Hallelujah - A Christmas Story

A/N: Story is sort of based off of Hallelujah. I know Rufus Waintwright is not the original writer/performed of this song, but this is the version I based the story off of. Go listen to it, it's beautiful. Only certain parts of the song apply to the fic. Enjoy!


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Hallelujah – A Christmas Story
Even the condemned can be pardoned.

I’ve heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music do you?

It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled King composing Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you

She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the hallelujah

Maybe I’ve been here before
I know this room, I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you

I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah

There was a time when you let me know
What’s real and going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?

And remember when I moved in you
The Holy Dark was moving too
And every breath we drew was hallelujah

Maybe there’s a God above
And all I ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you

And it’s not a cry you can hear at night
It’s not somebody who’s seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah

Hallelujah

~ Rufus Wainwright

*

Hermione’s breath materialized in the air as she breathed, coming out in white vapors as she locked up for the night. Her shop was always busy the day before Christmas Eve, people rushing in to purchase the latest novel for their loved ones, the latest guides on flying for their children, the latest books of poems for their lovers, the latest cookbooks for mothers, Quidditch books for dads. Her curled hair hung down beneath her hat. Her maroon pea-coat was wooly and warm, her thick, woolen tights cable-knit under her sleek black skirt.

Hermione Granger did not have a date this December the 23rd, but there was absolutely nothing wrong with dressing up for the hell of it.

She smiled as she turned from her shop, walking down the three porch stairs to the street, humming a song into the night air. She loved the smell of winter, the clear, crisp smell that burnt your nostrils. She was happy to see sporadic snow flakes falling from the Heavens, praying for a white Christmas.

Yes, Hermione Granger was content in her tiny existence.

She was the proprietor of a small, but successful, bookstore. Her best friends were married and expecting bundles of joy that she could spoil rotten with knowledge and learning. The media left her alone, allowing her the freedom that she had never enjoyed in her teenage years.

Life was good, even if she was going home to an empty house.

The snow steadily picked up, sticking to the ground as it covered the path in front of her in soft whiteness. She huddled down inside her coat, knowing that she should just Apparate home, but she could not bear to leave this cozy street with its freezing snow flakes. She looked up into the night sky, smiling at the stars and opened her mouth, catching a flake on her tongue.

Before she knew it, she was colliding with a very warm and very solid body, the force of the collision rocketing her backwards onto the ground. Her skirt flew up and she thanked Circe for thick, black tights, as she was certain that that would have been beyond embarrassing in the summer. She did not notice the strong, masculine hand attempting to help her up as she laughed joyously at her clumsiness.

“I’m terribly sorry. It appears that I wasn’t watching where,” she looked up then, gasping out the rest of her sentence. “I was going.”

Lucius Malfoy towered over her, his leather clad hand still extended in front of him. Hermione bit her lip and looked around her, realizing that they were the only two people on the street. It was later then she realized, probably past midnight and Christmas Eve already.

“I’m not here to harm you.”

Hermione focused back on the gloved hand and stood, brushing the snow from her behind. “Then what are you here for?”

“Ever the suspicious one, aren’t you?”

She stuck out her chin definitely, pride showing in every feature. “There are some that have taught me to be suspicious, Mr. Malfoy. Happy Christmas,” she said with a nod, before sidestepping him and continuing on her way. He turned with her and grabbed her arm, pulling her back into him.

“I haven’t had a Happy Christmas in a while Hermione.”

She looked into his dove gray eyes, his body so close to hers. Their breath mingled in the cold air, the white puffs playing with each other before disappearing into the night. Her lips parted of their own accord and she watched, frozen, as he slowly leaned down into her, his mouth barely touching hers, his lips tentative as they sought out her own.

She abruptly turned her head to the side, his lips smearing off of her mouth and scraping along her cheek. “That was your own making, Mr. Malfoy. I suggest you leave me alone now.”

Lucius closed his eyes, moving his face so that his cheek scraped against the soft skin of her face. “Is that was you want, love? To be left alone? On Christmas Eve?”

She could feel her body trembling, her heart beating wildly against her bones. She was content, happy with her life. She no longer had to worry about him. She no longer had to drag up skeletons from the past. She had moved on.

She had, hadn’t she?

“Yes,” she whispered into the still air, licking her dry lips and clearing her voice. “Yes it is and well you know it.”

Just as abruptly as he had grabbed her he let go, backing up from her on the pavement. They stood staring at each other, his gray eyes hardening as he looked at the resolve on her face.

“Very well then. Happy Christmas,” he inclined his head and turned, Appareting on the spot.

Hermione gasped, leaning up against a light post. Her heart was still beating wildly, fiercely, against her bones. Any second now it was going to leap from her chest.

Dear Gods above, she had almost let Lucius kiss her.

All she needed was her ex-lover back in her life.

*

Lucius prowled his study, a tumbler of Scotch firmly clutched in one hand. Damn it! He should not have done what he just did. How in Merlin’s name was he going to get Hermione back now? She had made it more then clear when she left him why she was leaving him. He had made it more then clear that he did not give a fuck if the ‘damn mudblood’ never came back. He had worked so hard to become a changed man, a better man, and with two words he had ruined his future with Hermione. After two months of sending daily owls with letters pleading for forgiveness, he had given up. It was apparent she did not want him back. She wanted him to leave her alone. And so he had been alone.

It had been the worst Christmas of his life, that night she left him.

He took a drink from his Scotch and grimaced. Damned drink! If he hadn’t been so dependent upon his liquid drug to help him through the nights, he would have realized that he had something right beside him every night that was more then willing to help. Instead of turning to the love of a good woman, he had buried himself in his drink, becoming a man that he had hoped he’d never be.

If Draco could see him now, his offspring would have murdered him.
That was just the problem though. That was the cause for his alcohol fixation. His offspring, his son, was gone. And unlike Hermione, there was no chance of him ever coming back.

He took another drink as he realized that in a day’s time he would have to go to the cemetery. He hated the cemetery, but he especially hated it on Christmas. What good were wreaths and presents to the dead? He knew that these things were really for the survivors, so they could carry on a normal existence, but when your only flesh and blood was gone from this Earth, what kind of existence was that?
He had hoped that he and Hermione would have been able to start a family by now. The dream had gone out the window, just like so many other dreams, when his grief had become such a problem that it overshadowed the life he was living, here and now, with his loved ones that were still alive. Lucius was living in a world full of ghosts, a world full of phantoms. Snape. Draco. Even Narcissa had left him. Even though she hadn’t died, she still had left a hole in him, a phantom of what could have been.

She had been his dream, his protection from a world gone wrong.

During all the years that he had followed that half-blood Riddle, she had stood by his side for better or worse. In the end, though, she could no longer take the responsibility of always being the one who picked up the pieces.

She had left him, emotionally and mentally, long before Potter had destroyed Riddle.

He set his empty glass down on the table, looking into the fireplace. Hermione and he had made love in front of this fireplace once. He looked around the room and sighed. This whole damned place was full of her ghost. The sounds of their joy, their laughter, their rapture echoed off the whole. He could not turn around without feeling her presence. They had christened nearly every room, something Narcissa had been fully against. Sex with her had been a planned affair, while Hermione was the kind of witch that grabbed you by surprised, pulled you into a random room, and had her way with you.

Lucius closed his eyes, rubbing his face with his left hand. He was too old for this, he had lived to long and seen too much to be living in a world of regrets. He had to get her back. He had to have her next to him as he drifted off to sleep.

He had to have her name match his. He longed for her to be his wife, mother of his children.

He longed for her.
*

Hermione sat in her window seat, watching the snow fall down.

Tomorrow she would go spend the night at the Burrow, waking up on Christmas morning to help watch the kids and open presents. She did not mind watching Harry and Ron’s children, respectively, but she longed for ones of her own. There had been a time when she had imagined herself with kids. Children with ash blond curls, dove gray eyes, and pale skin. Naturally they would take after their father in their looks, but their mannerisms would truly be hers. They would shock the Wizarding World when every single little Malfoy ended up in Gryffindor, truly their mother’s children.

There had been a time when she had lived at the Manor, thinking of weddings and nurseries.

That time was past.

She slowly drew the curtain open a little further and then walked to her bed, dropping her burgundy silk robe Lucius had bought her three Christmases ago. She was wearing the silk nightie that matched, her nipples hard against the luxurious fabric.

Gods, she missed him.

She brought a hand up to her cheek, running the fingertips over where his lips had touched her. It had felt good to see him, too good. She had felt that familiar ache of homesickness and knew that she belonged with Lucius. It was more complicated then a matter of belonging and well she knew it.

Turning over, she watched the snow fall, blanketing the earth in purity. If only it were as simple as the snow flakes made it seem. If only it were as simple as blanketing the past with fresh snow, covering the tracks of pain and deceit. If only she could go back in time, preventing the death of Draco Malfoy.

She closed her eyes and willed her body to a blissful state of blankness. She would be like the snow on the ground and she would start over again. She would start over again, even if it weren’t with the man she still, painfully, loved.

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A/N: Thanks for reading. Please review?