Vacivitas

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Hermione wakes to a bright morning on a day she feels should be dark.

Outside, the winter sun shines upon snow that sparkles like diamonds and crystals. Everything is blanketed in white; white that covers the truth of Voldemort's cold, malevolent world. For one day, that malevolence has been hidden, tucked away in favor of Christmas. For one day, they can all pretend there's goodwill for all and peace on Earth. For one day, Hermione can pretend to be happy.

No.

She can allow herself to be happy. Because her old life is gone and she's come to terms with that. Her parents, lost to a continent she'll likely never see. Harry, his memory crumpled in the depths of her mind like his body had crumpled in the Hogwarts courtyard before she lost sight of it in the frenzied crowd. Ron, his goofy smile after their first and only kiss forever etched into the skin of her lips as something that would never be. Her friends, ghosts of their laughter in the Gryffindor common room, flickering like the fire that's given her the fuel to keep living in this dark, empty world.

A fire that's tended by Tillian, stoked by Faye, and controlled by Pinky.

A fire that almost died before Draco Malfoy added wood and brought it back to life.

Christmas this year is different. It's sad and nostalgic and different. But it's not cold. She has her little makeshift family in this little makeshift home, and today, she'll allow herself to be happy about it.

After bathing, she dresses in a pretty set of red silk robes that drag a small train of chiffon along the floor. The bell sleeves touch her fingertips and the bodice sparkles with tiny diamonds. She's long gotten used to the casual opulence with which she lives in the Malfoy Manor, and for the first time, she doesn't feel like wearing diamonds casually on Christmas is too much. In fact, she rather likes the way they shine.

As she sits down on the bench before her vanity to do her hair, she stops at the sight of her reflection. She looks at her skin, her neck, her lips, her eyes, her cheeks. Every pretty thing she sees about herself that she never saw before, and she thinks back to the night before. Thinks back to the party, to the salon , to the armchair outside the Floo. The things they did, and the things they said. Everything.

She kissed him.

Hermione Granger kissed Draco Malfoy.

It's almost laughable. She can't even imagine what the younger version of herself would think or say if the notion was ever even implied. What she can imagine is the faces of Harry and Ron if they were alive to find out about it. What would they say if they knew how she and Draco had been living? Because this is her life now. This is the closest thing to a "family" she has. Pinky. Moe. Tillian. Faye

Draco.

They are her family. The Malfoy Manor is her home. This is all she has to cherish.

She doesn't think Harry and Ron would ever understand that

Hermione brushes the tips of her fingers across her lower lip, feeling the dips and ridges of her skin and remembering the way his kiss felt. How it sizzled all the way to the tips of her toes and burned her blood. The way it felt to be in control for once, the master of his undoing. The spider behind his woven web. He kissed her like she was his air, and she kissed him like he was hers.

They're connected. Tied together by their shared experiences. By the Hell they've endured together. It's a Hell that no one but them can understand. She wonders if he feels the same.