Draco had never been a particularly big fan of Christmas. Growing up, it was a fantastic excuse to allow his mother to dote on him with extravagant presents; he remembered Malfoy Manor being completely transformed by their house elves into a festive wonderland every year, presumably for the sake of him as he visited from school. With retrospect though, no amount of tinsel and baubles could have driven out the cold chill from Malfoy Manor, and all he could remember now from Christmas dinners was desperately trying to tease out approval from his father, often with very little success. Upon returning to Hogwarts in January he would gloat to his friends, listing the presents he'd received and donning expensive new scarves, sweaters or shoes around the Slytherin common room, but ultimately feeling hollow: the hangover from spending long and lonely days in his childhood home. It was where he had done his most reading during his school years, throughout the Christmas holidays, for there was no other way to entertain himself. His parents ignored him, often treating him as a nuisance if he hung about, and so he would stow away in the Manor's grand library, reading anything that took his fancy: memoirs of famous wizards, history books covering events such as the brutal Giant Wars or the early settlements of wizards around the world, or adventure novels by prolific wizarding authors. Occasionally, if weather permitted, he would ride his broom around the estate and surrounding fields and forest, enjoying the feeling of freedom that came with flying. He missed having a broom.

It was mid-morning in the resistance on Christmas Day, and Amelia had insisted on decorating their tent, much to Draco's obvious indifference. Still, to see Amelia beaming with excitement and have something to think about other than the damned war, felt good. They hadn't discussed Draco's outburst from the night any further, and he was keen to put as much distance between them and the vulnerability he had exposed in this very tent as was humanly possible.

The encounter with his estranged aunt had caught him off-guard and had given him a renewed sense of anxiety bubbling in the pit of his stomach. She looked so much like her deranged sister Bellatrix, who only days earlier had rammed a blade deep into Draco with the intention of killing him, but he had to admit that Andromeda seemed very different from the rest of his family. Still, he wanted nothing to do with any of them. If he was to get rid of these demons that followed him everywhere in his life, he had to shed who he was before. He wasn't a Malfoy anymore – he didn't want anything to do with the title or the implications that came with his name. And even though Andromeda had been cut off by the family she was still part of that life; part of that shame.

He remembered being very young when he had stumbled across a tapestry of the Malfoy family tree in a drawing room of the Manor, with weaving branches of both his parent's lineage. He had run his fingers across a course burn mark over a face that sat in between his mother and his aunt Bellatrix, something that had confused him at such a young age – what had happened to this person? Why was their picture burned beyond recognition? His mother had come in and snatched his hand away from the tapestry with a loud tutting sound. He'd asked who the person was – he couldn't make out the name beneath the scotched portrait.

"It was somebody who made all the wrong choices in her life. She betrayed her pure blood and married a muggleborn man, breaking her family's heart," Narcissa had said in a harsh, clipped tone.

"Is she dead?" The young Draco had asked.

Narcissa bent down so that she was level with Draco's wide and innocent grey eyes. "She is worse than dead – she has to live knowing that she has brought shame on her family. Knowing that she is a disgrace. That, Draco, is a fate far worse than death."

Draco had nodded, these terrifying words burning into the back of his mind...

As he had grown older, Andromeda was often used as an example around the dinner table as his mother and father reinforced the importance of pureblood status and supporting the Dark Lord's pursuit of abolishing mudbloods and blood traitors. He would nod along with them, sneering as they would discuss the choices his estranged aunt had made, and he grew up feeling only malice towards her.

And now here she was – finding refuge in the same place that Draco was. Fighting for the same cause that he was fighting for. He didn't feel any malice towards her anymore, only shame for his own thoughts and actions, and a strange envy towards her: she was strong enough to renounce her family before being sucked into the Dark Arts; she didn't need to carry the demons that haunted Draco's every move.

He knew that, especially after his confessions last night, Amelia would subtly try and push him in the direction of Andromeda, keen for him to find some sort of solitude in more positive family ties than he currently had, but he couldn't bear to be around her. She was too connected to his past life, the life that he was desperately trying to shed for the sake of his sanity.

He looked over at Amelia from where he lay stretched out on the sofa; she was carefully guiding a star to the top of a tree with her wand. "Does that look straight to you?" She called out to him. For an hour Amelia had been like an orchestra conductor, waving her wand and conjuring an entire tree, tinsel, baubles and now a sparkling gold star for the treetop. He'd felt her nervously glance his way every few minutes as she'd choreographed this, as if he were a ticking bomb about to explode at any moment, but he just ignored it, lost in his thoughts with silent eyes fixated on the ceiling.

"Hard to tell – I think I need sunglasses just to see in this place now," Draco called back sarcastically.

Amelia turned around, lowering her wand and placing her hands on her hips. "Oh, ha ha."

"It's positioned perfectly," he said, catching her hand and gently tugging, so that she fell onto him on the sofa. He swept the stray hairs from her face and kissed her, allowing his hands to sweep down her sides to grab her hips hungrily.

She pulled back, "Draco," she warned – though she was smiling coyly. "It's almost time for the Christmas lunch!"

Draco groaned and rolled his eyes. "Do we have to?"

Amelia jumped on and offered him her hand. "Absolutely we do."

Draco sighed and put his hand into hers, allowing her to pull him off the sofa with a small giggle.


Amelia was relieved to see that the angst from last night seemed to have disappeared for now and that Draco was in far better spirits, even if he refused to partake in any Christmas cheer. Truthfully, she was nervous for the Christmas lunch in the dining hall: it had quickly become tradition in the resistance as an excuse to spread a bit of cheer in an otherwise dreary existence for them all, but this year was harder to detach from the realities of the war than previous years. It was pressing in on all sides of the resistance, threatening their every move. She just hoped that the panic would melt away, if only for a couple of hours.

She released a breath she didn't know she was holding onto when they entered the dining hall tent: decorations hung from the ceiling, jolly Christmas music bobbed along in the background, and each wooden bench looked twice as long as they housed what looked like just about every member of the resistance. Trays of mulled wine and champagne were floating around by themselves, hovering between people's heads and waiting just long enough for them to scoop up a glass.

A long arm was waving them over – even Henry was here, a champagne flute in his hand as he beckoned Amelia and Draco over to where he sat.

"Merry Christmas," he said, beaming as he stood, hugging Amelia and shaking Draco's hand.

"You're in a good mood," Amelia mused as they sat beside him. Henry flicked his wand and two glasses of champagne soared from the kitchen area at the far end of the dining hall, to land gracefully in front of them. Draco took no time to snatch his up and take a large gulp.

"Well, for once it feels like there is something to celebrate," Henry said, sounding relieved. Amelia followed his eyes diagonally across the table to a sight that conjured a warm prickling behind Amelia's eyes.

Molly and Arthur, looking far fresher than they had last night, sat with steaming mugs of mulled wine and wide smiles. Completely surrounding them were a gang of redheads: Ginny, George, Ron and Bill all sat looking bemused at their parents. Ginny's arm was linked firmly with her father's, and Molly was rubbing something on George's face with the pad of her thumb as he grimaced with a chuckle. It was something that each and every person in the resistance longed for, the image that everyone probably fell asleep imagining, to be reunited with family. Yesterday, the Weasleys didn't even know if their parents were still alive out there, and now here they were. It was, of course, a feeling that Amelia could recognise in her own circumstances with Draco and the thought made her inwardly grateful that she had managed to reconnect with someone from before the war in the way that they had. But watching Molly and Arthur Weasley also reminded her of something: she would never have that reunion with her parents. There was no possibility for her as to whether they were out there somewhere, trying desperately to find her and Henry in the mess of war. And maybe that was something that should bring her an odd comfort, that at least she had answers, had closure. But seeing the coming together of the Weasley children, albeit with a couple missing, and their parents, stirred a hollowness in her chest.

She glanced to her left and wondered if Henry, who was deep in conversation with Neville and Luna who sat opposite, felt the same.

When their mother had fallen ill and passed away when Amelia was only ten years old, a lot of the light in her life disappeared for a while, but it was Henry who sought to reignite it.

The death of her mother now felt so long ago and the memories of her were precious but far in the distance. As she grew older, Amelia had to recycle the little memories she had to try and keep them fresh, to stop them from blurring and fading. She remembered her father sitting with her and Henry, her brother's hand clasping hers tightly as their father told them that their mother was no longer in pain, that her spirit lived on in her children, that he could see her in their eyes even as he spoke. She liked that, the idea of her mother living through her eyes; being carried around carefully and experiencing life alongside Amelia. Even now, it helped her make some sort of sense of the loss she felt – there was something to help with the grief of it all.

Her father though, his death felt like a fresh wound that refused to heal. She was never given the time to sit in the grief of his death - such was the nature of war. She wondered if one day she might just collapse in a heap, bursting from all the unreleased pain she had carried around with her for all these years. Was there even a way to release all this grief? She had no one to advise her on this; everyone she knew had lost the same amount as she had in one way or another and they were all stumbling through together, but alone.

Her and Draco had made a new home with each other, a place where they could both feel safe and secure, where they could bring all of their baggage and lay it out, rest from the weight of it all, and it made her heart swell with a warm love for him.

"You okay?" Draco's mumbling voice drew her out of her thoughts. She blinked herself back into the room and arranged her face into a smile.
"Yes – of course," she said, sipping the champagne in front of her. Draco cocked an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Strange to see a family all together like that," She offered as explanation for her faraway eyes.

Draco looked over to the Weasleys and shrugged. "They seem like a pretty normal family to me. Even if some of them are insufferable."

Amelia ignored Draco's half-joking comment. "No I mean… seeing a family – at all. I had begun to think of us all as unattached individuals, floating around with no past."

Draco seemed to grasp what she was trying to say and put a hand on her leg, offering an understanding lopsided smile.

They were interrupted by large plates of food appearing before them. It was a slightly unconventional Christmas Dinner, made from the resources they had while rationing and no one leaving the confines of the resistance, but all was made with love and, coupled with a few glasses of champagne and mulled wine, tasted no less delicious than any other Christmas Dinner.

Draco kept his hand on Amelia's leg throughout the whole dinner as she chatted to those around her. He listened in on conversations, occasionally nodding his head or offering an eyebrow raise in response to something someone said, but little else. She wasn't sure if he was exhausted from last night, unsettled by the amount of festive spirit in the air, or feeling uncomfortable around so many people who he had considered enemies up until recently. No matter this, his presence centred her and helped to fill that hollow feeling carving out her chest.

Later in the day, the tables were pushed to the side and a makeshift dance floor had emerged, with people taking to the middle of the room to sway and laugh along to Christmas carols booming from the radio. Draco had mumbled something about getting fresh air, which Amelia understood to be him desperately needing a break from the festive cheer. He'd slinked outside as he slipped a familiar silver tin of tobacco from his jacket pocket. Amelia stood against the wall, her head bobbing slightly to the music, a rapidly warming half-glass of champagne hanging loosely in her hand.

"Looking rather pensive back here, Mills," Henry's voice said as he sidled up next to her.

His entrance had shocked her and she jumped at the sound of his voice, almost spilling champagne down her front. Her eyes, like magnets, wandered back to the Weasleys: Molly was currently fussing over Ron's hair as Hermione laughed and joined in next to them.

"Ahh – great to see, isn't it? Makes the risks feel worth it," Henry said, following Amelia's eyes and grinning at the sight of the redheaded troupe.

"Do you feel jealous at all?" Amelia asked abruptly.

Henry frowned. "Of the Weasleys? What for?"

"For getting such a large chunk of their old lives back." She tried to keep her voice from sounding bitter.

Henry contemplated this as they both gazed out onto the sea of dancers. "Well, with that argument, I imagine people are jealous of us – we've always had each other in here."

Amelia looked up at him and smiled, "True – and believe me, I'm grateful for that every day. I guess… it just reminds me that there's no way our parents could show up here."

Henry nodded slowly, a frown growing on his face. "Yeah, I suppose that before today, we were all just orphans weren't we? Life outside of here didn't really exist."

"I think I sometimes pretended that mum and dad were living beyond these walls – it was easy to imagine when that's what everyone else was doing."

"Well, if dad was here, there certainly wouldn't have been enough champagne for the rest of us, so it's swings and roundabouts isn't it," Henry said, winking down at Amelia who laughed. Their father would often end his Christmas night after a few too many mulled meads, Henry and Amelia giggling at him snoring on the sofa with an empty glass propped on his belly, rising and falling with the motion of his breathing.

"What do you think he'd say about all this?" Amelia asked.

Henry looked thoughtful, scratching at his chin and taking a swig from his glass. "I think he'd find it all a bit exciting, really. An underground society, set on gaining strength and defeating the Death Eaters once and for all. I reckon he'd love it."

Amelia smiled warmly. "Reminds me of you."

Henry considered this and gave a lopsided grin.

"What do you think he'd say about Draco?"

Henry finished his drink. "Well, I don't think he'd be inviting the in-laws around for Sunday dinner right now – Amelia laughed at this – but I think he'd trust your judgement."

"You don't reckon he'd think I'm mad?"

Henry laughed. "Name one thing that's happened in the last five years that hasn't been completely mad."

"Fair."

His expression shifted to a much more earnest one: "I think he'd see how happy you are, Mills. And he'd see that Draco would clearly do anything for you. That's all he'd want for you, right?"

Amelia nodded, her throat tightening and swelling. "And you?"

"You already know I approve of him. I think he's a good bloke. He probably wants to work on his manners a bit, but nobody's perfect."

Amelia knocked back the rest of her champagne, feeling the knot in her stomach loosen considerably in the presence of her brother. Thank Merlin he was here with her.


The stiffness around the resistance had loosened that afternoon as the sun melted back behind the mountains for another day, paving the way for sprinkles of stars to emerge across a vast purple sky. The only hint of life was coming from the dining hall tent, which from the outside glowed with pulsing flashes of red, yellow and green. A sea of laughter, accompanied by the chinking of glass and bobbing bass of carols carried through the rest of the resistance, weaving its merriment and clearing away the cloud that had hung over the field. If only for a moment.

Draco pushed his way through the crowds, his jacket brushing against elbows and shoulders in a way that would have irritated him usually. But the fuzziness that settled in his fingers and toes from the champagne washed any irritation away, and to his surprise there were claps on his shoulder and back and friendly acknowledgements as he weaved through. He saw Amelia and Henry standing against a far wall, half-watching the crowds of giggling-dancing as they lazily exchanged words. Henry's hands were deep in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed into a gentle slump. Draco had only known him as tense, fiery, but this hinted at who he might've been before the war had started; observing crowds with hooded eyes, laughter that made his arms and shoulders shake. He made an inward wish that he got to meet this Henry, when the war was over; that one day he and Amelia's brother could sit and discuss something other than desperate strategy. Amelia had her back against the wall, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, an empty champagne flute hanging forgotten from her fingers. She would sweep her dark eyes from the crowds in front, up to her brother, having to crane her neck slightly to meet his gaze. Draco watched her as he approached. She was somehow timid and bold all in one: the half-smile on pink lips betrayed a vulnerability that lay deep within her that had drawn Draco towards her all those years ago; which still pulled him towards her, eager to understand every shadow and corner of her mind. His chest ached with everything he wanted to give her and couldn't. He wondered quietly if that's how everyone in love felt as his eyes scanned various pairings dotted around the room.

He nodded as he came before the two siblings.

"If you'll excuse me guys, I seem to have exhausted my resources," he said, waggling an empty glass as he smiled and winked, before ducking into the crowds.

"He's in a good mood," Draco observed as he took up Henry's place next to Amelia.

Amelia's eyes narrowed in a thoughtful way. "Suspicious, isn't it?" She said; Draco laughed.

They stood for a long moment, soaking in each other's easy company.

Eventually, Draco sighed. "Come on, then," he said in his familiar drawl.

Amelia frowned, confused.

Draco held out an expectant hand. "You obviously want to dance," he drawled.

"And you obviously can't think of anything worse," she said back, matching his attitude.

"Incorrect, Collins," he said with a smirk – muscles flexing around his lips that felt stiff and unfamiliar, unused in all of his recent angst. He swept up her hand in his, pulling her towards him as he backed them up into the crowd.

He relished the look of happy surprise on her face as he twirled her without effort, snaking a strong arm along the gentle curve in her lower back as they swayed to the soft jazz that drifted through the other dancing pairs like a gentle breeze through long grass. Her chest pressed against his, her nose tickled his with closeness. Her scent – a buttery and floral vanilla – was the same as it had been years ago in Hogwarts and the memory of smelling her on his collar or his fingertips roused an odd nostalgia within him. He held her closer. Her head slipped delicately onto his shoulder, the hand that was not around his waist came to rest against his chest like a leaf falling softly to a garden floor. Dancing like a prat was worth it.