Summary: I was inspired by my own woeful lack of people to kiss at midnight. Hermione discovers the wonderful side effects of firewhisky, which include dizziness, warmth, and possibly impaired judgement. We see a softer side of Draco.
It is a beautiful night, more beautiful than she has ever seen before.
Sitting quietly beside the window, hands folded as if she is concealing a secret in her palms, she contemplates the scene before her. For what seems like miles she can see the snow, a shining clean blanket over the grounds, frosting the castle turrets and the trees in the distance. She can just make out the edges of the lake, beginning to freeze in a delicate spindly pattern like a spider's web. Tiny rivulets of light stream from the castle windows, casting a faint glow across the cool white sheet, and the flurries are falling lightly, magnificently. For a moment it seems that the entire world has ceased to exist. She feels that she could sit and watch this splendor for days, but judging by the impatient tugging on the sleeve of her robe, this unfortunately shall not be so.
"Hermione, love, come on! Quit staring out the bloody window! Dean's nicked three more barrels of mead from the kitchen and George is about to set off more fireworks. And we've still got a whole crate left from Honeydukes." She turns reluctantly from the window to see Fred beaming at her, his face flushed and his eyes shiny from firewhiskey and anticipation. A bottle of foaming butterbeer dangles between his fingers. Before she can protest, the vertiginous redhead grabs her hand and pulls her into the shouting, tumultuous throng that crowds the common room from corner to corner. The air is thick with a palpable, shimmering excitement; it seems that people are moving without their feet ever touching the plush carpet. She feels grounded and wishes to fly.
She does not like this holiday. It is a holiday for friends and lovers, and at the moment her friends are occupied with their lovers, and she has no lover of her own.
Much too quickly her eyes find the mop of red hair, the slouching frame sprawled in an armchair, swigging a glass of elf-made wine and looking pleasantly buzzed. His ears are rosy from drink, and she notices, with a slight tug at her heart, that his other hand is curled around Lavender Brown's waist. She too is laughing and gesturing emphatically; a stupid festooned party hat sits lopsidedly on her hair as she perches unsteadily on Ron's knees. Lavender's pretty face is illuminated with love, or perhaps only lust, for tonight the two seem interchangeable.
Hermione's eyes travel the length of the far wall, where the fire crackles and dances with celebratory golden flames, and come to rest on a different boy, this one looking quietly elated under a shock of untidy black hair and glasses, crooked from their most recent contact with the stone floor. He is leaning against the fireplace mantle, holding not a drink but the delicate hands of another young redhead, this one female, standing not three inches apart and speaking in hushed tones. The redhead is stunning in a short deep green dress that floats around her slender frame, but Harry Potter seems to take no notice of her clothes; his eyes are locked upon her face, shining with adoration.
Fred reappears at her side holding an overflowing glass of firewhiskey. He gives her a look of guarded concern as she accepts the glass with a slight air of mournfulness. "You alright, Hermione?" She waves her hand and takes a huge gulp of the steaming drink to avoid answering right away.
"Fine," she splutters, coughing a bit as the firewhiskey goes down. "I think- I think I'm going to get some air." Fred raises his eyebrows.
"But it's almost midnight! And we're about to set off the fireworks!" Fred looks so pleading that she briefly considers hanging around, but the thought of watching people engage in nauseatingly romantic couple-esque displays while fireworks dance overhead makes her stomach begin to roil.
"I'll pass, thanks. Listen, if you promise to save me a Cauldron Cake I'll be back in twenty minutes." Fred grins and tips his head at her in a sort of drunken salute before turning around unsteadily and weaving his way back into the crowd.
Feeling uncharacteristically heavy, Hermione spins around quietly and clambers out of the portrait hole, still clutching her firewhiskey glass. As she steps into the hallway she can hear exuberant shouts and raucous laughter filtering from every classroom and corridor. Even the portrait characters are unusually lively, scurrying from frame to frame and crying out hearty felicitations. With a sudden desire for the snow, Hermione begins to walk briskly toward the staircase. She can hear the Fat Lady's giggly shouts of, "Best be bundling up, love, it's quite nippy outside!" but ignores them, taking a right and then a left down a spiraling set of marble stairs that leads directly into the entrance hall. During most evenings the entrance hall is generally unoccupied, but tonight at least a dozen students are milling around with cameras, drinks, and sweets, dancing about excitedly in anticipation of the New Year. Hermione ignores them all, moving instead toward the imposing oak front doors and pushing them open with a heavy thrust of her shoulder.
An invigorating chill sweeps over her as she descends the outer stone steps, cold air crackling in her lungs and allowing a wonderful cleansing rush to her brain. The snow is still falling lightly, peppering the untouched ground with more dazzling flakes, and she cannot help but be mesmerized by the scene. She tilts her head up to gaze at the inky stretch of sky, from which the flakes appear as if from thin air. Another gulp of firewhiskey sends a pleasant, humming warmth over every inch of her skin, seeping into her fingertips and toes and eyelashes. She takes a deep breath, relishing the moment of feeling reborn and new. She is convinced that there is no better way to feel at the start of a year.
"Granger?"
She opens her eyes and turns back to the front doors, which she realizes too late she has left ajar. Standing in the doorway with a bemused and… could it possibly be a friendly expression on his face, his steely eyes crinkling at the corners as if in the faintest smile, is Draco Malfoy, wrapped in a heavy winter cloak and looking suspiciously sober.
"Malfoy." Hermione attempts to sound dignified, but the firewhiskey seems to have addled her speech. She begins to giggle hopelessly, and Malfoy raises one eyebrow. "Lovely evening, isn't it?" She cannot stop her inane laughter; the warmth and the firewhiskey and the snow have melted together into a blur of light and feeling. She feels quite starry-eyed.
"You've been drinking, Granger," Malfoy observes, shaking his head. "And you're freezing."
"No, I'm not!" she insists, although even as the words escape her lips she realizes that she is shivering quite violently. "I'm just excited. I'm quite warm, actually." She holds up her glass as if this will elaborate upon her point. "Firewhiskey." Malfoy shakes his head again and slides down onto the step, sitting casually with his legs splayed across the stone.
"Dangerous stuff, that is," he says amiably. "D'you want my cloak?"
"I told you, I'm fine," Hermione repeats indignantly. Feeling slightly unsteady she lowers herself onto the step beside Malfoy. His smooth gray eyes are twinkling mischievously; his expression is casual and gracious, not quite as intimidating and arrogant as usual. She leans forward as if to divulge a scandalous secret. "I don't drink firewhiskey too often, you know. But since it is New Year's Eve I suppose I can make an exception." Draco nods seriously. Snow is beginning to collect in frothy piles on his jacket and in his hair, and without thinking Hermione reaches up and brushes the cool flakes away.
Draco looks slightly amused but says only, "Why are you out here alone?"
Hermione arches one eyebrow faux-coyly, feeling quite silly in all her pretending. "I'm not alone. I'm with you, aren't I?" Draco rolls his eyes. "Well, if I'm quite honest with you, I suppose I didn't want to deal with everything… in there." She waves a hand in the vague direction of the castle. "I mean… this holiday is quite awful, right, unless you have someone to kiss at midnight. I suppose that's how it goes." Draco gazes thoughtfully at Hermione for a moment as she takes another reflective sip of firewhiskey. Then he pulls back the sleeve of his coat to check his watch.
"Ten seconds to midnight, Granger. Got any New Year's resolutions to make?" Hermione squints a little, feeling as if she may be seeing Draco Malfoy for the first time.
"Nothing long-term, really," she breathes out finally, and suddenly Draco's hand is cupping the back of her head tenderly and his lips are pressed to hers in a sweet, firewhiskey-drenched kiss. She feels warmth in her stomach unrelated to the drink and kisses him back fiercely as the snow glides around them.
After several minutes Draco pulls his mouth away gently. Hermione can hear muffled laughter and shouting coming from inside the castle. "Still think this is a crap holiday, Granger?"
She smiles a little and drains her glass, enjoying the buzz from the snow and the kiss and the firewhiskey and the promise of a new year. "Absolutely not."