What she liked most about this tradition was the smell. The smell of the pine trees was one that transported her somewhere else entirely. She used to lie down with her head beneath them and inhale the earthy odour and she could practically feel the crisp snow freezing her back and the bracing winter breeze course over her. Ever since she had first inhaled that smell she felt like nothing could ever come close to it. Certainly not the artificial trees with their flimsy bristles and their complex bases that smelled of nothing but for the faint scent of plastic. As long as she could remember, she had had a traditional fir tree in her living room that she and her father had picked out together - or else the towering tree at Hogwarts or the crooked, but marvelously decorated, spruce courtesy of the Weasleys. But this year is different - it is different in all respects, she supposes.
She sits in the living room of the safe house trying, in vain to jam the first section of the tree into the base. The base itself had taken her some time to put together due to her general abhorrence of instructions. Her father always told her that her stubbornness would get the better of her someday - but this tree would not defeat her. It simply wouldn't. She watches out of the corner of her eye as some Ravenclaw girl from two years below her - perhaps named Sorcha - wraps some tinsel around her friend Damon and two Hufflepuffs untangle an impossible mess of lights. Justin Finch-Fletchley pulls out a box of old baubles, half of which are either missing or broken, though he doesn't seem to care much. She thinks that it is for them that she does this - trying to construct this tree that she resents already for its inferior smell. She sees them smile and laugh and have fun and it just about makes up for the fact she has pinched her finger between the base and the join in the tree.
"What the fuck is that?" She doesn't know why she hadn't sensed him before - a sort of terrible dark presence that sucks everything positive from the room. She doesn't look up, because she thinks that, if she can only join the base and the first section of the tree, he can't possibly tell her to take it down.
"It's a Christmas tree, Malfoy, what do you think?" she says and she knows it comes out indignant and belligerent and perhaps a bit childish, but she really doesn't care too much about that right now.
"I think you're fucking mental. Put it away." She had anticipated that - it is harsh and unreasonable, but she would expect no less from him. She breathes a heavy sigh and lifts her eyes to his. He is angry, she can see that much - but he is always angry; intense with it too. It is as if, even if he is angry at the whole world, or even a certain situation, he can look at you and you would feel - Merlin, you would feel like it is all on you.
"It's Christmas Eve," she says calmly, because she is very aware of the fact that silence has fallen heavily upon the room and if she doesn't speak, she doesn't suppose anyone will. His nostrils flare - a usual indicator of his anger. She can not see why this has gotten him quite so upset - but he is quick to anger and always quick to respond and so she does not have long to consider it.
"Yes, I am aware of that, thank you, Granger. Now, put it away," he orders her slowly and deliberately so that there might be no mistaking his meaning. She frowns as she notices his fists clench. It is not the action that concerns her - it is nothing out of the ordinary for the surly Slytherin. However, she sees some bruising on his left fist and at least three of his knuckles are bleeding; both hands shake and she doesn't know whether it is with anger or something else. When he inhales, it is as if it takes some effort to do so - his inhalations are deep but they seem laboured. When her eyes return to his face, it is highlighted in red, but he is grey and drawn beneath it all. Her frown deepens as his jaw sets in that defensive way she has come to know well in the past seven months.
"What's wrong with you?" She knows how the others in the room will interpret that, but she also knows him to be too smart to take that any other way than how she truly means it. True to form he snarls and gives her the ugliest look he can muster.
"Many things, Granger. Currently it is the fact that you're cluttering up our group work space with this shit. What the fuck is wrong with you?" he fires back and it takes her a few half-formed sentences before she is able to say anything approaching coherency.
"I'm trying to make this Christmas a little less grim, which, given the circumstances, is bloody difficult. I know it's not people's ideal-"
"-what? You don't think this is people's ideal way to spend Christmas? Never!" The sarcasm drops off his words and she feels her lip curl, ready to defend herself against it. "I couldn't think of a better way to spend it than in this shitty safe-house, in the middle of a bloody war, with a bunch of fucking idiots as company." She drops the section of tree as she rises to her feet. As she stands up, she can see some slight bruising on his neck, and notices for the first time the large tear across the front of his charcoal t-shirt.
"Piss off to another safe-house, then - if we're all so intolerable," she spits and his eyes narrow at her words.
"It'd be exactly the same safe-house, sheltering the same sort of morons I have to contend with here." She can feel the bitterness of his words as acutely as she can the offended grumble of the others in the room. He has no friends here - he has made sure of that. "Now clear this lot up," he barks and it takes her several seconds to realise that he has turned on the spot and left.
Now, whether it is because she his a glutton for punishment, or simply that she is Hermione Granger, and she will always do what is right, she doesn't know - but either way, she storms out after him with a quick command to Terry Boot to carry on with the decorating. He looks unsure, so she gives him a brief encouraging smile that she knows comes out more like a grimace, but she does not have the time to reassure him now. Striding out of the room, she gives a brief look to the staircase, though she sees nothing there and he could not have made it up there that quickly without Apparition - something they can't do inside the house anyway. She ducks her head around the door to the kitchen, but finds that the only occupants are Seamus and Lavender. They seem to be engaged in a rather heated discussion and she sidles out of the room before they notice her. She opens the door opposite to what turns out to be a cloakroom - she hasn't been in this safe-house for long and is not so used to it yet. Safe in the knowledge that he is not in there, she swiftly shuts the door and looks towards the only place he might be.
She takes a couple of cautious steps towards the front door. She debates whether she should grab her coat, but then it is all the way upstairs and she really would rather catch him before he can sink into a darker mood, so she forgets it. When she opens the door, the cold hits her like a hard punch to the stomach, winding her and causing her breath to get stuck in her throat for a few moments. She gasps for air, but the sound gets carried away on the wind and she does not think he has noticed her yet. The cold seeps into her, freezing her from within and it lays a thin coat of ice along her bones. She is not quite sure if she can move, but then she can feel his eyes upon her now and when she turns to meet them, her whole body erupts once more and she can feel enough to take a couple of steps towards him.
"What are you d-doing out-t h-here? It's fr-freezing," she says between the chattering of her teeth. The look he gives her is of pure disdain, but she cannot return it - only stare at him in vague amazement. He is sitting outside in a t-shirt in the middle of winter, after all.
"Then, by all means, feel free to go back inside," he snaps and, if it were any other time, or any other man, she might snap back. But, as it was, her teeth couldn't stay still long enough to form an appropriately biting retort. She took a couple of steps closer and sat next to him on the bench - perhaps closer than he'd like, because she could feel him tense even before her bottom touched the seat.
"I c-can't, you see, I need to t-talk to you," she says feebly. He raises an eyebrow and shakes his head insistently.
"Believe me, you really don't, Granger," he grinds out emphatically. Her response is delayed by a shiver that shakes her whole body. Her grandfather used to say that it was someone 'walking over your grave.' She thinks to tell Malfoy this when he looks at her oddly for shivering, but she thinks it would only provoke more odd looks, so she decides against it. Instead she grumbles about being 'cold-blooded' and 'descended from snakes' and 'belligerent reptiles.' In spite of her muttering and the chattering of her teeth, he seems to hear enough to gain a general impression of what's she's trying to say.
"It's not even that cold, Granger. You're just being a baby about it," he huffs and it comes out as an odd mixture of smug and irritated. She tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a spluttering gurgle and she wishes she hadn't attempted it at all.
"It's the coldest day of the year so far - any normal person could feel it," she says pointedly.
"Why on earth can you then?" It takes her a while to ascertain his meaning due to the cold freezing her brain and by the time she does it is too late to respond. She sinks back into the bench and shifts slightly towards him - towards the warmth anyway. Their knees knock and she is pretty sure that the fibres of her jumper are scratching against his arm. If he is uncomfortable, he does not betray it on his face - he only tenses further for a fraction of a second and turns to look at her. It is a look that clearly tells her that she is interrupting some valuable solitary brooding time.
"Why are you being so horrible?" she asks and it is blunt and straight to the point, but he does nothing more than raise an eyebrow and allow his mouth to twitch a fraction of an inch into what is probably the start of a smile.
"I'm not being horrible-"
"-well then, why are you in such a bad mood?" she interrupts him, changing tack slightly. He frowns at the interruption before shaking his head a little - he does nothing to hide the rolling of his eyes.
"I'm in the same mood I'm usually in - this is my only mood. Besides, can you blame me? Considering the morons I have to deal with." It is her turn to roll her eyes, though it has slightly less effect as she shivers in the middle of doing so. She wishes she had fetched her coat, or perhaps that Malfoy was the sort of friend that she could shrink into to shield herself against the cold - like Ron is whenever they are stationed at the same safe-house or like Harry used to be. Malfoy is not that sort of friend at all. If 'friend' is even the right word for what he is. She thinks that there are many words for what Malfoy is. There were fewer when she did not know him so well - when mean, rude, prejudiced and superior would have sufficed. But now there are far more words - far more big, complicated words. Words that she never would have connected with him in the past. But things are different now - he is different.
"This is worse than usual, Malfoy, and you know it. It's just a tree." He looks at her fully now, angry and with a clenched jaw that is trying to keep him under control. But she knows him now and she knows control is not really his strong suit.
"It's not just a bloody tree, though is it?" he spits angrily, though he leaves her no time to respond. "It's those bloody idiots - those children who we call soldiers; it's you making them your pet project-"
"-I'm just trying to lift morale! You should try it some time instead of being so miserable all the bloody time!" This was the point that she ordinarily would have jumped up and away from him out of anger or a desire to be anywhere that wasn't in his vicinity. However, since his proximity was the only thing keeping her from lapsing into her previous convulsions, she remains where she is seated. Stranger still, so does he.
"Not miserable - just realistic! Just because you need something to take your mind off the fact that, for the first time in years, you're not spending a cosy Christmas with Weasley and Potter, it doesn't mean you can..." he trails off because he has probably seen her face and decided that it would be wise to do so. It has been more than seven months now, she knows this well - too well. And yet still, every time his name is mentioned or she thinks of him too long, it is like a sharp pain - a jab to the stomach and the loss of breath. She feels winded and breathless and the pain sinks down through her skin; it's absorbed into her flesh; into her bones; it etches itself into the memory of her muscles so that the ache is renewed at every utterance of his name. She thinks it is written all over her face. She thinks this is why she would never bear up under interrogation - because every ounce of anguish and fear and loathing and deception would show up on her face and there would be no way of hiding it. She would be exposed completely.
"You just don't get it, do you?" she manages to choke out. She is not crying - it is too cold for it. Between her tears and the bracing wind, she would lose her breath. Her voice is tight, though and she thinks that it too gives too much away.
"I get that you're an idiot," he says, though it is softer this time. She thinks that this might be his way of apologising, or at least trying to go easier on her. She appreciates it, in a way. It's difficult for him to back down - especially when he thinks he's right. But she knows it will not last. Because it is him and her - and peace is not something they are used to quite yet.
"People need hope sometimes in war - and they can take that wherever they damn well like! They can use the tree as something to focus on, for now, at least-"
"-they don't need to be focusing on the tree or Christmas or turkeys or reindeer - they need to be focusing on Death Eaters. That's all they need be focusing on. Because anything else - anything - any other distraction and that's it. And a fucking tree won't matter anymore." She shakes her head, because he is being ridiculous. Decorating a Christmas tree doesn't mean they are going to be thrown off their game. She is about to tell him something of the sort, she thinks, but then she notices his fist clench on his knee in the faint porch light. She notices the strange blue-blackness that mars it. She remembers how he seemed to struggle with his breathing in the sitting room. She notices how his shoulders shudder slightly with each breath - something she had previously put down to the cold.
"What happened?" she asks sharply. He looks at her side-long and she thinks that he might deflect or lie to her, but then he sighs and she sees for the first time tonight quite how tired he actually is.
"I went to meet a source today - a mole on their side." He exhales a shaky breath and clears his throat. "We won't be using him anymore." She has been in this game long enough now to know what he means.
"Who?" she asks him, because she does not think he would like to go through what exactly happened. He has probably had to go through that with Kingsley already.
"Blaise," he says with easily familiarity, "Zabini," he corrects himself in a sterner voice than he had used before. "I thought something was wrong, but they were already there; waiting." She must have looked too sympathetic, because he rushes on and averts his eyes. "Took one of them down, though. So, that's something." She would ask 'who?' again, but she is afraid that it may be another former friend and so she says nothing. After Voldemort's fall, he was one of the few Slytherins to turn traitor to their side. Some remained neutral with Death Eater leanings, but most had taken the Mark. He is pretty much alone now, with his mother dead; his father in Azkaban and his friends all against him. She thinks the pity might be seeping into her expression again, because his face is dark when she refocuses on it and she can tell that whatever he says next will not be on the same subject.
"We can't get complacent now - they're certainly not going to; not when there's so much at stake."
"It's Christmas, Malfoy - even the Death Eaters might take a day off!" She doesn't know what she expects from this - laughter, maybe. She doesn't expect anger - but then it appears: raw and powerful and, she thinks, unprovoked.
"You really are fucking stupid, aren't you, Granger? I mean, do you really think Death Eaters give a shit whether it's Christmas Day or not? They don't take days off and neither should we-"
"-you're beginning to sound like Moody - 'constant vigilance.'" He crosses his arms over his chest and she wonders whether even the reptile is starting to feel the cold.
"Well, the crazy bastard might have had a point with that one. It'd be the perfect day to target us - when we weren't expecting it." She thinks he sounds crazy and maybe a little paranoid. She thinks that maybe he is both of those things and she thinks she gets how he became them. The torn loyalty; the stress; the planning and the fear of the last three and a half years had to catch up with him eventually.
"They're starving for normalcy, Malfoy - we all are. Can't we give them that, just for one day?" He looks at her with a mixture of what might be disgust and disbelief and she feels very embarrassed, though she doesn't know whether she should be. He always has a habit of making her feel like that - he just has to look at her a certain way or say something the right way and suddenly she is doubting herself.
"You're so fucking naive, Granger - has anyone ever told you that? Bet that's what did it for Weasley - hmm? Silly, innocent Hermione Granger." She screws her face up and a sort of growl emerges from somewhere ugly inside of her. She can't quite believe that he has gone there - that he has picked at this old wound. And she is angry - an anger that is enough to match his.
"And you're a fucking paranoid, obnoxious twat! It's like you want us all to get attacked or something - just so long as it proves your fucking point!" She doesn't swear, not often, anyway. But it is him - he brings it out of her. He brings a lot out of things out of her that she didn't previously know she possessed or she was capable of. He smirks at her, like he has just won a bet that she was not party to and it only serves to annoy her further.
"Do you really think I want us to be attacked, Granger?" he asks her and his voice is too soft and it spells danger to her, but she does not manage to check her words before they fly free out of her mouth.
"I wouldn't put it past you," she bites and his jaw clenches dangerously. His nostrils flare and the look he gives her makes her wish she hadn't spoken at all.
"What? As a Death Eater, you mean?" This is a test and she knows this. It's one she must pass, else he flies into one of his rages that are particularly difficult to drag him back from. She exhales slowly and holds his gaze - it is steely and challenging and just asking for her to say the wrong things. She thinks how it always leads back to this with them. Not through any fault of hers - he always hauls it back to this. At first she thought it was for him to confirm that he had absolution; that the mistakes of the past didn't matter anymore. Now she thinks it might be a reminder to her - that whatever they were now, that's what he used to be; that's what he came from.
"You know that's not what I mean," she says lowly, trying to make the very idea sound absurd.
"I don't actually - I don't have a bloody clue what goes on in that bloody bushy head of yours, Granger." He says this like it really vexes him; like it is some big puzzle that he has been trying, and failing, to work out for some time.
"Right now I'm thinking that you're tired and stressed." She sees him trying to interrupt but she holds a hand up that seems to stall him, more out of surprise than anything else. "And that maybe you have a point - but so do I. Tired and jaded people are far less useful to us than happy and uplifted people - just give them this. Just one day," she tries to reason, but he only raises his eyebrows and stretches out one of his legs, scraping his boot along the decking. His knee knocks into hers and she has to fight the urge to look down - as if there would be some lingering mark there.
"Do you know what's more useful to us?" His eyes drag up from somewhere near his lap to meet hers. "Alive people." She sighs because it's him - and she could argue until it was Christmas Day, and she still probably wouldn't win.
"I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree," she says, leaning back into the bench. He gives her a brief look over his hunched shoulder. She thinks she sees a smirk wavering on his lips, but then he is leaning back into the seat and she is not sure whether it was ever there at all.
"That's just something people say when they know they're losing," he drawls and she can hear a hint of smugness in his voice that makes her blush.
"Well, we'll just have to see what tomorrow brings, won't we?" she says crisply. She sees him raise an eyebrow out of the corner of her eye. Her eyes flick towards him and meet his. She sees his smirk next - small and almost imperceptible, but it's there. She feels him then - the warm solidness of him pressing into her arm and her thigh. The warmth spreads through her; through her clothes and right down to her covered skin. There is little pressure, but it is enough and she can't help but sink into it a little.
"You're warm for a cold-blooded thing," she whispers. He laughs, she thinks, or maybe coughs. He says nothing, though and she is grateful for it."I'm not telling them to take down the tree," she rushes out into the silence. She doesn't look at him at first, but then she doesn't feel him tense and so she spares him a glance. He is looking out into the darkness with a sort of torn expression on his face. She wonders if he is looking for something - she thinks, maybe, he is always looking for something: the next attack or the next threat.
"I know," he says quietly, sighing deeply, like a man far older than himself who has learnt to pick his battles. She purses her lips, a 'thank you' nearly on its way out. She thinks better of it, though and looks to where his eyes are fixed - into the black. She stares until her eyes burn; she stares until her mind begins to invent shapes and movements that aren't there. She thinks she understands how paranoia could seize you like this - like shadows creeping out of the black; fictional enemies hiding in plain sight. She pushes back against him slightly, just so he knows: he's not there alone amongst shadows.
She is sitting on the bench outside in the cold because she doesn't know too many of the people at the safe-house and those she does know, she doesn't want to speak to. Her friends are either at the other safe-houses or at St Mungo's. She should probably be cold. She hasn't changed her clothes and they are still damp from the rain and the blood. Because of Kingsley's rule of 'no unnecessary magic,' she would have to change her clothes and bathe to rid herself of the grime. She can't do that - not yet. She is wearing her nice top - the only one she owns anymore. It is a sort of black silken chemise - sheer and embroidered at the collar and cuffs. She wears with it her only black skirt that cut off above the knee. Her mother had bought it for her two Christmases ago. It is slightly too big for her now and has to be held up with a belt.
She fingers the frayed edge of the tear she had made in the skirt to allow for mobility. It ends near the top of her thigh - above the reach of her snagged stockings. The section of exposed skin erupts in goosebumps as a cool wind blows over her. She doesn't really feel it, though. She probably should do - more than ever in her sodden clothes and her minimal layers. She takes some comfort in the fact that, at least, her boots are sensible. She had time to shove those onto her feet before all hell broke loose.
It had been going all so well - they had their tree; they had some extra little decorations; they even had some semblance of a Christmas dinner prepared with the help of a late-night food delivery. She almost thought that it could be okay - she dared to think it; dared to hope. He didn't, of course. He watched it all from afar with the sort of imperious disapproval of a parent having to watch over his disobedient children. He did not allow himself to enjoy it for an instant because he knew, long before anyone else did, that something was not quite right. It took the rest of them until right after the turkey was put in the oven - right when the first attack started.
They had been prepared to some degree for an attack that day - on the Ministry or the Planning Offices or even the safe-houses, the locations of which were a closely guarded secret. They had people on shifts stationed as lookout; wards were put in place - everything was under control. What they weren't ready for were the random attacks - the unexpected and unforeseen storming of Muggle churches and villages. Buildings were burned; people tortured; graves demolished and Muggles killed - all before they had managed to turn up. They had prepared for a direct attack - they had a plan; a formulated and, generally speaking, foolproof plan.
But this - well, this was madness. She hadn't seen something so messy and chaotic - not for years. Not since sixth year when the Death Eaters crept into the castle and it was left to a handful of Order members and some scared children to defend it against those who wished them harm. It wasn't just the one village - it was four in total; all over the country. They scarcely had time to think - let alone put themselves into teams. Each primary safe-house took on a village each. On the whole, it was a team she had not worked with much before. But she adapted - she had to.
She was greeted by a scene from some sort of disaster film - at least, that's what it felt like at the time. The sky was filled with acrid smoke and there was glass scattered all over the ground. It crunched underfoot and coloured the pavement beneath it. All of the church's stained-glass windows were smashed. It allowed the screams to pierce her with more clarity. There were people trapped inside the building - she could tell that right away. Men, women, husbands, wives, sons, daughters, children - all screaming. She thinks that this is one of the things that marks the difference between them - the Light and the Dark. She froze at their screams - her blood turning to ice in her veins; making her feel heavy and sluggish and sick. The Death Eaters just stood there and laughed. They laughed as children screamed. Hermione Granger is not a dark person - she is light and full of hope and happiness. But she has learned one thing from them, the Death Eaters - they have taught her how to hate.
"You think too much, Granger. Just looking at you is giving me a migraine." She jumps, though she should have sensed he was there. He has a way of filling up a space, even when he's outside - he just consumes it all; forces you to focus on him.
"I have a lot to think about," she says, and she lifts her eyes to his and sees that he does too. His face is pale and haggard - he has a nasty cut above his left eye that he hasn't allowed Madam Pompfrey to treat. He likes keeping them - the scars. She doesn't really know why. She guesses that they are badges of honour - or perhaps maps of where he's been and what he's achieved. She wonders how many he has; she wonders if all of them are visible.
"You're not thinking, Granger - you're wallowing. There's no time for wallowing in war." She rolls her eyes and looks up at him with that pinched expression she knows he hates. He sits down next to her anyway, so he can't hate it too much.
"There's no time for anything in war, according to you," she bites and he inclines his head slightly in what might be acknowledgement. "Besides, don't you think we've earned the right to wallow today?"
They certainly had - though they had technically won, it did not feel much like it at all. It was an almost constant struggle to put out the fire. Water would not work on it and only those who knew the appropriate counter-course could control it. She lost count of the number of bodies they had pulled out of that building; the number of people they had to Obliviate. They had lost some of their own, as well - none that she knows too well from this safe-house. She does not know about the others yet. She knows that Ron and Ginny and the other Weasleys were safe. If she is honest, she does not care too much beyond that - she has learned, over the past few years, to limit the circle of people she will allow herself to care about. It's not that she does not regret their passing - she feels it; she feels their loved ones' grief. But it in that sort of detached way that doesn't quite touch her - not to the core.
"Today was a monumental cock up from start to finish - we haven't earned anything today," he drawls and, though she opens her mouth to object, she swiftly closes it again when no semblance of a defense comes to her. "Besides - that was just the first wave." He has that paranoid, slightly manic tone to his voice that makes her look at him sidelong and with some wariness.
"The first wave?" she asks, though she feels she may come to regret it.
"Well, yes - do you really think trashing a few village halls and churches was their end-game? Give them some credit," he scoffs and his flippant tone is enough to send her scowling. She folds her arms over her chest, partly to show that he has annoyed her and partly because she can feel the cold quite acutely now through her thin chemise.
"I'm not giving them a thing. Anyway, how do you know this wasn't it? How do you know this wasn't just an act of pointless violence?" she argues and he is shaking his head even before she has finished her sentence.
"Firstly, there's no such thing as 'pointless violence-'"
"-bollocks!" she interrupts and he raises his eyebrows at her exclamation. "A bunch of youths kick a dog to death; a drunk throws a punch at a passerby in a bar; a man gropes a scared girl as she's walking home at night - all pointless; all violent," she rationalises, her voice rising with frustration with nearly every word as she can see the frown encroaching on his forehead.
"A cure for boredom; an outlet for rage; sex - all of those have points." She feels like a child when she blushes at his last point and only feels smaller when his eyes flick down to her pink cheeks and suspicion greets her when she looks into his eyes.
"Well, not very good points," she grumbles and he inclines his head, still looking at her with something akin to curiosity.
"They don't have to be. Violence shouldn't be justifiable, but people will always find a way to justify it. This was a means to their end." She thinks about this for a moment.
She suppose it makes a sort of sense - although, whenever they get into discussions like this, she always seems to be brought around to his way of thinking. She doesn't know whether that's because he's often right or because he's better at persuasion than he used to be. There was a time when she wouldn't have given his words a second thought. A nice, uncomplicated time when she wasn't forced to know him or be around him or work with him. When Draco Malfoy was an evil little boy who would turn into an evil little man. He is a man now, she thinks. It is a truth written into the strength of his jaw and the light smattering of stubble on his face; the slightly too knowing look in his eyes and the broadness of his shoulders. It is etched into the grooves of those bruised and split knuckles. The wounds lingered from yesterday, but some were fresh. She had watched him break them on the face of some Death Eater who had been torturing a young woman. She abhorred violence like that - but she just watched him. Because he was a man - and not small or evil at all.
"What end is that?" she asks and her voice comes out weary, as if it's only just caught up with how truly tired she feels. Sometimes she thinks there will be no end. She thought Harry defeating Voldemort would be the end. But then Harry...well, then Harry was gone and it had renewed hope for them - for the Darkness. The snuffing out of their light had bolstered the Death Eaters and they had come back with a new plan; new leaders; new factions and renewed menace. There is not the sense of order that there had been when they were under Voldemort's rule. They had done terrible things at his command - deplorable, evil things. But there is no order anymore. The sadistic ones are given free reign, for the most part, and they care far less about exposing their magic to Muggles; attacks on the Muggle world are on the rise. The world is falling swiftly back into chaos - to how legends said it used to be before the gods and order intervened. She desires an end to it. She doesn't know where to begin.
"I don't know, Granger - if I knew that, I think I'd be sharing that with the group, maybe, and not sitting here watching you wallow." She huffs a laugh that quickly turns into a shiver. She can feel his eyes on her then and is surprised, although, not unpleasantly so, when she feels a slight pressure on her arm and the knocking of his knee against hers. Her breath is locked tightly in her throat for a moment, before she releases it and leans back into him infinitesimally.
"I just thought..." she trails off, because she thinks it will sound foolish and childish - mostly because it is.
"Of course you did, Granger. That's you: non-stop thinking," he says lightly, almost jestingly, for him. She looks to him with slight surprise and a faint smile. He doesn't return it, though his eyes flick down to her lips as if he's trying to work out exactly what it is.
"It's Christmas Day..." she trails off again, because she can see this going in the same direction as yesterday's argument and she quits while she's ahead.
"And it's well-known that it's the Death Eater's day-off from being soulless bastards? That they sit round the table together drinking eggnog - Rodolphus carving the turkey while the Carrows play a Christmas duet on the piano?" His derisiveness would have frustrated her yesterday but, for the image he has created and her current state of delirium brought about by exhaustion and the beginnings of hypothermia, she can only laugh in response. It erupts out of her, taking even her by surprise. He merely raises his eyebrows, though she can see his lips twitch slightly.
"Alecto and Yaxley stealing a kiss under the mistletoe?" she adds and he wrinkles his nose at the suggestion.
"Probably the most nightmare-inducing image of the day," he drawls, faint distaste lingering on his face a moment longer. She smiles slightly and his eyes travel down her face again, like he's never seen her smile before. All traces of disgust have faded now and only curiosity remains. Curiosity about what, she does not know.
"It sounds silly-"
"-probably: it is you." Her eyes narrow and his lip quirks for a moment, before returning to his previous neutral, slightly tense expression.
"But...I don't suppose you've heard of the First World War?" He looks at her like she has just said something both insulting and profoundly stupid. She fights the urge to blush in vain.
"You do me a disservice by confusing with the usual Gryffindor ignoramuses that you hang around with." She tuts and rolls her eyes and maybe she should edge away from him as well, but he is very warm and it is awfully cold outside, so she does not. He does this often - make snide comments about the other houses or her friends. She used to object at first - violently, sometimes. But that would always lead to prolonged arguments, so she has learned to pick her battles.
"Well, I don't know - you've never displayed much of an interest in the Muggle world before: how was I to know you had some secret interest in its history?" she justifies hurriedly, though it does nothing to wipe the incredulous look from his face.
"Do you think it was just the Muggle world it affected? Merlin, even my great-grandfather, Vesperus Malfoy, fought." She can't conceal her surprise, though he does not seem to notice as he's apparently rather engrossed in the grime on his boots.
"A Malfoy fought for Muggles?" She says it because it is the first thing she thinks to say, but as he looks to her sharply, she rather wishes that she had checked herself first.
"Oh, yes - imagine that," he bites snidely and she does her best to look contrite. "And besides, that was never his motivation. It was their world too - those with magic; they weren't about to sit back and watch the Muggles blow everything they'd worked so hard to preserve to shit." She can see his point, she guesses - though they still could have run or hidden. She is about to address this, but he is too quick and interrupts her.
"What does it have to do with your silly thoughts, anyway, Granger?" She thinks he does this because he knows that she was about to say something that would make him angry. She thinks he probably doesn't want to be angry with her tonight - and that suits her just fine.
"The Christmas truce - I suppose you've heard of that too?" He doesn't acknowledge her, but he does not appear perplexed either, so she continues. "They were on opposing sides - the Germans and the British- but for that day - that twenty-four hours of Christmas - there was no war. They were a group of men who missed home and normalcy - who took comfort in singing carols with strangers and exchanging trinkets-"
"-so what? You'd have us playing Quidditch matches against the Death Eaters? Giving them packages of Mrs Weasley's knitted jumpers and a box of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes merchandise?" She frowns because he knows full well that's not what she's suggesting and he's just being obtuse.
"Of course not - but..." He is looking at her expectantly with a look on his face that tells her that he expects whatever comes out of her mouth next to be utter rubbish. "Well - it's Christmas, isn't it? Was it too much to hope for a ceasefire?" He doesn't even seem to think about it.
"Yes, yes it was." She clucks her tongue and throws her hands up in frustration.
"Jesus - between you and the bloody Death Eaters, I can't win this Christmas! How about a ceasefire between us, Malfoy? How about that as a novel concept?" she hisses at him, vaguely aware that her voice is in danger of rising beyond an acceptable level for this time of night on Christmas Day.
"Where's the fun in that, Granger?" he asks, his mouth quirking up at the side in that annoying way that tells her he's amused.
"Fun? I thought there was no time for fun in war?" He breathes a laugh - at least she thinks it's a laugh - and the condensation from his breath washes over her face. His eyes are dark, though she doesn't know whether that's merely a trick of the light. His hand knocks against hers lightly - enough to make her look to it. The blood has dried now - a sort of deep crimson, almost black, colour. The bruises are defined already and will only be worse tomorrow. Good, the bitter part of her thinks. She looks up to his face again and notices the rings beneath his eyes - the deep purple and grey that tells a story of his exhaustion. She notices his smile - small and barely there. She notices the cut above his left eye, already looking like it's trying to pull itself back together. She notices his eyes, big and dark and deep and running down her face. Good, some other part of her thinks.
"Some fun - there's room for some fun," he mumbles. His hand knocks hers again, but she does not look at it this time.
"Because it's Christmas?" she asks quietly. His eyebrows hike up, but he looks amused and she can't help but grin a little. She probably looks quite foolish.
"Because it's Christmas, yes." He is quiet for a moment, though he still looks at her. It unnerves her - perhaps more than it should. But he has a way of looking you - of stripping you down; taking away the bullshit and defenses and making you feel quite vulnerable. She hates it and envies it simultaneously.
"And Christmas is a time to be good to other people," she says decisively, because she can play along if he can. He says nothing for a few moments - only looks at her wistfully; like he is considering something carefully. His eyes dart around her face and she doesn't know what he's looking for, but he must mostly be seeing pink cheeks and reddening ears. His hand grazes her exposed thigh and she can't stifle the slight gasp that escapes her lips. His hand is cold and she hadn't been expecting it there. Neither did he, if the surprise on his face is anything to go by. They both look down to his hand and her leg and they are both very quiet for a very long time.
"What did they do - the opposing sides - after the ceasefire?" It takes her a while to register the question - she is concentrating far too much on breathing and hands and proximity to be able to think.
"They..." She looks up because she can still not quite bring herself to concentrate. "They ended it the next day - went back to trying to blow each other to bits." He looks at her then - long and hard with those eyes: those lovely, deep and dark eyes. She thinks he's probably looking for something - some answer or confirmation that she could not possibly imagine at this moment in time. His eyes are desperate - roving over her face like he's trying to memorise every inch of it. She thinks he might need something from her - something he can't quite put into words. It used to be forgiveness - but she thinks he knows he has that now. So what is it? Acceptance? Reassurance? They all needed some of that - especially now; especially after today. A day of death; a day where winning feels very much like the opposite; a day where they're left with clothes drenched in blood.
His eyes take on a sort of hard look and she knows it is not a trick of the light this time. They are dark - darker than normal: like they are when he comes back from a mission in foul mood. She panics briefly because they were not long ago talking about truces and she can't think what he could be angry about. She can tell he's tense - the tendons of his neck stick out and his raw skin is pulled tight over his clenched fist. He draws his legs in and she thinks that he might storm off without explanation. She is about to yell - to object and shout out to stop him, though all he does is stand and she is rather glad that she did not. He holds out his hand and she can only stare at it dumbly for a full ten seconds. She looks at it with great suspicion - like a wooden horse outside her fortified walls. She wonders what will happen if she takes it; she wonders if he will make her regret it.
"Where are we going?" she asks with all the curiosity of a small child. It is this curiosity that sends her hand into the palm of his without really asking her permission at all. Before she fully understands what is happening, he has hauled her to her feet and she has fallen into him - her hands planted against his chest for support. She thinks to chastise him, but then his hands take her wrists and hold her hands in place and she doesn't quite know what to think anymore.
"We're going to play one-on-one Quidditch - get this ceasefire business going." It takes her longer than it probably should to work out that he's joking. He rolls his eyes and clucks his tongue and she feels even sillier than before.
"Well, what are you-"
And now there is only white noise inside her head, because Draco Malfoy is kissing her. And it is forceful and without permission and quite surprising - but she finds herself kissing him back with equal fervour. She is not even sure who started it, but she is glad that someone did because, Merlin, nothing has felt quite this good in a long time. He leaves her no time to think. It is all a struggle of hands - where to put them, who can cover the most ground and who can envelope the other most effectively. She would not tell him, not even later when they had been doing this for some time and they were both severely breathless. but she thinks he is winning. She doesn't know how he can take such liberties; travel so much surface; map out her body to utter perfection and still not be inappropriate with it. She has never felt so utterly consumed by another person and even for her, someone who never likes to relinquish control, it is one of the most exquisite things she thinks she will ever experience.
She doesn't know where it started - with an innocent-seeming hand that was really her undoing, or the talks of a truce, or with a girl trying to drag a boy out of his self-induced exile. Or perhaps it was when a boy finally became a man and decided to do the right thing. Either way - they had come together. And even if their truce lasted for just the rest of the night, she didn't much care. Because they needed this - whatever this was. She didn't know she needed until she had it - until it took her over with its consuming fire.
"Truce?" he asks.
"Yes," she answers, breathless. Yes.