Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended.

Written for BiscuitsforPotter as a Secret Santa Fic.

Cold.

Bloody freezing cold.

There were few things Hermione hated more than the cold: exercise, water chestnuts, and the word moist—but the cold, especially when she was forced to trudge through it like some sort of yeti, was currently at the very top of her list.

Even lacking a mirror, Hermione knew her nose was bright red, her lips chapped and pale, and the faux fur trim on her ethically designed snow parka was matted. Based on the stares she received from the small children wandering the village, she figured she looked more hag-like than human at this point, but it didn't matter because the end was in sight.

"Hurry up, Granger," Malfoy barked, shooting a hard look over his shoulder. Cold gray eyes peered at her like some sort of bloody male model as opposed to the Ministry lackey he actually was. In the beginning of their careers, she'd often wondered how they'd ended up on the same ambitious path—shouldn't he have been more interested in spending his family money? Or gallivanting the world? Why was he becoming a part of the bureaucratic machine that had sentenced his parents to twenty years of house arrest? It appeared that somewhere deep down in the cold, black heart in the centre of his chest was a small sliver of altruism.

Well, that or he was a sadist who enjoyed long hours, terrible tea, and drafty underground offices.

"I'm moving as fast as I can, Malfoy." Hermione huffed, the vapor from her breath visible in the frigid air, lingering in front of her mouth. "You know, if you had done the gentlemanly thing and taken my bag—"

"You packed it, you carry it," the blond snapped with a roll of his piercing gray eyes, before turning to continue up the small incline to the cabin that sat just on the edge of town.

Seamus would have been better—even with his panache for all things whisky related. Hell, Penelope would have been better, despite her inability to shut the hell up about Percy. But alas, Hermione spoke no Russian, and apparently the only person in their department who did was the blond arsehole strolling through the snow in his bespoke coat and winter boots like he owned the damn town.

Hoisting her bag farther up her shoulder, Hermione knocked her boots together to shake loose some of the frozen on bits of snow before she continued, praying that the Russian Federation of Wizardry employee had at least enough sense to use some heating spells when they'd prepped the cabin for their arrival.

It looked small—and truthfully, shabby, but Hermione learned long ago not to judge anything by its outward appearance. Even the most haphazard lodgings could contain wonders thanks to magic. So, when she approached the front door, frozen fingers fishing the skeleton key from her pocket, she didn't so much as question what would lay inside.

After all, how bad could the lodgings be?

"Are you fucking kidding me?" The words slipped from her tongue before she could prevent them. Inside the shanty—if she could even call it that—sat a patchwork couch, a tri-legged coffee table that looked like it saw the worse end of the cold war, and a single bed.

One.

Or, as they'd say in Russian, один.

"What? What is it?" Malfoy, who had been waiting all too impatiently beside the door, nudged her inside with a rough shoulder. Grey eyes peering around the room before he hissed a low curse.

Hermione stumbled in, fluffy white clumps of snow landing on the threadbare carpet, and she dropped her bag from her shoulder, eyes still roving around the room, taking in the cobwebs that clung to the ceiling, and the moth eaten curtains.

"Is there… another room?" Malfoy was moving in behind her, the steady thump of his footsteps following her into the small space.

"How the bloody hell would I know?" Hermione looked over her shoulder, brows furrowing. "Check that door." She lifted her hand to point across the room, before withdrawing her wand from her pocket and moving towards the fireplace.

A stack of logs sat on the hearth, untouched, but thankfully dry. Grabbing three, she set them on the grate, casting an Incendio. Warming her frost-bitten hands by the flame, she glanced over her shoulder, watching as Malfoy opened the door to reveal a tiny linen closet.

"This is—this is not going to work," he huffed, moving towards the only other door in the cabin with a newfound purpose, as if there would be some sort of hidden bedroom he'd find in his quest instead of what they both knew was behind door number two. "This is unacceptable. I can't stay here."

"Oh? And where else would you suggest we go?" Hermione stood up, tucking her wand back up her sleeve into its holster. "Because I hate to break it to you, Malfoy, but there is definitely no Four Seasons in rural Russia."

"Four Seasons? I'm not entirely sure what the bloody weather has to do with how this cabin is a doxy infested cesspool, but I'd rather not get into whatever Muggle rubbish you have going on inside that thick head of yours, Granger."

If her eyes could roll back any farther in her skull, Hermione was almost certain she would see her fucking brain. Biting the inside of her cheek, she took a slow drag of the musty air, reminding herself that yes, this assignment was critical, and yes, murder was as illegal in Russia as it was in England. "It's a hotel."

"What?"

"The Four Seasons… It's a Muggle hotel."

"Oh. Did you see one?"

"Are you kidding me, Malfoy? Of course I didn't see one! I saw the same bloody thing you saw coming in.: a butcher, some toy shop, what appeared to be a taxidermy place next to that apothecary, and an owlery." Hermione's fists clenched at her side, her jaw setting as she watched Malfoy yank open another door to reveal a small bathroom—only to slam it shut with a small growl.

"No need to get snippy! I was just asking." Turning around, Malfoy crossed his arms, lips pursing at her from across the room, and although she couldn't be certain from this distance, she would have sworn she could make out a distinct tremble of tension in his jaw.

"So, this is it then? This fucking cabin for the next three days?" He gestured around them, grey eyes flickering with increasing frequency from wall to wall, as if something new might appear if he just looked hard enough.

She didn't bother with a reply, because truthfully there was absolutely nothing she could utter that would make this situation any better for either of them. Instead, she lifted a brow, lips thinning as she channeled her best inner McGonagall.

Flecks of dust shimmered in the soft winter light that bled through the shoddy curtains, highlighting just how utterly filthy their borrowed living space was. Hermione watched as Malfoy did little to contain his emotions as he took in their accommodations—the mismatched furniture, the wonky coffee table, and finally the bed.

The only bed.

And just as suddenly as her annoyance with her coworker had appeared, the realisation that only one of them could claim the bed while the other would be relegated to the couch hit her like a rogue bludger, smashing right through her indignation.

She moved, toeing around the edge of the table, eyes flicking nervously between the simmering wizard and the bed. She couldn't sleep on the couch, there was a damn spring visible. And Merlin only knew what it would do to her already achy back. Healer Jacobsen had told her that she had the bone density of an aging hag due to the after effects of the Cruciatus. There was no bloody way in hell she would risk a good night's sleep just to appease the princess and the pea.

It seemed that however sly she thought she was, Malfoy was more cunning.

As soon as she started edging closer, his eyes widened with comprehension and he began a wide legged jaunt towards the bed, clearly intent on claiming it at his own first.

"No, no, no!" Hermione ran—no, sprinted—across the room, practically vaulting over the side table in an attempt to make it to the bed first. Her heart beat erratically, pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it.

Malfoy shouldered her, nearly causing her feet to slide out from under her, and just as they were almost there, his body a mere inch in front of hers, Hermione grabbed onto the back of his hood. Yanking him backwards as hard as she could, she propelled herself forward to land with a less than graceful bounce on the too springy mattress. "HA!"

Malfoy stumbled backwards, tripping over his own dragonhide boots and landing firmly on his arse, gray eyes wide with what Hermione hoped was shock at her shrewd prowess, but looked more akin to fury.

"You—you can't just—that's cheating!"

"Says the wizard who tried to side tackle me!" Hermione crossed her arms over her bust, brows lifting as she watched his face crimson. "Besides, I'm a bloody woman, Malfoy. Haven't you heard of chivalry?"

Pushing off the floor, he brushed his hands across his trousers, grimacing at the dust patterns it left behind. "You're about as much of a woman as my bloody left hand, Granger."

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

Grey eyes lifted, and for a moment, she swore she could see the wheels turn inside his mind, twisting and churning, venomous words poised on the tip of his tongue. But just as quickly as the fire appeared, it flickered away. Closing his eyes, Malfoy rolled his head, a sharp series of cracks echoing around the sparsely filled cabin as he reigned in his runaway emotions.

"Nothing..," he murmured with a heavy breath before his eyes opened once more to reveal a decidedly more calm and composed version of himself. "Take the bloody bed, see if I care."

"Oh, I intend to." Hermione didn't move, watching as he serpentined his way across the room towards the couch, lip lifting in a sneer as he examined the furniture. Withdrawing his wand from his pocket, she could only assume he was attempting to clean and transfigure the couch into something more comfortable.

"I'll warn you now…" he began, pushing up the sleeves of his coat to reveal toned forearms, thick veins bulging with each subtle flex of his wrist as he directed his cleansing spell on the furniture. "If I wake up with a kink in my neck, it'll be your head I chew off before our meetings."

Despite being an utter prat, Hermione couldn't deny the strange affect watching him work had on her—stomach clenching, a forbidden heat pooling between her thighs. The heat that radiated from the fireplace felt too warm.

She didn't like Malfoy—how could she?

But as she sat on the bed, she watched him direct his magic with a steely determination, long fingers curled around his wand, forearms rippling under the tension of controlling his magic—and, well, even she couldn't deny his appeal.

Three days.

She only had to share this tiny living space with him for three days.

Three bloody days in rural Russia to sign this deal. Then she could go about the rest of her life pretending he wasn't attractive.

Just as she'd done since fifth year.

Three days—three bloody days.

That was how long this trip was supposed to last. If Draco were the laughing type, he might have actually found humour in the fact that they were on day five of negotiations with no potential end in sight.

But he wasn't.

And Granger certainly wasn't—least of all after today's disastrous meeting.

"You're supposed to be the bloody translator, Malfoy! How could you possible bugger this up so bad?" She hadn't stopped spewing venom at him since the moment Yaromir had kicked them from his shop nearly twenty minutes prior.

"I never claimed to be an expert."

"You said you were fluent!"

"I said I knew the language." Draco shot Hermione a hard look, one that would have previously rendered the curly haired swot silent, but now, after five days of constant companionship, it only resulted in her rolling those pretty whisky coloured eyes that he couldn't bloody stop thinking about.

And that was precisely the problem, wasn't it?

Hermione I-Never-Bloody-Shut-Up Granger was his issue. She was the reason he flubbed the translation and ended up telling the Apothecary's owner that the Ministry would only pay ten galleons per sack as opposed to one hundred. Because while, yes, Draco was versed enough in the Slavic language to know the difference between ten and one hundred, he had been watching her across the table.

The way she'd twist the quill between her ink splattered fingers.

The way she'd tug at her curls when she lost herself in thought.

The way her upper lip had a perfect cupid's bow he wanted to trace with his tongue.

The way she looked in those fitted jumpers, hugging every damn curve like if it wasn't a second skin, it wouldn't keep the cold out.

And Merlin help him, when she put her quill between her lips, hints of her pink tongue flashing across the pointed tip, Draco nearly came undone.

Because although it had been bloody years since he'd thought about Granger in that sort of sense, he was clearly no closer to getting over his boyhood crush than he had been nearly a decade prior. She was, by all intents and purposes, the forbidden fruit, the pear—or was it an apple?—in his garden of eden, or whatever Muggle rubbish it was. She was everything he was not supposed to want.

Muggleborn.

Messy.

Stubborn.

And yet, beautiful.

Hermione had been the epitome of teenage rebellion, everything he wasn't supposed to desire, which had made his crush that much more intense. Of course, by the time he'd come to realise the stirring in his pants every time she drew near during fifth year was a result of infatuation and not anger, the framework for the war had already been set in motion.

Their lives had changed— unequivocally—neither for the better.

The war had ushered a darkness into his heart that he wasn't quite sure he'd ever be able to truly rid himself of, but Salazar's sack, he was fucking trying.

Which is exactly how he found himself here.

In Russia.

With Hermione I-Wear-Too-Tight-Denim Granger.

He'd stupidly took the Gagana Feather trade negotiation assignment after hearing something about the feather being the key ingredient in Nott's newest balm that was being used to treat Cruciatus curse victims. Merlin only knew his family was responsible for at least some of those in treatment.

When he accepted the assignment, he'd known he'd have to work alongside Granger, but never in his wildest dreams had he thought he'd be shuttled off to rural Russia with the witch, and moreover, sharing a tiny bloody cabin with her.

Yet, here he was.

Living out some alternate version of his childhood fantasy.

Trying desperately not to make a noise during his morning shower wank and give away his wayward feelings.

"We're two days over and based on the fact that Yaromir literally shoved us out of his shop, I doubt we'll have any luck requesting an audience tomorrow." Her cheeks were pink, the cold biting at her sun-kissed skin, and based on the way she shivered, despite wearing that hideous overcoat, it seemed she still wasn't used to the frigid winter air. "Christmas is next week, Malfoy, and while you may not have plans, I do. I've very much like to see my—"

Draco spun around, dragonhide boots sliding across the freshly fallen snow as he closed in on her, marching until they stood toe to toe in the middle of the street. "For your information, I do have obligations to meet at well. If you think I want to spend one more bloody second in this damn village with you of all people, you are sorely mistaken. Now, for the love of all things that are right in the fucking world, could you please do us both a favor and shut the fuck up?" His nostrils flared as the confusing maelstrom of indignation and desire raged inside.

He wanted to shout—to remind her it was an accident and she didn't need to be so bloody petulant. He wanted to tell her off for being so bloody rude.

But he also wanted to snog her. To curl his fingers into that thick mess of curls and steal the very breath from her lungs. He wanted to force her compliant under his touch—make her scream his name and take back all the nasty things she'd ever said.

Her mouth opened and closed several times, as if trying to find the ire needed to convey the fury that was so clearly brewing. His eyes flickered from hers, watching as her tongue swept across her chapped lips, and he bit the inside of his cheek, fingers flexing as he fought back the impulse to devour her whole.

He shouldn't.

He couldn't.

He—

"какая прекрасная пара."

His eyes snapped across the street towards the source of the disruption. An old crone lingered on her stoop, a cat tucked under her arm while a shaggy white dog sniffed around the snow-covered lawn. Beside her, an equally decrepit man stood, blue eyes twinkling at them. "страстные. Вы не видите этого в молодости сегодня."

Couple?!

Ha!

They weren't—they would never.

Draco shook his head, logic smashing through the clouded fog of stupid desire, and he turned on his heel, marching away from Hermione at a long legged pace he was certain she would never be able to keep up with—especially in the snow.

"Malfoy!"

He needed to put distance between them.

"Malfoy! I wasn't done talking to you!"

He needed to get away from her.

"Malfoy, come back here!"

He needed to go take a long, hot, shower—complete with silencing charms.

Christmas was in four days and Hermione had absolutely nothing ready.

No cookies baked. No presents wrapped—hell, she still had yet to purchase gifts for the most important people in her life. The same people that would fill her flat's living room in less than a week's time.

Under normal circumstances, she would have been amply prepared for the holiday. She would have had her gifts bought weeks ago, and had them neatly wrapped beneath her tree with pretty hand curled bows atop each one.

But this Christmas was the first in which she could recall not feeling particularly joyful—not when she was so bitterly alone.

Harry was with Ginny. So happy. So proud. They'd just had baby James in the spring and were already talking about expanding their family again.

Ron had found a wonderful partner in Susan, and although they were not yet wed, their own arrival was due any day now.

After so many years of friendship, Hermione woke up one morning that fall and realised her boys were no longer her own.

Not that they had ever been, but now they were men. They had families of their own to look after, obligations that didn't involve Flooing to her house in the middle of the night when Crooks came home with a mouse.

And she had… nothing.

She'd dated since the war's end, but nothing serious. She'd always found a reason—some nagging, stupid, trivial thing that she simply couldn't look past.

Viktor was kind, but far too needy for someone whose job kept him halfway across Europe at any given time.

Michael was a generous lover, but a bore outside of the bedroom.

And Charlie? Well, Charlie came with a too-familiar last name and a dragon obsession she simply couldn't compete with.

So, here she was, halfway through her twenties with a great job, a lovely brownstone in Chelsea, an aging cat, and no love life to speak of.

She tried to get over it. She made mulled wine and went to look at holiday lights one evening, but it was all for naught, she couldn't seem to put herself in the holiday spirit. And now, to make matters worse, she was stuck in a foreign country with Malfoy—of all bloody people.

But she needed to finish her shopping because Merlin only knew when they'd wrap up this trade deal.

With that task in mind, she'd donned her warmest clothing and made her way to the end of the block to the little wooden toyshop in hopes of being able to find something to give her pseudo-nephew and unborn niece.

The soft jingle of the brass bell signalled the store keep of her entrance, and Hermione lifted a hand in a friendly wave as she brushed her boots off beside the door, knocking the excess snow free. Unzipping her coat, she shrugged out of the heavy garment, draping it over her arm to reveal a cream and burgundy Fair Isle knit jumper.

She muttered a soft greeting, the foreign language clunky and harsh as it tumbled off her tongue—so unlike her coworker who seemed to speak the language with an enviable elegance.

The shop's aisles were lined with wooden toys and trinkets. Items ranged from beautiful hand polished jewelry boxes to wooden ships with little canvas sails. As she moved deeper into the store, the earthy musk of cedar mixed with the sharp sting of lacquer finish, covering the scent of the smoldering logs that blazed in the fireplace.

Her mind wandered as she took in the wares, a soft smile ghosting her lips as she picked up a small wooden duck, running her finger across the beautifully carved back of the bird. Would baby James play with a duck? What did six month olds play with exactly? She was far from experienced with children, and having no siblings of her own to speak of, she couldn't call upon distant memories to help fill the void in this gap of knowledge.

A flash of white blond hair pulled her attention away from the carved object, and she peered between the cracks in the shelving, watching curiously as Draco knelt down in front of a small child.

He spoke in hushed tones in their native tongue, and although she couldn't clearly understand a damn thing he said, it was so evident what was happening.

The girl was crying, big green eyes dripping with tears, a broken doll in her hands. At the end of the aisle, opposite from where Draco and the young girl stood, two rambunctious boys played with trucks, smashing them together, tiny explosions echoing towards them.

Her breath caught in her throat, blocked by a slow forming lump as she watched him remove his glove to brush the girl's tears from her cheek before taking her doll. His palm dwarfed the well-loved toy, but he held it with a tenderness that both shocked and amazed her, and when he withdrew his wand, casting a repairing spell to reattach the torn limb, she felt her heart quiver.

She'd never known Malfoy to be kind, never known him to take the time to help anyone other than himself. But as she watched the little girl throw her thin arms around him, hugging him tight as a gapped-tooth smile spread across her little face, she couldn't help but wonder if this random act of kindness wasn't so random at all.

Based on his return hug, the laughter that lined his words, and the way his eyes shimmered with happiness as he watched her return to join her brothers, cradling the repaired toy against her chest, she knew that this wasn't new for him. That this act—altruistic and pure—was likely something he'd done with other children before.

He pushed off the floor, hands brushing the wood dust from his trousers as he rose to his full height. For the first time in… well, ever, Hermione allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe she had been slightly misinformed about the wizard he had grown into.

Clearing her throat to give away her presence, Hermione moved to the end of the aisle, popping her head around the bend so he could see her, before she slipped past the animated children. "That was kind of you—repairing her doll."

The happiness that had been so clear on his features faded, a mask of empathy dropping into it place, and Draco tucked his wand back in his pocket, eyes dipping to look at the lowest shelf beside him. "Yeah… well, someone needed to stop her crying."

"Uh huh." Hermione smirked, her arms crossing over her bust as she leaned her shoulder against the shelf, watching as he picked up a small sailboat and examined it with a level of scrutiny that felt far too important for one looking at a wooden toy. "It's okay to be kind, you know? Especially to children. I won't ruin your image by telling anyone."

"My image?" The words were laughter, except it wasn't harsh or tinny. No, it was a genuine laugh. Like one she'd heard from Harry or Ron after she said something clever. A heartwarming, smile birthing, genuine laugh. And when he brought his eyes back to hers, the corners of his lips were lifted—just barely, but the hint of a smile was present.

"Yes, you know." She lifted her hand in a small roll, trying to suppress her own growing grin. "Dark, broody… temperamental."

"Ah, yes. Pureblood despondency is the preferred term."

"Precisely." Hermione nodded in agreement, but could only keep her face straight for so long because her own tinkle of laughter danced off her tongue. Leaning back on the shelf, she bit her bottom lip to still her laughter as she slipped her hand in the front pocket of her denim trousers. "So… what are you doing here? I mean, aside from toy repair."

"Well, I am a certified Doll Healer, so I go where my services are needed. It's in my Hippocratic Oath, you know?" He moved opposite from her, long legs crossing at the ankle as he leaned against the shelf. "But, apart from my side gig, I was actually here to see if I could find something for Posey."

Posey… Why did that name sound so familiar?

Hermione's brow furrowed, head cocking to the side in silent question.

"My god-daughter," he clarified. "Theo and Pansy's oldest."

"Oh… Oh!" Of course! How could she forget? The Parkinson-Nott child's arrival had been something of a scandal in the wizarding world just three short years ago. Theo had been betrothed to another witch when Pansy fell pregnant, and well, The Daily Prophet had never been kind to Hermione, and it appeared they hadn't pulled any punches when it came to Pansy Parkinson either. "I didn't—they have more than one?"

"Well, they will in about two months—give or take." The corner of his lips lifted. "But I doubt you'll hear much about it this time around. Their relationship is far less interesting now that they're married and live in the country."

"I can imagine. Who wants to read about domesticity?"

"Certainly not I. Truthfully, they're kind of a bore—all garden parties and recitals." Though his words were harsh, his feather light tone gave way to the truth. He cared for them, just like she did Harry and Ron, but it was when he spoke of his god-daughter that she could see the depth of his devotion to the little family. "If it weren't for Posey, I would hardly grace their manor's front porch. But, alas, someone needs to teach her the proper way to host a tea party."

"Tea party?" She could hardly contain the disbelief that impregnated her words. Malfoy… tea parties? Had hell frozen over? Did fire crabs have wings?

Draco nodded, his brows lifting to convey a playful importance in his words. "Absolutely. Have you ever been to one of Pansy's tea parties? She's an atrocious host. Never once did she offer Mister Bear a finger sandwich. It my duty—no, obligation—as her godfather to ensure she understands proper tea party etiquette."

Her hand rose, fingers pressing against her lips, and before she could stop herself, a fresh wave of laughter bubbled up her throat. She shouldn't have laughed—it was really quite sweet, but suddenly the image of Draco sitting at a tiny table, hunched over, sipping from plastic floral cups of tea in an oversized bonnet (akin to one Augusta Longbottom would wear) entered her mind and she simply couldn't unsee it.

Tears sprung to the corner of her eyes as her laughter grew louder. Her arms moved to wrap around her middle as her stomach spasmed. "S-sorry. I… ha! Oh gods—I'm s-sorry!" She gasped as leaned more heavily on the shelf, using it to help support her.

Draco, thankfully, found humour in her inability to contain herself, and soon the soft baritone of his own chuckle joined hers. And for what felt like minutes, they stood tucked away at the back of the tiny little toy shop, allowing the carefully constructed walls that had defined their working relationship to begin to crumble.

By the time her laughter faded, and the idea of Malfoy partaking in tea parties seemed almost rational, Hermione found herself interested in what other things about the wizard she had gotten wrong. Clearly, he'd changed—sure, he was still an arse to work with, still condescending and curt—but now that she thought about it, it had been ages since he'd hurled a barbed insult her way.

"Well, now that you've discovered my hidden talents, maybe you should tell me what you're doing here?" His voice seemed… kinder, almost more melodic as he spoke, and Hermione lifted her eyes from where she'd been boring holes into the tops of his boots to find his gaze resting upon her.

Grey with that beautiful silver lining.

Like the sun poking through a rain cloud.

Her heart quivered under the weight and she had to tell herself the reaction meant nothing, and the unmistakable sparkle of interest in his irises was simply a trick of a poor lighting. "I… uh. I need to buy a gift."

"Well I've gathered that much." Draco nodded his head, tongue pressing into the tip of his canine. "For whom?"

"James… Harry and—"

"Ahh, Potter's offspring. He's about… six months old now, right?" His head cocked to the side, eyes drifting towards the ceiling as if doing some arithmetic to calculate her god-son's age.

Draco knowing about James shouldn't have surprised her—he was the Boy-Who-Lived's first-born, after all. But the fact that he was able to guess his approximate age, and seemed interested in it, was shocking. In a good way, of course—if that was possible.

"Uh… eight, I think. He was born over Easter hols," Hermione explained with a nod, tongue sweeping across her lips.

"Well, I hardly think anything in this area would be appropriate for an infant, Granger." He pulled his hand from his pocket, gesturing to the shelves around them that contained little trucks, boats, and animal carvings.

Hermione blushed, eyes drifting to the toy-lined shelves and she lifted her shoulders in an almost defeated shrug. "Honestly? I know absolutely nothing about babies," she confessed in a low whisper.

Draco nodded, his lips pressing together to suppress a grin as he glanced up and down the aisle, as if to make sure the coast was clear, before he leaned towards her, bending at the waist so he was eye level with head instead of a full six inches taller. "I'm fairly certain that's not a secret considering you almost dropped him at the Merlin's Day celebration."

"I did not!" Hermione gasped, her jaw dropping, eyes widening.

Draco's hands went up, eyes lifting innocently as he straightened his spine. "Those weren't my words, Granger. I am fairly certain that everyone in the atrium heard you when you handed him off to Weaslette—Sonorus is quite sensitive."

Her eyes fluttered shut, and she lifted a hand to rest against her forehead, fingers curling along her brow so her palm shielded her face as she let out a low groan. It was far from her shining moment as James' god-mum, and as much as she loved babies—Which she did! Endlessly!—she was positively hopeless with them.

They were floppy and… and boneless. Like an awkward sack of potatoes that liked to throw its head around at random moments.

"Oh gods," she groaned. When Malfoy only laughed at her embarrassment, she spread her fingers to peek up at him. "Was it that bad?"

"It wasn't great," Malfoy teased, a hand carding his blond fringe back across his forehead. "But… you're in luck. In addition to my Doll Healer license, and hosting prowess, I also happen to be quite good at gift selection—especially for the five and under crowd."

Her hand lowered from her face, teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she watched Draco push off the shelf. Heavy boots thumped against the floor as he began down the aisle, a smile twinkling in his eyes when he glanced over his shoulder to her, lifting his hand to wave her along after him. "Come along then. We don't have all night."

Hermione nodded, pulled from her momentary reverie, and she moved after him, past the laughing children, past the old greying shopkeep, and down the farthest aisle from the door. Just a few steps behind, she watched Malfoy who seemed to be inspecting a small set of wooden blocks with pictures of farm animals carved into the sides.

"This would be a good choice. He could chew on them now, and when he's a bit older, use them to make buildings that he'll smash down with dragons." He tapped the set thoughtfully, glancing over to Hermione with a confidence that seemed so natural.

"Thank you for… for helping me."

"Anytime."

Reaching out, she ran her finger along the soft wood, letting the grain slide beneath the tips as she examined the set.

Who would have ever thought Draco Malfoy was good with kids? Wait, not just good, apparently bloody brilliant. And as she took the tray of blocks off the shelf, tucking it securely against her chest so none of them fell on the way up to the front, she couldn't help but wonder what else about him might surprise her.

Translation notes:

1. один – one
2. какая прекрасная пара – what a lovely couple
3. страстные. Вы не видите этого в молодости сегодня - passionate. You do not see this in youth today

Author's Note:

First and foremost, endless thank you needs to be given to Dreamsofdramione. She helped me figure out this crazy plot, and encourage me to return to a pairing I haven't explored in a long-long time. AND THEN, she made my words make actual sense by being the universe's best beta.

Secondly. BiscuitsforPotter—I simply adore you and when I found out you were my pairing, I couldn't contain my excitement! I really—REALLY hope you enjoy this little world I've crafted for you. 3

Side note. I do not know Russia, I do not speak Russian, and google translator helped me in this fic. Please forgive me if it's wrong if you are a native speaker!

Chapter two will be up before the end of the weekend, my dear.

Happy Christmas.

until next time. xx