Merry Christmas everyone! My submission for this year's DHr Advent is an angsty but hopeful one. This story is very near in my heart, and I hope you enjoy.
My two prompts were 'First Snow' and 'Fruitcake'.

A massive thanks to those who nominated me to participate, and many hugs to Musyc for putting on such a wonderful holiday fest year after year.

An anguished roar echoes beyond the entrance into Draco's office; he slips on a pair of glasses and collects his clipboard before emerging into the late afternoon chill. Pursing his lips, he observes as three handlers work to subdue a young dragon, and his heart misses a beat when he recognises the shade of its iridescent scales.

A cold sense of foreboding clutches his chest as one of the handlers, burly and redheaded with scars and tattoos along every inch of his bare arms, approaches.

"Richard," Draco murmurs, meeting Charlie Weasley's eye.

Charlie grimaces. "Richard."

"Injured?" Draco asks, moving in closer as the dragon keepers manage to get Richard, the yearling Opaleye, under control. It isn't uncommon for dragons to become territorial out in the reserve and fight each other, especially the young, hot-headed ones. He peers at the scales, smoothing a hand along the beast's chest, before jotting a few notes on his clipboard.

Following at his side, Weasley shakes his head. "Sick. Early indicators suggest it might be Serpentitis―but I'll leave the diagnosis to the dragon healer."

Draco offers a thin smile, even as his stomach churns at the thought. "Indeed."

Despite the spells and wards suppressing the dragon, Richard huffs a breath of flame, his wings flaring as though he might take flight. The young dragon has proven himself as fierce and tenacious as the keeper who tends him. The one who named him and raised him from an egg.

He can see evidence of the disease on a few of the closest scales, and Draco clicks his tongue. Serpentitis is an uncommon but serious condition that afflicts young dragons, and it can prove fatal.

"I'm not telling her," Charlie says, brandishing his hands in surrender.

Draco clenches his jaw, patting Richard's flank, and sighs. "Fine."

"Best get to work." With a crooked grin, Charlie claps a hand to Draco's shoulder. "If it is Serpentitis, you're in for a long night."

It goes without saying, but Draco nods all the same. Nerves threaten to rise within him, but he knows better than to let his focus waver. "Hopefully we've caught it in time."

As Charlie and the other handlers clear out, leaving Draco alone with his newest patient, a fleck of moisture lands on his temple. Slowly, he drags his gaze up to the sky above, and a barrage of large, fluffy flakes begin to fall.

Thinking again of Richard, of his primary handler, Draco releases a breath when snowflakes land at his feet. "Shit."

By the time Draco emerges from the healing quarters of the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary, night has fallen. White flakes continue to fall, stark against the pitch black of the sky above.

Although most of the sanctuary is magically controlled to suit the biomes and climates of the different breeds of dragons, the network of buildings that comprise the human quarters is left natural. Suspended high above the sanctuary below, the complex looks out in all directions.

When he first came to the reserve, Draco had been rendered speechless. And even now, the sunsets are a beauty to behold.

Mug of black coffee in hand, he finds Granger on one of the wooden plank bridges that connect the personal quarters to the research and healing facilities. He slips up alongside her in silence, takes a sip of coffee, and drawls, "Rick has Serpentitis."

She only stiffens at the nickname, and for a long moment, she doesn't respond. A part of him suspects she simply won't, and it wouldn't be the first time. At last, she says, "Will he pull through?"

"Too soon to tell." Draco glances down at his watch. "He's resting, but we'll begin a full course of treatment in the morning."

"Good." Tension rolls from her, hanging in the air between them, and Draco absorbs it, clings to the scraps of it, imagines it's borne of something else. Then her voice softens. "Please... do what you can for him."

Propping his elbows on the wooden railing, he casts her a sidelong glance. "Of course I will."

He doesn't suspect he needs to say as much―he's been the principal healer at the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary for the better part of a decade, and all the handlers know how much he cares for his patients.

With a frown, Granger stares into the sky. "Yeah."

He tilts his head back, watching the way the white flakes fall from the utter darkness above, feeling the crisp bite as they land on his face. "First snow."

She bristles at the reference―or maybe it's the familiarity―but he's used to it.

But then, almost exaggerated, Granger deflates. Her head droops, shoulders slumping, and she leans into the railing. In the distance, a dragon roars into the night, breaking the otherwise peaceful silence. "I always think..." She trails off, shaking her head. A quiet, humourless chuckle falls from her lips. "It makes me think of my parents."

"I know," Draco murmurs, and when her eyes snap to him, he adds, "I remember. We were together for five years, Hermione."

Five years. The longest, sweetest, bitterest years of his life.

She always hates when he brings it up―sometimes it makes him bring it up just to spark something reminiscent of the Hermione Granger he knew. This woman he works with no―formal and stiff and icy cool as the night air―he almost doesn't recognise her most of the time.

But they'd been young, idealistic, clinging to misdirected hope for the way the world could be.

Until reality slipped through the cracks, revealing its barest truth. And in the end, they'd been little more than two broken people desperate to hold each other together despite their many fissures.

He sees it in her even now.

In the way she named Richard in memory of the father that doesn't know her, despite the years they'd spent in researching care to undo the spell on her parents. For two years after they left Hogwarts they'd searched―two raw, exhausting years, endless and fruitless, until they could no longer hide from the truth of its permanence.

Draco sees it in the steel walls she wears like a cloak, protecting herself by keeping everyone else out.

Every so often, he sees something else. The hint of warmth in her eye he once knew, once coveted. He still knows the cautious glimmer of her hope, knows the way she quashes it more often than not.

"Anyway," she says, breezy and unconvincing, "have a nice night, Malfoy."

His surname stings like she's struck him―it always does―and he keeps his face as blank as he can manage as she pushes back from the railing. "It isn't weakness, you know. To still think of them."

He knows, even before the words leave his lips, that he'll hit a nerve. But whether anger or despair, he doesn't know.

"Every year, at the first snow, you spent the whole day outside with your father, building snowmen and snow angels," he says, softly, "until your mother brought out hot cocoa for the three of you. It isn't weakness to hold onto fond memories, Hermione, nor is it if you continue to uphold traditions even though they're no longer in your life."

Merlin knows, he clings to the rare handful of pleasant memories he has of his mother.

Draco isn't certain what he expects, if anything at all, but she only wraps her arms tighter across her front, staring out into the snow all around them. At last, she says, quiet but assertive, "I didn't ask your opinion. Goodnight, Healer Malfoy."

She turns and walks away, leaving him alone on the walkway with a chill in his soul that has little to do with the cold.

After three days of subsisting on black coffee and an occasional, restless nap, Draco drags a shaky hand through his hair as he jots several notes on a sheet of parchment.

Most of the time, his work at the dragon reserve entails beasts injured in fights, minor illnesses, and the occasional burnt and battered dragon keeper. Only three times before has he faced cases so aggressive and serious; twice, the dragon pulled through.

He doesn't dare say such a thing to Hermione, when the dragon who didn't survive was before she began working as a keeper.

But he feels raw fear pool in his stomach though he does his best to quell it, to keep professional. He has confidence in his skills as a healer, and Richard is a young, strong dragon. Still, the beast represents so much more to her, and he can't help the way it does for him as well.

It's because of Hermione that he's even there. He'd borrowed her fascination with magical creatures, her influence guiding his interest in healing from human to beast. Dragons had been his calling, in the end, for more reasons than one.

He's never asked her, but he suspects the dragon sanctuary is a lot of things for her, as well. A means to escape England, to hide from the ghosts that linger and haunt her even now.

Scarcely a day passes when he doesn't ask himself how it all fell apart.

How the pair of them descended from a place where they were everything to each other, to the icy cold that now characterises their rare interactions. He spent hours poring over materials, by her side every step of the way as she attempted to recover her parents.

He had been the one to hold her, night after night, when every attempt went badly. When the devastating news came that there would be no answer.

Then Narcissa had fallen ill, and his own life collapsed in around him.

And the bonds forged between them through so many trials crumbled to nothing but ash and memory.

"You and me, Richard," he grumbles, scrubbing at dry, strained eyes as he slips into the healing bay of the reserve. Richard snoozes in a heap on the floor, sooty snores falling from his snout as his back gently lifts and falls.

The beast looks almost docile, and it's a testament to the way the Serpentitis has ravaged his body. Even after only a few days, the dragon is lean, something deflated about him.

Casting a series of diagnostic spells, Draco falls into his work. It's quiet and methodical, and if it weren't for the fear that still grips his heart at the thought that Richard might not pull through, he would enjoy the peace of it. By midday, large, fluffy flakes fall from the sky again, halting and melting as they strike the invisible dome that secures the healing bay.

As always, the snow makes him think of Hermione.

He knows he never got over her, over the way the promises they once offered to each other were never realised. And he suspects she knows the same. But she's made apparent time and again that she'd sooner push him away, keep him at arm's length, than to even indulge discussion about what they once had.

So Draco doesn't bring it up, and he watches her from afar, wondering how they went so wrong.

That evening, Hermione slips quietly into the healing bay, silent and observant as she watches him work. If not for the fact that she's a closed book to him, it almost feels familiar. They spent so many hours together poring over study notes in eighth year, and then after, when they dug with increasing desperation through any material that might have helped her parents.

"How is he doing?" she asks at length, though the slight waver in her voice belies the idle question.

Richard sleeps on as Draco takes a step back, jots a few notes, slips his glasses into his shirt pocket. Cautiously, he drawls, "I am optimistic. But he's not out of the woods yet."

The tightness in her countenance sinks. "That's good news," she says with a bit of a stilted nod.

"Right."

After their last interaction, wherein she had rebuked him for overstepping the arbitrary boundary lines that have existed between them for years, Draco isn't keen to say much more. He holds tight to the scraps of his pride that she didn't win from him, pitiful though they are.

But she lingers, shifting on her feet as she peers, unblinking, at Richard.

"I shouldn't have..." She trails off, a grimace pulling her mouth downwards. "I was rude the other day."

"It's fine." Turning away, Draco stores his clipboard on a table and makes an effort of squaring his quill to the page. "It wasn't my place."

They're co-workers, nothing more, and sometimes he goes days or even weeks without even seeing her. Most of the dragon keepers spend the majority of their time out in the reserve, often holding strange hours.

The words fall from her lips like a breath. "It was once."

He grinds his jaw, unwilling to indulge even the slightest dregs of his hope, so thoroughly squandered long ago. Worst of all, he knows he pushed her away, too. After his mother died, he didn't have room for anything or anyone else.

Draco knows, despite the way nostalgia often wrenches at him, that the fractures that destroyed them the first time never healed.

"It was a long time ago," he hears himself saying. Because she isn't the only one who's closed herself off.

He could swear she flinches. But she rocks on her heels, folds her arms across herself, turns back towards the sleeping dragon. "Of course it was," she clips, any hint of vulnerability in her tone gone cold once more. Draco feels it like a blow to the chest and a part of him longs to say something more. To take it back. "Please keep me updated on Richard's condition."

"I will."

Before he can fill the space with the words that press against him, roiling to escape―before he can lay himself bare at her feet―she offers another sharp, curt nod and slips from the bay.

Winter descends on the reserve with a vengeance, and to escape the cold that ravages the living quarters, Draco flies into one of the warmer interior biomes. Many of the dragons thrive in warm climates and the reserve is divided into naturally flowing segments which cater to the climate and vegetation of the breeds that exist within it.

As the air warms and the snow fades away, giving in to the pale sun setting overhead and a gentle breeze, some of the strain sloughs from his shoulders. He's scarcely left the healing bay in days, subsisting on coffee and stress, and he can feel the situation taking its toll.

Even so, he knows he wouldn't trust any of the other healers to lead in Richard's care. Not when the dragon means so much to Hermione. And despite that she doesn't think of him in that way anymore, he can't help it.

As soon as he lands atop the cliff where he goes to think, he realises he isn't alone.

Hermione glances up, sheepish, arms wrapped around her bent knees as her gaze swivels to land on him. "Hi," she says, making a face. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were coming out here―"

"It's fine," Draco murmurs, lifting a hand as she makes to stand. "I don't mind."

It isn't as if it's his place alone, but Hermione knows more about him than anyone else. Knows he values his time and space to escape when life grows to be too much.

Lying his broom down, he perches on the cliff beside her, allowing his legs to hang over the edge.

It's one of the best vantages in the whole reserve, allowing a nearly three-hundred-sixty degree view. In the distance, snow-capped mountain peaks reach up into the sky, and if he squints, he can see the large flakes still falling.

Something about feeling as though he's at the edge of the world always leaves him exhilarated.

Without a word, Hermione settles back down, though he can sense the tension hanging unspoken between them.

"Richard is resting," he feels obliged to say, to explain why he's left his charge.

She hums, propping her chin onto her knees, and stares out towards the mountain peaks. "Is he doing any better?"

"Difficult to say," Draco allows. "I'd like to say yes, but Serpentitis can swing rapidly." As clinical as he typically is with his patients, Draco knows Richard's case is different.

Everything to do with her is different.

"Silly," she muses, as though he hasn't spoken. "That I feel so much more connected to one dragon simply because of its name. I care for them all equally, of course."

"Of course."

"Or at least..." She frowns, as though dissecting her own words. "Mostly."

Draco releases a sigh, and when he looks over at her, he can see the shadows beneath her eyes. "You don't have to explain anything to me."

And it's true―because he knows her as well as she does him. He still knows her nuances, the subtleties in her character that caused him to fall headfirst in love with her in the first place. The gentleness in her heart that stirs pangs of nostalgia and longing within him every time he catches that old familiar glint in her eye.

Even now, when they rarely speak, there's a soft easiness between them borne of simply so much.

So much time, so much history.

So much left unspoken, abandoned, lost.

"I miss them," she whispers, and the silence has stretched on long enough that he flinches. She still gazes out towards the mountains, as though she can feel the snow falling from here despite the warmth in the air. "Especially when it snows. I can't help it." She shakes her head, swallows, presses her eyes briefly shut. Before Draco can say anything, she draws a deep breath and presses on. "I can't help but wonder, had I done things differently. If the timing had been better, if I'd gone to recover them as soon as the war ended... if we had tried something else before the spell stuck for good."

Draco remains silent, the quiet devastation in her words washing over him. In an instant, he's nineteen again, sitting by her side night after night as they pored over endless stacks of books in silence. As they tried everything they could find, made countless trips to Australia, fought the ups and downs that threatened to cripple their hopes.

"I know," he says at last when she falls silent. "And I know nothing I say is going to change that, but you can't blame yourself forever."

At the look on her face, the hard line of her jaw, he knows she still does.

"You need to remember," he says quietly, "that you saved them." The words hang between them, as visceral as the ghosts of their past. "That no matter what else, your parents are still alive because of the hard decisions you made to protect them."

They remain in Brisbane with a young adopted son.

He doesn't know whether Hermione still goes to Brisbane to observe from afar, as she once did, but he suspects she doesn't have the heart.

Her eyes glisten with moisture as she says, "It isn't enough. It'll never be enough."

"I know," he only says again.

Silence overtakes them once more, the sun playing beautiful tracks of pink and orange and violet against the sky as it makes its lazy descent beneath the horizon. It's his favourite place in the reserve for this reason―for the feeling that he's above the world and away from the rest of it. That life doesn't feel real when he's surrounded with such surreal beauty.

"And us," Hermione says at length, a gentle ripple along the idle peace drifting between them. Draco's gaze slides to her in surprise. "Sometimes I wonder, if everything hadn't gone so wrong, where it would have left us."

Silence lingers for a long moment―too long.

"I wonder the same," Draco returns at last with a nonchalant shrug, though within, his heart leaps into an anxious cadence. "But that wasn't just your parents. I... shut down when my mother died."

"I wasn't there for you," she returns. "You spent years helping me with my parents. We should have... I don't know. I guess I thought we could make it through anything at that point."

He'd thought the same.

They'd both been wrong.

He releases a sigh. "It is what it is. Neither of us were equipped to deal with the way everything piled up."

It's the truest sentiment he can find, when digging any deeper into it might shatter him entirely.

"Does it ever feel heavy?" she whispers, dropping her chin once more to rest on her knees. "The weight of it all."

The truth falls from his lips before he can censor it. "Impossibly so."

And he knows exactly what she means. The weight of too many regrets, so many what ifs. The questions that have followed him for years, cloying and overwhelming, to the point where their proximity keeps him up at night more often than not.

Then, before he can stop himself, the words flow from some deep part of himself that he's kept locked, kept caged away. Some part of him he didn't even know still exists.

"When I was growing up, every year when the first snow fell," he says quietly, "my mother and I had a tradition, too. And... it'll sound ridiculous but I promise it's true." He catches her eyes on him, wide and anticipatory. "Mother always made fruitcake."

Hermione blinks, as though it's the last thing she suspected. "Fruitcake."

"Right."

"Like the dessert."

Draco grimaces. "Yeah. She always loved it. I never cared for the taste of it, to be honest, but it just became a thing the two of us did, I suppose. We didn't even tell Father because he wouldn't have understood. She would play Christmas music on the wireless and―it was the only time I ever saw my mother in the kitchens, but I could tell she enjoyed it by the way her face would light up with genuine happiness. When I got older, after I'd gone to Hogwarts... I don't know if she carried on with it in my absence."

A rush of shame creeps through him when she doesn't respond, the sudden vulnerability making him feel as though he's shed a cloak he meant to keep on.

Quietly, he finishes, "That's how I try to remember her even now. A flush in her cheeks and a smile on her face. She wore a bloody apron, if you can believe that."

To his horror, warmth creeps up his throat and into his cheeks. The hot sting of moisture presses at the backs of his eyes, and he glances away.

"I can't," Hermione whispers at last, something cracking in her voice. "I can't picture Narcissa Malfoy in an apron."

A hoarse laugh breaks from his throat. "It's true, so now you don't have a choice."

"Merlin," she whispers. "Do you still carry on with it? I can't remember ever once seeing you eat fruitcake."

"I don't," he returns, pursing his lips. "I haven't the heart. I haven't touched the infernal nonsense since she died."

A quiet huff of laughter falls from her lips, and when Draco meets her eye, she offers a sad smile in return. "I never would have imagined. Thanks for sharing that with me."

"All that to say..." He drifts off, fixing his gaze on the darkening sky flecked by falling snow. "There's nothing wrong with the way we keep the memories of those we loved the most. You don't need to feel ashamed of how you remember your parents. It's only once we no longer think of those we've lost that we truly lose them."

Hermione blinks at him, her large eyes watery, and her brows lift into a pained furrow. In her stare, he can see the struggle and the anguish she still carries, still wears around her like a shroud. She sniffles, shakes her head, and looks away.

"Thank you, Draco."

It's the first time she's called him by his given name in years, and something within him hitches and stutters at the sound. She shifts on the cliff, and her shoulder grazes his.

"Of course," he murmurs, and though he isn't certain whether it was an accident, she doesn't move away.

The deep silhouette of a dragon flies past in the cobalt sky with powerful, lazy wing strokes, and Draco watches its path until it's gone, intensely aware of Hermione's presence at his side. It's the most time they've willingly spent together since being at the reserve.

"I appreciate you talking with me tonight," she says quietly, fuelling whatever it is that hangs within him.

It isn't hope―he knows better than to indulge such a thing―but maybe they could be okay again one day.

"And you," he returns, turning his head towards her. A breath snags in his throat at the look on her face, at their closeness. "You aren't alone, you know."

Even though most of the time, he knows she feels that way because he feels that way, too.

Her arm presses gently against his. "Neither are you."

Hermione wanders into the healing bay, and in a glance, he can see her self-imposed reservation. It's been weeks since Richard fell ill, and in most cases the illness would have run its course. He knows the conclusion he would make.

Draco sets down his notes and eyes her for a moment. "Come to check on the patient?"

"In part," she allows softly, gazing towards Richard where the young dragon snorts loudly in sleep. Then her gaze shifts to him, and her cheeks grow flushed. "I came to see you, as well. I know there are still a few days until Christmas, but... I brought you something."

Surprise reverberates through him, settling dangerously close to his heart. Hermione brandishes a small wrapped package without meeting his gaze.

He takes the parcel, uncertainty a cruel force within him. He knows better than to think there's another chance for them, but still, his nerves flare.

"Thanks," he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. "Richard is doing a lot better. I'm keeping him another night for observation, but he'll be released back into the reserve tomorrow provided nothing happens."

She gives a sharp intake of breath, and in an instant, her eyes glaze. "That's wonderful news." She offers a fortifying nod. "Thank you, Draco."

"It's my job."

Hermione's voice dips low. "I know it is, but I've seen you treat dozens of dragons over the years. You don't often lose sleep like you did with this one."

As he stares at the small package in his hands, he doesn't know how to respond with anything but the truth. "You know why."

He can feel her gaze, searing through him to the barest parts of himself that only she ever knew, and he knows he can't hide from her. He never could.

"Open it," she says at last.

His stomach coils into a knot as he slips open the paper, unwrapping a sealed fruitcake. Recollections swirl within him and mix with the reality of this moment, the way Hermione's eyes grow watery as she watches him.

"I thought a lot about what you said," she says, "about honouring those we love. Those we've lost." She rests a hand on one of his, and when their fingers entwine it's so familiar he forgets how long it's been. Despite the colour flushing her cheeks, she holds his gaze; she's always been so much braver than him. "And I thought maybe we could share our first snow traditions this year."

Stupidly, he only chokes out, "It isn't the first snow anymore."

Her hand in his is so real, so steadying, he gives it a squeeze, unwilling to let go.

A soft smile lifts her lips as she turns to face him, gazing up at him, and something glints in her eyes he hasn't seen in years. "I know it isn't," she whispers, "but I could go for a mug of cocoa all the same."

Before he can even string together a response between the whir of his mind and the race of his heart, she presses up on her toes and brushes a kiss to his jaw. When she doesn't draw back, he tilts his head just slightly, just enough so her lips brush his.

It's heat and memory and rejuvenation, the warmth he's longed for through too many sleepless nights, and in her kiss he finds the hope he thought he'd lost. In the touch of her tongue he seeks resolution, something innate she always gave but never sought in return.

He can't let go, never again let go. His fingertips graze her cheek, her hand curls in his collar, and when they break apart, breaths mingling, all he wants is to draw her in again.

Draco can scarcely breathe around the pounding of his heart in his throat. He wants to hold her in his arms, to cling to her forever, and he knows he'll never push her away again. "Merlin, I've missed you," he manages.

"I've missed you," she says softly. "I'm so sorry, Draco."

He clutches his fruitcake in one hand like it's a lifeline, holding her gaze like it's all that grounds him to the fact that this is real. A slow grin tugs at last at his mouth. "I think," he says at last, "Fruitcake and hot cocoa sounds perfect."

A bright laugh falls from her lips. "I suppose it does."

Although he knows nothing is perfect―and so much still lies between them―he can't help but to think this moment feels pretty close.