"Jingle bells—"

"God, please no."

"Jingle bells—"

"Stop it."

"Jingle all the way! Oh, what fun it is to ride on a one-horse open sleigh!"

"Ginny," hissed Hermione as she pulled herself up from the soft, warm mattress. "Will you please shut up?"

Grinning wide despite the furious, sleepy expression on Hermione's face, Ginny waltz into the room, spinning every two steps until she jumped up on her bed. She had on a knitted pink scarf that was doing absolutely nothing to compliment the shiny red of her hair, but matched with her pajama set.

"Bet you regret teaching me that song now," she said, squeezing Hermione's ankle. When the latter rolled her eyes, Ginny earnestly added, "Happy Christmas, 'Mione."

"Oh, Happy Christmas," Hermione said instantly, her arms quickly coming around Ginny for a proper hug. "Did Mrs. Weasley make that?"

Ginny looked down at her scarf and sleepwear, letting out an indignant huff. "Don't think you haven't got your own set," she was quick to say. "If I recall, actually, Mum did ask me what you'd like best, a purple set or a green set. Of course, I told her as the future wife of a Slytherin, maybe the green would be better."

Hermione clunked Ginny on the head with one of her pillows. "Why are you awake so early?"

"I've been up," Ginny told her, the mirth she had been displaying was now fading away. She grabbed the pillow from Hermione's hands, tucking it under her chin. For a moment, she remembered on old, patchy stuffed rabbit of her youth, one that braved every nightmare, every storm, and every mishap with her.

When the old stuffed animal had been lost in a trip to Diagon Alley, Ginny would climb into Fred's bed and he'd tuck her under his chin like she was the little brave rabbit.

"Mum and Dad were arguing all night," she murmured, lost in the memory. "Well, Mum was arguing and Dad was listening. She's not happy about Angelina Johnson."

"I thought Mrs. Weasley liked Angelina? She met her when the Triwizard Tournament was happening at Hogwarts and only had lovely things to say about her."

"Yes, but she met her as Fred's girlfriend, didn't she?"

"But they weren't together when he...you know."

Ginny took in a deep breath to try and keep the grief at bay. The mention of Fred's name burned deeper than on the surface of her skin; it reached her bones, turned them to ash, then went for her blood. It was still unlike any other pain she had ever felt—it was even worse than Voldemort draining her of her soul.

And, somehow, Ginny was the only one doing better at dealing with that pain: her mother cried every single night, the walls rattling, threatening to fall apart into dust by the sound. And when she was not crying, she was clinging on to her children, pushing them against her chest like she hoped they would disappear into her bones and always be protected by the love, desperation, and heartache she carried. Her father, ever the calm one, ever the reasonable one, burned his garage down; if his son could not get to live to enjoy life's little things, then why should he, a man ripe with age, a man who had outlived his son, get to find comfort in the odd trinkets Fred used to laugh at? Bill, who had his wife, who was always living for adventure, hardly left his house most days; he looked outside his window constantly, searching for enemies despite the thick layer of protective charms he cast around Shell Cottage. Fleur had to rid their house of all the books riddled with dark, dangerous curses that promised safety before Bill tore into them again, searching for all the ways he should have been able to save Fred. Charlie, who Ginny believed all of her life was only capable of being happy, carried a remorse so heavy his dragons could hardly sustain him on their backs. He spent a month in Fred and George's old room; curled into a ball, buried under Fred's old bedsheets, crying into his pillows, screaming, screaming, screaming at anyone who dared to pull him out of Fred's bed. Percy, who knew how to keep his head up through anything, could hardly peel himself off Fred's tomb. With his own hands, he dug into the soil, desperate to get beneath it, desperate to hold on to what was left of Fred, like in a childhood memory from a different life, back before he developed a thirst for power and the twins thought him a prat. Percy, who prided himself in his wit, drank his brain, liver, heart, guilt away for weeks until their mother cried, cried, cried that she could not lose another son. Ron, whose greatest quality was his loyalty, set every relationship he had on fire. The rage inside of him demanded blood, no matter who it came from. He tore his own heart out, Hermione's name written along the ridges, and scratched it away; too angry to care about love, too angry to care about life when Fred did not get any of it.

Then there was—

"George seemed happy, though, didn't he?" murmured Hermione, her hand now on Ginny's shoulder. "I haven't seen him smile that much since Fred. Every time he looked at Angelina, there were shadows of his old self. Mrs. Weasley can't deny that; not when she said so herself that he was getting better and it was all because of Angelina."

"He did look better, didn't he?" Ginny almost smiled, recalling the jokes George was sharing all throughout dinner, for a moment making all of them forget about the grief that resurfaced every time they looked at him. "Seeing him that happy—even Percy didn't touch the firewhiskey, did you see? He was too busy laughing."

Hermione squeezed Ginny's shoulder. "The sorting hat said we are with whom we are meant to be with. There's comfort in that, isn't there? For George and Angelina. They might have found themselves together no matter how the cards had been dealt."

"Right," said Ginny, letting out a shaky exhale to release all of the sadness. "Mum's shouting isn't the only reason why I couldn't sleep. An owl kept pecking at my window at an ungodly hour."

"McGonagall or Kingsley?"

"Neither. It was a far more refined owl. " Ginny grinned, reaching into her shirt to pull out a small piece of parchment from where it was tucked underneath one of her bra-straps.

A pink blush appeared on Hermione's cheeks as she snatched the letter from Ginny. "It's from Malfoy."

"They don't call you the Brightest Witch of the Age for nothing," said Ginny, wiggling her brows despite Hermione's annoyed expression. "Come on now, read it out loud. I restrained myself from tearing it open and taking a peek. Surely that counts for something."

"It's good manners not to read other people's mail," Hermione reminded her firmly. "And it's illegal to actually do so."

Despite glaring at Ginny, Hermione did feel herself smile as she looked at the neat, thin cursive on the folded piece of parchment. She and Draco had enough study sessions now to be able to recognize his handwriting anywhere. Calmly, she unfolded it and read:

"Is he insane?" Hermione exclaimed, letting Ginny snatch the letter away. "I can't—I won't meet his parents!"

"Malfoy's serious, isn't he?" said Ginny with a small, incredulous laugh as she examined the writing on the parchment, like she might find evidence of a joke between the lines. "I don't blame you if you don't want to meet Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, but—"

"But?" demanded Hermione. "There is no but, Ginny. Can you imagine me sitting down to have tea with Lucius Malfoy? What would we even talk about? My inferior blood? His lack of gratitude for Harry and me keeping him out of Azkaban? Parenting tips for when Malfoy and I are expected to have children—because he did so well with his own son. No, Ginny. I'm not going."

Ginny handed Hermione back her letter. "All reasonable excuses, of course. Even though you have been waiting for Malfoy's owl since we got home. Don't try to deny it," she said immediately as Hermione opened her mouth to contradict her, "I'm not daft. Every time there's been any sign of an owl, you run to the noise."

"I'm expecting mail from Mum and Dad," she mumbled.

"All right, sure. You stick to that story," scoffed Ginny. "All I'm saying is, you're marrying Draco Malfoy. At one point you're going to have to...reacquaint yourself with Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Mind as well do it now."

Hermione crushed the letter with her palm. "I can't—"

"Are you or are you not a war hero?" Ginny's voice was sharper now, even a little louder. "Have you or have you not faced worse than Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy?"

Forcing a loud, defeated groan from not leaving her mouth, Hermione nodded. Of course she knew Ginny was right; she had, in fact, come face to face with bigger monsters than the Malfoys and she was still standing.

"Good. I'll tell Mum you'll be going to the Malfoys' later today," said Ginny as she stood. With another mischievous grin that would make Fred and George proud, she yanked her bedsheets from around Hermione. Before the latter could protest, Ginny sang in her loudest voice, "Dashing through the snow! In a one-horse open sleigh! Over the fields we go—"

"Ginny!"

"Laughing all the way! Ha!Ha!Ha!Ha!"

He would have to burn Malfoy Manor down.

The moment Draco stepped inside the drawing room, he knew perfectly well that was the only plausible thing he could do now. The room still smelled like blood. It still smelled like defeat, horror, and death. He could even see it; he could still see the Dark Lord standing over those who disappointed him, those he valued but had served their purpose, those who were purebloods, and those who were Muggle-Borns. Draco could see the other Death Eaters, too; they were dragging prisoners in, some too young to be living through war, people like Luna Lovegood, small, weak, but stupidly courageous.

All of it ended in blood.

Draco could also see his Auntie Bella pinning down Hermione Granger, carving a foul word into her skin until her blood seeped into the floorboards beneath her.

"What are we looking at?"

In one quick movement, Draco had drawn out his wand from the pocket of his trousers; he had crouched low, ready to fight, ready to die, but only came eye to eye with Blaise Zabini.

"Well, I don't expect less coming to the Malfoy home," said Blaise with a scoff, pushing Draco's wand away from his face as he shoved a box wrapped in silver into his arms. "Next time, a simple Merry Christmas does the trick."

"Beta let you in?" Draco asked, turning the box in his hands.

Blaise nodded, turning from where Draco had been staring at the expensive, Persian rug under their feet. He marched further into the room, picking up a chocolate frog from the massive pile of Honeydukes sweets on the center table. "Pansy sent you these, didn't she? The unoriginal witch," he huffed as he settled an armchair, his feet kicking up as he tore the chocolate from its box. "She sent me the same package despite having sent her my Christmas list."

"Your Christmas list was shit," Draco told him as he sat in the armchair opposite him. "You asked for an island."

"Not a big island," Blaise said immediately. "Something quaint. You lot are just stingy."

Draco glared at him just as he was tearing the silver wrapping paper from the gift box Blaise had given him. Just when he thought he'd be able to look at his friend with something other than ire, more of it shot up his spine when he saw what was inside. Blaise decided to give Draco a book titled The Evolution of Muggles.

"Had a real laugh when you nicked it from the Muggle Studies professor, Zabini?"

"I'm hurt you think so little of me, mate," said Blaise, a smirk growing across his mouth. "I had a real laugh when I specifically bought it for you. No need to thank me, I'll just help myself to some of the sweets."

He threw the book at Blaise as he was loading up on Pansy's Christmas gift to Draco. "This isn't as funny as you thought it'd be."

"I wasn't intending for it to be funny, actually. No, Draco; I was intending for it to be educational. After all, you are marrying a Muggle-Born. Shouldn't you start showing interest in her background? I mean, Hermione is uncommonly close to her parents. Do you think she will just pack up her life in the Muggle world after she married you?"

Draco wished he had the book back so he could throw it again. The best he could do was send a nonverbal at Blaise, forcing all the packaged sweets on his lap to disappear. "What Granger does after marrying me is none of your concern. In fact, how about you start being more preoccupied with your own upcoming nuptials to Chang?"

"Given that I'm not actively trying to ruin Cho's life, I think I'll stick to helping Hermione out."

"I'm not going to kill her, Zabini—"

"As if you'd even be able to touch a curly hair from that big-brained head of hers," Blaise hissed, standing from the armchair. The green in his eyes was darkening into the color of the forbidden forest at night, the same forest that crawled with monsters like Draco Malfoy. "This marriage law is bullshit, I get that; we are stuck with each other no matter what because the alternative is something none of us are brave enough to give up. But we have a choice: we make it work or we live the same bitter, lonely lives our parents did. I'm trying to spare you from making the wrong choice here, Draco. Can't you see that?"

He met Blaise's glare, his hands shaking, wanting to reach for his wand. Draco wanted to curse Blaise, have him on the floor like all the others shadows that crossed the drawing room, but he knew he wouldn't. If he reached for his wand, Draco knew he would be burning the place down until there were only ashes of all the things that kept him up at night.

"Can't you see," Draco started, the words coming out slow and out gritted teeth, "there isn't any other way? Do you really think there is anything good I can offer Granger? Look at me, Blaise. Look at this place. She was tortured here. That's who she will always see—that's who the rest of the world will see if I don't pretend to be someone that deserves her."

"You don't have to pretend, mate," Blaise said, the anger in his eyes looked a lot like pity now. "You could try to be someone better—for you and her."

Draco took a step back, his lips pressing into a line as his friend marched off. He barely had time to turn, to see Blaise enter emerald flames when a pop echoed around the room. Beta, his personal house-elf was not standing at the doors. "Master," she squeaked, bowing her head so deeply it touched the floor. "There is a girl here, Master. She says she is here to see the young sir."

"Tell Pansy to bugger off, Beta. I already had one idiot visit me today."

"No, Master, it is not Miss Parkinson. This is a much prettier girl."

He started grinning at the house-elf; Draco always appreciated the hilarity of Beta disliking Pansy, but it quickly dawned on him why he was in the drawing room in the first place. He often stayed only in his own quarters, never venturing too far out of fear he would run into his nightmares.

"Will Master have her?"

"Yeah. Of course," mumbled Draco, clearing his throat as he tried to shake off his argument with Blaise. He scanned the room before turning to the doors; despite the expensive, embroidered furniture, the prized, renowned paintings, and the ancient artifacts, none of it could hide what had really happened here.

Still—someway, somehow—a blinding light of salvation graced the room in the shape of Hermione Granger.

She was stunning; a golden beacon as she slowly, carefully made her way in. Her wild curls were tamed, pinned to the sides as waves cascading down her shoulders. Something smelled like summer sun and jasmine flowers to Draco, the same scent he recalled lived in their Hogwarts chambers. Her mouth was shiny, just like the reflexes of glitter brushes across her eyelids, and for a moment, Draco considered crossing the room and putting his mouth against hers.

"I look stupid, don't I?" said Hermione as she caught Draco's eyes. She blinked down to the long, silk, emerald dress she was wearing. "Ginny's idea. I hate her sometimes."

"Beta," muttered Draco, "send a bag of gold and a bottle of firewhiskey to Ginny Weasley at the Burrow, please."

The house-elf bowed and disappeared before Hermione looked aghast at his request. Of course, her cheeks were now rosy pink at what lay beneath Draco's command.

"Here," he then said, clearing his throat as he retrieved a small box wrapped in gold foil.

Hermione frowned at it. "Oh, I...I didn't know we were exchanging gifts. If I did, I would've gotten you something, too, Malfoy."

"You came," Draco said as he put the box in her hands. His fingers traced a short path around her wrists before his hands came back down to his sides. "That's all I could've asked for. Besides, I think it's kind of ironic your dress matches it."

Brown eyes glanced around the drawing room; for a second, Hermione was, indeed, searching for a version of herself she left littered across the floor, bleeding and tortured. To see it, however, was to see Draco crouching in a corner crying, terrified and defeated at the echoes her screams created.

The silver in Draco's eyes started darkening as she hesitated.

"Thanks for this. You really shouldn't have bothered," she mumbled, tearing at the wrappings before shadows took over Draco's face. When she removed the lid from the box, she found a silver hairpin set upon a velvet cushion. Two snakes tangled around each other, forming the shape of a heart. Each had emerald eyes, big and glittering bright.

"Do you like it?"

Hermione closed her mouth after her jaw had dropped. She liked it; of course she did, it was a stunning piece, but it looked like something no one would be able to browse any boutique for and find.

"It was my mother's," Draco explained, catching the curiosity in her gaze. "A Black Family heirloom passed to one female of every generation."

"Malfoy," Hermione started, voice a whisper, "I can't have this. It belonged to generations of pureblood women that will roll in their graves for my having it."

Draco let out a laugh. "Doesn't that make it better? Wasn't that what you said once, in our first Marriage and Family Life lesson? That I'd be breaking a long tradition by making you the first Muggle-Born Malfoy?"

"No. What I said was you'd be the first to ruin—"

"I'm not ruining it, Granger."