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Chapter Text

Snow fell gently, blanketing the magical village in a soft white cover and muffling all the lively sounds that had filled the streets just moments ago. The snowflakes sparkled in the glow of garlands and the warm light of enchanted lanterns, pushing back the early winter dusk. The world seemed to be holding its breath in anticipation of the holiday. Christmas Eve was approaching.

Witches, wizards, and their young sorcerers bustled through the streets, hurrying to complete their final tasks: choosing gifts, decorating their homes, and filling their baskets with treats for the festive table.

Hermione stood by the window, gazing pensively at the snow-covered streets. Her home was wrapped in snowfall, the fireplace crackled in the living room, and in the corner, beside shelves stacked with both Muggle and magical literature, a Christmas tree shimmered with golden and silver lights. Yet, inside her, serenity was intertwined with a quiet longing.

He had promised to be home by Christmas...

Her thoughts drifted back to that day six months ago when Draco Malfoy had unexpectedly appeared in their department, holding an armful of colorful fairy lights. His expression was one of determination, as if he were not just presenting her with a gift but signing over half his fortune.

"Here. Enchanted garlands," he’d said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "So winter doesn’t feel so dark and you can stop overthinking a thousand things at once."

Then, a carrier appeared on her desk, and inside it, a pair of amber eyes gleamed back at her.

"And what’s this?" Hermione asked, startled, as she stared at the sulky black cat within.

As usual, Malfoy didn’t give her time to think. He cleared his throat, opened the carrier, and deftly placed the cat in her arms.

"I’m being sent on a mission to northern Britain," he said, striving for nonchalance, though his voice faltered. "I want Hecate to stay with you. You’ll be better off together. And I’ll feel more at ease."

Hermione hadn’t had the chance to respond. Malfoy turned toward the door but paused, his expression oddly contemplative, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. His hand clenched and unclenched a few times before he cast a last glance at her and disappeared through the doorway.

She could have sworn she heard him murmur:

"I’ll come back… I promise I’ll come back."

Six months passed in a whirlwind of workdays. The usual chaos of the Auror Office: chasing dark wizards, neutralizing cursed artifacts, exchanging sparse letters, and receiving even sparser, curt updates from Harry about the success of Malfoy’s northern mission.

Men… Hermione furiously wrote letters, sent Patronuses, and read reports, yet in the evenings, she invariably found herself holding his favorite book, Dickens' A Christmas Carol, curling up on the couch with Hecate.

She missed him.

Despite her outward bravado, Hermione knew that hot-headed Malfoy would inevitably land himself in yet another scrape. He’d earn three or four new scars, save his cadets, return with a medal and a smile, as if it were all no big deal.

Her best partner.

Five years side by side on assignments: from sharp-tongued jabs and hostility to mutual respect, support, and… friendship. The teasing remained, but it had lost its sting. Together, they had grown stronger. Together, they had become… family?

Hermione’s gaze drifted to the Christmas tree. Malfoy’s garlands glowed softly, filling the room with warmth. She sighed and hugged Hecate tighter.

He would come back. She just had to wait.

Snow fell, sparkling enchantingly in the moonlight. Malfoy checked his enchanted pocket watch for the hundredth time that evening. If everything went as planned, he’d just make it home by midnight, barely catching the tail end of Christmas Eve.

He had never believed in coincidences, let alone luck. But on this particular evening, he allowed himself to hope that the infamous spirits of Christmas might lend him a hand.

Draco tightened his scarf as his breath billowed white in the frosty air. The forest path before him stretched like a snowy carpet, and the wind whispered through the treetops, weaving a melody that stirred something within him. He quickened his pace, feeling the anticipation coursing through his veins.

For six months, he’d convinced himself this mission was just work. Six months filled with cold and danger felt like a long, unending dream. But tonight, he was going home. To her.

His thoughts returned to Hermione, and a familiar warmth tinged with sadness tugged at his heart. He pictured her laughing—a rare but infectious sight; the spark in her eyes when she solved puzzles that everyone else deemed impossible. And the little things, those tiny details she thought no one noticed. He always noticed.

Granger was like this forest, this snowfall. A quiet beauty with an undertone of majestic strength. She shone softly, but beneath her composed exterior lay immense depth. Her stubbornness, selflessness, and hidden vulnerability made her… irreplaceable.

The forest thinned, and lights appeared ahead. Draco sighed in relief, brushing snow off his coat as he walked. In the distance, the windows of the magical transportation hub twinkled, and his heart fluttered. He thought back to the moment six months ago when he’d handed her those enchanted garlands.

"They dispel the darkness," he’d said then, striving for a casual tone. "So you can stop tearing yourself apart and just… live."

Strangely, she had smiled in response.

They had come a long way over the years. What had started as sharp words and mutual dislike had grown, step by step—nights spent unraveling convoluted cases, arguments over who got the next dangerous artifact, sharing one coffee cup during a stakeout—into something more.

Her home had become his home.

Malfoy stopped and checked his watch once more. Midnight was just minutes away.

"I’ll make it," he thought, closing his eyes and picturing only one thing: her face, glowing with warmth, as he knocked on the door.

Chapter Text

Malfoy inched forward, clinging to every step in the seemingly endless queue. Around him, the crowd buzzed: some grumbled, others joked, and a few tried to calm children weary from the long wait. But Draco noticed none of it. He closed his eyes, letting himself be carried away by memories and the cool touch of the glass his feverish forehead rested against.

He was utterly exhausted. The haggard look on his face, the shadows lurking in his eyes, and the dark circles beneath them told the story. When had he last slept properly? Or eaten something decent instead of those dreadful hot dogs from a forgotten roadside stand, swallowed hastily with overly sweet coffee and milk?

What would Granger say when she saw him standing at her cozy doorstep? She noticed everything—every detail, every nuance that others dismissed as insignificant. Malfoy smirked despite the nausea rising from sheer exhaustion. Her of all people to talk, the Furious Fury herself. She was vying for the head of the department, though Draco doubted the wisdom of such ambitions. He couldn’t imagine Potter deliberately putting her in harm’s way. And, truth be told, the thought didn’t sit well with him either. But they both knew the risks when they joined the Auror Office.

Malfoy pressed his fevered forehead against the cold glass, lost in thought. Not everyone was fortunate enough to know Hermione Granger as he did, to see the sides of her that she rarely showed. The way her fingers trembled as she laced them together when the department received tragic news of young recruits ambushed on a mission. The zigzags and peculiar flowers she doodled in the margins when she was deep in thought over a particularly tangled case. Granger was fearless as a hurricane—courageous and relentless, yet profoundly human.

No one else knew her like he did. No one else saw her as he did.

The line shuffled forward, and Malfoy pulled away from the glass, adjusting his scarf. He was close now. Just a little further, and he’d see her again. Just a little further, and he’d become part of the light she brought into his life.

Her notes, scrawled in multicolored ink, often scattered across the department during moments when adrenaline coursed and victory seemed tantalizingly close. Those chaotic yet precise notes reflected her mind’s brilliance and her relentless drive to control the chaos around her. But after days like that, when energy gave way to exhaustion, he always found her at the farthest bar in town.

She’d sit at the counter, a glass of cherry liqueur in her hand, her gaze unfocused, fixed on some distant point as if trying to latch onto something to keep from being swallowed by her thoughts. Malfoy would sit beside her, saying nothing. It was surprisingly easy to share silence with her—no awkwardness, only an unspoken understanding.

Sometimes, he’d notice Christmas cards on her desk, unsigned. Elegant, with clean lines and delicate snowflakes, they lay atop piles of reports. He knew who they were for. They were the unsent messages to her parents. She had tried to reach out to them after the war, to reclaim what she’d lost. But no matter her efforts, they had not remembered her.

It was another topic they didn’t discuss. They each bore their own scars, their own fractured relationships with a world still healing from war. Everyone saw Granger as a hero, a symbol of justice. But he knew more. He knew about her breakup with Weasley, a mutual decision that still left deep marks. She didn’t admit it aloud, but he didn’t need to ask.

Draco had his own silences to keep. Once, during a gathering, Ginny Potter, tipsy and sharp-tongued, had quipped:

“Surely someone as eligible as you could manage to find a girlfriend!”

His response was calm, though his voice carried a steely edge:

“I’m not a bachelor, Ginevra. I’m a widower. That’s the difference.”

The silence that followed was answer enough. He felt the stares—awkward, avoiding, or pitying. But one gaze was different. Hermione’s eyes met his, and in them, he found neither judgment nor sympathy, but a quiet, steadfast support, as solid as an unspoken vow.

This silent bond between them—a rare trust forged over years—was something no one else shared.

Their days had been full of loud arguments, sharp remarks, and jests that weren’t always kind but became their language—a strange mix of old animosities and newfound respect.

But there were nights, too. Nights spent in the ward for victims of dark curses at St. Mungo’s. It became their unspoken meeting ground—two partners drawn to the same shadows.

When he was the one lying on a hospital bed, too weak to move, Hermione would visit every evening. She’d stride in briskly, set a vase of ridiculously fragrant daisies on the bedside table, and, without asking, begin reading her favorite Muggle fairy tales to him.

“Everyone needs a little magic in tough times, Malfoy,” she’d say in a tone that brooked no argument.

He’d grumble, roll his eyes, and feign disinterest, but one story after another would seep through his exhaustion. She read with such conviction, such seriousness, as if each word held as much weight as the cursed artifacts they hunted.

When it was Hermione in the hospital bed, Malfoy had his own ritual. He’d make chicken soup—a skill Ginny Potter had once dared him to learn—and bring it to her.

“You know, I only make this for the elite,” he’d quip with a smirk, setting the bowl by her side.

His visits were always accompanied by endless jokes, not always appropriate but oddly comforting. He’d sit beside her, sometimes reading case notes, sometimes simply watching as she dozed off.

Hermione cherished those moments, though she never admitted it. But he knew. He saw the way her shoulders relaxed, the way her voice softened.

And Malfoy? Malfoy had come to love Muggle fairy tales. He kept every fragment of magic she’d given him, as though they were tiny spells of salvation.

Those evenings at St. Mungo’s were their silent promise to each other—to be there when it truly mattered.

Then came this mission. Long, grueling, important. It drained him, made him question every step, stole months he could have spent with her. But it was for this return, for her trust, for the chance to see her smile again, that he refused to break.

Before he left, there had been a farewell evening. Malfoy remembered every moment as if it were yesterday. In her hands—those same hands that had cradled his cat, the dearest thing to him apart from Hermione—was a warmth so profound it made him never want to let go. But most of all, there was the kiss—the first, long-awaited kiss, filled with everything they’d kept inside for years.

She hadn’t objected. Quite the opposite. Her arms around his shoulders seemed to pass a part of her strength to him, as if to make the separation a little easier. Her gaze was steady, but in it, he saw something that made his heart clench.

He remembered how she had pressed close, letting him bury his face in her hair, how he’d covered her forehead, cheeks, neck, and collarbones with kisses. Her shaky breath and whispered plea:

“Just come back home.”

He had said nothing. He had simply held her tighter, as though carving that moment into his memory to keep her as she was: warm, strong, alive.

He had promised.

Now, standing in the endless queue, surrounded by noise and movement, he looked at the snow falling outside the tall airport windows. It was snowing in their town, too; he was sure of it. And he had kept his promise.

He was coming home.

Chapter Text

The vortex of Apparition swirled around Malfoy, enveloping him in sensations both familiar and unpleasant. It was as if unseen hands had hurled him into a whirlpool of sound, light, and anticipation. Beyond the spinning storm, life rushed past: a dense flurry of snow sparkled in the glow of colorful garlands, reminiscent of a wizard’s wand casting a spell.

And then, as abruptly as it began, it stopped. He stood there, swaying slightly, trying to steady himself. Apparition had left a painful sting in the places where barely healed wounds still marked his body from the mission. His forehead was damp with sweat, though he hardly noticed. He drew a sharp breath of icy air, feeling it burn his throat. The healers had insisted he remain in the hospital, but in his typical fashion, he’d ignored their advice and discharged himself against their protests. He had something far more important waiting for him.

Gathering his thoughts, Malfoy looked up. Just a few steps away stood Hermione’s house.

It looked as if it had been pulled straight from one of those Muggle Christmas movies he had once watched on a dare with Potter. Strings of golden and silver lights framed the façade and windows with a soft glow. Small pots of evergreen branches adorned with tiny ornaments and ribbons flanked the doorstep, and a thin wisp of smoke rose from the chimney, hinting at the warmth inside.

Through the frosted window, Hecate was perched on the sill, her black fur blending with the shadows, though her sharp amber eyes gleamed against the snowy night. She alternated between watching the falling snowflakes and scanning for a familiar figure she seemed to expect any moment.

Malfoy hesitated, unable to take that final step. His heart pounded heavily in his chest, and the frosty air prickled his skin as the stillness of the night grew electric with anticipation. Each breath carried the scents of pine, smoke, and something sweet—no doubt baking in Hermione’s kitchen.

He shifted his gaze from Hecate to the door. He could almost see her behind it, sitting in her favorite armchair with a book, a blanket over her lap, and a steaming cup of tea in her hands. Waiting. Surely waiting.

Malfoy inhaled deeply, trying to steady the trembling in his body, more from nerves than the cold. How long had it been since he’d last been here, since he’d last been with her? How many times had he pictured this moment?

Hecate flicked her tail, as if to chide him for his hesitation: “Well? Get on with it!”

The snow continued to fall softly, blanketing the garden and path to the door. Finally, Malfoy stepped toward the gate.

Hermione stood in her cozy kitchen, a space that, as she often joked, didn’t match the image of a seasoned Auror. Worn furniture, towels with Muggle prints faded to softness, shelves crowded with both cookbooks and dense tomes on magical defenses and artifact theory. Magnets from various countries, collected by her and her friends, adorned the refrigerator, and a small cactus in an owl-shaped pot—a gift from Harry—sat on the windowsill.

A spellbound book hovered in the air, its pages turning lazily under a simple levitation charm. On the counter, a culinary extravaganza was in progress. Eggs whisked with sugar, milk warmed on the stove, and flour sifted itself neatly into a glass bowl. Nearby, chopped dried fruits and candied peels sparkled like tiny gemstones. Hermione was baking a Christmas cake. For herself. For Malfoy.

In the oven, a goose roasted to golden perfection, while potatoes and vegetables waited their turn. Mulled wine simmered on the stove, filling the air with the rich aroma of spices and fruit.

A few years ago, she would have laughed at the idea of herself cooking such a feast, living on more than stubbornness, coffee, and the occasional sandwich grabbed on the go. And if someone had told her that Draco Malfoy would teach her to cook, she might have suggested they seek help at St. Mungo’s mental health ward. Yet here she was.

The turning point had come a few years ago during an undercover mission in a forgotten Irish village. Their hideout had been a cramped, ramshackle cottage with warped shutters and ancient furniture that seemed haunted by the past century. The floors creaked, the fireplace barely heated the room, and the kitchen was a pathetic corner with a tiny stove and a refrigerator that rattled like an old Muggle truck.

For the first week, they survived on frozen pizza and instant coffee, and it was tolerable—until the day Malfoy reached his limit.

“I refuse to die of gastritis in this dump,” he declared, glaring at the stove as if it were a cursed artifact.

Hermione, sorting through case notes, barely looked up. “Then go to the village and buy something better.”

“I already did.” He dragged a bag of vegetables and a chicken into the house. “Now, I’m going to teach you how to cook.”

She laughed—an honest, open laugh. But Malfoy seemed deadly serious.

“And why, exactly, do you think I need to learn this?” she asked as he began unpacking the ingredients.

“Because my aristocratic stomach can’t handle your Muggle pizzas. And…” He paused, shrugging. “It’s calming.”

To her surprise, he was patient. He showed her how to chop onions, teasing her technique.

“You’re slicing, not dissecting a corpse, Granger,” he mocked, demonstrating the proper grip on the knife.

“Funny, Malfoy. I’m an Auror. I deal with bodies better than you deal with that onion,” she shot back, yet she mimicked his movements.

By the end of the evening, the kitchen was a battlefield of flour, vegetable scraps, and sauce splatters. But a chicken roasted in the oven, vegetables sizzled on the stove, and Malfoy, disheveled but content, watched as Hermione tasted their creation.

“Not bad,” she admitted, wiping her hands on a towel.

“Not bad at all,” he echoed, smiling.

Now, as Hermione slid the cake into the oven, she thought back to that night with fondness. That evening, he had taught her to cook, and she had glimpsed the unexpected patience and care behind his sarcasm—qualities she still struggled to define.

Outside, the snow fell steadily. Hecate stretched on the windowsill, her gaze fixed on the gate, waiting for the one who had made this house feel truly alive.

Malfoy checked the small gift hidden in his coat pocket. A tiny box, tied with a neat ribbon, seemed insignificant for the occasion, but he gripped it tightly, as if it could steady his nerves. Brushing snow from his boots, he stepped toward the door.

Hermione’s protective wards shimmered faintly as he crossed them, alerting her to his arrival. He had barely taken another step when he heard hurried footsteps.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” her voice called before she burst through the door.

She rushed down the steps without hesitation, oblivious to the cold. Her oversized sweater had its sleeves rolled to her elbows, and she wore soft slippers with no socks. Her cheeks were flushed from the kitchen’s warmth, her hair loosely tied but already escaping in wild curls.

She stopped in front of him, just a step away, her breath catching as she took in his face.

Malfoy stood still, his sharp gaze noting everything: her tired eyes, the scent of baking wafting from the house, the slight tremble from the December chill.

“You’ll freeze,” he muttered, his voice rough and hesitant.

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, brushing off his concern, her bright eyes locking onto his. They shimmered with joy, warming him more than the fire inside.

“You look awful,” she whispered, her voice trembling with unspoken warmth.

“So do you,” he replied with a faint smirk, stepping closer.

Before he could say more, something black darted between them. Hecate, her claws lightly grazing his coat, let out an indignant meow.

“Perfect,” Malfoy muttered, lifting the cat off his trousers and setting her on the ground. “Even you’re criticizing me?”

Hermione laughed—a pure, radiant sound that made his heart skip a beat.

He had no time for another sarcastic remark. She stepped closer, her arms wrapping around his neck as if to confirm he was truly there.

Malfoy hesitated only a moment before pulling her tightly against him, as though afraid she might disappear. Her warmth seeped through the chill, and when she tilted her head, her gaze steady and full of the confidence he’d been missing, he leaned in.

Their kiss was tender and fierce, a culmination of everything they had carried within: fears, longing, exhaustion, and above all, the love they had never dared to name.

Hecate huffed and retreated into the house. From inside came the scents of mulled wine, roast goose, and something unmistakably festive. But Malfoy noticed none of it.

“Merry Christmas,” Hermione whispered, barely pulling back.

“Merry Christmas, Granger,” he replied, his voice calm for the first time in a long while.

Their world, at last, felt whole again.