Ginny could not recall a single moment in her life when she had been unhappy to see a cat. Without fail, the sight of her favorite animal never ceased to lift her spirits. It was a tragedy that she had never owned a cat herself, neither in childhood, due to her father’s severe allergies, nor in adulthood, when her travels as a professional Quidditch player prevented her from caring for a pet the way she would have liked.

Upon entering the cottage that would be her home for the next week and being greeted at the door by a massive, fluffy feline, Ginny’s first reaction was a surge of unbridled pleasure. However, confusion quickly overrode the shocked joy.

The cat’s tail swished against the hardwood floor as Ginny set her trunk down and closed the door fully behind her.

“Hello…” she said. “Are you staying with me this week?”

The cat turned its head as if Ginny had never spoken, and then with a low meow, and the jingle of a hidden bell, trotted out of the foyer and into another room.

Ginny shook her head and finally began removing her outerwear, the heat from the cozy cottage already stifling her in her layers. She was eager to get settled in and explore new outdoor sports. Quidditch was Ginny’s first love, but recent failures in her career and personal life called for a break from familiar routines and activities. Hence her self-issued holiday to spend Christmas alone in the Alps.

A murmuring voice—a male voice—made Ginny pause mid-removal of her coat, her arms trapped in the sleeves.

“What could have possibly spooked a monstrosity like you?” the voice said.

The cat jingle-jangled its way back to the foyer—and right behind it followed Draco Malfoy in a bathrobe.

Ginny’s stomach dropped, her confusion at seeing the cat turning into dismay. For the first time in her life, the presence of her favorite animal in her vicinity was an unwelcome surprise.

---

It was a little known fact that Draco loved snow. He had no explanation for his fascination—at least, not one that he would ever admit out loud. Before he’d gone to Hogwarts, he would sit in front of his window night after night beginning in October, searching the dark grounds for the first snow of the season. At Hogwarts he had hidden his delight with snow from the judgmental sneers of his peers, but he’d been delighted by it nevertheless.

That’s why this year was such a travesty.

The Daily Prophet was calling it “global warming,” a concept borrowed from Muggles, who had all sorts of scientific instruments to measure the insignificant effects of dirty things being emitted into the telosphere. Or something. Draco didn’t actually read those articles because they were boring, and they were about Muggles, who were also boring.

He had waited by his window through October, and then November, and now it was December 21st and Draco had not seen a single flake of snow.

So what was a snow-loving man to do?

Rich snow-loving men booked cabins in the Alps for the week of Christmas just so they could enjoy their favorite weather event during their favorite holiday, and never mind if they must leave their parents behind in wet, non-snowy England.

Draco had expected a relaxing holiday doing his favorite snow things, such as skiing and throwing snowballs at unsuspecting skiers. He had not expected to find Ginny Weasley—war hero, Holyhead Harpies Chaser, sometimes model, and Harry Potter ex—standing in the foyer of his private cabin, arms bound behind her back.

“Ah,” Draco said to Snowball, who had sat down at Draco’s feet now that he had completed his task of alerting his master to the intruder’s presence, “I see what frightened you now.”

His words broke the Full-Body Bind that seemed to overcome Weasley. “Um, what are you doing in my cabin?” she had the audacity to say. At the same time, she began jerking her shoulders, trying to free her arms from the confines of her coat sleeves.

Draco sneered. “Do you hear that, Snowball? Weasley thinks this is her cabin.”

“This is cabin 22, isn’t it? The Royal Suite? I booked this particular cabin for the next seven days. You are in the wrong place.”

“You have identified the cabin correctly, but I’m afraid you are in the wrong place because I have booked cabin 22, the Royal Suite, for this week.”

With a great tug, Weasley finally released herself from her coat and threw it onto the floor with a clatter that scared Snowball off his feet with a vicious hiss.

“Oh! Oh no, I’m so sorry, Snowball!” She crouched down, hand outstretched toward Draco’s legs, behind which Snowball was hiding. Her soothing tone did nothing to calm him, and his puffed up fur made him look three times bigger than he already was.

“Excuse me! Don’t talk to my cat in such a familiar manner!”

Weasley rolled her eyes and stood back up. “Never mind the cat, then. We should go to management immediately to get this sorted.”

Well, that wouldn’t do for Draco at all. He waved a hand at her, shooing her out the door once more. “You go. I was here first. If there’s been a mistake, you go figure it out.”

The glare she shot him was the same exact look captured within the adverts of the Quidditch uniform line she had modeled last year. A pouty, smoldering intensity that gave Draco a thrill—the same thrill he’d felt at school upon seeing a Bludger headed his way while he raced for the Snitch. He hadn’t played a competitive game of Quidditch in years, but one blast of her expression and he was back on the pitch at Hogwarts, the wind surging through his hair, players rushing around him, the Snitch just within his grasp. He could practically feel the cold metal against his fingertips and the brush of its fluttery wings in his palm.

Weasley stomped toward him, brandishing a finger like a sword. “I will not leave this cabin without you! You’ll just lock me out of it, regardless of what management says!”

Draco frowned. “I suppose you’ll continue to be obnoxious until we clear up this matter.”

“You suppose correctly!”

Draco sighed. “Fine. I’ll get dressed. Snowball, guard the interloper.”

She made a sound of objection as he retreated to the bedroom, but he ignored it. Snowball was more than capable of handling a single Weasley.

---

Snowball flicked his tail as he waited for his servant and the orange fur to return. He was an excellent waiter, well-practiced in the sport. The sun shone through a glass door, creating a warm spot on the floor, and Snowball stretched his large body, luxuriating in the heat against his cold paws before curling up for a comfortable nap.

A clamor in the area where the orange fur had appeared earlier awoke him some time later, and his tail jerked in annoyance. He hoped it was his servant returning. Whenever Servant disappeared for a time, Snowball always received food when he returned. He licked his lips and hurried to the sound of the commotion.

The humans were making unhappy sounds that made Snowball’s whiskers twitch.

“No, you leave! I make more money than you, so I get to stay!” said Orange Fur. Her meows were particularly abrasive against Snowball’s sensitive ears.

“How in the hell do you figure that you have more money than I do?” said Servant. Snowball rubbed against his ankles, which usually worked to ease his agitation. It didn’t work this time.

“I said I make more money, and I do because I have an actual job! I don’t sponge off my mummy and daddy!”

“You probably would if your mummy and daddy had any money to spare, but they wasted it all on your eight—”

“I only have six brothers, thank you!”

“Merlin, do you ever stop shrieking?”

Snowball did not enjoy the loud meows, and he was hungry besides, so he nudged his servant harder and yowled to alert him to the impending tragedy of Snowball’s starvation.

In unison but oblivious to Snowball’s doom, Servant and Orange Fur said, “Who do I have to sue to get my cabin back?”

And just like that, the awful bickering stopped and they came apart, staring at each other in alarm instead of at Snowball in adoration as they should have been doing.

"I think I'm going to be sick," said Orange Fur. "If I ever sound like you again, please hex me."

Servant's eyes brightened and his mouth twitched in glee. "Gladly."

Ginny cursed the unhelpful property manager for two boring days during which she and Malfoy held a standoff to see who would step foot outside the cabin first. Ginny feared if she left, Malfoy would lock her out, just as she'd accused him two days ago, and she could only assume he held the same fear because she hadn't seen or heard any sign of him leaving.

Snowball seemed to split his time unevenly between Ginny and Malfoy. More often than not she found him curled up at the foot of her bed or twining himself around Ginny's ankles when she ventured to the kitchen for food. Even though he was a Malfoy by adoption, she enjoyed Snowball's company, especially since this was the first Christmas she would spend alone, and Ginny doubly enjoyed the fact that Malfoy's cat seemed to prefer Ginny over him.

By December 23rd, despite the cat cuddles, Ginny had grown resentful of Malfoy for being the catalyst that kept her cooped up inside on her holiday, so she set out of her room in search of him to tell him once and for all that he had better accept that they would be sharing the cabin.

If only she could find him.

Snowball kept pace with her as she searched from room to room, tripping her on occasion as he wound between her legs, but Malfoy was absent.

It dawned on Ginny as she meandered back into the kitchen in confusion that the reason Snowball had spent so much time with her the past two days was because Malfoy had not been participating in The Great Cabin Standoff of 2006. The wanker had been leaving the cabin all along! He probably didn't even bother sneaking out because the cabin was large enough for the two of them to coexist without running into each other. The silence should have tipped her off, but she'd spent that whole time fuming over her ruined Christmas plans and distracted by Snowball.

Ginny rushed around her room as she searched for her as-yet-unpacked snow gear, tossing it all on as quickly as possible to make use of the remaining daylight. She and her rented skis ascended up the mountain on a chairlift less than fifteen minutes later.

And who did Ginny stumble across, butt planted in the snow, when she reached her destination? Draco Malfoy himself.

---

Draco had a particular fondness for the moment at the top of a run when he pushed off with his ski poles and allowed gravity to pull him down the mountain. There was a certain thrill in that one instant when he relinquished control to the earth, to the slope, to the forces of nature. Maybe a peculiar thrill because Draco hated not being in control. He'd never tolerated being controlled in his youth, whether that was by a peer or an authority figure, but ever since the war, since the mission that got him initiated into the Death Eaters and the year that had followed in which the Dark Lord had held his parents under his ophidian thumb, loss of agency was not something that Draco handled particularly well.

But instead of feeling confined, skiing gave him a sense of freedom. Yes, the gravity controlled him, but Draco could still manipulate his course. In fact, he had to lest he sail directly into a tree or a ravine. There was the moment he pushed off when Draco gave up his agency willingly, and then a few moments later during the descent when he wrested that control back. It was poetic in a way his life wasn't, and it delighted him almost as much as the snow on which he skied.

There was something delicious about watching other people in that moment of descent as well. It was hard to determine expressions when skiers wore goggles that covered half their faces and balaclavas that covered the other half, but years of study had made Draco an expert observer.

Some people hesitated as soon as they pushed off, their arms waving, too frightened of face-planting to dig their ski poles back into the snow to stop themselves. Some people's legs wobbled, knees knocking together, skis crossing. Some pushed off as hard as they could, as enthralled with the thrill as Draco and craving more of it.

The best part of watching other people ski was throwing snowballs at them just as they pushed off and engineering a new reaction all together.

Draco had spent his morning skiing, but now he had claimed a spot in the snow, a light warming charm on his bum to keep him comfortable. He snickered as he threw snowball after snowball at unsuspecting skiers, professionals and beginners alike, adults and children—he didn't discriminate.

His fun was ruined when he got pelted in the face by a rogue snowball. Spluttering as he wiped ice out of his nose and eyes, he craned his neck in search of his assaulter and growled at the sight of Weasley's red hair marring the pristine white landscape.

"You!" they said at the same time.

"Why didn't you—tell me you were—leaving!" Weasley said, heaving snow at Draco in between her words.

Draco dodged each attack as he climbed to his feet and trudged toward her. The onslaught didn't cease, so he bent to build his own arsenal of snowballs before he became completely soaked in melted ice.

"What I do—is—none—of your business!"

They stood a whole twenty feet apart, lobbying snowballs at each other as if deep in battle rather than standing in open snow at the top of a ski slope.

Draco used his wand to heft a Quaffle-sized snowball through the air, aiming it directly at Weasley's unprotected middle.

Well, he felt a moment of pure satisfaction as the giant snowball propelled her backward, a look of horror on her face.

But as Weasley disappeared down the slope—arms flapping like mad, a scream ripped from her throat—the satisfaction, the delight, the joy that Draco had experienced all afternoon while pelting skiers with snow did not manifest. Instead, dread pooled in the pit of his stomach, and before he could even think what to do next, his body was moving, jumping onto his skis, which strapped themselves to his feet like magic, and then descended down the mountain in pursuit of a Weasley.

---

The cabin was blissfully quiet until Snowball's servant and the orange fur returned, though in a much quieter fashion than usual.

Snowball's ears turned in the direction of the main door opening, of the softly murmuring meows that filled the front hall. Orange Fur had set out a heaping bowl of warmed food for him before she had left, and now Snowball was too sleepy to investigate the new sounds further. He put his head back down on his paws and snorted, relishing in the last rays of the sun soaking him with their warmth. Once the sun disappeared, he'd find a fireplace to lay before or an occupied bed to cohabit.

Servant and Orange Fur came to him anyway, but he didn't bother to open his eyes.

"Just put me on the sofa. I don't need you to carry me all the way up to my room!" Orange Fur said in an exasperated manner.

"What am I doing carrying you at all?"

"Don't ask me, Malfoy! I didn't ask you to!"

The sofa cushions squeaked as a weight pressed into them, and then there was a sigh.

"This is your fault."

"You threw the first snowball."

Another sigh. "You're right."

"Really?"

A pause as Orange Fur struggled to answer. Snowball's ears twitched in anticipation.

"Thank you," she said, her meows a bit strangled, a bit muffled. Then, more softly, "Why did you come after me?"

Snowball opened his eyes now. The sun had finally become obscured by the landscape, which sent a chill through his bones all the way to the tip of his fur. Stretching, he rose from the floor and jumped onto the sofa. Orange Fur laughed as Snowball kneaded her stomach and turned, looking for the softest, warmest place to curl up.

As he did so, Servant meowed, "I didn't want to be responsible for the Harpies' star Chaser's demise. Can you imagine what a stain that would have been on my spotless reputation?"

The corners of Orange Fur's lips lifted. "Quite the stain."

"Exactly. So excuse me for saving myself the headache of the public's censure. It was difficult enough to endure the first time around."

Orange Fur rolled her eyes. "Fine then. You didn't want blood on your hands. Why carry me all the way back up the mountain when I'd already healed my ankle before you'd reached me?"

Servant looked away, the reflection of the flames from the fireplace crackling within his eyes in a mesmerizing fashion. Orange Fur seemed to think so as well because when Snowball looked, she was equally as transfixed by the sight.

"It would have been a shame if you'd injured it again."

"Would it? I thought you might have enjoyed seeing me in pain."

Servant stood, his paws clenching at his sides. "I enjoy watching you fly, Weasley."

Silence spread between them as their gazes connected and locked, and it was no surprise to Snowball that Servant was the one to break the silence and his gaze first. He was terrible at the no blinking game. Snowball always won.

"I was thinking only of myself, I assure you. The second to last thing I need is Gwenog Jones sending me Howlers because I ruined her favorite Chaser's ability to play."

Servant took a step as if to leave, but then Orange Fur opened her mouth. "It doesn't matter anyway. I ruined our chances at the playoffs. I'm sure Gwenog wouldn't care if I did injure myself. I already let her down enough this season."

"I'm sure you're wrong," Servant said, and then before Orange Fur could stop him again, he departed.

Snowball was halfway asleep when Orange Fur began scratching his head, and when he blinked at her, drowsy from his earlier meal and the good pets, she was staring into the fire, a small frown on her face as she contemplated the warmth.

On Christmas Eve, Ginny began to regret her hasty retreat to the Alps.

She woke up to an unfamiliar owl perched on her bedpost, blinking at her with the patience of a saint. The owl delivered Christmas cards from her family and a letter from her mother lamenting her absence at Christmas dinner later that night and breakfast the next morning.

Ginny could practically smell the honeyed-ham roasting in the oven and the ginger from the gingerbread biscuits her mother baked for the children to decorate (Ginny always snagged a handful before Victoire and Dominique consumed them all behind their parents’ backs). Her stomach grumbled just thinking about the meal she’d be missing and the one (or lack of one) she could look forward to. With Malfoy. Hopefully not with Malfoy.

Once her mouth began to water, Ginny stared suspiciously at her mother’s letter before she pressed her nose to the parchment and sniffed. With an aggravated growl, she tossed it aside and climbed out of bed. It was just like Molly to enchant her letter to emit comforting scents to entice Ginny to come home!

She shooed the owl out the window and hobbled over to the armchair by the fire to don her housecoat. As she’d told Malfoy the night before, her ankle had completely healed with Ginny’s spell, but it never hurt to be too careful, especially when her career was on the line.

Her mother meant well, and it wasn’t that Ginny didn’t miss her family, too, especially on the one holiday of the year when all of the Weasleys managed to gather together under the same roof. She’d seen Charlie, in town from Romania, for a brief moment before she’d whisked herself away to Switzerland. And even though Bill no longer worked in Egypt, Ginny’s travels with the Harpies hardly gave her any time to see him and Fleur and the children anymore.

But this trip wasn’t about her family. It was about Gwenog dressing her down in the locker room after their last match a week ago, making it more than obvious that their coach considered Ginny the reason for the team’s failure. It was about twenty-seven attempts at a goal and missing every single shot because the entire game Ginny’s mind had been on Harry and not on Quidditch. It was about Harry himself and how embarrassed he would have been to see her, how awkward the two of them would have been together, if they had had to endure each other’s company at the Burrow for Christmas.

She couldn’t ask Harry not to come over to celebrate. It wouldn’t have been fair to him as someone with no family of his own, and Ginny’s parents sincerely wanted him there. They wanted everyone there. But that just wasn’t going to work this year, so Ginny pre-emptively removed herself from the equation. That seemed to be the most fair solution.

In the kitchen, Malfoy stood next to a woman wearing a white uniform. She took notes on a clipboard as he recited a list to her, and it was only as Ginny drew nearer that she could understand his words.

“Pudding should be light and traditional, don’t you agree, Lina?”

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy.”

“There should be chocolate mousse, because I love chocolate, or an airy sponge cake, because who doesn’t love sponge cake? What would you recommend for a traditional Swiss Christmas pudding?”

The kitchen hand, Lina, looked up from her clipboard in thought.

“Gingerbread biscuits,” Ginny said automatically.

Lina and Malfoy looked at her, noticing her for the first time.

Ginny’s cheeks reddened at their inspection. She hadn’t meant to interrupt, but now that she had.... “You have to have gingerbread biscuits at Christmas.”

Malfoy stared at her for a second longer before waving a hand dismissively at her. “Fine. Gingerbread biscuits, please, Lina, and whatever traditional Swiss dessert you like best.”

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy. Dinner will be sent up at 7:00pm precisely.”

Now that Lina was leaving, the realization of what she and Malfoy were talking about finally sunk in, and Ginny couldn’t curb her annoyance at Malfoy’s gall to plan a Christmas dinner knowing that Ginny had nowhere else to go that evening. She had been hoping that she and Malfoy would just ignore any Christmas festivities altogether, since they certainly weren’t going to share their holiday joy with each other, even if Ginny had any joy to share. Malfoy planning a dinner party without consulting her first just blackened her opinion of him further, erasing whatever positive feelings his actions and their discussion after her skiing mishap yesterday had engendered in her.

Malfoy’s lips hovered on the verge of a smug smile. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Why do you say anything is the matter with me?”

“Your fists are clenched so tightly, I can see how white your knuckles are underneath all those freckles.”

“Oh?”

He came closer to her, and somehow Ginny hadn’t noticed how tall he was until he was right there in front of her. After four days of cohabiting and more than one nose-to-nose argument, it seemed strange that she hadn’t noticed how much he loomed over her until now.

“There’s no need to pretend you aren’t angry. It’s blazing in your eyes. It’s imprinted in your forehead—here.”

He swiped a finger across her brow, which was indeed creased with tension. Ginny tried to relax her face.

“When were you going to tell me you were planning a dinner party?”

“Is it a dinner party if only two people attend?”

Her eyes narrowed. “When were you going to tell me you were planning a dinner date?”

Malfoy’s eyebrows rose, but the smugness didn’t leave his near-smile. He stared at her, his eyes sparkling in interest. “Is that what I’ve done?”

“I just caught you in the act!”

“Would you still call it a dinner date if you were the one invited?”

“Invited! I—I—I wasn’t invited to anything!”

Malfoy’s head dropped, his voice lowering with it until he seemed to be sharing an intimate secret just with Ginny. “You didn’t give me a chance to, did you? I was waiting until the menu was prepared.”

Heat flashed through Ginny’s whole body, settling uncomfortably in her cheeks and ears. She took a step backward and tripped over Snowball on his way to investigate the hubbub in the kitchen, but she was prevented from falling when Malfoy grabbed her arm, steadying her.

“Don’t read too much into this. You’re the one who called it a date, not me. Just because I’m not home with my family doesn’t mean I’m not going to celebrate Christmas this year, and I’m certainly not going to let your presence stop me.”

He released her arm and headed for the stairs that would take him to his half of the cabin, Snowball jingling along behind him and meowing pitifully.

Ginny spun on her heel, and as the shock of Malfoy’s declaration began to wear off, outrage set in.

“I understand wanting to celebrate regardless, but why do I have to be there?” she asked his back.

Without stopping, he waved at her carelessly and called over his shoulder, “Maybe I’m infected with the Christmas spirit. See you at seven.”

Malfoy disappeared from view, and Ginny stomped back up to her room, grumbling about other things with which Malfoy was probably infected.

Draco didn’t expect Weasley to show up for dinner, but he was—Pleasantly? He’d have to thoroughly analyze and identify his reaction later—surprised when she entered the dining room in dress robes of midnight blue that shimmered with crystals resembling a cascade of frost.

He had no trouble identifying the breath that caught in his throat at the sight of her.

“You look festive,” she said when she finally noticed Draco. This was, of course, after she glanced over the feast spread out on the table between them, eyeing the new and familiar dishes that would make up their Christmas supper.

Draco managed not to nervously smooth out his own dress robes—green for the season and his family’s colors.

“You look….” Draco began to say, but words failed him. If he spoke the truth, he would have to compliment her, and he just couldn’t stomach the idea at the moment. Dressed the way they were and sharing his favorite holiday, it seemed too intimate to be needlessly kind. He didn’t want to give Weasley any ideas that the holiday had softened him.

Never mind that words had truly failed him. There were no words to describe the sparkle of her gown or the enticing allure of the freckles revealed on her shoulders by the sweeping neck of her robes. He wondered if her family normally dressed up for Christmas (which he found doubtful unless they enjoyed pretending they were the kind of family that could afford to dress up for family gatherings), and if not why she had chosen to tonight.

Seemingly awkward due to Draco’s incomplete thought, Weasley’s cheeks reddened, and Draco was mesmerized by her visible blush.

“I was afraid I’d made a mistake by overdressing,” she said.

“Not at all,” was all Draco could say in reply, his mouth somewhat parched. He found nothing to insult about her clothes, so he gestured at the table. “Have a seat.”

They claimed the seats nearest to them, which meant they sat at opposite ends of the long table. This was good, Draco thought. Distance was good. He’d sent Lina and the servers away as soon as they’d laid dinner out, preferring to serve himself and take his time with his meal, but now Draco almost wished someone had stayed behind. What on earth did Draco and Weasley have to talk about?

Snowball seemed to have sensed Draco’s unease, because the high tinkling sound of his bell drew closer to the dining room. A massive feline head popped up over the edge of the table, accompanied by paws, as Snowball stood on his hind legs to peer at all the goodies he planned to eat.

Draco tried to swat him away with his napkin but ultimately rolled his eyes when Snowball licked his lips and refused to budge.

Weasley laughed and reached over to pinch a piece of ham off the serving platter before her. Her hand lowered under the table, and the hungry cat chirped as he rushed to her offering.

Draco levitated the bottle of wine he’d chosen to accompany their meal into the air, eyebrow arching in inquiry at Weasley.

She smiled and raised her glass in answer.

The wine poured itself, and then Draco cast another spell on the tableau of food, which prompted knives and forks and plates to come to life, serving Draco and Weasley in lieu of human hands.

Draco tried his very best to smother the warmth that filled his chest at Weasley’s pleased smile. He then attempted to drown that warmth with food and drink, until he, Weasley, and Snowball all sat back with satisfied purrs, allowing their stomachs to rest before tackling the challenge of dessert.

Weasley lifted her—third—glass of wine to her lips, eyeing Draco over the rim as she took a sip.

The meal had been silent but companionable, no pressure to speak for the sake of conversation, no need to comment on the scrumptiousness of the food because it was, indeed, too scrumptious for words.

But now that the main course of the meal had concluded, Weasley opened her mouth, and Draco found that he didn’t mind. Perhaps he had had two too many glasses of wine himself to mind.

“I think it’s obvious why I’ve exiled myself this Christmas, but do you usually spend the holiday alone?”

Draco had stuffed himself with food and drink in an attempt to douse the flame that had lit inside his chest, but the alcohol had exacerbated the heat, fanning it into a tender flame that warmed his whole body, from ears to toes.

“No,” he said, too full to tell her to mind her own business, too comfortable and drowsy to lie. “Do you usually wear dress robes to Christmas dinner?”

She covered her mouth to try to stifle her burst of laughter. “Absolutely not.”

Her eyes sparkled, and maybe it was the alcohol that put color in her cheeks and a smile on her lips, but Draco appreciated them all the same, whatever had caused them.

“Meow,” Snowball said, drawing Draco’s attention away from the end of the table. He stood next to Draco’s chair, paw extended to pat Draco’s elbow in gentle entreaty.

“Poor baby,” Weasley said with an exaggerated pout. “Do you think he had enough to eat between the two of us feeding him under the table?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Apparently not.”

He stood, ignoring Snowball’s desperate pleas for food, and grabbed the second bottle of half-finished wine with one hand while withdrawing his wand from a pocket and summoning their coats with his other. He didn’t have to ask Weasley to meet him at the door that led to the back deck of the cabin. She seemed in tune enough with him to realize his intentions, enough to grab both of their wine glasses from the table before heading outside.

Draco set the bottle down on a low table to help Weasley with her coat before donning his own, and he did his best not to let his fingers linger on her shoulders too long.

Once they were properly adorned, they took a seat on chairs around the table, the light from the inside of the cabin spilling outside through the glass wall and covering them like an immaterial blanket.

Snowball scratched at the glass, tail flicking in agitation to join them. Weasley laughed at the sight of him, and Draco made a new discovery—he didn’t hate her laugh. It was warm and sincere and—dare he admit it?—infectious. His own smile was hard to contain upon hearing it.

Weasley refilled their glasses, clinking them together in a toast before drinking.

It was too cold to be sitting outside without a fire or at least a heating charm, but Draco liked it. He liked the feel of his body wracked with shivers, the utter awareness of his own limbs that plagued him. He loved the snow and the cold because it made him feel alive. Not too many years ago, Draco had woken up each day soaked in fear and dreading living. Now, he wanted to take every advantage to enjoy his life for as long as he was able.

Right now, he was miraculously enjoying Ginny Weasley’s company.

“So what’s the real story behind the dress robes?” Draco asked.

“If you must know,” she replied, staring at her lap to avoid his gaze, “I had this grand idea of going to the resort’s Christmas party and finding a bloke to make out with and forget all about Harry what’s-his-name Potter.”

“You literally just said his name.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose. “I am literally not in the mood, Malfoy.”

“Fine. Sore topic, I see.”

“And what about you? Care to share what you’re really doing all alone for Christmas?”

“I’m not alone, am I?” Draco asked.

He wished they had a little more light because her face was sure to be flushed even darker, and it was a shame for him not to be able to see it. But a smile curved her lips, reluctant and amused, so maybe he hadn’t embarrassed her as much as he hoped.

“I hardly think Snowball is acceptable company for a holiday about being with your loved ones.”

Ah, so either she’d mistaken his meaning or she’d chosen to ignore it.

“Is that what Christmas is about?” he asked, unable to hide the bitterness from his tone. “My parents seem to think Christmas is about selecting a wife.”

“What?” Weasley’s brow furrowed, and she fidgeted in her seat. Maybe she thought this holiday had been an elaborate scheme on Draco’s part to win her over as his wife. As if.

“The war frightened them, my father especially. The thought that the Malfoy line could have ended just like that—” Draco clapped, the sound sharp against the quiet night. “They’ve been particularly aggressive this year on the marriage front.”

“You don’t want to be married?”

Draco shrugged. “I’m not opposed to marriage. As long as it’s to the right person.”

Weasley tilted her head and leaned back in her chair, making herself comfortable again. “How will you know you’ve found the right person?”

“I don’t know, Weasley. I’m obviously no expert. I suppose I’ll just know.”

She smiled. “Like magic.”

He didn’t know how to verbalize to someone like her all the difficulties of finding a life partner he could trust. She’d grown up in a house full of people, with more siblings than Draco could count. But Draco had always been alone, had never had to share, had always been given privacy and space. He couldn’t imagine parting with his comforts unless the person he chose to marry enhanced his solitude instead of intruding on it.

Her idea of love as magic was a fairytale. Draco knew it couldn’t be like that, not for him, not with so many expectations heaped on his shoulders. Marry the right woman (“right” as in the right bloodline, the right family), carry on the family name with an heir (male, of course), preserve the Malfoy legacy by any means necessary (a legacy Draco no longer looked up to, a legacy dripping in blood and disgrace and fear).

She had the luxury of falling in love like magic. Draco could only stall until he found a woman he could tolerate within the parameters set for him.

For a moment, the wine and conversation had been enough to keep the cold at bay, but in the face of the stark reality of his future, the chill began to sweep back in, inching under Draco’s skin along with sobriety.

“Come on,” Weasley said, her whole body violently trembling now, too. “Let’s go decorate the gingerbread biscuits and warm up.”

Draco took that as code for we need more wine, and he did not disagree.

They stood and retreated back to the warmth of the cabin, scalding but welcome after the frigid outdoors. Snowball greeted them with an impatient yowl, twining around their legs in an effort to trip them and thus slowing them down enough to listen to his complaints. Before they could finish removing their coats, a knock sounded at the front door, making them pause and look at each other in confusion. Even Snowball quieted down, ears perky and alert.

Draco went to the door and tossed his coat on the coat rack, half-expecting the property manager to be standing on the threshold with an apology and a free cabin for Weasley to move into for the rest of her visit.

Disappointment at the thought surged through Draco for just a moment—until the identity of the man on the other side of the door registered and dread settled in instead.

“Harry?” Weasley said as she came up behind Draco.

Standing with his mouth agape, green eyes wide in alarm, lightning bolt scar half-hidden under unruly black hair—it was indeed Harry what’s-his-name Potter.

All of Snowball’s fur stood on end when Servant opened the door. A gust of chilly wind blew in, sending the stranger’s scent straight in Snowball’s direction.

He smelled like… danger.

Snowball poked his head between Servant’s legs and hissed at the newcomer. The tension in Servant’s body made Snowball’s whiskers itch, so he rubbed himself up against Servant’s ankles in an attempt to soothe both himself and his minion.

The Danger stepped into the cabin and closed the door gently behind him. He ruffled his dark head fur, the action making it stand on end. “I—er—well, this wasn’t what I was expecting, I’ll admit.”

“What?” Orange Fur snapped.

Snowball heartily approved of her display of aggression. Someone needed to show The Danger he wasn’t welcome! Now it was Servant’s turn to indicate his displeasure… and Snowball hoped he used his teeth and claws.

The Danger shook his head. “How long have you two—I mean, I guess it’s not my business. I’m just surprised, is all.”

Servant and Orange Fur looked at each other. “Us?” they meowed in unison. “We’re not together!”

“There was a mistake,” Orange Fur continued. “This—” She waved her paw through the air, apparently indicating herself, Servant, and the cabin as a whole. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.”

Orange Fur and The Danger didn’t notice when Servant backed away, slinking to the stairs to flee the appearance of a threat by drawing the least amount of attention possible. But Snowball noticed. In fact, Snowball was very good at slinking away from danger himself, having perfected his technique after multiple unexpected visits from the cold female Servant called “Mother.” He could only assume Servant had learned the evasive maneuver from his truly.

Instead of Orange Fur defending her territory and attacking The Danger until he, too, ran away, her meows softened and she stepped aside, inviting The Danger further in!

Agitated by her actions, Snowball paced between the door and the stairs, uncertain of what he should do. His instincts told him that he needed to stay and keep an eye on The Danger, give him a good hiss and sharp swipe every now and then so he didn’t forget he wasn’t wanted. If only Servant had marked Orange Fur with his scent. That for sure would have driven The Danger away, and then Snowball wouldn’t need to supervise the situation.

But the other side of Snowball, the side he hated to admit existed, was compelled to follow Servant to make sure he was okay. Not because Snowball felt any affection for his caretaker of course. Snowball knew that if anything happened to Servant, Snowball’s quality of life would severely decline. He wasn’t ready to give up his comfortable cat tower and his favorite window in which he liked to perch and watch rabbits hop around in the garden and the gourmet food he enjoyed without the inconvenience of catching or preparing it himself. He wasn’t ready to go back to digging in rubbish bins for scraps to eat. He just wasn’t cut out for that kind of rough and tumble life!

Conscience (something Snowball hadn’t been aware he had), or maybe his fear of the future, won out in the end. He dashed up the stairs and down the corridor to Servant’s room, where he found him sprawled on the bed.

“Meow,” Snowball said.

Servant did not acknowledge his presence.

“Meow,” Snowball insisted.

Servant remained still and silent.

Alarm propelled Snowball onto the bed, his cries becoming more concerned as he inspected Servant for injury or death.

Thankfully, he swatted him away and sat up, his annoyance palpable. But now that Snowball was no longer within reach of licking his face, Servant drew him into his lap and petted him the way he loved to be pet: one paw behind the ears and the other at the base of his tail. Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch….

Snowball’s eyes closed in bliss, and for an extended moment, he forgot all about The Danger. Servant didn’t let him forget for long, though.

“Saint Potter ruining my holiday....” he grumbled. “Probably thinks he’s going to get Weasley back or something. Who does he think he is anyway? Father Christmas?” An irritated blast of air shot out of his nose, ruffling the fur on Snowball’s fluffy tail. “Who gave him the right to come here, and….”

Servant’s voice drifted off, his displeasure too great to vocalize, apparently.

“Meow,” Snowball said again.

Servant seemed to understand because he grunted in embarrassment before flattening his paw and stroking the length of Snowball’s body.

Both of their ears swiveled toward the door as a sound from downstairs drifted up to them. Snowball recognized it as the sound that was made when he accidentally locked himself inside a room, usually by playing with his toys in doorways.

Servant jumped to his feet. “I can’t believe it. She left.” There was a plaintive note in his voice, not unlike Snowball’s cries whenever Servant disappeared from home in the morning.

Snowball followed him out of the room, the jingle bell on his collar an inappropriately happy melody considering the devastation emanating from Servant’s body. Whiskers itching, he tried to moderate his steps to keep the bell from ringing so discordantly, but the stairs made his good intention nearly impossible.

Orange Fur stood in the middle of the living room, her arms wrapped around herself as she stared out of the glass back door and watched the snow fall heavily on the deck. The Danger was nowhere to be seen, but his acrid scent of peril lingered like an unscooped litterbox.

Snowball ran up to Orange Fur, rubbing his face against her calves in a plea for pets. She hadn’t left after all! Maybe Servant wouldn’t be sad anymore now. Not that Snowball cared if he was…. Not that Snowball really cared if she stayed, either!

She turned to Servant and smiled at his surprised expression.

“Potter left?” As she nodded, he composed himself, the surprise turning into indifference. But Snowball could feel the truth in his whiskers. He wasn’t indifferent at all. “What did he want?”

“To apologize for breaking up with me mere days before such an important match and to beg me to come home.”

“Why didn’t you go with him, then?”

Her smile transformed into something a little more mischievous. Snowball approved of all such expressions. “And leave you here all alone?”

“I’m not alone.”

She took a step closer to him, and Snowball darted away before he got himself kicked.

“A cat is hardly good company for Christmas.”

Snowball’s tail twitched. He did not appreciate her bad opinion. He was excellent company for all things, including Christmas. Whatever that was.

“Are you saying you want to stay here with me instead?”

“Would that be outrageous?”

They were standing so closely now, Snowball wouldn’t have fit between their bodies even if he was wanted there. Instead, he jumped up onto the back of the sofa where he had a better view of their confrontation.

Servant blinked slowly, taking his time to answer. He and Orange Fur were locked together in a battle of gazes, staring at each other in a way that could never be misconstrued as aggression. In fact, they were throwing off scents that made Snowball frankly a little uncomfortable.

“No,” he finally answered. “I wouldn’t be outraged if you wanted to stay.”

“Good.” And then Orange Fur rose up onto the tips of her toes and pressed her face against Servant’s.

Snowball turned his head as he tried to make sense of what they were doing. Their arms wrapped around each other, their breaths became labored, and when their heads parted, it was only for a moment before they mashed them into each other again. They stayed locked in this strange embrace for a while, long enough for Snowball to become concerned. He did not like this at all.

“Meow! Meow meow… meow?”

Without untangling himself from Orange Fur, Servant reached down to the sofa for a decorative pillow. “Piss off, cat!” he said just as he launched the pillow straight at Snowball.

Furious at this insulting behavior, Snowball jumped to the floor and hissed at his ungrateful servant. Was this how he deserved to be treated after he’d attempted to protect their territory from The Danger and then comforted Servant in his three minutes of despair?

Skulking off, he intended to find a warm place to curl up for an anger nap. But then Snowball's nose flared as he passed the dining room. The remains of the human dinner had not yet been cleared away, leaving plenty of ham and turkey and mushy things that only tasted good because they were forbidden. He glanced back toward the living room, but Orange Fur and Servant were still locked around each other, their inattention a perfect opportunity for Snowball to eat to his heart's content.

And then throw up in Servant's bed.

Ginny sat up in bed, a scream idling at the top of her throat like a timid skier hesitating at the peak of an advanced slope. Instead of releasing the scream, a sigh fell out instead as a rush of relief warmed her body.

A dream. It had all been a dream. Harry showing up at the cabin, Ginny sending him away, the snogging she’d initiated with Malfoy… all a wonderful, horrific, non-realistic dream.

Ginny would never choose to spend her Christmas with Draco Malfoy, surely. Especially not if Harry had traveled all this way to ask her to come home. She would never willingly kiss Malfoy for hours, never let him press her into a sofa with his solid body, never let him shove his tongue into her mouth or his hands under her shirt…. And surely if she had let all that happen, Ginny would never actually enjoy it!

She threw the blankets aside and shoved her feet into her slippers, but she froze as she noticed the pile of gifts at the foot of her bed. Christmas had come, which meant that yesterday had been Christmas Eve. Dinner, Harry, snogging—the memories of the day before spun through her mind in a whirlwind. Not a dream! her brain shrieked at her. Red alert! It wasn’t a dream!

“No! No no no no no!” she moaned, her head falling into her hands.

Had she really chosen Malfoy over Harry last night? Had she really let Malfoy touch her?

Did she want him to do it again?

The sudden warmth that flooded her body at the thought suggested she did.

No. She wasn’t going to act on such a ridiculous desire. (The fact that she desired him at all was alarming enough to send her to therapy for sure.) They hadn’t done anything more than snog and grope like horny teenagers, and they certainly weren’t going to do it again. Ginny would make sure of it.

She’d just have to avoid Malfoy for the rest of her stay. Yes, that was the perfect plan. Ginny would just stay up here in her room until it was time for her to leave three days from now.

A distant sound resonated through the cabin from downstairs, and Ginny’s head lifted, trying to make it out. It happened again, and she realized someone was at the front door. Knocking. If she ignored it, surely they would go away.

But they didn’t. The knocks rang out in groups of threes—twice—thrice—quadruple times—each knock growing louder and more insistent than the last.

“Oh, all right already!” Ginny growled.

She prowled down the stairs and to the front door, but froze as another hand reached for the doorknob at the same moment she did.

Glancing up, she met Malfoy’s gaze, and all her convictions upon waking melted away like old snow. Her face heated at the memory of his hands on her. She’d let Malfoy touch her breasts. She’d let him dry hump her. Even worse… she’d dry humped him back!

Ginny could now answer the question of whether she wanted him to touch her again, but even more than that, Ginny wanted to die of mortification.

---

Draco knew exactly what Weasley was thinking when her face turned an utterly fascinating shade of red. Even her ears, peeking out from the fall of her equally red hair, were the same hue as a Quaffle.

The fact that he knew what she was thinking about only made Draco think about it, too. Now that his thoughts were drawn to last night’s hijinks, the entirety of Draco’s body burst into flames. His face had to be as red as hers. His hand, sitting on top of hers on the doorknob, was trembling as much as hers was.

“Malfoy—” Weasley said softly, but she was interrupted by another blasted knock on the door.

Draco wanted to know what she was going to say, but they had to get rid of the disturbance first. As he turned her hand, which turned the doorknob, he prayed to whichever deities wizards believed in that Potter hadn’t returned to plead his case again.

Weasley had chosen to stay at the cabin. With Draco. He’d tossed and turned in bed all night long as he tried to understand her choice. Potter had come and apologized for his misdeeds. He’d begged her to return to England with him. By the formula of Potter’s blessed life, she should have forgiven him and left with him. He should have been the victor.

But she’d stayed with Draco. Not only had she stayed, she’d kissed him. Touched him. Let him touch her. And worst of all… he’d enjoyed himself.

He just didn’t understand it.

Draco shoved a curious Snowball aside with his foot. Then the door swung open to reveal Mr. Gotti, the harried property manager he and Weasley had spoken to days ago upon realizing the cabin had been double-booked.

“Halo!” Mr. Gotti said, face red from exertion. He quickly turned his mid-air knock into an awkward wave.

“Mr. Gotti…. Won’t you come in?”

Draco side-eyed Weasley for her formality, and she shrugged with bewilderment.

“No, no, I won’t stay long,” Mr. Gotti said, panting in between words. He must have hiked all the way up to their cabin from the management office. Either that (and this hypothesis seemed most likely to Draco) or he’d put as much strength as possible into his knocks in order to get their attention.

“I just came to tell you that another guest canceled their reservation. I have an available cabin! I apologize once again for the inconvenience. Of course, both of you will receive a deduction for your stay due to our mix-up.”

Silence met Mr. Gotti’s announcement.

Draco attempted to piece together what he was trying to say. “Do you mean….”

“Yes, you do not have to share a cabin any longer. I can move one of you to an available unit immediately! I’ll help carry bags! Again, I am terribly, terribly sorry for….”

His words dried up because Draco and Weasley were looking at each other, eyes wide in—horror? Disappointment? Confusion?

“It seems we have a decision to make,” Draco said. He was looking at Weasley but the words were intended for both her and Mr. Gotti.

“Yes.” She turned back to their guest. “Mr. Gotti, we’ll stop by the management office when we’ve decided who should go.”

She began to close the door, and Mr. Gotti leaned forward. “Fine! Fine! But I cannot hold the cabin for longer than a day!”

Weasley waved him away dismissively, signaling that they understood the consequences of arguing for too long.

Then the door clicked shut with a quiet snick, and they were alone once more.

---

Snowball sneezed when the door closed against his nose and almost caught his whiskers. He turned to Servant with a reprimand, but Servant was staring deeply into Orange Fur’s face and didn’t care that Snowball had nearly been injured and was now disgruntled about it.

Well, Snowball knew how to get attention when Servant withheld it!

He rubbed his face and body against Servant’s ankles and foot coverings. Back and forth, back and forth, lulling the ingrate into a false sense of security until—

Snowball plopped over onto his side and reached for Servant’s ankle. Immediately, he sunk his teeth into flesh while his hind legs kicked ferociously at the foot covering, doing his very best to decapitate it. He’d fought foot coverings before. Some of them were mighty foes and not easily injured. But some of them had soft hides that shredded nicely under Snowball’s claws. When he destroyed those foot coverings, Servant always roared at him, his meows vicious and loud. But Snowball didn’t understand why some foot coverings produced such an aggressive reaction from Servant while other foot coverings did not.

“Snowball!” Servant hissed as he lifted his foot in the air, attempting to free it from Snowball’s clutches.

But he was a strong cat. The strongest cat he’d ever known, and Snowball held on. He held on even as the front part of his body lifted into the air with the foot.

Servant wiggled his foot until Snowball’s strength flagged and he plopped back onto the ground, tail slamming against the floor in agitation.

An amused noise came out of Orange Fur’s mouth. Neither Servant nor Snowball appreciated such noises coming from her while they battled for dominance.

“Snowball, go to—just go somewhere else!”

Snowball did not understand. Go? Leave Servant? Preposterous! Unthinkable! Impossible! Wherever Servant was, that was exactly, and coincidentally, where Snowball wanted to be.

But Snowball was tired from his fight, so he remained on the floor where he’d plopped over while Servant led Oranger Fur deeper into the room, further away from the battleground.

“Well?” Servant meowed, his front legs crossed over his chest.

Snowball could do that, too…. He did so now and primly crossed his paws in front of him.

“Do you want to go?” Orange Fur meowed back, her face shifting in agitation.

“No, I don’t want to go! I’ve been here this whole time. My stuff is here. You should go!”

There was that word again. Go. How Snowball loathed that word. It was always spoken in a command. Snowball never obeyed commands, but still. The very idea that Servant thought he could give commands at all was ludicrous.

Snowball expected Orange Fur to grow aggressive, for her namesake orange fur to rise in warning. Instead, her body seemed to deflate. Flatten, just as Servant’s body had when he’d lost the battle against the foot covering and plopped onto the floor.

“Do you want me to go?” Her meow was low and defeated.

“I—”

They stared at each other. Maybe they were playing the no blinking game. That couldn’t be true, however, because they did blink every now and then. But slowly.

Oh. Snowball spoke this language. Slow blinks meant I love you. Snowball slow-blinked at Servant on occasion, just to see if he’d return the gesture. Sometimes he did. Sometimes Servant stared back very assertively, and then he’d blink in a deliberately slow way that didn’t look natural one bit. It was enough to tell Snowball that he spoke just enough cat language to say I love you in a way Snowball understood.

“No,” Servant finally said, his voice soft and soothing. The same voice he used when Snowball fell asleep on top of him while he gently, so deliciously gently, stroked his head. The part right between Snowball’s eyes made him fall asleep every time Servant paid careful attention to it.

Servant’s voice was a caress, and it meant the opposite of go. It meant please stay even though you’re literally smothering me with your fur and also the weight of your body pressing down on my ribcage.

“I don’t want you to go,” Servant continued.

Snowball watched attentively now, waiting to see how Orange Fur would respond.

She sidled up to Servant warily. She put her paws on him. They both held their breaths, which seemed an odd thing to do, until Orange Fur pressed her mouth against his, and then their breaths exploded out of them. An urgency overtook them at that point. Their limbs entangled and their faces pushed against each other and they made noises similar to the ones they’d made the night before while Snowball had feasted on their forgotten dinner.

Snowball’s tail slapped against the floor. He put his head down on his paws and closed his eyes, letting the sounds of their faces bumping into each other flow into his ears and become the background music of his slumber.

He supposed Orange Fur could stay. After all, Snowball was always in need of new servants.