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WHEN draco wakes up, he is sure the world has ended, or that he is the last person on earth like in one of those muggle sci-fi films. his dorm room is silent, the covered window allowing no light in. and it’s cold, almost unbearably so.instead of getting up or thinking of ways to solve these problems, draco lays in bed and contemplates what to eat for breakfast: eggs, or toast. or maybe cereal. his mental pros and cons list is interrupted when his door opens, revealing a primed hermione.“draco! it’s already half seven! get up!” she takes it upon herself to walk through his dorm, muttering and cursing about how cold it is, before pulling his blankets back and tugging on his arm while he stares at her, annoyed and unmoving.“it’s a saturday. during the holidays.”“so? life goes on, draco, holidays or not. now up!” she tugs on his arm until he sits up with a groan and bats her hands away. he heaves a sigh before raising his head to look at her.“you’re filling my plate.”hermione only smiles, pleased. “done.”sufficiently fed and dressed, draco follows hermione around the castle as she prattles on about the christmas decorations, gifts and love, or…something of the sort. he’s more focused on her get-up: chunky-knit sweater in some purple shade paired with a black skirt over thick black tights and mary jane’s. her curls, messy and a little frizzy in their half-up style, bounce along her shoulders, hands animatedly moving as she talks. he only zones back in as she asks him a question.“sorry, what?” she stops and puts her hands on her hips, an unimpressed look crossing her face. her lips scrunch up and draco smiles inwardly at the motion.“were you listening at all?”“you definitely said something about christmas.”hermione whacks his shoulder and he grins at her.“you have surprising strength. also, ow.”they end up in the library, where draco sits at a table beside the window, switching between watching the falling snow outside and hermione as she writes notes on parchment while she reads. the slightly distant sound of the crackling fire, the turning pages of hermione’s book, and the scribbling of her quill soon have his head resting heavily on his hands. the bright light from the white sky catches in hermione’s hair, highlighting the golden strands of it. her curls rustle against her shirt as she moves, quill moving quickly over her parchment. he shifts and rests his head on his folded arms, watching hermione through half-lidded eyes as she stays deeply immersed in her reading and writing. his mind soon wanders, going back to last night and the warmth and comfort of the common room, hermione’s thick-knit blanket thrown across the sofa. the warm, gooey chocolate cookies they had eaten in front of the fire while playing chess and exploding snap. the bright sound of hermione’s laughter when a card exploded in draco’s hand, causing him to drop all of his others.draco stretches his arms out above his head and pops his back with a yawn, drawing himself out of his thoughts. “planning on staying here all morning?”“no,” hermione responds distractedly. “i’ll be going soon, promise. you can leave now if you want.”draco rolls his eyes as if she’s said the dumbest thing—which she has, in his opinion—and pushes his hair back out of his face before settling back down in his chair.leave? without her? what a preposterous idea.they end up in the castle’s kitchen, making gingerbread the muggle way. hermione had said something about it being good to know how to do things in a muggle fashion, should they ever be in a position where they can’t use magic.draco agrees and even prefers doing some things the muggle way, but it’s far more fun to send clouds of flour up into the air from across the room, watching hermione scowl as it collects in her curls. she rolls her eyes when draco finds a stash of buttery, flakey dinner rolls and begins eating them like potato chips while sitting on the counter.“you could help, you know.”draco grins, his mouth full of a roll. “i know.”“eurgh. don’t talk with your mouth full.”draco sits contentedly on the counter, eyes roving over hermione’s figure. her eyes are set and determined as she slides another baking tray into the oven. her curls have gone unruly and frizzy from the heat of the room, and she keeps tucking them back behind her ears.“so…this gingerbread stuff. you’ve made it before?”“only once. with my parents, when i was very small.” it’s been years without them, but hermione still freezes up a little and feels the sharp sting of tears along her eyelids as she mentions her parents. “it should be very good,” she says lamely after a moment.“anything you make will be good,” draco responds, placing a dinner roll down on the counter beside him.hermione grins wryly and gives him a knowing look. “we both know you can basically cook gourmet meals, draco. the most i’ve ever made is pasta—and i’ve burnt that too.”draco hops down off the counter and heaves a sigh, holding his arms open wide. “come here.”hermione lets herself be wrapped up in his arms, cheek resting against his chest as she listens to the slow thump of his heart. the gingerbread ends up a little burnt, but draco softens his in milk and declares it the best food he’s ever had.they eat bowls of hot, thick stew on the common room sofas during supper, the crackling fire casting a warm glow.draco dips a dinner roll into his stew and takes slow bites of it as he watches hermione, flushed and smiling, rant about her latest read. she’s always like this during the holidays—bright, cheery, and excitable, loving to wake up early each morning to get the most out of each day. the look of it is charming on her, and he wonders if he looks or even feels half as happy as she does. then she smiles, all teeth and dimples, leans over to wipe a bit of stew off the corner of his mouth and every little atom in his body lights up, his only thought is yeah , i think i’m pretty happy. draco spends that night dreaming wildly of hermione and him in a gingerbread house, laughing as he eats rolls dipped in sugar and she gumdrops right off the walls.christmas eve dawns in bright, golden light and flurries of snow. hermione has been rambling about a white christmas all break, and the bright smile she’ll have when she sees the snow is all draco can think about as he stretches his arms above his head and yawns, waking early for the first time this holiday. the dazzling light of the sun reflecting off the blankets of snow fills draco’s room with bright, blinding light, leaving him to grumble and complain as he stumbles over to the window and pulls the drapes shut. he stands there for a moment, drawing slow breaths in and out, his hands resting against the stone wall. he fights back an unprecedented wave of nausea and moves toward the chest at the foot of his bed.it’s christmas eve with hermione—he’s been here more than once. he shouldn’t still be feeling like this. this…this heavy, sinking wrongness that’s spilled into his veins, clutching at his heart and lungs.hermione turns up at his door just as he’s about to leave and go look for her, a bright smile on her face and a sweater—little reindeer faces printed across the red fabric—wrapped around her frame. she tilts her head back to look up at him, though it’s not really necessary since she grew four inches last year and is tall enough now to look at his face without craning her neck.“it’s christmas eve,” she says.“i know.”“it’s snowing.”“i know.”“that means a white christmas.”and she looks so cheerful and happy that draco can’t possibly ruin her mood with his foolish anxieties over a day he’s lived seven times without his father. he smiles back, though it’s smaller than hers.“a white christmas,” he repeats. they eat breakfast in the great hall, amongst the bright chatter of the other students remaining at the castle for the holidays. unusually hungry, draco eats with renowned vigour: three fried eggs and four sausages, two slices of toast and a few spoonfuls of hermione’s porridge, along with pumpkin juice and half a glass of water. hermione rolls her eyes each time he steal bits of her food, but doesn’t tell him off, rather going on about all the things they just have to do today.“what about reading a christmas carol? ” hermione says suddenly.draco shrugs and takes a gulp of his pumpkin juice. “i’ve never read it.”“you’ve never read a christmas carol?”he shrugs again and points to her scone. “going to eat that?”“what?” hermione glances down and shakes her head before passing him the scone. “it’s a classic! how have you never read it?”“seen the movie. went to the cinema with mum.”he’d been four years old when the movie had been in the cinemas, and narcissa had taken him as a special treat. lucius almost hadn’t let them go, and draco remembers cowering on the stairs as his father shouted in the parlour below. a wineglass had shattered and draco had run upstairs to hide in his closet until narcissa found him, handed him a biscuit, and they’d walked to the cinema together, the snow a dirty grey slush on the ground.hermione stills looks affronted, but relaxes a bit with the knowledge that he’s at least familiar with the story. “we’ll read it tonight then,” she decides, a self-satisfied smile gracing her lips. there’s a touch of porridge at the corner of her mouth, and the sudden urge to kiss it away simmers low in draco’s gut. he pushes the thought to the dark recesses of his mind and bites into the scone. they start reading a christmas carol late in the evening, after a hearty dinner of roast potatoes, chicken, and sprouts, stretched out on the carpet in front of the hearth, a cosy, sleepy heat surrounding them. hermione’s soft voice fills draco’s ears and slips great pictures of blue, glowing ghosts and shimmery gold magic and tiny tim's little wooden crutch into his head. the words surround him and relax his mind, giving focus to the track that always seems to be going, letting him sink into a half-awake state. christmas morning finds him waking slowly, more alert than he’s felt in weeks. he lies in bed despite this, warm and toasty beneath his many blankets, thinking this time about how hermione takes her breakfast–hot porridge with honey, tea, a bit of fried sausage that she steals from his plate but never gets for herself.draco yawns and stretches, glancing out the window to see snow falling in big, thick flakes as he waits for hermione’s daily morning appearance in his dorm. it’s the white christmas she’d hoped for—she’ll prattle on about it all day now.he shakes his head with a light chuckle and climbs out of bed, pulling on a rough spun jumper in a deep green and a pair of dark slacks. hermione insists that they have a “proper” christmas day: breakfast first, at nine, because christmases are “lie-in days;” presents between ten and twelve, with time clean-up and the unboxing things after; lunch at one or one-thirty, some big but not extravagant meal; free hours usually allotted to games and conversation between two and four-thirty, with dinner—a feast, long tables strung out with more food than could possibly be eaten, the room lit with flickering candles and bright smiles.her schedule—helps. he’s glad for it—thankful, even. but the entire day is planned around people and being there, present, in the moment and the room. draco has had many good christmases, and he’s spent three here with hermione before. but sometimes christmas is just another day in the year, without the cheer and charming spin people put on it. he really doesn't want today to be just another day. they eat breakfast in the common room, which they’re technically not supposed to do but hermione insists (they do it all the time anyway) and draco knows it’s no use to fight—she’d go up against the minister if she had to. she’d probably win.“today is going to be good,” hermione says fiercely, spearing a sausage slice from draco’s plate with her fork.“maybe.”“no, it will be,” she says firmly. “i’ll make sure of it.”draco murmurs in agreement, slowly working through his ham and cheese croissant. she’s become protective of him this year, trying to make as many of his days good as she possibly can.“i’ll make sure of it,” hermione repeats. she turns her head to smile at him. “i promise.” draco’d got her the book she’s been eyeing for months, complete with a handmade bookmark and a letter she’s not allowed to read yet. she got him a book on potion making around the world and a pair of knitted socks with little hearts across them. he slips them on and falls half-asleep on the sofa, a blanket that smells like hermione’s perfume—comforting, familiar—partially draped across him as he watches hermione delve into her book, feet swinging oh-so-softly back and forth from the position she’s taken up on her stomach. “draco malfoy, you better get up now!” hermione’s fierce voice rings through draco’s mind, startling him awake. he groans and rolls onto his back, heels of his hands pressed to his eyes as he tries to regulate his heart rate.“you startled me.”“sorry.” she plops down next to him, paper clutched in her hand. the note is creased and bent and stained in multiple places with ink and tears. “explain this.” she thrusts the letter into his face once his hands have fallen away, and he goes nearly cross-eyed trying to read it.“it’s the letter i wrote you.” he frowns and looks up at her. “Why?”“and can you explain to me—” she carries on, ignoring his question “—why, exactly, it’s written like this?”“like what?”“like—like—” hermione lets out a frustrated noise. “‘you asked me to write you this instead of making a card, which i always fail to do—’” she begins reading,“hermione—”“don’t interrupt me, please. ‘you asked me to write you this instead of making a card, which i always fail to do. i’m going to tell you to read this when i’m asleep or away, and i do hope you listen. you mean more to me than anyone ever has—’” tears have welled in her eyes, and draco’s heart sinks just a little. she’d asked for a letter. he wrote a letter. what had gone wrong? “‘—and i love you. i don’t say it enough, but you know. i really hope you know. the best parts of my life have been with you. you have made every day just a little more tolerable, even the ones where i asked—sometimes even yelled—for you to go away and leave me alone.“‘it’s hard to be around you sometimes—you’re so perfect. you think you aren’t but you are. you’re so lovely and intelligent and beautiful. you’re passionate and hot-headed and strong. you’re covered in freckles, and i really like them. i tried to count them once; i got to ninety-three before i gave up. your hair is sometimes a mess but your curls are beautiful and i wish you liked them more. you came with my mum and me to our estate in italy over the summer holidays and you were anxious about wearing a bikini because of how you looked. you didn’t tell me that—it was obvious enough in the way you kept your arms around your stomach and your bottoms pulled just so to cover your stretch marks.“‘we laid in my bed that night smelling of salt and covered in sand. i couldn’t help myself then—i have an affinity for things pleasing visually and tactile-y. i let my hands wander, and my fingers ran over the marks across your hips. you were embarrassed, i knew, but in that moment, i couldn’t understand why you hated them. i loved them. i love them. i wanted to kiss them. to prove to you that everything you’ve ever hated about yourself—the things you press back into cracks and hide beneath baggy clothes and pretend don’t exist—are loveable. that i love them. all of them. sorry this got a bit long.“‘all my love, draco.’”she’s crying now—thick tears beading on her waterline and slipping down her cheeks. draco sits there, silent and immobile. good tears? bad tears? should he have not brought up her insecurities in the letter? her tears dot the paper, her hands shaking just a little. bad tears or not, draco can’t stand when hermione cries. he reaches out, tentatively, and places his hand over hers. she puts her other hand on top and squeezes and there are a million words in that, yet nothing to say at all.they end up in the great hall for dinner, though only after draco swore up and down it would be fine. “the nap helped, truly.” it had taken much convincing before she’d pulled on an extra layer and they’d walked to the hall.It’s bustling and cheery despite the small number of students, and the smells wafting around seem to mingle in such a way that draco knows they’ve been tinged with magic, not as overwhelming as usual. a feast is laid out, per usual, and draco loads his plate with the same things as always: ham, mashed potatoes lightly drizzled with gravy, two dinner rolls, and roast carrots.hermione’s eyes are still tinged red and her nose a bit snuffly, but she smiles at him and they laugh and talk and everything is okay. they lie in draco’s bed that night, side-by-side, hands clasped. draco’s eyes are closed, but he keeps running his thumb over the lines of her palm, wondering what he would find out if he could read it. a soft sigh falls from hermione’s lips—a delicate little sound that draco immediately loves. “today was a good day.”draco hums in agreement and drags his thumb over her wrist, letting it rest just over her pulse. he can feel it, almost, the hot rush of her blood. such fragile skin, he thinks, to protect such an important place.“i promised to make it good.” he hears the rustle of sheets as her head turns, and he opens his eyes to see her. she’s smiling softly—draco knows she’s happy. it’s clear in every line of her face. “i kept my promise, didn’t i?”“you did.” he chuckles lowly at her blinding grin, lets his thumb press down just a little, not enough to hurt, so he can feel her pulse just that much more. she smells like vanilla and cinnamon, a shiny gloss across her lips. he’d watched her apply it with her finger earlier, saw the way it clung to her skin and how she wiped off the bits that got onto the surrounding area. he wonders, briefly, if it’s flavoured; if so, what flavour? “maybe all our christmases can be good.”“maybe.” he does want to kiss her but… but what? what’s stopping him? he could lean forward, wait for her okay, and kiss her . he smiles at her instead, and lifts his free hand to trace down from her temple, pausing briefly at her jawline before moving lower, over the soft skin of her neck to her collarbone which he traces gently. she shivers, gooseflesh rising on her skin, but doesn’t ask him to stop. he flattens his palm across the side of her neck and lets it rest there, fingers limp. she exhales a slow, shaky breath and looks into his eyes, just for a moment, long enough for him to see the gold flecked across the brown.yeah, today was a good day.