A/N: Happy new year! I hope 2023 is infinitely better for everyone. If, by some miracle, the last year wasn't a shitshow for you, I hope the luck carries on!

I OWN NOTHING BUT THIS SO-CALLED PLOT.

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Under a Christmas tree decorated with a haphazard assortment of ornaments and bluebell lights, was a handsome pile of presents. Pan a bit to the side, and there were mother and daughter, on a sofa, feet encased in thick socks and hands cupped around mugs of Twinings Ceylon Tea. Mum's favourite. A tiny unicorn slept between them.

Hermione had just got through a detailed elaboration of her plans for TEMP, which had been originally intended for Madam Barros.

She was still waiting to receive an anonymously gifted prize Turkey.

"You certainly have your work cut out for you," mum remarked.

"Yes," Hermione sighed, "I'm putting my faith in a spirit of recovery and reformation that I'm afraid may be dwindling, and in the hope that people remember Dobby… and all the other elves who fought against Voldemort. But there's little I can do against a hard, blinkered standpoint that believes servitude is in their very nature."

"It's never in anyone's nature. It's browbeaten"

"Exactly."

"The next time you're in the library, see if you can find a copy of Gilbert Stone's A History of Labour. He's firmly opposed to revolutionism, but you may find his dedication to political development helpful. ...And there's a nice way for me to segue into this–" Mum got up and padded over to the tree, picking up a present wrapped in handmade paper. "I would've chosen differently had I known, but… here you go."

Hermione unwrapped Women Workers of World War I – Accounts contributed by representative workers of the work done by women in the more important branches of war employment, edited by Gilbert Stone.

"Thank you!" she exclaimed.

She looked away from the book after a lengthier interval than she realised, for mum had wandered off. She was standing in front of the salon wall.

"Quite a few new additions," she noted.

"Er, yes," Hermione muttered, shuffling to stand beside her. "Dean made that one, for my birthday."

"And the rest? Very eclectic… Is that Indonesian?"

"Yes," Hermione replied shortly, "They're souvenirs."

"Oh?"

Staring at the Nuristani woodcarving, she said, "Draco travels a lot, for work."

Mum turned to her. Hermione kept staring straight ahead.

"And he brings you a work of art from everywhere he goes."

"Yes."

"That is…" mum looked back at the wall. "...incredibly sweet. I can't wait to meet him."

Draco Malfoy. Sweet. Ooh baby baby, it's a wild world.

She had already given her parents a brief, sanitised introduction to Draco the previous evening; namely, he was an informer during the war, helped her out of a few sticky situations, also worked at the Ministry, and please don't bring up his vile parents. She'd been very nonchalant but something was amiss because mum hadn't stopped giving her smiling, sidelong glances.

After letting her squirm, mum called upon her to expound on the new pieces; which she did, as fluently as possible, under the circumstances. In the middle of that, dad came back home carrying more stuff than they could possibly need. It was as if he had emptied the shops downstairs.

Without saying much of anything, he shot right into the kitchen, which was followed by the sound of a chopping board hitting the counter.

"He was moaning about needing to use matchsticks and not being able to work the blasted magicky oven in his sleep," mum said, "When's his gregarious helper getting here?"

"It's only seven. He doesn't stir from bed before noon on a weekend."

"Well, if he doesn't get here within an hour, you'll have to go fetch him. For the sake of Robert's sanity."

Absently nodding, she supposed it was time she got done with the task of examining her haul. Back on the sofa she went, and levitated the lot onto the coffee table.

That year, Mrs. Weasley's jumper was a deep violet, with a band of snowflakes around the middle. She pulled off the one she had on, and slipped it over her head.
From Harry she got a box of assorted jams, from Ron she got a (new and improved, auror approved) sneakoscope. Ginny got her a delicate jewelled headband, and Luna something that she was simply going to call a talisman and be done with. Theo's present was a pocket sized camera and a bottle of developing solution. A Quick-Quotes quill from McGonagall. The rest was a never-ending pile of sweets and chocolates that made her mother groan, ("Your teeth will not survive!") and one predictable bottle of whiskey wrapped in a flyer announcing FINNIGAN'S NEW YEAR'S KNEES-UP! BIGGER AND BETTER THAN THE LAST!

Finally, she was left with one. Bulky and heavy; another book, forsooth.

"Last but not the least?" mum murmured.

Hermione pretended not to hear her. Just for the next few minutes, she wished she was alone. She wished her complexion was even and that the movement of her fingers prying open the wrapper wasn't so reverential.

The book inside was ancient. Bound in old, mottled leather and with a slightly damaged spine, the infinitesimal buzz it emitted revealed that it was being held together by some very strong charms.

Unravelling The Veil : Theories, Stories, and Impressions of The Beyond
by,
Eugenius Asklepios, the travelling philosopher of Erétria.
Translated by ––– and here was a scorch mark.

Hermione had come across Eugenius of Erétria back in first year, when she was hunting down Nicolas Flamel. It was said that he was known to be unstable, his methods questionable, his findings baseless, and his books restricted and no longer in circulation. How the hell had Draco got hold of it?

"Getting spiritual these days?" mum asked.

"No," she breathed, "We were talking about The Divine Comedy, and I'd complained about there being no real insight into what comes after death… especially in a world where ghosts exist, and…"

Mum said… something. It didn't register. Hermione so wanted to peel back the cover to see if he had left something for her in there, but she didn't dare while being watched so closely.
Therefore, instead, she collected everything and took it to the study, mumbling the word mess, and hoping that it would suffice.

She sat on her desk-bed and gently opened the book. The parchment within was matchingly ancient, not too far from papyri in appearance. The translator's name was scorched out on the inside cover as well, along with the date and place of publication.

Under that was a bright and fresh bit of parchment that read:

Before a Cat will condescend
To treat you as a trusted friend,
Some little token of esteem
Is needed, like a dish of cream.

God help her, for her mind immediately jumped to the most prurient interpretation of cream. She'd certainly accept that. He could be her most trusted friend if he offered that. Alternate universe Hermione and Draco were having sex under a christmas tree, she decided. And her heart sputtered like a dying engine.

Sighing, she removed his note and filed it away with all the others, and then folded herself in one corner of the desk-bed with the book.

The beginning was reminiscent of Thus Spake Zarathustra: Young Eugenius withdrew from society and hid himself in a dense spinney near the Sanctum (dubbed a temple by muggles) of Apollo Daphnephoros, where he remained for a decade. Like Zarathrustra, he too grew weary of his wisdom and emerged from his self-exile determined to mete it out to the masses…

Just when she got to the portion that could be a loose parallel to the God is dead declaration, (Eugenius claimed to have had long conferences with a glimmering remnant of the deceased Apollo – not imprint of soul, not animated corpse – A horcrux? She could only wonder…) mum cleared her throat and drew her back to temporality.

"Your dad is demanding music," she said, "And needs a helping hand."

Hermione jumped to her feet, carefully set the book on the bed, and walked out of the room while mum's overly twinkly eyes followed her. They stayed on her before, during, and after the music was selected, making her glad to seek shelter in the kitchen with dad, peeling potatoes and pulling rosemary leaves off the stem. Dad was outrageously chuffed to be cooking for more than two people, singing loudly as he went about preparing a turkey crown.

She had started on the parsnips when a telltale whoosh from the other room, and a subsequent exclamation of, "Evelyn, you goddess!" heralded the arrival of dad's gregarious helper.
When Hermione moved to the kitchen door, she saw Mum admiring Theo's desultory beard with convincing sincerity, while he puffed up his chest.

"There you are, you laggard!" Dad bellowed as he walked past Hermione, up to Theo and clapped him on the back.

"Look at this tall, strapping, bearded man," mum grinned.

"Yeah sure, he's a lumberjack and he's OK," dad snarked, "Did I not tell you I'd like to get an early start?"

"By the way, what's this I hear about you running off to France tomorrow? I thought you might want to spend some time with us," mum said with an accusing tone.

"Do you want to see me cry?" Theo bewailed, "Is that what you want? When Draco gets here, please feel free to tell him that you refuse to let me go, yeah? Tell him that he should face that lot on his own."

Dad was still on his tangent, "Did I not say there's a ton to do? We have a whole ruddy feast to prepare."

"Magic makes everything go a hundred times faster, Robert."

Theo emphasised his name in a tone that Hermione often said dad, when he was being excessively dad-like. She slipped to the side as the two men bustled into the kitchen, sharing a smile with mum, who tilted her head, gesturing for Hermione to sit beside her again. Hermione had to quell an uprising of dread as she complied.

But mum didn't interrogate her about Draco. Instead, she wanted to know more about the reality of Greek mythology that was rooted in the magical world, (which also being something she had talked about with Draco, kept her thoughts firmly where they always were these days.)

Hours went by like that, peppered with music requests yelled out from the kitchen that Hermione promptly saw to. It wasn't long before the whole flat was filled with tempting aromas. She was also made to fetch the book McGonagall had given her for her nineteenth birthday, and had to keep bashing away at answering mum's queries while fighting the urge to do nothing but stare at the clock above the mantel.

It was later, when dad brought out a canape platter and smoked salmon tartlets, and Theo followed with moondew infused champagne, that the floo went off for the second time and Draco stepped into the room. He was wearing his gorgeous Wedgewood blue jumper, and had a paper bag in his hand. Rigid, a bit breathless, paler than usual, he blinked around at the room at large where everyone had stopped what they were doing to look at him.

"Good afternoon," he muttered, "I apologise for being late."

"Not at all. You're just in time." Mum wore a warm smile as she went up to him and offered him her hand. "It's lovely to meet you, Draco. I'm Evelyn."

Draco bowed his head slightly as he took it, with a half-smile that could launch an infinite number of ships.

"Hold on!" Theo piped up, "Why does he get to call you Evelyn from day one?"

"Because he didn't presume," mum replied.

"You didn't even give him a chance to presume! Draco can out-presume anyone! You do want to see me cry!"

Chuckling over Theo's whines, dad approached Draco with his hand outstretched.

"Robert," he said cheerily, "You're the chap behind the antlers, aren't you? Inspired work. Go on then, have a seat. Can I pour you a glass of bubbly?"

But Draco didn't move. The fingers around the paper bag spasmed, before they lifted.

"I've…" he began. And ended. From within the bag, he drew out two boxes.

"What, he's allowed to get you presents, too?" Theo burst out.

Both mum and dad shot Hermione a look of exasperation, for failing to warn Draco. She sank deeper into her seat – Draco's armchair – just as Draco's look of discomfort deepened.

"Have I overstepped?" he asked awkwardly.

"Not at all," mum insisted kindly, "We just, er, weren't expecting you to bring anything."

Draco's jaw clenched even as he smiled, and Hermione felt she might have been the only one to notice for the overall effect was so gracious and dazzling. He handed a square present to dad, a slim, rectangular one to mum, and then approached Hermione.

"For you, from Safi," he said, without really looking at her.

"Thanks," she replied softly, peeping inside to see a box of that same confectionery that Safi had distributed after Crisis Aid had been passed.

Dad was quick to tear into his gift. The box he unwrapped rattled and shook like it was full of live animals, with the words Quidditch Mini Matches! embossed on its lid. When he lifted it, he let out a choked yelp as fourteen tiny broom-riding figures (seven white and seven blue) shot out and began streaking across the room. Mum gasped and nearly dropped her half-opened present. But when dad unfolded a board with a drawing of a pitch on it, and six goal hoops sprang up, the figures floated down to hover over it.

"Blimey! What's this?"

"A simulacrum," Draco explained, "This handbook explains the rules of the game, and has a list of all manoeuvres and formations. You can pick any six and write them in these slots here. The players will then go on to play a match using them… no spell needed to get it started. Matches usually last about half an hour, unless you attempt to keep the snitch hidden. Which I wouldn't recommend; they tend to get ferocious after thirty minutes."

Dad was dumbfounded. "Um. How many manoeuvres and formations are there?"

"Seventy. The permutations are extensive."

"Righto. And – Oh!" One of the figures circled around his head. "What's a snitch?" he asked dazedly.

Draco flipped open the handbook and began explaining the rules to dad, who got entirely absorbed at once.

Watching them, Hermione wanted to cry. She sensed a prickling along the side of her face, and she turned to see Theo standing to the side, staring right back at her, with a broad smirk. Her cheeks burned as she quickly looked away.

But then mum gasped again.

She was holding a large Japanese folding hand-fan, gaping at its surface with awe. Hermione shifted closer, catching sight of a painted, animated landscape of exquisite beauty. There was a river upon which boats floated up and down. Trees swayed under the influence of a gentle breeze. Women strolled along the banks. A scribe sat at a chabudai, writing, while a cat played around him. A rickshaw puller raced down a road, carrying a pair of officials.

"It's from the Heian period. Tenth century," Draco said.

Mum slowly faced him with disbelieving round eyes. "It's glorious. I'm… rather speechless. I don't think I can accept–"

"Then it'll end up forgotten, in some ignorant pureblood's collection. Gran – Hermione had mentioned that you are a great admirer of Japanese art."

She had?
Mum continued to look at Draco like he had six heads. Two flying figurines performed loops in the space between them.

"Let us have a look, Evie," dad called, and when mum turned the fan around, he let out a low whistle. "How did you find this?"

"My family are well-acquainted with plenty of antiquarians."

"Goodness," mum sighed, gaping at the fan again, "I don't know if I can… It's… much too much."

"Not at all," Draco pronounced stiffly. His face was wooden; almost painfully expressionless, yet a hint of panic was revealed by his clenched fist.

"What do I even say," mum went on with a nervous laugh, "Thank you?"

"You're very welcome."

Silence followed. Hermione was too wound up to look anywhere but her knee. It was broken when a loud clang issued from the kitchen: One of the miniature quidditch players had found its way there. Theo dashed off to retrieve it, and dad cleared his throat.

"So… where were we?" he said to Draco, and the introduction to quidditch recommenced. Then they decided to start a match.

"Wollongong Shimmy… might facilitate the, er, Dopplebeater Defence?"

"Not a bad call."

"How about a Caterpillar Clatter?"

"Don't listen to Theo, there's no such thing. I would recommend the Rowntree Counter."

And mum kept on studying the fan. Hermione sat quietly, sipping champagne, so wholly and brutally full of love, that she was afraid she would spontaneously burst into violent sobs.

The match ended in just under ten minutes, with the white team taking a victory lap around the room, after which all players zoomed back into the box.

"That was brilliant!" dad crowed, "The most delightfully chaotic yet perfectly streamlined sport imaginable." He beamed at Draco, "Cheers. Help yourself to some more bubbly," and to Theo, he said, "Well then, my boy. Let's go check on that turkey."

They left, and mum slowly folded the fan closed and slipped it into its case.

"Draco." She smiled, "You're with the International Department of the Ministry, I believe?"

"I am."

"Have you had any opportunity to travel?"

"Yes. I've been to Switzerland, Indonesia, Afghanistan, and China, so far. I'll be going to the UAE next month."

"My, what an eclectic list."

Hermione summoned the bottle and topped up her glass. Mum and Draco's exchange carried on… Hermione sat and sipped on, dizzy with affection.

When dad returned, he monopolised Draco once again. It began with "Hermione tells me you play the piano?" and ended with the both of them in front of the cassette player, and dad giving Draco a rundown of modern western music, from the sixties to the current year, while they spoke of technical aspects that went over everyone else's head. Dad kept switching tapes, Draco's wand hand was fully occupied – a fine musical peregrination, even with Hermione's (according to dad) limited collection.
Theo perched on the arm of mum's chair, stuffing his face with cheese canapes, regaling her with highly embellished tales of his misadventures with George.

Hermione had an ear pointed in each direction, but taking in little. She just… sipped. Disintegrated.

At a quarter past one, the oven finally rang, drawing dad and Theo away, and the latter, who wasn't finished showing off for mum, took her arm and led her forcefully to the kitchen door, making her stand there and listen while he worked.

When Hermione had built up the nerve to look towards Draco, she found him gone. He was nowhere in the room. She reasoned he had gone to the loo, and – she cast a furtive glance at mum's back – that meant she might be able to catch him in the hall. Even if it was for half a minute. He hadn't even looked her way yet. Did he hate the player and CDs?
She got up noiselessly and crept out of the room.

Draco wasn't in the loo. But the study door was ajar. She pushed it open and there he was, putting a book back into place.

"Draco," she murmured.

"Yeah?" He turned around. Smiled.

She took a few steps in. The desk-bed sat invitingly in the middle of the room.

"You're done with the book?" she asked.

"No. I've made a copy. I'd like to take my time with it."

"You could have kept it," she replied, walking around the desk-bed, "For as long as you needed."

"Right. But then suddenly, on a random day at four in the morning, you'd be overcome by a Granger-ish urge to consult a particular poem, and you'd come knocking at my door and I'd be forced to kill you."

"It's funny that you think you can."

She came to a stop in front of him, the width of one bookshelf between them, once more admiring the colour that elevated him from handsome to faultless. The tip of his tongue peeked out to wet his lips and it alerted her to the fact that she had been silently drinking him in.

"Uh um," she stammered, "I'm–"

"You invented a brand new lighting charm to get the CD player to work," he cut in casually.

She replied after a beat. "Not invented exactly. More like… modified?"

He rolled his eyes.

"...Or," she kept going, "Combined and erm, well, yes part of the incantation was new, but–"

"You invented a brand new lighting charm," he said, in the same casual tone, "And it's fucking ingenious."

Oh. She was not going to talk him out of that. "Thank you. …You… liked them, then? The player, headphones, and the CDs? I wasn't sure about the selection, just went with what you'd told me."

He laughed. "Yes, I liked them. Fucking hell, Granger. What do you think?"

Her heart swelled to an impossible size and she lowered her head to spare him the madness of her grin.

What about me? Do you like me?

"Did you like the book?" he asked.

"It's incredible!" Her head and grin snapped up. "I could hardly believe it. I've already finished the first chapter, and… who or what is he talking to? Did Apollo make a horcrux? There isn't any record that's kept a tab on those, so it's not exactly impossible."

"Well–"

"Which begs the question – how much can an earth-bound fragment of a soul know about the Beyond? We're still only getting speculation…"

"I haven't–"

"Eugenius' general reputation would suggest he was probably hallucinating; but there's so much inside scoop! And it won't be the first time an opinion or insight has been suppressed, will it?"

"It's–"

"How on earth did you get a hold of it?"

"I have my ways." He looked highly amused.

"So you have access to a lot of rare books?"

Bah, the mortifying longing in her voice. He looked even more amused as he nodded.

"Yes, of course, you – and, my god, Draco. The fan. They both must have been outrageously expensive!"

He sniffed. "I don't know what that word means."

So much about that statement and the tone it was said in was evocative of Lucius Malfoy; the drawl, the nose in the air…
But the smirk was fully Draco. The looseness of his shoulders and the gleam in his eyes was Draco.

"Besides," he continued, "I doubt ten of those CDs would have been cheap."

"Nowhere even close to–"

"Have you given me presents for the next twelve Christmases in one go? It's all clearly too much for one."

"Don't be absurd," she scoffed, "And you've been getting me things for months, so by that logic, you shouldn't have got me anything at all!"

"And yet you still outnumbered me in one fell swoop," he countered, "I'm going to have to shower you with presents now."

"That's the most terrifying threat I've ever received."

The sound of an electric guitar riff suddenly blaired at a horrendous volume.

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TURN IT DOWN!"

"MY WAND'S IN THE KITCHEN, HOLD ON!"

"HERMIONE CAN DO IT WITHOUT HER WAND!"

"YEAH, WELL, HERMIONE IS SPECIAL!"

"I'm glad you're cheerful today," she remarked, "I was worried my parents would be treated to your Scrooge-like persona."

He quirked an eyebrow at her. She grinned.

"It's ineffably annoying when you do that. Bring up something that I obviously won't know anything about, and then wait for me to ask."

She stepped around him, to the other bookshelf, and picked out A Christmas Carol.

"You'll learn all about Scrooge here – Oh! Wait!"

Pulling the book away just as he was reaching for it, she leapt over to the box into which she'd emptied her ex-desk's drawer. She procured a pen and post-it, and glanced up to see him watching her bemusedly. She kept the note covered as she wrote, without needing to spend any time thinking. She knew exactly what she wanted to say.

For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.

Once the note was tucked away, she issued a warning: "Don't read that till you're back home."

She came to a stop in front of him, the width of half a bookshelf between them, and pushed the book into his hands.

"Alright," he smirked.

"I won't be stupid enough to make you promise."

"And if I promised all the same?"

"I'll be even more suspicious."

She zoned in on the fingers splayed over the book which he held against his chest, the cover beautifully off-set by the hue of his jumper. His frame had always been one of lean elegance, but at that moment, she was overwhelmed by the breadth of his torso. It filled her vision. The universe condensed to the shape of his silhouette. She lifted her eyes to his face and almost fell back in shock upon seeing his Mein of Persuasion out in full force. His head was slightly tilted, brow lifted in a way that she could only describe as earnest. His mouth was set in the gentlest, most sensual curve.

Had he asked her something? Shit, she was so out of it.

"I… I mean it." she murmured, "You can't sneak a peek."

"I said I wouldn't," he responded just as softly.

The Mein of Persuasion transformed into the Mein of I-Have-You-In-My-Thrall. And he blithely let her stand there, mute, in his thrall, while his eyes roved over her face, painting it with fire. You are the music while the music lasts. She was a photo negative, a stroke in a silverpoint sketch, a chalky stalagmite, a broken hand of a broken watch, a lightning rod, a fracture in a lake of ice — Do you like me? Say you like me.

Hermione took a step back. Another loud tune seeped in from the other room.

"Wharf Rat," she whispered. Her voice cracked.

He blinked in confusion, a frown pushing down and establishing a Mein of Puzzlement.

"We're never going to eat," she muttered, taking more steps back. Many more.

"I'm not going to ask," he snapped gruffly.

"Dad is going to treat you to his Grateful Dead monologue." (Draco's mouth thinned with annoyance.) "Oh, just come along. You'll see."

She stayed a step behind, and he held the book between his arm and hip as he walked. The need to have a good cry was back, with the desire to march out of the building to stand in the cold being a close second. A Prufrock-like dramatic monologue erupted within:
Do I dare… do I dare…
Wonder about the meaning behind his long quiet stare?

Decisions, indecisions, and revisions.

Predictably, the moment they made an appearance at the living room door, dad beckoned with an excited, "Do you hear the groove on this one?"

On the other side, Theo was moving in and out of the kitchen, piling dishes onto a magically expanded dining table that was groaning under the weight of the heartiest meal it had ever borne. At the same time, he was still talking at mum, who was laying out table mats. Hermione rushed over to help.

"Where did the two of you run off to?" Mum asked placidly.

"Looking for essential Christmastime literature," Hermione intoned, taking great care to lay the cutlery just right.

And soon after, they settled to eat. Dad grabbed Hermione's shoulders and directed her to the head of the table, and gestured for "the guest of honour," Draco, to sit to her right. Mum settled to her left, prosecco was poured into glasses, and dad delicately cut into the perfectly glazed turkey. The lull that followed, with the scraping of forks and knives, the soft sound of glasses and dishes being set down, was ideal for labile musings. Was it proving to be the longest, or shortest Christmas dinner of her life? If felt like both; ephemeral like every carefully registered move that Draco made at the edge of her vision, but also neverending like the staccato of her pulse.

"Food alright, Draco?" Dad asked.

Draco swallowed a mouthful. "It's marvellous. I now see how enormously Theo bodged up your recipes."

"What about the paella!"

Everybody (but one) chuckled.

"You studied arithmancy, as well, didn't you, Draco?" mum asked.

"Yes."

"May I ask you a question then? If you aren't as devotedly bound to rationality as my daughter and I…"

"I have some experience in abandoning all rational thought."

"Perfect," mum laughed.

Hermione knew where this was going. She pitched in, "I'll have you know, Draco also thinks divination is rubbish."

"I wouldn't say that," Draco refuted.

She rounded on him. "You told me that true, unconditional prophecies are a myth!"

He coughed lightly and picked up his glass, eyeing the liquid that was nearly the same colour as his hair.. "You were in a flap. I wanted it to stop." Then he quickly took a sip.

Everybody (but one) chuckled.
A chorus that sang, Yes, yes, we know exactly what you mean!

"Are you a fan of Trelawney's work then? Have a pack of tarot cards in your pocket at all times?" Hermione bridled.

"No," he said shortly, and addressed mum, "Unconditional prophecies cannot exist, of course, since we aren't dealing with a law of magic, or nature. What divination really is… and this is something I'm sure I'd said to Gra – Hermione as well… it's the art of channelling and being attuned to the resonances of magic, and uncovering a general augury for any given time in the future."

"And how does that differ from Arithmancy?" mum asked.

"Arithmancy has a fixed point that you work towards. You can calculate the probability of an outcome, or lay out a series of possible outcomes in numerical form. But divination is vagarious and–"

"Unmethodical!"

In spite of the hissed interruption, Draco kept his attention on mum. "Divination isn't a methodology. It's a gift that very few have. It's the ability to discern what a certain type of magical energy is presaging–"

"If it's such a gift then why were we made to sit and stare into teacups and crystal balls like it's something we could all learn? Don't we all have the amazing Inner-Eye?"

Draco let out a long suffering sigh and turned to her. "We have been over this. I agreed that all that was pure waffle." He looked back at mum. "Historically, seers and oracles had to earn their keep and place in society. Simply being attuned to future resonances and giving out vague forecasts wasn't enough."

"With that came the birth of the Prophecy!" Hermione cut in hotly, "A fleck of truth encased in an embroidered and absolutely empty bit of poesy designed to be misinterpreted, with no regard for the havoc it could wreak, the lives it could destroy, the wars–"

"Yes, er… all that." Draco drawled, smirking at mum, "Prophetic artistry has admittedly led to a lot of chaos. But one must admire the work that goes into crafting the bit of poetry. Eliot would have been good at it."

Hermione huffed. Mum laughed.

"Both prophecies and general forecasts are equally vague," Draco continued, "People just prefer the glamour of the former. And when a poor soothsayer does try to convey a warning in simple terms, he's often ignored. For example, Beware the Ides of March."

"Oh, was that soothsayer a real historical figure?" mum asked excitedly, "Were those his actual words?"

"No." Hermione ground out, "That was Spurinna, and he saw something perilous in a sheep's liver."

"But I'm sure all of us here prefer Shakespeare's embroidered version," Draco said.

"You're familiar with a lot of muggle literature," mum observed.

And that finally gave Draco pause. He acted like he simply needed to take a bite of food, instead of making a graceful admission like, it's all thanks to Hermione, she's ingenious and beautiful, I cherish her opinion and worship the ground she walks on.

Instead, the absolute bellend said, "My piano teacher introduced me to Shakespeare. Once school started, I could only have lessons during the holidays, so in between those, he had me read plays and compose background music for scenes of my choosing."

"That's a bloody interesting assignment! Sounds like a great teacher." dad exclaimed.

"He… could be. Once in a while."

"Which scenes?" dad asked eagerly.

"The night of omens and portents from Julius Caesar," Draco said with a delicate smirk, "The opening scene of A Midsummer Night's Dream, A theme for Falstaff, the three drunk men wandering about the island in The Tempest…"

"What a variety! You know, my band wrote a song called Titus And-no-knickers… and no, I will not elaborate. The less said about that, the better. Anyhoo, were you his prize student?"

"He hated me." Draco grinned.

"Oh, Draco," Theo chortled, "If he hated you, then what about me? Remember that lone lesson I sat for?"

Draco barked a sudden laugh. "Merlin, I had blocked that out. What a nightmare."

"Nobody appreciated my extemporaneous approach," Theo lamented.

"You could've called it Ode to a Brain Malady."

"It was powerful."

"So powerful that I thought Herr Dietrich would require hospitalisation by the end of it."

Laughter swelled and ebbed fluidly over pebbles of conversations. The last scraps were swept off respective plates. Hermione cleared the table with a few lazy hand movements, (save for everyone's second glass of wine,) following which, Dad brought out a perfect dome of Christmas pudding; dark, rich, and smelling mouth-wateringly good.

"This one's from the baker's downstairs, I'm afraid. There wasn't enough time to prepare one myself."

Pudding concluded, everyone returned to prior occupations. While the rest of the country would've tuned in to the royal broadcast that afternoon, their little party was listening to a different kind of Queen.

Just as Bohemian Rhapsody began to play, Hermione excused herself and snuck into the loo, casting a silencing charm because 'Bismillah, no' meant Bellatrix would never let her go —
She splashed warm water on her face and sat on the edge of the tub. The song was five minutes and fifty-five seconds long, so she conjured her little silver otter friend while thinking of the half-bookshelf space between Draco and her.

It was the longest Christmas dinner of her life, that was for sure. She conjured a bluebell ball for the otter to chase across the ceiling where there was no chandelier. There shouldn't have been any tightness in her chest.

Killer Queen was on as Hermione settled on the sofa close to mum.

"Just look at the detail," mum said to her, once more fixated on her new fan, "The garments, the headgear, you can even see actual letters on the scribe's scroll. There are tiny little people on the boats. The cat even has whiskers! And I can't believe it's all moving."

Hermione hummed, leaning into mum's shoulder. Just being around her was soothing. As was looking at Theo nodding off in the chair across from them. As were Dad and Draco's voices laid over music.

"I wish you were here for longer," she mumbled, by and by.

"Oh, darling, we'll be back in August. Your cousin Charlotte's getting married."

"I'm sure I'm not invited."

"Of course you are," mum chided, "Why don't you go fetch your new camera? We should have a picture of our first Christmas in your flat."

She did so. When she returned mum had dragged drowsy Theo onto the sofa next to her, and called for dad and Draco to stand behind it.

"I can take the picture," Draco offered.

"What, can't that camera be timed?" dad asked.

"Of course, it can," Theo replied, "It's magic, Robert."

"I'm getting very sick of that refrain, you know."

"Then he'll never stop saying it," Draco muttered.

Timer set, Hermione plopped down on mum's other side. Dad's hand came to rest on her shoulder and the flash went off.

"How about one with just the youngsters then?" mum declared.

Before Hermione could react, mum had got up, Theo had dragged her to the middle of the sofa, and Draco had settled where she had been.

There couldn't have been more than two inches between their shoulders. He was emitting warmth, cologne, and a fierce magnetic pull.

Flash. He got up. It was over.

She got up.

"Um… tea?" she asked the room.

"Yes, please!" Theo yawned.

The late afternoon bestowed a torpidity that could not be resisted. Even the player was moved to the table so that Draco and dad could sit while dad meandered into Supertramp and launched into the history of the Wurlitzer electric piano.

"Bleh," Theo groaned, "Waking up early is hell. Didn't even get a chance to open my presents."

"Are you saying we aren't worth it?"

"Evelyn, what are you doing to me?"

Ensconced in Draco's armchair, Hermione was quiet.

Quiet till empty teacups in saucers clattered as they were set on the table. Quiet as phrases like must be going and early morning portkey were uttered. Quiet as Theo crushed her into a tight hug. Quiet at the afflictive soft look of grey eyes and the gentle nod of a fair head. Quiet at the end of the shortest Christmas dinner of her life.

Boxing day and two substitute holidays meant that Hermione had three more days to spend entirely with her parents.

On the first of those, they went to their favourite Indian restaurant for not-quite-brunch, and over hot buttered naans, Hermione broke the news that they would be expected at the Burrow the following day. Dad was blaisé about it, but mum needed to be reassured that they were guests and not the centrepiece.

Dad then had to be deposited at a pub and forgotten about; a Spurs versus Watford match was going to take up his afternoon.

As for mum, she was struck by an impulse that only ever occurred around Hermione – she wanted to idly roam the shops. They weren't there to take advantage of the numerous sales, only to browse… till a salesperson in a Father Christmas hat bullied them into buying some supposedly miraculous hair conditioner (Hermione's split-ends were brought up far too many times.)

At a shoe-shop, mum completely lost her sane straight-thinking head and insisted on purchasing a pair of towering, glittering black stilettos for Hermione, who protested… till she tried them on and looked in the mirror.

The enterprise was capped with hot foamy coffee replete with swirls of caramel, at a happily decorated coffee shop. Mum pulled off her scarf, flushed from the sudden warmth.

"So I'll finally meet the whole Weasley bunch tomorrow?"

Hermione nodded. "Ginny's home… you'll love her. And, Neville's back in town, Hagrid will be there… It's going to be a crush. We'll go, have a bite, and make a quick getaway."

"How are Harry and Ron, by the way?"

"They're all right," Hermione replied, sighing in the aroma of her beverage, "Proper aurors and that. I see them once a week or so, and we get on much better when we aren't spending all our time together."

Mum smiled. "Isn't that true for most people? It's bloody rare to find someone with whom time runs out before your patience does. And when you find someone like that… it's the most exciting thing in the world."

"Hmm. I imagine so."

"Draco is such a clever and charming young man. I like him."

Hermione hadn't felt such a compulsion to dive into her beaded bag in quite some time.

"Stop," she huffed.

"Well, he is. You must have many long conversations with him."

"I converse with a lot of people."

Mum grinned widely, then sucked in a dramatic breath. "I could not have parted with you, my Hermione, to anyone less–"

"Do not quote Mr. Bennett at me?!"

"Why not?"

"You shan't be parted – even if – I mean. Ugh. What the – Mum."

She let out a peal of laughter, taking in Hermione's undoubtedly scarlet complexion with a distressing amount of glee.

"And those gifts."

"He's extremely wealthy."

"Yes, his whole manner screams that. And I'm not talking about the many things he's gifted you. Just the game and the fan – they weren't merely expensive, they were thoughtful. They were 'impress the parents' gifts."

"Draco lives to impress. He needs everyone to be in awe of him."

Mum could see right through her, yet she would remain adamant in her denial. Anything to do with Draco felt too sacred to touch; too precarious to disturb.
Luckily, mum decided to take pity on her and moved the conversation onto booker prize winning novels. Coffee steamed, Hermione's ears steamed, but discussing books with mum was safe, even ground.

Later, they picked up dad, euphoric after a four-nil victory and having made about thirty new friends, and headed to a dark and empty alley for apparition, from which her parents required half an hour to recover.

Seeing mum and dad experience magical transportation was hilarious. The sheer horror post-apparition was well matched with the sneezes and pinched expressions post-floo. But there was hardly any time to dwell on them…

They stepped into the Burrow –

(Atishoo! and Argh, I have soot in my eyes!)

– Right into mayhem.

"Hermione, dear!" Mrs. Weasley cried with evident strain, while she brandished a whisk like it was a whip and the mixture before her was a circus lion, "Robert, Evelyn. It's so lovely to see you again. Through the door, er, everyone's in the garden. And – oh, please excuse the mess – I am just… Well. There was an accident earlier with the trifle… and Teddy… my son George is such a mischief-maker!"

Dad rolled up his sleeves and immediately joined her at the kitchen counter. "How about another pair of hands, then?"

Hermione led mum outside.

The long table in the back garden had been lengthened. Once again, the lawn was littered with a variety of chairs. A great enchanted dome hovered over it all, keeping it reasonably warm, dry, and wind-free, but not as thoroughly as one of Hermione's shield charms could. She lifted her wand and rectified that.

"I'd told them to wait for you."

Ron approached them, looking awfully red as he considered mum. "I'll bet you can cast a solid shield charm in your sleep."

"I'm almost sure I have cast plenty of shield charms in my sleep," Hermione grinned, "Mum, you remember Ron, don't you?"

"Yes, when Ron was around three feet shorter, I think," mum said with a laugh.

Then commenced the most strangely awkward bit of small talk Hermione had witnessed in a while, with Ron being uncharacteristically bashful. Thankfully, others convened around them, with cheerful and comfortable exchanges.

While mum was drawn into a conversation about the "muggle compeeter insect" by Mr. Weasley, Hermione turned to George.

"What did you do to the trifle?"

"Me?! It was Teddy."

"Right. The one-year-old."

"One year and eight months. He's a diabolical little imp. I shudder to think what he'll end up like."

"I have an idea," Hermione replied, looking at him pointedly.

Anything he might have said would have been swallowed by the excited squeal that Ginny greeted her with. Harry appeared behind her, and they both were also red, though Hermione suspected it was for a very different reason than Ron.

More nice to meet you's and how are you's, while Mr. Weasley kept trying to bring the conversation back to the Millenium bug. Justin's parents were also present, and both were sceptics like mum. Hermione caught Harry's eye and they exchanged a grin. Others left after their perfunctory salutations. Andromeda and Teddy, Charlie and Marius, Bill, (Fluer hadn't left her seat,) Angelina and her father, Lee and his parents, Luna, Xenophilius, and Jamila…

Dad and Mrs. Weasley popped out then, the latter glaring at her gold-eared son before also turning her attention to mum like a good hostess. Hermione's poor mother got no reprieve from dad, who went straight up to Ginny and struck up a discussion about Quidditch.

Soon –

"...match went on for three months? Really?" dad asked with amazement.

"Yeah," Ginny nodded excitedly, "Once we had a practice session go on for 26 hours."

"Well, shit. Ah, by the way, can you do a Dionysus Dive?"

"Yes."

Ron snorted. George said, "No you can't."

"Yes, I can!" Ginny erupted.

There were two Pfff's.

She stuck out her jaw and glared. "How thick are you two? I've been training for months!"

"Gin. Proper professionals can't do that move," Ron scoffed.

"You prat! I'll show you!"

And so a group of them trudged out of the warm bubble to the orchard while Ginny retrieved six brooms from the shed and tossed one to Harry, Ron, George, Angelina, and Charlie each. They all took off, Ron covered the goal, and the rest were instructed to keep Ginny from scoring. Four on one.

It didn't take long at all for Ginny to get hold of the quaffle. She sped towards the goal, lurching to one side so Ron followed –

(Mum and the Finch-Fletchley's cried out. Mrs. Weasley covered her eyes. Hermione slapped a hand over her mouth. Dad let out a litany of exclamations.)

– Ginny leapt off her broom. She dived head first through the hoop with the quaffle tucked under her arm. She landed deftly back on her broom, hovering in wait on the other side.

An applause broke out on the ground and in the sky. Ron and George grinned and ducked their heads conceding defeat. Above all – a booming "Ruddy good, eh!"

Hagrid had arrived. Hermione sat with him, getting updates about Hogwarts, Buckbeak, and Grawp, eventually joined by Harry and Ron, leading to a good fifteen minutes spent indulging their nostalgia that gave even Blast-Ended Skrewts a rosy glow.
Rosy.
Draco.
Bugger. She had been doing so well.

Then a loud whoop alerted her to the fact that her father was on a broom.

Her… father… was on a broom.
High up in the air.

Hermione jumped to her feet, dashing towards mum who looked ready to keel over and die. Dad's broom was tethered to Ginny's in the front, and Charlie's at the back with magical cords, and they were taking reasonably fast laps of the orchard, landing only after ten.

Charlie had to help dad off his broom, for he was unsteady and bandy-legged. Still, he was beaming like a child when he stumbled over to them.

"Best thing I've ever done. Stupendous. Exhilarating. Better than surfing."

Mum took hold of his arm and for the rest of the afternoon, she did not leave his side.

The last ones to arrive were Neville and his grandmother; the party settled to eat immediately after –

She sat next to Neville, and he seemed taller. Sturdier. Like he had been scaling the alps and repotting large plants under a bright sun.

He really did hike frequently. He really did work out in the sun, on some very interesting fluxweed hybrids. He had broken up with Hannah. He was too busy to be sad. His best mate was a budding herbologist from Senegal.

It was good to talk to him, but Andromeda was sitting diagonally across from Hermione, just the right amount of out-of-focus so that she may be mistaken for someone else.
Neville's words kept getting drowned out by the music in her head.

Great songs that were forever ruined.

Above her was the sublest gleam of magic, and a sky full of clouds.

Hermione and her parents left before anyone else, just minutes after the trifle was dished out.

"...stay a while longer?"

"We'd have loved to, Molly, but we really must pack and prepare for our flight."

"On an aeroplane!" Mr. Weasley said gleamingly.

"Yes, one of those."

She tucked herself into dad's side while walking to the floo. Back home, she settled into Draco's chair for a short, dreamless nap.

They went to the cinema that evening, to catch the latest Bond flick. It wasn't something Hermione or mum would have chosen, but dad thought the world was ending, so they let him have his way.

It did not hold her attention very much. It might have done, had her attention been in a biddable state.

The film was called The World is Not Enough.

And it wasn't.

The world is not enough because you exist.

Thirteen hours till her parents had to be at the airport.

That final morning, dad cooked for two hours while Hermione aided with magic, and packed away enough food to last Hermione for the rest of the week. Mum read through Hermione's TEMP notebook, filling the margins with suggestions and remarks. Dad played two rounds of mini-quidditch. The second one went off the rails when one of the players got into a game of cat and mouse with Stella. Mum pruned Hermione's plants.

"If you even run into your aunt for whatever reason, do not tell her we were here," they reminded her for the eleventh time.

After lunch, they went into the bedroom to pack. Hermione lingered by the door.

It felt like the steam from their final cup to tea enveloped her entire body, and when it melted away, they were at the airport.

Dad's embrace pulled a stream of tears out of her.

"You've built a wonderful life for yourself," he murmured, "You have wonderful people in your life, and you do wonderful work. I am so damn proud of you."

Mum took hold of her and reiterated – "So, so proud." In an undertone, she added, "You should tell him."

Hermione sniffled. Laughed. Groaned.

"Listen to your mother. She knows a thing or two." She took Hermione's face in her hands. "Tell him. You deserve the best sort of happiness."

Then she was watching them walk away, dad wheeling their trolley, mum unnecessarily making sure their documents were in order. But they kept looking over their shoulders, waving, smiling, waving, smiling, waving, till they vanished from view.

XXX

Hermione had washed her face, brushed her teeth, and put on her pyjamas. It was midnight. She was dithering between two doors in the empty, silent hall of her flat.

Ultimately, she decided to sleep in the study for just another night. She could pretend that she would wake up to find mum sitting in the living room with a cuppa, while dad's low snores emitted out of the bedroom.

She climbed onto her desk-bed, kneeling in the middle, staring as Stella launched into a late night gallop on the bookshelves.

"Just you and me," Hermione said to her.

But staring at the shelves brought about another dawning. Collected Poems by T. S. Eliot. Draco had put it back. She must have subconsciously summoned it, for the book came sailing into her hand.

There was a note.

...one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it.