Saturday, December 25th, 1999 - Christmas Day
Despite his protesting muscles, Draco Malfoy is quite sure he's woken up in far worse places than in front of his long-cold fireplace. He groans lightly when he rolls away from Hermione, his back protesting. He finds his wand and banishes his clothes to their bedroom, and casts a weightless charm on his wife.
He lifts her with ease, and she blinks sleepily at the motion.
"Draco?" Her voice is sleepy, and when he shushes her she lays her head on his collarbone and closes her eyes once again.
He settles her under the covers and clambers in after her, content that the sun hasn't risen on their Christmas morning yet, and there's nowhere they need to be until later this evening. He's slept poorly for the past few nights, and he knows she's had the same problem, judging by the letters she had written in her journal to him.
When he next wakes up, he feels like he's on fire — the blankets are heavy on him, but what draws his attention is the feeling of cool fingers on his thighs.
Draco opens his mouth to say something, but chokes instead when he feels Hermione press open-mouthed kisses to his inner thigh. Her hands slide around his hips and hold him still; even without their gentle press, Draco thinks he wouldn't be able to move if he tried.
"Good?" Hermione's voice is muffled under their blankets, and the idea that he can't see her is suddenly so abhorrent that Draco throws the covers off them both.
Granger is settled between his legs, curly hair tied up in a ridiculous bun, and eyeing his quickly forming erection with a smirk.
It's quite possibly the most erotic sight Draco Malfoy has ever seen, and he hopes it's burned into his brain for the rest of his life.
"Granger—" he says hoarsely.
She doesn't answer, just lifts a brow and sucks him into her mouth. His head flops back to the pillow as her tongue skillfully lavs at his skin; and when the initial pleasure abates, Draco props himself back up to watch his wife work.
Her cheeks hollow out as she sucks, and Draco plunges a hand into her curly hair, cradling it gently. He groans when she pulls off him with a pop and wraps her slender fingers around instead, pumping him slowly.
"Granger —" he warns, "this won't last long."
She grins and replaces her hand with her mouth again, humming quietly as she sinks down as far as she can go.
"Merlin," Draco chokes, "fucking hell, Granger."
He loses the ability to speak when she speeds up her rhythm, sucking intensely until he feels as though he can't take the pressure — he's seconds away from release when she pulls entirely off of him. He's gripping the sheets in one hand with clawed fingers, and his other hand slips down to palm Hermione's breast. She's panting, and she clambers up his body until she's perfectly lined up and then sinks down on top of him.
She throws her head back as he fills her, and Draco's clever fingers find her hips, moving her gently. She finds her rhythm quickly, and Draco presses his thumb to her clit, making her moan.
It's a race to the finish after that — Draco is incessant. He watches as he disappears inside her, and rubs at her until she's writhing on top of him.
"I'm —" Hermione breathes, "please don't stop."
Draco couldn't if he tried, and when she clenches down on him with a cry, he follows her over at the same time.
He's still panting, and Hermione's slumped on top of him again, and even though he still feels like he might die since he's about a thousand degrees too warm, he doesn't move. There are worse ways to go.
"Merry Christmas," Hermione mumbles into his skin and then rolls off. She doesn't stray too far, but now he can see her face.
"Bloody hell, Granger. If that was my Christmas present, I'm already excited for my birthday."
Hermione laughs, "That wasn't your gift, but if I had known you'd accept sex I wouldn't have bothered shopping."
She's laying on his bicep, and he pulls the arm around until he's skimming fingers up and down her rib cage. She hums happily, and he watches her from inches away.
"Let it be known that sex is always an appropriate gift," He mutters.
She huffs a laugh at his words, closing her eyes and breathing gently. It's peaceful, in the dawning sunshine filtering in through their window.
"I found something yesterday," Hermione says slowly.
Draco flushes ice cold for a moment — the memory of the day before is so full of emotional highs and lows he's dreading talking about it. He had been sitting at a table with his journal out, waiting for another message from Granger; something that would prove that whatever stupid thing she had done, she had succeeded at and wouldn't need bailing out from Azkaban, when suddenly he had felt the strangest pull in his chest, and without thought he'd apparated — nevermind that he'd been within anti-apparition charms, and didn't even know where he would end up.
"You mean when you did something stupid?" He asks, "What exactly did you do, Hermione?"
She pulls her face back enough that she can see his expression. "I snuck into the Leaky Cauldron and snooped around, and when I found nothing, I went to the Three Broomsticks and did the same. Except… I found something."
"About Madam Rosmerta?"
"Yes," Hermione bites her lip tentatively. "I think… I think Madam Rosmerta had a muggle husband. And a child… a non-magical child."
"A squib," Draco breathes. "She's not pureblood and has never cared about blood status. Why would she be hiding a muggle husband and child?"
Hermione shrugs. "Having a squib is pretty embarrassing in the wizarding world, right? The Weasley's have a squib cousin, and they don't talk about her, even though they're pretty tolerant as wizarding families go."
"True. The Ministry doesn't even register children believed to be Squibs — there won't be any record of Madam Rosmerta's child if she has one."
Hermione frowns. "I bet there's a muggle record of the child. I think… I think the dad must be dead."
She explains the entire story to Draco — how there were bloodstains in front of the child's bed, and they know Rosmerta's alive, so who else would die defending the child?
When she mentions that someone had apparated into the house and she'd escaped, Draco's expression darkens.
"They must have had wards and charms on the house that notified them of trespassers," He says. "That means that whoever is controlling Rosmerta is still monitoring the house. We have to assume the child is still alive."
Hermione sighs. "I thought the same. It explains why she's willing to give out information. What I don't understand is Kingsley — there is absolutely no way that Kingsley is behind it all, or threatening a child. He's a good man."
"You're probably right. It hardly seems like he'd turn around after fighting against Voldemort and then threaten kids and force marriages. Someone is controlling him."
Draco watches as Hermione scowls; she's got the same expression on now that she gets whenever she encounters a particularly problematic arithmancy problem. It's rather fetching and reminds him of many days in Hogwarts library, where he'd be glaring from across the library and wondering how someone could be so maddeningly annoying, but also so pretty.
"I'm going to make some tea," He says. Hermione could sit and think in silence for hours if he let her. "Let's sit by the tree and enjoy Christmas."
She nods, but her expression doesn't change. Draco laughs and drops a kiss on her hair before he rolls out of bed. He pulls on his most comfortable pants and a knit sweater.
The cottage is chilly outside of their bedroom, and Draco ignites the fireplace with a flick of his wand.
"Juney," he calls.
The little house-elf appears instantly, and her enormous eyes take in the cottage with joy.
"Master Malfoy is home," Juney announces. "Oh, Juney is so glad. Lady Malfoy was breaking Juney's heart with her cries."
Draco winces — he hadn't realized Hermione had been calling for the house-elf.
"I'm sorry," he says instantly, "I didn't realize that me leaving would inhibit you from visiting. You're always free to see Hermione, even if I'm not around."
Juney's eyes light up, "Truly? Thank you, Master!"
"It's Draco and Hermione — you might as well use our names, Juney. Hermione's been asking you to."
Juney reaches up and grasps her own crooked ears in both fists, "Oh, Juney could never, no sir, you are too kind sir, thank you."
Draco sighs. It's a lost cause getting Juney to do away with titles, and despite Granger's request, Draco has a feeling the house-elf will not be swayed. "I was hoping you would bring us a spot of breakfast?"
"Of course, Master Malfoy," Juney's practically vibrating with excitement.
"And then, since it's Christmas, you can take the rest of the day off. Why don't you see if Thelma is free and you can spend your day with her, Juney? I'm sure Theo won't mind."
Juney bows so low her little ears touch their floor, and when she straightens up, her large blue eyes are filled with tears. Draco shifts uncomfortably, but he's saved from the emotional outburst when Hermione appears from the hallway.
"Juney!" She greets, "I'm so glad you're back."
Juney turns her weepy gaze to his wife. "Lady Malfoy, Juney is so very sorry she couldn't answer your calls!"
Hermione waves her apology. "Don't worry! Thelma told me you couldn't answer. You did nothing wrong."
"Thank you, Mistress."
"It's Hermione," Hermione repeats for the umpteenth time, "and I've gotten you a gift!"
She presents Juney with a little box and a card, and the house-elf eyes it warily. Draco bites back laughter — the little creature is probably still concerned Granger's going to be giving her clothes.
"Open it!" Hermione says excitedly.
Juney's hardly the one to refuse, so she opens the card slowly to see Hermione's messy writing. It reads: 'To Juney — our hardest worker and truest friend. Love, The Malfoy's'.
Draco swallows a sudden lump in his throat at the words — he hasn't seen 'The Malfoy's' in writing for so long, and something warms in his chest when he realizes Hermione chose those words purposefully.
Juney cradles the card, forgetting the small box and stares up at Hermione with large crocodile tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks. She looks lost for words, but Hermione gestures impatiently at the box.
"Open the rest."
Juney stares at the box and opens it slowly to reveal a little silver necklace.
"I know you didn't want clothes," Hermione explains immediately, "but I thought you might like an accessory. I don't know if house-elves wear silver…"
Juney's tears are back in full force again. "This is the nicest gift Juney has ever received." She puts the necklace on with surprisingly deft fingers, and a small little silver "J" with a sparkly diamond next to it reflects back. Draco's never seen a house-elf wear jewellery before, and he supposes it's because so few house-elves are allowed to own anything of worth.
"It looks lovely, Juney," Draco says without thinking. He's rewarded when Hermione beams at him.
Juney clutches her card close to her chest with one hand and holds her new necklace with the other. Hermione bends down to hug her shaking shoulders gentle.
"Juney has never been so honoured," the house-elf cries.
"Merry Christmas, Juney," Hermione says. "I'm glad you like it."
Juney sniffs heartily and turns back to Draco with a crooked smile, "Thank you. Both of you."
She disapparates quickly, and Draco stares at the spot where she had been only moments before.
"That was very nice of you," Hermione says. Draco snaps his gaze up to see his wife grinning at him.
"What?" Draco asks, "I didn't even know you'd gotten her a gift."
"Not that," Hermione laughs. "I mean, you gave her Christmas off, and apologized to her for not letting her see me. It was nice of you."
Draco rolls his eyes, turning back to the tea in an attempt to hide the flushing on his cheeks.
"Yes, well, my wife has informed me that I must be polite even to house-elves."
Her slender arms band across his stomach suddenly, and she presses into his spine. "Your wife is very pleased you listened to her," she murmurs. The heat of her on his back is intoxicating, and he turns in her embrace to look down at her. She's staring up at him with a soft expression, one that he's never really seen before.
"Merry Christmas, Granger." He mutters.
She smiles. "It's Hermione to you, remember?"
"I like Granger better," he protests. "Reminds me of the good old days in Potions when your hair would grow three sizes while you'd outsmart everyone in the room, all while glaring at me."
She laughs, "Somehow I don't remember those as the good old days."
He huffs. "You're probably right. I do recall having to dodge some of Goyle's more miserable attempts at potions."
"At least you didn't sit by Seamus."
He chuckles at that and releases her when the kettle begins whistling. He pours them both tea, doctoring them the way they like, and hands her mug to her. They move to the couch, and he sits down in his favourite spot. She curls up close to him and tugs the familiar green blanket over their legs.
It's not so long ago that he remembers her sitting on the opposite end of the couch, terrified at every inch that disappeared between them.
"I loved my Christmas gift," she says slowly.
Draco huffs, "Yes, well I've been telling you that your talents and brain are being wasted at the Ministry. You work in a tiny office, Granger — an office! For the brightest damn witch of our age!"
"It's a nice office," she protests.
"Sure," Draco agrees, "for people who push papers and send bloody memos."
"Well, I do those things."
Draco laughs, "I know! That's the point. Why are you doing those things? I read the proposal you handed in for the Werewolf Business Loans, you know."
"What?! When did you read that?" Hermione demands.
Draco shrugs, "I don't know, a few weeks ago. Your boss shut you down, didn't he?"
She scowls darkly. "Yes, but it needed a few revisions on section—"
"Hermione," he interrupts gently, "there was nothing wrong with that proposal. There are no revisions in this world that would get the Ministry to agree with you."
She clamps her mouth closed, the smallest pout appearing. "Well, what are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting you use 'The Granger Foundation for the Welfare of Magical Beings' and hire the four board members the funding allows. Pick four of the best people for the job — you're good at this, Hermione. I didn't just do this as a Christmas present whim. This is what you were born to do."
Her eyes fill with tears and Draco sighs — it seems he's doomed to some sort of emotional outburst this morning, whether wife or house-elf.
"Draco… this money… it's so much." She whispers, swallowing audibly.
He sighs. "Granger — look. Remember how I said you're good at all this stuff? Well, I'm good at money."
"Just because you have a lot of money doesn't mean you're good with it, Draco." Hermione admonishes.
He laughs, hard enough that he spills a little tea on their blanket. Hermione is scowling at his outburst.
"Why are you laughing?" She demands.
"Hermione," he says gently, "I inherited the Malfoy estate when my father went to Azkaban. Since that time, I've grown our Gringotts accounts back to where we were prior to the war."
"Okay?"
Draco rolls his eyes. "Upon inheriting, the Malfoy estate and all related businesses were worth just over 300 million Galleons."
Hermione's eyes go comically wide, and Draco narrowly catches her tea when her fingers go limp. He sets the cup on their table over top of a few older rings from other mugs in the past.
It takes his wife nearly three minutes to regain speech — Draco counts. He's never seen her speechless for more than 48 seconds before.
"But that's… that converts to… I don't even know the math—"
Draco smirks, "It converts to approximately 1.2 billion muggle pounds."
Her fingers are shaking lightly, and he catches them in his own, settling her. She's still staring at him with the oddest expression of dismay and disbelief.
"Are you… are you telling me we're bloody billionaires?"
Draco laughs, and half shrugs. Her expression grows suddenly wilder.
"But — but we live in a cottage! I've made you live in a cottage! With only one bedroom!"
Draco watches as she works herself up. "Granger. I like our cottage."
"You… you…" Hermione heaves a sigh. "I don't know what to do about this." She flops backwards on the couch and throws a hand to her forehead. She looks so much like a wilting damsel in some medieval play that Draco can't keep from laughing.
"You don't have to do anything about this. I'm only telling you because you were worried about the Granger Foundation. The money is there, Hermione. You can do whatever you think is best with it."
She pulls herself together and reaches for her teacup and brings it to her lips to sip heartily. When she looks slightly less shell-shocked, Draco sneaks an arm around her shoulders.
"Aren't you glad you married me now?" He jokes.
She rolls her eyes, but smiles. "I was glad I married you before I knew I was one of the wealthiest witches in Great Britain."
"Granger," he complains, "are you not listening? You're the wealthiest witch in Britain. Probably in the bloody world."
She laughs helplessly, sneaking out of his hold to clamber to her feet. "Wait there — I've got to get your Christmas gift. Had I known you had galleons coming out of your ears, I might not have bothered."
He chuckles as she disappears back down their hallway. It feels nice to surprise her in a good way, to be able to show her he can provide for her. Draco's always known his money made him valuable. It had been a lesson his father had instilled young. Still, during the Hogwarts years, Hermione had always made him feel as though it wasn't important — and it had taken him until the height of the war when suddenly all the galleons in the world couldn't solve their problems, for him to realize that she had been correct all that time.
So he likes the cottage. He likes that, unlike Malfoy Manor, he simply has to walk ten feet and he can be wherever he wants; he likes that sometimes he has to hunt down enough room on their bookshelves for his newest acquisitions, and that their cabinet has become so filled with their mugs that it sometimes spills into the plate section.
It's nice — not in the same way the Manor was, with ballrooms and sparkling crystal chandeliers, and hallways that as a boy he had raced down — but in how it's cozy and warm, and he simply has to call Hermione's name for her to hear him.
She re-emerges into their living room, clutching what appears to be yet another book wrapped in festive paper. Draco almost laughs but resists the temptation at the last second. She plops down on the couch and thrusts it into his hands.
"Merry Christmas, Draco," she says. "It's not much."
Draco grins, "Another book?"
She rolls her eyes and doesn't answer.
There's no card, so he tears the wrapping paper with ease. It's not a book — instead, it's a detailed frame gilded in gold. Inside it is a photo he's never seen before.
Surprisingly, it's not from their impromptu photoshoot at Nott Manor — it's in front of the Burrow, of all places.
Hermione is standing in her wedding gown, the slightest of breezes rustling it in the photo. Draco has a single palm pressed against her back, and over and over the photo captures the way she tilts her face towards him and begins to smile. The sunshine bleeds down on them, making Draco's hair shine nearly white, and his answering smile is easy.
"Wow."
Hermione's fingers are interwoven, the most imperceptible of tremors shaking them. "It's not much, I know, but—"
"Granger—" he swallows. "It's nice. It's really nice. Thank you."
Her expression clears. "I liked it. Ginny took it, you know. I didn't even realize she had a camera."
Draco glances towards their kitchen, where the single black-and-white photo from the Quibbler still holds a place of honour.
"So this is the actual first picture of us?" He asks.
She nods. "Yeah. I'm pretty sure it's our only wedding photo."
He stares down at the image in front of him — he watches it on loop: them smiling at each other as though the WPG didn't exist, and they were just two people who got married by choice.
"You looked lovely in that dress," he murmurs, brushing gentle fingers on the picture. "We should have thought to take more photos."
Hermione's hand snags his, and when he glances up, he finds the same smile from the photo directed at him. It's just as sweet as it is in the frame below.
"I still have the dress," she says shyly. "We can always take photos."
He sets the frame on the low coffee table in front of them and wraps his arm around her shoulder and tugs her close. She comes willingly.
"Thank you," he says, pressing a kiss to her hair.
"You're very hard to shop for," she complains. "Did you know that?"
Draco laughs, "My mother often told me the same thing."
Juney reappears in their kitchen, plates of food levitating before her. It's all of Draco's favourite breakfast foods, and they settle gently on their little table.
"Thank you, Juney," Hermione says, still coiled into his side on the couch.
"The Malfoys are most welcome," Juney declares. "Happy Christmas."
"Happy Christmas, Juney." Draco answers.
The Burrow is on the same list as Azkaban as a place he's never wanted to spend Christmas at, and yet Draco finds himself apparating there alongside Hermione with minimal complaining. The sun has just begun setting, and he supposes he can live with a few hours of the Weasley family since he had spent most of his Christmas coiled around Hermione in some form or another.
The Burrow, when they arrive, is filled with loud voices and laughter — every light seems to be on, and the aroma of food is heavy in the air. While Draco doesn't make a habit of complimenting Weasleys, he's quite sure he's going to spend a large portion of the evening telling Molly Weasley how good her cooking really is.
Hermione doesn't bother knocking, she just opens the door and enters, dragging Draco along behind her.
"Malfoy,"
Draco turns to see Harry Potter standing awkwardly by the stairwell. Hermione's expression goes dark, and she eyes her best friend with barely concealed annoyance. Draco has to stifle a smile, seeing the glare that had haunted him throughout Hogwarts suddenly being directed at Potter.
"Potter," Draco replies.
Harry spares Hermione a glance and heaves a sigh. "I'm very sorry for what I said before. I'm a right arse, and I feel terrible."
Hermione's glare breaks up, a smile spreading easily across her face, and Draco rolls his eyes at her total inability to stay angry with either of her best friends.
"It's fine, Potter. Apology accepted." He huffs.
Hermione squeezes his hand gently. "I'm very proud of you both."
"Thanks, mum," Potter quips, turning away and bee-lining for the kitchen.
Hermione laughs. "He's been practicing that apology for the past two days — Ginny even made him sleep on the couch."
Draco laughs despite himself; to know that even the Weaselette was on his side is happiness all its own.
Hermione tugs him forward, and they end up in the kitchen. It's barely contained chaos, and Draco abruptly realizes just how much the Weasleys had restrained themselves on their wedding day. By now, Draco recognizes most of the Weasley family members, and he sees Charlie and Arthur gathered with Percy, all three deep in discussion. Daphne is leaning gently on the far wall, smiling easily with Parvati at some sort of joke George is sharing. Harry slips out the back door but doesn't go far, stopping beside Ginny, where she's chatting with Ron and Hannah.
There is another woman standing by Molly in the kitchen, and it takes Draco a moment to place her. Fleur Delacour, the great beauty of Beauxbatons from their fourth year — Veelas, Draco has since learned, are nearly irresistible, and Fleur's half-Veela heritage had caused quite the uproar in Hogwarts boys during the Tournament.
Draco glances at Hermione to find her already watching him, a frown darkening her face. Impulsively, Draco swoops down and kisses her quickly, pulling away before she responds so he can enjoy the surprise light up in her eyes.
"I didn't know Fleur married a Weasley." He says cautiously.
"Yes, she married Bill during the war," Hermione explains, her frown still lingering. "They have a daughter, Victoire. She's somewhere around here."
Draco wisely drops the topic; he's observant, and anyone could notice Hermione's tense frame. Something about Fleur upsets her. He tucks an arm around her waist and pulls her closer to him until she slowly relaxes into his side.
"Hermione!" Mrs. Weasley calls when she spots them. "So wonderful you and Draco could make it, dear."
"Happy to be here," Hermione answers easily. "Can I help you with anything?"
"If you could get everyone sitting, that would be great. Dinner is ready!" Mrs. Weasley raises the volume on the final word, catching the attention of her family.
Draco moves to step towards the table and is nearly taken out by a blur of movement at his knees. A small girl stares up at him, hair so blonde it nearly matches his own. It's an incongruous sight in the Burrow.
"Hello," the child says softly.
"Victoire," Hermione greets, "This is Draco."
Victoire narrows her eyes. "You have hair like mummy."
Draco can feel the flush rising in his cheeks, but he is saved from responding when Bill appears grinning at his daughter. He scoops her up wildly, and she bursts into giggles, pressing tiny fingers gently against his scarred cheeks.
"Victoire, stop embarrassing our guests and come eat," Bill teases, toting his daughter to the table in his arms.
Hermione hums under her breath. "Please tell me you're not part Veela and I've been oblivious all this time."
Draco laughs. "Not that I'm aware of, Granger."
The table slowly fills — Astoria appears at the last moment, snagging the open seat between Daphne and himself. Her arms are crossed tightly on her chest, the opposite of her sister, who has her fingers tangled with Percy's on the table in front of her. George and Parvati take their place on the other side of Ron, who has an arm slung on the back of Hannah's chair. Hannah is looking better than she had been when they had last seen her at Theo's house, but Draco watches her full wine glass with wary eyes.
"Molly, you've outdone yourself," Arthur Weasley announces when Mrs. Weasley finally sits at his side. She's flushed red, but absolutely beaming.
"Oh, it's nothing. I'm very glad you could all be here this year," Molly replies. "It's been a… unique year, but I'm grateful for every holiday with my family, and I'm especially pleased to have so many new members of our family join us at the table this year. Happy Christmas."
Draco is warmed by her words, and judging by the tears pooling in Daphne's eyes, he is not the only one.
"Let's eat!" Ron cries, plopping mashed potatoes down on his plate.
"Ronald," Hermione hisses — but her admonishment is lost in the cacophony of all the Weasleys digging into the spread in front of them. Conversations explode outwards, everyone dragged into some sort of discussion, laughter and smiles all around.
Draco's never seen anything like it. He's watched his mother organize countless dinner parties, most with even more guests than are currently at the Weasleys, but they had always been rigid. Everyone had been formal and polite — no two conversations happened at the same time.
Now, he watches as George throws a bun down the length of the table into Charlie's waiting hands, and Victoire slams both meaty palms down on her plate, covering Bill in gravy.
He glances at Astoria, sitting so tightly beside him. Her face looks tight, almost as though she's in pain.
"Strange, isn't it?" She murmurs quietly before he can think to even say hello or ask her what's troubling her.
He knows from Hermione that Astoria has been living in the Burrow for the past few weeks, while Charlie stays in Romania most of the time for work. She's been exposed to this the entire time — and how different it is from their childhood.
"You could say that again." He answers, delicately taking a bite of the turkey. It's delicious, as he had expected.
Astoria looks at him for the first time since she had appeared in the room. She is pale and drawn; she had always been beautiful in school, with luminous dark eyes and long hair, but now she seems a shadow of herself.
"You seem happy."
Draco swallows at her words. He can hear Hermione laughing at something beside him, can feel the way her shoulder rubs against his whenever she moves.
He considers Astoria's words carefully. He knows what he would have said in school — he knows what his father would have said, what Astoria expects to hear from him.
"I am." He says firmly, instead.
Her eyes widen the tiniest amount, but her lips turn into a semblance of a smile. Draco realized he'd almost forgotten what her smile looked like. "I'm glad. Daphne's happy, too."
Draco nods. "And what of you, 'Stori?"
Her smile disappears, quickly as it had arrived. She lifts a hand to smooth the front of her shirt and swallows.
"I am well," she answers. The slightest tremble in her voice is the only thing that gives her away.
"That's bullshit," Draco hisses. He keeps his expression neutral, careful not to draw the attention of any Weasleys.
"I beg your pardon?" Astoria answers calmly.
Draco narrows his eyes. "That's bullshit," he repeats. "That's what you've been told all your life to say, but it's not true. I've known you a long time, Astoria. Be honest with me."
Astoria's expression never changes, and she takes a delicate bite of her food instead of answering. Draco has seen his mother do the same thousands of times — he had watched her eat even with the Dark Lord at the table, and her expression had never wavered. No one on this earth has emotional control the way Slytherin women do; Astoria is no exception.
"Let it go, Draco," Astoria finally says. "Daphne is happy. I can be happy with that."
He doesn't want to let it go, but the look she gives him is so reminiscent of his mother, he turns away. The food, though still delicious, sits heavily in his stomach now, and he can't quite finish his plate.
Ron Weasley, however, doesn't have this problem. He's serving himself seconds, talking boisterously at Harry. Hannah's smile becomes more strained with each gulp from her glass.
A tinkling noise draws everyone's attention, and Draco is surprised to see Ginny Weasley clanking a knife against a wine glass. Somewhere, Narcissa Malfoy is rolling in her grave with each clumsy clunk.
"Oi, you lot, shut it!" Ginny shouts, "I've got something to say."
In the wake of her words, the sudden silence is unnerving.
"First off, thanks mum and dad for having us for Christmas dinner. It's delicious," Ginny says, nodding at her mother. "Anyway — we're happy to announce that come June next year, there will be another Potter at the table."
If Draco had thought that dinner had been chaotic before, he was quickly proven wrong at the outburst that occurred after Ginny's words. Mrs. Weasley dissolves into loud joyous sobbing, while Arthur Weasley leaps to his feet and hugs his only daughter so tightly she begins to hover off the ground. Faster than Draco would have expected, Hermione appears beside Ron and Harry and locks them into an embrace that seems almost strangling.
Daphne's smile is tight, and her knuckles have gone white in Percy's grip, but she says "Congratulations," and Astoria echoes her lightly.
Draco doesn't offer congratulations — mostly because he'd hardly be heard in the uproar. While the thought of another Potter would have once been his worst nightmare, Draco's not upset. Of all the couples he knows, Ginny and Harry are one of the few who were already dating when they received their WPG match. Their wedding, and this pregnancy, were joyful occasions with no strings attached.
Draco supposes that in the next year he'll probably be watching many of his former classmates become parents —
He swallows.
Only a few months ago, he had sat across from Hermione Granger as she declared she had to find a loophole within the year to the WPG. At the time, he hadn't been offended. So she didn't want children yet, or children with him — not surprising. Besides, he didn't want children either.
Now — now, though? Draco watches the pride flowing out of Harry Potter's face, and the way Ginny is resting her hand on her still flat stomach. He watches Victoire, with ruddy baby cheeks and a wide smile, and how Bill brushes his hand over her near-white hair gently, indulgence evident in his every pore.
It's not something he's ever thought about — he had been a child, and then he had been a soldier. There had been no time to wonder what he might become as an adult, without the war, without the trauma of the father; but then he had buried his mother and been given a wife he'd never expected nor deserved.
Now, though… now Draco wonders if they could expand their cottage. He wonders if he has what it takes to be more than his father was. He wonders if Hermione's opinions have changed — if she can see future curly-haired children running around as easily as he suddenly can.
"Harry's finally apologized for skipping out on Fortescue's that night," Hermione announces, flopping down beside him and distracting him from his thoughts. "Turns out their St. Mungo's healer had gotten Ginny a last-minute appointment to confirm the pregnancy, so Harry had to go."
Draco forces himself to act casual, "Makes sense."
Hermione pulls her wand and waves it at the empty plates on the table, and they jump into the air at her command only to float over and pile themselves neatly beside the sink.
"If you're all done eating, we'll head into the family room," Mr. Weasley announces, "Victoire — guess what time it is?"
"Presents!" Victoire screams, attempting to wriggle away from her parents' grasps. It takes both Fleur and Bill's wrangling to get her face and hands cleaned off before she goes racing out a different doorway.
"Are you finished?" Hermione asks. Draco blinks and glances down at his plate. It's not empty, but he can't handle another bite. He nods and watches as his plate levitates and joins the other by the sink.
"Come on," Hermione says, standing. Draco follows her into the Weasley family room, which is filled with an abundance of overstuffed armchairs, and a long threadbare couch. Each Weasley seems to have their favourite spots, and they all flop down with little care. Hermione leads him all the way to a smaller settee and drags him down beside her. It's squishy, but Draco doesn't mind.
The tree is tall but skinny, with lights flickering all around and presents wrapped in red and gold spilling out from underneath it. Bill sits on the floor in front of it, and Victoire clambers onto his lap easily, gesturing at the presents and babbling too fast to understand.
"Alright, Bill, hand one to everyone, will you?" Mrs. Weasley instructs. Bill begins handing Victoire presents and directing her to hand them out to their recipients. To Draco's surprise, Victoire approaches him shyly and hands him a lumpy present, along with everyone else in the room.
Draco has always been taught to take turns opening presents with his mother and father when he was little, but the Weasley's all rip into theirs at once. He supposes that with seven children, Molly needed to adjust the one-at-a-time policy.
Everyone unwraps something knitted — Bill tugs his red sweater with the large "B" on the front over his shirt and then helps Victoire pull on a little toque with pompoms that look like teddy bear ears; even Draco has to admit it's adorable.
Upon his unwrapping, Draco finds himself holding an emerald green scarf; it's soft and warm, and at the ends of each side is a small knitted snake. Hermione is grinning at him and holding up red mittens, both with large yellow "H"s on the front.
With the wrapping paper flying everywhere, and the laughter echoing in the room, Draco doesn't notice at first — but Astoria is sitting in her own chair, a little back from the rest of the circle. She's clutching a cream-coloured sweater with the letter "A" stitched neatly on the breast; it's obvious from the tight-knit and tidy stitching that Mrs. Weasley, for whatever reason, put more care into Astoria's sweater than any other.
As he watches, Astoria sneaks a hand up and wipes at her eyes. Despite her cold attitude, he notices she drags her thumb gently over the knitwear, and the smallest smile hints at her mouth. He's still staring when she glances up, and they make eye contact. She looks away and drops the sweater as though it has burned her.
Draco desperately wants to push; he's tempted to sit beside her and dig and dig until he discovers why a sweater of all things could upset her, but it's not the time.
"That colour is lovely, Ron." Hermione's voice interrupts his thoughts, and he's dragged back into the conversation. Hermione is frowning at Ron Weasley, who is tugging on the hem of his new sweater with something akin to disdain.
"Since when do I not get red?" Ron complains.
Arthur Weasley tuts, "Ron, stop your whinging and thank your mother."
Ron dutifully thanks his mother, but makes another face at Hermione. "It's periwinkle."
Harry Potter laughs, "It's blue, mate. It's not so bad. Matches your hair a right sight better than red does, if you ask me."
Ron rolls his eyes, but any argument is lost when Victoire receives the next round of presents. They all watch her open, cheering at the right spots. She tears into the wrapping paper with glee, and all the Weasleys are indulgent as she shouts with excitement.
Upon sipping at his firewhiskey and discovering both his own glass and Hermione's empty, Draco sneaks out of the family room and back to the kitchen. It's blessedly quiet in there, and despite knowing exactly where to find the drinks, Draco takes his time. He's got his new scarf around his neck, and halfway through pouring Hermione's wine, he realizes he's actually enjoying himself.
It ends when he hears Ron Weasley's voice behind him. "Malfoy."
He turns slowly, setting the bottle back onto the counter. Ron stands a few feet away from him; they watch each other as though they are a mirror, both holding full glasses of wine and suspicious expressions. For the first time, he can remember, Draco has no interest in arguing with the red-headed wonder.
"Weasley," Draco answers quietly.
Ron stares at him — it's piercing and more intimidating than Draco would have imagined it could be for a Weasley. After a long moment, Ron sighs.
"Look, I don't want to argue," Ron admits. "I just wanted to… warn you? I guess."
"Warn me?" Draco repeats.
Ron shrugs. "Yeah. Look. I love Hermione. She's one of my best friends in the world, but…"
"But what?" Draco snaps. He's so fucking tired of a Ronald Weasley that puts Hermione Granger down, of the eleven-year-old boy he had known who used her for her brain only to turn around and disparage her intellect. All the thoughts of not arguing leave Draco's mind, and he's left ready for battle.
"But she's ruthless," Ron answers quietly. "She could have been a Slytherin. She's so smart, but she can be sneaky, and sometimes she scares the hell out of me. There's nothing she won't do if she thinks it's for the best. Even if it hurts people. Even if it hurts her."
Draco scowls. The worst part is, Ronald bloody Weasley isn't wrong. Even though obliviating her parents had undoubtedly saved their lives, Hermione had done so because she had believed it to be the best choice. Had practically torn her own heart out to keep them safe.
She had kept Rita Skeeter in a jar in 5th year, and avada'd Fenrir Greyback without hesitation, and Draco doesn't doubt that if the Dark Lord had truly killed Harry Potter, she would have fought with everything she had, making any and every sacrifice she felt necessary to win.
Draco remembers her screaming in his ballroom, denying every word out of Bellatrix's mouth, and thinking: this girl is going to die for her secrets, to keep Harry fucking Potter safe.
He can't argue with Weasley now, so instead he bites out. "You realize we went through a bloody war. It changes people. She did what she had to do to survive."
Ron nods wearily. "I know that, Malfoy. We all know that. I just thought you ought to know that Hermione has secrets — from everyone."
Ron turns away and marches out of the kitchen. Draco itches to follow him and start a fight, but he can't. It's Christmas, and he'd said nothing that Draco didn't already know.
Still, he can't help but wonder if Ron was referring to her parents, or how Potter thought she was pretending, or something more sinister. What other secrets of his wife is he not privy to?
He heads back into the family room far less comfortable than he left it, but his spot is still open next to Hermione so he sits down gingerly beside her and hands over the wineglass he had poured for her. She takes it with a smile of thanks and turns back to where Ginny perches on her other side.
"We wanted to tell you the other night, but then Harry opened his stupid mouth. We really are sorry about that, Ferret." Ginny says. Draco blinks at her — it takes him a moment to realize she's talking to him.
"Ginny!" Hermione hisses, "Don't be rude."
Draco rolls his eyes and says, "Apology accepted, Weaselette."
Ginny laughs good-naturedly. "Anyway — I am sorry. We didn't really expect this to happen so fast, though I don't know why I'm surprised."
"Why do you say that?" Hermione asks, sipping at her wine.
Ginny shrugs. "Oh, it's a family thing. The Prewett blood, you know? That's why mum had so many kids, even though magical pregnancies are difficult."
Hermione's elbow suddenly digs into his side and he winces; he's about to say something when a loud laugh from Hannah cuts through the room. Her face is flushed red, and her wine glass that Ron had brought so recently is already empty. The earlier indulgence has disappeared from her face, and now she looks more like the girl he had seen at Theo's. Heartbroken.
"We better head out," Ron announces, standing quickly. He tugs his new sweater down, the royal blue colour nearly matching his jeans. Hannah's expression has turned from drunken laughter to a furious scowl.
"Running again?" Hannah hisses. To Draco's left, he hears Percy and Daphne's conversation get louder with Mrs. Weasley, no doubt eager to draw the attention away from the argument brewing. Victoire is scooped up by her mother, and Bill follows Fleur back into the kitchen; there's no surprise on their faces, and Draco wonders how often this scene plays out in the Burrow.
"Hannah," Ron warns quietly, holding a hand out to her. She stands obediently, but wobbles on her feet. Ron reaches out to steady her, and she bats his hand away.
"I don't want to embarrass you," Hannah snaps. Ron's patient expression is fading, and this time his voice is quiet but stern.
"Hannah, we're leaving."
He turns and walks away from her, dropping a kiss on his mother's cheek to thank her for dinner and his new sweater. His father shakes his hand, brow drawn with worry.
George stands and tugs Ron into a one-armed hug, murmuring something into his ear that makes Ron's expression lighten. Ron shoots him a grateful smile and claps his shoulder when he pulls away.
"Bye Parvati," Ron says. Parvati doesn't answer, just stares at him in a very odd, blank way. Ron frowns but then throws a wave to the room at large. "Happy Christmas, everyone."
He's heading for the door, with Hannah slowly following on unsteady feet. She wishes Mrs. Weasley a Happy Christmas but ignores the rest of the room. Draco resists the urge to jump up and give her his arm as his mother would have demanded when she wobbles.
Ron and Hannah close the door behind themselves, but they don't quite make it far enough away from the Burrow before the shouting begins. Their voices echo through the window glass, as clear as if they were still sitting in the room.
"You're such a git," Hannah yells, "you don't understand!"
"Then tell me," Ron snaps. "I can't understand if you don't fucking talk to me, Hannah!"
"Fuck you!" Hannah answers; it's obvious she's crying.
"You're drunk!" Ron's voice answers, coldly. "You're always drunk, Hannah. You need help. You need to get it together."
The crack of apparition makes Hermione jump, knocking into him a little. He spills a splash of firewhiskey on the chair.
"Oh dear," Mrs. Weasley says. "Oh, dear. Well, let's just move past that, and try to enjoy the rest of Christmas."
Bill and Fleur reappear with Victoire, who is yawning hugely and snuggled into her father's chest. She seems unconcerned, blinking sleepily at her family; Draco is suddenly glad her parents were wise enough to take her out of the room.
"Someone has come to say goodnight," Bill announces. "Victoire, can you go thank your grandparents for your gifts?"
He sets her down, and she runs to Molly and Arther, who lifts her up without hesitation to plant kisses all over her face while she laughs. She hugs them both and then slowly makes her way to every chair, doling out solemn 'night nights' to each person.
When she gets to Astoria, Draco can almost feel the room hold its breath. For a moment, he thinks Astoria is going to ignore her, but instead the witch slowly relaxes, brushing her fingers against the sweater still sitting across her lap. Astoria leans forward just enough to wrap one arm around Victoire, who plants a sloppy kiss on her cheek. Astoria lets her go and turns quickly to face the window. Draco watches carefully as Astoria swallows hard, blinking quickly.
He can't figure it out — she's obviously heartbroken, but over what?
Conversations slowly begin again, the awkwardness of Ron's departure fading with the sweetness of Victoire's goodnights. When Astoria disappears through the kitchen doorway, Draco seizes Hermione's almost empty glass as another excuse and follows her out.
She's not in the kitchen; through the thin curtain, Draco sees her silhouette outside the back door. He pulls the door open to find her standing there in large slippers and her new sweater. It's freezing.
He steps outside, shuts the door behind him, and waits.
It takes ages — he's losing feeling in his fingertips, and he's about ready to give up when Astoria finally turns to him.
"Have you ever seen anything like it?" She asks.
He takes a moment — he knows what she's asking. Astoria had been younger than him in school, and although he had known her, they were never close. Still, Draco knows her family; he'd spent many evenings observing as his parents entertained, his father discussing business while his mother endured Cereus Greengrass's venomous digs.
Astoria has never seen a family like the Weasleys; a family that yells and hugs and laughs and fights both for each other and with each other.
Draco sighs, and answers honestly. "No. Never. They're so… loud"
Astoria's laugh is weak. "They are."
He waits almost another entire minute, shoving his fingers into his pockets to retain warmth.
"Draco, I've been an absolute horror," Astoria confesses. "I've been cruel."
Draco shakes his head. "Don't be foolish, Astoria. You may be many things, but I've never known you to be cruel. "
"I know," Astoria says mournfully. "I meant here. I've been awful to them. To everyone. I've not even spoken to Mr. Weasley. I complain every moment to Molly, and — oh, Merlin. Poor Charlie…"
This time, Draco faces her. Her wide eyes are damp, and despite the winter chill, her cheeks still look pale.
"Why?" Draco asks. "Did your father ask you—"
Astoria interrupts him. "I don't speak to father anymore. He went to the Ministry to get Daphne's WPG match changed, did you hear?"
Draco raises his eyebrows — he'd expected as much from Mr. Greengrass. "What happened?"
"Nothing," Astoria hisses, and he watches as she clenches both fists in fury. "He had a change of heart."
Astoria Greengrass has never resembled Hermione Granger so much before — Draco is suddenly sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Astoria threatened her father into dropping his case.
"You ensured Daphne's match," Draco says.
Astoria doesn't deny it. "Draco, I have a favour to ask of you."
"What is it?"
She produces two letters; one is addressed to Mrs. Weasley, the other to Charlie Weasley. Her hands shake as she hands them over.
"Draco," Astoria murmurs. "Please give these to the recipients on March 1st."
Draco stares at the letters in his hand, and Astoria's shaking fingers. "What are you doing, 'Stori?"
She shrugs delicately. Her answer, when it comes, is not one he expected. "Did you know your mother once told me that the only way to save a broken marriage is to leave it?"
Draco gapes at her, "But mother — "
"I know," Astoria interrupts again, "I know she didn't leave her own marriage, Draco. But I want out of the WPG. It's not anyone's fault. I just have to go."
"You're running?" Draco demands, "Do you have money? Somewhere to stay? I don't really know Charlie, but he would help you, 'Stori, he wouldn't—"
"I'll be gone by March 1st, Draco. Everything is sorted. Just, promise me, promise me, that you'll give these letters out."
Draco stares down at a girl he barely knows — a girl he had once thought he would marry, simply because his father wanted him to. It had seemed a fate worse than death, at that time, to marry another pureblood girl who cared about nothing but appearances.
Draco wonders now if Astoria Greengrass might have been something quite unexpected after all. Despite the cold, her eyes blaze with fierceness, and Draco is quite sure that if he doesn't promise this, she'll never forgive him.
"I promise," Draco says.
Draco apparates to the cottage with Hermione in tow. She's grinning widely with wine-stained lips and stumbling a bit as they land. It's past midnight, and Draco marvels at the fact that not only did he survive Christmas at the Burrow, he also managed to make it an entire night without hexing anyone.
He goes to open the front door when Hermione snatches at his coat. Draco turns to stare at his wife. Her hair is coming undone from its tidy bun, and she has a black smear beside her eye from where she's rubbed her makeup off.
He forgets about the chill in the air and getting through their front door, and instead, Draco Malfoy reels his wife in to wrap his arms around her.
"I quite love you," he says. "Did you know?"
"I know," she grins a bit wildly. "I figured it out, Draco."
"What did you figure, love?" He asks, quite distracted by the way her new mittens are resting against his chest.
"I figured out the matches," Hermione says. She pulls away and rushes through the door, tossing her coat onto the ground. The cottage lights up around them, the fire bursting to life. Draco shuts the door and hangs Hermione's forgotten coat up. She's disappeared down the hallway.
"What do you mean, Granger?" He asks loudly — he's unwrapping his new green scarf when she reappears and slams a large book down on their counter. Draco recognizes it — it's from the Malfoy Library.
"Right here." She announces, pressing a finger to a page. Draco looks over her shoulder to see a chart of Sacred Twenty-Eight families. It's something they've read over a thousand times, and most of it, Draco could recite in his sleep.
He sighs. "Granger, I think maybe you've had too much wine, we've—"
"No!" She says, turning to face him with fire in her eyes. "Tell me how many people are alive in the Greengrass family."
Draco frowns. "Four. Astoria, Daphne and their parents."
"Tell me how many siblings Mr. Greengrass had." She demands.
"Two. Both sisters. One died at twenty, the other never had children."
"Tell me how many siblings Astoria's paternal grandfather had." Hermione continues, quieter now but just as intense. "Tell me how many her paternal great-grandfather had."
"A brother," Draco says slowly. "Both the grandfather and great-grandfather both only had a single brother."
Hermione looks victorious. "After 1710, all branches of the Greengrass tree slowly die out. They used to be an enormous family; a pureblood dynasty of the sacred twenty-eight."
"So?"
Hermione sighs impatiently; Draco suddenly feels for Potter and Weasley, who probably spent many years being led to the answer by Hermione.
"Draco —" Hermione grasps his hand, squeezing it tightly. "Since 1710, not a single female member of the Greengrass family has had a child. The line has been carried on by sons."
Draco considers this — Daphne and Astoria are all that is left. There are no sons left to bear the Greengrass name. He sighs, "Okay, I'm following you, Granger. But what does this mean?"
Hermione nods sharply, turning back to the book and flipping a few pages. She lands on a tree that sprawls two pages; it reads Prewett on the top of the page, and in sharp red ink a large 'X' has been written over both pages with the words blood traitors scrawled nearly across. It doesn't seem to bother Hermione.
"Molly is a Prewett. Look at their family tree."
Draco stares at the pages. He's less familiar with the Prewett family tree; his tutor growing up never bothered teaching anything beyond pureblood histories, and both Prewett's and Weasley's had been skipped over in his education. It's suddenly easy to see what Hermione has been trying to explain.
"Ginny wasn't exaggerating, Hermione. Magical pregnancies are difficult. Most witches only bear two children at most. My mother nearly died with me." Draco says softly. His fingers trace countless branches of Prewetts.
"There hasn't been a single incident ever recorded of a Prewett having less than three children," Hermione says. "Usually, they range from five to seven."
"They're trying to breed the Greengrass family back into society," Draco murmurs. "They think that pairing Daphne and Astoria with Weasley husbands will increase their chances of pregnancy."
Nausea spreads through him — Astoria's letters seem to burn from within his pocket. He wonders if she knows why she and Daphne were paired with Weasley husbands. Astoria's decision to run suddenly makes sense, and Draco is on the verge of telling Hermione this when he bites back the words.
Astoria hadn't told him it was a secret, but he's a Slytherin, and he knows what she expects of him.
Ron Weasley's words tumble around in his head: Hermione has secrets — secrets, secrets, secrets. Draco thinks that at least that makes two of them.