Merry Christmas, everyone! Here's a little Christmas story for you all. Part Two, The Morning After, is now up! Please review!

In truth, she was miserable. It was Christmas Eve, and she was downright melancholy.

Ginny was in her last trimester of pregnancy, and this Yule, she and Harry would be spending it at the Burrow with the Weasleys – along with Ron and his sorry arse. She refused to spend her Christmas with him groveling at her feet and pleading please, 'Mione, I love you. She just came on to me, I swear, I didn't mean–

Didn't mean to do it, her arse.

Two months ago and two weeks into their "new" relationship, just after they had moved into a flat together, she caught him shagging another witch – vigorously, she might add – the said witch being no other than Lavender Brown.

Slag, she mentally spat, cursing the way Ron throatily moaned Lavender's name as she enthusiastically bounced on his cock, in their bed.

Nasty, homewrecking, bitch-arse little slag. No good, piece of owl shite, cheating boyfriend.

The memory sent rage spiraling into her veins, causing her to throw one more framed photo of her and Ron at the cream-coloured walls of their - her - flat. The sound of breaking glass was undeniably satisfying, she decided, taking a deep gulp of her wine. It had been two months, but the sting refused to go away.

Happy thoughts, Hermione. Time to make a list. Her mind wandered to all the things she could accomplish without her arsehole of an ex-boyfriend ruining her day. She would owl Harry, telling him no, she didn't want to come to the Burrow for Christmas, because Ron was a wanker and she'd rather puke slugs than spend more than sixty seconds of her life in his presence, thank you very much. She'd drop off all her gifts, starting from her parents' house, to the Burrow, Neville's, Luna's, and Pansy's. She would then make a trip to Sainsbury's and pick up whatever she wanted to eat for Christmas dinner, buy a nice bottle of vintage or two to keep her happily buzzed throughout the night, probably even until Boxing Day, then she would cook, enjoy her cozy little dinner for one, watch Christmas films on the telly, and eat a whole carton of ice cream. Or two. She'd go where the wind would take her.

Standing up, she Vanished the mess she had made with the picture frame and dusted off her denims. After her quick owl to Harry and putting on her favorite winter coat, she was all set to begin her day, or the Hermione Is A Single and Independent Woman This Christmas Eve Day.

After dropping off gifts and saying her Happy Christmases, she Apparated into an alley near Charing Cross Road, and walked to Sainsbury's with a spring in her step. Grabbing a cart, she loaded it with everything she felt like stuffing her mouth with for the next few hours. Right as she dropped a package of Twinkies into her cart, she slipped, both her and the cart knocking into the man in front of her, and effectively knocking herself to the floor, flat on her bum.

"Oh, my God, I am so sorry," she hastily said, getting up, wincing as a jolt of pain hit her tailbone.

"I'd normally say that it's alright, but since it's you, Granger, I'm going to tell you to watch where you're going," the man drawled, his voice carrying the snark of aristocracy and pure arrogance.

Jesus CHRIST, Hermione thought. Just what she needed. Another arsehole to ruin her day.

"Sod off, Malfoy. If you weren't standing in the way, I wouldn't have hit you," she said, rolling her eyes. She lowered her voice, conscious of the Muggles in the area. "What's Draco Pureblood Malfoy doing in a Muggle supermarket, anyway?"

He leered at her and winked. "Wouldn't you like to know?" He peered into her cart, sneering at her Twinkies. "Merlin, Granger. Eat like a troll, don't you?"

"Shut up, Malfoy. Go away. You're breathing my air."

"Christmas dinner for one, yeah? Heard you caught the Weasel in your bed with that Brown bint. Scared to face your wee boyfriend in his own home, aren't you?"

"I'd be surprised if your house elves want to have Christmas dinner with you, Malfoy. I heard your parents are in France for Christmas, which leaves ickle Drakie-poo alone in his big manor without anyone to talk to."

"Hey, I don't mind spending my Yuletide alone. What about you, Granger? Snogging your cat tonight to make up for the Weasel's absence?"

"You are such a prat, Malfoy."

"Always a pleasure to be of service. Ask me why I'm here, in Muggle London, in some supermarket."

"You know what, never–"

"Ah-ah, Granger, don't be a killjoy. To answer your question, I'm here because I've discovered the wonders of Muggle birds who have a fetish for young and single dads, they're dead easy to chat up, you know. One look at my cart filled with baby food and nappies, no ring on my finger, and my Adonis-like looks has them swooning," he said, nodding his head blithely.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him and pushed her cart to the checkout counter. Draco followed suit, continuing his tirade about how her life was in shambles. It was a welcome, albeit annoying, piece of normalcy. Her verbal sparring with Malfoy was almost a daily occurrence - the only thing different about this one was they were in Muggle London, in a Sainsbury's, standing at the checkout counter. They were friends of a sort, if trading jibes and throwing paper planes from each other's desks at work counted as being friends, and they were known to spend time with each other, time also being trading jibes and throwing paper planes.

She wondered if he really was going to be alone this Christmas. Then again, Malfoy could be the Grinch in disguise. It probably didn't matter to him anyway.

" –rumor has it that you've been despondent and drinking your sorrows away, and frankly, Granger, I'm quite disappointed– oi, Granger!"

"Ow, Malfoy! What is wrong with you?" she screeched, rubbing her arm. The git had poked her and was looking at her petulantly.

"You weren't listening. That was a waste of one, my breath; two, my intelligence; and three, a perfect opportunity to poke fun at either your hair or the Weasel. Honestly, Granger. Pay attention," he admonished, clucking his tongue. "We have reputations to uphold, after all."

"You have a reputation to uphold, that being a right wanker," she retorted, picking up her packages and walking out of the store. He matched her stride, walking to the door of the Leaky. Once in, Hermione shrunk her packages, slipped them into her coat pocket, and tapped the required bricks to get inside the Alley, lost in her thoughts. Draco walked alongside her, and she stopped after a few minutes, noticing his sudden silence as they entered Flourish and Blotts. Sod her list. She had loads of time. It wasn't even half-one.

She plopped herself in a worn and rickety armchair, crossed her legs, and buried herself in Arithmancy: A True Art.

Thirty minutes later, she peered at him from behind her book, seeing him equally engrossed in Quidditch Through The Ages. She went back to her book.

Twenty minutes passed, and Hermione faintly heard him say something.

"Sorry, Malfoy, what was that?"

He swallowed, and she heard him mutter something unintelligible, again. She let out an exasperated sigh, and snapped her book shut. "Merlin, didn't your mother ever teach you to speak up? Some aristocrat you are," she said. Malfoy's eyes narrowed and he closed his book as well.

"I said, the Weasel wasn't good enough for you anyway. Anyone with half a brain could've seen that."

"Oh, and I suppose you're one of those with half a brain, then? I'll have you know that I was quite aware of what I got myself into. Drop it."

He scoffed. "Quite aware? He's got the mental range of a teaspoon, wanted you to be some sort of glorified brood mare, expecting you to drop your career and pop out freckly, ginger-haired sprog, and cook meals that would make his mother proud. Basically, he wanted you to be Mother Weasel 2.0–"

"Don't insult Molly, Malfoy. Insult Ronald all you want, but leave his family out of it, I don't care what you–"

"–considering that he plays for the Cannons, I mean, honestly, they're positively subpar. Who the fuck roots for the Cannons? You'd shackle yourself to someone who can't do a Sloth Grip Roll to save his–"

"–I don't need you to comment on my life, thank you very–"

"–you've got the career, the influence, the power, the superior intelligence, and it doesn't even hurt that you're easy on the eyes and havequite the body–"

She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening in shock, then narrowing at him in suspicion. "Did you just.. Compliment me?"

His trademark smirk pulled at his mouth. "Did I?"

"Urgh. I hate you, Malfoy."

"Love you too, Granger."

"What are you doing tonight?"

Her question had caught him unawares, and she had found herself in the most delightful company of a gob smacked and speechless Draco Malfoy. At her giggle, he collected himself and cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Granger, but are you asking me out on a date? Right, let me give Potter a ring and inform him that the world's ending and we need another sacrificial lamb with a hero complex, yeah? Or maybe–"

"God, Malfoy. I just asked. Don't get your tightie whities in a wad." He sneered at her and stuck out his tongue.

"For your information, I don't have tightie whities. Malfoys only wear the finest of black silk underwear."

"Ugh, too much information. Does it look like I wanted to know what kind of underwear Lucius has? Jesus. But really, Malfoy, what're you doing tonight?"

He looked at her apprehensively, probably deciding whether or not he should give her a sarcastic and evasive reply, or just straight out answer the question. She opened her book again, waiting.

"Actually, I was planning on getting completely sloshed, waking up with a deadly hangover tomorrow, and opening my large pile of presents," he replied. "Why?"

What are you doing?! Inner Hermione hissed. What happened to independence? To enjoying a Hermione night? This is Malfoy you're talking to, for Merlin's sake!

"Would you like to come over? I don't fancy spending Christmas alone, really," she asked. His mouth opened and she cut him off. "Before you say anything that is probably going to make me want to hex your sorry arse, this isn't a date. We will eat Christmas dinner, get sloshed, and watch Christmas films on the telly. Come midnight we will bid each other Happy Christmas, you will go home, and I will sleep off what I hope to be a massive hangover. What do you say?"

He shrugged, giving her an enigmatic smile. "Lead on, then," he said, walking out of the shop, then offering her his arm for them to Side-Along. They both disappeared from outside Flourish and Blotts with a pop.

Later that night, after stuffing themselves on an impressive three-course meal that Hermione had managed to cook up and a large brick of fudge sent by Molly Weasley, they found themselves sitting side by side on the couch, watching It's a Wonderful Life. Both of them had consumed at least two goblets of wine, were each holding a carton of Fortescue's finest strawberry-brownie fudge delight, happily buzzed. Hermione's head was slightly resting on Draco's shoulder, and he was eating steadily out of his carton.

"So this is what women do when they're heartbroken. Pansy and Daphne made it sound so secret. I think I can consider myself an honorary bird now," he said, scraping the last of his ice cream out of the carton.

"They probably just wanted to get a rise out of you. You make funny faces when you're in spoilt little brat mode." He rolled his eyes and they continued to watch the film in silence. Hermione found herself nodding off halfway through, snuggling fully into Draco's side. She didn't notice that his arm had been around her for quite a while, tracing abstract patterns into her shoulder.

"Granger," she heard him whisper. Her eyes found his, their faces only centimeters from each other.

"What?" she breathed, her eyes trailing to his lips. Oh, my God, Draco Malfoy is about to kiss me. Someone call the police. The Aurors, the Hit Wizards, Merlin, whoever, holy crap what–

"This is definitely what I would call a date. Happy Christmas," he said softly, and before she could think of an appropriately sassy response, his mouth had slanted over hers.

Merlin, this boy can kiss!

All rational thought was emptied from her brain as Draco scooped her up from the couch, pushed the door to her bedroom open, and kicked the door shut, and proceeded to unwrap his very first Christmas present of the year.

It was a very happy Christmas, indeed.