Misunderstood Maledictions | Tomione

You Will

December 25, 1944

8:05 A.M.

Outside the line of west windows, the stars still shone brightly, the inky night-time blackness only beginning to mix with the clear bright glow that signaled the dawn of another crisp, wintry morning. Anyone in their right mind should have still been asleep for at least another hour or two. After all, it was Christmas morning.

Obviously, then, Hermione must have been quite mad, as she was currently sprawled with her feet up across her favorite tan leather sofa in the Head common room, staring pensively into the dying embers of last night's fire. The smoking heat still radiated the few feet from the fireplace to where she sat, and she smiled contentedly, closing her eyes and snuggling up against the soft, comfortingly warm. She had stolen one of Harry's poofy pillows a few nights back and she was most pleased to notice that his calming scent still lingered on it.

She, Harry, Ron, Lavender, Ginny, and Draco had planned to meet up in the Room of Requirements for a gift exchange at exactly 9:30. All of her winter holiday assignments had been completed, labeled, and filed away until school started up again. So she really hadn't the slightest idea why she was up so early.

She heard Tom's door open at the top of his flight of stairs, and she lazed on, not quite ready to vacate the luxurious couch. She counted to fifteen, giving him plenty of time to get down, and then, eyes still closed sleepily, she cheerfully called, "Morning!"

The unmistakable sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor immediately stopped. "Morning." The stale voice that greeted her was gravelly and low, giving the impression that he was still half asleep but was already in a foul mood.

Oh, no, you are not going to be like this on Christmas. Hermione poked her tousled bedhead up over the back of the sofa. "And a Happy Christmas to you, too—Are you alright?" She asked abruptly as she finally got a view of the Heir of Slytherin...he certainly seemed...awful.

Not that he could ever really look awful in the worst sense of the word but he appeared utterly drained. His gray eyes had lost their defiant storminess; now they were simply exhausted and bleary, with deep, dark circles underneath them that were made even more obvious against his ashen face. His thick hair was shockingly messy and unkempt, and his robes were crumpled, almost as if he had collapsed in bed the night before still wearing them.

"A bit under the weather, but generally speaking, yes, I rather am, thanks for asking," he muttered half-heartedly, tiredly shuffling over to her couch. Hermione pulled her pajama-clad legs up to her chest to make enough room for him, and he sank down next to her, promptly burrowing the back of his head into the smooth, soft leather and closing his eyes.

Hermione faced Tom while crossing her legs, "Well?"

As the sun finally edged its way over the horizon, Tom reluctantly opened one eye and squinted at her, getting hit right in the face with the first rays of morning light. "Well, what?"

A small, secretive smile played at Hermione's lips, her eyes crinkling mischievously. "Don't you want your Christmas present?" she asked innocently, but her foot was bouncing up and down in the same eager anticipation she had whenever she gave somebody a gift and wanted them to open it.

"My what?" Tom asked uncomprehendingly. He reopened both eyes and pulled himself straight up, regarding her as if she had unexpectedly turned into a mutated, completely new species of blast-ended skrewt—an anomaly that, in theory, should have never been possible.

"Your Christmas present," Hermione repeated with a smile. She reached for a small, black gift bag that had been sitting inconspicuously on the floor at the foot of the sofa, and she handed it to him. "Here. Merry Christmas."