Huge thanks to my beta Grace_Clarke for help during this chapter. Please take a moment to appreciate her awesomeness, as she stuck with me while I struggled to finish this chapter - it was uncooperative.

Sorry that this chapter took so long - I was hoping to get it out on Christmas Day, but...

Some people mentioned their desire for the 'comfort' part of this fic to start - here we have a bit of an appetiser. Hermione isn't quite ready yet, but I promise we're getting there. Hopefully this chapter gives you a bit of a teaser as to just how cosy and fluffy these two will be - but as I said, Hermione has a bit of a ways to go before we can get to the truly lovely.

Remember the sunshine-ending I promised? We'll get there!

Let me know what you think everybody!

December 25th 2002 - Early Morning

Hermione stood in front of her bedroom mirror. For the twenty-seventh time, she tried to manipulate a strand of red tinsel through her hair. She sighed when it didn't work, and finally decided to give up on the idea altogether.

Her head had stopped pounding after the second dose of hangover relief potion, but her state of mind hadn't improved at all. Dread had crept into her belly and refused to move, making her feel nauseated and overcome with nerves.

Her evening spent with Malfoy wasn't entirely clear, but she felt she'd enjoyed herself. For some bizarre reason. She remembered quite vividly, however, the way he'd invited himself into her Christmas plans. While that idea alone would have normally been enough to send her into a frazzled tizzy, it was her first destination that was making her particularly nervous.

It had been almost six months since she'd seen Ron, and most of the other Weasleys. She'd kept in contact, like she'd promised, but, apart from Ginny, and occasionally running into Percy at the Ministry, she'd kept her physical distance. She had no idea what was in store for her, but she knew it would not be all sunshine and rainbows.

This day was going to be difficult, and she was already wishing it was over.

Squaring her shoulders, Hermione turned and grabbed her trusty beaded bag, still illegally enlarged, and headed for the Floo.

The Burrow was already a cacophony of noise when she arrived. She could hear Mrs Weasley scolding George in the kitchen, and his responding jubilant laugh. Percy, and his new wife Audrey, were discussing something very loudly on the couch when she arrived, barely even noticing her as she stepped out of the fireplace. Tiny Victoire Weasley-Delacour was shrieking in giggles from a higher floor of the house, and Mr Weasley was yelling about there being 'no need to panic, everything is fine!'

She almost smiled at how comforting and familiar it all was, tears springing to her eyes as she realised just how much she'd missed this.

"Hermione, love! Haven't seen you in ages!"

All of a sudden, she was swept up in a hug of red hair and harsh leather, Charlie's dragon tooth earring tickling her cheek.

"Hey, Charlie," she replied as she hugged him back, pushing her face into his warm chest. "Merry Christmas."

"Well, it wasn't going to be if you weren't here! I've missed you, 'Mione!"

"I'm sorry, I just–"

"Oh, enough of that! Did you bring me a present?"

Hermione could do nothing but laugh as Charlie drew back and kidnapped her beaded bag. He ruffled through it quickly, his smile like an eight-year-old's.

"Oh, I've missed that."

And suddenly, all of the warmth was gone from the room.

Everyone in the room - even Percy and Audrey - turned to look at the man who had entered.

His hair was longer. The tips kissed his collar - which was actually neat and turned down perfectly. His pants were pressed, and he was wearing a vest over his white shirt. His shoes were shined, his face clean shaven.

He looked fine. Better than. Ron looked possibly more put together than Hermione had ever seen him. When he smiled at her like he was nervous, his teeth gleamed.

Hermione couldn't make sense of it. Just two nights ago, he'd written to her, talking about how low he was, how he hadn't been sleeping, barely ate, how his nights were like clinging to the edge of a cliff with his fingertips. He'd written about how tempted he was to hurt himself - a little physical discomfort to distract from the gaping chasm of suffering and loneliness.

But that wasn't what Ron looked like now. If anything, it looked as though she had been suffering far more than he.

"Missed what, Ron?" Charlie replied when it became clear Hermione wasn't going to.

"That laugh," Ron said simply, without a trace of embarrassment.

Even so, the silence that followed was one of the most painfully awkward ones that Hermione had ever lived through.

"Merry Christmas, Ronald," Hermione grudgingly greeted, her gaze firmly on the carpet. "I'm just here to drop some gifts off. I can't stay, I have to be somewhere."

"Oh, come on, 'Mione! Christmas is for family - you should stay!"

Hermione's gaze snapped off the floor and she glared at him with all the vitriol she could summon at that moment.

"Where do you think I'm heading off to, Ronald?" She growled dangerously. "I'm glad for you that you've got the ability to stay at home with the family for Christmas, but that's just not something that's possible for us with 'crazy parents'."

When Ron flushed, she felt a faint twinge of satisfaction. It wasn't enough though and her vision fogged with tears.

"I didn't come here to argue with you, Ron," she interrupted him before he could begin his predictable apology. "I came because it's Christmas, and, yes, you should be with the ones you love at Christmas."

Despondently, she reached into her bag and pulled out a handful of tiny, perfectly wrapped gifts. She waved her wand and enlarged them to their original sizes, leaving them in a huddle on the living room floor.

"But I'm not going to stay here when people I love are dismissed and demeaned."

"I wasn't–"

"They're my parents, Ron. And maybe it doesn't mean anything, maybe it doesn't make a difference, but I'm going to spend my Christmas with them, and that's just the way it is."

"'Mione, it's just that we always spend Christm–"

"We're not in a relationship anymore, Ron," she felt like the worst person in the world as she said it, but she felt like it needed saying.

Like he still hadn't figured out what that meant. Like he expected her to admit it was all a big prank. Like he thought she was testing him.

She didn't know how to make herself clearer.

"I broke up with you, Ronald. Our relationship is over, and you need to accept that."

"But I've been–"

"Shut up, Ronniekins," Charlie warned, stepping forward and placing a steady hand on his baby brother's arm. "You fucked it - you lost. Just shut up."

"But–" Ron began, when Charlie's fingers squeezed around his collarbone in a harsher warning, though, he wisely bit his tongue.

Nevertheless, Hermione could still clearly see the seething, humiliated rage in his eyes.

"Hermione, dear, Merry Christmas."

Hermione bit back a groan of misery as Mrs Weasley stepped into the room, wiping her hands on her already stained apron.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs Weasley," she accepted the hug, the smell of warm spices filling her nostrils. "Lunch smells lovely."

"I'm so glad you're here, dear. Arthur brought home your latest proposed Amendment to the Statute of Secrecy last week - you should be proud of yourself!" Mrs Weasley declared. "The only way to oppose it is to admit to bigotry. Absolute genius, dear."

Hermione smiled back, silently agreeing with the Weasley matriarch. It had taken months for her to finish drafting the legislation. Now it would be possible for blended magical and Muggle families to openly share their lives with each other. The goal was to ensure that the familial bond with extended family that Hermione and many other Muggle-borns and half-bloods had previously had to forgo, would now be allowed to thrive.

The issue had been the elder, conservative members of the Wizengamot who hid their prejudice behind a smokescreen of 'concern for safety'.

Hermione had spent countless hours drafting the perfect language, impossible to spin. She had high hopes it would pass when it went before the Wizengamot after the Christmas break.

"Thank you," she replied genuinely, grasping the older redhead's hand. "That means a lot."

"How are your parents, dear?"

"Did you–"

"I did hear, yes. You're a good, dutiful daughter," Mrs Weasley said before turning for a moment to send a scolding glare at her squirming youngest son. Hermione wasn't sure how to react. "Which is why I made you a to-go lunch. Come along, dear."

The older woman spun on her heel and strode off in a storm of confident authority, obviously expecting Hermione to follow.

When she turned to do so, Ron scoffed.

"That's right, turn even my own family against me, you meddling cow," he hissed.

His brothers and sister-in-law scolded him in one united voice, growling and shrieking their outrage. Hermione was glad for the noise - glad she'd already turned away.

None of them were able to hear her whimper, or see the flood of tears swimming in her vision.

"Ron, please," she begged. "It's Christmas."

"Exactly! A day of forgiveness, compromise and love - not whatever evil, manipulative crap you've concocted to bewitch my mother into believing I'm a bad son."

"I– you– what does that even mean, Ronald?"

Before Ron could shout his reply, Charlie was at Hermione's shoulder.

"Hermione," he murmured. "Ron lost. That means you won. So, if he isn't going to shut the fuck up," his voice rose to overpower Ron's. "Then just walk away."

The smile Charlie sent her then was everything she needed - kind, encouraging, patient, the tiniest bit mockingly exasperated. It was suddenly almost easy to ignore Ron then, to pretend that his words were nothing more than a howl on the wind.

Almost.

"Yeah, walk away from the only person on the entire planet who ever saw anything of value in you? Not bloody likely."

The way he said it - as though she were nothing more than dirt under his shoe. Dismissive and condescending, his nose wrinkled like he'd smelt something rotten. Merlin, it was enough to make her chest ache.

Audrey stood with tears in her eyes, grasping Percy's arm like a vice, while she pleaded for him to do something, to make it stop. Charlie was looking at his younger brother like he was staring at a stranger - a very disturbing, possibly dangerous stranger.

Hermione, though, could only sigh, and sniff, and fail in the attempt to square her shoulders.

"I didn't come here to be insulted," she said, stronger than she expected. "I came here to say Merry Christmas and leave some gifts. Your mother made me something to take with me, because she knew ahead of time that I would not be spending the day here, as you would have too if you had bothered to ask."

She almost turned back around to look at him. She wasn't sure where she'd found the willpower to stay turned away.

"Please stop owling me - I don't want to hear from you, Ron. Not until you've made some pretty substantial changes, and even then…"

She shook her head to force the sob back into her chest, following after Mrs Weasley as quickly as her wobbly legs would allow. When Mrs Weasley passed her a heavy picnic basket and softly caressed her cheek, a few tears spilled over against her will.

She could tell the matriarch wanted to embrace her, hug her close to her bosom and shush away the hurt, but she made no move to do so. Instead, she only wiped away Hermione's tears with her thumb, and smiled in that familiar motherly way that Hermione had been terrified she'd never see again.

"I'm so sorry my son has hurt you so badly, Hermione," she murmured. "I am ashamed of him - he is not the boy I thought I raised."

"Mrs Weasley," Hermione began, wincing as she did so. "Ronald isn't a boy anymore. He's a man now, and he's responsible for his own choices."

"I know, dear, but even so. Clearly, there were some lessons I did not teach him. I'm sorry for that."

Breaking away and turning back to the kitchen island, Mrs Weasley restarted her lunch preparations, letting out an embarrassed laugh as she sniffed.

"But enough of this sadness on the holidays. You run along, Hermione, dear, and say hello and Merry Christmas to your parents for me."

December 25th 2002 - Mid Morning

Hermione was numb.

She desperately wanted to be angry at Ron. To be mad and outraged, perhaps, even throw a fit. Like she would have, once upon a time.

Instead, all she felt was heartbreak, a crushing sadness because the boy she'd known, the man she'd fallen in love with, had become a completely different person. A person who hurt, and took satisfaction in doing so. A person who knew all of her weaknesses, insecurities and defects, and used them to make her feel small. Her soul felt claggy, like tar coated her insides.

Her grief felt almost dirty.

How could she grieve for such a person? How could the person Ron had become evoke such desolation in her? She had never considered herself a victim - always an activist - but the feeling that crawled through her veins like sludge, wasn't motivating her to action right now. Instead, all she wanted was to hide, to find a fortified sky palace, somewhere she could weep in, for a few days.

Her jaw was throbbing due to her determination to keep her sobs at bay, her teeth clenched harder than the day she rode a dragon out of Gringotts. She wasn't sure if she had started hyperventilating or stopped breathing altogether. She felt entirely disconnected, as though she were viewing herself from outside of her own body. When she arrived at St Mungo's, she knew it in a distant way, her legs walking the route to her parents' room strictly on autopilot.

The room was quiet when she crossed the threshold. Someone had hung a few wreaths of holly from the curtain rails, some gold and red tinsel over her parents' beds. Her parents were sitting together at the table by the window, her dad stationary in his rocking chair, her mother's shoulders hunched.

Hermione stood there for a few moments, emotions darting through her too fast for her to catch. As the seconds passed and her parents remained silent and unmoving, she could feel the fog of dissociation she'd cocooned herself in begin to lift. It felt like a mudslide - more than drowning, worse than being buried alive. She could feel the toxic emotional agony clogging her throat and coating her lungs, weighing her down and pulling her under. Wave after wave after wave of despair, loneliness and grief - unbearable, inconceivable grief.

"I miss you," she whispered.

She crossed the room to them, taking the one remaining chair. She reached for their hands, lacing their fingers together. She squeezed as hard as she could, hating how unfamiliar the grip was. Cold and listless, none of the warmth she remembered.

Tears made silent tracks down her cheeks as she stared out the window with her parents. The only sound was the ticking clock hanging above the door. She wanted desperately to move, to fall into her dad's lap, cry on his shoulder while her mum stroked her hair. The idea made an audible sob break free, and she bowed her head against it.

At the exact time Malfoy walked in.

December 25th 2002 - Late Morning

She felt his presence before he spoke. He stood there for a few minutes, allowing her the time to attempt to pull herself together. She couldn't see him from her position between her parents, facing the window, for which she was grateful.

Hermione dropped her parents' hands and raised her palms to her face, swiping at the tears and sniffing in an entirely unladylike manner. She cleared her throat and tried to breathe, her hands against her chest.

"I take it that it didn't go well at the Weasley's?" he greeted as she rose, his voice sympathetic.

When she turned and locked eyes with him, she could see the tone in his voice was genuine. His gaze screamed sympathy and compassion. None of the disgust or, worse, pity she expected to see. When she attempted a response, her voice came out raspy. She cleared her throat and tried again.

"No," she said, starting to feel annoyed as more completely unproductive tears fell. "It did not go well."

She couldn't meet Malfoy's eyes then, his gaze too intense. Her eyes turned downwards and it was at this point that she finally processed what he was wearing.

The first thing that drew her eye were the pants - the flaming, fire-engine red skinny jeans, held up by suspenders. A white button-up shirt, top two buttons undone, of course. The shoes looked like dragon-leather, and he'd taken off his big, red coat and flung it over one shoulder nonchalantly. To complete the look, a fluffy red hat, white pom-pom and all, sat perched artfully on his head, highlighting his bright white hair that he'd left free and loose around his shoulders.

"Are you supposed to be Santa Claus?" she questioned, raising her eyebrows.

His grin was immediate and cheeky, lighting up his face and dancing in his eyes.

"Oh no, Granger," he replied. "I'm Sexy St Nick, of course."

Her face flamed redder than his trousers and she stuttered a response while making a detailed study of the floor. Malfoy chuckled at her embarrassment, stepping completely into the room.

"Merry Christmas, Granger's!" he boomed dramatically. "I bring good tidings and fortunes for all!"

"You brought presents?" Hermione quizzed, frowning now as she scanned his person for obvious signs of parcels.

"Of course not, there was no time for that," he dismissed, flinging his coat onto her father's bed and ruffling through the oversized pockets. With a flourish, he pulled out a brown paper bag. "I brought biscuits!"

Unexpectedly, Hermione laughed. It surprised both of them, a pleased, triumphant smile gracing Malfoy's aristocratic features. It smoothed him, wiping away any pretext and presenting a completely clean slate, like waves over letters in the sand. She paced over to him, reaching around him to the picnic basket she'd stashed there from Mrs Weasley.

He didn't move as she did, watching her as she leant around him, smirking when she narrowed her eyes at him for making it difficult.

"I'll see your biscuits, and raise you lunch," she bragged, smirking right back.

His flint eyes went to the basket and flicked back to her. His gaze was soft and curious, and Hermione felt her face heating up again. He reached for the basket handle, taking hold of it around her hands, his fingers grazing hers. She didn't let go, her eyes following his movements from before - down to the basket and back up to him.

"It's always so effortless, the way you best me, Granger," he murmured, his voice low, eyes intense. "I've missed our little competition,"

December 25th 2002 – Early Afternoon

Malfoy hadn't really stopped talking since he had arrived in a swirl of surprising Christmas cheer - but then, neither had Hermione.

She wasn't sure what they had talked about, per se. Everything and nothing, it seemed. He had started with simple small talk, commenting on the rather sad decor the hospital had seen fit to install in her parents' room, which had moved along rather swiftly to their childhood memories of the holiday season, comparing their pureblood and Muggle-born upbringings. She'd gasped at the opulence of his early years, and he'd laughed along at the simplicity of hers.

Hogwarts was discussed at various points, and they found more things to agree on than argue about. They shared a distaste for Professor Trelawney and a reverence for Professor Sinastra. Both agreed Binns should have been allowed to sleep undisturbed, or wander peacefully through the halls, instead of teaching the next generation History of Magic. The death trap that was laughingly called a staircase was soundly rejected as a good idea by all.

She was surprised at how natural it was. If a moment of silence existed between them, it was comfortable. Not at all awkward, their conversation flowed effortlessly. His experience wandering the world whilst he studied healing had provided him with countless anecdotes and fascinating life lessons. Truly, it was one of the most stirring dialogues Hermione had shared with anybody in a long time.

They'd done an odd dance around the room, moving from chair to bed to standing by the window and back again, as if pulled along by a puppeteer. He seemed to think easier when he was moving, as did she - it was nice to be in the presence of another active thinker.

"Have you noticed this isn't actually lunch, though?" He asked as he moved back to her father's bed and rifled through the picnic basket again.

His hands came back loaded with a mini-quiche, mince pie and brandy snap. The look on his face was entirely amusing - caught between confusion and delight - and Hermione found herself holding back a laugh.

"Don't get me wrong, this is absolutely delicious," he continued, carefully depositing the pastries into his lap, so he could grasp the brandy-snap delicately between his fingertips. "And just listen…"

He cracked the crisp, rolled dessert in half, the resounding snap bouncing off the walls, and hastily slurped up the oozing brandy cream away from his fingers.

He let out a moan, and Hermione's cheeks flamed for an entirely new reason. His enjoyment was almost indecent - unashamedly so.

"How in the fuck is that possible?" He continued, bringing her back to their conversation. "These have been packed with cream for hours, not a whiff of stasis charm - how the hell is that snap still so…" unable to come up with words to adequately describe the delicacy, he released that indecent moan once again.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at him, waiting for him to get to the point.

"My point being, these could best be described as hors d'oeuvres," he continued munching while he spoke. "This doesn't scream Christmas lunch to me."

"I think that's on purpose," she replied, staring thoughtfully at her chocolate-covered strawberry. "Ever since Fr- ever since the war, Mrs Weasley has wanted her family close. But her children are growing up and having lives of their own, so she's got to be a bit more sly about it."

She glanced over at him again, and saw his confused, expectant gaze. She took a bite of her chosen snack, and chewed daintily while she continued.

"It's so hard to leave when, every time you think there's an opening, she decrees 'you can't leave, I've only just brought out the mince pies', or 'the treacle tarts have just set, you're not leaving yet, are you, Harry? I made them for you specially, because I know they're your favourite'."

Malfoy laughed then - a rich, deep sound. Hermione wasn't sure whether it was from the picture of Harry she'd provided, trapped in the kitchen by a stern Mrs Weasley brandishing treacle tarts, or the voice she'd assumed to imitate the older woman. Either way, Hermione found herself smiling back effortlessly, easily. As if she'd smiled back at him a thousand times before. As if they were old friends and it was only natural.

"By the time you've given in three times, dinner is being placed on the table and you might as well just stay the night."

She finished with a shrug and turned towards her mother who was absently tearing apart the paper crown Hermione had given her from a Christmas bon-bon. Hermione sighed fondly, tiredly, and reached for her matriarch's hand, lacing their fingers together.

"Sounds nice," he reflected. "To be that wanted, you know?"

She noticed something in his voice, in the subtle but unmistakable slump in his shoulders. It took her a moment for his words to penetrate and take root, formulate themselves into meaning in her mind.

"Is that not… do you not… I mean–"

Malfoy smirked as she stuttered, swiping the silly hat off his head - finally - to run his fingers through his hair.

"I'm expected at Christmas, Granger, as all pureblood heirs are. Just as I'm expected at the solstice and equinox and tedious dinner galas. But no, Granger, being wanted was never an option."

She didn't know how to respond, but he didn't seem to need her to. They sat in the silence that followed, and even though she should have been uncomfortable, and he should have been squirming at the vulnerability he allowed her to see, no such discomfort seemed to penetrate the moment.

"Well, I certainly didn't expect you for Christmas, Malfoy," Hermione intoned after a time. "But I'm actually very happy that you're here."

Again, Malfoy's smirk smoothed into a gentle, genuine smile, the one that shocked Hermione's breath straight out of her lungs.

"Well, thanks, Granger," he replied. "Funnily enough, me too."

She wondered briefly how idiotic they both looked then, smiling stupidly at each other, as though they were children sharing a secret. But she also found that she wasn't particularly bothered by the prospect. She never thought she'd find herself having a moment with Draco Malfoy, but here she was - and the moment had called quite simply for idiotic, too-wide smiles.

December 25th, Pre-evening

"But I'm certain she smiled, Malfoy, she did! You have to look! She smiled!"

"Granger, I'm sure she did, but–"

"No, you're not listening! She smiled, Malfoy! She hasn't smiled in– Malfoy, you have to run a diagnostic, something happened!"

"Granger, I've been running diagnostics all day, you know that. There's nothing showing–"

"But there has to be!" Hermione screamed.

Her mother had smiled - she'd fucking smiled. Hermione was absolutely certain of it, just for the briefest of moments, the fastest of seconds, but it was there. She'd seen it. She knew her mother's smile, knew how far her lips stretched before they opened, how many perfectly aligned teeth were displayed when she did. She knew the size of the left dimple compared to the right, how crow's feet would suddenly deepen around temples.

Yet, despite that, despite the surging conviction, the irrefutable knowledge of what Hermione knew was an absolute fact, Malfoy hadn't reacted. He hadn't leapt into action, he hadn't even so much as run a diagnostic over his patient.

"There has to be something, Malfoy! You have to look!"

He looked like he was about to argue with her, so, she did something she swore to herself she would never do again.

She begged Draco Malfoy.

"Please, Malfoy, just look. Run the diagnostic. There has to be something. Please."

Malfoy looked at her sadly, releasing a sigh that sounded years in the making. Seconds passed and they stood in silence, until finally, he raised his wand and cast the diagnostic charm.

A fog of familiar, sickening green enveloped her mother. No golden sparks, no red twirls, no lifesigns of glittering purple.

Just that oppressive, terrible green. That unmoving, uncrimpable, dead green.

"Granger…" He murmured into the dead space.

He let go of the enchantment and stepped towards her, raising his hands as though to comfort her.

"But she… she smiled… I saw her smile…" whispered Hermione, her hands clutched to her chest, as though it was likely to explode open at any minute.

She couldn't make sense of it. She was so sure. Was it a trick? A mistake of the light? A delusion caused by too much contentment and ease?

Hermione and Malfoy had continued to chat, all day evenand after the sun went down, and while they'd talked, they'd continued to eat. Sweets and savories, smothered in sauces, creams and jellies, until finally Hermione had joked about how many cavities she'd earned in a single day.

Quick as a flash and just as bright as lightning, her mother's smile had lit up the room. Barely a second and gone, but Hermione was sure she'd seen it.

For that tiny moment, her heart had stuttered like an entire military tattoo in her chest, stumbling out a rhythm that could only be described as agonizingly hopeful. For the first time, the very first time in years, her mother had reacted to something she'd said.

And it meant nothing.

Not a single spark, twirl or glitter.

Nothing but green.

"Hermione…" Malfoy tried again, and only then did she look at him.

His eyes silently screamed empathy somehow, as if he knew what that fog cost her, like he could actually understand how depressingly futile this whole day had suddenly become. The way he held his shoulders, his arms held out just the smallest distance from his torso, made her think he wanted to hug her.

And Godric, she wanted to let him. As tears made tracks down her cheeks and her arms wound tighter around herself, all she wanted was for his arms to open just the tiniest bit more, so she could throw herself into them and allow someone else to keep her together.

"Hermione, I believe you," he murmured. "I believe you, I do. It's just not enough to show up on the charm yet. But this is progress, and we know now that we're on the right track."

"It's not enough…" She responded back, those words pounding a scar through her brain, until it was all she could hear.

"But we'll get there, Hermione! This is good, this is progress!"

"It's not enough…"

She turned again, trying to find something else to look at. There her father sat, still in his rocking chair, staring at her blindly, as though he'd been stuffed and placed there. His large hands that used to be calloused from hours of tinkering with his prized E-Type Jaguar hung limply from the armrests. Unthinking, she reached for one of them, threading her fingers through her father's.

She squeezed their fingertips together - one, two, pause, three - hoping the familiar tempo would trigger something. Just a flicker, just a whisper, just a gasp - anything.

She didn't have to ask this time, as Malfoy was already casting the charm. Just like her mother, disgusting green smog surrounded her father. Nothing more, nothing less.

Hermione backed away to the door, her hand covering her mouth. Wild sobs and whimpers were ripped from her, sounding like cloth tearing in a violent windstorm.

She'd been so hopeful. She'd been so sure this time. She wasn't a person who lived off of false hope and blind faith. She was a realist, she trusted in the evidence of her senses. She didn't jump to conclusions and even her impulsivity was measured. It was completely out of character for her to fall so spectacularly apart after something so small.

But, God, she missed her mum, and it was Christmas, and she'd thought for a moment that maybe…

She shook her head, trying to get her thoughts to slow down, so she could think and calm herself. All it did though was make her face even more of a mess, as various liquids continued to leak from her eyes and nose. She couldn't find it in her to be embarrassed, far too emotionally drained.

"It's not enough." She said, her voice choppy but no longer lost, accepting the horrible reality.

"But it will be," Malfoy pledged.

He raised his hand again and this time he didn't stop himself from comforting her. He placed his hand on her shoulder, running his thumb along her collarbone, before sliding his hand down her arm. Maybe it spoke of her critical lack of human contact, but she felt the urge to lean into his touch, so, she was almost relieved when he pulled away too soon.

"Hermione, I will bring them back to you."

She looked away from him, wiping her face with her sleeve.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Malfoy." She grunted, sniffing harshly and blinking the rest of her tears away.

He didn't respond for a few seconds, taking in her words with complete seriousness. Then he smiled, a genuine, kind smile that almost allowed a little bit of light to penetrate Hermione's cold heart.

"I will bring them back to you, Hermione." He vowed once again, voice deep and certain. "I promise."