A/N: This is a long one! I had a lot of fun doing this one, so I really hope you enjoy! :D Lots of love, CrazyAsACupcake x
On Christmas Eve, Hermione wakes up to the sound of something slipping, then someone cursing. She pads over to the door and peers out, her eyes still blurry with sleep. The bathroom door is closed, and she can hear the shower running. Behind the door, Malfoy swears again as he knocks a bottle over, the clattering noise echoing even outside the room.
"Oh, for fucks sake!"
She smirks to herself, yawns, and shuts the door behind her again. She lays back down, half on half off the bed as she waits for the shower to turn off. She counts the swirls in the pattern on the ceiling, and wonders how they manage to make the ceiling like that anyway. She doesn't quite fancy the job as the person who decorates the ceilings; she thinks that she'd find it tedious and boring at some point and would end up quitting soon after taking the job.
The shower turns off when she begins thinking about brick laying (would she enjoy being a brick layer? It does seem kind of fun, like Tetris), and soon after that the bathroom door unlocks. She's up like a whippet, back in the doorway, sticking her head out as she watches Malfoy with his embroidered green towel clenched in his right fist, as well as a pair of black pyjama bottoms. It doesn't escape her notice that there isn't a shirt. He runs his left hand through his hair, which has turned a dark blond from the water, and he's scowling to himself. The top couple of buttons of his shirt are undone, and Hermione forces her eyes not to linger there.
His sleeves are rolled up, his bandage not wrapped around his forearm yet.
Hermione forces her eyes not to linger there.
"Morning," she greets from the doorway, giggling to herself when he jumps.
"Merlin, Granger," he breathes, his left hand shooting up and pressing against his chest. "Do you have to be so bloody quiet?"
"Not having a good day then, are we? And it's only quarter to twelve!"
He glares at her, and as she watches him his face softens. He comes to lean against the wall opposite her door, playing with the edge of the fluffy towel as he thinks of what to say.
They go to speak at the same time, laugh, then go to speak again.
"You go," she says, grinning. Her cheeks are already heating up.
"I was going to say 'what's the plan today, Granger?'"
"And I was going to say 'here's the plan', so we were both on the right track."
They smile at each other for a second.
"Nice pyjamas." He breaks the silence, smirking as he nods fondly towards her fluffy pink jumper and fluffy blue bottoms.
"Hey." She scowls, crossing her arms over her chest. "Anyway, my parent's will be getting home at about five today, and then we'll watch a few movies, play some boardgames, and get ready for Christmas."
"What do we do before five?"
"We could…" She pauses. She hadn't thought about that. She racks her brain, thinking of anything they can do to pass the time before her parents come home. She remembers something he'd mentioned, the day of his meltdown in Defence Against the Dark Arts.
"We could have that baking competition, if you'd like." As soon as she says it, his eyes begin to sparkle. His lips part as he grins, and she finds her attention drawn, for a second, to how sharp his canines are. He would make the perfect vampire with fangs like those (which makes her dark-romance loving heart burn).
"Oh, Granger, you are going down."
"You can't be that good at baking."
"I'm an amazing baker."
"So prove it."
"I will." He turns with one final smirk, then returns to his room, the green towel slung over his shoulder as he goes.
She takes her stuff into the bathroom with her, giving herself a look in the mirror – a look that says Hermione Jean Granger if you let this ignorant blond git beat you in a baking competition in your own house, I will kill you myself.
She showers quickly, and when she gets out, she pulls her hair back into a ponytail, smoothing her hair back so that it isn't as wild as it normally is. She wraps not one, not two, but three bobbles around the ponytail so that the strands aren't tempted to try and wriggle free. She dresses in loose, comfortable clothing, and goes to leave the bathroom, opening the door to see Malfoy leaning against the doorjamb. She yelps, clutching her pyjamas and towel to her chest as he smirks.
"Jesus, Malfoy!" She snaps, glaring at him.
"Consider it payback, Granger."
"You drive me mad."
"Mad with love, I presume?"
"Absolutely not." She throws her clothes into the washing basket. "Why are you always dressed up?"
"Is it a crime to want to look good?" He frowns, eyes sparkling. She hates when his eyes sparkle. She hates it because she can't force herself to look away from them.
"I just don't see the point." She glances at him, at his white shirt and black dress pants. "They're just going to get ruined when we're baking."
"So are your clothes," he points out, starting past her down the stairs. "I'm just going to look better."
"So humble of you, Malfoy." She rolls her eyes at the back of his head. When he gets to the bottom of the stairs, he turns to look at her, and she stays stood on the second step from the bottom.
"Wow, Granger - you're finally the height of a normal person!" He tilts his head with a smile and she goes for his shoulder. He laughs and raises his arm to block it, the sleeve still rolled up, the bandage still not applied.
She stops.
He doesn't notice, or he does and he just doesn't care anymore. "Breakfast?"
She nods, swallowing. "Yeah. Breakfast would be good."
The kitchen is fuller than it was when they had gone to bed. There are piles with bread rolls and fruits and cakes and crisps and anything else that doesn't need to go in the fridge, which is another story. The fridge is full to bursting – meats, drinks, vegetables, platters, Christmas puddings, and things that have been shoved to the back, hidden by everything else.
They both stare for a moment, cataloguing it, Hermione thinking about how amazing Christmas dinner and supper would be, Malfoy thinking about how different this would be from Christmas at the Manor or Hogwarts.
"I'm not sure what we're allowed to touch," Hermione admits, gingerly trying to sift through the pile on the counter without knocking anything off.
"Is anything open? We'll be able to eat whatever's open, surely."
She looks in the bread bin, and sure enough there is half a loaf of bread there. "Toast?"
"Toast is good." He leans against the counter, his arms folded.
"You're doing it again."
"What?"
"Leaning."
"Is that a problem, Granger?" His eyes sparkle once more, and she has to force herself to look back at the fridge. She begins opening each of the three butters, trying to find the one that has already been used.
"You'll have bad posture."
He makes a psht noise. "Please, Granger. Me? Bad posture?" He stands straight, doing a spin. "Look at this posture. Posture of a god."
She laughs, shaking her head at him. "Whatever you say, Malfoy. But it won't last if you keep leaning on everything you see."
"I'll lean if I want to, Granger, and you can't bloody stop me." As if to prove his point, he leans back against the counter as she scowls at him.
The toast pops up and she butters two of the four slices before jumping up onto the counter to enjoy them. He frowns at her.
"What?" She asks, making sure to swallow her toast first. "You think I'm going to do them for you?"
"You did yours." He points at the toast in her hand.
"You're a grown man, Malfoy. You can butter your own toast."
He huffs, pushing away from the counter to stand on her left side, picking the knife back up and buttering his own toast.
"I just thought if you're going to do yours you might as well do mine," he grumbles to himself, folding one slice in half and taking a bite.
"I'm not your mum, Malfoy, you can do your own food."
"Never said you were my mother, Granger. I don't really want you to be my mother."
She eyes him. "I thought you'd love the idea of me cleaning up after you and fixing your dinner."
"You don't need to be my mother to do that."
They stare at each other for a second, both of them holding their toast inches from their mouths. He breaks first, his face splitting in a toothy grin. He finishes his toast, brushes the crumbs from his hands, and turns back to the piles of food.
"We can't use any of this."
She shakes her head.
"So we go buy our own stuff then."
She chews thoughtfully on her last bite. "I have no money."
"I do."
"Why would I let you buy it?" She frowns, rubbing her hands on her jogging bottoms. He stands over her, his hands are against the counter on either side of her as he leans towards her, so that they're almost nose to nose. She feels caged in, but not in a bad way. It almost feels safe. She could lean in and just peck him right now, but she's afraid in case her breath smells of toast, or she kisses him wrong.
"Because then, when I win, you can pay me back." He smirks at her, and she watches the colours swirl in his eyes. His beautiful, sparkling grey eyes that seem to hold the universe. She wants to place her hands either side of his face and press the tip of her nose against his so that she can just gaze into his eyes and count the colours that shift inside them.
"You're not going to win, Malfoy." Her voice comes out quieter and scratchier than she intended, and it only makes his smirk widen.
"Of course I am. You can't be good at everything."
"Well, I am. So there."
He laughs, pushing off from the counter and away from her. She wants to reach out and grasp the back of his shirt with her fingers and pull him back towards her. Instead, she just smiles at him, pushing everything deep into the pit of her stomach.
"Shall we go then?" He runs his left hand through his hair, and she gets a full view of that horrid tattoo.
Her smile evaporates. "Yeah." She blinks, shaking her head to snap herself out of whatever she's thinking. "Yeah, lets go."
They don't take their coats, it's surprisingly not too bad, and they're only going to the corner shop and back, so they don't really see the need for them. He walks with his hands in his pockets (of course) and his shoulders back, an impish smirk on his face. She walks with her hands clasped behind her, kicking tiny stones on the path every so often.
"What're you thinking about?" He asks.
She shrugs, chewing on her lip. "What are you thinking about?"
He answers quickly. "I miss my broom. Normally Christmas time is a good time to go flying and get some practice in."
"I miss Harry and Ron," she admits, feeling slightly guilty. She hopes he won't take offence.
He doesn't. Instead he nods. "I get that. I miss Pansy and that lot, too."
She sighs, her breath a cloud in front of her. "I think Ginny might tell them."
He shakes his head. "She won't."
"How can you be so sure?"
"I may not like her but I know enough to know that she isn't the sort of person who would do that."
"Ginny would do anything for Harry, whether she'll admit it or not. That's probably the only reason she got with Dean in the first place."
"To get Potter's attention?" He frowns, looking at her.
She laughs. "Probably. Her and Dean are always arguing. I think she only got with him because Harry wasn't interested."
He laughs, now. "Poor mini Weasley, forever unnoticed by the one her heart dotes on."
She bumps him with her shoulder. "Stop it, it's quite sad when you think about it. Ginny would defend him to the ends of the earth and he's… Well, he's Harry, about the whole thing. Completely oblivious, blind to what's right in front of him." She holds the door to the corner shop open for him. "I mean, she waited so long for him to ask her to the Yule Ball, and he just…didn't."
"But she was still there? I remember seeing her." He lets her walk in front of her and he follows her through the aisles of the shop.
"Neville asked her, and they had a great time. But I just don't see why Harry didn't notice her." She stops, and he nearly walks into her. "We should've got a basket." They walk back to the front of the shop.
"He didn't notice you either," he says as he hands her a red basket.
"You don't need to point it out," she huffs, glaring at him. They weave back through the aisles to where the baking ingredients are, and she starts putting bags of flour and sugar into the basket.
"Why didn't she just ask him instead?" Malfoy asks, picking up tiny bottles of food colouring and flavouring.
"Why do you need lemon flavouring?" She wrinkles her nose as he drops them into the basket.
"Because I think it tastes nice."
"She was in third year, she had to be invited by someone from fourth year. She couldn't have asked him." She looks at the different coloured cupcake cases, picking up a box of pink and purple ones. "Which cases do you want?"
"The green ones. I would've invited her." He laughs when Hermione rolls her eyes, dropping the green cases into the basket. They move over to the fridges and he picks up some unsalted butter.
"No you bloody wouldn't have."
"You're right, I wouldn't. Just let me have my moment."
"She would've said no, anyway. You know she hates you."
"You could've convinced her."
"Not in fourth year, I couldn't have. And I wouldn't have, either. You were a git."
"Ah, so I'm not anymore?"
"Oh, you absolutely are. This is you being a git."
They go to the till, and the sullen looking boy behind the counter starts scanning the items and placing them into a bag. Malfoy hands Hermione a £20 note, which she pays with, thanking the cashier and taking the bag.
"What if I'd asked you to the ball?" He asks, taking the bag from her hand as they start back home.
"I would've said no, like any sane person."
"What if I asked you now?"
"Then I'd say no, like any sane person."
He pushes her. "No need to be mean. I'd say yes if you asked me."
She laughs. "No you bloody wouldn't."
"Yes I bloody would."
"Well, it's a good thing for the both of us that there isn't a ball, isn't it? Now we're both spared of the embarrassment."
They walk in silence for a while, side by side, occasionally smiling at each other. With his left hand in his pocket, he swings the bag back and forth in time with their steps. Her arms are loose by her sides, and so he removes his hand from his pocket, and takes her right hand in his left. She freezes, and he can feel the goose bumps on her skin. He rubs his thumb against the back of her hand.
He leans in, his lips almost, but not quite touching the top of her ear. "Are you ready to lose at a baking competition, Granger?"
She pulls away from him, still keeping tight hold of his hand. "I'm not going to lose, Malfoy."
"When was the last time you baked something?"
She thinks for a moment. It can't have been that long ago, surely. "It was for my mum's birthday. In second year."
He whistles. "Four years?"
"Well, when was the last time you baked anything?"
"I baked with my mother, over the summer," he smirks at her. "Just after my father was sent to Azkaban. Before He came to stay." Malfoy pauses, just for a second. "Honestly, Granger. You think I spend my every one of my days plotting?"
"I didn't think you baked."
"There's nothing wrong with enjoying baking. You put the work in and you get a prize at the end."
"It's not really a prize, you made it. It's not that you're being given something for making it."
"I think it's a prize."
"Only because everything you do is a competition."
"And?" He leans against the wall of her house as she unlocks the front door. "Life is much more fun when you're playing to win."
"How aren't you stressed all the time?" She wonders aloud, pushing the door open for him. He bows his head in thanks with a smirk as he enters, ducking under her arm.
"Who said I wasn't, Granger? That's why it's great to win."
"Yeah, well you're not going to. I won't let you." She shuts the door behind her, kicking her shoes off and turning off the alarm.
He smirks at her, leaning against the door jamb. "Let the games begin."
For the next hour and a half (or there about), they work around each other in the kitchen, hiding sugar packets from each other or shielding their own bowls to stop the other from seeing the process. When Hermione isn't looking – when she's frowning at the recipe book in front of her – Malfoy's hand darts out, and he sticks his finger into the batter before putting it in his mouth. She whips around, eyes blazing.
"Stop cheating!" She shouts, doing the same thing to him. When she sticks her finger in her mouth, she frowns. "Wait…" She tastes hers. "Yours is different."
"I'm following a different recipe. The mix doesn't matter, the end result does." He opens his box of green cupcake cases, looking around for the cupcake pan. "Where's your baking tray?"
"Oh!" She goes into the cupboard, and he hears the sound of metal falling over. She comes out and hands him a 12-cup muffin pan. "We only have the one, so you can go first."
She watches him spooning the batter evenly into the cupcake cases, pouting when he scrapes the bowl clean.
"What?" He asks, shooing her out of the way of the dishwasher (fascinating thing, that is!) so he can place his things in.
"You didn't lick the bowl."
"I'm not ten, Granger," he laughs, shutting the dishwasher door. "And they need to all be equal if I'm going to win."
"Oh, so they're all going to be copies?" She smirks. "Mine are going to have personality. That's what's going to help me win."
"You hate it when things aren't to the letter."
"Cakes are different. They're cakes."
He shakes his head, laughing. "I hope you still have that attitude when they come out all hodgepodge." He picks up the muffin pan, sliding it onto the top shelf of the oven. "Twenty minutes, starting..." He closes the oven door. "Now."
Twenty minutes passes a lot slower when you're waiting for something and not doing something. They stand in the kitchen and watch the clock, and occasionally Malfoy kicks Hermione gently in the shin just for a bit of fun. After fifteen minutes, he stretches (don't look at how his shirt is pulling from his trousers, Hermione!) and sits down on the floor with his back against one of the cupboard doors.
She gawks at him.
"What now?" He squints up at her, the sun shining through the kitchen window right in his eyes. She is perfectly silhouetted by it, and he can't help but think that she looks like an angel, like that, with her halo of sunshine around her head.
"Why are you sitting on the floor?"
"Why not?"
"It might be dirty; you're going to ruin your trousers."
"Ooh, you care about my trousers, Granger?" He grins up at her, running a hand through his hair as he jokingly bites his lip.
Jokingly.
Stop it, Hermione curses him in her head. Then she curses herself as she feels her cheeks and her ears burn, her stomach twisting itself as she stares at him like an idiot.
It's not even that attractive! He's just biting his lip, you bite yours all the time!
She gently kicks him in the side, which makes him grin wider.
"You're not denying it," he sings, which earns him another kick. Or, at least an attempted kick. When she lifts her foot, he grabs her ankle, which knocks her off balance. She falls, her landing softened by Malfoy's legs.
"Ow!" They both shout at the same time, before bursting into giggles.
"Get off," he groans, smiling, pushing her off him, rubbing his shins. "Merlin, Granger, try not to cripple me next time."
"You're fine, big baby." She stands, rubbing the backs of her thighs. "If you hadn't grabbed my foot it wouldn't have happened."
"I didn't grab your foot," he points out as he stand up, shaking his legs out one at a time. "I grabbed your ankle."
"Turn around."
"What, so you can stare at my arse?" He wiggles his brows at her with a smirk.
"So I can see if your trousers are dirty, you pervert."
He does a little spin, grinning at her over his shoulder. "Like what you see?"
"You're covered in dust."
He hurriedly rubs the back of his trousers, which is humorous, considering he didn't actually have any dust on him. It just looks like he's rubbing his own arse, making him look quite – as Hermione's cousins would say – 'tapped'. He turns back to her, stretching his arms up over his head as he yawns. He checks the clock above the counter and groans, dropping his head back so his throat is exposed.
"Why is this taking so long?" He moans, running his hands through his hair. He peers into the oven through the glass.
"Because you're impatient." She looks at the clock behind her. "You've only got another three minutes, if you care so much just take them out now.
He lets out a bark of laughter. "If I took them out now they'd be ruined."
"You're so dramatic."
He scowls at her before looking back at the clock. "Do you have a cooling rack?"
She frowns. "A what?"
"I'll take that as a no then. Can I have a plate?"
She gets him a large plate while she shakes her head. "Honestly, I thought your parents wouldn't have let you near a kitchen."
"My mother loves to cook, and my father loves the things my mother cooks for him. I used to follow her around and she'd let me do little things for her, to keep me out of the way." He crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes flickering back to the clock. "Baking is calming, and I enjoy sweet things."
"That must be why you enjoy spending time with me," Hermione teases, reaching over to him and pinching his cheek.
"You're the least sweet thing I've ever encountered, Granger," he grins at her. "Oven gloves?"
She passes him a set of pink and white checked oven gloves and he takes his cakes out, putting his ear close to the cakes in the pan.
"What're you doing?"
"If they're making noise then they aren't ready," he places the tray on the counter, pressing the centre of one of the cakes with the tip of his finger. His smile grows when the top of the cake puffs back up. He carefully removes the cupcakes one by one from the pan, organising them on the plate so they can cool down in time for the icing.
As he removes the final one, his finger touches the hot metal and he hisses, sticking his finger into his mouth.
"Put it under the water, not in your mouth!" Hermione shouts, running the cold tap and pulling his finger out of his mouth. "Surely you would know that if you spend so much time in the kitchen."
"It's fine, Granger, it was just a shock."
They stand over the sink, Hermione's hand over his, his red finger under the water.
"You can let go, you know."
"I know."
Eventually she does, but only when she feels as though his hand has been in the cold water for long enough. She puts her own pink and purple cases into the tray (making sure it alternates: pink, purple, pink, purple, and so on) and spoons her own mixture in as Malfoy had done half an hour before. She runs her finger around the inside of the mixing bowl, eating the leftover batter before she puts the cakes in the oven.
And then they wait.
Again.
Occasionally kicking each other.
Occasionally stretching (and occasionally averting eyes away from shirts pulling against lean, muscled stomachs).
Occasionally looking at each other, not saying anything, and just beginning to smirk for no reason.
The next twenty minutes end, and Hermione takes her cakes out of the oven, her eyes widening.
"Oh no!"
Malfoy looks up from studying his bitten nails, and pulls a face at the cakes. "Merlin, Granger, what did you do?"
"Did I bake them for too long?"
"Did you bake them for long enough?"
The cupcakes in question have, for lack of a better word, imploded. The centres of the cakes dip down into the middles, making them all look sad – though nowhere near as sad as the girl holding them.
Malfoy leans over them, listening intently. "They aren't making any noise."
"Why do they look like that?" She whines, placing them onto the counter beside her bowl. Malfoy pokes one, and it half-heartedly inflates (inflates back into its sunken hole, that is).
"They're fully done," he frowns as he wipes his hands on his trousers. "Did you do anything wrong?"
Hermione's eyes start to flicker with anger. "Me? Doing something wrong? How could you even insinuate-"
He holds his hands up, his eyes wide. "Okay, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. Read the ingredients to me."
She lifts her book from where it sits open on the counter, and begins listing the ingredients for him. "175 grams of butter, 175 grams of self-raising flour, 175 grams of caster sugar, 1 tablespoon of baking powder, 3 eggs-"
"One tablespoon?" He cuts her off, his frown deepening in confusion.
"Yeah, '1 tsp'." She turns the book around so he can see it, and he takes it from her, scanning the ingredients list.
"That's teaspoon."
"What?"
"Tsp is teaspoon. Tablespoon is tbsp – did you put a tablespoon of baking powder in there?"
"I thought that's what it was!"
"I thought you never made mistakes!"
"Why couldn't they have just wrote the word out?" She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at her miserable cupcakes.
"Because most people know shorthand. You write in shorthand." He starts removing her cakes from the pan for her, placing them onto her own plate. "You can't change it, now. It was a mistake, not the end of the world. You've just got to make the best of it."
"You've won anyway, now. There's no point."
"You don't know what they taste like. They might look a bit… They might look a bit defeated, but they might taste amazing. And remember, it's all up to your parents."
She sighs, rubbing her arms. "I really wanted to beat you."
"And you might." He finishes removing her cakes and moves towards her, putting his lips near her ear. "But you won't."
"I'm just going to have to prove you wrong, aren't I?"
He shrugs, smiling. "You can try."
They wait for another half an hour, playing a game of slaps as they wait for Hermione's cakes to cool enough to start the icing; Hermione says it's unfair that his cakes got half an hour of cooling time and hers deserve the same time. Malfoy argues that by the time hers have had thirty minutes, his will have had sixty, so no matter what it's unfair.
They are both equally bad at slaps, Hermione maybe more so. She flinches nearly every time they put their hands together, finger tips touching, anticipating his move, and every time she flinches he gets a free slap. He's gentle, at first, holding her hands in place and just barely tapping them. He gets more aggressive every time, never going out of his way to hurt her, but trying to give her some incentive to not flinch before he makes his move. Eventually Hermione moves her hands at the right time, grinning an evil grin at him, and soon Malfoy is the one flinching at every non-existent movement, giving Hermione her chance for payback. She is far more brutal with the free slap than he was, but what can he expect from a girl who had once smacked him full in the face.
They go back and forth like this for a while, sometimes Malfoy is winning, sometimes Hermione is – though neither of them really knows what 'winning' is in this game. By the time the thirty minutes are up, they're both shaking their hands out from the stinging pain of being slapped so many times, but they both have smiles on their faces, and that's all that matters.
Malfoy, with his baking god-ishness, makes lemon buttercream icing, using food colouring to make it stand out a bright neon yellow.
Hermione, with her lack of baking god-ishness, mixes icing sugar with water until it's the right consistency (she thinks), using food colouring to try and make it red. It turns a light pink, and she isn't surprised.
Malfoy uses a knife to ice his cakes, making sure each cake has an equal amount of icing on as he smooths it out.
Hermione dips her sorry excuses for cupcakes into the icing – the same way she had seem someone on a baking show do once, years ago. It doesn't work, with their sad deflation in the middle, so she ends up having to spoon it on top of each one.
Hermione scowls at his finished plate compared to hers. "It's not even in the same ballpark."
Malfoy doesn't know what that means, but he chooses not to ask. "And?"
"And that means you'll win."
"I thought you didn't care about winning?"
"I do when it's against you."
He laughs, scooping some leftover buttercream from his bowl and eating it. "You always win against me, let me have one thing."
"I am letting you have it, that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it."
He pats her head condescendingly. "There, there, Granger. You'll be back beating me in lessons soon."
She glares up at him, and he grins down at her. And she can't help it. She can't help her face relaxing and her lips twitching upwards and her eyes creasing in the corners. She can't help but smile at him when he smiles at her.
He looks at the clock. "Five to five."
"They'll be home soon."
"Perfect, then they can judge." He grins, taking his plate of cakes and putting them on the dining table. He runs his finger on the edge of the icing bowl again and sticks it in his mouth. "Here." He picks up the last of the icing on his finger and holds it out to her.
She stares at it. "That's just been in your mouth."
"What, are you scared of a bit of spit, Granger?"
She rolls her eyes, grabbing his hand as she sneers at him. She tentatively licks the icing from his finger, cringing and pulling away almost immediately.
"I hate lemon," she admits, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
"Then why didn't you just say that; you didn't need to eat it."
She shrugs and he rolls his eyes, smirking at her. He sticks his finger back into his mouth.
They clean the kitchen and turn on the dishwasher before going into the living room. Malfoy drops into the chair that hadn't been moved, one leg draped over the arm. Hermione can feel the back of her neck burning up as she looks at him. He runs a hand through his hair, and she sees the black tattoo once more.
"My parents will be home soon," she says.
"I'm aware."
"You might want to cover that up."
He looks at his arm, his face blank and his eyes empty. He sneers, rolling his eyes before he pushes himself up. "I'll be right back."
He disappears upstairs and she can hear the door to the guest bedroom opening. She sits on the edge of the chair he's just left, shivering in her thin shirt. She wonders if she should go get a cardigan. After a debate with herself, she decides to, going up to her room and rooting through her wardrobe for something warm, finally deciding to wear Malfoy's green Quidditch jumper. She picks it up from where it sits at the end of her bed, and she inhales the weakening scent of Malfoy before slipping it over her head.
When she turns to go back downstairs, Malfoy is stood in the doorway, staring at her. She freezes. She doesn't know how long he's been stood there – if he saw her smelling the jumper. She begins to quickly look around her room in her mind.
Did I leave a bra out? What about my clean clothes – did I put them away? I didn't make my bed.
He smiles gently at her from the doorway. "Are you cold?"
"Aren't you? It's freezing."
He holds the bandage up. "You said you knew how to tie one properly."
She stares at him, for a second, before realising what he's asking without actually asking it. "Oh, yes, I do."
He smiles, handing her the bandage. They sit on the top of the stairs and she takes her forearm in her lap, gently wrapping it in the bandage. She wants to run her fingers down it. As ugly as it is, she finds herself drawn to it, and she thinks it might be because it's a part of him.
She manages to finish wrapping it up without touching it, and instead she rubs her thumbs in circles over the top of the bandage. When she looks up, he's watching her.
"You look nice in that, Granger. I should've brought mine. We could've matched."
She scoffs. "Oh, yeah, and you would've beaten me there too, wouldn't you?"
"It's not my fault I look stunning in green."
"Gorgeous," she corrects, standing up.
"You think I'm gorgeous, Granger?" He grins up at her before using the bannister to pull himself up.
"No." (Yes.) "If you'd said 'gorgeous in green', it would have sounded better."
"Both ways are true," he says, leaning against the bannister with his arms crossed. Hermione has to stop herself from pulling him away, stop herself thinking of it collapsing under him.
Instead, she laughs, and starts down the stairs. "Again, you're so humble."
"I'm aware."
The front door opens as they enter the living room, and Paul and Jean come in, shaking their wet coats out before hanging them up beside the door.
"Is it raining?" Hermione asks, frowning.
Paul nods, taking his jumper off and throwing it over the back of the settee. "Horribly. Started just as we were about to come home."
Jean waves at Hermione, beckoning her upstairs. Hermione follows timidly – though she doesn't know why. Her mum doesn't have any reason to be mad at her.
Jean pulls a small black box from her handbag and hands it to Hermione. "You owe me £50."
Hermione takes the top off the box, and inside is a Walkman, complete with a set of orange headphones. Hermione's face lights up as she stares at it inside its fancy silk bed (obviously not it's original packaging).
"Thank you, thank you so much, mum." Hermione grabs her mum in a hug, squeezing her tightly.
"We bought some green wrapping paper, and some green ribbon too. We thought he'd like that."
Hermione laughs, hugging her mum again. Suddenly, she is hit by a wave of sadness. For some reason, she knows that this is the last Christmas she will spend with her family, and no matter how hard she tries to tell herself that she's wrong, she can't shake the feeling that this will never happen again.
She breathes in the scent of her mum – the clinical sterile smell of the Dentist Practice still in her hair, on her clothes, but underneath that the warm, comforting smell of her mother. She doesn't ever want to forget that smell, however when she pulls away, she feels herself already struggling to remember.
She puts the black box containing the Walkman on her bed, before going back downstairs to find her dad and Malfoy stood over the two plates on the dining table.
"I told him about the competition," Malfoy says, and she nods, watching her dad for his reaction. He swaps between looking at Malfoy's plate, to Hermione's, and then back again.
"What happened?" Paul asks after a moment, pointing at her plate. "Why do they look so…" He tries to think of the right word, but can't.
"They might still taste nice," she says quickly, her eyes flickering to Malfoy's smirking face. "Don't take them at face value."
"Well, at face value, his look better."
"Thank you, sir," Malfoy grins, his arms crossed.
"Don't thank me yet, that doesn't mean you've won." Paul stops him, as if he can already feel Malfoy's ego inflating. "Get your mum then we can decide."
"'Get your mum' for what?" Jean asks, coming to stand by Hermione's shoulder in the doorway.
"They decided to have a baking competition while we were at work," Paul fills her in. "Based on what they look like – without knowing which plate is which – what do you think?"
Jean goes closer to the table, pursing her lips as she looks over the cakes. "Well I can assume which plate is Draco's." Malfoy's cheeks tinge pink. "What happened to these?" Jean points at Hermione's cakes. "They look so…"
"We know." The other three say in near perfect unison: Malfoy and Paul smirking, and Hermione stewing with her arms crossed.
"So we'll start with these then?" Paul points at Malfoy's cupcakes, with their perfect domed tops and even layer of neon yellow lemon buttercream. Both of Hermione's parents pick one up, and Malfoy notices how they unwrap them differently: Jean pulls down the corner of the case, so she's able to bite one side of it, while Paul removes the case completely. Malfoy has always thought you could tell a lot about a person from the way they eat cakes.
"Malfoy's have lemon buttercream!" Hermione blurts just before they take their first bite. Jean pulls a face, and Malfoy glares at Hermione.
"You're a saboteur!" He points at her in mock anger.
"My mum doesn't like lemon, either!" Hermione smirks triumphantly at him.
"I can still eat the cake part," Jean points out, breaking a piece off from the bottom of the cake and eating it. She nods, satisfied. Paul takes a large bite, buttercream and all, and when he swallows it he goes back for another.
"Very soft," Paul says through a mouthful. "Fluffy."
"Thank you, sir," Malfoy beams, glancing at Hermione from the corner of his eye and raising his brows at her.
"Very good. Ten out of ten."
"I don't think I can give a score, considering I didn't have the whole cake." Jean places the dejected cake top (inside it's case) onto the table.
"I understand. Thank you, Mrs Granger," Malfoy smiles at her, his hands clasped innocently behind his back.
"He's only being polite to butter you up," Hermione glares at him. "That's cheating, he should be disqualified."
"Disqualified from a competition you made up?" Paul asks, turning to Hermione's plate. He pulls a face. "You just don't want to lose."
"Of course I don't want to lose – especially not to a cheater."
"Is it really cheating to be nice?" Malfoy asks, his brows tilting upwards as the corners of his lips droop.
"You're never nice, don't fall for his I'm so sad act!"
Malfoy grins. "Why are you getting so worked up, Granger? Is it because you know I'll win?"
She scowls at him, crossing her arms and watching as Paul picks up a cake with a purple case.
"Where'd you get the jumper from, Hermione?" Her dad asks, looking at the green and silver as if it's the first time he's noticed it.
"Oh, it's Malfoy's," she replies, watching as her dad frowns.
"When she came to watch me practice flying once she got cold, so I gave her it. She just never gave it back," Malfoy adds.
"Because you never asked."
"Why don't you use each other's first names?" Jean asks, peeling away a corner of the case.
"Habit," Hermione says, and Malfoy nods. "It would be weird to call him his first name after six years of referring to him by his last."
"Have you ever thought about dying your hair, Draco?" Paul asks, holding the cake in his hand. Malfoy frowns, now confused.
Hermione gasps. "You're just putting off trying my cake, aren't you!"
Paul holds up the cake in his hadn. "Look at it. Can you blame me?"
Hermione picks one up angrily. "It doesn't taste as bad as it looks – look!" She takes the case off and takes a large bite of the cake, and Malfoy watches as her face shifts instantly. She chews for a moment, before spitting the chewed-up cake into her hand, grimacing. He pours her a glass of water and goes to hand it to her, before just holding it straight to her lips. She takes one, two, three gulps of water to wash away the taste, and when she's done she goes to the bin to drop her cake in.
"Malfoy wins," she says reluctantly, washing her hands under the sink. She can feel her parents sighs of relief.
"Movie time?" Paul asks, dropping the cake discretely into the bin. Jean nods, putting both of hers in the bin before following him into the living room.
Malfoy claps her on the shoulder. "Good game, Granger. Next time you'll beat me. I just know it."
She smiles at him, wiping her hands on the tea towel beside the sink. "Congratulations, Mister Malfoy."
"Thank you, Miss Granger."
For a moment, they stand there, her looking up at him and him down at her. She plays with the tea towel in her hands, not taking her eyes off his.
She wishes they had more time – despite not knowing how much they have. She wishes she could tell him everything in her head: how she can't stop thinking about his eyes and the way they sparkle when she smiles at him; how she can forget her mothers smell almost immediately but she feels drugged by the smell of his French cologne and his apples, a smell she doesn't know if she'll ever forget; how she just wants to grab his face between her hands and press her lips against his – harsh or soft, she doesn't care – and tangle her fingers in his hair. She wishes he would make a move, if only to stop her from worrying about whether or not it's a good idea. She wishes he would give her some idea of whether he feels the same way – and the hand holding doesn't count, she holds hands with Ginny all the time.
Paul shouts them from the living room, and they break eye contact. Malfoy takes a step away from her and she wants to scream: don't move away, I like it when you're next to me and I can see the colours swirling in your eyes.
She doesn't, though.
She just watches him go and drop into the chair in the living room. She watches him laughing with her dad, and the way her mum smiles fondly at him. She wants to go over and press a kiss against the back of his head.
She doesn't.
She goes and sits cross legged on the floor as her dad starts the movie (The Nightmare Before Christmas – at least this year she doesn't have to deal with the annual debate of is it a Halloween movie or a Christmas movie). About five minutes in he throws a bar of chocolate at her head, so she turns and glares at him while rubbing her head. She picks up the Dairy Milk bar from behind her, and as she turns back to the television she sees Malfoy frowning, his jaw set. His eyes flicker from her dad to her, and his face softens.
"You okay?" He mouths at her, and she nods, smiling.
He slides onto the floor beside her, and she breaks off a piece of chocolate to give to him. He opens his mouth, and so she places the tiny square on his tongue, pulling her hand back as he bites for her fingers. She leans her head against his shoulder, inhaling that intoxicating scent and feeling it make her brain go fuzzy.
Malfoy, clearly, has no idea what happens in the movie, but he seems to enjoy the music. His favourite is, apparently, Kidnap the Sandy Claws – from the way he hums the tune to himself through the rest of the movie, and the way that it's the only song he pays full attention to.
At the end of the movie, after her parents have gone into the kitchen, Hermione asks him what his favourite part was. He takes a while to think about it before he answers, leaning back on his hands. He uncrosses his legs to stretch them out.
"I liked the scene at the end. Where he goes to save Santa from the green guy."
"Mr Oogie Boogie," she corrects, pushing her hair out of her face.
"Yeah, him. And I liked the opening, where they sang about Halloween. It was very well done."
"It's all stop motion." She stretches her arms over her head. Malfoy frowns at her. "Basically, the characters are puppets, and every time they move, someone is moving them a tiny fraction, then taking a picture. Then they move them a bit more, then take another picture. And when you play them really fast, it makes it look like the character's moving."
"Do they do that for all movies?"
"No, just this one. Animation is done in a similar way though – they have to draw each frame to make it move. This one just uses puppets instead of drawings."
He nods, fascinated. "Muggles really are smart, aren't they?"
"And they have to do it all without magic, too."
Jean comes out of the kitchen holding a tea towel. "For dinner, we're doing party food, so sandwiches, crisps and cake, basically." She looks at them both. "What do you want in your sandwiches?"
"Ham, please." Hermione responds.
Malfoy looks at her, then back to Jean. "The same, please."
Jean nods, then goes back into the kitchen. They can hear her and Paul laughing and talking with each other.
Hermione stretches again, looking at the tree as it twinkles in multicolours. "It's nearly Christmas, Malfoy," she murmurs, leaning her head against his shoulder. He smiles, watching the tree with her, and he leans his head on top of hers.
Jean comes out with two plates, each with a sandwich and a packet of plain crisps. She looks into the kitchen at the clock above the counter. "I don't think we'll have time for karaoke, but we can do that tomorrow when grandma's here. If you get Monopoly set up we can play after dinner."
Hermione nods, already taking a bite out of her sandwich.
"Why does your dad say tea, but your mum says dinner?" Malfoy asks, eyeing the packet of crisps suspiciously.
"Because my dad's northern and my mum's not."
"And your grandma's coming?"
"She lives alone, so it's nice for her to come round and spend Christmas with us. My Auntie will probably come round at some point, too."
"What's Monopoly?"
"Are you just too scared to try the crisps?"
"Maybe."
She picks up her own packet and shakes it vigorously before opening it. "They just taste of salt." She puts one in her mouth, chewing it while watching him. "Try one."
He scowls, but takes one out of her packet anyway. When he tastes it he wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. "No. Don't like that."
She laughs, covering her mouth with her hand, and he wants to pull it out of the way so that he can see her smile.
"Eat your sandwich," she tells him, folding her crisp packet up before standing. She goes to the cabinet near the door to the kitchen and pulls out a box, setting up the contents on the coffee table behind Malfoy.
"What's this?" Malfoy asks through a mouthful of sandwich, turning to watch her counting the coloured slips of paper out into piles.
"Don't you know it's rude to talk with your mouth full?"
He glares at her, swallowing his bite of sandwich. "What is it?"
"It's a boardgame." She places the Scottie Dog on the Go square, then shows him the rest of the tokens. "Which do you want to be?"
"What if I want to be the dog?"
"I'm the dog."
"I like it."
"Pick a different one."
He sighs, looking at all of the pieces in her hands and finally settling on the Boot. Hermione's parents come in from the kitchen; Paul picks the Racecar, Jean picks the Thimble.
After a quick run through of the rules, they start the game, and Malfoy is not surprised to learn that Paul and Jean are both equally competitive as Hermione. He tries to keep up, but suddenly there are little houses being placed on the board, and just when he thinks he's gotten the hang of it, the prices on everyone else's properties sky rocket. In just over two hours he is left with one property mortgaged, the other three sold in an attempt to try and get more money, and he is basically just trundling around the board hoping to pass Go before he lands on someone's property.
The final blow comes as he lands on Hermione's Mayfair – the tile just before Go – which costs him £1400 (damn her and her three houses!), which is obviously money he doesn't have. He declares bankruptcy after managing to only give her £437, and sits back with his arms crossed as the other three count their money to determine the winner.
Thanks to Malfoy's £437, Hermione wins, but only just. She flings her arms in the air with a giant grin on her face, and she turns to Malfoy and hugs him.
"Thank you, Mister Malfoy," she whispers to him. When she pulls away, she laughs. "Without you, I would've lost."
"At least we both won at least once today, Granger." He smiles fondly at her, and she smiles back, her cheeks turning pink.
Jean goes to get something, two presents she had wrapped quickly while she was upstairs earlier. Paul puts the game away and looks at the clock in the kitchen.
"It's nearly ten, kiddies." Paul yawns, scratching his chin. "When you go to bed, you don't come out until morning, Santa might see you. And don't wake me before nine tomorrow."
They nod as Jean comes into the room, holding the soft packages. "Here you go, Hermione." She hands her the one on the top, and Hermione unwraps it quickly, tearing through the wrapping with glee. Inside is a set of red, white, and black flannel pyjamas; a button up long sleeve shirt with long bottoms. As Hermione feels the soft fabric between her fingers, her eyes fall on the gold embroidered H.G. on the pocket on the left breast of the shirt.
"Personalised. Only took them ten minutes." Paul perches on the arm of the sofa. "We're not going to lie, we only got them today."
Malfoy looks over her shoulder at them, and she turns to show him. "What for? Christmas is tomorrow?"
"They're Christmas Eve pyjamas – so you can either wear them tonight or put them on fresh in the morning." She explains, folding the shirt back up and beaming at her mum. "Thank you. They're perfect."
"And this ones for you, Draco." Jean leans forward to hand him the second parcel.
He takes it from her gingerly, unwrapping it with more grace than Hermione had. Inside is a matching set to hers, except in green instead of red. Over the left breast pocket, the initials D.M. stand out in silver. He stares at the initials until his eyes begin to blur.
He looks up to see Jean and Hermione both smiling at him. "Thank you. Very much." He looks back down. "You didn't need to."
"Nonsense. Everyone needs new pyjamas on Christmas Eve." Jean smiles at him. "Now," she claps her hands on her legs. "Bed time."
"Mum, do you know where the wrapping paper is?" Hermione asks.
"It's in our room, with the ribbon too." She answers, and Hermione smiles in response. "Goodnight, love."
"Goodnight." Hermione hugs her parents, hit again by that feeling that this will be their last Christmas – her last Christmas Eve pyjamas, her last Christmas Eve board game.
"Goodnight, Paul. And goodnight, Jean." Malfoy doesn't hug them, because that would be awkward. He holds the pyjamas awkwardly.
"Goodnight, Draco." Jean says fondly, touching his arm. He hopes he doesn't feel the way he stiffens.
"Night, lad." Paul nods at him, and he nods back.
Malfoy and Hermione go upstairs, and he can feel the excitement radiating off her.
"Do you still have the Sellotape?" She asks when they reach the landing, and he nods going into his room to get it for her.
"Should I take my presents down now?" He asks, and she nods.
"Just put them under the tree."
He runs downstairs quickly, and Hermione goes into her parent's room to get the green wrapping. She also sneaks into the guest room to get the roll of blue wrapping paper and the scissors Malfoy had been using. She sees his green towel folded on top of the chest of drawers and smiles when she thinks of that morning – was it really just that morning?
When she turns to go, he's stood in the doorway.
"You're not supposed to be in here," he points out, though the drawl in his voice shows he doesn't really care.
"I realised I needed the blue wrapping paper. And the scissors." She holds them up awkwardly.
"Okay."
"Well…" She scoots past him on the way back to her room. "Goodnight, Malfoy. See you in the morning."
"Goodnight, Granger. See you in the morning." He closes the door behind him.
She sits on the floor of her bedroom and lovingly wraps the black box containing the Walkman, wrapping the green ribbon around it and tying it into a neat bow. When she's finished wrapping her parents presents, she leaves them in a little pile on her desk, and gets ready in her new pyjamas, before crawling into bed, hoping to fall asleep to dreams of hot chocolate and Christmas dinner.
She doesn't.