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He looks at the star like it is poison. Then he looks at the redhead like she is poison.
"No," he says flatly.
"But, Malfoy—"
"No. I am not helping you decorate that tree."
She pouts. "But I can't make a Christmas wish unless we put the star on top, and you know I can't use magic; I'm underage."
"Then I guess you won't get your wish."
She folds her arms under breasts, giving him the evil eye. "You are so—so—"
"I know," he says, turning her around by her shoulders and giving her a slight push towards the door. "I'm horrible and evil and sometimes you just can't stand the sight of me. Believe me, the thought warms the cockles of my heart. Now go do whatever it is that plebeians like you do and leave me in peace."
"Ugh!" she cries, throwing her hands up in the air. "Why did I have to get stuck in this safe house with you? Even being kidnapped by Death Eaters has to be better than this!"
He lets out an inelegant snort. "Well, the front door is that way. Go right ahead."
Weasley has no response to this and instead gives him one last glare before flouncing off towards her room. Draco sighs in relief and settles back on his favourite armchair. That got rid of the bint. Now, hopefully, he won't have to hear any more Christmas nonsense from her.
"I can't believe you broke your ankle," Draco mutters, setting the redhead down on the couch and taking her foot in his hands.
She hisses in pain at his touch, biting back a yelp. "Well, if you had just helped me with the star when I asked, I wouldn't have had to use that wobbly stool to try and reach the top of the tree. But no, you just had to be a git, and who had to suffer for your gitishness? Me!"
Draco rolls his eyes. "It's not my fault you're clumsy and short."
"Clumsy and short? Why you—"
"Hold still!" he orders, cutting her rant short and bringing out his wand.
Weasley glowers at him, but she manages to curb her temper long enough to let him use his magic to mend the broken bone. She slips her foot out of his grasp once he is done and stands up, brushing the pine needles off her robes.
Draco raises an eyebrow. "What, no thank you?"
She lifts her chin. "I only say thank you to people who actually deserve my gratitude. You don't—especially since I know you only healed my foot so you wouldn't have to cook dinner tonight."
He shrugs. "Guilty."
Weasley makes an exasperated noise and stomps out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her. Draco doesn't seem too bothered that he has managed to make her storm off like a snorting dragon again (it happens a lot). Instead, his gaze drifts to the Christmas tree (Salazar knows how she got the owl to deliver the thing), and he stares at the yellow star glinting on top. He wonders if she managed to make her wish; the spiteful, Christmas-loathing side of him wonders why he cares if she hadn't.
"It's not like it would have come true or anything," he mutters, folding his arms.
Then he realises that he is talking to himself, and he scowls. Weasley's craziness is clearly rubbing off on him.
"Are you wearing lipstick?"
Her cheeks flush pink. "No."
The corners of his mouth twitch. "You are, aren't you?"
She makes a huffy sound and takes a sip of her drink, trying to look lofty and uncaring. "Well, so what if I am? It's Christmas dinner, isn't it? I wanted to dress up for the occasion."
"You think that's dressing up?" Draco shakes his head in mock dismay. "Weasley, Weasley. Putting on some lipstick and a nicer jumper than that holey thing you normally wear is not dressing up."
"I didn't ask for your opinion, Malfoy!" she snaps, tightening her grip on her glass and glaring daggers at him.
Draco holds his hands up in an appeasing gesture. "Just making an observation."
"No, you were being a git. You're always being a git. In fact, you might as well just be renamed the King of Gits."
"Nice to see you've finally recognised that I am the equivalent of royalty."
She makes an odd sound, almost like a cat hacking up a fur ball, and then starts coughing and thumping her hand against her chest. No doubt she has choked on her drink. Draco simply raises an eyebrow.
"Problem, Weasley?"
Her eyes narrow. "The only one with a problem here is you. Now shut up and eat your damned turkey."
He laughs lightly. "No wonder you don't know how to dress for special occasions. You Weasleys have no class at all."
"You—I—" she flounders a bit more and then settles on her favourite word for him. "Git!"
Draco's lips curve into a smirk. "Don't you mean King of Gits?"
"Gah!"
"Do you think they'll ever come back for us?" Weasley asks, curled up next to him on the couch.
Draco watches the flames flicker in the hearth. "I don't know, Weasley. It's been a month since we last heard anything."
She sits up and hugs her knees to her chest, peering at him through big brown eyes. "I never thought I'd be spending Christmas with you," she says after a moment.
"We didn't think a lot of things would happen, Weasley, but they still did."
Her gaze lowers. It occurs to him that she is probably upset and missing her family. This is an alarming thought. He doesn't want to deal with a silent, sad-face Weasley. He much prefers the stomping, snorting kind.
"Don't worry," he says offhandedly. "Next year I'm sure you'll be back to having the whole Weasley brood around you, and then you can indulge in your plebeian ways and Christmas wishes all you like."
She tilts her head to the side, observing him like a bird that has just discovered a rather odd looking worm and is not sure if it's edible. "Are you—are you trying to cheer me up? Because I have to say that you're doing a really terrible job of it."
He shrugs and stretches his legs out, resting his feet on the ugly footstool. "Think what you like. It doesn't bother me."
"Of course it doesn't," she says, sounding a little irritated. "Nothing ever seems to bother you. The Great Malfoy is always so calm and unflappable."
"The Great Malfoy," he repeats. "Why, Weasley, I'm flattered you feel that way about me."
Her face flushes pink. "You know what I meant! Stop trying to twist my words, you—you—"
Draco, who is rather tired of seeing her flounder about like a fish out of water, leans over and presses his lips firmly against hers. She makes a muffled sound of surprise, and he takes infinite pleasure in teasing a response out of her, fingers tangling in her hair as he deepens the kiss. When he pulls back, she is bright red and staring at him through wide brown eyes.
"What was that for?" she demands.
"Mistletoe," he says, pointing up.
She blinks. "Where? I don't see any—"
He kisses her again, and for once she doesn't feel the need to argue with him and prove him wrong. Draco has to admit, he rather likes this method of shutting Weasley up. In fact, he thinks this just might be the best Christmas yet.
The End.
Boogum is the author of 21 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 4 members. Members who liked A Jolly Interlude also liked 400 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 4 members. Members who liked A Jolly Interlude also liked 400 other stories.
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