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It was Christmas Eve, one of the happiest times of the year. Draco Malfoy, who was known for being a miserable old humbug, was just deciding whether he should blast the bunch of carollers singing about figgy pudding – or some such rubbish – across the street from him when he saw heaven shining in bright lights behind them.
"Firewhisky," Draco breathed reverently, making his way towards the lights.
'Heaven' turned out to be a dimly lit pub, boasting a sour-faced bartender and several old men with beards, who looked like they had, at some point during their drinking careers, joined with the chairs they were sitting on and become part of the decor. Draco had never felt more at home.
The blond took a seat beside a particularly shrivelled looking man – this one almost resembled a turtle – and turned to the sour-faced gentleman behind the counter.
"What'll it be?" the bartender growled, slapping his cleaning cloth down on the bench.
"Firewhisky," Draco responded, fishing out some money from his pocket and pushing it towards the pub owner. "And keep it coming."
A small cup of steaming liquid was placed before Draco, who took it with greedy fingers and downed the lot in one gulp. The turtle man gave a low chuckle and turned to face Draco, though all the blond could see was a pair of bleary eyes, which even then were just visible behind the mass of grizzled hair smothering the other man's face.
"What was it this time?" the turtle man asked, still chuckling. "Wife kick you out?"
"Lose your job?" another man called from the opposite end of the bench.
"Realise what a miserable excuse for a man you are?" something Draco thought had been a bundle of rags croaked.
"Of course not," Draco said indignantly. "I'm simply enjoying my drink."
"Is that what you lads are calling it these days?" the turtle man cackled. "It seemed to me you were trying to drown yourself in that wee mug there of yours."
"I was doing no such thing," Draco snapped.
His companions merely laughed. Even the bartender cracked a smile.
"There's no need to be so sensitive, lad," the turtle man remarked. "We all know why we come here on Christmas Eve."
"Aye," the rags croaked sadly, "it's because we have nowhere to go."
"Or we're trying to avoid where we should be," the man at the opposite end of the bench interposed with a raucous laugh.
Draco stiffened, suddenly feeling a lot less at home and like his heaven had somehow been invaded with little gnomes singing catchy – yet awful – show tunes, which was no heaven at all. All he wanted was to enjoy a nice drink. He did not want to think about Christmas, or anything to do with the stupid holiday, and he most certainly did not want to think about the empty mansion waiting for him back home.
It wasn't that he was lonely or depressed. He wasn't like these old men, who clearly had no lives and no money to remedy this tragedy. No, Draco had all the money in the world and was perfectly happy, thank you very much. But there was something about Christmas that grated him – something about the way everyone got so sickeningly nice and cheerful, even to the point where they would try to befriend him when every other month of the year they were dead terrified of him. It was enough to make a man bald, especially since he took such pains to cultivate the less than pleasant side of his nature to discourage such disgustingly friendly people.
And then there were the endless presents. He couldn't escape the damn things. If it wasn't somebody requesting a gift from him, it was people trying to give him their tacky rubbish – as if he would actually want or need anything from them. He wasn't a charity case; he did not need their pity, and he certainly did not need their junk. Just because he had no family or close friends did not mean that he wanted every sycophantic fool to suddenly invite him to their Christmas dinners and shower him with gifts. True, he didn't like spending Christmas by himself in the manor either, but that wasn't the point. The point was that he hated Christmas, and if he had his way, he'd kidnap the whole holiday and throw it into a bottomless abyss so it could sink for eternity along with all its commercialism and fake happiness. Really, people were just lucky he didn't resort to his more primal urges and Avada Kedavra anyone who dared to mention the 'C' word around him.
The turtle man heaved a sigh and placed what was meant to be a comforting hand on Draco's shoulder. "I can see you're the silent, brooding type, so I'll leave you to your drink. Just remember, lad, it's never too late to change your life. You're much too young to end up like us old relics, wasting away in this pub every night – especially on Christmas Eve."
"I'll keep that in mind," Draco muttered, hunching over his drink.
The turtle man chuckled. "Well, I tried my best. It's not my fault if you don't want to listen."
And with that, he went back to his own drink, which seemed to be the cue for all the rest of the bearded creatures – and rags – to return to theirs too. Draco was left to stew alone, undisturbed by their cackling and chatter, but he found, much to his frustration, that the alcohol was no longer satisfying to him now. Christmas had somehow wormed itself into his mind, reminding him of those times when there had been more than he and his house-elves celebrating the holiday at Malfoy manor. Not that he actually celebrated anything now. His house-elves just couldn't rid themselves of the habit of cooking the traditional Christmas dinner for him every year.
Draco sighed and downed another shot of firewhisky, which was then followed by another. He started to feel more than a little woozy after that, never having been the hard drinker he liked to think himself. The bartender, taking in the situation, thoughtfully pushed a glass of water towards the blond, though he was careful to keep his sour expression intact.
"I don't need your water," Draco mumbled with only the faintest trace of a slur. "I'm f-fine."
The bartender rolled his eyes. "If you can't handle your drink, boy, you can get out of my pub. We don't cater to house-elves."
Draco glowered at the bartender, not oblivious to the insult. Everyone knew to call a person a house-elf was to suggest he or she had no tolerance for alcohol.
"What about them?" Draco demanded, pointing an accusing finger at the row of bearded men.
"They don't get pissed drunk after three shots," the bartender said bluntly.
Draco stood up from his chair, his cheeks flushed with humiliation and anger. "Fine," he growled. "I don't want to drink in your stupid pub anyway. It stinks!"
He snickered at his own comment, if a little drunkenly, and then made his way to the door, half stumbling already over nonexistent obstacles.
The turtle man glanced up at the sour-faced bartender with a frown. "You aren't really going to let that poor lad Disapparate home, are you? He's bound to splinch himself."
Sour Face sighed. "I suppose he probably would." He stared at Draco, who was futilely trying to open the door. "Oi, Blondie! Get your arse over here."
Draco turned with an indignant expression on his face. "Excuse me? Do you know who I am?"
"I don't care if you're the Minister of Magic himself, you're in my pub, so you'll do as I say."
The blond eyed the older man speculatively for a moment, then heaved a reluctant sigh and half-stumbled back to where the rest of the pub-goers were. "What, then?" he demanded, trying and failing to look impressive. It was obvious his feathers had been well and truly ruffled.
"If you're going to go home, you can use the Floo," the bartender responded gruffly. "I won't be having no splinchings tonight. The Ministry are always blaming me for it, and I'm in no mood to be doing no paperwork."
"Fine," Draco snapped, just wanting to get home and away from all these hairy, ill-mannered people. "Give me the stupid Floo powder."
He was handed some of the green powder and then stepped into the fireplace, feeling the flames licking harmlessly at his ankles. He took a moment to relish in scowling at each person in the pub and then threw the powder down at the fire and said his destination. Unfortunately, the time it took for him to scowl was just enough for an ugly painting, precariously perched on the mantelpiece above him, to topple off and hit him on the head. In short, 'Malfoy manor' became Mal—aaagh!
It was too late to recount his words. The flames flashed green and then he was whooshing through the Floo Network, elbows and chin battling with the walls trapping him in place. The blond had barely gathered his bearings before the narrow chute spat him out of the chimney maze. He floundered for a moment, arms spinning like windmills, and then he stumbled through the fireplace in front of him, almost strangling himself on a piece of string that had been tied across it. Coughing, and feeling very ill-used, Draco tried to untangle himself from the string, only to get a mouthful of sock.
"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed, spitting out the sock and glaring at it like it was the sock's fault he had somehow ended up in the wrong house and was almost killed by a piece of string.
He then realised how very large – not to mention hideous – the sock was. Perhaps he had stumbled into the house of that oaf, Hagrid. He knew of no one else who had feet big enough to wear this monstrosity, and were those tiny snowmen and presents stitched onto the edges? He lit his wand so he could see better, and his face twisted with revulsion as he realised what he was holding. He abruptly dropped the Christmas stocking as if it was contaminated with the foulest of diseases, then turned to examine the rest of the room.
"Tacky, tacky, tacky," Draco muttered, curling his lip at the scraggly Christmas tree and hoard of decorations that took centre attention.
The furniture was also rather shabby, in his opinion. It was obvious the owner of the house had no taste – and no money.
"Well, I hope you have Floo powder at least," he mumbled, peering about the room for a promising jar or pot.
He had no desire to stay in a house so dedicated to Christmas. All he needed was some more Floo powder and then he could—
Draco froze. He was quite certain he had just heard someone giggle.
"Do you think it's Santa?" a voice whispered from the shadows.
"He doesn't look like Santa," a snotty voice retorted. "Santa is supposed to be fat and bearded and wear red suits. This man looks like a skinny rat. And he doesn't have a beard."
"A skinny rat?" Draco mouthed to himself, feeling his ire rise.
"But he did come through the chimney," the first voice insisted. "I heard him."
"Well, if that's Santa, then I must be a flying reindeer."
"What would you know? You think you know everything and you don't! I'm going to go and ask him myself."
"Cynthia, no!"
Draco suddenly saw a small girl wearing the most absurdly frilly nightdress come running towards him, blonde curls bobbing with each ecstatic step. She paused, smiling shyly up at him while twisting her nightdress round her fingers.
"Are you—are you Mr Santa Claus?"
Draco blinked. He didn't even know what a Santa Claus was. "Uh—"
"I know you don't have the red suit and the big belly," she continued in a rush, "or the beard – or anything like the description, really – but you did come through the chimney, so you must be him, right?"
"Er—"
"Am I on your Good List? My name's Cynthia. That's my brother Apollo – he's hiding in the shadows. I bet he's on your Bad List. He is, isn't he?"
"Um— "
"Do you want some milk and biscuits? I hear that's what Santa Clauses like, though I've never met one before. I mean you before."
Draco ran a hand over his face, wondering if it was the alcohol that was making him feel so lightheaded or the girl's impossibly fast conversation. He was actually beginning to feel a bit sick. All that spinning in the Floo had not been good for his stomach, and this disorientating little girl was not helping.
"I need to sit down," he mumbled, moving past Cynthia, who was still chatting happily away, and took a seat on one of the cosy armchairs.
A boy with thick glasses and a rather intimidating glare for one so young suddenly appeared in front of Draco. "Where are your presents?" he demanded.
"Excuse me?" Draco responded, nonplussed.
"If you're really Santa Claus, where is your bag of presents?"
"My bag of pre—"
"See! See!" Apollo exclaimed, turning a triumphant face to his sister. "I told you he wasn't Santa Claus."
"You didn't even let him finish his sentence!"
"I really don't think—" Draco began, but he was cut off yet again.
"He's not Santa Claus!" Apollo exclaimed. "He's just some stinky old man who fell down our chimney!"
"Old man?" Draco repeated, highly offended. "Now wait just a—"
"He's not some stinky old man! He's Santa Claus!" Cynthia rounded on Draco. "Tell him, Mr Santa Claus! Tell him!"
Draco stared at the two children, who stared demandingly back, and then placed his hands over his face. "I don't feel so good," he mumbled, going a bit green.
Cynthia looked horrified as the blond leaned forward and promptly vomited on his own shoes.
Apollo smiled smugly at his sister. "I told you he wasn't Santa Claus."
"He's probably just unwell from flying around in his sleigh," Cynthia retorted. "For all you know, he might get sleigh sick."
Draco only groaned and wondered how his life had come to this. It was Christmas Eve, he was covered in his own vomit, and there were two children arguing over whether he was some fat, bearded thing called Santa Claus.
The door to his right was suddenly thrust open.
"What in Merlin's name is going on out here?" a strangely familiar voice demanded, and then the person gave a sharp, audible gasp.
Draco glanced up from his hands, just catching a glimpse of red before something struck him in the chest and the world went black. Very black.
oOo
There was something tapping his cheek. He tried to swat it away but his hand didn't want to move.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Stop that," Draco grumbled, except what actually came out of his mouth sounded more like 'Slauemanen' – whatever that was.
"He spoke!" an excitable voice exclaimed. "Mr Santa Claus is alive!"
"Well, of course he's alive. He's breathing, isn't he?"
"You think you're so smart, don't you, Apollo?"
"I'm smarter than you. You've got the brain of a Flobberworm."
"Do not!"
"Do too!"
"Do not!"
"Shut up!" Draco growled.
Unfortunately, all that came out of his mouth this time was 'Scheup'.
"He spoke again!" the excitable one yelled. "Do you think he's actually awake?"
"How could he not be with you shrieking in his ear?" the other responded.
Draco, for once, found himself in agreement with the snotty-voiced boy.
"That's enough you two," a much deeper, but distinctly feminine, voice ordered. "I don't want to hear any more bickering. And just look at that time! You should both be in bed . . ."
The voices faded away and then there was silence. Draco lay there for a moment, paralysed in a cloak of thick fog. He felt like someone had stuffed a bag of cotton wool in his ears, though he was still able to pick up the sound of soft footsteps coming towards him. A cool hand touched his brow, and he caught the scent of cinnamon and ginger and something else that he could not place.
Feeling slowly crept back into his body and he opened his eyes to see a woman with long, vibrant red hair staring down at him.
"So you are awake," she observed, the corners of her mouth quirking up into a smile.
Draco blinked, easily putting a name to the face. "Ginny Weasley?"
"That's right," she responded, helping him to sit up. "Glad to see your memory isn't faulty, even if your ability to hold your drink is as appalling as ever."
He shrugged her hands away, much too proud to accept aid from a woman, let alone her. She took his rejection in her stride and instead handed him a cup of red potion.
"What's this?" he demanded, staring at her suspiciously.
"Sobering draught. After hearing about the spectacle you made of yourself, I figured you'd probably need it."
He took the cup from her with a gruff word of thanks, swallowing the contents in one gulp. The potion was very bitter, but if there was one thing he remembered about Ginny Weasley, it was that she knew how to make a damn good potion. Already, he could feel his mind clearing.
Ginny sat down opposite him, watching him with a half-smile. "I must admit, Malfoy, the last thing I expected was to have you tumbling through my fireplace on Christmas Eve. You gave us all quite the turn, you know."
"You hexed me," Draco accused, suddenly remembering how he had ended up unconscious in the first place.
"I'm sorry about that," she replied, though she didn't sound particularly apologetic. "I had no idea it was you; all I saw was a strange man with the children, and I guess I took fright. Besides, I only cast Stupefy on you; it's not like you were actually hurt."
Draco scowled and looked the other way, still feeling rather sore that he had been knocked unconscious.
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Malfoy, what were you expecting? You broke into my house—"
"I didn't break into your house!" Draco snapped, goaded into speaking.
"Oh, really? Then what were you doing sneaking around my lounge? Cynthia may believe you're the real Santa Claus, but I most certainly do not."
He stared down at his hands, the faintest trace of pink staining his cheeks.
"Well?" Ginny prompted. "The least you can do is give me an explanation. I am being very accommodating, you know, considering you did steal into my house, vomit on my carpet, and wake up the children after I just spent the past two hours trying to get them into bed."
"Fine," Draco snapped, knowing he would never hear the end of it if he didn't say something. "If you must know, I may have had a bit too much to drink and got my direction wrong when trying to use the Floo. I wasn't exactly expecting to end up at your fireplace, but this is where it took me. I was just looking for your Floo powder so I could go home when those two brats found me."
Ginny laughed. "That is a pathetic tale."
"Oh, I'm sorry, did you think that I was actually dropping in to pay you a visit?" He gave a bark of laughter. "Unlikely."
"Now you're just being rude," Ginny chided. "Besides, what makes you think I would want a snobbish prat like you to come and visit me at my house, let alone on Christmas Eve? I get enough of your ugly face at the Ministry."
"Ugly face? I'll have you know—" He broke off, noting the smile lurking at her mouth. "Oh, great. We're playing this game, are we?"
Her eyes crinkled into a grin. "You started it."
Draco heaved an exasperated sigh and ran his hands over his face. "I am not doing this."
"Doing what?" Ginny asked innocently.
"This!" he exclaimed, pulling his hands away to glare at her. "This friendly bantering rubbish you're trying to do. I refuse to participate in this sick-making conversation. I thought it was bad enough when your children were arguing over whether I was Sandy Claws – or whatever that thing was – but now I see you and your cheery 'let's be friends' conversation tops them all. You know what, just give me some of your bloody Floo powder so I can go home."
"Oh, Cynthia and Apollo aren't mine," Ginny responded, conveniently ignoring the rest of his speech.
He paused, staring at her with a frown. "They're not?"
"Of course not. They're much too old to be mine. Besides, I'm not with anyone."
"Then why—"
"Why are they living with me?" Ginny interposed, correctly guessing his question.
He nodded.
She sighed, her good humour fading slightly. "Julie – Apollo and Cynthia's mother – got really sick a few days ago. The Healers are trying their best to help her, but—" She broke off, falling silent for a moment, then forced a smile to her lips. "Anyway, I said I'd look after the children for her until she gets better. Julie doesn't have any other family, you see, and Cynthia and Apollo have always liked me. It seemed the natural thing to do, and I—well, I suppose I just wanted to help out."
"Well, that's all very sad," he said, getting to his feet, "but if you could just give me some Floo powder, I'll—"
"I don't believe it," Ginny exclaimed, also standing up. "You don't even give a damn, do you? I bet you weren't even listening; you were just waiting for your chance to get the hell out of here!"
"I don't even know this woman!" Draco retorted, refusing to let her make him feel guilty. "What am I supposed to do? Cry on your shoulder and say that it's not fair? Well, guess what, Weasley: the world isn't fair. Sometimes the people we love are snatched away from us, and there's nothing we can do about it. We just have to accept it and move on."
"Is that what happened to you?" she asked quietly.
"What?"
She faltered at the dangerous look in his eyes. "I just—"
"You just what?" he demanded, taking a step towards her.
Her chin lifted. "No, you know what, Malfoy, I'm not scared of you. You can glare at me all you like, but it's obvious you're bitter about something, and I can only assume it's because of what happened to your family. I mean, why else would you be getting drunk on Christmas Eve and acting even more horrible than what you normally are?"
"Perhaps I simply don't like Christmas."
"Please, you can't tell me that as a child you didn't get just a little excited when Christmas came around."
Draco fell silent, knowing this to be true.
She placed a hand on his arm. "It's okay to be upset, Malfoy. I've lost loved ones too, you know, but you can't let it rule your life. You're only denying yourself happiness when you do that, and I'm sure your parents wouldn't want that."
Draco met her earnest brown eyes. "Weasley."
"Yes?"
"Remove your hand from my arm."
She went a bit pink. "Sorry," she muttered, dropping the offending limb back to her side. "But you know—"
"I don't want to hear it," he said tiredly. "Look, I apologise for barging into your house like this – believe me, I never intended to do so – but all I want right now is to go home, so if you could just show me where you keep your Floo powder, I'll be on my way and we can forget this ever happened."
"No," Ginny responded, folding her arms.
"Excuse me?" Draco replied, raising an eyebrow.
"I can't let you go back home now. You'll probably be stuck in that big manor all alone, pulling crackers with your house-elf or something. No one deserves that – not even grumpy old humbugs like you."
"Merlin help me," Draco muttered, raising his eyes to the ceiling in a silent plea for patience. "Listen, Weasley, I appreciate your concern, but I'm not some stray needing a home for the night, alright? I'll be quite happy in my 'big manor', as you phrased it."
"I think you're just saying that because you don't like me."
"You're right, I don't like you," he said frankly, "which makes me wonder why you're even asking me to stay."
"Because you look miserable!" she exclaimed, unable to keep her thoughts to herself. "You think you don't care that you have to spend Christmas alone, but you do!"
"And now we're back to that again," he muttered, turning away from her.
"I don't see why you're being so stubborn. Why not try and enjoy yourself just this once? It couldn't hurt, could it?"
"It just might," he said wryly.
She placed her hands on her hips. "You're being quite ridiculous, you know. I'm only trying to help."
"Oh, I'm sorry, am I supposed to rejoice at being a charity case?"
"Is that what you think this is?"
Draco gave a dry laugh. "Weasley, I've received invitations from do-gooders like yourself every Christmas since my parents died. I think I know a pity invite when I get one, and I'm not interested. You people are pathetic."
"What's so wrong with trying to be nice?" she demanded, looking a little hurt.
"Because it doesn't mean anything. You can't tell me that you honestly care what happens to me; you're just so caught up in that ridiculous Christmas spirit of yours that you only think you do."
She looked down at her feet. "That's not true. I know I don't know you very well, but I do care."
"Oh, really?" he said sceptically.
She stared back at him, meeting his gaze with not a trace of reserve. "Yes," she said simply.
Draco was rather taken aback, realising she was actually being sincere.
Ginny took a step towards him, a faint smile touching her lips. "Come on, Malfoy, would it really be so difficult to spend Christmas with someone other than your grumpy old self this year?"
Draco met her smiling brown eyes, then let out a disgusted groan. "I feel like I'm stuck in some awful Hallmark moment. I suppose this is when I hug you and say I'm ever-so-pleased?"
"No," she said with a laugh, "but agreeing to stay would be nice."
He frowned and folded his arms. "Fine," he said, looking the other way. "But only because I know I'm never going to hear the end of it if I don't."
She beamed, but before she could say anything more, Draco was suddenly bombarded by something in blue frills and curly blonde hair.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're going to stay, Mr Santa Claus!" Cynthia exclaimed, wrapping her arms tight around Draco's middle.
"Wha—" Draco exclaimed in a daze, shocked at finding himself hugged by a small child.
Ginny frowned down at the little girl. "I thought I sent you to bed, Cynthia."
Cynthia pulled her face away, meeting the redhead's eyes with a sheepish look. "I'm sorry, Aunty Ginny, but I wanted to see what would happen to Mr Santa Claus." She grinned toothily up at Draco. "You are going to stay with us, right?"
"Well, I—"
"Of course he is," Ginny interposed, "but if you don't go to bed, he might change his mind. Santa doesn't like naughty girls that don't go to bed when they're told."
Cynthia looked stricken. "I never meant to be naughty! You won't put me on your Bad List and give me coals for presents, will you Mr Santa Claus?"
Draco blinked. "Er—" He saw Ginny staring at him pointedly and then glanced back down at the little blonde. "Not if you be a good girl and do as you're told."
"I'll go to bed right now!" Cynthia promised. "And you'll still be here tomorrow morning, right?"
"Sure," Draco mumbled, wondering if he was going insane.
"Thank you!" Cynthia breathed, pulling him into a tight hug again, and then, with a serious goodnight, tripped out of the room.
"She likes you," Ginny said, smiling at him.
Draco remained unimpressed. "She thinks I'm Sandy Claws."
Ginny gave a snort of laughter. "Not 'Sandy Claws', Santa Claus. He's part of Muggle tradition – based on a wizard, in actual fact. They say he travels down chimneys on Christmas Eve and gives presents to everyone. He's also fat, has a long, white beard, and likes to wear a red suit."
"Oh, well that certainly describes me, doesn't it?" Draco said sarcastically.
She laughed. "Cynthia is only young. She doesn't know any better."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"It might."
Draco glared at her. "You are getting far too much enjoyment out of this."
"Maybe," she admitted, her eyes dancing. "Anyway, you'll be wanting a place to sleep. I hope you don't mind the couch."
"Oh, no," Draco said dryly, "I love sleeping on furniture that isn't a bed."
Ginny frowned at him. "Well, aren't you the sarcastic one."
He sighed, realising he must have offended her, though she was trying her best not to show it. "The couch will be fine," he said tiredly.
"Great! I'll just go get you a pillow and some blankets."
Draco watched her trundle out of the room. Once the door had shut behind her, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. What the hell was he doing? He barely knew the girl – he certainly didn't count their brief conversations at the Ministry as anything of consequence – yet here he was actually agreeing to stay the night in her house and have Christmas with her.
"I must be mad," he muttered.
He tried to persuade himself that it was because she had refused to lend him any Floo powder, but Draco knew that was a feeble excuse at best. If he really wanted to leave, all he had to do was use his wand to Disapparate. Her sobering draught had cleared most of the effects of the alcohol he had consumed, though his mind still felt a bit fuzzy. Perhaps he was just drunk. Yes, that must be it.
Ginny came back into the room with a bundle of blankets and a pillow clutched in her arms. "I'm so glad you decided to stay," she said with a smile, proceeding to make up his bed on the couch. "I won't be having Christmas with my family, you see – they've all gone to Romania to be with Charlie and my sister-in-law – so it was just going to be the children and I."
"I see."
"Don't get me wrong, I love Cynthia and Apollo, but it is nice to have adult conversation sometimes."
"Mhm."
Ginny laughed, glancing up to meet his eyes in that frank way of hers. "I'm boring you, aren't I?"
"A little," Draco admitted, and was surprised at how apologetic he actually sounded.
She smiled. "It's fine. Anyway, you're probably tired, so I guess I'll leave you to get some rest. Call me if you need anything."
"Yeah, sure."
"Well, goodnight, Draco. Oh," she added as an afterthought, "you don't mind if I call you 'Draco', do you? It's just, if you're going to be having Christmas with me, I'll feel weird calling you by your surname all the time."
"Goodnight, Weasley," he said firmly, ushering her to the door.
"So that was a yes to calling you Draco?"
Draco felt his lips twitch. "If you insist," he acquiesced. "Now for Merlin's sake, woman, stop talking my ear off and let me get some sleep. You're the worst hostess I've ever come across."
Ginny grinned, clearly taking this as a compliment, and then, with another murmured goodnight, finally left him in peace. He watched her bedroom door click shut and then shook his head, unable to repress a soft chuckle.
"What a bizarre woman," he mumbled.
He settled himself on the couch, though most of his legs were dangling over the edge, and pulled the blankets up over him. It was hardly comfortable, but as he lay there, feeling the warm glow of the fire wash over him, he felt strangely at peace.
Draco closed his eyes and then, before he even had a chance to really think about what tomorrow would bring, drifted quietly off to sleep.
oOo
The next day seemed to pass in a blur for Draco. He was woken up at the ungodly hour of 5:30 a.m. by Cynthia and Apollo, who were too excited to stay in bed when there was the prospect of fat stockings filled with all kinds of goodies waiting for them. Cynthia offered to share her stocking with Draco, who, never being able to resist a good sweet, reluctantly accepted. The next thing he knew, he found a small blonde huddled up beside him on the couch, and there she stayed until Ginny came out of her bedroom several hours later to make their breakfast. Draco was rather impressed by the redhead's blueberry pancakes and had a brief squabble with Apollo over the last one, which, much to his shame, the brat ended up winning. Apollo smiled smugly at him for the rest of meal.
After breakfast, it was time to open presents. Cynthia and Apollo both ripped into theirs with glee, and Draco was surprised at how delighted they seemed to be with their perfectly useless – and cheap – toys. Ginny also seemed pleased with the small collection she had received, and was particularly satisfied with a pink woollen jumper she had got from her mother, which Draco thought frankly hideous.
As he watched them opening and comparing their presents, he began to feel just a little uncomfortable. The thought that he did not belong here nagged at his mind, and with it came the same angry, awkward feelings he had used to suffer when he'd first tried to have Christmas with people after his parents had died. It was the humiliating knowledge that he wasn't really meant to be there; he was just there because someone had felt sorry for him, like a stray dog who had tried to follow them home. These people weren't his family – they weren't even his friends – and suddenly Draco wished that he had never agreed to stay.
He stood up abruptly and walked outside, letting out a deep breath as he looked up at the falling snow. The door to the house opened again. Draco didn't even need to turn to know that Ginny was standing behind him.
"Leaving so soon?" she asked quietly.
"Christmas really isn't my thing," he muttered, not looking at her.
She came to stand beside him, also staring out into the frosted street. "That's a shame. I even got you a present."
"How on earth could you have got me a present?" he exclaimed, glancing down at her. "You didn't even know I was going to be here."
She handed him a carefully wrapped package. "See for yourself."
He stared at her suspiciously. "I bet you just took the original name off the present and stuck mine over it."
"Just open it," she ordered, rolling her eyes.
Draco sighed and unwrapped the present. He frowned at the little brown book nestled inside. "What's this?" he asked, flicking the cover open and staring at the blank pages.
"It's a journal. I thought it might be useful."
Draco met her gaze with a quizzical look. "This was supposed to be for someone else, wasn't it?"
Ginny's lip quivered and he could see her eyes dancing with silent laughter. "Oh, bollocks. Fine, yes, I was supposed to give it to Hermione."
"I knew it."
"Hey, at least I made the effort. And you never know, you still might find a use for it."
Draco had to repress a smile, but said nothing in response.
Ginny looked up at him a little hesitantly. "You're still not planning on leaving, are you?"
He glanced down at her, noting her subdued expression. "Is it really that important to you that I stay?"
A faint blush blossomed on her cheeks. "Well, I would certainly like you to stay, but if you really don't want to . . ."
He sighed. "Merlin, woman, you certainly know how to make a man feel bad, don't you?"
"Does that mean you'll stay?" she asked hopefully.
"Well, I don't suppose I have a choice, do I? Besides, I think Cynthia might take it as a personal offence if I leave now."
"Most definitely," Ginny agreed, mock-seriously. "You did promise you would pull a cracker with her, and one must never break one's promises to children."
"Very well, I guess I'm staying then."
She didn't say anything in reply, but she did smile warmly at him before going back into the house. Draco frowned as he watched her retreating figure, a small suspicion taking root in his mind. He wondered why it didn't bother him that it seemed probable she might fancy him, but he didn't get time to dwell on the matter further; Cynthia suddenly came bounding out the door and demanded that he come and make a snowman with her. Apollo, it seemed, was far too absorbed in his new book to be of use to anyone.
"I don't think—" Draco began, but then he met Cynthia's big, blue eyes, which stared at him so expectantly, and all words of refusal died in his mouth. "Sure," he said instead.
She beamed and then dragged him out onto the front yard where she proceeded to tell him how to make a snowman. Draco, who had made many snowmen in his lifetime – though, admittedly, not for a number of years – couldn't help but be amused. He was also surprised to find that he actually began to enjoy himself. Even if packing bits of snow together was not the most thrilling of pastimes, it was impossible not to be affected by Cynthia's childish delight and infectious laughter.
He saw Ginny watching them with a smile from the window and, despite the fact that his hands were numb and his clothes wet, he felt almost warm in that moment. By the time he and Cynthia trudged back inside, very cold but satisfied, he had forgot all about the fact that just that morning he had felt like an outsider and had planned on leaving. It was strange, but he almost felt happy in the tacky little house he had been so scornful towards when he had first stumbled through the fireplace. He was quite content to sit drying by the fire with a cup of Ginny's homemade hot chocolate in hand and Cynthia curled up beside him on the couch.
Ginny sat down on the seat opposite him and chatted in her usual friendly way to him. It was nice just to talk, and Draco realised that he actually did enjoy the redhead's company. She was completely bizarre, of course, but she had a way of putting him at ease, and he appreciated that.
After some hours had passed, Ginny glanced down at her watch and then got to her feet. "We'd better head off," she said, moving to grab her wand and jacket.
"Head off where?" Draco asked, confused.
"I said I'd take Cynthia and Apollo to see their mum today. Do you want to come?"
"I don't think—"
"Please come," Cynthia begged, gripping his hand.
Draco stared down into her small, hopeful face and found he did not have the heart to refuse. "Alright," he agreed.
Ginny smiled and then sent Cynthia and Apollo off to go and put their coats on. Once they were all ready, she prepared a Portkey for them to take to the hospital – Portkeys being the safest way to travel for small children. Draco felt the familiar tug at his navel and then he found himself in the familiar white corridors of St Mungos.
"This way," Ginny said, leading them up the stairs.
Cynthia took hold of his hand, clearly determined to walk beside him. Though Draco was by no means used to having little children cling to him in such a way, he didn't tell her to let go and walked with her behind Ginny and Apollo to the ward where her mother was being kept. She swung his hand backwards and forwards as they walked, but once they got closer to the room, the swinging slowed and Draco felt the little body tense beside him.
He glanced down at her, noting her overly bright eyes and subdued demeanour. "You okay?" he murmured.
Cynthia looked up at him with those big blue eyes and gave a small sniff. "I just wish Mummy would get better, Mr Santa Claus. I don't like seeing her in that room. It's scary."
Draco frowned, not really certain what he could say to that, but then the healer was telling them that they could go in now, and Draco found himself being swept inside the hospital room. Cynthia released his hand in favour of going to greet her mother, allowing Draco to stand away from the group. He did not wish to intrude, especially since he did not know the woman. Besides, he had never been very good in these situations.
He remained silent throughout the visit, watching the small group who were each trying to be brave for the other in order to spare their loved ones and friends any pain. It was obvious to him that the woman was very ill – he only needed one look at her wasted face to tell that – but she continued to smile and laugh with her children, never letting them see how much it hurt her. He remembered that his mother had done the same.
Draco frowned and then quietly left the room. Ginny glanced at the door, seeing him go, but did not follow. When he came back into the room a few minutes later, she met his eyes for a moment, but did not ask where he had gone and went back to talking to her friend.
It was some time later before they got back to Ginny's house and sat down at the humble table to have Christmas dinner together. Everyone was looking a bit more subdued now, but the redhead tried her best to soldier on and keep their spirits up. Draco was not the kind of person to go out of his way to be cheerful for other's sakes, but he could see the effort it was costing her, and so engaged the two children in conversation – even managing to get a laugh out of Apollo.
Ginny looked at him gratefully across the table. "Thank you," she mouthed.
He nodded in acknowledgement and then went back to entertaining the children. After that, things seemed to get a little better. Once Ginny had put Apollo and Cynthia to bed later that night, she came back into the lounge where Draco was sitting and sat down next to him.
"Well, that's that out of the way," she said with a sigh. "I'm sorry things got a little uncomfortable back there, but with Julie so sick it's just—"
"It's fine," Draco said dismissively.
"Right." She fiddled with a loose thread on her sleeve. "So I suppose you'll be wanting to head back home."
"Yes," he admitted, "I would like to go home. I've been wearing these clothes for two days now and would like to have a shower and get cleaned up."
She laughed and then, hesitating a moment, stared up at him a little shyly. "Look, I know I basically forced you to spend Christmas with me, but I, um—I just wanted to thank you for staying with me today. I know you said Christmas isn't really your thing, but—"
"Please don't ruin what has been a perfectly good day with your sappy speeches," Draco interjected, if rather rudely. "I refuse to be part of your Hallmark moment."
Ginny smiled, finding no fault with his rude interruption. "Very well, then I won't."
"Good."
"But you did enjoy yourself, right?"
He saw the anxious look in her eyes, which he could tell she was trying to hide. "Well, I'm still here, aren't I?" he said, his voice surprisingly gentle.
Her eyes warmed with a smile, and Draco felt something tug at his heart that was more than mere amusement.
"I should go," he said, standing up. "It's getting late."
"Wait," Ginny said, also getting to her feet.
"Yes?"
She met his eyes with that frank look of hers, which he knew could hide nothing. "This might sound awfully forward of me, but I was hoping we could be friends. If you don't mind, that is," she added with a cheeky smile.
Draco laughed. "Weasley, you kidnapped me on Christmas Eve, made me sleep on your couch, and forced me to have Christmas with you. I think asking me to be your friend is pretty tame, considering the way things have gone."
She grinned as he headed towards the front door. "So that was a yes to being friends, right?"
"That was a yes," he threw over his shoulder, and then left the house.
oOo
"Aunty Ginny! Aunty Ginny! Come quick!" Cynthia exclaimed, rushing into Ginny's room and jumping on the bed.
"What is it?" Ginny mumbled, opening her eyes groggily and staring at the blonde.
"Mummy's here!"
Ginny sat up in a rush. "What? But that's not possible!"
"It's true! It's true!"
Someone knocked at the front door – a knock that Ginny knew very well. She thrust the covers off the bed without a second thought and ran out of the room, Cynthia skipping in tow. Apollo had already opened the door and was currently being enfolded in his mother's embrace. Cynthia let out an ecstatic shriek and joined them, hugging her mother tightly. Julie glanced up from her children and met Ginny's eyes with a smile.
"Hello, Ginny," she said, looking tired but otherwise healthy.
"I don't understand," Ginny exclaimed, staring with disbelieving eyes at her friend. "You were so sick, and the healers said there was no way they could help you unless you got the proper treatment. How did you—"
"A very nice man offered to pay for my treatment," Julie explained. "I didn't even know until the healers gave me the note."
"Someone paid for your treatment?" Ginny repeated, looking a little dazed.
"Yes, though I have no idea who the man was. The note simply said to consider it a Christmas gift to my family and was signed Sandy Claws." Julie looked at her hopefully. "Do you know who it could be, Ginny? I want to thank him if I can."
Ginny thought of the grumpy blond who had stumbled into her fireplace that fateful week ago and a fond smile curled her lips. "Yes," she murmured, "I know who it was."
"Who?"
"Why, it was Mr Santa Claus, of course."
"Who?"
Ginny grinned. "Ask, Cynthia. She was the one who discovered him first."
Cynthia beamed up at her mother. "It's true, and he made snowmen with me and—"
"For the last time, Cynthia," Apollo exploded, "that man was not Santa Claus!"
"Oh, I don't know," Ginny mused. "He may not have the beard or the big belly, or even the red suit, but he's certainly got the spirit."
"Yeah, and Aunty Ginny fancies him!" Cynthia declared triumphantly.
Ginny blushed. "I—I do not. He's just a friend."
"Really?" Julie queried, raising an eyebrow at the redhead.
"Oh, bollocks," Ginny sighed. "Fine, maybe I like him a little."
"Well, I hope you don't plan on letting this one slip through your fingers, Ginny. It sounds like he's a keeper."
"Oh, he is," Ginny agreed. "Got the alcohol tolerance of a house-elf, of course, but definitely a keeper."
"Of course he is," Cynthia exclaimed, not really following the conversation, but always ready to share her input. "He's Mr Santa Claus!"
"Firewhisky," Draco breathed reverently, making his way towards the lights.
'Heaven' turned out to be a dimly lit pub, boasting a sour-faced bartender and several old men with beards, who looked like they had, at some point during their drinking careers, joined with the chairs they were sitting on and become part of the decor. Draco had never felt more at home.
The blond took a seat beside a particularly shrivelled looking man – this one almost resembled a turtle – and turned to the sour-faced gentleman behind the counter.
"What'll it be?" the bartender growled, slapping his cleaning cloth down on the bench.
"Firewhisky," Draco responded, fishing out some money from his pocket and pushing it towards the pub owner. "And keep it coming."
A small cup of steaming liquid was placed before Draco, who took it with greedy fingers and downed the lot in one gulp. The turtle man gave a low chuckle and turned to face Draco, though all the blond could see was a pair of bleary eyes, which even then were just visible behind the mass of grizzled hair smothering the other man's face.
"What was it this time?" the turtle man asked, still chuckling. "Wife kick you out?"
"Lose your job?" another man called from the opposite end of the bench.
"Realise what a miserable excuse for a man you are?" something Draco thought had been a bundle of rags croaked.
"Of course not," Draco said indignantly. "I'm simply enjoying my drink."
"Is that what you lads are calling it these days?" the turtle man cackled. "It seemed to me you were trying to drown yourself in that wee mug there of yours."
"I was doing no such thing," Draco snapped.
His companions merely laughed. Even the bartender cracked a smile.
"There's no need to be so sensitive, lad," the turtle man remarked. "We all know why we come here on Christmas Eve."
"Aye," the rags croaked sadly, "it's because we have nowhere to go."
"Or we're trying to avoid where we should be," the man at the opposite end of the bench interposed with a raucous laugh.
Draco stiffened, suddenly feeling a lot less at home and like his heaven had somehow been invaded with little gnomes singing catchy – yet awful – show tunes, which was no heaven at all. All he wanted was to enjoy a nice drink. He did not want to think about Christmas, or anything to do with the stupid holiday, and he most certainly did not want to think about the empty mansion waiting for him back home.
It wasn't that he was lonely or depressed. He wasn't like these old men, who clearly had no lives and no money to remedy this tragedy. No, Draco had all the money in the world and was perfectly happy, thank you very much. But there was something about Christmas that grated him – something about the way everyone got so sickeningly nice and cheerful, even to the point where they would try to befriend him when every other month of the year they were dead terrified of him. It was enough to make a man bald, especially since he took such pains to cultivate the less than pleasant side of his nature to discourage such disgustingly friendly people.
And then there were the endless presents. He couldn't escape the damn things. If it wasn't somebody requesting a gift from him, it was people trying to give him their tacky rubbish – as if he would actually want or need anything from them. He wasn't a charity case; he did not need their pity, and he certainly did not need their junk. Just because he had no family or close friends did not mean that he wanted every sycophantic fool to suddenly invite him to their Christmas dinners and shower him with gifts. True, he didn't like spending Christmas by himself in the manor either, but that wasn't the point. The point was that he hated Christmas, and if he had his way, he'd kidnap the whole holiday and throw it into a bottomless abyss so it could sink for eternity along with all its commercialism and fake happiness. Really, people were just lucky he didn't resort to his more primal urges and Avada Kedavra anyone who dared to mention the 'C' word around him.
The turtle man heaved a sigh and placed what was meant to be a comforting hand on Draco's shoulder. "I can see you're the silent, brooding type, so I'll leave you to your drink. Just remember, lad, it's never too late to change your life. You're much too young to end up like us old relics, wasting away in this pub every night – especially on Christmas Eve."
"I'll keep that in mind," Draco muttered, hunching over his drink.
The turtle man chuckled. "Well, I tried my best. It's not my fault if you don't want to listen."
And with that, he went back to his own drink, which seemed to be the cue for all the rest of the bearded creatures – and rags – to return to theirs too. Draco was left to stew alone, undisturbed by their cackling and chatter, but he found, much to his frustration, that the alcohol was no longer satisfying to him now. Christmas had somehow wormed itself into his mind, reminding him of those times when there had been more than he and his house-elves celebrating the holiday at Malfoy manor. Not that he actually celebrated anything now. His house-elves just couldn't rid themselves of the habit of cooking the traditional Christmas dinner for him every year.
Draco sighed and downed another shot of firewhisky, which was then followed by another. He started to feel more than a little woozy after that, never having been the hard drinker he liked to think himself. The bartender, taking in the situation, thoughtfully pushed a glass of water towards the blond, though he was careful to keep his sour expression intact.
"I don't need your water," Draco mumbled with only the faintest trace of a slur. "I'm f-fine."
The bartender rolled his eyes. "If you can't handle your drink, boy, you can get out of my pub. We don't cater to house-elves."
Draco glowered at the bartender, not oblivious to the insult. Everyone knew to call a person a house-elf was to suggest he or she had no tolerance for alcohol.
"What about them?" Draco demanded, pointing an accusing finger at the row of bearded men.
"They don't get pissed drunk after three shots," the bartender said bluntly.
Draco stood up from his chair, his cheeks flushed with humiliation and anger. "Fine," he growled. "I don't want to drink in your stupid pub anyway. It stinks!"
He snickered at his own comment, if a little drunkenly, and then made his way to the door, half stumbling already over nonexistent obstacles.
The turtle man glanced up at the sour-faced bartender with a frown. "You aren't really going to let that poor lad Disapparate home, are you? He's bound to splinch himself."
Sour Face sighed. "I suppose he probably would." He stared at Draco, who was futilely trying to open the door. "Oi, Blondie! Get your arse over here."
Draco turned with an indignant expression on his face. "Excuse me? Do you know who I am?"
"I don't care if you're the Minister of Magic himself, you're in my pub, so you'll do as I say."
The blond eyed the older man speculatively for a moment, then heaved a reluctant sigh and half-stumbled back to where the rest of the pub-goers were. "What, then?" he demanded, trying and failing to look impressive. It was obvious his feathers had been well and truly ruffled.
"If you're going to go home, you can use the Floo," the bartender responded gruffly. "I won't be having no splinchings tonight. The Ministry are always blaming me for it, and I'm in no mood to be doing no paperwork."
"Fine," Draco snapped, just wanting to get home and away from all these hairy, ill-mannered people. "Give me the stupid Floo powder."
He was handed some of the green powder and then stepped into the fireplace, feeling the flames licking harmlessly at his ankles. He took a moment to relish in scowling at each person in the pub and then threw the powder down at the fire and said his destination. Unfortunately, the time it took for him to scowl was just enough for an ugly painting, precariously perched on the mantelpiece above him, to topple off and hit him on the head. In short, 'Malfoy manor' became Mal—aaagh!
It was too late to recount his words. The flames flashed green and then he was whooshing through the Floo Network, elbows and chin battling with the walls trapping him in place. The blond had barely gathered his bearings before the narrow chute spat him out of the chimney maze. He floundered for a moment, arms spinning like windmills, and then he stumbled through the fireplace in front of him, almost strangling himself on a piece of string that had been tied across it. Coughing, and feeling very ill-used, Draco tried to untangle himself from the string, only to get a mouthful of sock.
"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed, spitting out the sock and glaring at it like it was the sock's fault he had somehow ended up in the wrong house and was almost killed by a piece of string.
He then realised how very large – not to mention hideous – the sock was. Perhaps he had stumbled into the house of that oaf, Hagrid. He knew of no one else who had feet big enough to wear this monstrosity, and were those tiny snowmen and presents stitched onto the edges? He lit his wand so he could see better, and his face twisted with revulsion as he realised what he was holding. He abruptly dropped the Christmas stocking as if it was contaminated with the foulest of diseases, then turned to examine the rest of the room.
"Tacky, tacky, tacky," Draco muttered, curling his lip at the scraggly Christmas tree and hoard of decorations that took centre attention.
The furniture was also rather shabby, in his opinion. It was obvious the owner of the house had no taste – and no money.
"Well, I hope you have Floo powder at least," he mumbled, peering about the room for a promising jar or pot.
He had no desire to stay in a house so dedicated to Christmas. All he needed was some more Floo powder and then he could—
Draco froze. He was quite certain he had just heard someone giggle.
"Do you think it's Santa?" a voice whispered from the shadows.
"He doesn't look like Santa," a snotty voice retorted. "Santa is supposed to be fat and bearded and wear red suits. This man looks like a skinny rat. And he doesn't have a beard."
"A skinny rat?" Draco mouthed to himself, feeling his ire rise.
"But he did come through the chimney," the first voice insisted. "I heard him."
"Well, if that's Santa, then I must be a flying reindeer."
"What would you know? You think you know everything and you don't! I'm going to go and ask him myself."
"Cynthia, no!"
Draco suddenly saw a small girl wearing the most absurdly frilly nightdress come running towards him, blonde curls bobbing with each ecstatic step. She paused, smiling shyly up at him while twisting her nightdress round her fingers.
"Are you—are you Mr Santa Claus?"
Draco blinked. He didn't even know what a Santa Claus was. "Uh—"
"I know you don't have the red suit and the big belly," she continued in a rush, "or the beard – or anything like the description, really – but you did come through the chimney, so you must be him, right?"
"Er—"
"Am I on your Good List? My name's Cynthia. That's my brother Apollo – he's hiding in the shadows. I bet he's on your Bad List. He is, isn't he?"
"Um— "
"Do you want some milk and biscuits? I hear that's what Santa Clauses like, though I've never met one before. I mean you before."
Draco ran a hand over his face, wondering if it was the alcohol that was making him feel so lightheaded or the girl's impossibly fast conversation. He was actually beginning to feel a bit sick. All that spinning in the Floo had not been good for his stomach, and this disorientating little girl was not helping.
"I need to sit down," he mumbled, moving past Cynthia, who was still chatting happily away, and took a seat on one of the cosy armchairs.
A boy with thick glasses and a rather intimidating glare for one so young suddenly appeared in front of Draco. "Where are your presents?" he demanded.
"Excuse me?" Draco responded, nonplussed.
"If you're really Santa Claus, where is your bag of presents?"
"My bag of pre—"
"See! See!" Apollo exclaimed, turning a triumphant face to his sister. "I told you he wasn't Santa Claus."
"You didn't even let him finish his sentence!"
"I really don't think—" Draco began, but he was cut off yet again.
"He's not Santa Claus!" Apollo exclaimed. "He's just some stinky old man who fell down our chimney!"
"Old man?" Draco repeated, highly offended. "Now wait just a—"
"He's not some stinky old man! He's Santa Claus!" Cynthia rounded on Draco. "Tell him, Mr Santa Claus! Tell him!"
Draco stared at the two children, who stared demandingly back, and then placed his hands over his face. "I don't feel so good," he mumbled, going a bit green.
Cynthia looked horrified as the blond leaned forward and promptly vomited on his own shoes.
Apollo smiled smugly at his sister. "I told you he wasn't Santa Claus."
"He's probably just unwell from flying around in his sleigh," Cynthia retorted. "For all you know, he might get sleigh sick."
Draco only groaned and wondered how his life had come to this. It was Christmas Eve, he was covered in his own vomit, and there were two children arguing over whether he was some fat, bearded thing called Santa Claus.
The door to his right was suddenly thrust open.
"What in Merlin's name is going on out here?" a strangely familiar voice demanded, and then the person gave a sharp, audible gasp.
Draco glanced up from his hands, just catching a glimpse of red before something struck him in the chest and the world went black. Very black.
There was something tapping his cheek. He tried to swat it away but his hand didn't want to move.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Stop that," Draco grumbled, except what actually came out of his mouth sounded more like 'Slauemanen' – whatever that was.
"He spoke!" an excitable voice exclaimed. "Mr Santa Claus is alive!"
"Well, of course he's alive. He's breathing, isn't he?"
"You think you're so smart, don't you, Apollo?"
"I'm smarter than you. You've got the brain of a Flobberworm."
"Do not!"
"Do too!"
"Do not!"
"Shut up!" Draco growled.
Unfortunately, all that came out of his mouth this time was 'Scheup'.
"He spoke again!" the excitable one yelled. "Do you think he's actually awake?"
"How could he not be with you shrieking in his ear?" the other responded.
Draco, for once, found himself in agreement with the snotty-voiced boy.
"That's enough you two," a much deeper, but distinctly feminine, voice ordered. "I don't want to hear any more bickering. And just look at that time! You should both be in bed . . ."
The voices faded away and then there was silence. Draco lay there for a moment, paralysed in a cloak of thick fog. He felt like someone had stuffed a bag of cotton wool in his ears, though he was still able to pick up the sound of soft footsteps coming towards him. A cool hand touched his brow, and he caught the scent of cinnamon and ginger and something else that he could not place.
Feeling slowly crept back into his body and he opened his eyes to see a woman with long, vibrant red hair staring down at him.
"So you are awake," she observed, the corners of her mouth quirking up into a smile.
Draco blinked, easily putting a name to the face. "Ginny Weasley?"
"That's right," she responded, helping him to sit up. "Glad to see your memory isn't faulty, even if your ability to hold your drink is as appalling as ever."
He shrugged her hands away, much too proud to accept aid from a woman, let alone her. She took his rejection in her stride and instead handed him a cup of red potion.
"What's this?" he demanded, staring at her suspiciously.
"Sobering draught. After hearing about the spectacle you made of yourself, I figured you'd probably need it."
He took the cup from her with a gruff word of thanks, swallowing the contents in one gulp. The potion was very bitter, but if there was one thing he remembered about Ginny Weasley, it was that she knew how to make a damn good potion. Already, he could feel his mind clearing.
Ginny sat down opposite him, watching him with a half-smile. "I must admit, Malfoy, the last thing I expected was to have you tumbling through my fireplace on Christmas Eve. You gave us all quite the turn, you know."
"You hexed me," Draco accused, suddenly remembering how he had ended up unconscious in the first place.
"I'm sorry about that," she replied, though she didn't sound particularly apologetic. "I had no idea it was you; all I saw was a strange man with the children, and I guess I took fright. Besides, I only cast Stupefy on you; it's not like you were actually hurt."
Draco scowled and looked the other way, still feeling rather sore that he had been knocked unconscious.
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Malfoy, what were you expecting? You broke into my house—"
"I didn't break into your house!" Draco snapped, goaded into speaking.
"Oh, really? Then what were you doing sneaking around my lounge? Cynthia may believe you're the real Santa Claus, but I most certainly do not."
He stared down at his hands, the faintest trace of pink staining his cheeks.
"Well?" Ginny prompted. "The least you can do is give me an explanation. I am being very accommodating, you know, considering you did steal into my house, vomit on my carpet, and wake up the children after I just spent the past two hours trying to get them into bed."
"Fine," Draco snapped, knowing he would never hear the end of it if he didn't say something. "If you must know, I may have had a bit too much to drink and got my direction wrong when trying to use the Floo. I wasn't exactly expecting to end up at your fireplace, but this is where it took me. I was just looking for your Floo powder so I could go home when those two brats found me."
Ginny laughed. "That is a pathetic tale."
"Oh, I'm sorry, did you think that I was actually dropping in to pay you a visit?" He gave a bark of laughter. "Unlikely."
"Now you're just being rude," Ginny chided. "Besides, what makes you think I would want a snobbish prat like you to come and visit me at my house, let alone on Christmas Eve? I get enough of your ugly face at the Ministry."
"Ugly face? I'll have you know—" He broke off, noting the smile lurking at her mouth. "Oh, great. We're playing this game, are we?"
Her eyes crinkled into a grin. "You started it."
Draco heaved an exasperated sigh and ran his hands over his face. "I am not doing this."
"Doing what?" Ginny asked innocently.
"This!" he exclaimed, pulling his hands away to glare at her. "This friendly bantering rubbish you're trying to do. I refuse to participate in this sick-making conversation. I thought it was bad enough when your children were arguing over whether I was Sandy Claws – or whatever that thing was – but now I see you and your cheery 'let's be friends' conversation tops them all. You know what, just give me some of your bloody Floo powder so I can go home."
"Oh, Cynthia and Apollo aren't mine," Ginny responded, conveniently ignoring the rest of his speech.
He paused, staring at her with a frown. "They're not?"
"Of course not. They're much too old to be mine. Besides, I'm not with anyone."
"Then why—"
"Why are they living with me?" Ginny interposed, correctly guessing his question.
He nodded.
She sighed, her good humour fading slightly. "Julie – Apollo and Cynthia's mother – got really sick a few days ago. The Healers are trying their best to help her, but—" She broke off, falling silent for a moment, then forced a smile to her lips. "Anyway, I said I'd look after the children for her until she gets better. Julie doesn't have any other family, you see, and Cynthia and Apollo have always liked me. It seemed the natural thing to do, and I—well, I suppose I just wanted to help out."
"Well, that's all very sad," he said, getting to his feet, "but if you could just give me some Floo powder, I'll—"
"I don't believe it," Ginny exclaimed, also standing up. "You don't even give a damn, do you? I bet you weren't even listening; you were just waiting for your chance to get the hell out of here!"
"I don't even know this woman!" Draco retorted, refusing to let her make him feel guilty. "What am I supposed to do? Cry on your shoulder and say that it's not fair? Well, guess what, Weasley: the world isn't fair. Sometimes the people we love are snatched away from us, and there's nothing we can do about it. We just have to accept it and move on."
"Is that what happened to you?" she asked quietly.
"What?"
She faltered at the dangerous look in his eyes. "I just—"
"You just what?" he demanded, taking a step towards her.
Her chin lifted. "No, you know what, Malfoy, I'm not scared of you. You can glare at me all you like, but it's obvious you're bitter about something, and I can only assume it's because of what happened to your family. I mean, why else would you be getting drunk on Christmas Eve and acting even more horrible than what you normally are?"
"Perhaps I simply don't like Christmas."
"Please, you can't tell me that as a child you didn't get just a little excited when Christmas came around."
Draco fell silent, knowing this to be true.
She placed a hand on his arm. "It's okay to be upset, Malfoy. I've lost loved ones too, you know, but you can't let it rule your life. You're only denying yourself happiness when you do that, and I'm sure your parents wouldn't want that."
Draco met her earnest brown eyes. "Weasley."
"Yes?"
"Remove your hand from my arm."
She went a bit pink. "Sorry," she muttered, dropping the offending limb back to her side. "But you know—"
"I don't want to hear it," he said tiredly. "Look, I apologise for barging into your house like this – believe me, I never intended to do so – but all I want right now is to go home, so if you could just show me where you keep your Floo powder, I'll be on my way and we can forget this ever happened."
"No," Ginny responded, folding her arms.
"Excuse me?" Draco replied, raising an eyebrow.
"I can't let you go back home now. You'll probably be stuck in that big manor all alone, pulling crackers with your house-elf or something. No one deserves that – not even grumpy old humbugs like you."
"Merlin help me," Draco muttered, raising his eyes to the ceiling in a silent plea for patience. "Listen, Weasley, I appreciate your concern, but I'm not some stray needing a home for the night, alright? I'll be quite happy in my 'big manor', as you phrased it."
"I think you're just saying that because you don't like me."
"You're right, I don't like you," he said frankly, "which makes me wonder why you're even asking me to stay."
"Because you look miserable!" she exclaimed, unable to keep her thoughts to herself. "You think you don't care that you have to spend Christmas alone, but you do!"
"And now we're back to that again," he muttered, turning away from her.
"I don't see why you're being so stubborn. Why not try and enjoy yourself just this once? It couldn't hurt, could it?"
"It just might," he said wryly.
She placed her hands on her hips. "You're being quite ridiculous, you know. I'm only trying to help."
"Oh, I'm sorry, am I supposed to rejoice at being a charity case?"
"Is that what you think this is?"
Draco gave a dry laugh. "Weasley, I've received invitations from do-gooders like yourself every Christmas since my parents died. I think I know a pity invite when I get one, and I'm not interested. You people are pathetic."
"What's so wrong with trying to be nice?" she demanded, looking a little hurt.
"Because it doesn't mean anything. You can't tell me that you honestly care what happens to me; you're just so caught up in that ridiculous Christmas spirit of yours that you only think you do."
She looked down at her feet. "That's not true. I know I don't know you very well, but I do care."
"Oh, really?" he said sceptically.
She stared back at him, meeting his gaze with not a trace of reserve. "Yes," she said simply.
Draco was rather taken aback, realising she was actually being sincere.
Ginny took a step towards him, a faint smile touching her lips. "Come on, Malfoy, would it really be so difficult to spend Christmas with someone other than your grumpy old self this year?"
Draco met her smiling brown eyes, then let out a disgusted groan. "I feel like I'm stuck in some awful Hallmark moment. I suppose this is when I hug you and say I'm ever-so-pleased?"
"No," she said with a laugh, "but agreeing to stay would be nice."
He frowned and folded his arms. "Fine," he said, looking the other way. "But only because I know I'm never going to hear the end of it if I don't."
She beamed, but before she could say anything more, Draco was suddenly bombarded by something in blue frills and curly blonde hair.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're going to stay, Mr Santa Claus!" Cynthia exclaimed, wrapping her arms tight around Draco's middle.
"Wha—" Draco exclaimed in a daze, shocked at finding himself hugged by a small child.
Ginny frowned down at the little girl. "I thought I sent you to bed, Cynthia."
Cynthia pulled her face away, meeting the redhead's eyes with a sheepish look. "I'm sorry, Aunty Ginny, but I wanted to see what would happen to Mr Santa Claus." She grinned toothily up at Draco. "You are going to stay with us, right?"
"Well, I—"
"Of course he is," Ginny interposed, "but if you don't go to bed, he might change his mind. Santa doesn't like naughty girls that don't go to bed when they're told."
Cynthia looked stricken. "I never meant to be naughty! You won't put me on your Bad List and give me coals for presents, will you Mr Santa Claus?"
Draco blinked. "Er—" He saw Ginny staring at him pointedly and then glanced back down at the little blonde. "Not if you be a good girl and do as you're told."
"I'll go to bed right now!" Cynthia promised. "And you'll still be here tomorrow morning, right?"
"Sure," Draco mumbled, wondering if he was going insane.
"Thank you!" Cynthia breathed, pulling him into a tight hug again, and then, with a serious goodnight, tripped out of the room.
"She likes you," Ginny said, smiling at him.
Draco remained unimpressed. "She thinks I'm Sandy Claws."
Ginny gave a snort of laughter. "Not 'Sandy Claws', Santa Claus. He's part of Muggle tradition – based on a wizard, in actual fact. They say he travels down chimneys on Christmas Eve and gives presents to everyone. He's also fat, has a long, white beard, and likes to wear a red suit."
"Oh, well that certainly describes me, doesn't it?" Draco said sarcastically.
She laughed. "Cynthia is only young. She doesn't know any better."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"It might."
Draco glared at her. "You are getting far too much enjoyment out of this."
"Maybe," she admitted, her eyes dancing. "Anyway, you'll be wanting a place to sleep. I hope you don't mind the couch."
"Oh, no," Draco said dryly, "I love sleeping on furniture that isn't a bed."
Ginny frowned at him. "Well, aren't you the sarcastic one."
He sighed, realising he must have offended her, though she was trying her best not to show it. "The couch will be fine," he said tiredly.
"Great! I'll just go get you a pillow and some blankets."
Draco watched her trundle out of the room. Once the door had shut behind her, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. What the hell was he doing? He barely knew the girl – he certainly didn't count their brief conversations at the Ministry as anything of consequence – yet here he was actually agreeing to stay the night in her house and have Christmas with her.
"I must be mad," he muttered.
He tried to persuade himself that it was because she had refused to lend him any Floo powder, but Draco knew that was a feeble excuse at best. If he really wanted to leave, all he had to do was use his wand to Disapparate. Her sobering draught had cleared most of the effects of the alcohol he had consumed, though his mind still felt a bit fuzzy. Perhaps he was just drunk. Yes, that must be it.
Ginny came back into the room with a bundle of blankets and a pillow clutched in her arms. "I'm so glad you decided to stay," she said with a smile, proceeding to make up his bed on the couch. "I won't be having Christmas with my family, you see – they've all gone to Romania to be with Charlie and my sister-in-law – so it was just going to be the children and I."
"I see."
"Don't get me wrong, I love Cynthia and Apollo, but it is nice to have adult conversation sometimes."
"Mhm."
Ginny laughed, glancing up to meet his eyes in that frank way of hers. "I'm boring you, aren't I?"
"A little," Draco admitted, and was surprised at how apologetic he actually sounded.
She smiled. "It's fine. Anyway, you're probably tired, so I guess I'll leave you to get some rest. Call me if you need anything."
"Yeah, sure."
"Well, goodnight, Draco. Oh," she added as an afterthought, "you don't mind if I call you 'Draco', do you? It's just, if you're going to be having Christmas with me, I'll feel weird calling you by your surname all the time."
"Goodnight, Weasley," he said firmly, ushering her to the door.
"So that was a yes to calling you Draco?"
Draco felt his lips twitch. "If you insist," he acquiesced. "Now for Merlin's sake, woman, stop talking my ear off and let me get some sleep. You're the worst hostess I've ever come across."
Ginny grinned, clearly taking this as a compliment, and then, with another murmured goodnight, finally left him in peace. He watched her bedroom door click shut and then shook his head, unable to repress a soft chuckle.
"What a bizarre woman," he mumbled.
He settled himself on the couch, though most of his legs were dangling over the edge, and pulled the blankets up over him. It was hardly comfortable, but as he lay there, feeling the warm glow of the fire wash over him, he felt strangely at peace.
Draco closed his eyes and then, before he even had a chance to really think about what tomorrow would bring, drifted quietly off to sleep.
The next day seemed to pass in a blur for Draco. He was woken up at the ungodly hour of 5:30 a.m. by Cynthia and Apollo, who were too excited to stay in bed when there was the prospect of fat stockings filled with all kinds of goodies waiting for them. Cynthia offered to share her stocking with Draco, who, never being able to resist a good sweet, reluctantly accepted. The next thing he knew, he found a small blonde huddled up beside him on the couch, and there she stayed until Ginny came out of her bedroom several hours later to make their breakfast. Draco was rather impressed by the redhead's blueberry pancakes and had a brief squabble with Apollo over the last one, which, much to his shame, the brat ended up winning. Apollo smiled smugly at him for the rest of meal.
After breakfast, it was time to open presents. Cynthia and Apollo both ripped into theirs with glee, and Draco was surprised at how delighted they seemed to be with their perfectly useless – and cheap – toys. Ginny also seemed pleased with the small collection she had received, and was particularly satisfied with a pink woollen jumper she had got from her mother, which Draco thought frankly hideous.
As he watched them opening and comparing their presents, he began to feel just a little uncomfortable. The thought that he did not belong here nagged at his mind, and with it came the same angry, awkward feelings he had used to suffer when he'd first tried to have Christmas with people after his parents had died. It was the humiliating knowledge that he wasn't really meant to be there; he was just there because someone had felt sorry for him, like a stray dog who had tried to follow them home. These people weren't his family – they weren't even his friends – and suddenly Draco wished that he had never agreed to stay.
He stood up abruptly and walked outside, letting out a deep breath as he looked up at the falling snow. The door to the house opened again. Draco didn't even need to turn to know that Ginny was standing behind him.
"Leaving so soon?" she asked quietly.
"Christmas really isn't my thing," he muttered, not looking at her.
She came to stand beside him, also staring out into the frosted street. "That's a shame. I even got you a present."
"How on earth could you have got me a present?" he exclaimed, glancing down at her. "You didn't even know I was going to be here."
She handed him a carefully wrapped package. "See for yourself."
He stared at her suspiciously. "I bet you just took the original name off the present and stuck mine over it."
"Just open it," she ordered, rolling her eyes.
Draco sighed and unwrapped the present. He frowned at the little brown book nestled inside. "What's this?" he asked, flicking the cover open and staring at the blank pages.
"It's a journal. I thought it might be useful."
Draco met her gaze with a quizzical look. "This was supposed to be for someone else, wasn't it?"
Ginny's lip quivered and he could see her eyes dancing with silent laughter. "Oh, bollocks. Fine, yes, I was supposed to give it to Hermione."
"I knew it."
"Hey, at least I made the effort. And you never know, you still might find a use for it."
Draco had to repress a smile, but said nothing in response.
Ginny looked up at him a little hesitantly. "You're still not planning on leaving, are you?"
He glanced down at her, noting her subdued expression. "Is it really that important to you that I stay?"
A faint blush blossomed on her cheeks. "Well, I would certainly like you to stay, but if you really don't want to . . ."
He sighed. "Merlin, woman, you certainly know how to make a man feel bad, don't you?"
"Does that mean you'll stay?" she asked hopefully.
"Well, I don't suppose I have a choice, do I? Besides, I think Cynthia might take it as a personal offence if I leave now."
"Most definitely," Ginny agreed, mock-seriously. "You did promise you would pull a cracker with her, and one must never break one's promises to children."
"Very well, I guess I'm staying then."
She didn't say anything in reply, but she did smile warmly at him before going back into the house. Draco frowned as he watched her retreating figure, a small suspicion taking root in his mind. He wondered why it didn't bother him that it seemed probable she might fancy him, but he didn't get time to dwell on the matter further; Cynthia suddenly came bounding out the door and demanded that he come and make a snowman with her. Apollo, it seemed, was far too absorbed in his new book to be of use to anyone.
"I don't think—" Draco began, but then he met Cynthia's big, blue eyes, which stared at him so expectantly, and all words of refusal died in his mouth. "Sure," he said instead.
She beamed and then dragged him out onto the front yard where she proceeded to tell him how to make a snowman. Draco, who had made many snowmen in his lifetime – though, admittedly, not for a number of years – couldn't help but be amused. He was also surprised to find that he actually began to enjoy himself. Even if packing bits of snow together was not the most thrilling of pastimes, it was impossible not to be affected by Cynthia's childish delight and infectious laughter.
He saw Ginny watching them with a smile from the window and, despite the fact that his hands were numb and his clothes wet, he felt almost warm in that moment. By the time he and Cynthia trudged back inside, very cold but satisfied, he had forgot all about the fact that just that morning he had felt like an outsider and had planned on leaving. It was strange, but he almost felt happy in the tacky little house he had been so scornful towards when he had first stumbled through the fireplace. He was quite content to sit drying by the fire with a cup of Ginny's homemade hot chocolate in hand and Cynthia curled up beside him on the couch.
Ginny sat down on the seat opposite him and chatted in her usual friendly way to him. It was nice just to talk, and Draco realised that he actually did enjoy the redhead's company. She was completely bizarre, of course, but she had a way of putting him at ease, and he appreciated that.
After some hours had passed, Ginny glanced down at her watch and then got to her feet. "We'd better head off," she said, moving to grab her wand and jacket.
"Head off where?" Draco asked, confused.
"I said I'd take Cynthia and Apollo to see their mum today. Do you want to come?"
"I don't think—"
"Please come," Cynthia begged, gripping his hand.
Draco stared down into her small, hopeful face and found he did not have the heart to refuse. "Alright," he agreed.
Ginny smiled and then sent Cynthia and Apollo off to go and put their coats on. Once they were all ready, she prepared a Portkey for them to take to the hospital – Portkeys being the safest way to travel for small children. Draco felt the familiar tug at his navel and then he found himself in the familiar white corridors of St Mungos.
"This way," Ginny said, leading them up the stairs.
Cynthia took hold of his hand, clearly determined to walk beside him. Though Draco was by no means used to having little children cling to him in such a way, he didn't tell her to let go and walked with her behind Ginny and Apollo to the ward where her mother was being kept. She swung his hand backwards and forwards as they walked, but once they got closer to the room, the swinging slowed and Draco felt the little body tense beside him.
He glanced down at her, noting her overly bright eyes and subdued demeanour. "You okay?" he murmured.
Cynthia looked up at him with those big blue eyes and gave a small sniff. "I just wish Mummy would get better, Mr Santa Claus. I don't like seeing her in that room. It's scary."
Draco frowned, not really certain what he could say to that, but then the healer was telling them that they could go in now, and Draco found himself being swept inside the hospital room. Cynthia released his hand in favour of going to greet her mother, allowing Draco to stand away from the group. He did not wish to intrude, especially since he did not know the woman. Besides, he had never been very good in these situations.
He remained silent throughout the visit, watching the small group who were each trying to be brave for the other in order to spare their loved ones and friends any pain. It was obvious to him that the woman was very ill – he only needed one look at her wasted face to tell that – but she continued to smile and laugh with her children, never letting them see how much it hurt her. He remembered that his mother had done the same.
Draco frowned and then quietly left the room. Ginny glanced at the door, seeing him go, but did not follow. When he came back into the room a few minutes later, she met his eyes for a moment, but did not ask where he had gone and went back to talking to her friend.
It was some time later before they got back to Ginny's house and sat down at the humble table to have Christmas dinner together. Everyone was looking a bit more subdued now, but the redhead tried her best to soldier on and keep their spirits up. Draco was not the kind of person to go out of his way to be cheerful for other's sakes, but he could see the effort it was costing her, and so engaged the two children in conversation – even managing to get a laugh out of Apollo.
Ginny looked at him gratefully across the table. "Thank you," she mouthed.
He nodded in acknowledgement and then went back to entertaining the children. After that, things seemed to get a little better. Once Ginny had put Apollo and Cynthia to bed later that night, she came back into the lounge where Draco was sitting and sat down next to him.
"Well, that's that out of the way," she said with a sigh. "I'm sorry things got a little uncomfortable back there, but with Julie so sick it's just—"
"It's fine," Draco said dismissively.
"Right." She fiddled with a loose thread on her sleeve. "So I suppose you'll be wanting to head back home."
"Yes," he admitted, "I would like to go home. I've been wearing these clothes for two days now and would like to have a shower and get cleaned up."
She laughed and then, hesitating a moment, stared up at him a little shyly. "Look, I know I basically forced you to spend Christmas with me, but I, um—I just wanted to thank you for staying with me today. I know you said Christmas isn't really your thing, but—"
"Please don't ruin what has been a perfectly good day with your sappy speeches," Draco interjected, if rather rudely. "I refuse to be part of your Hallmark moment."
Ginny smiled, finding no fault with his rude interruption. "Very well, then I won't."
"Good."
"But you did enjoy yourself, right?"
He saw the anxious look in her eyes, which he could tell she was trying to hide. "Well, I'm still here, aren't I?" he said, his voice surprisingly gentle.
Her eyes warmed with a smile, and Draco felt something tug at his heart that was more than mere amusement.
"I should go," he said, standing up. "It's getting late."
"Wait," Ginny said, also getting to her feet.
"Yes?"
She met his eyes with that frank look of hers, which he knew could hide nothing. "This might sound awfully forward of me, but I was hoping we could be friends. If you don't mind, that is," she added with a cheeky smile.
Draco laughed. "Weasley, you kidnapped me on Christmas Eve, made me sleep on your couch, and forced me to have Christmas with you. I think asking me to be your friend is pretty tame, considering the way things have gone."
She grinned as he headed towards the front door. "So that was a yes to being friends, right?"
"That was a yes," he threw over his shoulder, and then left the house.
"Aunty Ginny! Aunty Ginny! Come quick!" Cynthia exclaimed, rushing into Ginny's room and jumping on the bed.
"What is it?" Ginny mumbled, opening her eyes groggily and staring at the blonde.
"Mummy's here!"
Ginny sat up in a rush. "What? But that's not possible!"
"It's true! It's true!"
Someone knocked at the front door – a knock that Ginny knew very well. She thrust the covers off the bed without a second thought and ran out of the room, Cynthia skipping in tow. Apollo had already opened the door and was currently being enfolded in his mother's embrace. Cynthia let out an ecstatic shriek and joined them, hugging her mother tightly. Julie glanced up from her children and met Ginny's eyes with a smile.
"Hello, Ginny," she said, looking tired but otherwise healthy.
"I don't understand," Ginny exclaimed, staring with disbelieving eyes at her friend. "You were so sick, and the healers said there was no way they could help you unless you got the proper treatment. How did you—"
"A very nice man offered to pay for my treatment," Julie explained. "I didn't even know until the healers gave me the note."
"Someone paid for your treatment?" Ginny repeated, looking a little dazed.
"Yes, though I have no idea who the man was. The note simply said to consider it a Christmas gift to my family and was signed Sandy Claws." Julie looked at her hopefully. "Do you know who it could be, Ginny? I want to thank him if I can."
Ginny thought of the grumpy blond who had stumbled into her fireplace that fateful week ago and a fond smile curled her lips. "Yes," she murmured, "I know who it was."
"Who?"
"Why, it was Mr Santa Claus, of course."
"Who?"
Ginny grinned. "Ask, Cynthia. She was the one who discovered him first."
Cynthia beamed up at her mother. "It's true, and he made snowmen with me and—"
"For the last time, Cynthia," Apollo exploded, "that man was not Santa Claus!"
"Oh, I don't know," Ginny mused. "He may not have the beard or the big belly, or even the red suit, but he's certainly got the spirit."
"Yeah, and Aunty Ginny fancies him!" Cynthia declared triumphantly.
Ginny blushed. "I—I do not. He's just a friend."
"Really?" Julie queried, raising an eyebrow at the redhead.
"Oh, bollocks," Ginny sighed. "Fine, maybe I like him a little."
"Well, I hope you don't plan on letting this one slip through your fingers, Ginny. It sounds like he's a keeper."
"Oh, he is," Ginny agreed. "Got the alcohol tolerance of a house-elf, of course, but definitely a keeper."
"Of course he is," Cynthia exclaimed, not really following the conversation, but always ready to share her input. "He's Mr Santa Claus!"
Author notes: . . . And the Stockings Were Hung: The DG Forum's Christmas Challenge
Your assignment: to tackle a non-typical facet of the holidays. That means the common sights (like mistletoe, Weasley sweaters, and candy canes) that feature strongly in Christmas fics are to be avoided - the farther from "same-old" you can get it, the better. In short, be as creative as your little muse will allow while still writing about "the holidays."
That said, you must need to include one common Christmas element: all stories must mention or feature "Christmas stockings." (Not stalkings . . . I mean, you can go there if you want . . .)
Whether they're hung by the chimney with care or used for other exciting/scandalous/nefarious/ridiculous purposes, their use is up to you.
The End.
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