”

“Oh, believe me,” Pansy said with a sharp gleam in her eye. “I could sell that to someone.”

Susan laughed. “Only if you make sure the chair knows when to shut up, though.”

“Maybe the chair could offer life advice,” Hannah said with a smirk. “If the chair thinks you’re being lazy, it might nag you to get up and do something productive. It could be the next big thing.”

“Or it could drive you mad after five minutes,” Hermione added, “I’d end up throwing it out the window. Or having it set itself on fire.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hermione,” Pansy said with a roll of her eyes. “The chairs won’t set themselves on fire. But I would like to see you try.”

“Look at us now,” Ginny reminisced. “Grown-up and responsible. Some of us more responsible than others,” she added with a wink at Pansy, who was halfway through her third glass of punch.

Pansy raised her glass with a mock salute. “Guilty as charged.”

“Alright, alright,” Hermione said, glancing at the clock. “Let’s get on with the gifts!”

The friends cheered, and the room filled with renewed excitement as everyone gathered up their wrapped ornaments to prepare for the exchange.

“I’ll go first!” Ginny declared, standing up and traipsing over to Hermione.

Hermione took the package from Ginny. It was wrapped in soft, lavender tissue paper with a delicate silver ribbon, the ribbon sealed with a small floral wax emblem. Hermione tore through the paper to find a book ornament. Not very original for Hermione, but she appreciated the gift from her friend nonetheless.

“Okay, I know,” Ginny started, seeing the look on Hermione’s face. “But watch this.”

Ginny took the ornament from Hermione’s fingers and held it out. She waved her wand and whispered an incantation. The charm caused the ornament to come to life, the pages fluttering open, revealing snippets of quotes, spells, and sparkles spilling from it, like a magical projection.

Hermione gasped. “Ginny! This is beautiful! Thank you.” Ginny nodded and sat back. “Coincidentally, I got you, too.”

Hermione handed the gift over to Ginny to open. Tucked into a small, rustic wooden box, wrapped in a deep red cloth with gold thread, Ginny pulled out a small, hand-painted ceramic phoenix, perched gracefully with its wings half-spread, flames delicately curling from its tail.

“It's for your resilience and strength, much like the mythical bird that rises from its ashes, it symbolizes your ability to overcome challenges, whether it’s balancing motherhood and your career, or growing and evolving with Harry as you build your life together. I don’t know, it just…it reminded me of you,” Hermione stated, trying to gauge her friend’s reaction.

“Oh, bugger off with that, Hermione,” Ginny tried to hide the tears welling in her eyes. She could not, however, and gave her friend a watery smile. “This is brilliant, thank you.”

“Of course,” Hermione beamed.

“I’ll go next,” Luna chimed, passing Padma a deep emerald-green pouch tied with a gold string and a faint shimmer of a protection charm dusting the fabric.

Padma smiled as she tugged the pouch open and reached inside. She pulled out a delicate, stained-glass lotus flower with subtle twinkling charms.

“This is precious,” Padma breathed. “I read somewhere that The Lotus symbolizes growth, resilience, and rebirth. How appropriate in light of our conversation. Thank you, Luna.”

Luna smiled warmly at the Healer in training.

“Here, Hannah, I don’t know how I’ll ever top these girls, but I hope you like it,” Padma said, handing over the gift wrapped in a soft, cheerful yellow paper, adorned with tiny hand-painted sunflowers, and tied with a simple twine bow.

“Oh please,” Hannah started, tugging at the twine. “It isn’t a competition. It's just a friendly gift exchange. The whole point was for there to be no pressure.”

“Speak for yourself,” Pansy added. “If I don’t win this whole thing, I will never speak to any of you again.”

“Is that a threat?” Parvati asked.

“Or a promise?” Susan quipped.

“Fuck you both.”

Hannah ignored it all as she unwrapped a small, warm, rustic lantern filled with a glowing, soft yellow light.

“I really don’t know what to say other than you are literally like a radiant light, Hannah,” Padma tried to explain. “You find happiness in all of the smallest things, whether it's a quiet moment with a friend or the pleasure of a good meal. And you’ve brought that love and light to the Leaky with you and Susan.”

“Padma,” Hannah laughed. “Stop, it’s perfect. It reminds me of the lanterns Susan and I put up in the Leaky. I love it!”

“Thank Merlin,” Padma sighed, flinging herself back into her seat dramatically. 

The rest of the party continued to exchange ornaments, laughter bubbling up as each gift found its way into the right hands. Susan got Pansy a sleek, silver fox curled around a small, glowing emerald, representing both Pansy’s sharp, cunning nature and the new life she’d carved out for herself.

Hannah gave Parvati a glittering heart-shaped locket filled with tiny, swirling stars and miniature broomsticks, a reflection of Parvati’s outgoing and flirtatious manner. Parvati, with her usual flair, handed Susan a miniature wooden cauldron filled with twinkling fairy lights and herbs, symbolizing the rustic charm of The Leaky Cauldron.

Finally, as the giggles and hugs died down, it was Pansy’s turn.

“I drew your name, Lovegood. No pressure, but if you don’t like this, I’ll Avada myself. It took me ages to track down.”

“I’m sure I’ll adore whatever it is, Pansy,” Luna sang, gently taking the gift and pulling away its shimmery silvery wrappings.

Pansy waited with baited breath.

“Oh,” Luna breathed, turning the ornament over in her delicate hands. “This is beautiful. This is perfect. How?”

Luna looked up to meet Pansy’s eyes, and Pansy immediately pulled her fingernails from between her teeth. The rest of the girls looked on in confusion.

“What is it?” Parvati asked.

“It’s a Nargle,” Luna breathed, holding the ornament up for the group to see.

“Oh?” Hermione intoned, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

A miniature silver Nargle (is that what they looked like??) sat atop a crescent moon, with a soft glow radiating from it.

“You better fucking treasure it forever, Lovegood, because let me tell you,” Pansy stated, “I started at the usual places—wizarding antiques dealers, curio shops, the reputable ones. You know, the ones with actual taste . But no one had even heard of a Nargle before. Shocker . They all looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. So, I end up hunting down this disreputable arts dealer, a friend of a former Death Eater who—surprise, surprise—had an impressive collection of magical curios. But after three hours of giving me the cold shoulder, I finally managed to get her to admit she’d heard of something like it—at a gypsy market outside Diagon Alley. Oh, and of course, the gypsy would never sell it. Naturally. But whatever.

"I go to this market—if you could even call it that—which was basically a bunch of eccentric witches trying to make a quick galleon. I had to haggle with an old gypsy who didn’t even speak English, but knew enough to tell me that it was 'not for sale'—until I bribed her with a bloody emerald necklace my mother had given to me for my sixteenth birthday.” She paused, shaking her head and taking another sip of her punch. “Finally, after nearly being hexed for ‘disturbing the magical equilibrium of the universe,’ or some shite, I walk away with this ugly little thing, which I can’t even describe without feeling nauseous. And I present it to Luna, and she’s delighted, as if I’d just handed her the Crown Jewels. I’ve never seen someone so happy over something that looked like it was stolen from a goblin’s nightmare.”

Luna jumped up to hug Pansy. Tightly.

“Yeah, yeah, come off it,” Pansy gruffed, but Hermione saw the twinkle in her friend’s eye. “Happy Christmas, Luna.”

“That’s incredible, Pansy,” Hermione laughed. “You definitely win.”

“I fucking know I do. Are we going to decorate the tree now or what?”

“Yes!” Hermione jumped up and levitated her box of Christmas tree decorations and ornaments over to the tree.

The rest of the evening was filled with laughter as the girls, in a drunken stupor, hung the decorations and ornaments on Hermione’s Christmas tree.

Chapter Text

December 25, 2000

Hermione

Hermione started the last load of clothes in the wash before running back upstairs to finish getting ready for Weasley Family Christmas. While she didn’t get completely smashed last night, she was moving at a bit of a sluggish pace this morning.

She ended up telling the girls about her run-in with Malfoy at her shop, even though she still hadn’t had a chance to tell Ron, yet. The only one who didn’t seem surprised by the new acquaintance was Luna, but nothing ever really seemed to surprise her.

Parvati and Ginny had the most reservations—as Parvati was close with Lavender who was attacked by Greyback who took residence in Malfoy Manor during the war and as Ginny was possessed by Tom Riddle who was Lord Voldemort who also branded Malfoy and took up residence in Malfoy Manor during the war.

Hermione shuddered, recalling the conversation with her friends from the night before. Malfoy really had been through A Lot, to say the least.

While most of Susan’s family was murdered by either Voldemort or his Death Eaters during the First or Second Wizarding War, she held no reservations because, apparently, she was Evolved and existed on a higher plane. Clearly. (In reality, she’s been regularly seeing a Mind Healer since the war ended, and she has developed Healthy Coping Mechanisms. Also, Hermione and Draco were both adults? They can be friends if they want to.)

Everyone was set to be arriving at the Burrow at 11 a.m., so that meant that Hermione had exactly twenty-three minutes left to finish her make-up and find something to wear. Yay!

She dragged herself into the airy ensuite bathroom connected to the master bedroom. The ensuite featured a freestanding clawfoot tub beside a spacious walk-in shower with white subway tile and sleek, chrome fixtures. Natural light flooded in through large, airy windows, gleaming off the crisp, white honeycomb-style tiled floors. The rest of the space displayed marble countertops, minimalist storage, and a heated towel rail.

Hermione pulled out her cosmetic bag from below the sink—still preferring muggle make-up to beauty charms, of course—and began washing her face and applying an SPF moisturizer. She went in with concealer, light blush, a small cat-eye from her eyeliner, and mascara. Nothing as heavy as what she wore for the party with the women last night.

Content with her make-up, she began digging through the bag to find her Sleekeazy’s—a magical invention that would have to be ripped from Hermione’s fingers by extensive force to keep her from using it. She smoothed the potion through her curls and grinned as the curls took a more tame, wavy shape. She pulled an elastic from her bag, pulling the top third of her hair through the hairband. She split the ponytail in half, creating a hole between the ponytail and her roots to tuck her hair over the top and through to create an elevated high half-up/half-down look. She added a crimson bow to finish the look.

She grabbed her high-waisted denims from the hanger—hiphuggers were most definitely not on the agenda, thank you very much—and slid them up over the red lingerie she’d gifted herself for Christmas. After scanning her sweater options, she settled on a light cream, chunky cable-knit turtleneck, its thick weave adding something just right . Pulling it over her head, she tucked the front neatly into the waistband of her jeans, adding a black leather belt with a gold buckle to polish the look. She slid in a pair of chunky, gold-hoop earrings to dangle from her ears, and she fastened her otter necklace into place.

She sat next to Crookshanks—who gave a soft "mrrow" at the disturbance—on the end of her bed, a lovely centerpiece to their bedroom, if she did say so herself. The duvet and sheets were all a rich jewel-toned Killim fabric she found in a muggle market after Eighth Year. Deep emerald, sapphire, and amethyst hues blended beautifully, the cotton soft. She never cared much for satin or silk, finding it too slick against her skin. She bent over to slip on a pair of black boots to complete her outfit.

“Mione!” Ron called from downstairs. “Are you ready yet?”

“Yes, I’ll be right down!”

She slipped her wand into the holster hidden under the sleeve of her sweater and fluffed her hair out as she made her way back down the stairs, her hand gliding along the banister as she went.

Ron was standing impatiently in a Chudley Cannons jersey pulled over a black long-sleeve tee, slouchy jeans, and worn sneakers as he checked his watch.

“Godric, Mione, we’re going to be late,” he grumbled, barely glancing her way as he made his way into the sitting room to take up the Floo powder.

She knows she didn’t put that much time into her Look for his family’s Christmas, but she felt a knot form in her stomach all the same at the complete disregard she faced from her boyfriend. When had he quit complimenting her? Or, at the very least , taking the time to notice any effort she put in? Why didn't he put in an effort to look nice when she did?

“Sorry,” she muttered, avoiding his eye and grabbing a fist of Floo powder as she stepped into the hearth. Ron stepped in beside her, and she threw the powder down, green flames engulfing them and spiraling them through to the living room at the Burrow.

“Hermione!” Ginny squealed as she and Ron stepped through.

Hermione smiled at her friend, pulling her in for a hug.

“Merlin, you two just saw each other last night,” Ron mumbled, shuffling past them on his way to the kitchen.

Ginny glared at the back of her brother’s head, sticking her tongue out for good measure before returning her attention to Hermione.

“You look amazing,” Ginny said, wiggling her eyebrows as she trailed her gaze up and down over Hermione. 

Hermione blushed at the compliment that she received from her boyfriend's sister, disappointment settling in that it hadn't come from Ron instead.

“Thanks, Gin. You look gorgeous, as always,” she returned, giving Ginny her own appreciative once over of the red-head’s ribbed, black bodycon sweater dress.

Ginny tossed her hair over one shoulder. “Thank you, thank you, anything for the fans.”

The two giggled together like First Years as Ginny tugged Hermione into the cozy living room where George was currently on the floor with a crawling James. 

“Oi! James, you can’t possibly be plotting your escape already,” George said with mock dismay, looking down at his nephew with exaggerated concern. James giggled, swatting at the toy George was teasing him with. Hermione raised an eyebrow at the scene.

Hermione couldn’t help but notice how much George had healed since the war. There was a lightness in his movements now, a confidence that hadn’t been there before James was born, and a steady calm in the way he interacted with everyone now. He was more grounded, more sure of himself. She found herself appreciating him in a way she hadn’t in years, surprised by how much he had grown, not just physically, but in the quiet strength he carried with him. It was hard to believe the same man had once been so shattered after the loss of Fred, and yet, here he was, laughing on the floor with his nephew.

Ginny, clearly amused, flopped onto the couch beside Hermione. “I’m sure James could get away if he wanted, what with all that mischievous talent in his blood?”

“Oh, absolutely,” George said, his grin widening. “The kid’s already got that look in his eyes. Just wait until he can talk—he'll be asking for his own joke shop by his fifth birthday.”

Harry chose that moment to step into the room, catching the tail end of the conversation. "A joke shop for a five-year-old?" he asked with a raised brow.

Ginny grinned. "That or a broomstick. There’s no telling what talents lay in wait with this one."

Hermione laughed, enjoying the warm atmosphere settling around them. But then, the door creaked open again, and Ron walked in, his face dark, his shoulders tight.

“Ron," Hermione greeted him, her tone immediately shifting. “You okay?”

He nodded curtly, but his eyes flickered over to her, a sharp edge in his gaze. “Yeah, fine.” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned the room. “Did I miss something?”

Hermione felt the tension snap into place like a string pulled too taut. Ginny shot a glance at Harry, who frowned, sensing the shift in the air.

“No,” Hermione said carefully, standing up, though her voice was a bit more rigid than before. “Just catching up.”

Ron didn’t seem convinced. “Right,” he muttered, dropping into the chair next to Hermione with more force than necessary. “Well, looks like it’s all fun and games until someone forgets to tell me what’s actually going on.”

Hermione’s smile faltered as the air thickened, a familiar discomfort settling over her. “Ron, what’s—”

Without another word, Ron pulled out a rolled-up parchment, throwing it onto Hermione’s lap with a sharp motion.

“Ron!” Harry cried, eyeing his friend with shock and confusion at his tone and movements toward Hermione.

Hermione blinked, her eyes darting from Ron to the letter in confusion. “What’s this?” she asked nervously, picking up the letter from her lap.

He spat the words out like they were poison. “A letter from Draco Bloody Malfoy.”

Hermione’s stomach tightened as her fingers brushed against the crisp parchment. She could feel Ron’s angry gaze burning into her, and she quickly unrolled it, her eyes scanning the neatly written words. 

Granger,

How am I meant to convince you we’re friends if I don’t hear from you? Please advise.

Draco Lucius Malfoy

"Why would you be getting letters from that Death Eater scum?" Ron's voice was sharp, almost too controlled, as though he were holding something back.

Ginny sent a wide-eyed look to Hermione as if to say You didn’t tell him?? And Hermione could only offer a subtle shrug of her shoulder and shake of her head in response before turning her attention back to Ron.

Hermione’s mind raced, but she could feel the weight of Ron’s stare on her as she read through the letter once more before she took a slow breath, trying to steady her thoughts. I haven’t done anything wrong, she reminded herself. I just haven’t had the chance to tell him. I can do that now. Honesty being the Best Policy and all that.

“Malfoy and his wife came into my shop the other day,” she started.

“WHAT?!” Ron bellowed.

“Ron, mate, calm down,” Harry tried.

Ron whipped over to look at his friend. “And I suppose you knew about this, did you?”

“What?” Harry returned, furrowing his brows in confusion at Ron’s explosive anger. “No, Ron, but I don’t think it’s worth getting out of sorts about.”

“Well, if Harry Potter doesn’t think it’s worth it, then that must be the case,” Ron spat, rolling his eyes as he got up from his seat and stormed upstairs.

George leaned back, eyes twinkling mischievously, and gave a half-hearted shrug. “Personally, I think he just needs a nap. Maybe a teddy bear, too. And a warm glass of milk.”

Ginny snorted, and Harry couldn’t help but chuckle. For a moment, the tension seemed to break for everyone but Hermione, who still felt the weight of Ron’s outburst in the air.

She cleared her throat, clenching the letter in her fist as though it might offer some comfort. "I’m, erm… I’m just going to go check on him, excuse me," she muttered, her voice quieter than usual. She made her way to the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last, and, as she made her way up, she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that lingered in the pit of her stomach.

The warmth of the living room faded as she climbed higher into the house, and even though she could hear the light laughter still echoing below, the silence surrounding her now felt suffocating. Each step up the staircase seemed to amplify the heaviness in her chest. She knocked softly on his door before pushing it open, not sure what kind of reception she was about to get.

“Ron,” she began gently, trying to keep her voice steady, though she wasn’t sure what exactly she was walking into.

“Go away,” he spat, his voice harsh, as he sat on the edge of the bed, his head buried in his hands. His shoulders were hunched, and his breathing came in short, ragged bursts. Hermione froze, momentarily taken aback by the rawness of his anger—and the depth of it, something she hadn’t expected.

She stepped into the room, the door creaking softly behind her. “Ron, what’s going on? I can see that you’re really angry, but I don’t understand why. What’s this about?”

His response was a frustrated groan, and he lifted his head, his eyes red and strained. “You know exactly what it’s about, Hermione.” His voice was low, but the words cut through her, sharp and sudden. “Draco Malfoy, of all fucking people, comes into your shop, and you don’t even think to tell me? What the fuck is up with that?”

“Don’t curse at me, Ron,” Hermione began, trying to keep her tone even. “I wanted to tell you that night, but so much ended up happening with the smoke alarm and us running into each other, it just slipped my mind.”

His eyes flared with disbelief, and he shot to his feet, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Slipped your mind? Is that what you’re telling me? Draco Malfoy —the guy who used to terrorize us—walks into your shop, and it slips your mind ?” His voice was rising now, echoing off the walls, and Hermione felt the sharp sting of his words, though she refused to let herself flinch.

"Ron, please—" she started, but he cut her off, his tone venomous.

“Please? Don’t please me, Hermione!” he spat, taking a few steps toward her, his chest heaving with frustration. “Do you even realize how bad this looks? After everything that happened, you just... carry on like it’s nothing? Like it’s perfectly normal for him to show up in your life again?”

Hermione’s jaw clenched as she stepped back from Ron’s advance toward her, her hand tightening around the letter she’d barely noticed still crumpled in her fist. "I didn’t ask for him to show up, Ron. And I didn’t exactly invite him into my life, well, I guess I did, that’s what this letter was referring to. It seems like he’s…I don’t know, like he’s changed since the end of the war."

“Then why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Ron’s voice cracked with a mix of anger and hurt. “What, you think I wouldn’t care? Or is there something more here, something you’re not telling me?”

The room was heavy with tension, and Hermione could feel her own frustration bubbling up. She had known this conversation wouldn’t be easy, but she hadn’t expected this kind of fury from him, not over something she hadn’t even had the chance to explain. Her voice grew firmer, more resolute, as she tried to meet his fiery gaze.

“I didn’t tell you because I was worried you’d react like this! I didn’t want to fight, Ron—especially over something stupid like this. Yes, Draco came in, and yes, I spoke to him, but that doesn’t mean—”

"Doesn’t mean what?" Ron cut her off again, his face now inches from hers, his breath hot with anger. “It doesn’t mean anything? Really? You think I’m going to sit here and pretend like it doesn’t matter ? You think it’s okay for him to just waltz in and pretend he wasn’t a complete arse to us for years and that I’m supposed to just deal with it?”

Hermione stepped back again, a wave of exasperation flooding over her. "I’m not asking you to deal with it, Ron. I’m asking you to trust me. You want to fight about Draco Malfoy, of all people, go ahead—but I’m not doing this with you on Christmas at your family’s."

The words hung between them like a challenge, and Hermione could see Ron’s jaw tighten as he stared at her, the silence thick with the weight of everything unsaid. He approached her again, his face flushed with anger.

“You’ve changed, Hermione. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

Before she could respond, he suddenly went to brush past her to storm out of the room and back down the stairs. The force of his movement was enough to make the floorboards creak underfoot, and for a split second, Hermione felt the air shift.

Then, in an instant, she felt it—a sharp jolt as Ron’s shoulder grazed hers. The momentum was so quick and unexpected that it sent her stumbling backwards. The heel of her boot caught on the edge of the stairs before she had time to steady herself, and, the next thing she knew, the ground seemed to fall away as she was sent tumbling down the stairs behind her.

Her hands scrambled for purchase on the banister, but there was nothing to grab, and the world seemed to tilt with every jarring step of her fall.

She plummeted, everything happening in a blur of pain and confusion.

Her head struck the banister with a sharp crack, sending a dizzying wave of nausea through her.

Her arms flailed, the left one slamming into the railing and the right scraping painfully against the wooden steps.

Her shoulders collided with the edge of the stairs, the impact jarring through her ribs.

Her legs buckled beneath her, knees scraping the rough wood.

She twisted her ankle in the fall, a sickening sharp pain shooting up her calf as her foot landed awkwardly on the last step.

She felt her body bounce and roll, each movement adding to the sting of bruises and scraped skin, her entire body pulsing with raw, unexpected pain as she finally crashed to a stop at the bottom, breathless and dazed.

Her heart raced as she lay there for a moment, dazed, the confusion clouding her mind. What just happened? It all happened so fast, so disorienting, that for a moment, she wasn’t sure if she had tripped...

Or if it had been something more...deliberate?

The confusion still clung to her as she rubbed her head, trying to clear the dizziness.

Her heart was still hammering in her chest, her thoughts racing as she replayed what had just happened.

Had that been an accident? Had she tripped? Or had Ron—?

The question lingered, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it, not yet.

Not when she wasn’t even sure.

As Hermione lay at the bottom of the stairs, still dazed, Ron rushed down after her, his footsteps frantic. "Hermione! Merlin, Hermione!"

His voice was tight with panic as he dropped to his knees beside her, hovering nervously, unsure whether it was okay to touch her. His face was flushed, but his eyes—those wide, desperate eyes—told a different story than the apology spilling from his lips.

He reached for her shoulder, then quickly pulled his hand back, as though worried she would break. "You’re okay, right? Please, please tell me you’re okay."

Hermione blinked up at him, her thoughts a jumbled mess, still dizzy from the fall. His frantic concern made her head spin almost as much as the pain radiating through her limbs. She winced as she tried to sit up, her ankle protesting with a sharp, burning pain.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice shaky, but something wasn’t sitting right with her. She glanced up at him. The guilt in his eyes didn’t seem to match the tension in his posture.

He watched her carefully, still kneeling at her side, his voice growing softer. "It’s going to be okay, Hermione. You’ll be okay. I'll make sure of it."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, the others poured into the hallway, drawn by the commotion.

Ginny was the first to reach her, kneeling by her side with a look of immediate concern. "Hermione, are you alright?" she asked, glancing quickly at Ron. "What happened?"

“I’m fine,” Hermione repeated, though her voice was far less convincing than she wanted it to be. She could feel Ginny’s gaze on her, the worry in her eyes unmistakable. But before Ginny could say anything else, Ron spoke up, his voice sharp and defensive.

“She tripped,” Ron insisted, his jaw clenched tight as he looked at Ginny, Harry, and George gathered in the hallway. “It was an accident. She tripped.”

The words hung in the air, and there was a strange pulse in the air as the group absorbed his statement. Ginny frowned, her eyes flicking between her brother and Hermione, but she said nothing, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Arthur appeared in the doorway next, his eyes scanning the room as he took in the scene. “What’s going on? Hermione, are you hurt?”

Hermione glanced up at her father-in-law, her gaze still slightly unfocused. "Just my ankle, I think," she said softly, trying to make light of it, though the twist in her stomach wasn’t something she could ignore.

Molly entered behind him, her brow furrowing as she saw the situation unfold. "Ron, what happened?"

Ron immediately straightened, the defensive edge in his voice rising again. “She tripped, Mum.”

Ginny shot him a hard look, but kept her mouth shut, though it was clear she didn’t buy it. George leaned against the wall, raising an eyebrow, his expression skeptical, and Harry, still standing in the doorway, looked uncertain, his eyes flicking between the others with quiet suspicion.

After a brief pause, Molly stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. “Well, if we’re all finished, I think James and I should take a walk outside. Watch the gnomes in the garden for a while as we wait for the others to arrive for dinner.”

Arthur nodded in agreement. "A walk might do some good. Hermione, do you need anything before we go?"

Ginny stared between her mother and father in disbelief for a moment before deciding that now was not The Time for another row.

"I’ll stay here with Hermione," she stated, looking at Ron with a quiet warning in her eyes.

"Thanks, Gin," Hermione whispered.

“Of course,” Ginny said softly before turning a glare onto her brother. “Go get some ice for her ankle, Ron.”

Ron nodded frantically, scurrying out of the hall toward the kitchen.

“Harry, levitate her to the couch, I’m going to cast a diagnostic to see if anything else is injured,” Ginny ordered, taking charge of the situation in the way she only could.

George, still leaning against the wall and glancing over to make sure Ron was still in the kitchen, asked with his tone deliberately casual, "So, we’re just going to pretend she tripped and didn’t get shoved down the stairs after a heated argument?"

The comment hung in the air for a Moment before Hermione quickly brushed it off.

“No, he’s right,” Hermione said in a placating tone. “I did trip. I was trying to leave because I didn’t want to have a silly argument on Christmas, and the heel of my boot caught the stair.”

Ginny eyed her warily, clearly not convinced, but choosing not to press. “Okay, Hermione,” she muttered, her tone tinged with skepticism.

Harry gently placed her on the couch, his face filled with quiet concern, but Ginny was moving in front of Hermione, her wand raised and ready. Hermione felt a warmth vibrate over her body as Ginny cast a diagnostic spell, her expression serious.

Ginny’s eyes narrowed as she scanned Hermione’s body. “You’ve got a head injury, love," she said, her tone calm to keep Hermione from panicking. "And some sort of fracture to your arm. You’re going to need to go to St. Mungo’s.”

Hermione, being who she was, panicked anyway.

“What? No! It’s Christmas, Gin!”

“Hermione, you're hurt, and I can’t cast a complex diagnostic to examine the extent of your injuries, just the basic one I learned for Quidditch injuries. We can’t handle this here.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione protested, though the dull throb at the base of her skull and the sickening ache in her arm made it clear that she wasn’t. “It’s just a little bump, a little bruise. Can’t we wait until tomorrow?” Her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, as if time could somehow make the injuries less real, less urgent.

Ginny shook her head, making it very clear she wasn’t backing down. “No, Hermione. This isn’t something we can ignore. You’re hurt, and we need to make sure you’re not going to make it worse. I will drag you kicking and screaming if I have to, but I’d prefer not to considering your current state.”

Hermione could feel the heat of her face rising, frustration mixing with fear. “I don’t want to ruin Christmas. Not for James. Not for any of you.” Her voice was tight, but beneath the panic, she was holding on to the smallest thread of hope—maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t as bad as they all thought.

Harry, still standing by, looked at Ginny with a quiet agreement in his eyes. “We’ll be quick,” he added gently, as though offering some comfort.

When Harry agreed, Hermione knew there was no avoiding it. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, the weight of the decision settling heavily on her shoulders.

"Fine," she whispered. "I’ll go. But if you don’t come with me, I’m going to be insufferable in that hospital."

George pushed off the wall, stepping forward. “I’ll get the coats. We’ll make sure you're not alone on Christmas.” His voice was light, but the intent behind his words wasn’t lost on Hermione. We'll make sure you're not alone with Ron.

Her heart ached. Christmas. Of all days.

[ to be continued / second half of the chapter coming soon ]