Written for D/Hr Advent 2013. Prompt: snowflakes.
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." The words hung in the air a moment on Malfoy's breath before disappearing into the cold evening.
Hermione stayed silent, because it just didn't do to interrupt when he was winding up for a rant. Such speeches were epic, obliterating any silence, dread, or boredom in their path, and she could always sense when one was coming.
"Considering the years I spent listening to every thought entertained in that yawning chasm between Pansy's ears, that's really saying something." Malfoy paused for a moment, but still perturbed at the reminiscence of his first girlfriend, he continued, "Believe me, there's not a thought ever crossed her mind that didn't make a subsequent journey out of her yapping mouth, so I know from stupid."
He was in fine form this evening, even more terse than usual.
Of course, Hermione hadn't intended to incite a rant, but saying something as pedestrian as, 'You know they say no two snowflakes are alike' to one such as Malfoy, even if it were actually topical in the middle of this flurry, was just asking for it. But they needed something to take their minds off of being stuck here in the cold, waiting on Andromeda Tonks' doorstep on Christmas Eve, and a Malfoy Rant was as good an entertainment to be had under the circumstances.
"It's an absurdly reductive statement," he said. "Like when people use the word 'infinite.' I hate that word. When someone says something is 'infinite,' it just means they don't have vision enough to see to its end. The word is essentially meaningless."
He turned and looked at her then with that strange, pointed expression that made her think – and not always inaccurately – that he was making at least a reference to Muggles, if not a dig. That look was probably a trick to draw her in. It always worked.
"Then what word would you use, Malfoy?" she said, and did a rather impressive job of sounding more curious than challenging. "To encompass something so immeasurable as to require it?"
"That's just the point; there isn't a word for it. A word isn't required," he said sharply. "Everyone is so unsettled by uncertainty, by grey areas, they need to label everything. They need some nice, tidy word that will explain everything, as though such a thing could keep the howling doubt from the door. People like simple. People need simple."
Simple? Hermione thought her head would explode at the very notion.
If Hermione were looking for simplicity in her life, she was doing a damn poor job of finding it. If she needed simple, she wouldn't be here, literally freezing her arse off sitting on these cold steps amidst the seemingly infinite array of snowflakes swirling about them.
If simple were the goal, she would have left when she found neither Teddy nor Andromeda at home, regardless of how important it was to Harry that their presents be delivered in person. Although she knew his Godson meant the world to him, she'd been taken aback by the urgency with which he'd given her this task, and on Christmas Eve to boot. But he'd seemed so frantic and insistent, and she'd never been able to turn Harry down whatever the favor. When she arrived, Malfoy was there too, and well... at that point, she'd been unable to get herself to leave.
"But not you, I guess?" she asked. He turned to her with eyebrows raised, and she continued, "You're that one, special snowflake who doesn't need simple?" She said it teasingly and wrapped it in a wry smile, so she didn't expect him to take offense.
And he didn't take offense, exactly, but he turned, startled, and didn't say anything for a moment, as though he hadn't expected to be engaged in conversation. He opened his mouth to respond, but shut it again without saying a word and turned away.
"No," he said softly out into the night. "No, I don't."
The change in his mood was jarring; it was unprecedented for Malfoy to give up his ire so soon after an outburst, and she couldn't imagine the cause. Hermione felt the cold much more keenly then, even with the Heating Charms they kept casting about themselves, and the silence began to pound in her ears through the whispering of the falling snow. She didn't know what to make of this shift in his temper, and whatever hope there was to the evening threatened to flee before it.
"Well, as it happens, I didn't finish my original point," she began out of a nervous need to banish the quiet. "They do say no two snowflakes are alike, but recent studies have shown that this could be a myth."
Malfoy turned, eyebrow raised, though still looking slightly unsettled.
Hermione continued, "What they found is that smaller, more basic crystals – the pieces that make up larger snowflakes – are indeed alike, so there could be some snowflakes that are identical. So, if someone had the time and a powerful enough microscope... and if they figured out some way to study tiny flakes of frozen water without melting them... and if they had roughly a hundred thousand years in which to collect the data... they could perhaps someday find matched pairs." She breathed in sharply, then watched as it came back out in a long puff. "So, well... from me to you, Malfoy, and Happy Christmas while I'm at it: you might just be right about that whole 'infinity' thing."
She turned with a warm grin, but it was met with only a pensive smile as Malfoy looked away.
And if you'd asked Hermione right then, she'd have told you she had no problem with the infinite. She had no problem with doubt, with peering into the abyss only to find more questions than answers. From half a lifetime at her friend's sides, preventing catastrophe and cleaning up after every misstep, she'd gotten used to frustration. And though she may have liked labels and order and knowledge for their own sake, she didn't need them.
But what she needed, right now, was patience. Because if she didn't find some, and soon, Hermione would run mad. Frozen here in this moment, her nerves jangled and raw, she could no more bear the unfulfilled promise than she could endure the weight of all her dashed hopes. If she couldn't find that last shred of patience, it would all be truly lost.
Because then she would finally have to accept that she and Malfoy really were never meant to be, and it just so happened she did have a problem with that.
Anyone else would have packed it in, given the ever-diminishing returns from this flirtation of theirs over the past year. It had gotten ever more uncomfortable since last Christmas, and she wasn't entirely sure why, though it seemed to have started around the time of their awkward gift exchange.
And then there was the matter of Harry and Ron and their inexplicable behavior.
Again, she couldn't put her finger on it exactly, but they just always seemed to pop up at the most inopportune times, and they had spoilt many a possible moment between her and Malfoy. At one point, she worried her friends might have an issue with her pursuing him, but realized it was always they who invited him in the first place, so they couldn't object too much.
Stranger still was the matter of Ron constantly pressing drinks into her hand at these get-togethers. She was becoming rather worried about him, suspecting that this could be the warning signs of a real problem.
Beyond the social occasions, she and Malfoy still saw each other around the Ministry, and there was plenty of ambiguous interaction that could be just as easily explained as springing from boredom and proximity as from attraction. She'd always been the type of girl more likely to talk herself out of believing she was special to anyone, and she knew from experience that it was foolish to cling to a hope that hung from nothing. But there was an undeniable connection between the two of them, and she felt like she was sensible enough that she'd let it go if it were truly necessary to abandon the dream.
But there was something about tonight, meeting unexpectedly and enduring this snowstorm shoulder to shoulder. There was an insistent electricity in the air, a coiled energy pressing into her from shoulder to calf, where his body met hers as they huddled together on the steps. Through all the layers of wool and cotton, she felt the vibration, the beginning... something on the verge of becoming.
And that something rippled through her suddenly like a shot up her spine. She came to a decision; she would do something. She would say something.
Taking a deep breath, she took stock of the night. The snow was falling hard now, each and every snowflake swirling and dancing in the air, daring anyone to count or catalogue or measure anything so special as they. Hermione imagined her faith swirled out there too, and she'd find it if she looked long and hard enough.
...
If you'd asked Draco right then, he'd have told you he did have a problem with frustration. He had a long and storied history of railing vocally against obstacles, a result of being born to wealth, position, and overindulgent parents. Sure, he'd grown and changed and had experienced more than his fair share of humbling over the course of the war and the years following. But though the man grew out of that whinging child, deep down, the whinging child remained. He also had problems dealing with doubt and questions unanswered, and a well-documented affinity for cowardliness and timely retreat.
In short, all his platitudes about the infinite and embracing the abyss were a load of bollocks.
He'd begun tonight with a plan – as he began every special occasion, gathering, and casual encounter involving Hermione – and it had once again very quickly gone pear-shaped. For the past year and a half (really for the last two years, but thinking about reaching that milestone depressed him), he had gone into each meeting with the certainty that every one of them would lead (either directly or eventually) to frenzied shagging.
The shagging was always frenzied in Draco's imaginings.
It was only recently that he'd begun to doubt his ability to make this happen. One would think him rather slow on the uptake with such a track record, but Draco also had a problem with a rather heady mix of entitlement and blind optimism when it came to his own goals (see above re: overindulgent parents).
So what was all that nonsense about snowflakes and simplicity? You could say he was projecting the ideal self he aspired to be if you were so psychoanalytically inclined: the brave, confident bloke he wished to be, who knew precisely what he was doing in every situation. Which, of course, he did not in fact know. Ever. And he had a tendency to get rant-y whenever he felt particularly lost.
Witness here, now: Hermione was pressed up against him, quite literally dependent upon him in order to avoid slowly freezing to death, and he seemed incapable of doing anything about it. Though put your arm around her... put your arm around her... was on constant repeat in his head, he'd remained with his hands to himself, blathering on and on about stuff and nonsense he was pretty sure he didn't even believe. Her warmth was burning him through the layers of fabric as though she were on fire, and still he could do nothing.
Last Christmas Eve, after the disappointment that had led him to abandon gift-giving as the way to her knickers, he'd thought to make a move at Neville and Hannah's party at the Leaky Cauldron, but Potter and Weasley spooked him off his game. The three of them (quite surprisingly, even to them) got along now, but the two of them sat eyeing Draco with a strange intensity for much of the evening, and it led him to rethink his lascivious designs on their best friend. Instead, he'd spent an excruciating evening speaking about Vampire midwifery with Luna Lovegood, and that experience had put him off trying anything else with Hermione for months after.
His birthday should have been a no-brainer where motivation and opportunity were concerned, and Hermione had shown up in such a pretty sundress and with such a thoughtful (if ridiculously wrapped) gift, that his hopes had been high. But the very moment he was going to make his move (and be assured, it would have been a brilliant one), his mum had chosen to corner him and regale him with all she'd learned about the joy of Andromeda's relationship with her late, Muggle-born husband, Ted.
She'd gone on and on about how she'd never realized just how wonderful it could be to share your life with someone from such a different background, and how strong a connection her sister and brother-in-law had, and yes, she knew very well what she'd said in the past, Draco, and there's no need to rub her nose in it, thank you very much.
By the time he'd wrested himself from his mum's babbling, Hermione looked like she was playing some sort of strange drinking game with Weasley, and Draco figured he'd missed his chance.
It took him a long time to excuse his mother's intrusion. Just being here tonight, agreeing to help Andromeda as part of some vague errand Narcissa had sent him on, had been a Herculean effort toward forgiveness. But then Hermione had arrived just as he'd gotten here, and... after the last squandered chance, he couldn't pass this up.
He'd been so sure Bonfire Night would be the time. Granger had introduced him to the Muggle event a few years before, and he considered it a great opportunity for advancement: fall weather, plus nighttime, plus fireworks, equals all signs pointing to 'yes.' And they had gotten snuggly in front of the fire, almost as close as they were now. But a rogue gust of wind had blown a piece of ash into Hermione's eye, and he'd spent the next hour using Summoning Charms to get at every last particle. The mood had been decidedly dampened after that.
Draco couldn't help but notice the similarity of that evening to this, here and now, and how perfectly the night, plus the snow, plus the holiday equaled optimal conditions. It was too much fortune dumped in his lap, and he figured he had to be able to come up with something to make it happen, this time for sure, if he could only calm his mind for a moment, keep himself from babbling, and come up with a plan—
Put your arm around her... put your arm around her... his mind screamed, though his body and will stayed silent.
He was struck with the usual terror, though the cold leant it a particular bite, and he felt the usual certainty that he'd never be able to muster what it took. At these moments Draco was at his darkest, and he felt deep down that he could never hope to deserve Hermione if he couldn't even find the strength to risk her rejection.
He would have made a piss-poor Knight.
She would never be his.
At that moment Hermione shivered, and it was a shock to Draco's system as he felt it against him.
Then something rippled through him and stiffened his spine. It was miraculous and came from nowhere, injecting him with just a bit of courage, a smidgen of heretofore unknown competency, and something he was pretty sure was confidence. Certainty flooded his senses, and he was struck with the most perfect solution.
He could say what he felt. Draco could say what was in his heart and hope for the best. It was such a simple notion, he couldn't imagine where it had been all his life.
Hermione straightened then and took a big breath, and he could tell she was about to speak.
"I don't have a hundred thousand years," he blurted.
"What?" she asked, brow furrowed.
It would be easier to keep his nerve if he weren't facing those big, curious eyes, so he looked out into the snowy night.
"The snowflakes. I mean, they say people are all unique too, which, to be honest, I've never found to be particularly true. In my experience, there are only about a dozen different types of people, and half of them are tiresome and the rest boring, but even if they were like snowflakes..."
Don't start ranting, Draco – stay on topic. Breathe. Breathe! He took a big gulp of air and went all in.
"I've never found anyone at all like you, Granger. And believe, me, I've looked. Not with anything like a— What was it?"
"Microscope?" she answered softly.
"Right. Even if people are only mostly unique, and even if they are easier to sift through than snowflakes, it would still take that long to find someone who made me laugh and think and reach and... feel the way you do."
He let out the rest of the breath he'd held through that speech in one big burst and gave himself a mental high-five for his bravery. It wasn't until he was faced with the silence that followed that he realized that he hadn't thought far enough ahead to have any idea what to do next. But no matter, he thought; just saying it was the point, and he really was just relieved to have it all out in the open.
I mean, she still wasn't saying anything, and the silence was becoming deafening, but he could live with this awkwardness, the two of them alone together, and he was sure if he just kept facing forward, concentrating on the snowfall, they'd get through this moment and it would soon be like nothing ever happ—
Scratchy woolen mittens pulled at his cheeks and turned him to face the most perfect girl ever found in all the known universe. A lifeline through the grey, she pulled him to her, and all fell away but her warm lips meeting his through the cold.
Put your arms around her... put your arms around her...
But his hands, of their own accord, (because they were arguably smarter than most every other part of him) were already tangling in her hair, and she was pressing against him, and he had just enough sense left to notice the feel of each snowflake falling, melting against their cheeks, before his mind went blissfully silent.
...
"The eagle has left the building!" Ron exclaimed, far too loudly for their vulnerable position.
"What? An eagle—? What's happening?" squealed Narcissa, also too loudly, as she reached frantically for the Omnioculars.
"'Eagle has landed', Ron," Harry said wearily. "And stop hogging – let someone else have a look."
"Are they kissing?" Andromeda asked with smug confidence.
"Awwwwwww..." Narcissa said from behind the Omnioculars, in a tone usually reserved for when viewing puppies.
"Well, it looks like my Hurly Burly Spell on Bonfire Night did the trick."
"What are you talking about, Ron? All that did was blow a bunch of embers—"
"It brought them closer together, Harry," Ron said proudly. "They spent the whole evening gazing into each other's—"
"Hermione suffered a scratched cornea, as I recall. And that was weeks ago, anyway."
"Well, you wouldn't let me spike their drinks, so what was I supposed—"
"Not everything can be solved with liquor, Ron," Harry said, and not for the first time. Then, with uncharacteristic smugness, he said, "But what about that Compelling Charm I put on the presents? That really kept them together tonight."
"Oh big deal," Ron pouted. "None of it would even matter if I hadn't loosened them up a bit. We were getting nowhere with them."
"We wouldn't even be here if I hadn't talked Hermione up so much." Narcissa interrupted. "I mean, Draco places a good deal of stock on my opinion, and without that, we wouldn't have stood any chance—"
"I think we can all be proud of the work we've done over the past year," Andromeda said, with diplomacy (as well as the satisfaction of one who knew her indispensable part in tonight's success, though she was never one to brag).
And they all quite heartily agreed. Because no matter how undeserving, no one in the history of time has passed up the chance to take credit for a friend's happiness.
...
And at that, The Christmas Spirit (which is an actual thing, I'll have you know), left the four of them where they were, huddled on the roof opposite the Tonks' house, spying on the unsuspecting Draco and Hermione, and pleased as punch with themselves.
Frankly, she'd heard all she could stand; there was never a sorrier bunch of elves pressed into temporary service in all her millennia to match the incompetence of this lot. But no matter.
She left with a well-earned sigh of satisfaction, and she was off to do the impossible again and again and again. That was the job after all, and it was a good one, even taking into account the lack of holidays and her desperate need for support staff.
This one had been a particularly tough case, and that was really saying something, as she'd engineered quite a few impossible miracles in her time. She was always on call, and no job was too big nor any one challenge too far-fetched. Granted, it was rare that she had to resort to the sort of out-and-out sorcery she'd just employed to get Draco and Hermione together. It was frowned upon in general, but since she didn't have the resources she needed anyway, she didn't think too much about taking liberties to get the job done.
But sometimes in these cases involving miracles of the heart, the people in question just didn't cooperate. They moved too far away from each other, they made each other into adversaries, they even sometimes married other people. And she could only do her best and as quickly as circumstances allowed.
And she really did do her best, for everyone. One at a time.
So, take heart...
Because though people regard it as cliché, there really is someone for everyone. The Christmas Spirit is just a little backlogged at the moment, but she's doing her darndest to catch up. She's working as fast as she can, and she's pulling in help (such as it may be, depending on the case and the competency of the friends and family) to speed things along.
All anyone has to do in the meantime is find their faith in the darkness, make infinity their playground, and hope.
~*~*the end*~*~
I have to admit that I suspect that "The eagle has landed" and "Elvis has left the building" are likely too American to be terminology that Harry would know, but... I took the liberty anyway.
And... readers of last year's D/Hr Advent might recognize that this is indeed a sequel to last year's THE PRESENT MOMENT, which I couldn't resist writing. I hope those of you who wished for more are happy to see Draco and Hermione get their happy ending.
Happy Holidays, everyone!