Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Please don't sue me.

Chocolate Curls and Coffee Steam

The first time he walked by, he almost didn't see her. His footsteps sounded hollow against the wooden planks of the boardwalk, his shoulders were hunched up and his hands were clenched around the coffee, which he'd just bought from the corner café, for warmth. The wind buffeted the hood of his cloak, dulling any sound that he might otherwise have heard. His mind was captured by the thought of the paperwork undoubtedly piling up on his desk even as he walked to the office. Usually, he didn't bother—to walk, that is.

But this morning, something about the day had called to him, and he'd found himself grabbing his seldom-used cloak from the wardrobe even before he'd made a conscious decision to leave the house. No one else seemed to be out walking, which was unsurprising due to the early hour and the freezing temperatures. The sky was bright blue, rather than the uniform gray that was usually seen at this time of year, and the snow sparkled in the sun—at least, it did where the passing footsteps of hundreds of people hadn't trampled it and churned it to a muddy brown.

He was living in a muggle city, right next to the ocean, and had been since the end of the war… had it really been only six months?

It's funny how time warps when viewed through the human mind, he thought, taking a sip of his coffee—not the best he'd ever had, but certainly not the worst—and trying to return the feeling to his nose. In some ways, it feels like it's been years… but then I turn around, and suddenly I'm back there, in it again.

He scowled as the wind blew his hood off, but then paused in his attempt to draw it around his ears again. He'd always hated wearing hoods during the war because they cut off his peripheral vision, but he hated cold ears even more. However, now that the hood was gone, he finally saw what he'd almost missed—

She sat on an outcropping of rock, surrounded by the currently quiet—but never tame—ocean as it gently lapped at her feet. Motionless but for the chocolate colored curls—which the wind insisted on playing with like a child with a streamer—her face was to the horizon. He couldn't tell if he knew her (and why should he? It was a large city) but something about her snagged his eye and refused to let it go. Her clothing said—practically screamed—Muggle, but he knew, deep in his bones, that that wasn't all.

Well, either that or he was getting frostbite.

He shivered, suddenly remembering that he had to go to work. He took another sip of his coffee, startled to find it several degrees cooler—had he really been standing there that long, watching? She hadn't moved at all. If it hadn't been for her hair, he might have thought her a statue.

xXx

"You're late, Malfoy."

"If you were here before me, Nott, then you were obviously early."

Theodore rolled his eyes, but couldn't help but smile at his colleague's usual pompous attitude. "What kept you?"

Draco's mouth twitched down, and he got a slightly glazed look in his eye—both actions noted with interest by the other man—and said, "I fancied a walk."

Nott realized that this wasn't the whole truth, but he let it be.

xXx

The next day, Draco woke to the sound of sleet against his window and the half-formed dreams of seeing her again splattered to the floor like the rain and snow against the glass.

xXx

Draco sneered at the Christmas lights decorating the office. "Why they insist on putting the decorations up two weeks early is beyond me. It's a waste of money and time."

Theodore snorted. "It's one and a half, and where's your holiday spirit?"

The blond rolled his eyes, "I must have left it in my other suit."

"You have so many, how will you ever find it?" the other man asked with a sarcastic smile. The brunet then shook his head, "It's good for business, though. Relaxes the clients. Or so they say," he added in response to the other's raised eyebrows.

"There's nothing relaxing, or festive, about that," Draco said, waving at the window. It was still sleeting.

"No, I suppose not," Theo agreed, wondering what had his colleague in such a foul mood, but knowing better than to ask.

xXx

When the temperature finally dropped to the point where the snow stopped melting on the way down, Draco had all but forgotten about the mystery woman. He paid the owl that delivered the Daily Prophet before dropping the paper on top of The Quibbler. He sighed down at the strange magazine that proudly proclaimed 'Jarrygringles Strike Again! Is No Christmas Tree Safe?' wondering when he was going to get around to canceling his subscription. It had been a priceless resource during the war, coded messages had easily been sent through the always-absurd and little-read articles.

Of course, the Prophet is hardly any better, he thought, scowling down at the annual 'Potter Watch' article. Every week, or quite probably multiple times a week, some gullible moron would Floo in and claim to have seen Harry Potter walking down the street, or Ron Weasley, or Hermione Granger, or someone of importance that had done something for the war effort, and it would send everyone into frenzy about it. No one cared that a handful of people had watched Potter and Weasley die. In fact, their "supposed" deaths only added to the fervor. Everyone loves a martyr, Draco thought, lip curling in disgust.

Granger hadn't been killed in the war, though. He knew that for a fact. Not that he believed any of the supposed sightings of her that got reported to the press—no, she was too smart to be seen, if she didn't want to be. Which she didn't—want to be, that is.

She was the only reason that he was sitting in a comfortable chair listening to the snow outside his window right now, rather than on a cold cot listening to the moans and screams of those condemned to life in Azkaban—or worse. From the moment he had been brought into the court room, Draco knew that the ruling would not be in his favor. He, undeniably, had been a Death Eater. And Death Eaters were sent to Azkaban, no questions asked.

But then she had just burst into the court room—Draco remembered with amusement the ripples of shock and the murmurs of awe as the awaiting crowd recognized her—and provided irrefutable proof, and her own testimony, that Draco Malfoy had been an Order spy.

And it had worked. The Wizengamot hadn't been able to go against the wishes of Hermione Granger, War Heroine.

That had been four months ago, and no one had seen her since.

xXx

The snow swirling around him like Confunded fairies, he exited the café with a steaming cup of coffee held firmly in his hands. His feet beat out the path that he traveled just often enough to know well while his mind occupied itself with other things.

In the four months he'd been free of the war and the Ministry's "justice," he had learned to ignore the newspaper's idiotic claims of Harry Potter's survival. Sometimes, he was even able to find humor in it, but those instances were fewer and farther between as time stretched on.

Somehow, the continued "sightings" seemed disrespectful. There had been a surplus of witnesses that had seen them die, had seen Ronald Weasley push his brother out of the blast range and get crushed by the falling rubble, had seen Harry Potter disappear in a cloud of smoke along with Voldemort. That had seen any of the other gruesome deaths of any of the other fallen heroes.

Draco sighed into his coffee, tearing his mind away from those particular thoughts. He knew where they led and he knew that he didn't want to go there. As he looked around for a distraction, he abruptly realized where he was. A sense of déjà vu dogged his quickening footsteps, the wooden planks creaked beneath his weight, his heart quickened and his palms sweated; but he still had no idea why he was drawn to this woman, what was so important about her.

(—chocolate curls billowing out behind her like a child's streamer—)

She won't be there, the logical portion of his mind informed him. No one sane would be out in this weather.

I'mout here, protested a second portion.

Yes, well, you're arguing with yourself, aren't you.

He ignored this and continued on, hoping that she'd be there while knowing that she wouldn't.

As usual, he was right—she wasn't there.

xXx

Draco stared at the fully decorated Christmas tree to his right, anxious fingers making the pen in his hand tap a fast, tuneless rhythm

Theo opened his mouth to protest the noise, but closed it again upon seeing his friend's expression. He turned up the WWN instead. They were playing Christmas carols.

(The building was hot, suffocating. Sweat worked its way into his eyes and down his back. The floor beneath him shook, and his arms automatically whipped out from his sides for balance. His blood pounded and throbbed in his ears like an aboriginal drum, competing with the sound of the roaring flames that were slowly—or perhaps not so slowly—consuming the building. He turned the corner only to come face to face with open flame, and he staggered back from the intense heat. His first absurd thought was 'just like Christmas' when all of the Manor's huge fireplaces roared with life. It might have been December 25th, but it certainly didn't feel like Christmas.)

The Christmas tree lights flashed green for a few seconds before continuing on in their cycle to red, blue, white, pink, et cetera.

(He threw curses just like the rest—he had to, if his cover was to remain intact—but he couldn't miss all the time. Unforgivables filled the air, and Draco ground his teeth at the Order's unwillingness to retaliate in kind. Another explosion rocked the house, but this time he saw what caused it—Mad-eye Moody had been taken down, but not without a fight. Draco counted at least six bodies thrown by the blast, five of whom did not get back up.

(Bellatrix's voice caught his attention as the crazed woman screamed out the Killing Curse, and he turned just in time to see the curse speeding towards its target: a snarling Hermione Granger. 'What the hell is she doing here?!' his mind demanded, even as his body was reacting, sending a tripping jinx at the girl to knock her out of the curse's path. Another scream caught his attention for a moment, but by the time he looked back, Granger was back on her feet, chocolate curls falling loose from her tight bun and sticking to her sweating face as she twirled and shot hexes in every direction. Bella had disappeared into the crowd.)

The constant tapping of Draco's pen ceased as he clenched his hand around it like he would his wand.

(His knuckles were white and bloodless, his jaw was clenched tight, his eyes were watering from the smoke. He felt sure something was about to snap, though whether it would be his wand or his fingers, he wasn't sure. Draco wasn't entirely sure how they'd managed it, but the fight had moved outside into the night. The snow was ankle-deep and hard, making maneuvering difficult. It was hard to tell who fell to curses, and who fell to bad footing. A yell behind him made him turn, but he was thrown off-balance as a hex slammed into his shoulder and he was blasted back into a snow drift.

(He wasn't sure how long he was there—seconds or minutes—when a voice above him asked, "Is that your best, Draco?"

(Granger. "Hardly," he growled, jerking to his feet and reentering the fray. He kept an eye on her all night, and he suspected she did the same for him.)

xXx

He'd somehow managed to make it through the work day (or half of one, anyway, thanks to it being Christmas Eve)—had even managed to get some work done—and now stood staring at his bed. He knew that he'd find no real escape from his memories in sleep—too many nightmares about the final battle had proved that—but he also knew that avoiding sleep was futile, so he climbed into bed and turned off the light. The memories started instantly, not even bothering to wait for him to actually fall asleep. At least it wasn't a memory of blood.

(His lip curled reflexively at the music spilling out from the drawing room. He'd just been "released" from the interrogation room (known by some as the kitchen) after spilling everything he knew about the upcoming Death Eater raid. The raid that was set for tomorrow evening. It was the earliest warning he could give without the risk of last minute changes to the plan, and everyone knew that, but it still made him want to drive a fist through the wall.

(Draco had been surprised by the Golden Trio's absence from the meeting, but then he'd noticed Molly Weasley's presence and realized that the two occurrences were connected. Usually, Mrs. Weasley was too busy at her volunteer position in St. Mungo's to attend many meetings, but with the holidays came free time. Unfortunately for everyone but her. That woman could win every award there is for 'most annoying motherly figure.'

(The drawing room door opening brought him out of his musings, and he hastily stepped back into the shadows before anyone could see him. He did not feel like dealing with people right now—or, more specifically, Pothead and Weasel. Anyone else, he could probably be pleasant to. It was, after all, the time of 'goodwill towards man.'

("…too late, Hermione. Santa might not bring you any presents," Potter was saying, grinning like an idiot.

(A muffled scoff came from the room in response, and the two blockheads moved up the stairs while chuckling to themselves.

(Draco almost didn't enter the room, but an inability to go anywhere else drove him in. A magically-lit Christmas tree took up most of the space, though there was still enough room for a couch and a set of armchairs by the merrily crackling fire.

("I thought," Granger began, a hint of mocking in her voice, "that you were going to b—oh," she stopped abruptly, apparently recognizing him. "Er, hello, Draco."

(It took only a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lighting—brighter than the hallway, but still rather dim, he observed upon spotting the book open in the girl's hand, for reading—and when they did, she was easy to locate, sitting by the fire. She'd made an effort, since he'd joined the Order, to be nice to him—which was more than could be said for most everyone else—and in return he tried not to be, in her words, an arse. He said the first thing that came to mind. "Happy Christmas, Granger."

("It's not Christmas yet," she replied, though he could see her smile.

(He snorted, dropping onto the nearby couch. "Wait an hour and it will be."

(For a few moments the only sound in the room was the crackling and hissing of the fire. It wasn't an awkward silence, but it wasn't completely comfortable either… not that that was surprising. He knew, and she knew just by his presence, that there would be death the next day. Soft Christmas music, both Muggle and Wizard, continued to play on the radio.

(Granger coughed softly, fingers absently brushing against the pages of her book for a minute before she slid in a bookmark and shut it. He watched her, but she didn't seem to expect conversation, her gaze locked on the flickering flames in the fireplace. He took the rare opportunity to relax in the near-silence (a rare occurrence in this house), turning his own gaze towards the fire.

(As if reading his thoughts, a muffled explosion burst up from the kitchen, causing the two of them to jump up from their chairs, pulling out their wands. They calmed down after they heard the familiar laughter of the twins followed by angry bellows from Mrs. Weasley.

("They can't break in here," Granger said in a low voice, as if she was trying to convince herself as well. "Dumbledore's the Secret-Keeper."

(Draco nodded stiffly, pocketing his wand and sitting back down. "Carol of the Bells" began to spill out from the radio. The flickering firelight made it difficult to read expressions, but he could see the pinched look around her eyes and the worried frown on her lips. For some reason, he felt like he should be reassuring her, but he had no idea what to say.

("Late at night," she began hesitantly, then stopped, glancing towards him. He didn't know what she saw, but it convinced her to continue. "Late at night, sometimes, I wonder... if it's all worth it. Well... no, I don't," she amended quickly, "it's just... I hate all the death this bloody war—er, so to speak—causes, and I just wish it would stop."

("Death would happen regardless of war," Draco told her, frowning towards the fire. "Death Eaters don't need an enemy."

(Barely contained rage thickened her voice when she answered him. "I know. That point was made very clear to me." He winced, recognizing that she was speaking of the prejudice that, up until recently, he had shared with the majority the pure-blood families. She took a deep breath, letting it out on a sigh. "I just wish there was something we could do to end the war faster."

("There is," he said, meeting her eyes fiercely. "We fight. We do our best—and then we do better. The bastards won't even know what hit them."

(The clock chiming midnight somehow added emphasis to his words, as did the door banging open. They both twisted to see one of the twins standing in the doorway.

("They're asking for you downstairs, Malfoy," the redhead said, more than a hint of malice in his voice.

(Draco sighed wearily and stood up. On impulse, he turned to the girl and gave her a half bow, saying, "A good night to you, Hermione, and happy Christmas.")

xXx

Somehow, Christmas Eve had turned into Christmas morning, and Draco wasn't sure what to do about it. Until the war, he had always enjoyed Christmas. It was one of the few days that Lucius Malfoy always spent with his family.

Draco still loved his parents dearly, but neither of them had been the same since 'those mudbloods' defeated Voldemort. Well, no, his mother didn't mind either way, but his father was… still adjusting. They both knew of his role in the war, and that put a further strain on his relationship with his father.

He grimaced, remembering the last time he was home.

(Lucius narrowed his eyes and didn't respond at all to his son's greeting, turning on his heel and leaving the room. Narcissa sighed. "Give him time, Draco. He does love you, he just… needs more time.")

So he couldn't go home.

Trying not to think about that too hard, he snatched up his cloak and left the house.

xXx

As he approached the café, he remembered the mystery girl again. Almost as if something was forcing him to think of her whenever he was near enough. He stopped walking, searching his memory for every detail he could remember.

Chocolate curls, probably not very tall…strong looking jaw. Muggle clothes, but obviously not a Muggle.

His eyes widened as he made the connection, and his gaze turned towards the ocean—just barely visible from where he stood—almost as if she would be standing there.

(—chocolate curls falling loose from her tight bun—)

(—chocolate curls billowing out behind her like a child's streamer—)

Why hadn't he seen it before? It had to be her.

He entered the café feeling numb and ordered two coffees without thinking about it.

(As far as he knew, she was the only person in the house, besides him, who would touch the stuff, everyone else preferring tea. He'd found it odd at first, but he didn't mind when she would slip into the kitchen after he'd made a pot of coffee and steal a cup, always putting two sugars in, but no cream. At first, they'd shared this small thing in silence, but eventually they started having conversations over the rim of their cups, talking about anything and everything that crossed their minds.)

It took him a moment to realize that, not only had he bought two coffees and fixed the second one to her preferences, but he'd already found his way to the boardwalk.

He felt stupid, carrying two coffees without knowing that she'd be there, that it'd even be her. But something within him insisted that she would be, that it was.

As usual, he was right.

She didn't even seem to be surprised as he climbed up onto the rock above her, tilting her head slightly to watch him and smiling a small cat-in-the-cream smile. He raised an eyebrow at her for a moment before shaking his head and handing her the extra coffee he'd bought at the café. Her smile broadened after taking a sip.

"You remembered."

"Of course, I did," he responded, nodding his head in acknowledgement. For a moment, all that could be heard was the crashing of the waves, belligerently disbelieving that mere rock could hold them back. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," she said, almost—but not quite—managing to hide a smile behind the cardboard cup in her hand.

"Of course, you are," he consciously mimicked his earlier words, as if he had known all along. "Obviously you have accomplished your task; or rather, I finished it for you, by finding you."

"Hmmm," she hummed around a mouthful of warm liquid. "But did you find me, or did I call you here?"

He finally sat down beside her, noting the easing of her shoulders—noticeable even through several layers of clothing—as he did so. "Did you?"

She sighed, smile flickering into nonexistence. "I've been looking for you for nearly two months now, really. I finally tracked you to this city, but then I lost the trail. Finally I gave up looking and came here to use a variation of a Summoning spell to see if I could… attract your attention."

He frowned, only one word spring to mind. "Why?"

"Well, three of the four elements—water, air, and earth—meet here, so it's the strongest location—" She grew more flustered with each word, so he cut her off.

"No. I meant, why were you looking for me?"

It was hard to tell, since her cheeks were already so pink from the cold, but he thought she blushed. "Oh. Well, I—that is—damn it, Draco. This is why."

The next few seconds seemed impossibly slow yet agonizingly fast as her gloved hands lifted to cup his face and her lips melded with his, and it was wonderful and surprising and he almost dropped his coffee, but before his shocked brain had issued the command to kiss her back, idiot! she'd pulled away and was staring at him with those brown eyes that could be so fierce and yet were currently so vulnerable and all he wanted to do was grab her and do it again.

But he clamped down on the impulse, and after a breathless second he managed, "Is that your best?"

She blinked once and looked almost offended for an instant before her mouth curled up into a knowing smile. "Hardly."

And then she went on to prove it.

A/N: Happy Christmas everyone (I know is some parts of the world it's not Christmas any more, but I literally finished this an hour ago.) For those of you who read Fair Maiden's Dream, an update IS coming, just... not very quickly (though who knows, I could get inspired any minute). The plot bunny for this one just randomly appeared on... last Thursday I think? and went for my throat until I submitted to writing it.

If you enjoyed it... I'm accepting reviews in lieu of Christmas presents.

I'm actually surprised I managed to finish this one in time, considering my "Halloween fic" that -ahem- -tiny voice- still isn't finished -cough-

This IS a oneshot, and I have no plans for a sequel/continuation (though I didn't for SDoHG either... -whacks self for even thinking about it- I will not distract myself any more than I already have from FMD.)

So, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year all. I hope you all got lots of cool stuff and had ... uh... fun, with your families.