Snow was falling as she stepped outside. Ginny pulled her cloak close around her, to protect her face from the icy wind. The streets were emptying out now; she saw wizards hurrying to the nearby portkeys and floo networks to get out of the chill winter cold and into their warm homes. It was the time of year people wanted to be by the fire with
loved ones.
Ginny couldn't do that.
She had a job to do, she knew. Just two more tonight and then she'd let herself rest, finally. Briefly, she entertained the thought of maybe attempting to contact her family tomorrow. It had been awhile since she'd spoken to them and she could only imagine her mother was sick with worry.
No, she thought, as she watched a couple rushing by underneath a shared umbrella, it's too dangerous.
She had to put these thoughts aside, she knew. So she focused on the task at hand.
The snow was falling faster now. There would have been a time, not long ago, when she would have thought it wondrous. Now it was only cold and tiresome. Snow made it difficult not to leave tracks. She had to step lightly and hurry.
He was crouched inside an alley, attempting to stay dry, when she came upon him. She rather thought he looked like vermin he was. When her shadow fell over him, he asked her if she had any change. She was practically on top of him by the time he had the sense to realize she had not come out of pity, but some more fearsome emotion.
She pointed her wand directly between his eyes. "Any last sins you'd like to confess?" she asked. She always gave them a chance to confess. They never did. They'd try to run or fight. But they had no guilt and thus she showed no mercy.
"The Black Widow," he hissed, trying to roll out of the range of her wand.
Ginny Weasley sighed. They called her that now, forgetting she had not had the good fortune to become a widow. They had taken Harry Potter from her before she ever got the chance to marry him. It had all been planned—in truth, she had planned it since she was ten years old. And then it had disappeared before she had ever gotten so much as a taste.
She hexed him, spitting the words out fast and furious. He jumped, rolled and dodged. It was when he screamed and rushed her, like a Rugby player at a muggle game, that she realized he had no wand. Perhaps he lost it. Perhaps he sold it. The Death Eaters are not what they used to be, and for that she was glad.
Ginny danced easily out of his way. She has done this many times before. He lunged for her again, and this time she threw up her arm and pivoted so that his face collided with her elbow. There was a crunch. She rejoiced in the pain, knowing he felt it more keenly than she. And indeed, he fell to the ground clutching his nose, with blood
spurting out between his fingers onto the freshly fallen snow.
Ginny smiled at her fallen foe and raised her wand.
*
It was Christmas Eve. If things had gone as planned she would be home wrapping presents for her children or decorating the tree. As things were, she had no children or tree, so she was free to continue dark wizard hunting. She had one more wizard on her list, one she saved for
last. Her list was rather like Santa's list, except, she thought ruefully, only the naughty were on it.
Still, she checked it twice, as if she didn't know what name was written on the bottom.
His apartment was much smaller than she expected—just one room with the bed and kitchen both on top of one another. When the door sprung open, he was sitting at the table drinking something warm. The heat of it rose off his mug, curling around his face. He had no tree or decorations but his mug had a snowman on it, she noted quickly before his eyes turned to meet hers.
His eyes are as gray as his apartment, she thought. There was surprise in them, but only for an instant. It was gone as quickly as it came.
"Weasley," Draco greeted her as if he expected her, "Happy Christmas." He took another drink from his mug, then set it down.
Ginny raised her wand and leveled it at his head. "Do you have any sins you'd like to confess?" she asked.
"A great many, actually," he admitted. "Let's see. I don't honor my father; I'd like to see him dead in fact. I've been known to lie and steal. Once when I was a child, I stole Goyle's gobstones and lied and said Crabbe did it—so that was two for one." He counted them off on
his fingers as he said them. "I curse frequently, and creatively, might I add. And I covet my neighbor's wife…" he leered at her when he said that.
"I'm no one's wife," she reminded him angrily.
"Oh," he replied blithely, "well, cross that one off then."
Quickly, she strode across the room and grabbed him by the hair. "I meant like murder, Death Eater."
He looked up at her innocently with those cool gray eyes. "No," he said.
"Liar!" she hissed. "What about Dumbledore? And Harry?"
He reached up, quick as the snake he was, and extricated himself from her grip. "It was the Dark Lord who killed Harry Potter, everyone knows that. And Severus Snape killed Dumbledore. I'm sure Harry told you--Perfect Potter never lied." His tone grew increasingly hostile,
until he all but spit after saying Harry's name.
She narrowed her eyes into slits. "Don't you dare mock him."
"Merely stating the facts, Weasley, I'm sure he told you—or perhaps Granger and your brother instead--what happened in the tower. I didn't kill anyone. So if you're done with your indignant rage, I'm having cocoa."
"Do you deny taking the Mark?" she asked.
"No," he replied flatly.
"Then you deserve to die."
"I rather thought that was for the Ministry to decide with their pesky laws and whatnot," he quipped. "Isn't your father in the Ministry, Weasley, wouldn't he be ashamed if he knew what you're doing?"
She hexed him.
He fell to the floor gasping. She thought that would shut him up. Instead it just made him laugh. "Feeling guilty, Weasley? Perhaps you have some sins you'd like to confess?"
"The Ministry would find you guilty and send you to Azkaban," she replied. "I'm just speeding up the process."
"As it happens, you're wrong. They found me innocent and let me go. Ask your father if you don't believe me—he was there."
"Liar." She didn't believe him. She couldn't. How could the Ministry find Draco Malfoy, who was the biggest prat she'd ever met, innocent? She knew he was a Death Eater. He had the Mark. It wasn't possible.
"You keep saying that, but I haven't lied once. I even told you about the gobstones."
"Why would the Ministry let you go?" she asked, genuinely curious. He was the son of Lucius Malfoy, there could be no good in him.
"For one who proclaims undying love for Harry Potter, you really know very little about him, you know." He climbed up off the floor and brushed himself off with as much dignity as he could muster. "Potter spoke at my trial on my behalf."
"Liar!" she shouted.
"Do you know any other words, honestly?"
"Why would Harry speak for you?" she wondered. "You're foul."
He sniffed. "I admit not having bathed recently—they turned off my water. But it's not a crime they put you in Azkaban for. Potter knew I didn't kill Dumbledore and that Snape and I passed information along to the Order of the Phoenix that helped locate the remaining horcruxes."
"I don't believe you," she breathed.
"Then perhaps you ought to go ask your father. I told you, he was there. How long has it been since you've spoken to him anyway?"
"What do you care?" she asked.
`It's Christmas, Weasley," he said more gently than she could've imagined. "Go home."
"I haven't got one," she said, thinking of Harry, dead in his grave.
"Yes, you do," he replied. "You've got at least 40 older brothers. They're all very loud and red. I'm sure they're wondering where you are."
It made her sad to think of her brothers. She pictured them sitting by the hearth, with the orange glow from the flames making their hair look like it was on fire. She missed them terribly, but she knew they wouldn't approve of what she'd been doing. They would even try to stop
her, and she couldn't risk that.
She crossed her arms over her chest. "Why don't you go home?"
"I am home," he gestured to his accommodations. "They seized the Manor when they put my father in Azkaban."
She looked around the tiny apartment. In truth, she was still shocked that Draco Malfoy lived there. It was so plain, barely furnished at all. He could probably have reached out and touched both walls if he wanted to—maybe even jumped and hit his head on the ceiling. It was
all gray and nondescript, except for the snowman on the cocoa mug. He was a cheery fellow with his top hat sitting jauntily atop his head.
Her silence must have unnerved him because he asked, "Are you going to kill me or not? I like to plan these things out."
"No," she said. It surprised her because up until that very second she thought she was going to kill him. She couldn't say exactly why she wasn't, except that it was Christmas and she was weary. She wanted to go home.
"Oh, good," he said and went back to his cocoa.
She hovered at the door for a time, waiting, for what she couldn't say. "I may come back," she finally blurted out. "If it turns out you're lying. I'll find you again and kill you."
He nodded. "I'll be here," he sipped his cocoa. "Bring some marshmallows next time. I like marshmallows."
She hesitated a moment longer, not truly wanting to leave. Then she sighed, and apparated. As she disappeared from the gray room she thought she heard him say, so softly she might have imagined it, "Happy Christmas, Ginny."
loved ones.
Ginny couldn't do that.
She had a job to do, she knew. Just two more tonight and then she'd let herself rest, finally. Briefly, she entertained the thought of maybe attempting to contact her family tomorrow. It had been awhile since she'd spoken to them and she could only imagine her mother was sick with worry.
No, she thought, as she watched a couple rushing by underneath a shared umbrella, it's too dangerous.
She had to put these thoughts aside, she knew. So she focused on the task at hand.
The snow was falling faster now. There would have been a time, not long ago, when she would have thought it wondrous. Now it was only cold and tiresome. Snow made it difficult not to leave tracks. She had to step lightly and hurry.
He was crouched inside an alley, attempting to stay dry, when she came upon him. She rather thought he looked like vermin he was. When her shadow fell over him, he asked her if she had any change. She was practically on top of him by the time he had the sense to realize she had not come out of pity, but some more fearsome emotion.
She pointed her wand directly between his eyes. "Any last sins you'd like to confess?" she asked. She always gave them a chance to confess. They never did. They'd try to run or fight. But they had no guilt and thus she showed no mercy.
"The Black Widow," he hissed, trying to roll out of the range of her wand.
Ginny Weasley sighed. They called her that now, forgetting she had not had the good fortune to become a widow. They had taken Harry Potter from her before she ever got the chance to marry him. It had all been planned—in truth, she had planned it since she was ten years old. And then it had disappeared before she had ever gotten so much as a taste.
She hexed him, spitting the words out fast and furious. He jumped, rolled and dodged. It was when he screamed and rushed her, like a Rugby player at a muggle game, that she realized he had no wand. Perhaps he lost it. Perhaps he sold it. The Death Eaters are not what they used to be, and for that she was glad.
Ginny danced easily out of his way. She has done this many times before. He lunged for her again, and this time she threw up her arm and pivoted so that his face collided with her elbow. There was a crunch. She rejoiced in the pain, knowing he felt it more keenly than she. And indeed, he fell to the ground clutching his nose, with blood
spurting out between his fingers onto the freshly fallen snow.
Ginny smiled at her fallen foe and raised her wand.
*
It was Christmas Eve. If things had gone as planned she would be home wrapping presents for her children or decorating the tree. As things were, she had no children or tree, so she was free to continue dark wizard hunting. She had one more wizard on her list, one she saved for
last. Her list was rather like Santa's list, except, she thought ruefully, only the naughty were on it.
Still, she checked it twice, as if she didn't know what name was written on the bottom.
His apartment was much smaller than she expected—just one room with the bed and kitchen both on top of one another. When the door sprung open, he was sitting at the table drinking something warm. The heat of it rose off his mug, curling around his face. He had no tree or decorations but his mug had a snowman on it, she noted quickly before his eyes turned to meet hers.
His eyes are as gray as his apartment, she thought. There was surprise in them, but only for an instant. It was gone as quickly as it came.
"Weasley," Draco greeted her as if he expected her, "Happy Christmas." He took another drink from his mug, then set it down.
Ginny raised her wand and leveled it at his head. "Do you have any sins you'd like to confess?" she asked.
"A great many, actually," he admitted. "Let's see. I don't honor my father; I'd like to see him dead in fact. I've been known to lie and steal. Once when I was a child, I stole Goyle's gobstones and lied and said Crabbe did it—so that was two for one." He counted them off on
his fingers as he said them. "I curse frequently, and creatively, might I add. And I covet my neighbor's wife…" he leered at her when he said that.
"I'm no one's wife," she reminded him angrily.
"Oh," he replied blithely, "well, cross that one off then."
Quickly, she strode across the room and grabbed him by the hair. "I meant like murder, Death Eater."
He looked up at her innocently with those cool gray eyes. "No," he said.
"Liar!" she hissed. "What about Dumbledore? And Harry?"
He reached up, quick as the snake he was, and extricated himself from her grip. "It was the Dark Lord who killed Harry Potter, everyone knows that. And Severus Snape killed Dumbledore. I'm sure Harry told you--Perfect Potter never lied." His tone grew increasingly hostile,
until he all but spit after saying Harry's name.
She narrowed her eyes into slits. "Don't you dare mock him."
"Merely stating the facts, Weasley, I'm sure he told you—or perhaps Granger and your brother instead--what happened in the tower. I didn't kill anyone. So if you're done with your indignant rage, I'm having cocoa."
"Do you deny taking the Mark?" she asked.
"No," he replied flatly.
"Then you deserve to die."
"I rather thought that was for the Ministry to decide with their pesky laws and whatnot," he quipped. "Isn't your father in the Ministry, Weasley, wouldn't he be ashamed if he knew what you're doing?"
She hexed him.
He fell to the floor gasping. She thought that would shut him up. Instead it just made him laugh. "Feeling guilty, Weasley? Perhaps you have some sins you'd like to confess?"
"The Ministry would find you guilty and send you to Azkaban," she replied. "I'm just speeding up the process."
"As it happens, you're wrong. They found me innocent and let me go. Ask your father if you don't believe me—he was there."
"Liar." She didn't believe him. She couldn't. How could the Ministry find Draco Malfoy, who was the biggest prat she'd ever met, innocent? She knew he was a Death Eater. He had the Mark. It wasn't possible.
"You keep saying that, but I haven't lied once. I even told you about the gobstones."
"Why would the Ministry let you go?" she asked, genuinely curious. He was the son of Lucius Malfoy, there could be no good in him.
"For one who proclaims undying love for Harry Potter, you really know very little about him, you know." He climbed up off the floor and brushed himself off with as much dignity as he could muster. "Potter spoke at my trial on my behalf."
"Liar!" she shouted.
"Do you know any other words, honestly?"
"Why would Harry speak for you?" she wondered. "You're foul."
He sniffed. "I admit not having bathed recently—they turned off my water. But it's not a crime they put you in Azkaban for. Potter knew I didn't kill Dumbledore and that Snape and I passed information along to the Order of the Phoenix that helped locate the remaining horcruxes."
"I don't believe you," she breathed.
"Then perhaps you ought to go ask your father. I told you, he was there. How long has it been since you've spoken to him anyway?"
"What do you care?" she asked.
`It's Christmas, Weasley," he said more gently than she could've imagined. "Go home."
"I haven't got one," she said, thinking of Harry, dead in his grave.
"Yes, you do," he replied. "You've got at least 40 older brothers. They're all very loud and red. I'm sure they're wondering where you are."
It made her sad to think of her brothers. She pictured them sitting by the hearth, with the orange glow from the flames making their hair look like it was on fire. She missed them terribly, but she knew they wouldn't approve of what she'd been doing. They would even try to stop
her, and she couldn't risk that.
She crossed her arms over her chest. "Why don't you go home?"
"I am home," he gestured to his accommodations. "They seized the Manor when they put my father in Azkaban."
She looked around the tiny apartment. In truth, she was still shocked that Draco Malfoy lived there. It was so plain, barely furnished at all. He could probably have reached out and touched both walls if he wanted to—maybe even jumped and hit his head on the ceiling. It was
all gray and nondescript, except for the snowman on the cocoa mug. He was a cheery fellow with his top hat sitting jauntily atop his head.
Her silence must have unnerved him because he asked, "Are you going to kill me or not? I like to plan these things out."
"No," she said. It surprised her because up until that very second she thought she was going to kill him. She couldn't say exactly why she wasn't, except that it was Christmas and she was weary. She wanted to go home.
"Oh, good," he said and went back to his cocoa.
She hovered at the door for a time, waiting, for what she couldn't say. "I may come back," she finally blurted out. "If it turns out you're lying. I'll find you again and kill you."
He nodded. "I'll be here," he sipped his cocoa. "Bring some marshmallows next time. I like marshmallows."
She hesitated a moment longer, not truly wanting to leave. Then she sighed, and apparated. As she disappeared from the gray room she thought she heard him say, so softly she might have imagined it, "Happy Christmas, Ginny."
To Be Continued.
StrangerWithMyFace is the author of 12 other stories.
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This story is a favorite of 8 members. Members who liked Christmas Stories also liked 1168 other stories.
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