A/N: As promised, here's the sequel!

Themes: Sequel to Smoke Gets In Your Eyes. Warfic - AU where Voldemort is not defeated in 1998. Canon compliant until the end of Half-Blood Prince.

Songs:
Angels – The XX (for Hermione)
Thistle and Weeds – Mumford & Sons (for Draco)
Black Skinhead – Kanye West (for that action scene in the beginning)

Disclaimer: Any recognizable names, characters and places belong to JK Rowling.

(November 14th, 2003 – Death Eater base – outskirts of Lancaster, Lancashire)

"Watch it, Draco!"

He ducks just in time to avoid a curse sent his way by Rowle. He shouts a thank you to Anthony Goldstein for the warning, before charging forward to engage Dawlish in a duel as Cho Chang steps in to take on Rowle. Around him, spells are fired in every direction and almost every Order member seems to be fighting at least one Death Eater. Kingsley, McGonagall and Flitwick are battling two a piece, and Mad-Eye is overpowering three masked figures without even breaking a sweat. He fires spell after spell at Dawlish, putting up defensive charms with almost freakish speed, and manages to Stun the Death Eater moments later when he gets distracted by a passing curse hurled by Luna that missed its intended target.

"Never let your guard down, you imbecile," he spits out, breaking his fallen enemy's wand with the heel of his boot for good measure. He steps over Rowle's stiff body, looking around to see where he's needed. Nearby, Luna is taking on Selwyn, whose mask has fallen off, and Parvati and Dean are dueling Bellatrix.

He spots her across the large hall the fight is taking place in. For a moment he's entranced by her movements, the snarl on her face, the force and velocity of her attack, launching spell after spell with an almost feral intensity. He doesn't realize who her opponent is until seconds later.

Through some weird stroke of fate, they've never met in battle since he joined the Order. Draco hasn't seen him in over six years, but he'd know the man's sharp, aristocratic features and long, white hair anywhere on Earth.

Lucius.

He's not even fully conscious of approaching the two, but it's a good thing that he does; a well-aimed hex from Lucius sends Hermione flying towards the wall behind her. She hits her head and slumps to the floor, unconscious, and the elder man steps forward to deliver what Draco assumes is the final blow. In a split second, he's racing forward, ducking under curses and shoving masked figures aside to reach her. He puts up a Shield Charm around Hermione that's so strong it sends Lucius staggering backwards a few steps and nearly knocks him off his feet. The Death Eater looks around, bewildered, only to lay eyes on Draco as the younger man steps forward between his father and Hermione's feebly stirring form, the battle raging on around them.

"You," Lucius spits, with so much venom and contempt in his voice that Draco might have flinched if not for the fact that he hates his father with equal passion. Draco grips his wand in his hand tightly; the wood is still warm from his fight with Dawlish and charged to attack at a moment's notice.

"Me," he spits back.

The war has taken a toll on the elder Malfoy. Now that he's come closer, barely ten feet from the man, Draco can see that his eyes are sunken in their sockets, surrounded by dark circles and wrinkles that weren't there the last time he saw his father. His once-blonde hair is streaked with grey, and his jaw is lined with what seems to be five or six days' worth of stubble. He's aged decades in the six and a half years that have passed since Draco was rescued from the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, and Draco watches as his stony grey eyes size him up. He's no longer the broken, beaten teenager chained in the dungeon; he's taller, strong and intimidating. But his transformation is more than merely physical; he's no longer a scared, sniveling boy, willing to take orders blindly and parrot his father's bigoted beliefs. Lucius looks at him as if he were seeing a stranger and, in a way, he is.

He's a man in his own right; a new, better and stronger version of himself. A Draco that no longer preys on the weak, but fights to protect them.

"What do you think you're doing?" Lucius asks.

Draco raises his wand. "You will not harm her."

The elder wizard's eyes narrow as he studies his son's protective stance. "I see. It wasn't enough for you to become a disappointment and a Blood Traitor—you had to become a Mudblood lover as w—"

His words are cut off by a hex from Draco that collides with his face, splitting his lip. He wipes blood from his chin and his grey eyes flash with rage. "How dare you?"

Draco is almost shaking with anger. "Be very careful with how you speak about Granger, Lucius."

The use of his given name proves to be too much of an insult for the older man, and in an instant, the two have begun to duel fiercely. When Hermione stirs, finally opening her eyes, she finds them a few feet away, hurling hex after hex at each other. Lucius continues to taunt his son between spells but Draco is having none of it; he's sheer brute force and power, and the intensity of his spells raises goose-bumps on everyone in the vicinity. She scrambles to her feet, gripping her wand tightly in her hand as she attempts to rush forward to his aid.

"No!" he yells at her over his shoulder. "Stay back—he's mine."

She reluctantly does as he says, instead turning around to watch his back, shooting down any and all Death Eaters who attempt to intervene with a few flicks of her wand and a sneer. In a manner of seconds, she's taken out three masked figures and when no one else tries to approach, she rushes off to help Parvati and Dean, who are still dueling Bellatrix.

"It's charming that you think you can spare her," Lucius taunts as the two men continue to attack each other. "But I'll tend to the Mudblood as soon as I'm finished with you."

With his next spell, Draco releases a fierce growl that rumbles in his chest. "Please," he scoffs. "You won't live to even attempt to breathe near Granger."

"Won't I?" Lucius sneers. He seems to have realized that the younger man has an advantage with his quicker reflexes and strength. As such, he resorts to mocking to distract Draco from the fight.

"No," Draco says, still firing hexes; Lucius' words seem to have little effect on him. "Don't you remember? I promised you that I'd come back to kill you after everything you did to me. After Mother. And as if those weren't enough reasons, you just tried to kill Granger."

"You wouldn't kill your own father," says the elder wizard.

"I don't have a father," Draco spits back. "Haven't had one since I was seventeen."

"You couldn't kill a man you hated and you expect me to believe you'll kill m—"

Lucius is so preoccupied with mocking him that he misses the telltale twitch of Draco's hand; a moment later, the unmistakable jet of green light hits him square in the chest. For the smallest of seconds, time seems to freeze and the widening of his eyes says he's realized what happened. But then time speeds back up and his eyes roll back into his head as he topples to the ground, lifeless.

(December 20th, 2003 – Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix - 12 Grimmauld Place, London)

She finds him in the tapestry room just after two in the morning when everyone else has been asleep for hours; he's sitting on the floor nursing a half-empty butterbeer and staring intently at the golden thread reading Narcissa on the Black Family Tree. His hair is a mess and his eyes are bloodshot, and he seems not to notice her presence until she's sitting beside him in flannel pajama bottoms and a beige jumper. He smells her before realizing she's there, and recognizes the familiar scent of her body lotion.

"I noticed you weren't in your bed," she says, her voice soft.

"Couldn't sleep," he murmurs back.

"I know," she says. He offers her some of his butterbeer and she takes a few sips. "You weren't at the status meeting earlier, either."

He doesn't deny it. "What did I miss?" he asks simply.

"Well, Mad-Eye and Kingsley finally set a date—Susan and Hannah came back—they've finally figured out the location of You-Know-Who's main base and tracked him down to a safe-house outside of Ipswich."

"Abbott might as well be part niffler, with how she tracks people," Draco smirks in admiration for the former Hufflepuff. "What's the plan?"

"Two-thirds of us will go there while a group of fighters will go to Yorkshire to the base where they've been keeping what's left of the Ten. They'll be engaged first, to hopefully divert the efforts there and leave You-Know-Who's base mildly less guarded."

"Who's left?" he asks. He's skived off so many status meetings lately that he's not sure where they stand.

"Hm?"

"Of the Ten," he clarifies. "Who's left?"

"Just Macnair, Rabastan and Avery," she says.

He frowns. "I thought Bellatrix—" and catches himself as he remembers. A deep blush colors her cheeks and he replays it in his head; Hermione ripping Bellatrix apart—quite literally tearing her limb from limb after the Death Eater killed Parvati. It was the same day he killed Lucius, and he remembers the dark, sickly blood pouring out of his would-be aunt in torrents as she screamed.

"Bellatrix is no longer of any consequence," she says simply.

He nods. "I had forgotten, for a moment."

Hermione clears her throat before returning to the matter at hand. "Fred and George have finally gotten 'round to making new dragon-hide armor for all of us—they're using modified Horntail hide this time. They're almost done, too."

"When are we going?"

"New Years Day," she replies. "The armor and Portkeys should be finished by then, and Mad-Eye wants to attack as soon as possible. As far as we know, Voldemort hasn't realized that all the Horcruxes have been destroyed—he just knows about Nagini, and we don't want to wait too long and give him time to catch on and make another."

He nods, taking another swig of butterbeer.

"What's on your mind?" she asks, realizing as the words leave her mouth that it's a stupid question, but he answers truthfully all the same. They haven't lied to each other in years, why start now?

"My mother," he says softly.

"Would you like to talk about her?"

He shrugs. "I wouldn't know where to start."

"Well," Hermione begins, her tone slightly encouraging. "What was she like?"

The right corner of his mouth turns upwards in an almost-smirk. "She was beautiful," he says. "Fiercely protective of me, and absolutely brilliant—one of the smartest people I've met, after you."

She smiles a bit at that. "I only met her once; at Madam Malkin's shop just before sixth year—she was wickedly intimidating. Blonde, tall and gorgeous. I'd never felt so out of place in my life," she almost chuckles.

"She had a way of commanding attention in a room without even speaking," Draco says. "People used to say that she was cold, but I never saw that side of her. To me, she was just Mum. She was the one who insisted I go to Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang, because she didn't want me to go to school so far from home. She sent me cakes every week of first year because she didn't want me to think she'd forgotten about me. To outsiders, she came off as an ice queen, aloof and unapproachable. But to me, she was just my mother."

She nods in understanding and for a moment they sit in silence until he speaks again. "I don't recall ever meeting your mother," he says.

"I don't think you did, no," she replies.

"What was she like?"

Hermione smiles a bit as she speaks. "Snarky as all hell," she says, and they both chuckle. "No, I'm not kidding. She was the most sarcastic woman you'd ever meet. My dad used to say that she got a bad tooth extracted as a kid and her sense of humor went with it. They met studying dentistry at university, see."

"Dentistry? What is that?" he asks.

"Dentists tend to people's teeth," she explains. "That's what they did. And my mum was a force to be reckoned with. Wildly intelligent, and I'm certain she could really tell when someone lied to her. But she was clumsy as hell, too. And she hated cooking—she could cook like nobody's business, but she hated doing it."

He smiles a bit at that. "I forget sometimes," he admits. She looks confused, so he elaborates. "I forget that your parents were Muggles. Ironic, isn't it? I spent half our childhood taunting you about being Muggle-born and now I forget about it."

She smiles at him then, and rests her hand on his knee. "I think it's a testament to how much you've changed."

"You really think I've changed?"

"You wouldn't be sitting here if you hadn't."

He nods because, as usual, she's right. "How did they react? You know, when they found out you were a witch."

"Mum was shocked out of her skull when McGonagall came to tell us," Hermione says. "Dad was thrilled—said he always knew I was brilliant and special."

He smirks. "And what was he like? Your father."

"He was the most enthusiastic man I've ever met," Hermione says honestly. "You know how Arthur gets about all things Muggle? Dad was the exact same way with magic. Nearly keeled over the first time we went to Diagon Alley."

Draco smiles but Hermione doesn't seem to notice as she's too caught up in her own words. "Mostly when I think about them, I remember the little things. Like how he always took sugar and milk in his tea, and she wore the same pearl earrings every single day of her life. And Dad had the best sense of humor. I wondered, you know, when I was a kid, how they managed to find each other—then I realized that Mum probably fell for him because he made her laugh. They worked because they balanced each other out, I think."

"Do you miss them?"

"Every day," she sighs. "Do you miss your mother?"

"Every day," he says. "Not Lucius though."

She doesn't know what to say to that. He's refused every attempt anyone has made to talk to him about Lucius—not Blaise, not Theo, not Andromeda. She watches him carefully, and sees it in the depths of his stormy gray eyes, barely contained.

Guilt.

"It's alright," she says, once more placing her hand on his knee and giving it a gentle squeeze. He looks in her chocolate eyes and finds no trace of judgment, or irony, or even pity. Just calm reassurance and something he doesn't identify, but if pressed, he might have called affection.

He nods and then reaches for her with his arms. "Can you—"

She seems to grasp his meaning, and after only a moment of hesitancy, moves over to him, straddling his hips, wrapping her arms around his neck and grasping him in a hug while his arms circle her waist. Hermione sighs with relief and holds him tightly, attempting to convey with her touch all the comfort that words seem unable to explain. He closes his eyes and almost hums in contentment; she smells like strawberries and tea and sunshine.

"It's alright," she repeats softly, pulling away just a bit to look at him, but she doesn't move from his lap.

He shakes his head, a grim smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I murdered my father, Granger. I'm pretty certain this is at least a Portkey, a hippogriff ride and a trip on the Hogwarts Express away from 'alright'."

"You saved my life," she whispers, looking him in the eye. "If you hadn't stepped in I wouldn't be here. I can't thank you enough."

He looks at her, studying her face carefully before shaking his head. "No need," he murmurs. "I just—I couldn't bear the thought of him taking someone else that I—"

He stops abruptly and looks away, and she feels her cheeks warm with a slight blush, so she changes the course of the conversation.

"We've been worried about you."

"'We'?" he echoes, quirking an eyebrow.

"All of us, really," she explains, looking down at her hands. "Andromeda, Blaise and Theo in particular. Even Harry, Mad-Eye and Kingsley started to worry when you stopped coming to meetings."

He doesn't say anything, and she bites her lower lip for a moment.

"You know you can talk to me whenever you want," she says finally. "About this or about anything else."

"You're my best friend here, Granger," he says, avoiding her eye as he confesses. "I know I should be able to talk about this with you, of all people, but I just didn't know how."

"I guessed it'd be something like that," she nods. "You've never been exactly Mr. Feelings, so I didn't want to pressure you. I figured you'd talk when you were ready."

"Thank you," he says, and she frowns.

"For what?"

"For not pushing me," he elaborates. "I know it probably went against every single one of your basic instincts, as you're usually the first to advocate proper expression of one's feelings—" she rolls her eyes, "—but I appreciate it, either way."

"No need," she says.

"I've been a mess lately," he admits. "At first I didn't even know what to think, you know? I was a bit numb at first… And then it just hit me."

"Draco, your father may have been a heinous man who murdered and pillaged and did horrible things to you and to others—but he was still your father. The world may be better off without him, but he was still someone you cared about at one point in your life. It's alright to grieve, even if what you grieve is the memory of what he once was to you."

He nods in agreement and mulls over his next words for a minute. "A few days later I got drunk—pissed out of my mind, really. I found old Orion Black's collection of aged firewhisky in the back of the pantry and went to town…" he smirks bitterly. "You might have noticed the smell on me the next morning."

She looks him in the eye, and that's when she realizes that he doesn't remember.

(November 24th, 2003)

She's in the library they've installed in what used to be the dining room, after they collected all the books about magic that belonged to every Order member. She's researching protective charms that can be cast on dragon hide—an idea Fred and George had for new armor for the Order fighters. She's up to her eyeballs in ancient books about magical theory and defensive magic that belonged to Dumbledore himself at one point, when the distinct noise of something falling downstairs disturbs her. Her quill pauses instantly, and a moment later there's a banging noise that rouses her suspicion.

It's past two in the morning, and she's certain she's the only one awake. Her instincts have sharpened in the years she's been fighting for the Order, so she picks up her wand and leaves the room to investigate. Out in the main hall, the troll leg umbrella stand is lying on its side as if Tonks just knocked it over, but the Auror hasn't been around for over a year and a half. She frowns, and follows the noise downstairs, her wand up. The kitchen is empty, but when she enters the pantry she sees him in the very back.

He's sprawled on the floorboards, slouching against the shelves behind him; he knocked over what looks like a few large tins of canned tomatoes—which explains the noise she heard upstairs. He holds a half-empty bottle of firewhisky in his left hand, and another bottle is empty beside him—he's obviously drunk out of his mind, and it shows when he talks.

"Granger," he greets, somehow slurring her name out into three syllables instead of two.

"Draco," she frowns in concern, approaching him and kneeling down beside him. "What are you doing?"

"'Dunno," he says. "Drunk. Tried to sit down—didn't go well."

She purses her lips. "Where did you even find firewhisky?"

"Ol' Orion Black," he smirks, eyeing her with hooded eyes. "Seems the old bloke collected the stuff—it's good, too. Want some?"

She shakes her head, feeling more and more concerned by the second. "No. Come on," she adds, gently prying the bottle from his grip. "Let's get you to upstairs. To bed."

"But I don't wanna go to bed, Granger," he whines, but doesn't put up much of a fight when she heaves him to his feet. It's a hell of an effort, and it's good thing she trains so hard, or she might have never gotten him up without magic. She puts his arm around her shoulders and leads him out of the pantry. As they make the walk up the stairs, he pulls her close to smell her and nearly makes them both topple over.

"You smell good," he says, his voice low.

"Thank you," she blushes, maneuvering them so they continue up the steps.

"Like strawberries and…" another snif. "Strawberries and Earl Grey and life. What do I smell like?"

She almost laughs at that and shakes her head. "Usually you smell like Camel Lights and mint—right now, you smell strongly of firewhisky. You shouldn't be drinking so much, Malfoy."

"'Seemed like a good 'nuf idea," he shrugs as they take the flight of stairs up to the floor where their room is.

She leads him to their room, sitting him on her bed while she turns down the covers of his own bed, the room flooded in gentle candlelight. When she's done, she pats the bed. "Come on. In."

He does as he's told, allowing her to take off his shoes and wrap him in the blanket, but he grasps her wrist when she attempts to move away. She looks at him, confused.

"Can you stay with me?" he asks, and she doesn't quite know why, but she does, pulling down the covers to lie down on her side beside him, the both of them facing each other. He looks at her and she stares back, watching as his pupils study every inch of her face.

"Her-my-oh-nee," he whispers, saying the syllables in the correct order with great difficulty. "Hermione. You have the most beautiful name."

The corners of her mouth turn upwards in the slightest of smiles, and she shakes her head once more at his drunken honesty. "Thank you."

After another moment of silence, she can't help but ask. "Why were you drinking?"

"I needed something to make it stop," he says after a moment's hesitancy.

"To make what stop?" she frowns.

"Thoughts," he says, furrowing his brow. "Lucius."

Her heart nearly breaks at that, and she reaches out to run her fingers gently through his soft, silky hair. "Thank you for saving my life," she says after a moment.

"How could I not?" he murmurs. "I couldn't lose you. You're too good, too pure…"

She doesn't know what to say to that, but she doesn't flinch when his fingers reach her face and caress her cheek. "You're so beautiful, Hermione," he says.

She blushes. "Thank you."

"Even with your hair like this—" his fingers catch a stray curl from the top of her head. "Your hair used to be this enchanting thing around you—like some sort of halo of madness. But this suits you as well—you still look beautiful."

She smiles at him and his hand moves to cup her cheek; it's warmer than she expects, and she mirrors his gesture without really noticing what she's doing.

"I could treat you so well," he whispers. "After this is all over."

Her eyes widen only slightly at his confession and she frowns, unsure of what to say. Her mind works a mile a minute then, and she's thinking that this is no place for it. Lying side by side in the dead of the night when he's drunk, a war raging on around them, is no place for it. Others have succumbed to love in the six years that the war has been going on; Harry and Ginny, Fred and Alicia, George and Angelina, Padma and Terry, Daphne and Theo and most recently, Blaise and Luna.

She'd asked Harry once why he and Ginny had stopped fighting it and decided to be with each other in spite of the danger it entailed; the wizard had said that eventually, he had realized that there might come a day when he or Ginny would be killed without ever telling each other that they loved one another. And that he would never forgive himself if she died without having shown to her exactly how much.

As she lays there, staring into the cloudy depths of Draco's eyes, she thinks about it. She realized long ago how easy it would be to fall for the former Death Eater; how well they match each other, with their similar intellect, interests, and temperament. She thought she'd guarded herself well, all these years, maintaining just the right amount of distance necessary to keep their relationship platonic.

But she'd be lying if she said she felt nothing for him. She couldn't deny, even now, that his presence was a comfort and that he made her feel safe; that the way he looked at her sometimes made her stomach flip over. She'd be lying if she said that she didn't feel his pain as if it were her own, that her mind hadn't wandered on sleepless nights to momentarily envision a future where there was no more war, no more Voldemort, and perhaps, only maybe, he might feel the same things and they might find a way to be together.

"What are you thinking?"

His garbled whisper brings her back to the present. She realizes he probably won't remember this come morning as a result of his drunken state, but she answers truthfully nonetheless.

"I'm thinking about us."

He smiles at her then, a small smile but still genuine, and she smiles back. His hand reaches out to touch her face once more and she moves closer; he slides one arm underneath her and pulls her close into his chest until the both of them are entwined under the covers. She hears him sigh in relief or contentment and she closes her eyes. Within minutes, he's fast asleep, but an hour has nearly passed by the time she pulls herself from his arms and returns to her books.

(December 20th, 2003)

"You don't remember," she whispers.

He frowns. "Remember what?"

She opens her mouth once and then closes it, debating if she should tell him or not.

Not yet.

"I found you in the pantry," she says, settling for the half-truth. "I took you up and put you to bed when you were…"

"A twelve on the scale of one to ten, with one being 'stone cold sober' and ten being 'drunker than a house-elf after a crate of butterbeer'?" he smirks, and she rolls her eyes at his meager attempt at humor.

"Inebriated," she corrects.

"I don't remember it," he says honestly. "I'm a bit embarrassed now—I thought at the very least I'd been able to haul my own arse up to bed."

"I didn't mind," she shrugs. "I mean, we've taken care of each other enough over the years, haven't we?"

He nods. "Yeah, I guess we have." After a moment: "Thank you."

"You really need to stop thanking me, Malfoy. It's scaring me."

He snorts indignantly and shakes his head. "Last time, I promise… I just—I feel marginally better, telling you all that, and I wanted to thank you for listening."

"It's what I'm here for," she grants him a small smile. "Come on," she says, getting to her feet and holding out her hand.

"Where are we going?"

"I have an idea."

(December 22nd, 1997)

The grumbling noise in his stomach makes him leave his room in the middle of the afternoon, realizing he was so absorbed by the book Granger gave him—Kafka's Metamorphosis—that he skipped lunch. When he reaches the first floor landing, he's startled by the sound of music playing loudly on the main level of the house. His brow furrows as he clears the final steps, following the music to the drawing room.

"Have yourself a merry, little Christmas..."

He finds Hermione in the drawing room, humming the song under her breath and hanging strings of popcorn and fairy lights onto a large Christmas tree with the help of Ginny. Nearby, Luna is hanging tinsel on the mantelpiece, and Astoria is hanging ornaments from the chandelier with her wand. The music is coming from a record player perched on a chair in the corner, and he's startled by a voice behind him.

"Oi, Draco, move it."

He turns to see Daphne, carrying a box of what looks like ornaments for the tree. Behind her, Parvati carries a similar box, and he steps aside to let them pass. Daphne walks over to Hermione and Ginny, setting the box down beside the tree; Parvati heads to help Astoria.

"Molly said we could use these for the tree," the former Slytherin explains, pushing her dark hair out of her eyes. "She said she'd go to the Burrow this afternoon to get more things so we can do the whole house."

"Brilliant," Hermione grins.

Luna notices Draco and shoots him a quizzical look. "Are you going to stand in the doorway all afternoon?"

He frowns. "What in Salazar's name are you lot doing?"

Astoria snorts. "We're folk dancing, Draco."

The others laugh and Draco's frown deepens. "We're decorating, obviously," Ginny says. "There's only a couple more days until Christmas."

"Yes, I can see that," he says, and now he looks confused. "I wasn't aware the Order celebrated Christmas, that's all."

Hermione answers, now hanging gold and red globes from the tree. "I think all of us could do with some cheerfulness around here, don't you?"

He doesn't have an answer for that, so he merely shrugs and turns on his heel, heading for the kitchen.

(December 20th, 2003)

Draco watches as she works on unraveling a large ball made up of strings of tangled Christmas lights. He's brought out the last box of decorations from the storage closet in the hall. His woolen socks muffle the sound of his footsteps against the floorboards as he approaches her. "Why not get Ginny and Luna to help?"

She shakes her head. "I don't want to wake them—besides, it's not the same, without Astoria and Parvati."

He nods in understanding and watches as Hermione carefully untangles the first string of lights from the mess, and finally he sits down on the floor in front of her.

"Why do you still bother with this, Granger?"

She pauses for a moment, but says nothing, focused on the ball of lights at her feet.

"Don't tell me it's just for the kids, either," he continues. "I know for a fact they'd be thrilled out of their tiny little pants with just the tree. Yet every year you douse the whole house in Christmas cheer—right down to putting Father Christmas hats on the shrunken house-elf heads. Why?"

She looks up at him, her face expressionless but her eyes full of that glimmer again—hope. "Because, Draco," she says, with an air of finality. "Sometimes people need to be reminded of what they're fighting for."

They sit in silence for a moment as she continues to work on untangling the lights. Finally, he speaks.

"Do you think it'd be insensitive to put one of those hats on Nagini's head?"

When she looks up at him, her face looks about ready to split in two; that's how widely she smiles. She shakes her head in reluctant amusement, remembering the day Neville sliced the snake's head clean off with the Sword of Gryffindor that they'd managed to recover, taking it back to Grimmauld Place and mounting it like a trophy beside the shrunken elf heads in the hall.

"Let's not get carried away. You can start by putting the ornaments on the chandelier."

He nods and quickly begins levitating the glass orbs onto the crystal chandelier like he'd watch Astoria do years before. When he's done, she asks him to decorate the mantle and then he helps her with the tree, and it's when they're both hanging lights and ornaments in silver, green, red and gold that she thinks of it.

"You know," she muses. "It just occurred to me."

"What?" he asks.

"If we manage to get him next week—this will most likely be the last Christmas we spend here. If we win, this time next year we'll be living in a free world."

He nods. "What will you do?"

"Hm?"

"If we win," he clarifies. "Afterwards… What will you do?"

She shrugs. "I'm not sure. There'll be time to figure that out, I suppose. What about you?"

"Honestly, Granger—with everything that's happened to me, I've already lived longer than I expected."

Something about his tone bothers her deeply and she frowns at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He avoids her gaze and she repeats the question, and he realizes she's not letting this go. He sighs.

"I mean that I expect to go out fighting before this war is over."

She looks at him then as if she's never seen anything quite like him, and blinks once, twice, three times. "You don't mean that," she says.

"Don't presume to know more about than you do, Granger," he warns coolly.

"Oh, bullshit," she snaps. "I know you better than anyone in this house. And you fancy yourself a lot of things, Draco Malfoy, but 'suicidal idiot' isn't one of them."

"I didn't say that," he counters and the half-trimmed tree stands beside them, nearly forgotten. "Damn it, Granger. When I failed to kill Dumbledore, I didn't even expect to live out the week—and those expectations only diminished once my father got his hands on me. The last six years have been a significant extension to what I considered my life would last. I've made my peace with the fact that I will probably die before this war is finished."

"You won't," she counters.

"You don't know that," he says.

"Please," she scoffs, "you're one of the most skilled fighters we've got. You're not going to be killed off at this point."

"How can you be so sure?"

She huffs angrily. "Look, I understand, alright? What happened to you was awful, and no one should have to go through that. And I understand that the last six years haven't exactly been a tropical holiday. But it's still not an excuse to be saying that."

"Isn't it?" he cocks an eyebrow.

"We've all been through some tough shit, Draco. But I don't see anyone else saying that they hope to kick the bucket before this is over."

He shakes his head. "It's different for the others."

Her eyes narrow. "Why? You don't think everyone's hurting? You don't think it didn't hurt Daphne to lose her only sister? Or the Weasleys to lose Ron and Charlie? Or Andromeda to lose Ted and Tonks? You don't think it hurt me to lose my parents, too?"

Her voice cracks in a way that makes his heart ache, and she takes a deep breath before she goes on. "We've all lost a lot in this war, Draco, not just you. We all have scars that haven't stopped bleeding. We all lose sleep and we all have nightmares and we've all seen more than our share of death and grit and bloodshed and a lot of us lost our innocence in this, too. And yes, it may hurt like hell, but it doesn't mean that one day things won't be better because that's why we're all still here, fighting. Why are you different than the rest of us?"

"Because I'm alone, alright?" he bursts out and she's stunned into silence, her eyes glazed over with unshed tears. She rarely cries anymore, but something about his tone brings her dangerously close.

"You all have someone," he goes on, his voice shaking despite his efforts to keep it steady. "Andromeda has Teddy and Remus, Daphne has Theo, the Weasleys have each other, Blaise has Luna, Potter has Ginny and you—you have literally an entire fucking army of people who love you to bits and pieces. I have no one!"

"You have me," she all but whispers, and if it hadn't been so quiet in the room, he might not have heard her.

He looks up and grey eyes meet brown. "You don't mean that."

She frowns, and he cuts her off before she can get a word in. "When this is all over, you'll find yourself a nice wizard or a muggle, even, help put the Wizarding world back in working order and settle down. And you'll forget all about me. I'll be all alone to pick up the pieces left of me."

She's angry now, and she's not even sure why.

"You're an arse," she spits and he blinks, taken aback by her sudden insult. "You say that I shouldn't presume to know everything about you and then you turn around and do the exact same thing? How do you know what I mean and don't mean? 'You'll forget all about me'? Really, Draco? You think I could just do that?"

"I don't see why not!"

She looks at him disbelievingly. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what?" he asks, looking thoroughly confused at her change of tone.

"The night you got pissed," she says. "Think about it, Draco. You really don't remember what you said to me?"

He frowns, suddenly worried about what his drunken self might have confessed. "I don't—"

"'I could treat you so well, after this is over'," she echoes his words back to him, and he stares at her wide-eyed as foggy memories of that night rush to the forefront of his mind as if someone unblocked a pipe in his brain.

"Granger…"

"Did you mean that?" she asks. "Or was that just for shits and giggles?"

"Yes," he says finally. "I meant every fucking word I said that night. I still do."

She nods, now gripping her arms tight around her chest as if giving herself a hug. "You have no idea how careful I've been..."

His brow furrows. "I don't understand."

"It would've been too easy, you see," she explains, looking at her socks, a grim smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I realized the second we started becoming friends that it would be far too easy to fall for you. You're infuriating, for the most part—and sometimes you make me want to rip what's left of my hair out... But you make me feel safe," she confesses, finally looking him in the eye.

"When we're fighting together, you make me feel as if I could take on anything—as if no one could touch me. You're always there to catch me when I fall and you protect me, but you're never overbearing and you've never underestimated my abilities—and the way you look at me sometimes makes me feel like a giggling fourth year..." she smiles in spite of herself.

"Draco, I fought it because I knew that if I kept it in the very back of my mind, if I never allowed my thoughts to picture a future with you, if I never let myself become more attached than was necessary..." she sighs.

"I couldn't risk it. I couldn't risk loving you just to lose you later on."

He frowns. "It sounds like you don't feel the same way."

"You really are thick sometimes," she shakes her head, approaching him, taking his face in her soft hands and forcing him to look at her. "I realized that night that all my care and caution was for nothing, because you still managed to sneak up on me. I'm finally owning up to all of this—I'm telling you that damn the war and damn what anyone thinks because we might all be dead in a week anyway, but I want to be with you. Now and afterwards."

His hands find her waist of their own accord, but he shakes his head. "Hermione," he sighs, and her name tastes like honey on his tongue. "You deserve someone better—someone who—"

"Someone who what?" she asks. "You can wax poetic all you want about the many redeeming qualities of whatever hypothetical partner you've picked out for me in your head, but it doesn't change the fact that I want you. With all your flaws and scars and wounds, Draco. My only condition is that you accept me, with all my flaws and scars and wounds. Can you do that?"

He leans forward to catch her lips with his own in a soft, passionate kiss that tastes of strawberries and tea and possibilities. She responds instantly, her hands moving to thread themselves in his hair while his lock around her waist and press her form against his chest. When they break apart, he rests his forehead against hers.

"This could end badly," he warns her. "This could all be over at any moment. But Salazar, if you'll have me, I'm not about to waste another moment pretending that I don't wish to spend whatever's left of my existence trying to make you happy."

"Then drop the suicidal talk," she says, the ghost of her grim laugh tickling his lip. "You're coming out of this war alive, Draco Malfoy. For me."

"For us," he corrects, kissing her once more.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed it!

Reviews are a grilled cheese sandwich.

xo, V.