Shared Space

It was their first Yule together, and they were going to spend it apart.

Draco didn't want to spend the holiday alone, but Hermione hadn't given him much of a choice.

"Let's create new traditions," she had cajoled mere hours earlier. Her brown eyes were bright with conviction, her mouth set stubbornly, and her hands warm and sure on his arm.

He loved these things about her – loved much about her – but life with her was much simpler when their interests aligned. He disliked their disagreements; facing her when she felt headstrong and hopeful almost to the point of naïveté was a lesson in patience that Draco was still learning.

Because he could be stubborn, too, and his belief in the right – in his version of it – was as strong as hers. His parents had endured an entire year of new: new worldview, new laws, new transparency into their private lives. Spending Yule with Muggles, even ones as kind and well-mannered as Hermione's parents, would threaten his mother's already tenuous composure and likely send his father into a whiskey-fueled rant about the 'old days'.

"No one wants that," he had said.

This had quickly devolved their even-tempered discussion into a bombastic row. Hermione had stormed off in a huff, armed only with her scarf and her wand to face the bitter cold, abandoning the Christmas Eve dinner they'd prepared together for the refuge of...

Well, he wasn't sure where. Maybe her parents' house, maybe Potter's place, maybe the Weasleys' den. She was welcome wherever, whenever, no invitation needed and no questions asked.

Draco took a sip of whiskey. It tasted bitter, with none of its usual warmth or illusory comfort. Alcohol was a vice Draco inherited from his father, a reaction to unfulfilled goals and a way to numb the disappointment caused by others.

A reflex.

He tossed the liquid into the fire, hardly feeling the heat as it burned brightly, consuming the drink. He set his glass on the table beside him and put his hand to his forehead.

The decision to cohabitate was not one that Draco had taken lightly. He and Hermione had been dating steadily for two years (unsteadily for close to four) before he had even considered it a possibility. They had both had their own flats at the time. Unshared space. They had both needed it after the claustrophobic eighth year at Hogwarts.

The first items they exchanged were toothbrushes. Underclothes came soon after. Then it was spare socks, a few shirts, a nice pair of trousers or a pencil skirt for work, a casual robe, a clock she thought would look better on his wall than on hers, a vase she admired every time she visited. It was gradual and subtle. It would have been insidious if the exchanged items weren't so innocuously mundane. It wasn't until her friends began to Floo his flat that Draco even realized what was happening. What had happened.

He also realized that living together – really living together – would be a trial unlike any other. It had been for a long time. They had to learn each other's boundaries, about triggers and diffusers, about when it was okay to press the advantage and when it was necessary to step away, about when to stand up and when to cave.

Draco missed her. She had only been gone for a few hours, but the silence created by her absence was oppressive.

He was ready to cave.

Though they fought, though he was still learning, though she could be infuriating, though they were each inflexible and adaptable in turns, Draco loved his life with her. He loved the arguments, the challenge, the push-and-pull of their aggressive compromising. He loved her exasperation and his frustration and the victorious feeling of yet another obstacle (not the first, hardly the last) overcome.

He loved her, and he wanted to untangle this latest knot in their life together. If that meant braving the driving snow and the annoyed stares of her friends and family, then so be it.

Draco holstered his wand, donned his scarf, and opened the door.

Hermione stood before him, hand outstretched, as if she had just been reaching for the doorknob.

"Hey," she said. Her cheeks were pink and there was snow in her hair, as caught in her curls as she was in his heart.

"Hey," he said back.

"I wanted to –"

"I was coming –"

Draco cleared his throat and gestured for her to continue. She inhaled and held his gaze.

"I shouldn't have left like I did. It wasn't fair to you. It wasn't right. I'm sorry."

A great pressure lifted from Draco's chest. "I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have dismissed your opinion. You're right to want to begin new traditions. I should want that, too. I do want that."

"It's too soon. I shouldn't have pushed –"

He reached out to cup her cheek, cutting her off. "I needed the push," he said quietly.

Then she was in his arms, and they were kissing. Draco clutched her tightly, pulling her into the warmth of their shared space. She nudged the door closed with her booted foot, and then rid herself of her footwear, her outerwear, and, finally, her underwear. Draco's clothes were quick to follow.

Hours later, nestled comfortably on the floor on a heap of pillows and blankets, their scarves tangled together before the dying fire, Hermione rested her head upon his chest and fell asleep. Draco held her close and drifted off soon after, grateful for another chance to start something new.

The End