A/N. Thanks for everyone who reviewed! You guys know how to make a writer feel loved. Hope I never disappoint. Sorry for the long wait for this chapter. I haven't felt inspired lately, though I've managed to update my other story. Hope you guys are still reading!

Chapter time!

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The next morning, Draco woke up with a splitting headache, having stayed up late into the night, filing and filling out forms. Nights like these made him feel more like a clerk than a hot-shot Ministry Law Enforcer. He rubbed his forehead, rummaged through the medicine cabinet for the right potion, downed it, and sat down on the toilet to wait for it to take effect. He closed his eyes, wincing at the surge of pain as the magic worked its way into his system, then felt the immediate relief. Standing up, he looked at himself in the mirror. The scar on his face was white on white against his skin, the circles around his eyes standing out. He was starting to resemble a panda. He slapped at his cheeks, trying to return some color to them. Not much luck. He stumbled into the living room, caught sight of the Daily Prophet. Saw an advertisement. Alcohol. Alcohol would set him straight.

Along with informing Draco that his superior had allowed him a few days to work at home, Harry had made Draco promise that he wouldn't touch anything alcoholic without someone else around. Personally, Draco felt like a little kid being told that he couldn't go outside without a responsible adult. He'd promptly informed Harry that he was perfectly capable of caring for himself. And now he'd show Harry. He'd go out to the pub and get a few drinks, just enough to drive away the cold and put some color on him, and come home just fine.

He wrapped up warm and, after a split second's hesitation, tucked the diary into the inner pocket of his coat. When he stepped out, he was greeted by snow and Christmas carols. The high, clear notes filled the air and whirled around Draco, cutting into his bones. The words were familiar, but they alienated him; they spoke of hope while in his heart he feared it. From the steps of his apartment building he watched the kids, bundled up against the cold, singing to the house a few lots down. The wind blew flurries and voices around him, and Draco found himself transported to his first Christmas with Hermione, all those years ago.

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He stepped through the front door hesitantly. It was Christmas Day, but the house didn't seem very festive. Actually, that was an understatement. It was more cheerful at the morgue he'd passed by on his way here. The house was completely silent, with a stale atmosphere. It had been a few months since the end of the war, but it seems no one was healed enough to try and bring Christmas to Grimmauld Place.

He set down the packages he'd brought on the couch in the living room, and noticed it was cleaner. He blinked, looked around. The layer of dust that normally covered the house was gone. Even the glass on the photographs on the walls was gleaming. Maybe the tenants of this house weren't so dead after all.

"Draco?"

He whirled around at her voice. She was standing there, in the doorway to the kitchen, pale, her hair the shortest it had been in her entire life. She'd cut it some weeks back, in a fit of anger and depression, sobbing all the while at how useless everything was, especially her. It suited her, though, in a wild sort of way. It gave her an edge her normally long, bushy hair had not. At the sight of him, various expressions crossed her face –relief, anger, happiness, pain. He held out his arms, tentatively, and she ran to him, but not to hug him.

'You – stupid – arse – Draco – Malfoy!" She punctuated every word with a blow, while he flung up his arms in defense, completely taken aback. "Why – did – you – leave – without – any – goodbye? Oh, don't you know what you put me through?" She kicked him in the shin and he staggered backward.

"What?" he asked, confused, peeking out from behind his arms. Her onslaught seemed to have finished and she collapsed in a nearby chair, panting. He heard a chuckle and looked up to see Ginny standing in the doorway. She winked and disappeared into the kitchen. Draco was relieved to see that wink. Things were lightening up in this house after all.

"You left!" Hermione's hysterical voice and her punch to his gut broke through his thoughts. She stood up and slapped him. "You left and you didn't tell anyone. You didn't even leave a note! Merlin, you were gone for two days, I was going out of my mind! Anything could have happened to you. I thought you were dead, I thought the Death Eaters had gotten you, I thought I'd lost you, I thought-" She broke off as Draco kissed her, hard, drawing her to him. She struggled at first, trying to push him away to berate him further, but Draco was still stronger even after weeks of being emaciated, living on the streets, and eventually, she gave up. Their kiss deepened; he pushed her against the wall, her hands winding through his hair. A cough from behind them made them jump apart.

"Ah, young love." It was Harry. He was grinning, a welcome expression on his face. Just last week Ginny was complaining that Harry's frown might be a now-permanent feature on his face. Ever since Draco had come to stay here the atmosphere had lightened up somewhat, though the happy moments were fleeting. A small joke here, an attempt at cleaning there, but it was improvement.

"What got into you?" Draco asked, wrapping an arm around Hermione's waist as she buried her head into his shoulder, embarrassed.

"Molly's been cleaning and forcing us to help. She's determined we're to have a proper Christmas, no matter the situation." Harry's face darkened somewhat and Draco could read between his words. This Christmas was honoring the dead as well as the living.

"You still haven't answered my question, Draco," Hermione snapped from where she was leaning against the wall. Draco could hear the smile she was hiding, though.

"You'll see later," he said, waving his wand behind his back to camouflage the presents on the couch, grateful they had gone unnoticed in the ruckus. He wanted them to be a surprise.

"The happiness is actually a little infectious, even if it is thin," Harry went on, entering the kitchen. "She's got most of us out of our rooms, at least."

"Most?" Draco asked, following him into the kitchen, where Ginny was arranging cookie dough on a tray. One of the ovens was lit, and inside Draco could see the chicken he'd bought a few days ago. It was thin, but it seems not even scant meat could deter Molly Weasely from making a "proper" Christmas dinner. He doubted there was much that could.

"Fred and George won't come out of their rooms yet. Neither will Luna," Ginny replied as she spooned out dough. Her face was impassive but her voice shook a little. Draco lifted a hand to comfort her, but Harry was already there, his arm around her shoulder. Draco awkwardly ran the raised hand through his hair instead.

"Ah." He couldn't bring himself to reply any further. Leaving Harry and Ginny to the cooking (which he hoped wouldn't taste as bad as the previous times they'd tried), he found Hermione sitting in the chair outside, wiping tears from your eyes. He knelt before her, cupped her cheek, brushed a few away. "What's wrong?"

"Don't you ever do that to me again," she whispered, and in her voice and her eyes Draco could sense the agony she'd been through the past two days –the anxiety, fear, anger, loneliness. The tears she'd shed, waiting for him to come home, wondering if he would. He kissed her gently, her lips, cheeks, forehead, fingers.

"Never." He met her gaze and could tell he was forgiven.

"Oh, Draco, where have you been? You've had all of us worried sick over you, going off without so much as a note." Mrs. Weasely bustled into the little living room, waving her hands. Draco chuckled; she very much resembled a mother hen. "Goodness, all the cooking and cleaning I've done has worn me right out." Before he could warn her, she sat down on the couch, but stood right back up. "What on earth-?"

Draco grinned, and waved his wand. "Presents."

xxxxx

"Hey mister, want to hear a carol?"

A small blonde boy looked up at him eagerly, the rest of the carolers waiting eagerly behind him. Draco shook his head to clear it, and smiled down at the boy. Looking down into his pale eyes, Draco was reminded of himself. "Maybe next time, little man," he said, and ruffled the boy's hair. Smiling and nodding to the other carolers, who all wished him a Merry Christmas, he made his way down the road, but not to the pub. He ducked into a side alley and after making sure the coast was clear, he Apparated.

Reappearing in another side street across London, Draco stamped his boots to clear off the snow and made his way to the main avenue. The road of St. Mungo's was crowded as usual, with Muggles as well as wizards involved in the usual holiday accidents. He walked over to the disguised location, knocked, waited for the signal, and entered. He pushed his way through the crowded lobby, toward the less crowded stairs. When he got to the fourth floor, he didn't hesitate, but simply made his way to the ward. The Healer greeted him as he came through the door.

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy! Welcome," she smiled, looking up from her paperwork. "Unfortunately, your wife is asleep as of the moment. Perhaps you'd like to wait in the tea shop until she wakes up?"

"That's all right. I'll wait in her room." He gave her a tight smile.

"Very well. Happy holidays, sir." She smiled and turned back to her papers.

"Happy holidays," he replied, and made his way to that room at the end.

She was indeed asleep when he entered, and so he closed the door carefully so as not to interrupt her peaceful state. He walked over to her, quietly, stood over her. Her breathing was easy, her face calm, her lips turned up in a half smile. The locket he'd said was from Ron was around her neck. He traced the heart with his fingers, then her cheek, her jaw line, and his own heart broke. Another lonely Christmas, then, spent having a few beers down at the pub, stopping by Grimmauld Place for some well-wishing and an invitation to dinner that he would decline, then back home to watch reruns on television and to try and ignore the gnawing pain and loneliness. Another Christmas without her laughter, without her trying to convince him not to rip the wrapper, without her cooking (she'd improved over the years), without her warm body snuggled up to him on the couch as they drank their hot chocolate. Another Christmas alone.

He sank down next to her bed, one hand gripping her sheets, another clutching at his chest as the tears began to form. Merlin, he missed her. He missed her so much. Some nights it was hard to bear, seeing the empty space next to him in bed that once was filled by her soft, warm body. The apartment lacked her essence. He could feel it every time he entered, like an invisible void. He needed her back in his life. He needed her with him. He needed her. He loved her. Oh, Merlin, how he loved her.

Finally, he quieted, the last of his tears running down the scar on his face. He sat there for a long moment, in the quiet of her hospital room. Then he lifted himself up, looked at her. Pushed her gently to the side. Slipped off his shoes. Lay down next to her. Wrapped his arm around her waist, buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair, and pretended, as he had on so many nights, that she was whole and happy, that she, too, was moving closer to him. And like in his imagination, his dreams, and his reality, she was still, unmoving, not knowing that the man she loved with all her heart was crying quietly against her skin, ready to give anything at all to have her back.

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A/N. Again, I am so, so sorry for making you guys wait so long. Was this worth it?