Hermione,
We should talk.
There is no name signed, but there is only one person it can be from. She hesitates a fraction of a second before ripping the note into several tiny pieces, just as she has done to the previous three. However, the mere act of ripping them, it seems, cannot erase the words from her mind. If she closes her eyes, she is still haunted by the letters as they appear, like a collage, in front of her.
“The thing is, Draco…” Hermione says aloud, struggling to find the words to form the emotions she cannot quite face. “Malfoy, I mean. We can’t. I can’t.” Even alone in the office, these words sound wrong to her. They aren’t the words she wants to say to him; rather, they are the words she must say to him. She cannot let him go on thinking that what happened on Saturday actually meant something ” that a sudden moment of passion could erase years of dislike.
Yet, a small voice reminds her, you haven’t really hated him for a long time. This, she admits, is actually true. For the past four years he has worked in the department directly above hers. They work in such close proximity that she might even deign to call him a co-worker. Certainly, they have had more than a few polite conversations, even attended a handful of lunch meetings together. Never did Hermione imagine that anything more would occur between them. She pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to find reason in what had taken place that night.
It could be very easily explained. He had happened upon her when she had been most vulnerable, and mere words of comfort had quickly turned to something else. She would never have snogged Draco if they had both been sober. And yet, part of her wonders if she truly believes that. Since the incident, she cannot shut her eyes without feeling his lips against hers. Everywhere she goes, it’s as though she can feel him beside her, watching her with his pale grey eyes. The worst part is that she feels comforted to think that he is always with her. She has only ever felt this way about one other person.
Hermione turns to the portrait on her desk, wiping off a sheet of dust from the glass with her finger. Ron. A mere glance at him as he grins cheekily at the camera, hugging her close, is enough to strengthen her resolve. He died two years ago, but at times she sometimes forgets that he is gone. Even the short, drunken snog with Draco the previous weekend fills her with sharp pangs of guilt, as though she has hurt the ghost of their relationship ” something she still clings tight to.
She smiles as she watches the Ron in the photo attempting to waltz with her. Never would she vilify his memory by forging any sort of relationship with a man who had hated him. The smile leaves her face. Only for Ron would Hermione sacrifice the only happiness she had experienced in a long time.
She hears someone cough loudly in the doorway, and she is sent spinning out of her reverie. It is only now that she realises her head is on the desk, lying on the large stack of papers she still has to sign.
“Come in,” she calls, embarrassed. Her humiliation multiplies when she sees who it is. “Harry. I didn’t know you were coming.” Harry has never been the type to show up unexpectedly. Usually, he would tell her at least ten minutes in advance, giving her time to stow away any pictures or reminders of Ron. She feels silly, but sometimes she still hopes that, by erasing any memories of Ron in Harry’s presence, she can begin to bridge the gap that has arisen between them.
“I’m worried about you, Hermione,” he begins, without preamble.
She raises her eyebrows. “I’m fine,” she says. Her words sound oddly mechanical, and she winces. “I’ve just been…busy, I suppose.”
He eyes her quizzically, as though he doesn’t quite believe it. “The majority of the other workers in your department don’t work half as much as you do.”
“I like to keep myself occupied,” Hermione replies, though the retort sounds weak even to her.
“It’s Christmas Eve, Hermione. You deserve a break.” Harry rolls up his sleeve to check his watch. “Your shift ended twenty minutes ago.” She checks her own clock, and scowls when she sees he is right.
“Fine. I’ll leave if it will make you happy,” she snaps, shoving the pile of papers to the corner of her desk.
“I’m only trying to help you,” he says softly. Hermione pretends not to hear him as she brushes past, shutting her office door with a bang.
Outside, she is greeted by the ruthless snowy wind. She nearly chokes herself as she wraps her scarf more tightly around her neck, and Apparates to her flat as soon as she is far enough away from the Ministry.
It takes her all of three minutes to realise that there is nothing for her to do here, and she remembers why she purposefully works the extra hours. In the quietness of her flat, Hermione is left alone, with nothing to distract her from the never-ending thoughts of Ron and Draco.
Sighing, she tosses her purse on the kitchen counter and sits down stiffly on the couch. The only noise is the incessant ticking of the clock, slowly pulling her closer towards Christmas day. Resting her cheek against the arm of the couch, Hermione closes her eyes, surrendering herself to sleep.
The snow outside is a sparkling, pearly white ” a sharp contrast from the muddy snow of London. Gingerly, she kneels down and places her hand on the ground. She smiles as it leaves a perfect imprint. She feels like a child again. On an impulse, she runs to the top of the snowy hill and slides down the other side, marvelling at the surprisingly comfortable warmth of the snow.
She squeals in surprise as two arms wrap around her waist. She knows these arms, though she only spent an hour wrapped in them. It’s the fingers, long and lithe, that give it away. Draco. She closes her eyes, sinking against the body behind her. There is no part of her mind that screams in protest, no part that sends prickles of worry down her spine. For the moment, it is just she and Draco, locked in an embrace, and she relishes every second of it.
“What should we do?” he whispers, his lips mere centimetres from her ear. “We have all the time in the world.” The thought makes her smile.
“Let’s make snow angels,” she suggests. She is sure Draco will laugh at the ridiculousness of her request, but instead he only smiles.
He lies beside her in the snow, and when she spreads her arms to make the wings of the snow angel, their hands touch. They make a circle of snow angels around where they first stood, working in silence.
When they are finished, Hermione stands and moves to the middle of the circle, surveying their work. Draco stays beside her, a frown crossing his face.
“Why were we making snow angels?” he asks, as though the thought has just occurred to him.
“They protect me,” Hermione explains, though she does not know where these words came from. All of a sudden, her memories come flooding back to her, and she remembers Ron. A sick feeling nearly knocks her off her feet, and she moves to get away from Draco.
“Did I do something?” He looks hurt. Hermione shakes her head vehemently, though she doesn’t move back towards him.
“No…no, you didn’t. It’s me,” she says, hurriedly searching for the words that will make things right again. “I’m not ready.”
His mouth presses into a thin line, and he turns away. She watches silently as his image shimmers, and he slowly fades away. Horrified, she tries to claw her way through the snow towards where he last stood. Two hands, placed firmly on her shoulders, stop her.
“He’ll come back.”
She freezes. The voice behind her does not belong to Draco, but she knows it well. “Ron?” she breathes, turning around.
The man behind her looks nothing like the Ron Weasley she knew; he seems older, wiser. “Hermione,” he says, not smiling. She feels the tears springing to her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says thickly. “I didn’t mean to! I love you,” she adds in desperation.
“But you love him, too,” Ron replies. Strangely, he doesn’t sound angry. “Why didn’t you let him love you?”
“I did this for you!” she nearly shrieks. “I thought this is what you wanted!”
He shakes his head sadly, quiet for a moment. When he finally speaks, his voice sounds almost faraway. “I want you to be happy, Hermione. No one deserves to be miserable on Christmas.”
“What?” she asks confusedly.
“Be happy,” he says, his blue eyes pleading with her. He begins to disappear as Draco did, and suddenly, Hermione feels herself disappearing too. She glances one last time at the tiny circle of snow angels, hand in hand, before succumbing to darkness.
She opens her eyes, and the image of her flat comes slowly into focus. She absently realises that she is no longer on the couch; rather, at some point in her dream she fell onto the carpet.
Be happy.
She hears the words with such astounding clarity that she turns to make sure no one is there. A silly, childish feeling comes over her as she sees this is an empty room. Suddenly, Hermione realises that this is not where she is supposed to be. She stands quickly, hastily grabbing a handful of Floo powder from the tin can by the hearth. Stepping into the fireplace, she murmurs the address, and disappears into the green flames.
She falls gracelessly into the new fireplace, inhaling an unhealthily large amount of ash. Coughing, she realises that it might not have been the best idea to drop by unannounced. There is a multitude of ways Draco could be spending his Christmas, and Hermione isn’t sure she wants to be present for some of them. Besides, she reprimands herself, he might not even be home.
“Hello?” a voice calls. She recognises it immediately as Draco’s voice, scratching the last idea. Hurried footsteps shuffle across the floor. “Hello?” She opens her mouth to speak, but any sort of coherent language her brain once contained seems to have evaporated. She hears him flicking on light switches in the hallway, and knows she will see him before she is able to talk. With bated breath, she waits for him to turn the corner.
He appears in his pyjamas, and Hermione realises that it is Christmas morning. He stops as he notices her. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his tone flat.
“I suppose you’re a bit angry with me now,” Hermione says shakily, avoiding his question. “I don’t blame you.” Her wavering tone seems to soften his features, and he walks across the room to stand by her side, as though he knows that the closer he is, the safer she feels.
“So this is it, then?” He smiles darkly. “You’re backing out after one snog?” He is moving closer, as though daring her to move away. Hermione gazes up at him, pursing her lips in defiance.
“Why do you think that?” she whispers. Draco is now standing directly in front of her; if she lifted her head, her mouth would brush against his chin.
He laughs humourlessly, his breath grazing her cheek. “Oh, I don’t know… Perhaps it’s because you’ve completely ignored me since that night.”
There are so many things Hermione wishes to say to this, but what she blurts out is, “I was afraid.” She can feel her eyes grow warm with tears, and wills herself not to cry. For a moment, they are both quiet. In the background, she hears the soft ticking of a clock.
“You’re not leaving, then?” he says finally, and she can hear the smile in his voice. His arms wrap around her waist, pulling her closer.
“Merry Christmas, Draco,” she whispers, closing her eyes as her lips meet his.