Christmas
The Christmas season at Hogwarts was nothing short of magical. Snow continued to fall in thick, swirling flurries, blanketing the castle grounds in a pristine sheet of white. The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall reflected this wintry wonderland, with snowflakes drifting lazily down from an invisible sky that never quite touched the students' heads. The corridors were adorned with garlands of holly and ivy, shimmering with enchanted fairy lights that flickered and danced in the dim light. Suits of armour were charmed to sing carols, though their rusty voices often clanged off-key, much to the delight of passing students.
Hermione walked through the castle, her breath visible in the chilly air, a rare smile gracing her lips. Even the usually dark and draughty dungeon had taken on a festive air, with flickering candles casting warm shadows along the stone walls. But the real transformation was happening in the Entrance Hall, where Hagrid, the towering groundskeeper who had once led them from the Hogwarts Express on their first night, was heaving a small but sturdy Christmas tree through the doors. Hermione had paused in her walk to the Great Hall for breakfast, gazing at the scene in awe.
"All righ' there, Hermione?" Hagrid called, his beetle-black eyes twinkling under the bushy tangle of his beard.
“Yes - er - very much so, Mr. Hagrid,” Hermione replied breathlessly, her eyes alight as she watched him drag the tree toward the Great Hall, its pine needles leaving a fragrant trail behind, his booming laughter filling the castle as he wrestled the tree into place.
Meanwhile, the Slytherins were practically vibrating with excitement. For once, they were too preoccupied with the upcoming holiday to bother Hermione with their usual taunts and tricks. Even Draco Malfoy was in high spirits, smirking less maliciously than usual as he boasted about the lavish gifts he expected to receive.
Hermione couldn’t help but feel a thrill of her own. Christmas break meant two whole weeks away from the castle's pressures and bullies, back to the comfort of her own home. She was excited, not just for the respite, but for the chance to delve deeper into her studies without interruption. The Durmstrang books, Tom’s diary, and the secrets she was slowly unravelling—they would all come with her.
When the time came, she joined the throng of students boarding the Hogwarts Express. The train was a riot of colours and laughter, with the scent of chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties filling the compartments. Hermione quickly found an empty seat, pulled out Tom Riddle’s diary, and began writing in a neat, hurried script, recounting all that had happened recently; they wrote back-and-forth, Tom cracking jokes that sent Hermione into fits of giggles all the while.
The hours slipped away as the countryside blurred past the window, frosted fields and snow-covered forests flying by. The rhythmic clatter of the train on the tracks was almost soothing, and for a moment, she allowed herself to forget about school and bullies and even her destination.
At last, the Hogwarts Express pulled into the bustling chaos of Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters. Witches and wizards in all manner of vibrant robes crowded the platform, chattering loudly, their hats bobbing as they greeted friends and family. Owls hooted from their cages, and steam billowed in thick clouds from the engine, enveloping everything in a haze of white.
Hermione had changed into her Muggle clothes by now, a cosy jumper and trousers that felt odd after months of wearing her school robes. She heaved her trunk onto a trolley, her heart pounding with anticipation at the thought of seeing her parents again. But as she made her way toward the brick barrier, ready to cross back into the Muggle world, a voice stopped her.
“Miss Granger, I presume?”
She turned to see a man standing there, his flaxen hair gleaming like polished silver, his grey eyes cold and appraising. He was dressed in robes of the finest blue silk, the fabric whispering as he moved, and Hermione’s first thought was that he looked every bit the aristocrat—like Draco, but sharper, colder.
“Lucius Malfoy,” he introduced himself, his voice smooth as glass but with an undercurrent of something darker. His eyes flicked disdainfully over her Muggle attire, his lip curling ever so slightly. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
Hermione’s stomach tightened. She straightened her shoulders, meeting his gaze with a mixture of defiance and unease. “From Draco, I suppose,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Indeed,” Lucius drawled, his gaze narrowing. “My son tells me you’ve taken quite the interest in hexing your peers. It would be... unfortunate if such behaviour were to continue, wouldn’t it?” The threat was subtle, laced with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I trust you’ll make the right decisions, Miss Granger. We wouldn’t want any... accidents.”
Hermione swallowed, her hands gripping the handle of her trolley until her knuckles turned white. “I was only defending myself,” she said, her voice small but firm.
Lucius’s eyes flashed, a flicker of something like amusement, or perhaps approval, before he inclined his head slightly. “Of course. Self-defence. A noble cause for such an… ignoble girl.” He turned away with a swirl of his robes, walking towards a group standing further down the platform. Draco was there, his face lighting up as he caught sight of his father, still ensconced in the fierce embrace of his mother— a tall, elegant, and golden-haired woman who softly smiled down upon him with an expression reminiscent of Hermione’s own mother.
Feeling a mixture of relief and lingering anxiety, Hermione turned back to the barrier. She pushed her trolley forward, rushing through the red brick with a gasp of air, emerging on the other side to the familiar sight of King's Cross Station. There, among the bustling Muggle crowd, stood her parents, waving eagerly.
“Mum! Dad!” she cried, abandoning her trolley and running into their arms. The warmth of their embrace chased away the lingering chill of Lucius Malfoy’s words, and for a moment, she was just Hermione again, not a student of magic, not a girl caught between worlds. Just a daughter, home for Christmas.
“Oh, I've missed you two so much!” she cried. “I have so much to talk about, and I’ve got gifts for everyone, and I—”
Mum furrowed her brows slightly, pulling back to look her daughter in the eye as she incredulously smiled. “Calm down, Hermione. You didn’t seem this eager to spend time with us before. What’s brought on the sudden change?”
Hermione’s beam faltered, just for a moment, before she forced it back into place. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder, I suppose,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. In truth, her relationship with her parents had always been a rather distant one. Hermione had often complained about their busy schedules as a child, only to be met with accusations of being ungrateful. But, as the years passed and they didn’t budge, Hermione had adapted well - she didn’t want to disappoint them, after all.
The ride back home was a flurry of chatter. Mum caught her up on every possible bit of neighbourhood gossip—Mrs. Jenkins’ new rose bushes that were apparently the talk of the town, and Mr. Thompson’s ill-fated attempt at installing his own Christmas lights (he’d ended up in the hedge, limbs flailing like a marionette, much to the delight of his neighbours).
“You should’ve seen it, Hermione,” Mum said, wiping away tears of laughter. “Your father nearly fell off his ladder, he was laughing so hard.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Jean,” her father protested, though his eyes twinkled. “I was firmly on the ground.”
Despite herself, Hermione couldn’t help but feel a pang of discomfort. This wasn’t how they usually were - so cheerful, so bright. Perhaps it was her that had changed, from all those dreadful days in Slytherin…
As they pulled into the driveway of their suburban home, Mum launched into a tirade about the neighbourhood children. “Those hooligans are out of control. Their parents let them run wild, thinking every little misbehaviour is just ‘expression.’ It’s ridiculous! The only decent one is that Richard boy I’ve written to you about, the one whose family just moved into town—did you hear he won the Young Scientists' Award?”
Hermione’s smile tightened. “Yes, Mum. I remember.” The mention of his winning that award was not lost on her. She could hear the underlying message in Mum’s voice: If only you had stayed in the normal world, you could have been achieving things like this too. It seemed some things never changed, even with her parents’ newfound cheerfulness.
“If you’re upset about me going to Hogwarts, Mum, you can just say it,” Hermione said quietly, staring straight ahead as they turned onto the main road.
Mum’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, there was something cold and unreadable in them. “I never said that, Hermione,” she replied, her tone clipped. “I was merely congratulating Richard on his success. It used to be winning those awards and such - it’s nice to see someone else shining for a change.”
Hermione swallowed back a retort, the familiar sting of Mum’s words lodging itself in her chest like a splinter. No matter how much she excelled in the magical world, it would never be quite enough to satisfy Mum’s expectations, Hermione knew. In her parents' eyes, Hogwarts was still a peculiar detour from the bright academic future they had envisioned for her. Hermione could tell Mum would have much preferred her to be like Richard—trophies lined up neatly on a shelf, accolades that were understandable, tangible, and most importantly, non-magical.
Hermione bit back a retort, forcing herself to focus on the festive decorations her parents had put up. The Christmas tree was twinkling with fairy lights, and there was a warmth to the house that she hadn’t felt in years. She let herself relax, just a little.
They spent the next few days sinking into the comfort of family traditions. The Grangers were not a particularly adventurous family, but they were reliable in their love of the familiar. They visited the ice rink, an annual tradition that Mum insisted upon with the enthusiasm of someone who had clearly forgotten just how uncoordinated her husband was on skates.
“Come on, Peter,” Mum urged, nudging her father toward the ice. “You can’t let Hermione show you up every year.”
“I’m telling you, Jean, I’ve got a terrible feeling about this,” he muttered, eyeing the rink with the wariness of a man approaching an unexploded bomb.
Hermione tried to stifle her laughter as her father ventured onto the ice, his arms outstretched like a tightrope walker. For all his caution, he lasted about thirty seconds before his feet shot out from under him, sending him into a graceless sprawl.
“Man down!” Hermione called, earning a scandalised look from Mum, though the corners of her mouth twitched with amusement.
“Oh, don’t laugh, Hermione,” Mum said, though she was clearly struggling not to smile herself. “Peter, are you alright?”
Her father waved off their concern with a sheepish grin. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just giving the ice a closer inspection.”
They spent the next hour teetering around the rink, Hermione gliding effortlessly while her parents clung to each other like they were navigating stormy seas. At one point, a golden retriever belonging to a skate rental attendant came bounding across the ice, sending Mum skidding away in horror.
“Keep that beast away from me!” Mum shrieked, clutching at her husband’s coat.
“You’re afraid of dogs now too, Mum?” Hermione asked, her voice laced with laughter.
“Unpredictable creatures,” Mum sniffed, though her eyes were twinkling. “And don’t get me started on cats.”
The day ended with them all bundled into the car, noses red and fingers frozen, but spirits high. For the first time in a long while, Hermione felt like she could breathe. She was just a girl with her parents, indulging in the ridiculousness of family traditions.
The next evening, they bundled up in their warmest coats and set off for a local theatre production by the Hampstead Garden Suburb Theatre Society. The performance was held in an outdoor amphitheatre, nestled deep within the Little Wood forest, which had transformed into a winter wonderland under the heavy snow. Fairy lights twinkled in the trees, casting a soft glow over the snow-dappled ground, and the air was filled with the scent of hot mulled cider and roasted chestnuts.
The play itself was a charming mix of slapstick comedy and heartwarming holiday cheer, the sort of production where every line was delivered with an exaggerated flourish and every joke was met with roars of laughter from the audience. Hermione found herself genuinely enjoying it, her worries melting away as she was drawn into the whimsical story unfolding on stage.
Afterward, they bought a batch of hot cookies from a cheerful vendor, the warmth seeping through the paper bag as they nibbled on the buttery treats on their way home. “This,” her father declared between bites, “is what Christmas is all about.”
The following day, Mum insisted on a tradition that was as old as Hermione could remember: the holiday movie marathon. They stocked up on every clichéd Christmas film imaginable, from the over-the-top romances to the absurd family comedies that seemed to multiply on the telly every December.
They settled in, the three of them huddled under blankets in the living room, with a tray of mince pies and a pot of hot chocolate on standby. The films were mindless and predictably cheesy, but that was precisely what made them so comforting. At some point, Hermione glanced over to see Mum snoring softly, head tilted back and mouth slightly open, and she couldn’t help but smile.
There was something so grounding in the simplicity of it all, yet even amidst the laughter and the familiar scents of home, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that she was a visitor here, someone slipping between two worlds.
She continued to write to Tom, and to her surprise, Goyle as well. What had started as a strategic tutoring arrangement had blossomed into something strangely... endearing. Goyle’s letters were clumsy and full of misspellings, but they were honest, a sincerity Hermione hadn’t expected from someone who had once been a mere sidekick to her other Slytherin bullies. They weren’t friends, of course - but, for now, Goyle and Hermione certainly weren’t enemies.
The ice skating fiasco had only been the beginning of their holiday misadventures. One afternoon, they decided to brave the ice again, this time at a small frozen pond near their home. Her father, perhaps wisely, opted to sit this one out, choosing instead to watch from the sidelines with a thermos of tea.
As Hermione skated in smooth circles, Mum teetered beside her, arms windmilling as she tried to stay upright. They both dissolved into laughter when Mum finally admitted defeat and clung to Hermione’s arm for support.
“Hermione, darling, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Mum said, her voice dropping to a more serious tone as they paused to catch their breath. “Are you truly happy? At that school of yours?”
Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. “Of course I am, Mum. I mean, it’s... challenging, but in a good way.”
Her mother gave her a searching look, as if trying to see past the carefully constructed mask Hermione wore. “I just worry, you know. I want you to have options. You’re so clever—you could do anything you want.”
“I know,” said Hermione in a small voice, still slowly twirling. “And I want magic, I think.”
An odd grimace flashed its way across Mum’s countenance, before it smoothed into a look of vague disappointment. She hummed. “That’s your choice, then. I’m sure you’ll do great in the - the Wizarding World.” Her mother turned and smacked her lips subtly at the end, as if wanting to rub those words off her tongue.
As far as Hermione could remember, her main aim had forever been to please her parents. And she’d succeeded, for the most part - excepting incidents of what she and them now knew to believe accidental magic. And Dad had obviously encouraged her academic excellence and derived much pride from her accolades, but it had always been Mum who had pushed her the hardest - there’d been times where Hermione had even wondered if her mother had birthed a less intellectually gifted child than herself. Would she have loved it? Or, if Hermione’s will to persevere waned…would Mum even still love her?
Her mother was not a cruel woman, she knew. Just not a particularly accommodating one, either. Seeing Mum willing to put all her dreams and hopes for Hermione to rest…it made Hermione feel more horrible than she’d ever felt before.
This was why Hermione took a deep breath, put on a little smile, and spoke: “That doesn’t mean I’ll limit myself, of course,” she said hurriedly. Her mother’s eyes lit up, and she leaned in. “I - I’ll still keep up with what I…what I would be learning. And, when the proper time comes, I’ll even take my GSCEs and everything - you know, just to keep all my options open.”
A faint smile spread its way across Mum’s face. She swayed as they skated, staring at Hermione all the while. “Truly?” she asked, her voice shaking - likely from the excitement. Then, suddenly, Mum straightened and put on her usual hard, cold look, deeply frowning at Hermione. “You shouldn’t do this for me, you know. I would never ask you to do so - I respect your choices and decisions, no matter what.”
That’s what her mother always said. Hermione doubted that, deep down, she’d been telling the truth in any of those instances.
Hermione hesitated, then nodded, forcing a smile. “I’m doing this for myself, Mum. It’s just - I don’t want to realise one day that I’ve wasted years of my life pursuing something that’s not meant for me, do I?”
This was all a lie, of course. The magical world was consuming her time and focus in ways she could never quite explain, but seeing the relief in Mum’s eyes made the deception seem worth it.
Christmas morning came in a whirlwind of wrapping paper and laughter. The house was filled with the smell of sizzling bacon and the clatter of pans as Mum attempted to pull together breakfast amidst the chaos. Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so at ease, so effortlessly happy.
Yet as she sat by the fireplace, her father showing off a ridiculous pair of reindeer antlers he’d found in a bargain bin, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all fleeting. A momentary respite before the inevitable pull back to the life she had chosen, the life that was pulling her ever deeper into a world her parents could never truly understand.
But for now, as the snow fell gently outside and the fire crackled warmly beside her, she allowed herself to be present, to let the weight of two worlds slip away, if only for a little while. It was Christmas, after all, and for once, Hermione let herself simply be normal.