Chapter Text
The Christmas market glowed like a living thing. Lanterns, strung overhead with ribbons of holly, cast warm amber pools on the cobbled street. The air, bitingly cold, was thick with the scent of pine needles, roasted chestnuts, and mulled cider. Breath puffed white—a shimmering fog—as laughter and the cheerful, slightly off-key music of a nearby brass band wove through the narrow lanes. Hermione walked beside Draco, their heavy wool coats brushing occasionally, a simple, comfortable rhythm to their steps as they drifted from stall to stall.
They stopped abruptly when they reached the glassmaker.
The man worked over a concentrated, open flame, the roar of the fire a sharp contrast to the gentle market sounds. Molten glass, glowing honey-gold and dangerous, stretched and twisted at the end of a long metal pipe. With careful, almost surgical breaths and practiced, economical turns, the glassmaker shaped it into ornaments—delicate, shimmering things that caught every available ray of light and held it captive.
Hermione leaned closer, feeling the sudden, intense wash of heat on her face. Her voice was hushed. “It’s breathtakingly beautiful. Like solid magic.”
Draco watched the fire, a flicker of old discomfort in his expression. “It looks volatile. Dangerous.”
The glassmaker looked up, his face ruddy from the heat, and offered a knowing smile. “Best things usually are, son. That's why we control them with patience, and breath.”
On a small, hand-painted sign beside the display of finished, crystalline forms: Patronus Ornaments — Hand-Blown. Shaped by Memory and Intention.
Hermione’s breath hitched, the word 'Patronus' striking a chord deep in her chest. Draco read the sign, too. The atmosphere shifted from comfortable neutrality to a fragile, shared tension.
They exchanged a look—a quiet, long moment, considering the implications. This wasn't just a trinket; it was a physical manifestation of their deepest, happiest magic, potentially merged.
“Together?” Hermione asked, the word almost a whisper, laced with shyness and a boldness that was purely Granger. The question hung in the cold air, a gamble.
Draco’s eyes were silver-bright as they met hers, the uncertainty banished by a decisive nod. “Together. It’s the only way it would mean anything now.”
The glassmaker, sensing the gravity of the request, guided them carefully. Draco went first, his initial stiffness melting away as he focused. His hands, usually reserved for wandwork or flipping pages, were steady as he held the heavy pipe, ready to receive the glass. Hermione watched, her eyes bright with concentration, rooting for him.
Then it was her turn. As she gripped the pipe, his hands came up—warm, large, and surprisingly sure—to guide hers, covering her fingers over the smooth metal. She inhaled deeply, recalling the brightest, most secure memories she possessed—the quiet trust between them, the shared laughter over old arguments, the sheer relief of finding peace. She blew gently, smoothly, shaping the molten, honey-gold orb with her breath and intention. Their combined effort, their mingled magic, responded instantly.
Slowly, unmistakably, the first form emerged from the glass.
It was a magnificent creature: a sleek, winged dragon, its coils strong, its wings curved protectively outward. It was proud, undeniably Malfoy, capturing Draco’s fierce loyalty and powerful reserve.
And then, as the glass cooled into crystalline clarity, the second form solidified. Perched delicately on the dragon's back, perfectly balanced as if riding an updraft, was the familiar, playful silhouette of an otter, its head tilted with curiosity, its tail curled with pure, unfettered joy.
Hermione gasped, a soft, astonished laugh escaping her lips, her hand flying to cover her mouth. “Oh.”
Draco stared, his expression unreadable for a moment before something quiet, profound, and profoundly settled took hold in his eyes. He squeezed her fingers gently. “After all the ways we used to fight each other, Granger, this is what we make when we fight the world together. It’s protection.”
The ornament was finished, crystal-clear, the two creatures forever caught mid-flight—an intricate dance of fire and breath, strength and joy. It emitted a faint, pulsing glow from within, like captured starlight.
Hermione cradled it carefully in both hands as the glassmaker wrapped it in soft, dark velvet, the slight lingering heat warming her palms.
“A homemade gift,” she murmured, lifting the wrapped package slightly.
Draco glanced at her, his expression utterly tender, the usual cool distance gone. He reached out and tucked a strand of wind-blown hair behind her ear. “It's the very best kind, Hermione. Because it holds our breath, our strongest memories, and a promise—all in one unbreakable piece of glass.”
They walked on through the market, the lantern light reflecting off the velvet-wrapped shape between them—a fragile, powerful secret held close. Proof that some things, once forged by intention, guided by hand, and fueled by a heart willing to risk everything, were truly meant to last.