"Miss Granger." Hermione looked up from her desk, her pen spinning idly in her hand.
"Oh," she began, eyes darting to the clock, "is it time for the mail already, Oliver?" she asked despite the answer being evident.
He smiled, and with a nod of his head, began to carefully maneuver towards her desk. The task was already a bit difficult due to the sheer number of documents and notes within her office, but Oliver had the added challenge of having to peer over the box in his arms.
Hermione directed him to place it down at a spot that had just enough space. "These are all the records I requested?" Finicky and old, it was recommended for records such as these to have no spell cast upon them, thus, Oliver and the rest of the Ministry's couriers. Hermione supposed it was an additional layer of security, but it should not have been a fortuitous byproduct. Too many people used spells, or a combination thereof, that they did not know enough about. She tapped her pen against her desk.
Though was it any wonder when our own government body is one of the biggest offenders? she thought.
Oliver dropped the box carefully. "And one more thing," he said, slipping his hands free. An envelope lay in his palm.
She eyed it curiously. "Usually the owls handle that." There was a click of metal against wood as she placed her pen down.
"Malfoy saw me when I was en route and asked if I could take it; he seemed busy." Oliver shrugged and handed it over.
Hermione hid a smile, turning the envelope over in her hands. People were finally getting over their ridiculous prejudices and treating Draco like an actual coworker.
The Malfoys had been understandably penalised after the war: Lucius was stripped of most of his power and effectively under house arrest save for a few exceptions, and Draco was all-but barred from working in any high-end Ministry job. That combined with how daft everyone had been acting left Draco unable to get any job at all, really. Which was simply absurd; he wasn't the smartest or most skillful, but he was more capable than some of the employees the Ministry had hired instead. It was stupid and petty and an affront to what they had fought for, so of course Hermione got involved.
But as only a low-level Ministry employee, and a muggleborn, she didn't have much sway with the higher-ups in the Ministry, beyond lip service and appealing to the other members of the Golden Trio—and she could handle this herself, thank you very much—so. She hired him.
Which could have ended disastrously, she must admit, torpedoing her chances of a career at the Ministry and everything she still fought for—because yes, Ronald, there are still things that can and should be better—but what kind of Gryffindor would she be if she hadn't? At any rate, it worked out, surprisingly well, and what began to take root in their 8th year of Hogwarts bloomed. Somehow, Draco Malfoy became the friend she never knew she needed.
Hermione, was scrawled on the front of the envelope. A soft smile curled her lips as she brushed her fingers over the familiar script. Her fingers tingled with a resonance of magic. It spoke in a language she was still learning, but even she could discern three things: Draco sent it, he was not in distress, and he was mildly-dehydrated.
That paltry understanding was the work of years.
After the mail she had received due to Rita Skeeter's articles, Hermione personally screened every piece of mail she received. Draco was one of the only ones who understood her—it's not paranoia, Ronald—caution. In fact, she had learned of this particular method from him, having previously used a plethora of charms, when...
Draco had been making a face, and when she looked at him. "Why don't you just do this?" he had asked her at the time. It was not long after he had begun working as what was basically her personal assistant. Thankfully, he had since gotten a promotion such that she was no longer his direct superior: that had put a then-surprising strain on their growing friendship.
But back to those early days: he had demonstrated, at her behest and his inability to explain, how someone could imbue their magic into ink and then have it read. He had read five things.
"That's amazing, Draco!" His pale skin had suffused with pink.
"It's nothing; my mother can read a lot more than that," he demurred, and Hermione wondered at how he had grown from the pompous brat she knew and hated back in their youth. How we have changed…
While she didn't miss his arrogance…"That's still an accomplishment, Draco." This was not healthy either. "You can be proud of what you have accomplished and still acknowledge you have room to grow."
"Well, that's all for me, Miss Granger," cut through her reminiscing. Hermione looked back up, thanking Oliver and bidding him farewell. She received an, "it was no problem, miss. Have a nice day."
Hermione looked back down at the envelope in her hands, slipping a letter opener free from the holder on her desk. Opening it up to retrieve and unfold the heavy sheet of proper stationery—my mum wouldn't let me use anything else—Hermione was struck by how bizarre her life was. Five years ago, she would have had an easier time believing one of Trelawney's absurd predictions rather than her reality; yet here she was, dear friends with Draco Malfoy and—
Her brain short-circuited, eyes going back over what she had just read. Once. Twice. Three times. The letters and words on the parchment remained stubbornly the same.
"Could you take my mother holiday shopping? She asked for your help and…"
What.
"Miss Granger." Hermione shut her book, swallowing a sigh and pasting on a smile.
"Madam Malfoy," she greeted politely. The pureblood matriarch was resplendent in black and silver winter robes, her pale hair pristine in the light.
A frown tugged at Hermione's lips. "That won't do at all," Hermione said, putting her book in her bag and drawing her wand.
Blue eyes flashed at the motion, narrowing the slightest bit. Hermione slowed.
"May I transfigure your robes, Madam Malfoy?"
All Hermione received was a curt nod. She stifled her frustration with a reminder that this was Draco's mum and she had to deal with her in some capacity. So suck it up, Granger.
She sighed internally, and, as Madam Malfoy's clothes shifted to comply with muggle fashion, reminded herself why she was here.
After she had gotten over her shock, not so much at the fact that his mother would want to celebrate it with him—after the war, only a fool would doubt what Narcissa Malfoy would do for her son—but that Draco would embrace his friend's muggle traditions so much that it would warrant her to do so...Considering all that, how could Hermione possibly deny them her assistance?
Presently, she checked over her transfiguration work as snow fell gently around them, and was hit upside the head with an answer to what she had considered a rhetorical question: Narcissa, standing tall and unflinching as Hermione lowered her wand, was one of the Black sisters—Madam Malfoy's proud chin lifting under her scrutiny—and thus rather beautiful.
Hermione flushed. The weather was getting to her. "Shall we?" Her voice was several octaves too high. Narcissa began to incline her head, and Hermione turned around, "great!"
Her blush could be attributed to the chilly air nipping at her nose and cheeks, but it took a few minutes for her heart rate to slow to a reasonable pace. Keep it together. Hermione could admit she was feeling a bit lonely, having called off her relationship with Ron and suffering through a string of failed first dates since—but that was no excuse to lose her composure over Narcissa bloody Malfoy!
Hermione huffed and, as it was a less-populated street, chanced a glance backwards. Madam Malfoy was just-too-far-away. Thinking back, she had also previously stopped too-far-away. It took her but an instant to know why.
Of course, Hermione thought, heaven forbid she stand too close to the muggleborn. She blinked as the wind blew snowflakes in her face. Turning back around, Draco better not blame me if she gets lost.. A thought which sent her mind swirling down what to get Draco, and everyone else she had to buy gifts for, as well as where to take the esteemed Malfoy matriarch. Of course, Hermione had already planned it out, but it wouldn't hurt to re-examine those plans...
Thusly lost in thought, Hermione got all the way to the brick wall separating Diagon Alley from the muggle world before asking, "Do you mind walking the rest of the way or did you want to side-along apparate directly to the shopping district?"
Hermione turned around, forgetting to check beforehand that Narcissa was close enough to hear her.
Her breath caught, carrying with it the scent of citrus and roses. The wind brushed blonde hair against her cheeks. Snowflakes melted against her skin as Narcissa leaned over. There was a tap of wood against brick. Hermione dimly registered the sound of bricks rearranging themselves; she heard her blood and too-short breaths far more clearly.
Narcissa stepped back.
"Shall we?" the matriarch's face was unphased, voice impassive. Hermione's cheeks burned as she nodded mutely; she didn't trust her voice.
Hermione turned around and stepped through, hurrying perhaps too fast. She stopped, took a breath, and pivoted around to wait for Madam Malfoy. It wasn't hard to find her crown of platinum hair: with her shoulders back and head held high, she glided through the crowd like royalty had come to visit.
Hermione reminded herself to breathe.
The shopping trip was surprisingly uneventful if Hermione didn't read the price tags. She was lulled into letting the gap between them grow, as the matriarch was never hurried and never seemed to have difficulty finding Hermione on the instances they had split up in stores to be more efficient. That was until—
There was an "oof" and a thud, and Hermione surfaced from her perusal of her shopping bags and mental cataloguing of gifts. There was a little boy, his hands and knees on the cold ground. He looked like he was about to cry as he shakily rocked back on to his bum. Patches of his palms were red as he sat, cradling his hands close to his chest. Madam Malfoy stood over him. Did he just—Hermione hurried closer.
She could only watch as Narcissa knelt, practiced and graceful even in muggle clothing. Hermione didn't quite catch her words, but from what she could hear…
Soft like the falling snow and bright like the light they caught, Narcissa's voice was a soothing balm. The little boy's eyes dried, a smile finding its way onto a face streaked with tears just as Hermione and presumably the boy's mother made their way to them.
"I am so sorry—Phillip, what did I tell you—I looked away for one second, I swear—"
Madam Malfoy's eyes were just a little colder. "It's fine," her voice too, "please, don't let us keep you from your shopping." The mother continued to pratter on, carefully latching onto the boy's wrist, and only then did Narcissa's keen eyes leave them.
They walked away. "Thank you, ma'am!" called the boy from over his shoulder. The wind carried snippets of his mother lecturing him.
Hermione stepped closer as they walked. "You're good with children."
Narcissa's eyes flicked towards her. An eyebrow raised.
Hermione blanched. Oh no, she hadn't meant it like that. Getting to know Draco, hearing him talk about his family, she knew Narcissa was a good mother; a great mother, honestly, even if she spoiled Draco rotten.
"I just meant—I know you're good with Draco, and—" This was not making it better. "I just—didn't think you'd be good with muggle children." Shit. She wasn't supposed to say that.
Narcissa stepped off into an alcove and stopped.
"Would you mind if I took precautions for our privacy, Miss Granger?" she asked, blue eyes meeting brown.
Well, they were in the middle of a muggle city. "Of course not," she answered. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Narcissa's eyes tightened almost imperceptibly as her wand slipped free from her sleeve. "I do not believe that will be necessary," she stated, pale fingers wrapped around her auburn wand.
Had she misspoken? Draco had been a godsend for the more obscure wizarding etiquette, even if he never really practiced them in school, but he could only teach her so much.
Her concerns died on her tongue as Madam Malfoy's wand flicked, spun, and twisted, spell after spell shooting off into the winter air, her gaze searing as she focused inward. Notice-Me-Not, Muffliato, proximity-detection charms…with snow swirling around them, Hermione's eyes couldn't keep up.
Narcissa's hand stilled, and her spells had just settled around them when, "Did you notice the distance I kept between us in Diagon Alley?" she asked, her gaze still not on her. Madam Malfoy idly began shrinking and levitating her shopping bags.
Hermione flushed, caught out. "I—" what could she say? She set her jaw and met blue eyes as Narcissa glanced back up. "Yes."
Narcissa was quiet for a moment, then, "When people see a pureblood near one of the Golden Trio, they are not quick to assume well of the pureblood." 'Pureblood' is a poor generalization—Her wand disappeared back up her sleeve. "You are too precious to them."
Hermione's brain stuttered.
And then, less matter-of-factly, "I was hoping for a rather uneventful trip as I still need to complete my preparations for Yule." Narcissa Malfoy stood there in a muggle alleyway, holding one shopping bag where there used to be four, and waited.
That first part...Hermione couldn't unpack it right now, but, "Yule?" she asked. "As in the Yule Ball?"
Narcissa's eyes tightened slightly. "They are related, yes. Yule is the traditional celebration the magical community holds during winter." Hermione couldn't put her finger on it, but Narcissa seemed...sad: her blue eyes distant, focused on sights she had once seen.
"It was one of the biggest celebrations of the year, a time when magical families came together and celebrated being a community, with baskets of birch boughs, holly and ivy everywhere the eye could see, the warmth of fires, the scent of clove-spiked apples and oranges, and the laughter..." Hearing her speak of this, it sounded brilliant, but...
Hermione wracked her brain, and a realization hushed her. "I have never heard about this."
"There was a push to ensure every Hogwarts student did." Blue eyes dropped down. "Their efforts culminated in a proposal for a Hogwarts course, similar to Muggle Studies but with a greater focus on wizarding culture; Yule was part of that proposed curriculum." She brushed some snow off her sleeve. "The proposal also included either expanding the Muggle Studies' curriculum or creating a separate class for muggle culture.
"Neither were approved."
"Why the bloody hell not?!" Hermione hadn't realized until then how much Hogwarts needed that and they—
Narcissa looked back up, a finger tapping on the handle of her remaining shopping bag. "Our cultures were not deemed integral to our children's education."
Her blood warmed with outrage. "That's not right!" Narcissa stilled. Hermione's chest heaved, tight with rage. The brunette had nearly shouted before, but what had just burst out of her made her grateful for Narcissa's precautions as she surfaced from the storm of her emotions.
Blue eyes ensnared her, and Hermione got the peculiar feeling that she was being tested. Weighed. Evaluated.
Silence hung in the air, and then—
"What did you think we were fighting for?" Narcissa said, words precisely pronounced with her voice soft and eyes ice.
Hermione was struck; it took a conscious effort to not just gape. She—she fell silent. How could she tell this woman—the mother of her friend, the sister of her torturer—that she had thought them all indoctrinated, ignorant, privileged bigots?
Narcissa's eyes chilled her soul.
Perhaps, Hermione realized, she didn't have to.
And she still asked her for help?
The next day, Draco burst into her office pale and panicked.
Hermione stood from her desk, grasping instinctively for her wand. "Draco? What is—"
The door slammed behind him. "Hermione, what did you do?"
She lowered her wand. "Excuse me?"
"Mother's invited you to join us for dinner."
Her wand clattered to the floor.