This ficlet was written for dwellingindreams in The DG Forum's 2016 Secret Santa Fic Exchange, with the prompt "decorations, fragile, curse."
My sincerest apologies about the late posting.
It was their first Christmas together and they were holed up in the old Malfoy Manor, nothing but themselves for company.
His mother had moved out years before, finding herself a cheery little cottage of the coast of France where she lived with the last of their House Elves and a string of paramours who never meant anything substantial. His father had passed away shortly after Potter had won, the stress on his body from the Dark Lord's torture having been too much.
He hadn't ever meant to come back to the Manor. The important stuff hadn't been there in a long time, and the ghosts had always been too much.
They were supposed to go to her parents for the holiday, but her condition and the weather had waylaid them.
They could have made it further, but he wasn't willing to risk her health to escape his ghosts.
The property abutted the forest separating them and Ottery St. Catchpole, meant that they were just a skip away from her familial home. If her family found their way to them, he would open the drab doors and let them into the dusty halls.
He wouldn't blame them if they never tried to set foot inside.
It's Christmas Eve and the house is almost entirely devoid of sound. It's empty of food as well, if he doesn't count the trays of preserved potluck food she had stored in the boot or the box of cheap cherry cordials his beloved is steadily snacking her way through as she hummed carols to herself.
It was quiet, except the sound of her chewing and off-key humming.
But, he supposes, it wasn't bad.
"Do you think we'll ever move back here," she asks after finishing off another candy, "or would you rather we built a house somewhere free of all the memories?"
He means to reply, feels the answer on his tongue but it doesn't leave his mouth. Can't.
He doesn't really know the answer.
The Manor is full of the ghosts of his past, full of lingering curses and macabre remnants alike.
But he also remembers being a young child, no more than five years old, and watching as his father wove fragile ornaments into the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve, his movements precise but deliberately colorful to excite him. He remembers dancing with his mother in the sitting room while his father was away on business. He remembers standing still at his parent's side as they helped the newest foal enter the world.
The older he became, the more the shadows of this place had frightened him. But he does remember being a child and the halls were full of light and wonder and he thought his parents could do no wrong and everything was good.
"I don't know," he finally says, each word solidly stated as not to show the waver of emotion trying to tangle in his throat, "but whatever we do, we're going to love her."
"I know," Ginny says softly, rubbing a gentle hand across the obvious swell of her stomach.
Draco shares a quiet little grin with his girlfriend, only looking away from her eyes to watch the mesmerizing evidence of their future child.
"Do you still have decorations stored here? We should decorate."
He moves back up to catch her eyes, the lack of hesitation on her face. "Yeah, yeah, we should."
It's not a choice, not an overt decision about where they will live. But it is a confirmation, he thinks.
He loves her and she loves him and their child will never not know the love from both of them. No matter where they end up.
"Merry Christmas, Draco," she says when he brings the first box of carefully packed decorations down, "I love you."
"Merry Christmas, love," he replies, and he kisses her softly.