Malfoy Manor loomed gray and foreboding against the pale winter sky, its once-pristine grandeur dulled by years of neglect. Snow blanketed the grounds, yet no one had been allowed to clear the drive. Inside, the cavernous halls were colder still, and a biting wind seemed to whistle through cracks in the ancient stone walls.
In the vast dining hall, three house elves toiled under the watchful glare of their master. Draco Malfoy sat at the head of the long table, a steaming mug of mulled wine in hand. The hearth on the far wall provided little warmth, its flames low and sullen.
“Tibby!” Draco barked, causing the smallest elf to jump, nearly dropping the silver tray he was polishing. Tibby turned, trembling under his master’s gaze. His oversized ears drooped as he bowed low, clutching the cloth in his hands.
“Yes, Master Draco, sir?” Tibby’s voice wavered, and his left leg, stiff from an old injury, seemed to falter beneath him.
“The tray isn’t clean enough,” Draco said, his voice smooth and biting. “Start again. And if I see a single speck this time, you’ll do without supper tonight.”
Tibby nodded quickly, his hands shaking. “Yes, Master Draco. Tibby is sorry, Master Draco.”
“You should be,” Draco replied, leaning back in his chair. “And while you’re at it, tell Bippy to stop slouching. I don’t care how tired she is. Work doesn’t stop just because it’s almost Christmas.”
From the far side of the room, Bippy, an older elf with graying tufts of hair, straightened instantly, biting back a groan as she carried a stack of freshly polished silverware toward the cabinets.
Draco’s gaze slid lazily toward the clock on the mantle. “Faster,” he drawled. “Or you’ll all be awake past midnight. The state of disrepair you all allowed this place to fall into during my absence is your fault and therefore you will clean it up.”
The elves exchanged glances but said nothing, their fear palpable. Draco sipped his wine, as unbothered as if he were commanding furniture.
Satisfied with their continued labor, Draco stood and strode toward the drawing room, carrying his drink with him. The Manor’s echoing halls were cold and dark, and the weight of silence followed him as he settled into his preferred chair by the fire.
A worn letter rested on the side table beside him, the parchment edged in green and silver. He picked it up, rereading the words he’d read several times already.
Draco—
Zabini and I are hosting our annual Christmas party. You’re welcome to attend if you can manage to peel yourself away from that mausoleum you insist on living in. I can assure you the company and wine will be better than whatever grim solitude you’ve trapped yourself in this year. Do try to act festive for once.
Theo
Draco snorted, crumpling the letter in his fist and tossing it onto the table. “Festive,” he muttered. “I’d rather swallow a Bludger.”
His eye caught on an old edition of the Daily Prophet next to the crumpled letter, dated for sometime over the summer. The headline glared up at him in bold black letters:
HOUSE ELF LIBERATION FRONT DECLARES VICTORY
Below it, a photograph of Hermione Granger beamed at the camera, triumphant, a group of house elves gathered around her, their heads held high and proud.
Draco sneered and shoved the paper aside, muttering, “Victory, is it? By forcing the rest of us to pay for what’s already ours to command?”
A sudden knock echoed through the stillness, sharp and insistent. Draco froze for a moment, his brow furrowing. The sound of knocking was rare at Malfoy Manor these days; most people had no interest in visiting.
“Tibby!” he called, his voice carrying through the halls.
“Yes, Master Draco!” The little elf appeared in the doorway of the drawing room, bowing low before hobbling off toward the entrance.
Draco leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine as he waited. The knock came again, louder this time, and he could hear Tibby fumbling with the heavy latch. The door creaked open, and the sound of wind and snow gusted briefly into the manor before the door closed again.
A moment later, Tibby returned, leading none other than the aforementioned Hermione Granger into the room. She stood framed in the doorway, wrapped in a thick woolen cloak, her cheeks pink from the cold. Her wild hair was tamed into a plait, but her expression was as fierce as he remembered. She was holding a folder stuffed with parchments, her eyes already scanning the dimly lit room as though cataloguing the disrepair.
“Thank you, Tibby,” she said gently, offering the elf a small nod of gratitude.
Tibby hesitated, glancing nervously at Draco, but at a quick flick of his master’s hand, he bowed and scurried off toward the kitchen.
Hermione stepped inside, brushing snow from her cloak as she moved toward the fire. “Malfoy,” she greeted curtly, her tone clipped.
“What are you doing here?” Draco demanded, not bothering to stand.
Hermione marched forward without hesitation, her boots echoing sharply against the marble floor. She stopped in front of him, shaking the snow off her sleeves as if she owned the place.
“You know exactly why I’m here,” she said. Her voice was clipped, but there was a hint of exasperation in it. “You’ve been ignoring our owls, and now I’ve come to deliver this in person.”
She slammed the folder down on the table in front of him. The papers spilled out, marked with Ministry seals and an alarming amount of legal jargon.
“What’s this?” he drawled, though he already knew.
“It’s your final warning,” Hermione replied. “You’re one of the last wizards in the entire country who refuses to comply with the House Elf Liberation Act. As of Christmas Eve—” she pointed sharply at the date on the top sheet, “—you will either release your elves or pay them fair wages. If you don’t, the penalties will include—”
“I know what the bloody penalties are,” Draco snapped, cutting her off.
Hermione crossed her arms. “Do you? Because you’ve managed to avoid following the law for months now. I’d almost admire your persistence if it weren’t so utterly selfish.”
Draco smirked lazily, leaning back in his chair. “Selfish? I’m simply preserving my inheritance, Granger. Not all of us have the Ministry lining our pockets. Besides, house elves were made for servitude. It’s unnatural to—”
“They’re not things, Malfoy!” Hermione snapped, her cheeks flushing. “They’re living beings with thoughts, feelings, and magic of their own. Your refusal to comply isn’t just immoral—it’s pathetic.”
Her words struck a nerve, but Draco masked it with a cold glare. “I don’t have to justify myself to you. If you’re quite finished, I’ll kindly ask you to leave.”
Hermione didn’t budge. “You’ve got until midnight on Christmas Eve,” she said firmly. “That’s three days. Free them, pay them, or face the consequences. And don’t think for a second that your house arrest will protect you. If anything, it makes you an easier target for enforcement.”
She turned on her heel, but before she reached the door, Draco couldn’t resist a parting jab.
“Still playing savior to the downtrodden, are we, Granger? Tell me—how many people actually thank you for it?”
She paused, glancing back at him over her shoulder. Her eyes, filled with a mix of pity and disdain, met his.
“It’s not about being thanked,” she said quietly. “It’s about doing the right thing. Something you’d know nothing about.”
With that, she turned and disappeared back into the hall. A moment later, the sound of the front door opening and closing again echoed through the room.
He sat there for a long moment, staring at the pile of parchments she’d left behind. The room suddenly felt colder than before, her parting words lingering in the air like a curse.
The hour grew late, and the fire in the hearth had burned low, casting flickering shadows on the walls of the drawing room. Draco sat slumped in his chair, nursing a glass of firewhisky. The bottle sat nearby, its contents considerably diminished. He stared into the embers, his expression dark and brooding, replaying Granger’s words over and over in his head.
It’s about doing the right thing. Something you’d know nothing about.
“Bah,” Draco scoffed aloud, taking another sip of his drink. As if she had any idea what it was like to live under constant scrutiny, to rebuild a life that everyone expected him to squander.
Then he heard it—a faint rattling sound, distant but distinct. Chains, perhaps, dragging across the floor. He froze, his grip tightening on the glass. The sound grew louder for a moment, then faded into silence.
“Tibby!” he called sharply.
A moment later, the small elf appeared, bowing low. “Yes, Master Draco, sir?”
“Did you hear that?” Draco demanded, gesturing toward the hallway. “The sound of chains?”
Tibby’s wide eyes darted toward the shadows beyond the doorway. “Tibby is not hearing anything, Master Draco,” he said hesitantly, “but Tibby will go and look.”
“Good,” Draco said curtly. “And take one of the others with you. I don’t want to be woken in the night because you’ve overlooked something.”
Draco leaned back in his chair, taking another long sip of firewhisky. The sound of the chains had stopped now, and he was beginning to wonder if he’d imagined it when Tibby returned, Bippy trailing nervously behind him.
“Master Draco, Tibby and Bippy is looking high and low,” the elf said, wringing his hands. “We is not finding anything.”
Draco’s jaw tightened. “Then you’ve wasted my time. I expect both of you to make up for it by polishing the silver again before you go to bed. Now get out of my sight.”
“Yes, Master Draco,” Tibby and Bippy chorused before disappearing with twin cracks.
Draco drained the rest of his glass and set it down with a clink. “Bloody elves,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. He made his way to the west wing, the Manor eerily silent around him.
Once inside his bedroom, Draco lit the sconces with a flick of his wand, shrugging out of his robes and tossing them onto a nearby chair. He padded into the adjoining bathroom, the sound of running water filling the room as he prepared for bed. By the time he emerged, dressed in his dressing gown, the fire had settled into a faint glow, casting eerie light across the room.
And there, standing dead center of the bedroom, was the ghostly form of Severus Snape.
Draco froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat. Snape stood silent, his robes tattered and billowing as if caught in an invisible wind. Chains wrapped around his arms and legs, clinking faintly with each movement. His pale, spectral face was drawn and grim, but the sharpness of his dark eyes was unmistakable.
“What—” Draco whispered, taking a step back. “Snape?”
Snape’s brow furrowed slightly, and he glanced down at himself, a flicker of mild confusion crossing his features. He lifted his bound hands, the chains dragging against each other with a hollow clink.
“I’m… back,” Snape muttered, his voice as sharp as ever but tinged with a faint curiosity. His gaze swept the room, then landed on Draco. “Or so it seems.”
“You’re—dead,” Draco said, his voice rising. “I saw you—everyone saw—”
“Yes, well, death appears to be less permanent than I hoped,” Snape interrupted, his expression hardening. “No thanks to you, I might add. I wonder, Draco, what poor choices you’ve made to warrant my return to this plane of existence.”
Draco bristled, his fear momentarily eclipsed by indignation. “I haven’t done anything!”
Snape’s chains rattled as he stepped forward, his dark eyes narrowing. “Precisely the problem, isn’t it? You’ve done nothing. No redemption, no progress. You squander what little freedom you have wallowing in self-pity and cruelty, just as I feared you might.”
Draco’s hands clenched at his sides. “What exactly am I supposed to do? My house arrest grants me precious few places I’m allowed to go without an Auror breathing down my neck!”
Snape’s expression twisted into one of disdain, his voice rising. “Oh, forgive me. I must have mistaken you for someone with a spine. I was under the impression that you were capable of acting beyond the constraints of your circumstances. Clearly, I overestimated you.”
Draco bristled, though he took a step back. “And what would you know of my circumstances? You’re dead.”
Snape’s chains rattled ominously as he moved closer, his form towering over Draco. “You think I do not know suffering? I served two masters, neither of whom granted me peace. I sacrificed everything for a world I would never see rebuilt, for people who would never thank me. And now I see you, my godson, squandering your second chance at life with bitterness and self-pity. It disgusts me.”
Draco swallowed hard, his sarcasm faltering. “Why are you here? What do you want from me?”
Snape let out a humorless laugh, the chains rattling as he spread his arms wide. “I want nothing, Draco. My time is long past. But you—you still have a chance. A chance to avoid the fate I was denied. Redemption is not something you can drink your way into, and it is certainly not something you can delegate to house elves.”
Draco’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t find words. “And if I refuse?” he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Snape’s face grew grim. “Then you will forge your own chains, link by link. And when your time comes, you will find yourself as I am—bound and regretful, watching as the world moves on without you.”
The air seemed to thicken, and Snape took a step back, his form beginning to blur. “You will be visited by three spirits, people you once knew in life,” he said, his voice echoing as though coming from far away. “They will force you to confront the truth of who you are, who you were, and who you are destined to become if you do not change.”
Draco opened his mouth to argue, but Snape raised a hand, silencing him. “Heed their lessons, Draco. Or don’t. The choice is yours—though I wouldn’t recommend the latter.”
The chains around Snape rattled violently, pulling him backward toward the shadows. He gave Draco one last, piercing look. “You still have time. Do not waste it.”
With that, he vanished, leaving Draco alone in the silent room, his heart pounding and his mind racing. He collapsed into the nearest chair, the echoes of Snape’s voice lingering in his ears.
The Manor was eerily silent as Draco tossed and turned in his bed, his sleep restless and haunted by the weight of Snape’s words. Outside, snow continued to fall, muffling the world beyond his windows. A chill hung in the air, Draco’s fire having long since burned down low.
He awoke suddenly, the room colder than it had been when he’d gone to bed. The faint smell of lemon drops filled the air, and a soft, bluish glow emanated from the corner of the room.
Draco sat bolt upright, clutching his wand. “Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice sharp but betraying his unease.
“Calm yourself, Mr. Malfoy,” a familiar voice said, calm and warm but laced with an undeniable authority. The glow grew brighter, and from it stepped Albus Dumbledore, his long silver beard glinting faintly in the ethereal light. His robes were patched and worn, but his presence was no less imposing than Draco remembered.
Draco’s mouth fell open, and for a moment, he could do nothing but gape. “You—Dumbledore—you’re—”
“Dead, yes,” Dumbledore said cheerfully, adjusting his half-moon glasses. “Quite a peculiar sensation, I must admit. But tonight, I am here for a purpose. You, to be exact.”
Draco frowned, his shock giving way to suspicion. “You’re the second ghost to show up in my room tonight. What is this, some sort of Ministry-sanctioned intervention?”
Dumbledore chuckled softly. “Not quite. Tonight, and for you alone, I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, here to show you the moments that have shaped you, for better or worse.”
Draco rolled his eyes, though his grip on his wand tightened. “I don’t need a guided tour of my life, thank you very much. I lived it.”
“Did you?” Dumbledore asked, tilting his head. “Or did you simply exist within it? Come now, Mr. Malfoy. Let us see.” With a wave of his hand, the room blurred, and the chill was replaced by a faint warmth.
Draco found himself standing in a sunlit garden. The air was fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers, and a younger version of himself, no more than six years old, ran through the hedges, laughing as Narcissa Malfoy watched from a bench.
“This is…” Draco’s voice trailed off as he took in the sight of his mother, looking far younger and far happier than he remembered.
“She doted on you,” Dumbledore said gently. “You were her world. Her pride and joy.”
Narcissa laughed as young Draco presented her with a crudely woven crown of flowers. “For you, Mother,” the boy said, his cheeks pink with effort. “You’re the queen.”
Narcissa smiled, placing the crown on her head. “And you are my little prince.”
Draco watched the scene, his chest tightening. “She was… different then.”
“She believed in you,” Dumbledore said. “In your potential for goodness. She saw it clearly when you were too young to hide it.”
The scene shifted, darkening slightly.
Draco now stood in the study of Malfoy Manor. His younger self sat on a plush chair as Lucius paced in front of him, his voice cold and measured.
“You must understand, Draco,” Lucius said, his cane tapping rhythmically against the floor. “We are not like the others. Blood matters. Power matters. And one day, it will be your duty to uphold these truths, no matter the cost.”
The young Draco nodded solemnly, his wide eyes filled with both awe and fear. “Yes, Father.”
Dumbledore sighed. “A heavy burden for a child, wouldn’t you agree?”
Draco scowled. “It wasn’t a burden. It was the truth.”
“Was it?” Dumbledore asked. “Or was it simply what you were told to believe?”
“Good,” Lucius continued, pausing to survey his son. “Then you must learn how to command respect. A true Malfoy does not tolerate failure. Watch carefully.”
Lucius turned sharply toward the doorway. “Tibby!” he barked, his voice ringing out.
A moment later, a much younger Tibby appeared, trembling slightly as he bowed low. “Yes, Master Lucius, sir?”
Lucius narrowed his eyes. “The tea tray you brought earlier—it was chipped. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Tibby’s ears drooped, and he stammered, “T-Tibby is sorry, Master Lucius. Tibby will fix it—”
“You will do no such thing,” Lucius snapped, his voice icy. “You will punish yourself immediately.”
Draco flinched as his father’s words cut through the room, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Father, it was just a tray—”
“Enough, Draco,” Lucius interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. “This is the way of things. House elves exist to serve, and when they fail, they must be corrected.”
Tibby hesitated, his hands trembling as he reached for the heavy silver candlestick on the table beside him. With a single, sharp motion, he struck it against his leg, the crack of bone audible in the oppressive silence.
Young Draco recoiled, his face pale, but Lucius did not flinch.
“Do you see?” Lucius said coldly, his gaze fixed on his son. “This is discipline. This is power. And one day, you will understand that maintaining control requires sacrifices—even from those beneath you.”
The younger Draco stared at Tibby, who now knelt on the floor, clutching his injured leg and muttering apologies through his pain. His wide, horrified eyes flicked to his father, but he said nothing, his small frame rigid with suppressed emotion.
The real Draco watched the scene unfold, his stomach twisting violently. “I remember this,” he muttered, his voice tight. “I told myself it was normal… that he was right.”
Dumbledore, standing silently beside him, finally spoke, his voice heavy with sadness. “And did you believe it?”
Draco’s hands clenched into fists. “I tried to. I had to.” He turned away from the scene, his jaw tight. “But I hated it. I hated him for it.”
Dumbledore’s gaze was piercing but kind. “And yet you’ve repeated his lessons in your own way, haven’t you?”
Draco’s throat tightened, and he shook his head. “I’ve never laid a hand on them.”
“You didn’t have to,” Dumbledore said softly. “Fear and cruelty take many forms, Draco. What matters now is whether you will break the cycle—or continue it.”
The scene shifted again, and Draco now stood in the Great Hall of Hogwarts. The Sorting Hat was placed on his younger self’s head, and he watched as it barely hesitated before declaring, “SLYTHERIN!”
“You were proud,” Dumbledore said. “And rightly so. But pride, Mr. Malfoy, can be a double-edged sword.”
The scene jumped forward. Draco saw himself at eleven, mocking Hermione Granger for her bushy hair and eagerness in class. Then at thirteen, sneering as he called her a Mudblood. And again at fifteen, forming his infamous Inquisitorial Squad with a smug grin.
“You had opportunities,” Dumbledore said, his tone soft but firm. “Moments when you could have chosen a different path. Chosen kindness. Chosen friendship.”
“They wouldn’t have had me,” Draco muttered, his voice tight. “People like Granger and Potter—”
“Did you try?” Dumbledore interrupted, his gaze piercing. “Or did you assume?”
Draco glared at him but didn’t respond.
They shifted into the final scene and it was darker still. Draco stood on the Astronomy Tower, a wand shaking in his hand as Dumbledore—alive and frail—looked back at him with calm understanding.
“I never meant for it to come to this,” the younger Draco whispered, his voice breaking. Tears streamed down his face as he lowered the wand slightly.
“I know,” Dumbledore replied gently. “You are not a killer, Draco.”
The real Draco flinched at the memory, turning away as the scene played out. Dumbledore continued to speak, offering him a way out, moments before Snape arrived to fulfill the task.
“You were given a choice,” the ghostly Dumbledore said, stepping beside the real Draco. “Even then, when all seemed lost, there was a way forward. And yet you have spent years running from the man you might have been.”
The scene blurred again, and Draco found himself back in his bedroom, the fire crackling faintly.
Dumbledore stood before him, his expression unreadable. “You have seen the boy you were. The question, Mr. Malfoy, is whether you will continue to let him define the man you are.”
Draco’s voice was tight. “And if I don’t?”
“Then perhaps there is hope for you yet,” Dumbledore said with a small smile. He began to fade, his glow dimming. “Good night, Mr. Malfoy. We shall see if you choose to make better use of your time.”
With that, he vanished, leaving Draco alone in the flickering light of the fire. For the first time, Draco felt the weight of his past pressing down on him like a physical thing. He stared into the flames, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of regret and resentment.
Draco was in the drawing room again, the fire roaring this time, casting warm light across the dark wood paneling and leather furniture. A half-empty decanter of firewhisky sat untouched on the side table, but his glass was full, and he swirled it lazily as he stared into the flames.
The events of the previous night gnawed at him. Snape’s arrival, Dumbledore’s lecture—it all felt surreal, yet their words lingered, heavy and impossible to dismiss. His thoughts churned between his own bitterness and flickers of something unfamiliar: shame.
The knock at the front door startled him, jerking him from his brooding. It was brisk and insistent, and after a beat, Tibby appeared in the doorway.
“Master Draco, sir,” the elf said hesitantly, wringing his hands. “Miss Granger is here again.”
Draco groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course she is. Fine, show her in. Let’s get this over with.”
“Yes, Master Draco.” Tibby vanished with a small pop, and a moment later, the door to the drawing room swung open to reveal Granger, bundled in a deep green cloak and brushing snow from her boots.
Draco rose from his chair, smirking faintly. “Granger. Twice in twenty-four hours? You’ll ruin my reputation.”
Hermione stepped fully into the room, her gaze flicking briefly to the untouched firewhisky before landing on Draco. “I came to check on your progress,” she said briskly, pulling a folder from her satchel. “Though I’m not entirely sure why I expected anything different.”
“Progress?” Draco drawled, returning to his chair with an air of indifference. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve had a very busy day.”
Hermione arched an eyebrow, moving to stand across from him. “Busy doing what? Brooding? Drinking? Finding new ways to torment your house elves?”
Draco raised his glass slightly in mock acknowledgment. “That last one takes creativity, Granger. I’ll have you know I’ve been giving them the afternoon off. Mostly.”
Hermione ignored the jab, setting her folder down on the table with a deliberate thud. “Let me save you some time, Malfoy. It’s December 22nd. That gives you two days to comply with the House Elf Liberation Act. Release your elves or hire them—those are your options. Unless you’d prefer to test how quickly the Aurors can storm the Manor.”
Draco leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink again. “Always so dramatic. I’m not stopping you from freeing the little darlings. Just be prepared to explain why they’re huddled in the snow outside, refusing to leave.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “They stay because you’ve conditioned them to believe they have no choice. But they do. And soon, you won’t.”
Draco’s smirk faltered for a moment, and Hermione seized the opportunity, her voice softening. “They care about you, you know. Even Tibby, despite how cruel you are to him.”
“I’m not cruel,” Draco snapped, the words sharper than he intended.
Hermione crossed her arms. “You don’t hit them, fine. But you’re cruel in every other way that matters. You demand perfection, you threaten them with starvation, you treat them like they’re disposable. That’s not kindness, Malfoy. That’s cowardice.”
The room went silent, the air heavy with tension. For a long moment, Draco stared at her, his jaw tight. Then he sighed, setting his glass down.
“Stay,” he said suddenly, the word surprising even himself.
Hermione blinked. “What?”
“Stay,” Draco repeated, his tone more measured this time. “Have a drink. Or tea, if you insist. Something to eat, even. We can argue all night if you’d like.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed in suspicion. “I don’t eat food prepared by slaves.”
Draco let out a humorless laugh, leaning back again. “Of course you don’t. But you didn't have to come all this way just for a lecture on elf rights, Granger. Stay. Talk. Unless you’ve got better plans?”
Hermione hesitated, her hand still resting on the folder. She’d intended to leave as soon as she delivered her warning, but the raw loneliness in his voice caught her off guard.
“What exactly would we talk about, Malfoy?” she asked, her tone cautious.
Draco gestured vaguely toward her folder. “Whatever you like. Ministry politics. The weather. Why you’re so determined to make me your personal project.”
“That’s not—” Hermione started, but Draco interrupted, his expression softening slightly.
“Come on, Granger. You’re clearly dying to gloat about how miserable I am. Might as well do it with a drink in hand.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but found herself pulling off her cloak. “Fine. One drink.”
Draco smiled faintly as she settled into the chair opposite him. He poured her a glass of firewhisky, handing it to her without a word. For a while, they drank in silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room.
Eventually, Hermione spoke. “You’re lonely, aren’t you?”
Draco stiffened, his expression hardening. “What makes you think that?”
Hermione met his gaze evenly. “Because you invited me to stay. You hate me, but you still asked me to stay.”
Draco looked away, his fingers tightening around his glass. “Hate is a strong word.”
Hermione tilted her head. “Really? What would you call it, then?”
Draco was quiet for a long moment before he sighed. “I don’t know.” She frowned and his gaze flicked to the fire. “But it isn’t hate.”
Hermione didn’t press him further, sensing that the conversation had reached a fragile place. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, letting the warmth of the fire and the quiet companionship settle over them.
When Hermione finally rose to leave, she felt a strange mix of exhaustion and reluctance.
“Two days, Malfoy,” she said as she pulled on her cloak. “You have two days to prove you’re not a complete waste of time.”
Draco smirked faintly. “Challenge accepted.”
As she stepped into the snow, Draco watched her go, the faintest flicker of something unfamiliar stirring in his chest.
The room was quiet, the fire in Draco’s bedroom crackling softly as he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep. His dreams were fractured, filled with flashes of Snape’s chains and Dumbledore’s knowing gaze. The weight of their words lingered like a curse.
Then the laughter started.
It echoed through the Manor, rich and mischievous, startling Draco awake. He bolted upright, his wand in hand, his pulse quickening. He sat in silence for a moment, listening.
Another burst of laughter came, this one closer. It wasn’t mocking—just warm, joyful, and maddeningly familiar.
The sound led him to the drawing room, where the fire blazed far brighter than it should have, throwing shadows that danced wildly on the walls. As Draco approached, the flames roared higher, and out stepped Fred Weasley.
Fred’s grin was as wide as ever, though his form shimmered faintly, not quite tethered to reality. He was dressed in casual robes over a jumper blinking with a pattern of enchanted golden stars. A glowing wreath floated lazily above his head like a crooked halo.
Draco stared, his wand lowering slightly. “Weasley? What fresh hell is this?”
Fred grinned, spreading his arms wide. “Fresh hell? No, no. This is your Christmas wake-up call. I’m the Ghost of Christmas Present, here to show you exactly how much you’re missing out on. You know, the good stuff. Joy, love, laughter—things you probably haven’t experienced since your mother stopped tucking you in.”
Draco scowled and crossed his arms. “This must be a joke. Someone’s twisted idea of punishment, is it? Send one of their deadliest bores to haunt me.”
Fred barked a laugh. “Bore? Please, Malfoy. If anyone’s the bore here, it’s you. Sitting in your big, empty manor, sulking into your firewhisky. Merlin, even your ghosts are more fun than you.”
Draco’s lip curled, his grip tightening on his wand. “Get out.”
Fred wagged a finger at him. “Oh no, no, no. That’s not how this works. You think I want to be here? Stuck babysitting a spoiled ferret who doesn’t know how to use the gift of life he’s been handed on a silver platter? Trust me, mate, I’d rather be anywhere else.”
“Then leave!” Draco snapped, standing now. “Go back to wherever ghosts like you skulk off to!”
Fred gave him an irritatingly cheerful grin. “No can do, mate.”
“Wonderful,” Draco muttered, running a hand through his hair. “A Weasley preaching at me. I suppose you’re here to tell me how I’ve failed to live up to my potential, too?”
Fred snorted. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare. That’s Dumbledore’s shtick. Me? I’m here to show you exactly what you’re missing out on while you sit in this mausoleum feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I don’t feel sorry for myself,” Draco snapped. “I’m under house arrest. My options are limited.”
Fred wagged a finger again. “Excuses, excuses. That’s your problem, Malfoy. Always blaming everyone else. Now, come on. Let’s take a look.”
With a snap of Fred’s fingers, the room around them blurred.
The world came back into focus, and they were standing in the dimly lit offices of the Ministry of Magic. Stacks of parchment and files covered the desks, and the faint sound of quills scratching filled the air.
Hermione sat at one of the desks, her hair coming loose from its plait as she scribbled furiously. Her face was drawn, and she paused every so often to massage her wrist before diving back into her work.
Fred nudged Draco with his elbow. “See that? While you’re brooding in your drafty manor, Granger’s here, burning the midnight oil to save your sorry arse.”
Draco scoffed. “Hardly. She’s doing it for the elves.”
Fred tilted his head. “True. But let’s not pretend she doesn’t care about people like you too. Granger’s got a soft spot for lost causes, and here she is, fighting for elf rights and enduring prats like you. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
Draco’s jaw tightened. “Wonder what?”
Fred leaned in, grinning slyly. “What she sees in you, of course.”
Draco sputtered. “She doesn’t—what are you—”
“Oh, come off it, Malfoy. I saw the way you looked at her last night. You might as well have carved her name into your bedpost.”
“She doesn’t even know I exist,” Draco muttered.
Fred snorted. “Oh, she knows you exist. In fact, I’m pretty sure she called you an ‘obstinate git’ at least three times today.”
Draco frowned, watching Hermione as she sighed, pushing another stack of parchment aside. Despite himself, he felt a twinge of something unfamiliar—guilt, maybe, or something close to it.
“She’s going to burn herself out,” he said quietly.
“She’d call it a small price to pay,” Fred said. “Which is more than I can say for you. What’s your excuse, Malfoy? Too busy wallowing to help out?”
Draco bristled. “I don’t wallow. I’m… constrained.”
Fred rolled his eyes. “Right. House arrest. Boo-hoo. You’ve got a mansion, an army of house elves, and a liquor cabinet that would make Slughorn cry. Poor you.”
Draco opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, Fred clapped his hands.
“Next stop,” Fred said, and the scene shifted again.
They were now in the Manor’s kitchens. Tibby and Bippy were scrubbing the already gleaming counters, their small bodies hunched with exhaustion. Tibby’s limp was more pronounced now, his movements slow and pained.
“They should be asleep,” Draco muttered, frowning. “I told them to finish up and go to bed.”
Fred snorted. “And you think they’ll disobey you? Come on, Malfoy. You’ve scared them half to death. They’d scrub the floors with their own ears if they thought it would make you happy.”
Draco flinched. “I’ve never laid a hand on them.”
“No, but you don’t need to,” Fred replied, his tone sharper now. “Your name does all the work for you. And you? You let it.”
Draco’s gaze flicked to Tibby, who stumbled slightly, catching himself on the edge of the counter. “They’re house elves,” Draco muttered. “It’s what they do.”
Fred turned to him, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “That’s exactly what Sirius said about Kreacher. And do you know what it got him? Dead. Because he didn’t treat Kreacher like someone worth listening to. Don’t make the same mistake.”
Draco swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on Tibby as the elf stumbled slightly, catching himself on the edge of the counter. He looked away, his throat tight.
The scene shifted again, and they were standing in a small, cozy kitchen. A Muggle family sat around a modest table, laughing as they passed around plates of roasted vegetables and bread. There was no tree, no decorations, but the warmth in the room was palpable.
Fred leaned against the wall, watching Draco. “No fancy feasts. No house elves fetching slippers. Just… joy. Weird, isn’t it?”
Draco scowled. “Happiness is overrated.”
Fred smirked. “Is it? Because from where I’m standing, you look miserable. And not the sexy, brooding kind. The pathetic, self-inflicted kind.”
Draco turned sharply. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Fred’s grin faded slightly. “I know exactly what I’m talking about, Malfoy. Life’s too bloody short to waste on pride. Trust me, I’d give anything for just one more Christmas.”
Now they were standing outside a modest home. Laughter and music spilled out from the windows, and through the glass, Draco could see a family gathered around a small Christmas tree.
“Recognize them?” Fred asked, nodding toward the window.
Draco frowned. “The Potters.”
Inside, Harry, Ginny, and their young son were sitting on the floor by the tree reading a story, their faces lit with joy. The room was warm and cozy, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness of Malfoy Manor.
“They’ve got less than you,” Fred said quietly. “A lot less. But look at them. Laughing, smiling, happy as can be. And then there’s you—sitting in that big, empty house, trying to drink away your misery. Doesn’t quite add up, does it?”
Draco’s throat tightened, but he didn’t respond.
The room blurred again, and they were back in Draco’s drawing room. Fred stood by the fire, his form glowing faintly.
“You’ve got time, Malfoy,” he said, his tone quieter now. “Not a lot, but enough. Don’t wait until it’s too late to make a change. Otherwise, you’ll end up a punchline, just like I am.”
Before Draco could respond, Fred snapped his fingers, vanishing in a burst of light and laughter.
Draco sank into his chair, Fred’s words echoing in his mind. For once, the silence of the Manor felt suffocating.
Snow swirled outside Malfoy Manor, coating the grounds in an unbroken blanket of white. The faint sound of boots crunching on the frozen path reached Draco as he sat in the drawing room, staring into the fire. He didn’t look up when Tibby appeared in the doorway.
“Master Draco, sir,” the elf said, bowing low. “Miss Granger is here again.”
Draco sighed and rose from his chair, adjusting the sleeves of his dark green jumper. “Of course she is. Let her in.”
“Yes, Master Draco,” Tibby said, disappearing with a small pop.
A moment later, Hermione entered, wrapped in a thick brown cloak, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Snowflakes clung to the edges of her hair, which was braided neatly over her shoulder. Her expression was determined but less sharp than the previous visits.
“Granger,” Draco greeted her with a faint smirk. “You’re becoming a regular fixture here. Should I prepare a room for you?”
Hermione rolled her eyes, pulling off her gloves and tucking them into her satchel. “I’ll take that as a compliment. At least you haven’t thrown me out yet.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Draco muttered, gesturing for her to sit.
Hermione ignored the invitation, instead placing a slim file on the table between them. “I came to check on your progress. I’d hoped you’d have something to show me by now.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the mantle. “You mean other than my continued presence in this godforsaken place? Progress is relative, Granger.”
“I’ll take that as a no,” Hermione replied, crossing her arms. Her eyes flicked to the table, where two place settings had been arranged, complete with steaming bowls of stew and a loaf of crusty bread on a wooden board. She frowned. “Expecting company?”
Draco followed her gaze, smirking faintly. “Only you, if you’re interested.”
Hermione’s brows shot up. “Me? I told you yesterday, I won’t eat food prepared by slave labor.”
Draco shook his head, his smirk widening. “Actually, no. I made it myself.”
Her skepticism was evident as she narrowed her eyes. “You? Cooked?”
Draco shrugged, moving to pour himself a glass of wine. “I’ve been told I have a knack for potions. Cooking isn’t so different. Chop, stir, simmer. Very precise work.”
Hermione hesitated, glancing at the meal again. “You’re serious?”
“Completely,” Draco said, handing her a second glass of wine. “No elves. No tricks. Just me and my excellent recipe for stew. Are you going to sit, or will you stand there judging me all night?”
Still skeptical, Hermione pulled off her cloak and hung it over the back of the chair before sitting. She picked up her spoon, testing the broth cautiously.
Her eyes widened slightly, and she looked up at Draco. “This is… actually good.”
“I’ll take that as high praise, coming from you,” Draco said, taking his own seat.
Hermione took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “You’d have needed to go to Diagon Alley to get everything for this.”
Draco smirked. “Very observant, Granger. Yes, I had an escort. The Auror they sent looked like he might faint when I walked into a greengrocer. I even picked out the bread myself. Hardly the scandal you’re imagining.”
Hermione chuckled despite herself. “I’m just surprised you went to the effort. It’s… unexpected.”
Draco leaned back, watching her carefully. “I’ll take that as progress.”
Hermione glanced at him, her expression softening. “Maybe.”
The meal passed in relative silence, the occasional clink of cutlery filling the gaps. When they’d finished, Hermione lingered at the table, sipping her wine as Draco cleared the dishes.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” she said after a moment.
“Didn’t I?” Draco replied, his voice quieter now. “You keep showing up here, Granger. The least I can do is be a decent host.”
Hermione studied him, her gaze flicking over his face as though searching for something. “You don’t have to keep up this act, you know. Pretending you don’t care about anything or anyone.”
Draco’s expression shifted slightly, the usual smirk faltering. “Maybe I don’t.”
Hermione shook her head, leaning forward. “I don’t believe that. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t have gone to the effort of making dinner. Or trying to convince me you’re capable of change.”
“Who says I’m trying to convince you?” Draco asked, though his tone lacked its usual bite.
“Because you invited me to stay,” Hermione said simply. “You didn’t have to. You could’ve just let me leave. But you didn’t.”
Draco didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the empty wine glass in his hand. Finally, he set it down and stood. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”
As they approached the front hall, Hermione spotted Tibby hovering nervously by the door. The elf bowed low when he saw them, his ears twitching anxiously.
Draco paused, glancing down at the elf. “Tibby, gather the others. You’ve all earned a break. There’s stew left in the kitchen. Eat as much as you like.”
Tibby blinked, his wide eyes darting between Draco and Hermione. “Master Draco… is sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Draco said with a touch of exasperation. “Go on, before I change my mind.”
Tibby bowed again and scurried off, leaving Hermione staring at Draco in open surprise.
“What?” he asked, catching her expression.
“Nothing,” Hermione said quickly, though a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Just… unexpected.”
Draco smirked faintly as he opened the door for her. “Progress?”
Hermione hesitated on the threshold, glancing back at him. “Maybe.”
Draco leaned against the doorframe, watching as she stepped into the snow. “See you tomorrow, then?”
“Don’t push your luck, Malfoy,” Hermione called over her shoulder, though her tone was lighter than before.
As the door closed behind her, Draco stood in the silent hall, her words replaying in his mind. For the first time, the Manor didn’t feel quite as cold.
The fire in Draco’s bedroom had burned low, casting long shadows that flickered on the walls. A cold draft seeped through the cracks, making the room feel more like a tomb than a sanctuary. Draco sat in his armchair, nursing a tumbler of firewhisky, when the room grew deathly silent.
Then the room went dark.
The fire sputtered and died, plunging the space into shadow. A deep, oppressive cold settled over the room, and the air seemed to hum with an unseen presence.
Draco stood, clutching his wand tightly. “Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice wavering slightly.
A low growl echoed through the room, followed by the soft scrape of boots on the marble floor. Slowly, a figure stepped into view, his form shrouded in black. His face was pale, his features gaunt but unmistakable.
“Sirius Black,” Draco whispered, his eyes widening.
“Malfoy,” Sirius said, his voice low and measured, though it carried an edge. The room seemed to darken further, the shadows pressing in from all sides. Sirius stepped closer, his presence heavy and unyielding.
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come,” he said. “Though I prefer to think of myself as your last warning.”
Draco scowled, but resisted the urge to snipe at his dead cousin.
Sirius’s lips twitched, but his expression remained serious. “I’m not here to lecture. I’m here to show you what’s waiting for you if you don’t change.”
Before Draco could retort, Sirius raised his hand, and the room plunged into blackness.
When the darkness lifted, they were standing in the Manor’s kitchens. The counters were filthy, covered in dust and grime, and the room reeked of neglect. Tibby lay slumped in a corner, his small frame still and lifeless.
Draco froze, his stomach turning. “What is this?”
Sirius’s voice was calm but unyielding. “The future, and a pretty close one at that. Tibby, dead from exhaustion and neglect. You ignored his limp, his pain, and you worked him until he couldn’t go on.”
Draco shook his head, his voice rising. “I would never—he’s just resting!”
“Look closer,” Sirius said, his gaze unwavering.
Draco stepped forward, his heart pounding as he knelt beside the elf. Tibby’s frail body was cold, his wide eyes staring blankly at nothing. A faint whimper escaped Draco’s lips, and he recoiled, his hand trembling.
“This isn’t real,” Draco said, his voice breaking. “This can’t be real.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Sirius replied. “But it will be, unless you change.”
The scene shifted. Tibby’s small body lay on a crude pyre in the garden, surrounded by the other elves. Their wails of grief echoed through the grounds, and Draco watched himself stand at a distance, cold and unmoved.
“This is how they’ll remember you,” Sirius said, his tone cutting. “Not as a master, but as a tyrant who drove them to their graves.”
The scene blurred again, and now they were standing in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic. It was bright and bustling, and Hermione stood at the center of a small crowd, speaking passionately.
“She’s done well for herself,” Sirius said.
Draco’s eyes narrowed as he listened. Hermione was discussing her work with the House Elf Liberation Act, her voice steady and filled with conviction.
“Despite all the obstacles, we’ve made amazing progress,” Hermione said. “But not everyone is willing to change. Some people remain stuck in their old ways, no matter how much you hope they’ll do better.”
The crowd murmured in agreement, and Hermione’s gaze turned distant. “Draco Malfoy… he could have been an ally. But in the end, he was a cautionary tale—a reminder that change must come from within.”
Draco flinched, her words cutting deeper than he expected.
“She’s thriving,” Sirius said, his voice softer now. “But you’re not part of it. She gave up on you, Malfoy. Can you blame her?”
“She hates me,” he said quietly.
“She doesn’t hate you,” Sirius replied. “She pities you. And that’s worse.”
The scene shifted again, and Draco found himself standing in the Manor’s drawing room. The furniture was covered in sheets, the air thick with dust. The fire in the hearth was cold, and the windows were boarded up.
“What happened?” Draco asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Sirius didn’t answer, instead gesturing toward the far end of the room. Draco turned and froze.
A coffin rested on a simple dais, its lid half-open. Inside lay his own body, older, pale, lifeless. The few people in the room were murmuring quietly, their expressions indifferent.
“The great Draco Malfoy,” one man said, shaking his head. “Reduced to this. No family, no friends. Just a name on an auction block.”
“I heard the Ministry’s taking the Manor,” another said. “About time someone put it to good use.”
Draco staggered back, his breath coming in short gasps. “No… this isn’t right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.”
“This is the legacy you’re building,” Sirius said, stepping closer. “A life of isolation, bitterness, and regret. Is that what you want?”
Draco turned to Sirius, desperation in his eyes. “What do you want me to do?”
Sirius’s gaze softened, but his tone remained firm. “Act, Malfoy. Regret means nothing without action. Blood purity, wealth—it’s all meaningless if you have no purpose, no connection. Trust me, I’ve been there. I made my mistakes with Kreacher, with my family. Don’t make the same ones.”
Draco’s voice broke. “How? How do I fix it?”
“You have time,” Sirius said, placing a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Don’t waste it.”
The scene began to dissolve, the cold fading into warmth as the fire in Draco’s room roared back to life. Sirius’s form grew faint, his voice echoing as he disappeared.
Don’t waste it.
Draco jolted awake in his chair, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The room was quiet again, the fire crackling softly.
He sat there for a long time, his mind racing with the images Sirius had shown him. Slowly, he stood, the weight of the visions pressing on him like a physical thing.
“I won’t,” he whispered to the empty room. “I won’t waste it.”
Snow blanketed the grounds of Malfoy Manor as the clock struck mid-morning on Christmas Eve. The house, though still as cold and silent as ever, seemed to hold a strange energy, like a breath held in anticipation.
Draco paced the drawing room, pausing every so often to adjust the placement of a document or straighten a stack of parchment on the table. A second table off to the side held neat piles of what could only be described as tiny, well-tailored garments—robes, vests, and even miniature scarves.
Draco exhaled slowly, glancing toward the clock. She’d be here soon.
He turned his attention to his desk, to the note he had been writing, signing his name with a flourish.
Theo,
Against my better judgment—and likely yours—I’ve decided to attend your Christmas party. Consider it my attempt at embracing the season, though I expect adequate compensation in the form of firewhisky and tolerable company.
Do try to keep the drunken caroling to a minimum.
Draco
With a flash of green flames, Draco sent the missive off through the Floo and sat down to wait. The drink that usually accompanied his hand was conspicuously absent.
The knock came precisely at noon. Tibby opened the door to reveal Hermione, bundled in a heavy woolen cloak against the bitter cold. Her cheeks were pink, and her breath clouded in the frosty air as she stepped inside.
“Good afternoon, Miss Granger,” Tibby said, bowing.
“Thank you, Tibby,” Hermione said warmly, brushing snow from her boots. Her gaze swept the entryway, noting the faint warmth from the hearth and the absence of dust that had coated the hall on her previous visits.
Draco appeared in the doorway to the drawing room, his hands in his pockets, a faint smirk on his lips. “Granger. Punctual as always.”
“Malfoy,” Hermione replied, arching a brow. “Still stalling for time? You’re cutting it close, aren’t you?”
Draco chuckled softly, stepping aside to let her in. “Technically, I’ve got until midnight. But I thought you might enjoy seeing how I plan to spend the day.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes, stepping into the drawing room. The sight of the meticulously arranged documents and tiny clothing gave her pause, but she schooled her expression into one of polite skepticism.
“What’s all this?” she asked, gesturing to the table.
Draco shrugged, leaning casually against the mantle. “Plans. Contracts. And, of course…” He waved a hand toward the table of clothing. “Freedom.”
Hermione’s eyes widened, and she turned to him, searching his face for any hint of mockery. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly,” Draco said, his smirk softening into something almost self-deprecating. “I thought I might let them choose—employment, or, if they wish, leaving this place entirely.”
Hermione stared at him, her mouth slightly open. “You… you really did all this?”
Draco straightened, his tone more defensive. “What? Did you think I’d wait until the last possible second, shove a sock into Tibby’s hand, and call it a day?”
“To be honest? Yes,” Hermione admitted, though her voice carried no malice.
Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not entirely hopeless, Granger.” He gestured to the contracts. “I’ve even drawn up terms for employment. Holidays, sick days, reasonable hours, all that. Though I wouldn’t mind a second opinion on the pay.”
Hermione blinked, stepping closer to the table to inspect the documents. “You’re asking for my advice?”
“You’re the expert,” Draco said, folding his arms. “Besides, I’m not exactly swimming in examples to draw from. Purebloods aren’t known for their stellar labor practices.”
Hermione’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles as she scanned the parchment. “These are… thorough. Surprisingly so. You’ve even included provisions for housing and medical care.”
Draco shrugged, glancing away. “It seemed… appropriate.”
Hermione set the parchment down, turning to face him fully. “Why the sudden change, Malfoy? What happened?”
Draco hesitated, his gaze flicking to the fire. “Let’s just say I’ve had some… perspective.” He met her eyes, his voice quieter now. “And I realized I didn’t want to end up like the man I saw in my dreams.”
Hermione tilted her head, studying him carefully. “And who was that?”
Draco gave a faint, humorless laugh. “Lonely. Bitter. Forgotten. It wasn’t exactly a flattering portrait.”
Hermione stepped closer, her expression softening. “It doesn’t have to be your future, you know.”
“I’m starting to see that,” Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Draco straightened, clapping his hands lightly. “Tibby!”
The elf appeared instantly, his wide eyes darting between Draco and Hermione. “Yes, Master Draco, sir?”
“Gather the others,” Draco said firmly. “It’s time.”
Tibby hesitated, his hands trembling. “Master Draco… is really doing this?”
“Yes, Tibby,” Draco said, his tone gentler now. “I’m really doing this. Go on.”
With a small bow, Tibby disappeared, and within minutes, the other elves appeared, their expressions ranging from nervous to bewildered.
Draco stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve served this house for generations,” he began, his voice steady but softer than Hermione had ever heard it. “And for that, I owe you a debt I can never repay. Today, I release you from that service.”
He waved his wand, and the table filled with stacks of clothing shimmered slightly. “These are yours. If you choose to stay, it will be as paid employees. If you choose to leave, I’ll provide whatever assistance you need. The choice is yours.”
The room fell silent. The elves stared at the clothing, then at Draco, their wide eyes filled with disbelief.
Tibby stepped forward, his hands shaking as he picked up a tiny set of robes. “Master Draco… is sure?”
Draco nodded. “I’m sure, Tibby.”
Tears filled Tibby’s eyes, and he clutched the robes to his chest. “Tibby… Tibby wishes to stay, Master Draco. As an employee. Tibby wishes to serve.”
Draco’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Then you’ll be paid, Tibby. And you’ll take your rest when you need it.”
The other elves murmured among themselves, most choosing to stay, though a few, including Bippy, expressed a desire to leave. Draco nodded at each decision, his voice steady as he assured them they would be cared for.
As the elves began dispersing, Tibby stumbled. His frail form wavered, and he clutched at the edge of the table before crumpling to his knees with a sharp cry of pain.
“Tibby!” Hermione exclaimed, rushing forward to kneel beside him. “What’s wrong?”
The elf tried to wave her off, his ears drooping. “Tibby is fine, Miss Granger. Tibby will manage.”
“You’re not fine, Tibby. What happened?” Hermione pushed as her hands hovered over the elf’s leg, her expression tight with concern.
Tibby lowered his gaze, trembling. “Master Draco does not like excuses.”
The words struck Draco like a physical blow, and his expression softened with guilt. “Tibby… you don’t need to hide this. Not anymore.”
Hermione looked up at Draco, her tone urgent. “He needs a healer.”
Draco nodded briskly. “I’ll summon one immediately.” He moved to the fireplace, throwing in a handful of Floo powder. A few terse words later, a healer from St. Mungo’s stepped through the flames.
The healer, a stern-looking woman with kind eyes, knelt beside Tibby and began a swift examination.
“The damage to his leg is extensive,” the healer said, frowning. “The bones will need to be removed and regrown. He’ll require at least a week at St. Mungo’s for the procedure and recovery.”
Draco’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Do whatever is necessary.” He turned to Tibby, his voice softer. “You’ll be given full paid leave until you’ve recovered. That’s in your new contract.”
Tibby’s eyes filled with tears again, and he bowed low. “Master Draco… is too kind.”
Draco knelt beside him, his hand resting lightly on the elf’s shoulder. “No, Tibby. This is what I should have done long ago.”
The healer smiled faintly. “We’ll take good care of him. He’ll be back on his feet in no time.”
As the healer prepared to take Tibby through the Floo, Hermione stood off to the side, watching Draco with an expression he couldn’t quite read.
Draco turned to Hermione, his hands still trembling slightly. “Well? Was that acceptable, Granger?”
Hermione shook her head, stepping closer. “Acceptable? No.”
Draco blinked, taken aback, but before he could respond, she smiled. “It was extraordinary.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Extraordinary? From you, Granger, that’s practically an ovation.”
Hermione huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t ruin the moment, Malfoy.”
He smirked, moving closer as well. “Admit it. I surprised you.”
Hermione’s gaze softened, and she nodded. “You did. And I’m… proud of you.”
Draco blinked, her words catching him off guard. “Proud?”
“Yes,” Hermione said firmly. “You took a step toward being the man you could be. The man I think you want to be.”
Before she could say more, Draco took her hand, his fingers brushing against hers. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For not giving up on me.”
Hermione’s breath hitched slightly, her cheeks flushing as she looked up at him. “It’s Christmas, Malfoy. Everyone deserves a second chance.”
He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “I couldn’t have done it without you. You made me see what I was too stubborn to admit.”
Hermione’s smile softened, and before she could second-guess herself, she closed the gap between them and threw her arms around his neck.
Draco stiffened for a heartbeat, then melted into the embrace, his hands settling tentatively on her waist.
“You’ve come a long way, Malfoy,” Hermione said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
“I had a good motivator,” he replied, his voice tinged with warmth.
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her cheeks flushed. “Well, you still have a long way to go.”
Draco’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile. “Then stay, Granger. Help me get there.”
Hermione’s answer came not in words but in action. She leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was soft, hesitant, and filled with a quiet promise.
When they finally broke apart, Draco rested his forehead against hers, his voice barely above a whisper. “Merry Christmas, Granger.”
She smiled, her eyes shining. “Merry Christmas, Malfoy.”
Just as they pulled apart, a small voice spoke from the direction of the Floo. “Blessings to Master Draco and Miss Granger. Tibby is thinking this will be the happiest of homes!”
Draco and Hermione turned, startled, but Tibby and the Healer had already disappeared into the Floo.
Hermione laughed softly, her hand slipping into Draco’s. “Looks like you’ve earned his loyalty after all.”
Draco squeezed her hand, his smirk returning. “Not bad for a former ferret.”
The two stood together, the warmth of the fire and the promise of a new beginning filling the once-cold Manor.