Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Have you always been this stubborn?” Hermione massaged the bridge of her nose, the twinge of a headache forming along the fringe of her temples.

“Yes,” Draco replied easily, a slight shrug to his shoulders.

“You’re so infuriating,” Hermione stood in her chaos of wrapping paper and ribbons, the strewn shopping bags and receipts littering the floor, “You’re going to stay in this flat, all by yourself, for three days?”

Draco made a non-committal face, his lips turning into a passive pout.

“You think I’m bluffing.” Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m going to give in and say ‘Oh fiiiine, Draco dear. We’ll stay here and ignore my parents invitation for the third year in a row all because you are afraid of Muggles?”

Draco scoffed and rolled his eyes, “I’m not afraid of Muggles. Muggles are afraid of me.”

“Riiiiiight,” Hermione mocked, a giggle escaping her lips, “Tell me, is it your expensive suits or nervous stuttering that strike fear in the hearts of Muggles more?”

“You’ll have to ask them…” Draco’s said with a dismissive turn of his hand, “Regardless, I am not afraid of Muggles. I just don’t see the point. Your parents loathe me and I’ve no idea about any of your silly traditions. You shouldn’t want to torture me by making me endure forty-eight hours of your dad grilling me, and your mom looking at me with sad-orphan-eyes!”

Draco stomped toward the kitchen, pausing only to bat dramatically at the Christmas tree branch which snagged his jumper on the way.

“My mum does not look at you with sad orphan eyes--” Hermione rejected with a roll of her eyes.

“Oh, bloody hell, Granger,” he gave her a condescending look. “Don’t patronize me. You know she does. And don’t start defending your dad--”

“My father is asking questions so he can get to know you! All he knows is that you were a bully and a racist, and now you’re my boyfriend.”

“Well, that’s not exactly my fault is it?”

“What?” she screeched so loud that Draco flinched.

“I just mean, ARGH! He threw his hands up in exasperation. “I just mean that you could’ve reiterated the brighter aspects of our relationship before you expect me to be on great terms with them.”

“You are being such a prat.”

“You are being completely unreasonable! I’m. Not. Going,” he reiterated loudly, stomping his foot to punctuate his words – as if Hermione were incapable of comprehension – causing her to eyes to flare and flash with rage so fiercely that Draco gulped.

“Fine.” Her brow twitching into an arch.

“Fine,” he repeated, his voice shaking slightly.

She turned on her heel and stormed into their bedroom, slamming the door, and he jumped at the sound.

He had fallen so far in love with Hermione Granger that he now knew her better than almost anyone.  He fully understood that the term ‘fine’-( when used at the end of an argument- was in no way, shape or form, the actual end of an argument.

Draco chewed on the inside of his cheek as his blank gaze fell on the glass on the nearly-empty of Firewhisky.

He heard a bell jingle over the door but it didn’t register until a hand squeezed his shoulder and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Potter. This usually meant Weasley as well, all though he seemed absent tonight.

Granger sent for them during almost every fight; he’d come to expect it after three years together.

During the early days of their relationship, Hermione had forced the three together at every possible chance. Once, she even tricked them by saying she would meet them separately for dinner, and instead cancelled last minute so that they were instead left with each other for company.

Draco soon learned not to fight the inevitable and accept the twatheads as part of his life. In truth they weren’t all bad, but old habits die hard and it was difficult to change.

Harry Potter may have had a superiority complex, and was a notorious over achiever, but Draco could respect those qualities… hell, Draco had those qualities.

“Potter,” he mumbled over his shoulder.

“What’d you do this time, Malfoy?” Harry said wearily, sitting down next to his friend and signalling to the bartender for a fresh round for the both of them.

“I’m not going.”

A loud, dramatic sigh.

“You know you are… why do you have to do this bit beforehand every time? It’s exhausting… I was about to go to sleep.”

“You don’t have to come running every time she calls, you know,” Draco challenged.

“Hah! Right. I, unlike you, have stopped deluding myself into the notion that I have any say in the matter.”

“Why can’t I just sit and sulk in self-loathing for a few days? I bloody hate Christmas, and especially Muggle Christmas.”

Harry let out a dry chuckle, “As festive as sitting in self-loathing does sound, and completely appeals to my angsty heart.”

“You, angsty?” Draco exclaimed. “Don’t make me laugh… I was born brooding. Seriously, look at my newborn photos.”

“Anyway, I know the Holidays are tough on you, mate. Don’t make it worse by spending it alone… brooding,” Harry added with a crooked smile. “Muggle Christmas isn’t so bad. Food’s good,” he shrugged. “Listen, you know how important this holiday is to ‘Mione. Let alone her parents… It’s important to them.”

“Ugh, so I really will be a prat if I don’t show up…” Draco growled.

Harry stood, shoving his empty glass away from him, and laughed.

“To be fair, you’ll be a prat either way,” he slapped his hand on his back and moved away from the bar. “Drinks on him,” Potter pointed at Draco and gave him a sly smile. The bell jingled a moment later, signalling his departure.

“Fucking Potter,” Draco grumbled, lifting his glass towards the bartender, wordlessly requesting for another drink.

“How’s the packing going?” Draco ventured from the doorway of their bedroom.

Hermione’s suitcase was open and her sloppily folded clothes lay in semi-tidy stacks inside as she rage-packed - her mouth set in a tight line.

Despite Draco’s grumbling, Hermione insisted on packing the Muggle way whenever they travelled.

“Fine,” she clipped.

When he’d finally come to bed last night, she’d abruptly turned out the lights and crawled under the covers. She stayed as far away from Draco as their mattress allowed until he had finally drifted off to sleep around three am.

He crept behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Resting his chin on the top of her curls, he could feel her tension begin to soften.

“Are you going to ice me out the entire Holiday?” he asked sadly.

“Probably,” she murmured, but the initial rage had left her voice.

“I hate when you’re cross with me…” he confessed, and kissed her neck where the skin was slightly exposed.

A long few moments passed.

“I don’t want to stay mad at you,” she finally said with a sigh. “I hate when we fight.”

She breathed deeply and wrapped her arms around herself, resting her hands on his and letting her head fall back onto his chest.

“Alright.”

“Thank you, Granger.”

He kissed the top of her head and felt her melt into him.

“Madame Callier?” Draco’s eyes widened at the small black bag with shimmering gold script emblazoned on the front. “Oh, Granger,” he purred, “Is this my Christmas present?”

Madame Callier’s was a women’s boutique that had aided and abetted in some of Draco’s favourite nights in the sack with his witch. She made truly beautiful, luxury lingerie and Draco swore up and down he would buy every set of knickers in the store. His insides melted as he reached for the little black bag sitting in her suitcase. Her small hand slapped at his and he cried out and dropped it.

“The hell?!”

“You do not get Christmas presents if you don’t attend Christmas, Draco Malfoy.”

“Since when is that the rule?” he whined and she elbowed him playfully and returned the bag to its original state.

“Since I make the rules,” she shrugged, “So, just about three years?” she grinned to herself.

“Well, why are you bringing it then?” he grumbled.

“I spent a lot of money on it! I intended for you to…” she turned in his arms and batted her eyelashes, “unwrap me on Christmas night.” She bit down on her lip in that way that drove him wild, and he felt his crotch stir as he palmed her bum through her flannel shorts. She sighed dramatically, “But, as Maya London says, ‘Wear fabulous lingerie, even if no one is going to see it.’”

He narrowed his eyes as hers glinted wickedly in the soft light of the room; she was playing him. With the suitcase closed and hiding its tantalising promises, Draco crossed his arms and plastered on his best menacing sneer. Two can play at this game, he thought, watching on as she paused – one foot jutting out stubbornly – to glare at him with hands-on-hips impatience. He broke when she arched her brow, letting out a reluctant sigh.

Draco brought out his wand and waved it through the air, his luggage flying onto the bed and clothes following to fold themselves neatly.

She grinned widely, “Portkey leaves at six.”

He’d do anything to make his witch happy… right?

They approached Hermione’s childhood home from their portkey point in the backyard, and Draco stepped away as she tried to nestle into his side – not comfortable groping the Granger’s daughter on their doorstep.

“Minnie!” Hermione’s mother gushed, and grasped at her daughters face before embracing her, rocking back and forth.

“Hello, Mum,” Hermione gave a weak laugh.

“Hello, Mister Granger, Missus Granger,” Draco said politely, and Hermione’s mother clucked and batted at him with a playful scold.

“Enough of that, you make me feel so old… It’s Steve and Jean!”

She wrapped her arms nervously around him and he patted her back awkwardly in return.

“Hello, Draco,” Steve Granger nodded and waved to him from the back of the room.

“Thank you for having me for Christmas,” Draco said with an unconvincing smile that made Steve respond with a flinch.

“Of course, dear.” Jean Granger’s sad-orphan-eyes were horrifyingly similar to Hermione’s stray-cat-eyes, and Draco cringed.

“You two should get settled! We’ve got skating in an hour!”

“Wonderful!” Hermione beamed at her parents. “Where’s Draco staying?”

Jean cleared her throat uncomfortably, “I thought you two might share your room.”

Draco coughed violently as he choked on the saliva in the back of his throat while Hermione’s eyes widened in shock.

“Wh-what?” she stuttered.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Jean blushed. “Your dad and I talked about it… You (<< live together. We aren’t naive. We’re modern.”

Hermione laughed, but Draco couldn’t stop staring at the tile floor with distressed eyes. His mother- rest her soul- would flog him for sharing a witch’s bedchambers in her parents’ home before wedlock.

Mister Granger’s eyes popped, and Draco floundered to appease him before Jean intervened. “It’s already decided,” she reassured, waving her hand.

“Well! Let’s get you settled!” Steve announced with an unnerving clap of his hands.

Draco who was frozen in his spot.

“Skating?” Draco hissed to Hermione as she wrapped his arms around his waist and looked up at him with a smile.

“Ack!” he grumbled, his eyes shooting open at her touch and removing himself from her embrace and she scoffed, grabbing onto his shirt. “Off me, witch! “What’s wrong with you?” he exclaimed.

“Stop pawing me.” He smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his tailored shirt.

“What!” Her eyes were bright with playfulness, and he took another step from her.

“Absolutely not. I know that look on your face and you can forget it. Keep it in your knickers for the next forty-eight hours, Granger. I refuse to tempt fate,” he eyed her – and the situation – warily.

“Refuse?” she trilled and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Surely I can’t be that poor of a roommate, considering you’ve been shacking up with me for the last two years.”

“Depends on the day,” he said, staring down his nose at her; lips twitching up into an ill-disguised smile.

He felt the pinch of her fingers on his bum and yelped and again moved out of reach.

“I’m warning you,” he pointed a scolding finger and his eyes narrowed into slits.

“Bet: You’ll be the one begging for it by the end of the weekend.” She grinned.

“What do I win when I refuse your wiles?”

“Nothing,” she snickered. “But if you lose, you get sex.”

“Shhhh!!!” He replied dramatically “Tell me about ice skating .”

“We always ice skate on Christmas Eve! Then tonight we bake cookies… and then there’s the Bernard’s annual Ugly Jumper Party… Christmas Day is much more relaxing though. It’s charming really, you’ll see!”

“Granger!” he snapped, “What in the bloody hell are you talking about? You sound like you’re speaking Chinese.”

“Oh, Draco… This is going to be so fun,” she smiled, somehow simultaneously wicked and charming.

“The fuck kind of shoes are these?” Draco held up the terrifying shoes – eyes building in horror.

They were used, he almost complained aloud. Worn by countless Muggles! Why are there blades attached to the bottom?

“You’ve never been ice skating?”

“Does my face look like I’ve been ice skating?” he said without amusement.

Hermione giggled as her father pulled her pair from a bag, and not from a shady looking teen with a neck tattoo.

Why does she get her own?

Draco sat down on the bench overlooking the seemingly magical circle of ice. He wore a wool coat on and Slytherin scarf, but it didn’t seem cold enough to keep this ‘rink’ frozen solid.

“C’mon Draco!” His witch called.

Hermione’s eyes were bright with playfulness and her beanie was pulled low, her wild curls escaping and waterfalling over her shoulders. Her cheeks were tinted pink from the chilly weather and Draco’s lip twitched up in a smile. Everything from her auburn hair to red and gold scarf was aflame.

She was fire incarnate.

His frozen heart thawed – just a little bit – and he shook his head to hide the smile playing on his lips as he laced his skates.

“Are you fucking crazy, Granger?”

Draco’s hands were white knuckled and bracing the edge of the rink so tightly that his feet threatened to slip from under him.

Hermione giggled into her mitten as Steve and Jean did yet another lap.

His pride was taking a major hit and he sneered at her when she began to laugh outright. With an adorable spin, she held out her hands as if to help him, and he eyed them with mortification.

“I’m going to fall on my arse, Granger,” he said through a tight jaw.

She glided effortlessly toward him and latched onto him.

“Then I’ll fall with you,” she kissed his cheek and some more ice thawed around his little holiday-hating heart.

“No kissing,” he replied.  She only giggled and did it again.

Growling, he took her hands and tried to mimic her feet. She steadied him when he wobbled, despite the laughter that bubbled up from her chest and into the falling snow.

“Just go slow,” she reassured him.

He didn’t look up, still staring at their feet.

He heard a click and flinched- too used to the Prophet stalking them. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found Jean grinning and happily snapping pictures of them with a muggle camera.

He really needed to work on his shit attitude.

Hermione skated up to him so they were chest-to-chest and nudged him, urging him to smile.

“You’ve got this! It’s all in your head…” she reassured him with a kiss and he stiffened.

“Stop!” She admonished, her hands resting on her hips. “Are you trying to say you think my parents don’t think we kiss?”

“Just because we do, doesn’t mean we need to shove it in their face. It’s improper, Granger.”

She gave him a cheeky smile and stretched up to reach him, her lips resting by his ear.

“Sometimes, I like to be a little improper.”

She nipped his ear lobes and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“I love you, you know,” he admitted impishly.

“Yeah, I know,” she smirked back at him.

“That’s all? Nothing you feel like saying to me?”

“Oh, right. You’re shit at skating,” she did a few small circles around him and his knees were shaking from the lack of her balance steadying him.

“I take it back. I loathe you again.”

“You prat! How fickle your love me be,” she said, bursting into a fit of giggles.

Her laughter was infectious and he couldn’t help but laugh too, gripping on to her cold cheeks and kissing them both in turn.

He heard another click and looked up to see Jean photographing their mishap.

“Do I have to try again?” he said, resting his head back against the ice.

“Of course!” She rolled off him and pulled him to his feet.

“Now this time, just… do better,” she instructed.

“Fucking perfect. Brilliant advice, truly.”

She laughed again and led him on a slow and unsteady circle around the rink.

Draco enjoyed a warm shower upon their return from skating. The hot water pelleting off his cold skin stung at first, but soon became soothing. His body would be sore tomorrow and he craned his neck to let the stream of water jet against a tendon that spread from his jaw to his shoulder.

He tugged at his hair, relishing the feeling of it pulling on his scalp. The light pain felt incredible and released much of the day’s tension. The rings of the shower curtain scraped along the pole and he jumped; nearly falling- possibly to his death.

“FUCK!” he shouted, his hands slapping against the tile and gripping the curtain.

“Want some company?” Hermione stepped bravely in and Draco’s eyes nearly fell out his skull.

“Granger!” he hissed, “Get the fuck out! Are you trying to get me murdered?” he hissed in disbelief.

He unnecessarily used his hands to cover his manhood as she bit her lip.

He pressed his body against the far side of the shower, his feet slipping again like they did on the ice, but this time he was able to right himself.

“Oh God, you’re so dramatic all the time. No one knows I’m in here with you,” she pressed her naked breasts against his chest, the sensation spreading in waves to his groin. He now stood fully erect and failed to hide it as he pressed against her belly.

“Granger,” he growled, “Don’t you dare. This is not decent. Absolutely fucking not.”

The streams of water glided over her shoulders, down her…

NO! Eyes up, Malfoy.

His dick was throbbing, and his fingers were gripping her waist - pulling her closer - even as his mind desperately tried to push her away.

Fuck, he was useless. Spineless.

He was panting like he had run several kilometres as her slender fingers drifted from his neck and glided over his pale nipple, down over his ribs, towards his hip, ever closer to…

His shook his head violently - reason returning to his brain - and guided her gently so that her back was now against the tile and she was safely at arm’s reach.

Arm’s reach was dangerous though.

Her breasts were now in plain view, heaving in the foggy confines of the shower, and her teeth cut into her lip.

“Nope! Nooope!!”

“You’re being quite the prude, Malfoy. It’s kind of fun to be sneaky,” she grinned up at him.

He thought briefly about the truth in that statement; imagined palming her ass and lifting her so her legs wrapped around him; imagined lapping at her breasts and dragging his teeth down her tits until her back arched.

“Granger! You’ve gone fucking mad.”

He released her and exited the shower as quickly as he could, grabbing his towel and clumsily wrapping it around his waist and obvious erection.

“Draco Malfoy! Are you serious? Get back in here,” Hermione laughed, peeking out of the curtain.

“Do you want me dead by Christmas?”

She groaned, and he slipped out of the bathroom.

He ducked into the safety of Granger’s childhood bedroom, slamming the door shut and wondering how he was going to avoid shagging her for the rest of this weekend.

He could hear festive music coming from the kitchen, and as he rounded the corner the smells accosted him.

“Draco, dear!”

Jean smiled brightly. It didn’t mask the sad-orphan-eyes, and this time she chased it with a pitiful tilt of her head. Brilliant.

“What are we up to in here?” he said, lips flattening into what he hoped was a smile.

“We’re baking cookies,” Jean explained, rolling out a sheet of brown dough that smelled so good it made Draco’s mouth water.

“Ah,” Draco said. The syllable just hung there, and Draco’s lip twisted out of tension.

“Care to help? Starting on Chocolate Chip next! Minnie always insisted they were Father Christmas’ favourite. Would make him batch after batch…” Jean spoke, lost in a memory. “Our first year back, oh, she was so anxious. I’m not exaggerating: she ate a dozen cookies in one sitting. Just cookie after cookie after cookie…”

Steve laughed behind Draco, startling him.

“I remember that. Every time I thought there was no way she’d be able to stand another bite, she’d shove an entire cookie in her mouth.”

Draco stood there uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot.

“Does she still do that?” Jean asked, her brows raised high.

“Sorry?”

“Does she still eat when she’s anxious?”

“Oh,” he laughed hollowly, “Um, no… not really, actually. She cleans. She calls it ‘rage cleaning’. We got in a row a few months back that lasted almost a week. We didn't’ talk much, but the entire flat was spotless.”

He had said too much. Why did he say that?

Before Draco, she binged cookies adorably when she was nervous.

With Draco? She rage-cleaned for a week on end like a fucking house-elf.

Bloody hell.

He hated feeling insecure. As much as he emitted confidence, he felt it quite often. In this house, in this company… he felt it constantly.

“There you are!” Hermione’s voice called from behind him.

He felt a pinch at his bottom and tried - without success – to ignore her.

“What are we making?” she smiled at her mother and grabbed aprons.

Cooking without magic was a rather tricky skill.

The kitchen counter reminded Draco of Slughorn’s desk: haphazardly strewn ingredients and measuring devices everywhere.

Hermione kept touching him.

She kept asking him to taste things - sticking her finger in his mouth and winking at him.

Would not- could not- stop grazing his groin with her bum, or brushing her breasts against his chest, his arm, his back…

It was stupidly enticing and made the darker sides of him pant with want. The logical, self-preserving side of him wanted nothing to do with it.

Some Muggles owned guns.

He wasn’t sure if these Muggles were some Muggles… but he wasn’t about to find out when staring down the end of a weapon.

He simply had to survive one more day - then he could shag Granger into the nearest surface at their flat.

One more day.

“What. In. The. Fuck. is that?” Draco’s eyes bulged.

They felt assaulted as they took in the gaudy green and red three-dimensional jumper. The front of the cheap knit depicted a glittering Christmas tree with a star a top it that twinkled on and off obnoxiously.

“I told you! It’s an Ugly Jumper party!” Hermione said with a confused grimace.

His eyes flickered from her to the jumper. After a long moment he sighed.

“No.”

He turned back into her bedroom.

“Draco! You must! It’s tradition!”

“I,” he paused and gave her a look of fake sympathy. “Really don't care… I’m sorry,” he laughed this time. “I can’t put that cheap shit on my body. I might have a reaction or something. I’m used to luxury fabrics… you understand. I’ll wear my normal jumper.”

“Draco,” she whined and stomped her foot, “You’ll look far more ridiculous in a regular jumper than in this.”

He barked out a laugh, “Not possible.”

“Please?” she took a few steps forward and pressed her body into his, peering up through her thick lashes.

“Uhh, no chance in hell. Sorry, Grang--.”

“You two almost ready?” Jean peeked in wearing an equally ridiculous jumper and Draco’s eyes flitted to the back of his skull as he attempted to smile.

Hermione grinned back at her boyfriend and Draco’s jaw set tightly.

“Just about,” he bared his teeth in an attempted smile and Hermione chuckled into her palm.

As he heard Jean trot down the stairs, he snatched the jumper from his girlfriend’s hands.

“Give me the sodding jumper,” he growled.

“I love you,” she offered to him, as if that made it all better.

It did.

“Hmmph,” he grunted, a blush staining his freshly kissed cheek.

He stood for far too long in Hermione’s bedroom - staring at himself in her mirror - trying to find the confidence to tread down the stairs.

“Fuck. I look fucking ridiculous.”

Another five minutes passed.

“Fuck!” he hissed, and then ripped the door open and stomped down the stairs.

He paused with wide eyes on the bottom stair as he saw Jean with her bloody camera.

No photos.

Absolutely not.

There would be no evidence of this trash on his body.

“Draco, dear! Jump in!” Jean gesture wildly towards him.

His willpower melted away as he saw Hermione’s bright smile. He softened a bit as his witch nestled into his arms and smiled up at him.

Click.

He turned towards her mum with a happy grin.

Click.

If putting on this hideous jumper earned him smiles like that… he would do it every day.

Okay. That was a lie.

He was going to keep this jumper for the sheer pleasure of setting it on fire with his wand, but her joy made the night a little more bearable.

He kissed her forehead.

Click.

The party was… well, the only way he could describe it was Muggle. It was exactly how he had imagined a Muggle Christmas party: cheesy smiles and roaring laughter, tacky decorations on every surface, and Christmas music filling the air.

It was almost comical to consider the stark difference of his mother’s holiday events growing up: everyone in dress robes and nodding politely as they discussed finance and politics, a string quartet’s song drifting through the air at all times.

Hermione was snagged away by a few of her childhood friends and they stood in a tight circle near the Christmas tree. Draco was near the door, leaning on the frame, and taking in the party in all its glory. Suddenly, the group of young women turned towards him, and Hermione gave him a small, shy wave - her cheeks stained crimson.

He smirked at her and gave her a wink as the girls all giggled and prodded at his witch.

She was proud of him. Proud to point out that he was hers.

What a mind-boggling notion. He was obviously the one who was dating up, she was Hermione sodding Granger for crying out loud.

“Having fun, my boy?” Steve’s deep voice boomed from beside him.

Draco jumped and a bit of his canned beer- that tastes remarkably like toilet water- sloshed out of the small opening.

“Yes, sir. Great party,” Draco straightened his spine and set his lips into a formal smile.

“How are you getting on at work these days? Hermione says you’re always doing dangerous work.”

“Does she?” he smiled more genuinely then. “It’s good. Thank you. How about you? Your practice still doing well?”

“Oh, very well. Thinking of selling, to be honest. I’m ready to retire.” Steve said with a nod of his chin.

“That’s brilliant. Congratulations.”

“Well, we still need to talk to Hermione about it. Thinking of making the move back to Australia,” Steve shifted on his feet.

“Oh.”

For the life of him, Draco couldn’t think of any other words to follow the pathetic little syllable. A rush of thoughts and emotions burst behind his eyelids as he thought of the reason they’d been sent there in the first place, his place in that story, and Hermione’s pain in sending them.

“You’ll take care of her, right? If we can’t be near. We need to know she’s got someone looking out for her.”

Steve’s gaze met his, and Draco buckled under the weight of his stare.

He gulped.

“Yes sir,” he cleared his throat and took a swig of his trash beer, wincing as the flavour washed over his tongue. “I actually, well,” he stuttered, and felt a sweat break out over his palms. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

Draco raised his chin and could hear his heart whooshing in his ears. Muggle traditions were slightly different than Wizarding ones in this regard, but he understood the basic premise. He had meant to find some time to talk to Steve over the weekend but he didn’t think it would be here. At the Bernard’s. Wearing this fucking gaudy jumper.

Steve gave him a knowing smirk and slapped his hand on Draco’s shoulder.

“Ah, I thought you might. I’ve always thought I was a bit psychic. Would have excelled at Divination, as far as I understand it.” He reached into his pocket and procured a silver flask, emblazoned with his initials, “For this conversation, we break out that hard stuff.”

Steve took a long pull and then offered to Draco, who stared at it tentatively.

“Go on, you’ll need it just as much as I will.”

They shared a look and Draco took it and tipped it back, maybe for a second longer than proper. Steve was right. He needed it for what was coming next.

After the hardest conversation of Draco’s life, he was gratefully released back into the frivolity. He was nodding along, watching some Muggle sports game that seemed rather barbaric in nature, when a charmed whisper found his ear.

He recognized the spell that Hermione favoured, and turned towards the magicked sound of his name.

There she was.

She was standing by the back door - bundled up in her coat and low hanging hat - a sweet smile on her perfect lips. She held up his coat to signal him to join her, and he excused himself from his company.

“Trying to get me alone, Granger?” he arched a brow as she slung his scarf around his neck and pulled him a bit closer.

“Only with the purest of intents, Malfoy. Party is a bit crowded. Just wanted some fresh air with my boyfriend, if that’s quite alright.”

She took his hand, laced her fingers with his, and walked out the sliding glass door.

In the Bernard’s backyard, the snow was falling gently under a clear sky, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at the extravagant lights display in front of them. There were arches twinkling with sparkling lights, and tiny reindeer pulling an illuminated sleigh. Every tree and every bush were covered in a web of hundreds and hundreds of lights.

She released his hand and walked on, the snow crunching beneath her shoes as she lifted her face to greet each falling snowflake.

Draco stared at her in awe- the ring he had chosen just for her burning a hole in his robes. Seeing her there, in all the flurry of her favourite holiday… this had to be the right moment. Right?

There would never be a more magical moment in their Muggle Christmas than this one.

She must have felt his stare and she turned to him with a sweet smile, reaching her bare hand out to him. His heart was pounding as he took it and tugged her into his embrace, resting his chin on the top her head.

“What were you and Dad chatting about? Was he ‘grilling you’ again?”

“Something like that,” he smirked.

“Are you having fun?” She squeezed his middle and nestled deeper into his chest.

“More fun now that no one can see that God-awful jumper,” he ribbed her, and she pulled back to swat at him.

They shared a laugh, and his hands wound up to cradle her face and turn it up to meet his.

“Thank you. For getting me out of our flat in all my self-loathing and brooding. I am having a regrettably good time.”

“I knew you would,” she grinned and reached up on her toes to plant a kiss swiftly on his lips.

He deepened what she started, turning her face so that he could pour all his unnamed emotion into this kiss.

This was the kiss.

The last kiss before he asked her.

It should knock her socks off and make her forget to breathe.

One arm left her face and wound around her waist, dragging her deeper into the kiss so her back arched and she let out a small whimper. He swallowed that whimper gratefully, and let his tongue glide along her bottom lip before nipping at it – making her flush. Her hands wound up and tugged at the white hair and he smiled against her lips, breaking their kiss to sigh and press his forehead against hers.

“Granger…” he started, his hand reaching into his pocket and his heart pounding so loudly he was sure she could feel it.

“Hmm?”

“MINNIE!”

Draco gasped, and his head wretched in the direction of the party.

“Time for carolling!!” Jean called loudly, bursting the bubble of their magical moment.

“Carolling?” Draco’s brows quirked up.

“An entirely new round of torture for you, love.”

She reached up and kissed him quickly on the tip of the nose as he groaned, letting himself be led back to the party.

Draco slept soundly with Hermione curled under his arm and her leg thrown lazily over his. It was somewhat of an occupational hazard to be the man who shared a bed with Hermione Granger. Not only was she a violent kicker, but her hair was unruly and took a life of its own when unattended.

When he awoke Christmas morning, he blinked away the sleep and suddenly tensed; alarmed. Too much was off.

For one, he could breathe. There were no tentacle-like curls reaching into his mouth.

Secondly, his girlfriend was decidedly not tucked into his side. Rather, she was straddling his lap in an oversized t-shirt and knickers, her hair tied wildly on the top of her head.

“Granger,” he hissed, his hands finding her waist in a defensive way.

“Happy Christmas, Malfoy,” she smiled and ground down on his involuntary erection.

“Absolutely not,” he warned urgently. “Get off me this instant! Your parents could walk in at any moment!”

“Doesn’t that make it a little bit more exciting?” her eyes flared, and she dove in to plant kisses along his neck and jaw, peppering them hastily and letting her tongue wet a trail as she went.

“Hermione Jean Granger,” he said through a tight jaw. “This is not only horribly ill taste, but it is also non-consensual. Are you fucking mad?” he whispered, and she giggled.

She fucking giggled.

Where was his menace? Where was the man who struck fear into the hearts of underlings; the man who took an oath to carry out dastardly deeds and commit murder at the fleeting will of a psychopath?

“Oh, you are so dramatic,” she groaned, sitting up straight. “What do you think I’m going to do? After all these years? All these hundreds of times rolling around in the sack with you... I’m going to what? Take you against your will?” She rolled her eyes and flopped off of him, falling into the bed next to her.

She let out a loud, defeated sigh and stared up at the popcorn ceiling.

“Don’t be cross with me, Granger. I just want to respect your parents and their home. Is that so bad?”

“Well, tell me this…” She propped up on her elbow and looked down at where he laid, sprawled in her bed, “Have you ever had sex with Pansy in her home? With any witch at the Manor?”

Her brow arched high up on her forehead and his heart twisted. She was hurt.

“Granger…”

He couldn’t lie, she’d see through that. The truth was that he had indeed done both of those things.

“Whatever,” she sat up and grabbed for her robe, but he followed her quickly, wrapping his arms around her as she stared out her window at the freshly fallen snow.

“You know the difference between this time and all of those?”

Silence.

“It's that I actually respect your parents and your home. Respect you. We have…” He took a sharp breath in, “We have the rest of our lives to have sex. Can we not take this weekend to earn the trust that was given to us?”

He felt the tension ease from her shoulders.

“I love you, Granger.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” she grumbled, but he could tell that it was softer; his excuse had appeased her enough.

“Happy Christmas,” he kissed her temple and squeezed her gently.

“Happy Christmas, Draco. And for what it’s worth, I’ll stop trying to convince you to shag me. Since you’re all boring and vanilla now,” she rolled her eyes and he chuckled into her wild tresses.

A rap of knocks sounded against her door and they both jumped slightly.

“MINNIE! DRACO! HAPPY CHRISTMAS DEARS!”

Draco laughed again, imagining themselves in a throe of passion when that had occurred.

“You’re welcome,” he purred, and she threw him a jab with her elbow before leaving his embrace.

Christmas morning was quiet and completely relaxed.

Draco opted to gift Hermione her ‘safe’ gift: a First Edition of The Tales of Beedle the Bard and a set of solitaire diamond earrings that made her mother's jaw drop.

She gave him matching shirts for his favourite team, The Falmouth Falcons, which were incidentally playing in the Quidditch World Cup. She also reluctantly agreed to attend the game with him - inciting a glowing genuine grin - and a new pocket watch that was timeless and exactly his style.

He had gifted the Grangers some Swedish chocolates and tickets for the four of them to attend a theatre show in London next month.

They followed gifts with breakfast in their pyjamas - which was appalling and wonderfully comfortable at the same time. When Hermione fell asleep – nestled into the crook of his arm – in front of the fire, he planted a kiss on her curls and followed her into slumber.

Christmas dinner was delicious, and they had all dressed in their Christmas best.

Around their small family dining table, Steve Granger lifted his amber liquid in a toast to his girls and the man who loved Hermione. He jovially announced the planned sale of their practice and their impending move. Hermione shot from her chair-happy tears streaming down her cheeks- as she wrapped her arms around them.

Draco proceeded to enjoy several bourbons, from Steve’s private stash, and felt blissfully buzzed as he followed Granger’s well-formed arse up the stairs.

She was wearing a red dress that flared at her hips and left him staring at each dangerous curve, imagining peeling it off; ravishing every inch of her.

He felt like a stalker as she opened her bedroom door and he followed her in.

He absolutely wasn’t having sex with her tonight.

Absolutely fucking not.

“Draco? Can you get my zipper?”

She offered her back to him, and without thinking his long fingers slid down the zipper of her dress, revealing her long curving spine.

His breath caught in his throat. (<< let this one hang too)

He wanted to run his tongue down her spine and tease her mercilessly until she was whimpering. When she slipped the shoulders of her dress down, he groaned.

She had won.

She was wearing the lingerie that must have been packed in that tiny black bag from Madame Callier’s: black mesh knickers that left the bottom of her arse cheeks peeking out at him, with garters that attached to thigh high stockings he couldn't have imagined in his wildest dreams.

She turned then and the swell of her breasts behind the caging details of her bra made his cock twitch and he couldn’t stop his hands from reaching out; his fingers ghosting over the curve of her cleavage and finally palming her full breast. She gasped at his rough touch and then pulled back, leaving him with a confused stare.

“Granger,” his voice was deep and gravelly as he took a step towards her.

“Draco,” she admonished slyly, clucking.

He growled and took quick steps so that her back was then pressed against the wall behind her. She was panting – her breath coming in ragged gasps – and her face was alight with a shining smile; she was exquisite in her arousal.

Looking like the cat who caught the mouse, her breasts rose and fell with her slow, deliberate inhales.

“I didn’t mean it,” he murmured against his collar bone.

“Didn’t mean?” her voice was strained as he moved his lips further south, letting the bottom one drag over the curve of her tit.

“Didn’t mean that I didn’t really want to fuck you breathless, of course. How could I have ever have meant that?”

His hands grabbed at her barely-covered arse, and he pressed his stiff erection into her hip.

“Tell me something…” She pulled roughly at the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Anything…” He moaned as she tugged, his spine curving so he could pepper more kisses along her collarbone.

“Admit you the lost the bet,” her voice was amused and when he pulled back – affronted - she was grinning widely.

“Bet?” his voice cracked at the realisation that he had indeed been bested by this tantalizing little witch.

“The bet. The one you were so sure you’d win? You’re about to lose…”

Her tiny hand grabbed at his stiff dick and applied the perfect amount of pressure through his trousers.

He could still win; could still refuse her. That’d be easy… he could probably do it. There was no doubt it was possible. Another flex of her fingers and he almost fucking mewled like a kitten.

“You win,” he rasped, and then picked her up by her arse and slammed her back against the wall, basking in the vibration of her moan against his lips.

“Gods, Granger. You’re fucking perfect,” he murmured between wet kisses.

He let his mouth wander down against her lush cleavage - tearing her bra cup down to expose her breast and taking her pert nipple into his mouth - flicking his tongue against her bud and letting his teeth graze her flesh.

“I love winning,” she giggled, tugging again at his hair - this time much more roughly - and he growled.

He turned and walked her the few steps over to the bed and let her fall in a mess of curls and chaos.

Working slowly on the buttons of his shirt, he relished the hungry look in her eyes. His oxford fell at his feet and she bit her lip as he tugged his undershirt over his head with one hand, tossing it playfully at her face.

She snatched it with surprisingly quick reflexes and discarded it, sitting up fluidly and making quick work of his belt buckle.

Once his trousers were around his ankles he fell on top her, grinding his throbbing cock against her wet heat. He salivated at the little whimpers coming from the writhing witch under him, - her knees hitching up on his hips.

“Silence…the... room…” She panted, her nails dragging down his bare back, no doubt leaving angry red trails. One hand grappled at his hips – scraping, marking, owning – and the other fondled his bum, pulling him closer to her pulsing core; her racing heart thudding in time to his.

“Let’s not…”

“What?” she yelped quietly and pulled back. “We’ll wake the house!”

“Then try to be quiet…”

His fingers splayed out over the mesh covering her mound, pressing against her pooling wetness. Her back arched into him and he smirked against her shoulder.

A small moan escaped her lips and he kissed them quickly and shushed her, letting his fingers dip inside the seam of her knickers and brush her against her clit. Another whimper and he delved into her, letting his fingers curl to the spot that always left her a mess.

“Do you know how many times I imagined fucking you in the library? Wondering if you’d be able to keep quiet or if I’d have to wrap my fingers over your wanton little mouth while I lifted that skirt…”

He pumped his fingers more quickly now and she all but growled as she lifted her leg and flipped them deftly, so he was flat on his back and she was caging him with her arms, a canopy of curls cascading around him. He chuckled and slapped her ass lightly until she bucked up and then ground down deliciously forming perfectly to him.

Unsurprisingly, dirty talk was her kink. Words would be her sexy little fetish.

She moved roughly and released him from his boxer briefs, and then with two fingers she pulled the side of her knickers to the side and impaled herself on him. He sucked a sharp breath in and his hands gripped her hips desperately.

She pulled up slowly and then drove down against him almost violently.

After one more time, her head tilted back - exposing the long lines of her throat - and she let out a soft moan.

“Shhh…” he smirked up at her, and helped her set a pace as she rocked back and forth.

“I… can’t…” she bit down on her lip and her nails clawed into his pecks, a hiss escaping him.

She ground down again and again, and he felt the quickening in the walls of her core, signalling her unravelling. She was never quite as alluring as when she was like this and his hand scorched a trail up her body, stopping only to grab at her breast as she covered her mouth with her own hand to stop from screaming.

He helped her keep her momentum as she crested on top of him, her breathing slowing and her shoulders slumping slightly, signalling her descent.

He returned her earlier favour and flipped her deftly as he drove into her without pausing - her shoulders leaving the bed while she clung to him.

She let out a small yelp, and his hand wound up to cover her mouth, lest any other screams escape as he pumped into her once... twice… three more times, and then joined her in falling apart.

Holding his weight on his quivering arms, Draco slumped against her as his chest heaved with rasping, post-orgasm breaths.

“Happy Christmas, Malfoy.”

Her voice was sleepy and her hands drew lazy lines down his scratched-up back.

“Happy Christmas, love.”

The holidays passed, and Draco didn’t propose. Whenever the opportunity arose, he was overcome with unexplainable jitters and a nervousness that belied his character. It made no sense. He had no real doubts that Granger would accept, but he also didn’t have the security of a contractual betrothment on file at the Ministry to really be sure.

The amount of times that he chickened out had now reached about six, and any time an opportunity presented the feeling was just off.

He had always figured he would do it in public - with people to Ooh and Aah over the giant diamond; people to fawn over them. That seemed to be what he found issue with… it wasn’t them.

It would have been him in another life.

He tucked the ring into his robes as he did every night, thinking maybe tonight would be just the right one.

He waved his wand over his bowtie absentmindedly – he’d perfected the charm when he was eleven. He straightened it and smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in his dress robes, and his eyes caught the vision behind him.

Damn, if Hermione Granger wasn’t the most beautiful witch he’d ever seen.

Her gown was shimmering - the colour of midnight - and was clung loosely to her curves. The back hung low and exposed the delicate curve of her spine, and her curls were pinned into a chignon low on her neck.

“Do we really have to go?” she groaned but gave him a loving look in the mirror.

“To the Ministry New Year Party? You tell me,” he turned and could feel the heat in his gaze as it travelled down her frame. “You’re the one who works there.”

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes.

“Have I told you how sexy you are?”

“Not today,” she winked and grabbed her clutch off the bed trudging to the front room.

She stood fidgeting with the items in her clutch and her brows quirked up as he followed her towards the floo.

“Ready?” She held her hand out to him with a small smile and he took it, yanking her into his embrace and kissing her senseless for a brief moment. Letting his fingers curl around the nape of her neck as he nipped at her full lips and pushed his tongue into her mouth, massaging hers. He parted them reluctantly and rested his forehead tragically against hers.

“Ready.”

Their faces had been seen, they’d had some free champagne and they were currently twirling in a stuffy ballroom surrounded by Hermione’s co-workers.

The party was kind of a dud, not that they couldn’t fix that by getting incredibly drunk, but Granger tended to frown on that at work functions.

“I hate that this is how we spend New Year’s Eve,” Hermione confessed. “I would give anything to be curled up on the couch with a carton of Sweet and Sour Chicken watching the ball drop on the tele.”

Draco considered that for a minute - his eyes tracing her features - memorizing them as he’d done a million times.

“Let’s ditch,” he smirked.

“What?”

“Let’s get outta here,” he nodded towards the foyer. “Party’s lame and I’d much rather be doing any number of filthy things to you back at home.”

She bit back a grin as his hand slid down her open back.

“We couldn’t... could we?”

“There’s my little Gryffindor,” he gave her a quick pat on her rear end and she jumped. He grasped her hand and led her quickly through the throngs of people, darting in and out and ignoring quite a few clients who were trying to say hello and grab attention.

His hand shot out and snagged a bottle of champagne and they raced towards the Floo, Granger erupting into giggles trying to keep up with him.

He pressed the stolen bottle into her hands when they reached the fireplace. “Meet me at home, Granger. I’ll Apparate and grab us takeaway.”

“You’re wonderful, you know?” she shook her head with a smile.

“Of course, I know,” he winked at her and left for the Apparition point.

It took about half-an-hour but finally Malfoy entered the front door and he stopped in his tracks.

Hermione had lit candles about the room, the tele was on and some well-dressed Muggle was introducing a musical guest.

Hermione exited the bedroom, her dress and chignon long gone. She was wearing a loose pair of grey sweats and had his old Slytherin shirt on: the one with his name across the back. Her hands were wound up in her mane and she was tying her curls into a large messy knot.

She was somehow more beautiful now than she had been at the party.

This was it.

This was the night.

“Did you get egg rolls?” she turned to him, tucking a curl behind her ear and flopping down on the couch, filling their champagne glasses.

She tucked her legs up and looked at him expectantly.

“O-of course,” he gulped.

He was drinking far too much champagne.

Why were his hands bloody shaking?

He knew what he was going to say; had been thinking on it for the last six months, but the gravity of the moment was not lost on him.

“Ooh! There goes the ball!”

A giant glittering dome began falling slowly into the crowd, the countdown beginning at sixty was going far too fast and he felt rushed.

Springing to his feet he knocked over the last of the champagne and she yelped.

“Come on--.”

“What?”

“Stand up!”

“Why?” she laughed and looked up at him incredulously.

“Because it’s the New Year! You’ve got to stand--.”

As if that explained anything.

She made an amused face at him and remained curled up in her corner of the couch.

“No! I’ve been on my feet all day, just kiss me here--.”

“Can you just… Would you just stand up?” he almost shouted, and she looked at him with wide wary eyes.

“Have you gone mad?”

“Maybe. Just…” He pulled her to her feet.

He drew her close so they were touching chests, and he was sure that she’d be able to feel his heart through his shirt.

“Are you okay?” Her brows furrowed in concern as her stare flickered from eye to eye.

“Quite,” he gulped.

“Ten…” the crowd on the tele shouted.

“I love you, you know?”

She smiled at him.

“Nine…”

“You’ve seen me through the darkest parts of my life, and I can’t believe you haven’t gone running yet--.”

“Eight...Seven…”

“I know it’s not all going to be good days, but there is nothing I’d like more than to try and make you as a happy as you’ve made me these last three years.”

“Draco?”

“Six...Five…Four…”

He reached into his pocket and procured the ring designed just for her, meant to sit on only one finger for the rest of its days. His knee bent and he felt like he might vomit before the question left his lungs.

“Three...Two…”

“Marry me, Granger?”

“One!”

He peered up at her with intensity that felt smoldering, and even though the crowd was cheering over the television, there was a vacuum in their flat. There was no noise while he waited for her to figure out exactly what was happening with him down on one knee.

“Are you… What are you doing?”

His eyes flattened and he gave her an annoyed sort of look, “I’m proposing, obviously.”

“Is this a prank?” she eyed him suspiciously.

“OF COURSE N--.”

She tackled him to the ground and was covering his face with tiny, quick kisses before finding his mouth and pressing her lips so firmly to his that he had to laugh, catching her with his teeth.

“Is that a yes, Granger?”

She laughed then and swatted at him, “Of course it is, you prat!”

He slipped the sparkling diamond onto her finger and she looked awestricken at it before returning to her previous assault of kisses along his jaw and cheeks.

Before long they were a tangle of discarded clothing and limbs in front of the fire - her cheek resting on his chest - and he straightened curls only to let them go and watch them boing, returning to their natural state.

“My mum sent us something…” Hermione drawled lazily, and he hummed in response. “Accio album.”

A small, red leather book landed with a thud on his stomach and he lost his breath for a moment.

Wincing he sat up, leaning against the back of the sofa, and she tucked herself between his legs and rested against him.

“It’s all the photos from our trip!” she gushed, flipping through the pages.

Draco couldn’t help the way his lips turned up into a smile. His arms tightened around her instinctively.

There they were at the ice rink – upright and suddenly on their arses - Hermione laughing loudly, and Draco sneering playfully at her. They were in kitchen with flour on his face and yolk in her hair, and again in their ugly jumpers - him planting a kiss against her forehead.

She’d even caught a sweet moment of the two of them embracing in the garden at the Bernard’s and a photo of them snoozing on Christmas afternoon on the couch.  

“Isn’t that sweet?” she smiled sweetly up at him and he felt his face turn into a frown.

“This isn’t happening next year,” he said flatly, and her face crumpled. He almost snickered at her misunderstanding. “I’m not wearing that fucking jumper to the Bernard’s again. Just forget it. At least make it something more manly, would you? Or maybe I can have my tailor whip something up custom. It’d be funny to have it magicked, right? The Muggles would think it was an intricate jumper, but really it’d be charmed--.”

He was cut off with a kiss.

“You’ll go back again? For Christmas?” She rushed.

“What? Have another Muggle Little Christmas?” he rolled his eyes. “I suppose I would.”

He smirked and she settled into his embrace once more.

He could get used to this, he thought - every year for the next seventy at least.