Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
A/N: This isn't properly British.
The eighth years are all sitting in a circle while Flitwick excitedly hands out gifts. "Draco Malfoy," he chirps, reading off a label and passing it to some Hufflepuff student Draco doesn't know, who chucks it Draco's way. Draco catches the box with a scowl; what if it's breakable?
Frankly, Draco's glad that the presents only have 'to' labels on them. He isn't particularly proud of what he picked out, mainly because he isn't particularly fond of his recipient. In his entire eight years at Hogwarts, he's never once spoken to Luna Lovegood, and he has no idea what she wants for Christmas. He also doesn't particularly care.
When Draco first pulled her name out of the Sorting Hat, he had no idea who she was. Daphne was quick to point her out, to which Draco immediately snarled, "Ravenclaw?" He has no idea what to get Ravenclaws.
Since then, he's spent a spare glance here and there sizing her up, ascertaining absolutely no helpful information whatsoever. He already knows she's insane; it's the first thing that comes up when he asks anyone about her. He also now knows that she's moderately attractive and supposedly a pureblood. Still hardly a match. He didn't put much effort into her gift half-on-purpose.
And now he has his gift, which is far more important. Now that the war's ravaged his home and family name, Draco isn't as spoiled and entitled as he once was. But a semblance of greed is still a part of his personality, just like it probably will always be. He rips off the red-and-green packaging with mildly restrained fervor, reaching the plain, white box below. It's fairly large, taking up most of his lap, but it doesn't weigh much. Draco tears off the lid, face screwing up at what he finds.
"Pajamas?" Goyle grunts from beside him.
Draco pulls out and holds up the snake-covered silk-satin top, a little less patterned than the bottoms. Flitwick chirps, "Oh, how lovely!" while handing Finnegan the next present out of the pile.
Draco drops the pajamas back into the box, staring at them. The little, silvery snakes are slithering excitedly across the dark green fabric, milling about haphazardly past one another. Draco tilts his head as he stares at it.
Then he mutters to himself, "I like them," with his nose wrinkled and a mortified look on his face. He looks at Goyle as if to ask what the hell is wrong with him. Why does he like pajamas? Those are supposed to be a terrible Christmas gift. Especially these ones, which are tacky and hideous.
And strangely him, even though Draco's never been an ounce less than stylish in his entire life. He holds the box up to the light as though it'll change his mind—something's clearly snapped in his brain.
Draco freezes abruptly, arms still outstretched, when something warm and solid leans into him from behind, wrapping around his middle. He drops the box and glances over his shoulder—Luna's pretty face is leaning on it, lashes down and glistening lips in a very, very wide smile.
"Thank you," she practically sings, much too eagerly. "It's just what I wanted." She squeezes Draco lightly; he can feel her cotton-covered chest pressing into his back, and he tries not to let it show in his cheeks.
Then she pulls back and drifts back across the room, sporting the ugliest top hat he's ever seen. To his utter horror, it still has the receipt tucked into the brim where the salesmen put it, and a couldn't-be-bothered-Draco didn't remember to remove it.
Beside him, Goyle wilts, grumbling dejectedly, "I never get hugs."