Happy Holidays, Everyone!

I do not own Harry Potter, but I do have some advent calendars courtesy of LightofEvolution! Thank you, Light, for all of your beta work, your support, and your friendship this year.

And for chocolate. Very much for the chocolate :)

Major Alpha love to In Dreams as always.

Hermione Granger is watching the flurry of owls in the Great Hall with open and honest excitement. The holidays are approaching, and she is on schedule to receive the first package from her mother... if that tradition still stands, of course. For her first six years away at school, her mother filled the weeks prior with deliveries and treats, counting down to their reunion during the holidays right up to Christmas morning.

For Hermione, and many like her, it is a final year at Hogwarts. A nontraditional "Eighth" has been added to accommodate those who were not able to complete their education due to the war. Hermione was one of only two in her House to return. To her right, Neville Longbottom is trying to explain to Hannah Abbott, a Hufflepuff in their year, the various ways one might successfully harvest Bubotuber leaves. Hannah is watching him with a glassy-eyed expression that is one-part confused, two-parts adoration. Hermione personally would wager they will be shagging by Christmas.

Speaking of the holidays, she gives a little shriek of joy when a large package is dropped right onto her lap. It is wrapped in a gorgeous two-tone white paper, repeating streaks of gloss finish setting off the matte white into a subtle stripe pattern. A silver bow, a little worse for wear after the owl journey, sits at a jaunty angle on the corner. Jean Granger believes in presentation almost as much as she does in dental care. Hermione hugs the rather large package to her chest and collects her bag, hopping off the bench.

Noticing her imminent departure, and probably her half-eaten plate, Neville asks, "Finished already?"

She glances down absently, then agrees, "Yes, all set. I'll see you in class!" She's already racing out the door before he can agree that he will, indeed, see her in class.

Hermione, to her abject disappointment, was not chosen as Head Girl this year. McGonagall felt it was unfair, she had said, to the current 7th year class that they might miss the chance of representing their House in that way.

Hermione thinks it was unfair she had to miss a year of education to fight the last generation's war for them. She thinks it unfair that she spent her introductory years into a world she supposedly belongs, yet was never told about, risking her life while adults gave them vague answers and kept secrets.

She also, for the record, thought it was unfair for Dumbledore to hand out House Points willy nilly at the exit feast, but had the good sense not to mention it to her fellow Gryffindors since it was always in their favour.

But that's neither here nor there. Her point is that, while many things are unfair, she felt a bit cheated not to be able to wear the badge she'd worked so hard to earn. Instead, some insipid 7th year is wearing her badge. However... and this is a very big 'however', Hermione has something that has helped to lessen the sting; something only she and her fellow 8th years have received. Hermione has her own room, thank you very much.

The dormitories of each house were not equipped to handle the influx of students resulting from the return of a partial class. Nor did the staff seem to think it appropriate to house legal adults with children. Instead, each returning 8th year student has been given their own small room within a larger private space. A common room and shared bath facilities are the center of the space, each bedroom leading directly from it.

When she makes it back to the common room, it is empty, most students already either in class or finishing their mid-day meal. Hermione heads straight into her room, not bothering to shut the door since no one is around. She takes a moment to look at the package, admiring the paper and the perfectly creased corners. It's masterfully done. Almost a shame to open...

With glee, she rips into the side and peels away the top in one large swath. A box is revealed, and she sets it down on her side table, the paper still dangling in shreds from around the bottom. Inside, she finds two items and bounces a bit on her heels. The first is a tin full of biscuits. Little known fact: Her parents, while fully dedicated doctors of dental medicine, both have a terrible sweet tooth. Hermione's mother doesn't bake, but their long standing tradition is to enjoy varies confections from a particular bakery during the holiday season. In this delivery, she finds packaged inside an assortment of shortbread, Gingerbread men, and molasses drops. Decorated with various glazes, icing, and cracked sugar, it's a beautiful, glittering display, and it makes her mouth water.

Putting it aside for later, Hermione looks into the box and finds one more item. She feels the prick of tears burn her eyes and lifts one hand to cover her mouth.

At the bottom of the box, filling the width and length perfectly, is the advent calendar that Hermione used every year as a child. Once she had gone away to Hogwarts, the tradition was lost to her. The calendar was still there every year that she visited home, her father having opened each door and enjoying the treat inside. "In your honor," he had told her once, chuckling. "No use letting those goodies go to waste, Pumpkin."

Each door is closed, and, she presumes, holds a secret inside. Something her parents had placed just for her. It's a little overwhelming in that moment. Hermione has been made very aware that she is fortunate beyond measure to have a family at all. Her hasty decision to alter their memories in a bid to protect them nearly cost them their minds. It was only with extensive magi-therapy they were able to be saved. Now, looking down at the calendar and imagining her father tucking little surprises into each pocket, probably munching on more of the same as he did... or her mother so carefully wrapping the package, each corner a work of art...

Hermione's hand closes tighter around her mouth as she releases a sob. She falls back, the edge of the bed catching her, and buries her face into both hands, releasing the torrent of relief and guilt that she generally keeps bottled up quite well. No one knows how much the war cost her in terms of her own sense of self. Ron couldn't understand why she wasn't simply happy "everything worked out" with her parents. Harry, having lost his before birth, doesn't know what it is to mourn and then rediscover, all of it mired in the weight of your own responsibility. Choosing to let them go, to send her parents away, had been almost impossible. Even at the time, she'd realized there was a possibility she wouldn't get them back. What she hadn't realized was how much she put them at risk, both by baiting the Dark Lord with her very existence, and then with complicated mind magic she had no business implementing with so little experience. Then, to have them returned to her, unharmed and perfect and not even really angry with her…? She's been punishing herself a little ever since.

"Alright, Granger?"

It startles her a little, and Hermione looks up with a gasp, quickly wiping her eyes. "Fine. Everything's fine."

She puts the tin hastily back into the box, covering the calendar. More than anything, she doesn't want to deal with whatever is coming. Draco Malfoy is looking at her with a very even expression. He's been exceptionally quiet all year, no longer bullying or teasing her or her house. It's a relief but also quite disconcerting.

After everything is tucked away, she looks back and finds him still standing there, watching. "Did you need something?"

Malfoy glances toward her then back to the box, nodding toward it in reference. "What's that?"

None of his business, she think is an appropriate response, but Hermione takes a little breath of calming and mercy. "A Christmas present."

His brow furrows a little. "It's not Christmas. Not for weeks."

She shakes her head, agreeing with that assessment. "No, but it's the beginning of the advent season. My parents celebrate the weeks leading up."

"That's from your parents then?"

Hermione really doesn't want to talk about this, her eyes still sore from sobbing only moments ago, but he's being polite, and it's not in her nature to strike for first blood. So, she nods.

"I'd think that would be a happier occasion…"

He's leading her, asking for her to reveal herself, and she doesn't appreciate it. Being vulnerable around a Slytherin is something she's learned is not in her best interest. "If you have a question, you're welcome to ask it."

There. A little bite in her tone.

To her surprise, he virtually doesn't react. No widening eyes at her snapping back, no chuckle that she's riled up, no temper flaring that she would dare to speak to him that way. "I just wonder why you are crying over a Christmas present. Seems you would be happy to receive it. Not everyone will be so lucky this year."

Hermione just stares back, eyes a little wide. What a profound and oddly sympathetic sentiment. But, wait… "You're parents are fine, Malfoy." His mother, the elegant Narcissa Malfoy is currently hosting teas and organizing charity balls, her name and reputation completely cleared thanks to her small role in protecting Harry a the final battle. Lucius didn't make it out quite as light, a sentence restricting him to their Manor with no magic use for five years, but still, they are both safe, comfortable, and together. Surely, he's not looking from sympathy.

"Not me, Granger," he frowns. "Just… in general. Maybe you've not noticed, but the war affected a lot more than me, you, and your hapless duo."

That makes her bristle, and he seems to know it. Taking the barest step back, he murmurs, "Sorry," and looks away. Just when she thinks he's done shocking her, he apologizes.

"It's fine," she whispers, feeling strange having to accept an apology when he really hadn't done much of anything to her in the first place.

They stand there a moment, shuffling their feet, when he asks, "So, what did they send you?"

"Hmm? Oh. My parents? Just some shortbread…"

To say he perks up with would be a ludicrous miscalculation of the word "perk". He lights up like a proverbial Christmas tree. "Shortbread?"

"I… yes…. Would you like one?" She cocks her head slightly to the side, finding the entire exchange more curious by the moment.

"Please," he breathes out in response, entering the room without being invited and coming to stand by her side table, leaning over to peer into the box.

Hermione reaches inside and pulls out the tin. Sandwiching it between her arm and her chest, she uses her hand to pry open the top and then presents the selection for Malfoy to see. His lips tilt on one side in what she can honestly say is the first time she's seen him smile. It's very boyish and not at all the usual sneers or smirks he wears.

"Thanks, Granger," he says as he reaches in and plucks a chocolate shortbread, a simple rectangle design, from the box.

She snorts a bit. "I thought for sure you'd go for a more elaborate design. Look, that Gingerbread man has houndstooth trousers."

His look is purely and innocently befuddled when he counters with, "But that's chocolate shortbread, Granger," and adds nothing more.

She watches him take a bite, noting how he holds his other hand underneath to catch any crumbs that might fall. It's a far cry from Ron who, the first time he tried her parents' favorite holiday treat, shoved one entire biscuit in his mouth and then proceeded to talk around it, crumbs and spittle flying with every word.

She's so absorbed in watching him she doesn't notice his gaze falling back to the box. "What's this other thing?" He gestures with a nod of his chin then begins to reach down into the box.

Feeling inexplicably protective, as if the calendar represents her parents, her childhood, and everything she loves in the muggle world, she slaps his hand away. "Don't…" and then is mortified at herself for striking at him when he clearly hadn't deserved it. "Sorry," she adds, almost immediately. "I'm so sorry, I just… please don't touch that." Hermione is horrified to feel her eyes prick once again and squeezes them closed, setting down the tin and balling her fists at her side.

She can feel him eyeing her as she resolutely looks away. "You're not fine," he says quietly, and it makes her scoff in annoyance.

"Of course I'm not fine. Who the hell of any of us is fine, Malfoy?" It's probably the most honest she's been in months, and damned if it doesn't feel good. Even if it is Malfoy playing her confessor.

"None of us," he agrees with a low and mirthless chuckle. "We're all totally fucked, aren't we? Can I ask what it is?"

She opens her eyes and he is gesturing to the calendar. Hermione sighs, already feeling defensive about her heritage in the face of this pureblood and his judgements. "It's just a silly muggle thing, alright? I'm sure it's nothing that would interest you."

His posture stiffens. "It might have occurred to you, I'm making efforts not to rely on preconceived notions. You could do me the same courtesy."

Hermione doesn't like this at all. Now she feels bad, and that just serves to make her a little angry. He has been nothing but cruel to her for years, literally staring at her from across battle lines. Now, he's come out the other side the loser, and he decides everyone should give him a second chance? She's supposed to open up her heart and her history so he can get a little muggle lesson and feel good about himself for growing? Well, fuck you very much, Hermione doesn't feel quite so generous.

She opens her mouth, ready to unleash something, some diatride about her experiences and heartbreaks and all the struggles that brought her here to this moment, and who the hell does he think he is, judging her?! But he cuts her off, and she never gets the chance.

"Sorry, Granger. You don't owe me anything. Look, you just seemed really upset, but it appears I'm just making it worse. I'll catch you in class."

She deflates like a cheap birthday balloon, all the fight going out of her as he walks away, saluting her with the half eaten shortbread and offering an uncomfortable grin.

Her fists are still balled at her side, eyes still stinging, but her anger is dissipating, and Hermione doesn't need any more guilt to deal with. "It's call an advent calendar." When he slows but doesn't immediately stop his departure, she adds, "it's the one I used to celebrate with as a child."

Finally, he turns. It's slow and unsure, like he might have just continued out the door without a word. After a beat he nods and asks, "What does it do?"

"Oh... Well, it's a countdown, of sorts, to Christmas day. Here." She reaches into the box and pulls out the calendar for the first time, feeling the heft of it and assuming the owl postmaster had cast a featherlight charm on the box.

It's easier, somehow, facing the memories, when she is with someone who very much represents her life in the magical world as opposed to her muggle one. She had felt very alone minutes before, opening the box and finding the calendar while her parents are so very far away.

She holds the calendar so he can see and points to one of the little doors, remembering the first year her parents had given it to her. She was five, and they had it custom made by a hobby woodworker. They told her at some point they had expressing requested a door for Christmas Day to be included, nontraditional though it might have been, so she could enjoy it all the way up to the holiday itself. "So, this is the first door. I'll open this one today and then one more each day until the 25th."

He looks curious, intrigued. She's struck once again by how boyish he looks, how young. They all are, really, she would suppose. "What's inside?"

She shrugs and allows the smallest grin, infected perhaps by his own. "Want to find out with me?"

You'd think she had gone ahead and smacked him by the surprise that seems to jar his face. He hesitates before agreeing, "sure," and a wider smile splits his features.

Hermione pulls on the door and, tucked within, finds three individual bags of Bedtime Brew Yorkshire Tea. Somehow, by the grace of the Gods, Hermione doesn't fall to her knees, but her hands shake as she takes it out of the little door.

"Granger?"

Looking up, she finds Malfoy looking down at her with concern evident on his face. She doesn't even realize she's been crying until he reaches up and wipes a tear off her cheek. She can't help but flinch away from him, and he looks away when she does.

"Sorry," she mumbles, counting off to three the number of apologies they have shared between them today. "It's, um… the tea. My father used to make this for me every Christmas Eve. It was supposed to help me sleep… so Father Christmas could sneak inside and leave me gifts." She starts to trail off, but then realizes Draco likely has no idea what that means. "Oh! Father Christmas… he's this muggle-"

"I know who he is, Granger," he stops her gently. "You might be surprised how much I know about muggle things."

"Oh?" It's not an eloquent response, but, really, when you say something as ludicrous as that, he can hardly expect her to be quick with much else.

"Before Hogwarts, things were much different. My father didn't take much interest in my day to day. My mother was attentive, but she had a lot of other interests as well. Charity functions and the like. I was allowed a lot of freedom as long as I kept close to the grounds. But the Manor property was vast, and settled against muggle houses. I had some friends…"

Her eyes pop as she whispers, like they are telling secrets, "You were friends with muggles?!"

He gives a one-shoulder shrug. "For a short time. A couple of years really. After I was old enough to wander about but too young for Hogwarts. I had a theory, actually, that your Father Christmas was a wizard. How else could he apparate to so many houses in a night?"

She giggles in spite of herself. "I've sort of thought the same. I mean, not now… but maybe originally? Maybe that's where the stories came from."

They stare at each other once again, awkwardness settling between the cracks of the silence, and their grins slowly fading. Finally, Malfoy clears his throat. "Well, anyway, sorry to have intruded. I just wanted to be sure you weren't having a nervous break or anything. Wouldn't feel the same to be top of our year without some competition."

That tricks her grin back again, and Hermione nods. As he's leaving, she thinks about everything that has just happened. Everything that was said and then not said in this short exchange. Draco had, in a way, put himself in a very vulnerable position, asking after her, risking her rejection, and admitting something that is very controversial in his pureblood history. Perhaps, the holidays being a time of healing and fellowship, it wouldn't kill her to make her own effort?

"Draco?"

He stops short, likely shocked by her use of his name. Though she has said it before privately, usually in discussions about him behind his back, she's never said it to him. He looks back and raises a brow.

"If you're curious… I mean, I have twenty-four more to open. If you happened to be interested in what else muggles might put in these little doors?"

A blush is creeping across her cheeks. She can feel it, and she's mortified, but Hermione stands her ground, daring him to take her up on her little olive branch.

After a moment of what looks like very put-on consideration, he bargains, "If I can have another shortbread." Then he smiles, his most disarming yet.

With a shy grin of her own, Hermione agrees to his terms.

The next day, Hermione has potions with Draco during their last period. Since they return to the common room together, it seem as good a time as any to open the next door. Just as he reaches the threshold of his room, Hermione calls to him. "Did you want to grab a shortbread?"

It's a poorly disguised invitation to accompany her to her room, and they both know it. Hermione doesn't wait for his answer before she steps into her room and shucks off her robes. He's in the door, leaned against the frame by the time she hangs the garment in her wardrobe.

"I heard shortbread," he says with a smile. She answers with her own.

The door today contains a tiny travel-size bottle of L'Occitanne hand cream, Jean Granger's favorite. Hermione doesn't cry this time, but she sniffles a little as she slathers a little on her hands.

"There's potions for that," he comments, but it contains no malice.

She just gives him a smile, nodding in agreement, but counters, "The bottles aren't very pretty though. Magical apothecaries could use a good marketing company."

The next two days are much the same. The pair return at roughly the same time, so it is easy to continue their little meeting. Hermione unwraps tiny luxury items, and Draco makes commentary, always munching on chocolate shortbread. On day five, he notices there are only a couple left, and he wonders what in the world he will do in a few days.

"There's a plain one," Hermione offers, pointing at the tiny little shortbread square, dusted with cracked sugar.

"Not the same," he pouts, and she recognizes that it's slightly adorable.

That night, she pens a letter to her parents, thanking them for the calendar for the third time and also for the silk scarf they sent by owl that day. In this letter, she asks if they might include more chocolate shortbread in their next post, claiming she'd forgotten just how amazing they are.

Two more days pass, and Hermione wonders if Draco will come at all when the chocolate is gone. It's amazing that he has become a part of her daily routine, sneaking into a space in her life while she wasn't looking and making himself at home. She's relieved when the package arrives that evening during dinner, and she's giddy as she makes her way back to her rooms, imagining his face when he sees that he won't have to do without his fix afterall.

"Granger," he greets her. She finds him sitting on the sofa in their common room, a book propped up in his lap, and Daphne Greengrass sitting beside him. Pretty, blonde, and sitting really quite close to Draco, Hermione had almost forgotten what jealousy tastes like, and immediately feels a little foolish.

Nearly hiding the new tin behind her back, she makes her way toward her room. "Malfoy," she returns stiffly, trying not to be rude but probably failing. What right does she have to his time, anyway?

She's inside and closing the door behind her when it hits an obstruction.

"Ow, Granger, Merlin's balls."

She opens it again to find him favoring one foot and looking down at his toes. "I think I've stubbed the little one. Salazar, that fucking hurts."

Her mouth wants very much to twitch into a grin, but she sees Daphne still sitting there, one long leg draped over the arm of the sofa, and Draco's book beside her. Of course it is, she thinks, because he will head right back there to her when he gets what he wants from me. Leave it to Hermione Granger to be the only witch that a wizard is 'only after one thing' and it is literal cookies.

Giving up his plea for sympathy, Draco wriggles his brows at her. "What's that you have there, eh? Tin looks familiar…"

She looks down, then back up at him, unsure how she wants to play this. Ultimately, she just sort of gives up. What fabricated tryst is she even giving up?

With a shrug, she offers the tin with a dispassionate, "Here."

He studies her face so closely she has to look away. With a glance back at the sofa behind him, Draco steps into the room and shuts the door. He's never been inside with the door closed before, and it makes her stomach tighten in some sort of vague anticipation. "You know that's not how it works, Granger." Plucking the tin from her hands, he opens it and looks over the selection. "Sweet Mother of Merlin, they're all chocolate! Oh, you gorgeous witch, I could kiss you."

She has to look away, not at all liking how much the sentiment is just a joke. When did she let this happen? Dear Gods, does she have a crush? She barely catches herself before she groans out loud.

"Well?" he prompts, and she looks back to him. He's looking expectant and has plopped himself onto her bed.

She huffs a little, put out with herself. "Well what, Malfoy?"

A little frown tips his lips downward. "The little doors. Were you... not ready to do that?"

Right. The calendar. With a sigh, Hermione crosses the room and pulls it out, opening the door with no preamble. Inside, a ring glitters out at her, the amethyst winking in the low light. She's staring at it, dumbfounded, for what must be a long time.

"What is that?"

"A ring…" she whispers, her agitation gone and replaced, emotion filling her too much to leave room for something so petty as jealousy. Her answer is obviously too vague, but it takes her a long time to notice. "Oh, obviously a ring. It was my grandmother's. She passed years ago. I thought… during the war… so much of my parents' things were lost when I… Well, I just didn't realize she still had it."

Draco points one of his slender fingers to the door. "There's something there…"

Hermione grasps the item, a slip of parchment, and finds her mother's messy doctor's scrawl.

About time you inherited this, wouldn't you say? She would have been so very proud of you.

Draco has the decency to pretend he doesn't notice her wipe the tears away. Instead, he asks if Hermione would like to join him studying runes. He's been trying to help Daphne, he says, but she's hopeless. "A favour to Zabini, really. Asked if I'd help her a bit since he's finishing school overseas. Merlin, I hadn't realized how much he helped his girlfriend all these years…"

She smiles, flooded with relief, and agrees very quickly to join the pair in the common room.

The tenth day of advent, Draco doesn't make an appearance after dinner. Hermione settles herself in the common room for awhile, making herself busy with school work and the like. Terry Boot invites her to Hogsmeade that coming weekend, but she declines, citing her raw emotions over her recent breakup with Ron Weasley. The reality is she just isn't interested in Terry, but it seems a solid enough excuse.

It's half ten when she starts to put her books away. It's not as if they have any type of formal arrangement, her and Draco. So he watched her open a window for a week or so... Doesn't mean there's anything between them. Maybe a study session here and there, more the past three days than before, but still nothing to count on. Nothing to expect.

She stacks her last book onto a neat pile and picks up the entire mess, carrying them the Muggle way into her room and dropping them onto her side table. The Advent Calendar stares at her, and she supposes, late as it is, she may as well open the door and see what's inside.

She's just reaching to pick it up when the common room door slams open. "Stupid sodding cunt…" His mutterings drift into her room through the open door. "Fucking blizzard and we're running cunting formations…"

Poking her head out, Hermione says softly, "Draco?" The room is dim and quiet, all the other students already retired for the night, one single sconce barely lighting the room.

"Sorry I'm late," he says by way of greeting, and it warms Hermione all the way to her toes that he felt obliged to see her.

"Long day?"

He flops down onto the sofa and screws his fists into his eyes, groaning in exhaustion. "Fucking Travers. Had us doing flight formation for three sodding hours in a Merlin-be-damned snow storm."

"Sounds awful," she says, trying to be supportive, but also stifling a happy little grin. Is she misreading? Did he prioritize seeing her again tonight? Just like every night since the beginning of the month?

"S'fine," he mumbles into his hands, giving his face one last wipe, as if rubbing off the day. "I hope there's something good in there today, Granger. No lotions or jewelry. Chocolate is preferred."

Ducking back into her room and out again, Hermione approaches and, boldly, sits down right beside him on the sofa, her knee pressing lightly against his thigh. "Will this do?" She offers up the tin, still mostly full of shortbread, and watches his face light up.

"You lovely witch." He snags one with a flourish and bites it in half, laying his head back onto the cushions and moaning in an almost inappropriate way. Hermione flushes pink.

"So, let's have at it, then. What will it be today?" He gestures to the calendar, smiling at her in that disarmingly sincere way she has discovered so recently.

Without a word, she opens the window and squeals a little in excitement. Inside, she finds exactly two truffles from La Maison du Chocolat, a french boutique that makes the best cocoa coated truffles in the world. "Oh, my God, Draco… you have to try this!"

She holds one truffle out, close to his face, her eyes bright and happy. He's studying her in that way that he does, and she doesn't understand the delay. It's chocolate for Merlin's sake! He loves chocolate!

"You only have two," he says, hesitating, and she huffs at him.

"Everything is more enjoyable when you have someone to share it with. At least I know you'll appreciate it," she adds with a tiny wink.

For some reason that seems to convince him, and his lips curve into a grin. He leans forward and, before Hermione can react, takes the truffle from between her fingers with his teeth. There is this moment, a fraction of a second, that she feels his breath on her fingertips, and it makes her own breathing come faster.

He's giving her this little smirk. An infuriating, knowing expression, as if he is fully aware of the effect he has, of her ill-advised crush. She thinks he might make a mention, rub it in her face, but then his own countenance changes completely, and he moans as the confection disappears into his mouth. "Holy fuck, Granger, what the fuck was that?"

"The best chocolate on earth?" she whispers the question, a little overwhelmed by their proximity, by the intimacy in their exchange.

"Did your mother make that?"

The proverbial spell is broken and Hermione giggles, suddenly much more comfortable. She leans against the back of the sofa, her body turned toward his. "Oh, goodness, no. My mother is a passable cook at best. Those are from a confectionary my family frequents on trips to Paris. Some of the best chocolate ever made if you ask me."

"Without a doubt," he confirms, eyeing the other truffle. She closes her hand around it and laughs.

"Oh, no, I'm generous but not that much. This one's mine, Malfoy."

He chuckles in response and seems to pay close attention as she pops it into her mouth and savors the rich flavor. Hermione is about to ask if he is tucking in for the night, when he surprises by speaking first. "Thanks, Granger, for waiting. I know this is really your thing, but…"

He trails off, and she's at a loss as to how to respond. Ultimately, she lands on the only thing that seems appropriate. "You're welcome, Malfoy." Then, almost an afterthought but no less true, "I'm glad you made it in time."

They sit quietly for a bit, listening to the flames crackle in the fireplace until they are both too tired to stay awake. "Night, Malfoy. See you tomorrow," she says, later, from her doorway.

"Tomorrow," Draco agrees, disappearing into his room as well.

The next few days pass in a blur. Soon, Hermione is opening door thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, all in the company of Draco. She no longer wonders when she will see him. It is every night at half-eight when he finds her, if she doesn't locate him first. Usually already in the common room, studying or relaxing, neither has to search very far to find the other.

They are already on the sofa together, enjoying a lively debate on the customizing of potion brews when Draco seems to notice the time.

"In conclusion, I'm right, but I'm sure your ideas have some merit," he says with a wide grin. She huffs, ready to start a fresh tirade, but he cuts her off quickly. "Granger, we'll be at this all night. Some of us have class tomorrow, and, you, my dear, have a calendar to open."

Hermione looks around the room for a clock, settling finally on the hands that are just about to meet at the top. "Merlin, it's almost midnight! We've been here for-"

"Five hours, give or take. Come on then; let's see what Mother Granger has for you today."

"You're just hoping for more chocolate," she accuses with a grin.

He shrugs at her, but licks his lips in an exaggerated manner, her laughter ringing in the small room.

Retrieving the calendar from her bedroom, she takes it back out to the sofa and settles in next to her companion. His arm is resting on the cushions behind her, and the dip in the seat makes her fall a little closer into his side. Their hands brushed yesterday, their knees the day before that. Every night it seems their comfort grows as the space between them shrinks.

A petty and war-hardened piece of her heart wants to ask him why he suddenly doesn't take issue with proximity to a mudblood, to goad him into an argument and vent her many frustrations. But that little dark component is small compared to the young woman who is simply enjoying the attentions of an attractive boy. So instead, she shifts 'by accident' into him, tilting the calendar so he can see. "Ready?" she asks quietly, looking up through her lashes and lips slightly parted.

He gives her the crooked sideways smile that devastates her just a bit. "Stop stalling, Granger."

That tricks a more sincere, less coquettish smile, and she carefully opens the small door.

Today isn't chocolate. Instead, she finds a black capsule with the tell-tale of two 'c' letters, one backwards, intercrossed on the top.

"What is it? Can we eat it?"

Hermione laughs at him and removes the top of the casing. Twisting the bottom, she pushes up the raspberry tinted form within. "No, Malfoy, sorry. It's lipstick. A cosmetic."

Carefully, she lays the color, her Mother's standard Chanel #93, against her lips. It's a tricky thing, applying without a mirror. Day to day, make-up is not something she generally uses for classes and the like, but she's always loved this particular shade of rouge her mother fancies.

When she's finished, she presses her lips together, sealing the color, and faces Draco more fully. "See?"

His response is quiet, his eyes trained on her mouth. "I see…"

There's a tension between them, heavy and thick. Hermione isn't sure what she wants to happen exactly. Will he lean forward, capture her raspberry lips between his own. Her tongue flicks out, tasting the corner of her mouth in nerves or anticipation, and then she looks up to catch his gaze.

"I know," she says, the only thing that really comes to mind, "they have potions for this."

It doesn't produce quite the response she anticipated, expecting him to lean closer and say something dashing about the effect it has on her lips. How other witches and their potions and spells have nothing on her… Instead he laughs, honest and surprised. "Well, I wasn't thinking that, but now that you mention it, Granger, I suppose they probably do. And, touche, witch. Well-remembered."

With that he stands, offering his hand. She accepts it and he lifts her to her feet. "Come on, it's late. Let's get to sleep. Maybe tomorrow, we will be back to chocolate."

She smiles at him, reeling a little that he called her "witch" like a pet name. "Witch" when he told her for so long she had no right to be one. It's not a declaration. It's not a kiss, but it's certainly something.

At his door, he stops and adds, "It looks good, by the way. The color. No that you really need it."

And that… is certainly something else…

Day sixteen is a tiny box of candied almonds in various shades of pastels. A note inside tells Hermione they were the favours given at her cousin Margery's wedding, and isn't it just too bad she wasn't able to attend?

Hermione, who never much liked her insipid cousin Margery, pops one in her mouth, relishing the treat as much as the knowledge she didn't have to listen to the other girl simper and lament Hermione's single status. Draco says they are a far cry from truffles, but doesn't complain as he easily finishes over half the package.

The eighteenth day is a crisp and cold Friday, and Hermione snuggles down into her covers for what she intends to be just a few sweet minutes. Unfortunately, she must have been more tired than she knew. Next thing of which she is aware, is a pounding on her door. "Granger! Come on, witch, don't make me late as well."

She bolts upright, glancing at the clock, and then groans. She's missed breakfast entirely.

Scrambling out of the covers, fighting them off where they are tangled around her legs, she slips her arms into a dressing gown and cracks open the door. Standing just outside is a rather agitated, but well put-together, Malfoy. "Sorry. It seems I've overslept. Go on; I'll see you in Transfiguration."

"Please. What sort of well-bred wizard would I be if I left you unescorted? I'll wait, you ridiculous Gryffindor. Just chivvy along, if you please."

She rolls her eyes at him, and he smirks as she closes the door. It takes Hermione all of ten minutes to be dressed, gather her books and parchments, and, as almost an afterthought, to spread a thin layer of Chanel 93 on her lips.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she practices a natural smile, wishing suddenly she hadn't bothered with the cosmetics at all. Is she trying too hard? Maybe she should just wipe it-

"Today, Granger! McGonagall needs exactly no excuses to take Slytherin points."

Steeling herself, Hermione hurries out of the room, throwing open the door and breezing past him toward their portrait hole. "Sorry, just putting my study guides together."

He doesn't say anything, just falls into step. They've never walked to class before. He doesn't offer to carry her books or guide her with a hand on her lower back, but he does slow his much longer stride, keeping pace with her petite gait.

They reach the door only just in time, barely making it before class is due to begin. Draco hastens his steps to get in front of her just so he can hold the door open as she enters.

She mutters a bashful, "Thanks," as she passes.

There are two seats open. One is in the front of the room and one toward the back next to Terry Boot. Hermione grabs the first row chair with a sigh of relief at avoiding Terry, but silently wishing there had been two chairs left together.

Draco passes by and gives her a wink, his gaze falling just a moment on her berry red lips.

That evening, Hermione is hoping for one last owl before the end of term. The Express will be leaving to take everyone home in only two days. She is equally excited to see her parents as she is a little sad this month is reaching its end. Who could have imagined she would spend three weeks enjoying the attentions of Draco Malfoy, bonding over something as muggle and mundane as a holiday calendar. Once they part for the holidays, no shortbread or mystery doors to intrigue him, will it go back to the way it was? Their impromptu study sessions, debates, and, unless she's imagined them, subtle flirtations... She feels the loss of it already.

Around her, the students are buzzing, more than ready to end their studies for a short time and visit their families. Occasionally, as her eyes pan the hall, Hermione might see a look of melancholy on a student's face. She knows some students will not have a happy Christmas this year, having lost family in the war. Even the Weasley's are adjusting to life without Fred. Though she was invited to spend a few days at the Burrow, Hermione decided not to intrude upon them this year, believing they need this time for healing without the awkwardness of an ex-lover, regardless that she and Ron are still friends.

What surprises her most about the small barn owl dropping a package into her lap, is that it is not a box, not wrapped, but a simple envelope. Her name, however, is unmistakably written by her father. A sense of foreboding bleeds into her marrow, though she couldn't tell you why.

Excusing herself from the table, Hermione collects her bag and tucks the envelope inside, wanting to read it in privacy. Across the Hall, Draco catches her eye. She gives him a half smile to which he mouths, "alright?" Her smile is a bit more sincere as she nods that, yes, she's fine.

In her room, she slides her finger beneath the seal, lifting the flap of the envelope and pulls out a folded parchment within. It's written on her mother's beautiful holiday stationary, holly leaves painted around the edges. Though, it is her father's penmanship that greets her, in to and of itself an oddity.

Happy Christmas, Pumpkin

We're so happy you're enjoying the calendar this year. Your mother tried to send along plenty of goodies to give you a nice holiday. Your "big gift" though, the one Father Christmas would leave under the tree, is included here. Did you tear into it yet? No? Go on, then, I'll wait.

She looks into the envelope again and finds a smaller one inside. It's embossed on the flap, and she knows what it contains. A gift card to Harrods. Not the most personal of gifts, but generous if she knows her mother. A receipt showing the amount confirms for her that, indeed, it's a rather lavish gift.

Her mother tends to throw money at problems she can't fix. Hermione reads on.

Pretty exciting, right? We are hoping maybe we could take you shopping at Easter. Maybe see about some fancy new clothes for whatever cushy position your Ministry gives you. We know you're going to go far, Hermione. We are very proud of you.

I'm sorry this is a bit last minute, but it seems we will be taking a trip this Christmas. You could come home anyway of course, but why don't you stay there? Maybe spend the weeks with some friends? Your mother and I have been talking and we feel like we need a little time alone together, away from London and the practice. It's just been an adjustment these past few months, getting our sea legs, as it were, in our old life. We miss you and I hope you aren't too disappointed. I just think this will be good for us.

Give Harry and Ron our love, won't you! Good luck on those SNAILS or whatever they are. You'll ace them, kid!"

Love,

Mum and Dad

She doesn't open a calendar door that night. When Draco finds her a few minutes later, she is sitting at the small desk in her room, staring numbly at the paper in her hand. She deserves this, she thinks. She might even say it out loud, because Draco shushes her and says she's ridiculous and slips her shoes off her feet.

"Come on, Granger. How about some tea?"

She sits with him in the common room, drinking anything but her dad's tea, eating whatever treats Draco can dig out of his room, and resolutely not touching the shortbread or anything else from her parents. She's not angry per se; she has no right to it. It's more that she knew things would never be the same, and now she can't pretend she was wrong.

When she finally goes to sleep that night, Draco brushes his lips against her temple, but she can't even find it within herself to react. She closes her eyes and chases sleep as he slips out her door.

So, originally this was supposed to be for d/hr advent (big hearts for anyone who nominated me for that!)

HOWEVER the word count on that is 5k lol. I went... a wee bit over. So I wrote a different piece but finished this one anyway :)

There is a second half which I will likely post tomorrow. Thanks so much for reading and as always, reviews are the most precious gift.