Chapter Text
Britain in the winter was dreadful. Snow plows churned up pure white snow with salt, dirt, and bits of trash to create icy, gray-brown lumps piled high along the roads. The dry winter air swirled with raspy coughs and seasonal colds, threatening sinus infection and promising additional misery. Home and business strangled themselves in unending strands of gaudy Christmas lights that flashed brighter and more aggressively every year as if greater holiday spirit equated to higher electrical bills.
Streets and stores became war zones. Shoppers drowned out Bing Crosby or Boyz II Men or whatever popular Christmas cover was playing with loud swearing and shoving as their raw, chapped hands lunged for the season’s latest trendy plastic toy or overpriced electronic that would be forgotten by the end of February. They rushed from terrible children’s Christmas recitals to awkward office holiday parties to tense family gatherings, all while smiling through it in their tacky reindeer sweaters and red dresses that fit a little too tight, insisting this was the most wonderful time of the year even as they poured another hefty glass of wine.
It used to be Hermione’s favorite time of the year. After all, it was the reason she existed.
Once upon a time, she bounced from hearth to hearth, spreading hope in the bleak months and easing winter’s bite by warming homes, filling cupboards, and blessing the fields for the upcoming spring. She’d unite communities, loosen the purse strings of the greedy, and fill the bellies of the hungry. She rewarded the love and generosity of people rather than encouraging this gluttony of excess. She shone as the light in the darkest time of the year.
Unfortunately, modern society had decided that wasn’t enough. Instead, they stripped all that away and replaced her with a caricature of an old, fat man in a red suit that they used as fodder for their capitalism to peddle tooth-rotting soda, cheap trinkets, tacky mall Christmas photos, and promises that joy could be bought with the right payment plan and interest rates.
At least they’d kept the red. Hermione did love red.
Then they casted a misogynist like Tim Allen to portray her. That was when she knew this society was completely irredeemable and beyond hope.
Doomed or not, Hermione still checked her list. Mostly out of habit since it really didn’t matter. Most people didn’t believe in her anymore after the Christmas spirit had been stained by capitalism and bleached by consumerism over the past several decades.
Some children did though. Even if that list grew shorter every year.
Those children believed in generosity without tax breaks or gift receipts and in kindness without instagram like or sponsorship. At least they believed until societal pressures and greed ate away at their innocence in a few short years. Those were the ones she still liked to check on. Rewarding them with that warmth and hope before words like “stocking stuffers” and “white elephant” triggered a rise in blood pressure and the artificial stench of pine and peppermint whittled away whatever patience and good nature they had left.
This year, however, the most peculiar thing happened: a child’s name kept appearing and disappearing on her list.
Dudley Dursley.
He was a portly boy at about seven years old with watery blue eyes and thick blonde hair cut short and manageable. His mother, Petunia, once lined Hermione’s list, alongside her sister, Lily, before both names slowly faded off as they aged and selfish bitterness encroached. His father, Vernon, had never once been on her list.
Vernon Dursley had been born to a family of vain, narrow minded, bigots who worshiped social status, power, and money. He’d worn the same disgusted scowl since he was toddler, mirroring the one of his own father, judging human worth by how big their cars and bank accounts were. His marriage to Petunia only accelerated her downward spiral to the same commercialism chains. By all reasonable projections, it was only a matter of time before the same doomed fate latched on to Dudley.
But names weren’t meant to flicker on and off her list like this.
To be on her list, one had to believe but to also be good. That meant Dudley was either having a very prolonged crisis of faith or identity, something Hermione only ever saw with students in high school or university, or he was deliberately walking a very narrow moral middle ground.
Neither option was developmentally appropriate for a seven year old.
Which was how Hermione found herself standing in the living room of number four Privet Drive on a cold Monday night at the very beginning of December.
Of course, they couldn’t see her. People wouldn’t see her unless she wanted them too. And Hermione hadn’t wanted herself to be seen in a very long time.
The living room was neat but overly decorated. A large fresh tree loomed in the corner, thick in tinsel and overcrowded with ornaments, while its shedding pine needles littered on top of the nylon tree skirt and wrapped presents. Garland and dried out oranges hung along the ceiling, choking the room in a blanket of citrus. An overflowing bowl of peppermints sat in the middle of the coffee table next to a carefully stacked pile of Christmas cards featuring the family stiffly posed and smiling in matching candy cane sweaters. Petunia slid each card into a gold envelope, sealed it with a snowflake sticker seal, and scrawled out an address from her address book while Vernon slouched in his recliner and grunted at a football game droning on from the television.
“We should have just enough poinsettia stamps to send out this first batch tonight.” Petunia said, straightening the already neat pile of envelopes. “I’ll run to the post office first thing tomorrow to pick up more. If I’m lucky, I may just get those limited edition nutcracker stamps everyone’s been going on about.”
Vernon only grunted in reply.
Rolling her eyes, Hermione leaned over to inspect the coffee table. A perfectly usable roll of standard stamps laid untouched next to her address book while the red flower holiday ones dwindled. Of course - why would anyone possibly mail out their Christmas cards without a seasonal stamp? The material excess of this season truly knew no end.
She poked through the pile of envelopes, frowning a bit when she didn’t see one addressed to Petunia’s sister Lily. How odd. They used to be so close. Even with how warped the values this holiday had become, family remained one its most aggressively advertised tenants. Why would she leave her out like this?
A fire crackled in the fireplace where two oversized stockings, one with a reindeer and another snowman sewn on at the top, hung from the mantle.The third stocking was trapped in Dudley’s pudgy fingers as he determinedly shook out the already over-stretched sagging fabric, the cartoonish smiling Santa thrashing about from the assault. He brightened excitedly when something silver and shiny clattered out onto the coffee table.
“Don’t eat that chocolate, Dudley.” Petunia snatched up and pocketed it before her son could throw himself after it.
“But mum!” Dudley flopped back on the couch with a loud whine.
“No whining!” Petunia shot him a shrewd look before softening. “That chocolate is old and has spoiled after a year in the attic. And you’ve already had your dessert for tonight. It’s too close to your bed time.”
“But that’s not fair!” Dudley kicked the coffee table with a loud thump and knocked the pile of carefully stacked envelopes over onto the floor. “I found it!”
“Petunia,” Vernon growled, beady eyes still on the television even as an ad for breakfast wafers played.
“You won’t even like it, Duders.” Petunia’s tone turned sickly sweet. “How about you help yourself to a peppermint instead?”
“I don’t want a peppermint.” Dudley crossed his arms and screwed up his face in a scowl like his father’s. “Peppermints are for old people.”
“You can take two.”
Petunia’s gaze darted over to Veron, her shoulders hunching until Dudley’s eventual nod released the tension with a sigh of relief.
“Delightful, aren’t they?”
Hermione jumped at the voice, spinning around and immediately stiffening when she saw someone else standing in the corner. Someone she hadn’t seen in a long time.
“Bellatrix.” Hermione lifted her chin higher. “What are you doing here?”
Bellatrix smiled, her blood red lips remaining closed. She pushed off the door frame to step further into the room, the loose chains from her shackles around her pale wrists rattling as she moved, the noise muffled ever so slightly from her black corset dress and black fur coat. The flickering flames of the fire glimmered off her onyx eyes and the long horns curling out of her wild dark hair, an ominous reminder of why children and adults alike once warded their home and villages against her.
“It’s our time of the year, is it not?”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Yet our paths haven’t crossed in a decade.”
“A decade?” Bellatrix gave a mock gasp, flashing her sharp canines and pressing a hand to her chest. “Don’t tell me you've forgotten the Great Blizzard of ‘85.”
“That was a decade ago.” Hermione ground out.
“Ah. I suppose it was.” Bellatrix shrugged, a small smile still tugging at her lips before her dark gaze drifted towards Dudley on the couch, currently trying to unwrap two peppermint candies at once. “I don’t suppose you’re here for the little wretch too, are you?”
Hermione frowned. “Wait, is he appearing and disappearing on your list too?”
“Mmhm.” With a quick flick of her talon like black finger nails, a weathered piece of parchment appeared between Bellatrix’s fingers. “Appears he’s back on my list. Makes sense after that display. If only she let the gremlin eat the old chocolate.”
Hermione scoffed. “God forbid a mother try to prevent her son from contracting food poisoning."
“Chocolate has basically no water in it, so it can't harbor bacteria. The sugar can crystallize which can give it a grainy texture, but that’s harmless.”
Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed as she stared at her. “What?”
“It was a special on the Food Network.” Bellatrix shrugged. “What? I got cable. It gets boring when you only work basically one month out of the year, if that.”
Hermione shook her head. Even after all these centuries, this woman remained as insufferable as ever.
“Fine.” Hermione summoned her own faded parchment list and confirmed Dudley was indeed not on her list. “Maybe he’ll stay that way and make it easier for the both of us.”
Bellatrix arched one of her dark sculpted eye brows. “My, my, how hopeful jolly old Saint Nick is this year.”
Hermione gritted her teeth. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? Would you prefer Father Christmas? Kris Kringle? Père Noël? Weihnachtsmann? Noel Baba? Babbo Natale?”
“Stop.” Closing her eyes, Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Why do you always have to make things so difficult?”
With a low, sultry laugh, Bellatrix’s dark eyes flickered red and she grinned, flashing her sharp white teeth. “You think this is difficult? But I haven’t even shoved you in my sack and taken you back to my lair. If you’re really naughty, perhaps I’ll even give you your own set of chains.”
“Good Lord, Bellatrix–”
“What do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas this year, Dudley?”
At Petunia’s words, both women silently spun back to the young boy and watched as he suddenly dropped both peppermint candies to lap and stared silently at where they lay.
“Um…”
“Come now, Duders.” Petunia draped her arm around her son, tucking him into her side. “There must be something that you want. Maybe a new Gameboy? One of those Buzz Lightyear action figures? You know Santa doesn’t have a limit when it comes to you.”
The little blonde boy simply continued staring at his lap, his hands now fidgeting with one another as his mouth opened and closed and his forehead furrowed in intense concentration. Petunia squeezed his shoulder, nodding encouragingly as Hermione and Bellatrix stepped closer, leaning forward, their shoulders nearly brushing against one another.
“Um… I was kinda thinking… maybe…”
“Don’t rush the boy, Petunia.” Vernon snapped, bulldozing straight through the boy’s stuttering. “He has plenty of time to decide.”
“Dry up Dursley, you great prune!” Bellatrix snarled, her dark coal eyes flaring into embers.
Of course Vernon didn’t hear that; none of them did except Hermione. But a chill shook through Dudley and goosebumps spread over Petunia’s arms, but Vernon didn’t so much as flinch. That man didn’t seem to feel much anymore.
“... I don’t know.” Dudley eventually mumbled.
“That’s alright.” Petunia pulled him close and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “How about you tell us whenever you decide, okay?”
“Okay.” Dudley’s fingers continued to twist into each other until he noticed his mother’s watchful gaze, and he quickly sat on them.
“Take all the time you need.” Petunia carefully picked up the two abandoned peppermint candies on his lap, gray lint and black thread now stuck to the red and white surface, and hid them away in a tissue. “How about we get ready for bed, hm?”
“Okay.” Dudley muttered again, slipping his smaller hand into his mom’s. “Good night, Dad.”
Vernon only grunted in reply.
“Interesting.” Hermione pursed her lips as she watched mother and son disappear up the stairs. “What do you think he wanted?”
“Who knows.” Bellatrix shrugged as she squinted back down at her parchment paper with a frown and a short suck of teeth. “Whatever it was, it bumped him off my list.”
“What?” Hermione frowned and peered back down at her own list. “Oh. He’s back on mine. Huh. I wonder what it is that he wants. World peace?”
“Only if that spoiled brat thinks it’s manufactured by Nintendo.” With another flick of her fingers, the list disappeared in Bellatrix’s hand. She rolled her neck over to Vernon and curled her lip in disgust. “Always wonderful to see an engaged parent. Would be a shame if the cable were to go out…”
She raised her hand, but Hermione grabbed her wrist.
“Don’t.”
Bellatrix arched an eyebrow but didn’t pull against Hermione’s hold. The side of her hand and pinky pressed against the cold iron edge of Bellatrix's cuff in a sharp contrast against Bellatrix’s warm skin beneath her palm. Almost too warm, as if her hands were too close to a hot fire. Hermione’s grip tightened reflexively before she realized she was even doing it, but Bellatrix remained still and stoic.
“Why ever not?” Bellatrix asked, her slightly lighter than before.
“He’s clearly uncomfortable around his father.” Hermione said, her attention flickering towards Vernon despite herself. “They both are. Let them have this quiet time alone without him.”
Bellatrix’s dark eyes glowed red as they cut sharply over to Vernon, her nostrils flaring at the sight of him, and for a moment, Hermione wondered if she even had a hope in stopping Bellatrix. She could feel the power radiating within her beneath her skin. But then Bellatrix’s gaze darted towards the stairs and then the pile of envelopes left on the floor, and she exhaled. Her fingers relaxed and wrist went limp, her skin feeling surprisingly soft under Hermione’s touch. Has her skin always been that soft?
“Fine.” Bellatrix finally said.
At that, Hermione released her hold, letting Bellatrix’s hand fall as she shoved her own suddenly cold hand into her coat pocket, unsure of what else to do with it.
Bellatrix rolled her shoulder once, then she dragged her fingers through her dark mane of hair, careful to avoid the rough curves of her obsidian horns almost as if the motion were an indulgent habit. “What do you suggest we do then?”
“We?” Hermione snorted and crossed her arms over chest. “He’s on my list.”
“As of five seconds ago.” Bellatrix scoffed and stepped closer, crowding into Hermione’s space without touching her. “Be realistic. It’s only a matter of time before he’s back on mine. And soon by the looks of it.”
“And then back on mine.” Hermione grumbled and shook her head, her gaze drifting towards the rumpled mess of his abandoned Santa stocking. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a kid this much on the middle ground before. Especially in an environment like...”
“This?” Bellatrix followed her line of sight, her lips curling and nostrils flaring ever so slightly when she saw the cartoonish Santa face on the fabric. But then a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Would be a shame if someone were to give him a little push…”
Hermione’s jaw clench. “Bellatrix…”
“Hermione.”
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as shiver slithered down her spine. No one had said her real name in decades. Maybe even centuries. And to hear it in Bellatrix’s low, sultry tone… it hit like an arctic breeze cutting through a loose knit sweater.
“You can’t seriously be considering pushing a seven-year-old onto the naughty list.”
“Why not? He’s at a pivotal point in his life.” Bellatrix tilted her head, her long black nail drumming against her chin. “I have the time. That and plenty of coal.”
“He needs proper guidance. Encouragement.”
“Guidance and encouragement you’re willing to give?”
Hermione hesitated. “Well, yes, I supposed, but–”
“Wonderful!” Bellatrix’s smile turned sharp. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“No, Bellatrix, wait–”
“School starts at 8:00 AM.” Bellatrix smirked ever wider as she stepped back to dissolve into the shadow of the hall. “Do try not to be late. Children these days are on tight schedules.”
And with that, she was gone.
Hermione stood alone in the living room of number four Privet Drive with the television droning on behind her and Vernon snoring in his recliner next to her. Despite the crackling hearth, a new chill clung to her skin and she shivered once.
To think people once prayed to her. How the gods have fallen.