Red or Green

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/35000761.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Character: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Minerva McGonagall
Additional Tags: Hogwarts Eighth Year, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships,
Slytherin Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Draco Malfoy, Head Girl
Hermione Granger, Fluff and Angst, Christmas Cookies, Identity Issues,
Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE
Language: English
Collections: D/Hr Advent 2021, Dramione Fics I Go Feral For, Dramione Fics I've
Read, DHr Favs, Dramione is bae, Dramione Fics - Perfect haven
✨ , Alysoun Has Read These, Hermione4eva, Read
and loved, Absolute Favorites, one shots that make me feel some typa
way, DRAMIONE MASTERPIECES re-
read*100
Stats: Published: 2021-12-10 Words: 5000

Red or Green
by senlinyu

Summary

When Hermione returns to Hogwarts for Eighth Year, she is there in search for a sense of
the familiar. Instead she ends up resorted and placed in Slytherin, the last place she will
ever belong.

DHr Advent 2021

Notes

Beta work from SimplifiedEmotions and Pidanka.

Prompt: Cold and Gingerbread.

Thank you so much to everyone who nominated me to participate in the Advent fest this
year, it's always such an honour.

Cover Art by ectoheart.

See the end of the work for more notes

At Hogwarts Hermione knows who she is, even without Harry and Ron beside her.

She boards the train at King’s Cross Station. She stashes her trunk and changes her robes without a
second thought. She goes to the prefect carriage, introduces herself as Head Girl and plans the
patrol pairings, guiding the First Years towards Hagrid. She pretends not to see the Thestrals. She
crosses the courtyard and enters the Great Hall with assurance, taking her place at Gryffindor table.

And yet every step is suffocating.

It was her desperation for something familiar that caused her to leave for Eighth Year, but rather
than feel at home, the castle makes her excruciatingly aware of how she’s changed. The contours
of Hogwarts life already chafe, a shape she can’t seem to contort herself to fit inside without
conscious effort.

There’s a chasm between who she is and who she feels expected to be.

After the First Years are sorted into their houses, Headmistress McGonagall remains on the dais,
Sorting Hat in hand. She clears her throat and says,

“I understand that many have been affected by the war. Some wounds aren’t easily healed. The
faculty has deliberated and we would like to offer our students the opportunity to come forward for
a resorting, if they wish to.”

There are surprised whispers throughout the Great Hall. McGonagall looks around expectantly but
no one moves. A minute ticks by.

Hermione stands. She knows she's a Gryffindor, that the Hat will keep her in Gryffindor, but as
Head Girl it’s her job to lead.

She walks slowly to the front of the room, and as she does, several other students finally stand,
moving to form a queue when Hermione sits on the stool. Dennis Creevey. Padma Patil. A few
others she doesn’t know.

McGonagall’s eyes soften as she stares down at Hermione as if she wants to reach out and rest a
hand on her shoulder, but instead she sets the Hat on Hermione’s head.

The Hat rummages wordlessly inside her consciousness as if they’re being reacquainted. She can
feel the predictable pattern of her life in its perusal. Friendship and Bravery. And bravery. And
bravery. And doing the right thing no matter the cost. And bravery.

She feels sick to death with herself, of a life where–

“Slytherin!”

Hermione’s mouth drops open.

She sits frozen as a stunned silence sweeps across the Great Hall. Then she stands, stumbling
halfway down the steps before realising the Hat’s still on her head. She pulls it off and pushes it
dazedly back towards an equally surprised McGonagall.

It’s not possible. Slytherin? Why would it put her in Slytherin?

This has to be a mistake. A bad dream. This can’t be real.

She walks to her place at Gryffindor Table before she registers the confused expressions on their
faces and realises that it’s no longer her table.

She turns away towards Slytherin. Dennis is being placed in Hufflepuff while Padma joins her
sister in Gryffindor. A few students are kept in their current Houses. As Hermione finds a vacated
seat towards the end of the Slytherin table, she notices that Draco Malfoy is at the front of the
room, waiting in line to be resorted. Everyone is giving him a wide berth.

He goes forward and sits, his face impassive.

Hermione expects he'll be put back in Slytherin. She remembers how quickly he was placed in First
Year, the Hat barely touching his head.

Instead there’s a long pause.

Malfoy’s eyebrows furrow. His expression grows tense as if he’s arguing with the Hat. He flinches
and shakes his head as the Hat roars:

“Gryffindor!”

Hermione doesn’t belong in Slytherin.

She visits the Headmistress’ office the next day and tries to make the Hat put her back in
Gryffindor. It refuses to even acknowledge her.

Well, she doesn’t care what a piece of enchanted headgear thinks, she’s not a Slytherin.

Her feet refuse to recognise the route to the dungeons at the end of each day. The bone-chilling
green light from the underwater windows greets her like a punch in the gut every morning when
she wakes. She starts at her own reflection when the Slytherin crest and emerald green and silver
of her tie catch her eye.

Slughorn is delighted, but the Slytherin students are not. They tend to fall silent when Hermione
enters the common room, watching her with narrowed eyes.

She has nothing in common with Slytherin. It feels as if she’s gone from feeling out of place to
becoming a stranger. The school sentiments towards Slytherins are still raw. Even old friends treat
her with an unintentional degree of suspicion.

Her only consolation is Harry and Ron’s letters of assurance that of course it’s a mistake and they
know she isn’t a Slytherin and doesn’t belong there.

She hides in the prefect office because there isn’t anywhere else to go where she doesn’t feel as if
she’s being held under a microscope. Anyone who comes to the office is looking for help, which
gives Hermione a chance to demonstrate how altruistic and un-Slytherin she is.

One evening McGonagall enters. “Miss Granger, could you oversee detention this evening?”

“Of course, Headmistress,” Hermione says, because she is helpful and selfless and always does the
right thing, even though Head students aren’t supposed to be responsible for overseeing detentions
at all.

McGonagall turns towards the empty doorway. No one appears.

“Mister Malfoy,” McGonagall says in a crisp voice.

Malfoy slinks into the prefect office, expression resigned.

It’s jarring to see him in red and gold, although he seems to have accepted it.

Seeing him makes Hermione understand why people tend to start when they see her. She feels an
instantaneous unease at the wrongness of it.

Malfoy has none of the qualities of a Gryffindor. It’s offensive to see him wearing a uniform in
those colours. Plenty of students have said as much. How dare he, a Death Eater, wear the colours
of the house that suffered the greatest losses during the war?

Hermione wishes she could say it too.

She can’t help but think the Hat sorted him out of spite. Maybe spite motivated it for both of them.
A punishment for questioning its initial judgement.

“Supervised homework is all,” McGonagall says, nodding towards him.

Malfoy has a year’s worth of detention. He’s not allowed extracurriculars or a wand outside of
class. He barely gets free periods. The professors hand him off to each other and he’s kept under
constant supervision, it's the faculty’s solution after the Board of Governors demanded that he be
allowed back for Eighth Year ‘in the spirit of moving on'.

Hermione suspects they were all bribed.

Malfoy, apparently not content with having his mother ruin everyone’s year with his mere
existence, went and got himself resorted to force his constant presence upon those who’ve always
liked him the least.

“Alright,” Hermione says, although she’d rather eat glass.

When McGonagall leaves, they stare at each other. After a moment, Malfoy’s mouth quirks as if
he’s amused by something. A glimmer of that oh-so-familiar smirk.

“What?”

He hangs his satchel on the back of a chair and sits before looking at her again, seeming to weigh
something for a moment before meeting her eyes. “Green suits you.”

She stares at him in astonishment. Malfoy has never before said anything to her that could even be
mistaken for a compliment.

“No, it doesn’t,” she finally says, “Not any more than red and gold suit you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

She grits her teeth. “Just do your homework.”

He opens a book and begins reading without another word, but the silence is oppressive. She wants
him to talk so that she can tell him to shut up. She wants him to bait her so that she can react and
lash out without being the instigator, but of course, she knows he won’t because he’s a coward. A
snake.

He’s so irritating.

She can’t focus when he’s just sitting there, making himself her problem. She snaps her book
closed and stares wrathfully at him.

“Why did you want to be resorted?” she finally blurts.

He puts his book down as if he’s been waiting for her to speak.

“Why’d you?” he asks instead of answering.

Her mouth goes dry. She wants to tell him it was an accident, that she wasn’t even trying to be, but
instead she finds herself saying, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Neville and Ginny were both confused when she said this; the war has made them more sure of
themselves, what they’re capable of. They endured a trial by fire and are truer versions of
themselves now.

Hermione feels as if she’s been left burned to ashes.

Malfoy nods. “I suppose we have that in common.”

She resents the idea that they could have anything in common. She wants to snap at him again, but
she has the feeling he wants to talk to her.
She goes back to ignoring him.

It’s a few weeks before McGonagall brings Malfoy back again with a vague excuse.

“I’m sorry,” he says after nearly an hour of silence.

She looks up in surprise and finds him staring at her. It’s still a punch in the gut to see him wearing
her house colours. The ones she so keenly wants back.

She’s certain she’d misheard him. “What?”

“I just said, I’m sorry.”

She grips her quill. She isn’t looking for an apology. She doesn’t want an apology. Not from him.

Which thing does he even think he’s apologising for?

“You don’t get to say that to me after everything you’ve done and expect it to fix anything,” she
says.

He flushes but doesn’t look away or get angry. Instead, he stares steadily at her. “I know. I just—I
wanted you to know. In case you ever wonder. I am sorry.”

The words are as out of place as he is. Her whole world feels inverted.

“That’s the thing, Malfoy, I actually don’t think about you at all,” she says fiercely.

It’s a lie.

McGonagall brings Malfoy back again. Hermione conceals a sigh of despair. He’s a thorn in her
side. Being around him aggravates a wound that already refuses to heal. If she didn’t have to see
him, if she could pretend he didn’t exist, she feels like she could also pretend that she belongs in
the new world that everyone else seems able to settle into.

But she can’t. No matter how hard she keeps trying it never gets easier.

“What’s the worst part of being in Slytherin?” Malfoy asks, pretending not to notice the way she
keeps glaring at him.

Everything, she wants to say. Everything about being in Slytherin is awful.

“The cold,” she says instead, looking away from him. His presence makes her feel constantly
flustered and off-balance.

Everything in Slytherin is cold. The rooms, the common area, the students. Everyone there either
hates her or resents her or looks down on her or wants to use her. She’s never felt so lonely in her
entire life. And it’s always cold. She doesn’t know why they don’t keep the dungeons warmer.

But she doesn’t want to go back to the Burrow for Christmas, or even visit Gryffindor Tower,
because she’s afraid she’ll find that the welcome there no longer warms her. That being in
Slytherin isn’t the source of her problems but a symptom that’s easy to blame.

“What about Gryffindor?” she asks, not sure why she cares but strangely curious.

He sighs. “Everyone hates me.”

She blinks in surprise at the honesty.

“That’s hardly something exclusive to Gryffindor. They’re just the ones who’ll say it to your face,”
she says dryly.

He flinches, just slightly, but then looks down and laughs under his breath. “Touché.”

When Malfoy leaves, she feels less angry at him than she usually does.

At breakfast a few days later, a school owl drops a thick package on her plate, nearly knocking
over her pumpkin juice. She opens it to find a black cashmere scarf detailed with green and silver
stripes.

There’s no name, but there’s a note pinned to it: For the cold.

She doesn’t wear it, even though she hasn’t used a scarf lately because all of hers are still red and
gold.

She’s not sure how to feel about the gift. Is it a gift? Surely not. Draco Malfoy does not give her
gifts. That’s not the kind of relationship they have.

They don’t have any kind of relationship.

He’s a borderline reprobate and she’s the Head Girl who oversees his detentions and obviously,
he’s not giving her a gift.

It’s a loan. He’s lending her a scarf because she said the dungeons were cold.

She’s not sure she likes the idea that they have a relationship that involves lending things either.

It’s not a new scarf. While she was checking, just to be sure there’s no hexes anywhere, she finds a
corner with an expertly applied disillusionment spell. Beneath it, the initials DM are knit into the
wool.

It sits on her desk in her room and she runs her fingers across it sometimes, feeling the inviting
warmth but refusing to put it on.

When he arrives for another detention more than a week later, Hermione decides not to mention the
scarf unless he does, and also resolves that if he does mention it, she’ll say she doesn’t want it and
give it back. She has it in her bag, just in case.

He doesn’t say anything.

“Why would the Sorting Hat put me in Slytherin?” she asks just before McGonagall is due to come
to fetch him.

She doesn’t know why she asks, but she feels that he might be the only person who will say
something other than call it a mistake. The constant reassurances are starting to make her
paranoid.

Malfoy hasn’t questioned it, and she wants to know why.

He puts down his quill and then sits looking at her, a heavy silence filling the space between them.
“You’ll do anything to succeed,” he says at last. “You always have.”

She stiffens at the insinuation. “Well—that’s only because—”

“You’re resourceful. Determined. Loyal to the people you choose. And—even though you pretend
to, you don’t care about knowledge for its own sake, you care about what it can give you, and how
you can use it.”

“No, I—”

“You’re not a Ravenclaw. And the reason you’re not a Gryffindor anymore is because you’ve
realised that all the times you’ve done anything for Potter, he somehow ended up with the glory
and you ended up the sidekick, and that’s all you’re ever going to be in that house. Technical
support for the main event. You want to be appreciated for what you do.”

She sits there speechless for several seconds before she finally finds her voice “That’s—that’s
completely wrong.”

She’s growing hot with anger. “I’m not—I don’t—How dare you? I am—”

He’s so wrong it's hard to even know where to begin. She has never been this offended in her life.
She can’t even find words.

Malfoy watches her. “Granger, there’s nothing wrong with any of those things.”

She’s so angry she thinks she may explode. “Yes, there is! They make the people like you.”

There’s more she wants to say, but before she can even begin, McGonagall raps on the door and
enters to take Malfoy away.

Hermione glares at the door once he’s gone, breathless with rage. Malfoy doesn’t know her. He has
no idea who she is, or what she’s like.

She’s not a Slytherin. She’s not. He’s wrong about her, the same way he’s always been wrong
about her. The way he’ll always, always be wrong about her.

The holidays have almost arrived when Hermione writes to Harry, saying that she won’t be at the
Burrow for the holidays because she’s needed at Hogwarts.

It’s a lie. Almost everyone is leaving for Christmas.

Harry replies, saying he understands, of course, she’d want to stay and help. Just like her, always
thinking about others.

Harry’s letter is accompanied by a package from Molly of tiny gingerbread cookies in the shape of
gnomes. They’re charmed to sing. If she were still in Gryffindor, she would have taken them to the
Common Room to share. Instead, she takes them to the weekly Prefect Meeting.

When McGonagall brings Malfoy that night, Hermione wants to say no, but she doesn’t because it
proves what a selfless person she is.

She intends to ignore him, but after half an hour her tongue is sore from biting back the hundreds
of things she wants to say, to prove that everything he said was wrong. She has a hundred rebuttals.
The only reason she keeps the words in is that she doesn’t want him to think she cares about his
wrong opinions.
“Why are you in Gryffindor then?” she finally says when she thinks she may explode if she doesn’t
say something.

Instead of answering, Malfoy reaches across the table and picks up a gingerbread cookie from the
packet in the centre of the table, as if her acknowledgement was an invitation. He squeezes
curiously, and the cookie begins singing Jingle Bells until he eats it.

“If you think the Hat was right to put me in Slytherin, then why would it put someone like you into
Gryffindor?” she says, determined to make him answer.

He picks up more cookies, arranging them as they begin a choral version of Carol of Bells. “I was
aiming for Ravenclaw.”

There’s a pause.

“And?” she finally says.

“I thought… I’d be a better version of myself there.”

She looks at him in surprise at the admission, and a part of her wants to retort that there’s no such
thing, but being vicious towards him when he’s not doing anything to provoke her is beginning to
feel petulant. And desperate.

He shakes his head and pops the baritone cookie into his mouth. “The Hat didn’t care what I
thought. It put me in the House it said would make me that version of myself.”

Hermione wants to laugh.

“Really?” She’s sincerely sceptical.

He arches an eyebrow. “I wasn’t placed in Gryffindor because I’ve already changed, I was put
there because I want to change.”

And like that, Malfoy finally makes sense again.

It explains why he isn’t resistant to his resorting the way she is. This is an intentional move, a
survival strategy he’s employing.

He’s in Gryffindor to evolve and absorb the traits that he’s deemed necessary to survive. It’s
quintessentially Slytherin reasoning, but at the same time, as much as she questions the Hat’s
judgement she doubts it would put him there if he hadn’t actually wanted to change.

“Do you think—” She hesitates, “Do you think that’s why the Hat put me in Slytherin? Because
that’s what I need to be now?”

Malfoy shakes his head.

Her throat tightens.“I’m not a Slytherin,” she says so forcefully she can hear the childish
insistence.

He exhales and meets her eyes. “You weren’t.”

Past tense.

“I think—surviving the war made you into one.”

If he were being harsh, or mocking, or condescending, she would have been able to dismiss him.
But he actually sounds guilty, like it’s his fault.

In her heart, she knows that he’s right about her; the Hermione Granger who belonged in
Gryffindor is gone and that’s what’s been wrong with her. It’s why she feels so suffocated by the
effort of being herself.

The war didn't burn away her imperfections and leave her a refined, truer version of herself like it
did Neville. It transmuted her. She’s no longer that person, she can barely even pretend it.

And the worst part—the most tragic part—is realising that she doesn’t know when that Hermione
disappeared. She’d been so busy trying to keep Harry and Ron safe. She never even noticed herself
vanishing.

The back of her throat aches as if an unknown grief has captured her. “I need to go.”

She’s not supposed to leave Malfoy unsupervised.

Responsible, helpful Hermione Granger of Gryffindor would never abandon her duties for personal
reasons, no matter how much she wanted to.

Hermione doesn’t care. She’s tired of being the reliable solution to other people’s problems.

She stands up and leaves.

McGonagall says nothing about Hermione abandoning her duties but stops bringing Malfoy after
that. Hermione feels relieved for the first time all year.

The castle is almost empty when Christmas Break begins, and there is finally no act for her to
maintain.

It’s like taking off a dress with stays, she feels as if she can properly breathe again.

When it snows, she bundles up and goes to the courtyard, relishing the quiet and the sharp burn of
the cold air in her lungs.

Then there are footsteps, she tenses, turning, and finds Malfoy, who looks equally surprised to see
her.

“You’re here,” she says, stating the obvious.

“I’m trying new things,” he says smoothly, recovering himself. “I’ll be going home just for
Christmas Day.”

Hermione suspects that he’s avoiding his mother. She doubts that character evolution was what
Narcissa Malfoy had in mind for her son when she sent him back to school.

He reaches into a pocket and pulls out her bag of cookies. “You left these last week.”

She takes it back and leans against a low wall, biting into a cookie before it can begin singing. The
air is icy and the ginger warms her blood.

She looks up at Malfoy. It’s the first time in ages that she’s been around anyone without feeling
like there’s a role she needs to play.
It’s nice being herself around another person. Even if it’s Malfoy. It makes her feel oddly generous.

“Want some?” She tilts the bag towards him.

He stares at her doubtfully like he’s going to say no, but then sighs and nabs one off the top,
joining her where she’s leaning against the wall.

She gives him a sidelong look which he meets impassively. She can’t help to notice that the red and
gold actually suits his features. They bring out the little bit of colour in his face, making him
appear less angular and vicious.

She looks away. “What’s ‘becoming a Gryffindor’ mean for you?”

A strange look ripples across his face. “Whenever I want to do something, I ask myself why I’m
not doing the opposite instead. And if it’s harmless, I make myself do it.”

She considers this and raises an eyebrow. “Things like telling me I look 'nice' in green and
returning my cookies?”

He looks abashed.

She laughs under her breath. Looking back, she can see it, that inverted motive propelling all their
interactions, his bizarre forthrightness, his apology, and the general lack of sneering.

An attempt to break the mould by going against his impulses.

“How’s that working for you?”

“The jury’s still out,” he says with a shrug. “I’m not dead yet.”

Everything happening is antithetical to everything she’s ever come to expect about him. It’s
refreshing not to be the most uncharacteristic person back at Hogwarts. Malfoy’s become
comfortingly weird.

“You’re committed to this.”

He looks away and his self-assurance fades. “What do I have left to lose?”

Hermione goes back to the courtyard the next day, cookies tucked in her pocket, and when Malfoy
passes, she pulls them out in a wordless invitation.

It feels a fairly un-Slytherin thing to do, but she’s certain she never would have done it if she were
still in Gryffindor.

He hesitates and then joins her.

It becomes routine. Every afternoon they sit in the courtyard, eating cookies that keep bursting into
song, eventually exchanging odd stories they’ve never told anyone before.

Gradually, Malfoy stops acting like an attempted Gryffindor, or a Slytherin, and just feels like a
person.

Someone else who isn’t sure who they are.

He can be funny, and unexpectedly relatable. She learns he had a pet rabbit growing up, his eyes
light up when he describes it to her. She tells him details of her childhood that no one has ever
asked before. He’s both terrified and fascinated by the idea of dentists.

In a strange way, it feels like they’ve both been waiting their whole lives for someone interested in
knowing all about them.

On Christmas Eve she runs out of cookies to share. She feels an unexpected pang at losing her
excuse for spending the afternoons in the courtyard.

There’s one last cookie, and she almost offers it to Malfoy but decides against it, feeling impishly
selfish, because it’s Malfoy and they’re her cookies.

As she reaches, his hand darts past hers. He snatches the cookie away, popping it into his mouth.

She looks up in astonishment.

“You conniving snake!”

“I would never have done that if I weren’t in Gryffindor,” he says after he’s swallowed, looking
positively angelic.

“Lies.” She’s outraged.”That was utterly Slytherin.”

“How so?” He raises an eyebrow.

She splutters. “You were—sneaky!”

He straightens, donning an expression of affront. “I did it right in front of you. There was nothing
sneaky about it.”

“Yes…” she rolls her eyes, “but you lulled me into a false sense of security or I would have been
on my guard. Slytherin.”

She pokes him in the chest to emphasise it. He looks down and she quickly draws her hand away,
cheeks warm.

He shakes his head. “A Slytherin would never be so obvious.”

“Oh really.” She plays along. “What would a Slytherin do?”

He draws a deep breath, drawing himself up gravely. “It depends.”

“Of course,” she says with her own mock seriousness.

“I think—if it were me,” he smirks and dips his head towards her conspiratorially. His voice is so
quiet she has to lean in to hear him, “I would distract you... by doing something unexpected, like–”

He closes the space between them, kissing her.

Their lips meet for one lingering moment. Warmth against the cold winter air. Unexpectedly vivid.
She can taste the ginger on his breath. He smells as crisp and clean as fresh cedar. Hungry, but still
savoured.

She jerks back. Startled.

She stares, eyes wide and heart pounding. He straightens, his gaze meticulous as he looks back at
her.

“Actually,” he says after a moment. “I think we can both agree I would never have done that if I
were still in Slytherin.”

She doesn’t know what possesses her to reach out, but she does. Her fingers catch hold of his red
and gold scarf.

His narrow face is only inches from hers as she studies him, trying to place him, trying to work out
who he is now and why she cares, if it’s safe to care, or if this is some long, manipulative game
he’s playing with her.

He doesn’t move, he just meets her eyes and lets her look at him.

She hesitates and retreats by letting go.

“You’ll be back after tomorrow?” she asks.

“Yes.”

There’s a pile of gifts at the foot of her bed when Hermione wakes on Christmas morning, but
she’s in no hurry to open them. It will be a long, empty day.

She lays in bed contemplating Malfoy, still unsure about how she feels about his kiss. She’s
considered it from a dozen angles and concluded it was probably another instance of Malfoy
reversing his impulses to prove to himself that he can change.

Kissing her was a benchmark before he went home.

She’s not sure whether she even wants it to be anything more. More feels risky when she’s barely
regaining her equilibrium.

In the afternoon, she fetches her coat to go outside, but this time her pockets are empty and she’ll
be alone. As she’s about to leave, she pauses, picking up the scarf sitting on the edge of her desk.
She runs her fingers along the soft wool, considering, weighing what it represents.

She wraps it around her neck.

As she walks to the door, the person in the reflection of her mirror is no stranger at all.

She passes the courtyard, but rather than stop, she heads onward for a walk to the lake.

Passing through the gate, she nearly runs headlong into someone coming suddenly around the
corner, a broom in hand.

They both stop short, and she stares in surprise. It’s Malfoy. Who’s supposed to be in Wiltshire for
Christmas with his mother.

His hair and features and clothes are flecked with ice from flying.

He starts to say something but his eyes alight on the scarf wrapped around her neck and he stops
short and stares.

Her face grows hot under his gaze.

 “Happy Christmas,” she says, trying to break the awkward silence. “Didn’t—didn’t you go home?”

He finally looks up from his scarf, eyes gleaming. There’s a satisfied smirk playing on his lips, and
she can see the Slytherin peeking through.

“There was something here I couldn't leave.”

Her heart skips a beat as he steps closer, and his gloved fingers brush against her cheek.

“Happy Christmas, Granger,” he says, staring down into her eyes, waiting.

She stands calculating for a moment, considering the odds and weighing her chances, wavering as
she fails to reach safe, conclusive answers. This is a risk. People will be disappointed in her.
They'll disapprove.

A Gryffindor and a Slytherin, mere months after a war. It won’t be taken lightly.

But she's done with always worrying about everyone except herself. A Hogwarts House is a
stepping stone, not a destiny.

She's ready to be 'selfish,' to do something she wants.

She tilts her face up, a wordless invitation.

He lifts her chin, dipping his head down. She doesn’t break his gaze until his pale lashes flutter
closed as he slowly kisses her. He tastes and smells like winter, like coming home.

“Green suits you,” he says, smiling against her lips.

She smiles back “Yes. It does.”

Fin

End Notes

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