Author's note:

I was going to take a break from fanfiction. I was going to focus on my work and my own writing. I was just going to take a peak at the Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges… And then my fingers acted on their own accord and I was into The Particular Pairing Challenge. My pairing is Ginny/Draco, my prompt "wishing" and my quote "Merry Christmas, my elf," and this is what my mind made out of it. Enjoy.

Ever since Ginny Weasley met Harry Potter when she was ten years old and saw her brother Ron off at the Hogwarts Express, she liked to observe people. She was star struck with this new, black-haired boy before she knew his name. He was so determined, so focused and so independent, coming to King's Cross alone, but going through the brick wall with her brother Ron.

Later on her mother told her who the boy was, and Ginny spent a year, before she herself went to Hogwarts, thinking about him. When she, some years later, picked up enough courage to actually talk to him he still struck her as determined and independent. Ron was his best friend and his comrade in arms, but Ron being Ron always played a smaller part in their adventures. He was good in support, Ron. Their friend Hermione was the bookish type, always researching whatever dangers the three of them were about to get themselves into. Ginny could easily have been a stage director, casting everyone in rather stereotype roles. Fred and George, the pranksters. Parvati Patil, the beauty. Cedric Diggory, the hero. Neville Longbottom, the herbologist to be. Crabbe and Goyle, the hired muscles. Draco Malfoy, the… The antagonist? He certainly fit the role, seeing it from the Gryffindor perspective of Harry, Ron and Hermione, but Ginny wasn't certain.

Neville had once told Ginny that he had been there when Harry and Draco met. Draco had introduced himself to Harry. Politely. And Harry, the black-haired young savior of their world, having paid the price of being both motherless and fatherless, had brushed Draco off. Rather rudely, Neville said.

Of course Ginny had seen Draco behaving as an absolute ass for years. But so had Harry. Still being star struck with Harry it became harder and harder to see it, but when she really tried she found similarities between them. Stubborn. Proud. Ambitious. Reckless.

Ginny's fourth year had been the worst ever. With Undersecretary Umbridge taking charge of Hogwarts and a dislike to Harry, Dumbledore's Army had formed. Harry was the front, but Ginny knew Hermione was the real force behind it. Umbridge countered with her own Inquisitorial Squad and had, of course, enrolled Draco. Once, only once, had the two groups met. Draco and his hired muscles Crabbe and Goyle had taken Ginny, Neville and Luna to Umbridge's office where she had Harry tied to a chair, prepared to do anything to make him speak. Little did Umbridge know that higher values than the governing of Hogwarts were at stake. The pudgy, toad-like woman in a sooty, pink suit had taken the photo of Cornelius Fudge and had hidden his face from view. "What Cornelius doesn't know, won't hurt him." She might as well have said "…won't hurt me," Ginny thought when something caught her attention. Harry might just as well have been carved in stone, not flinching at the prospect of the Crucio curse, but someone else did. Draco, who had trained his wand at Neville, had relaxed a bit and Ginny could see fear in his eyes. And Draco wasn't even at wand point. Then the shrewd, no, clever Hermione had yelled that if Harry wouldn't tell the pink, ruffled Headmistress what she wanted to know, Hermione would. Ginny had no idea what Umbridge wanted to know, and she doubted even the brainy bookworm did, but it was a distraction. A few minutes later Harry, Hermione and Umbridge had left the rest of Dumbledore's Army in the hands of the Inquisitorial Squad, and for the first time Ginny didn't feel safe in partaking in Harry's plan. Even though it really was Hermione's plan. Figured.

She had expected to be kicked around, Ron to fight and curse, Neville to cower and Luna to be absolutely unconcerned. She had expected Draco to take command and follow the path Umbridge had laid down. But he didn't.

"Go stand over there," he said, pointing at a wall completely covered by the hideous plates with kittens.

Ron tried to provoke him, calling Draco a ferret, calling Draco's father a sissy, but Draco remained calm. At the remark about his father he almost smiled for a split second, but Ginny saw it. Draco didn't seem to know what to do with his prisoners, telling Crabbe and Goyle to watch them but not to touch or hex them. Then he sat down behind Umbridge's desk, looking more or less bored. He fiddled with the quills on her desk, tried one but winced and looked at his hand with a strange expression. Later Ginny realized it had been a blood quill. Draco put up Cornelius' picture again, but no one spoke. Then Ron actually got an original idea and asked if he could have some sweets he had in his pocket. Sweet toothed Crabbe and Goyle immediately robbed Ron's pockets, handed around the sweets, Fred and George's puking pastilles, before they shoved their mouths with them. In less than ten seconds their faces took on a greenish tinge, as did the other two gorillas' in the Squad. Draco hadn't yet put anything in his mouth, and when his comrades in arms bent over, retching, he put the candy down.

He could have stopped them. He could have blocked the door, threatening them with hexes or even curses, but he didn't. He just remained seated at the Headmistress' desk while the four people in Dumbledore's Army bolted for the door. Neville and Ron didn't see that Draco wasn't on the floor puking his guts out, but Luna did. But nothing surprised Luna, and she followed the two boys.

"Come on, Ginny!" Ron shouted, out of sight.

Tentatively Ginny took a step closer to the door. Draco gathered the confiscated wands of the Army and levitated them in a neat bundle towards Ginny. Then he put down his own wand and held up his hands, like a cowboy in Western-movie. He smiled wryly.

"Stop her," was all he said.

And Ginny did. Not alone, of course. It took Harry, Ron, Hermione, Luna and Neville, a smashed prophecy, a blur of duels and the death of Harry's godfather, but in the aftermaths Dolores Umbridge was out of Hogwarts.

Ginny never talked to Draco in the following weeks before the summer holiday. She tried to smile at him but was met with a glare so dark it hurt. The wry smile he had given her when he gave her her freedom stayed with her during the summer though. Not when Harry was in the same room, of course. Harry was finally, finally noticing her. Her, Ginny! Harry who had been with beautiful Cho Chang the past winter, now saw her, quiet, observing Ginny. One time in August, he had almost kissed her, and Ginny had been dizzy for days. The darker times that loomed over them almost didn't concern her. At Hogwarts everything would be as before, an enchanted world where Harry, the Harry Potter, might choose to sit with her in the common room in the evenings. Might take her hand, apparently by accident, but then keep it in his, stay up late, until everyone else went to bed and then lean in and…

Draco had never feared the beginning of a new academic year as much as he had in September. He'd always been proud being his father's son, always aimed to please Lucius. When he'd been a boy it had been easy. Just the physical likeness had gone a long way. Imitating a pose of Lucius', pretending to be his father, answering after first having thought 'How would father have answered this question?' opened doors he wasn't old enough to pass, too early. For a long time he had wanted to be Lucius Junior, in every way. After this summer he didn't anymore. Now he wished for another role model. Another life. Another task. A task like getting the best academic grades. Or finding a really nice girlfriend. Or pursuing a Quidditch career without a broom Lucius had boosted magically. He wished to be… just another 16-year-old wizard at Hogwarts. And never before had he been further from it. His left forearm ached. When he slept his dreams replayed the orders he had been given by the Dark Lord. Sometimes it felt as if Voldemort's red eyes followed him everywhere he went. If he was having a laugh in the Slytherin common room, flirting briefly with Pansy Parkinson or just sharing joke with Blaise, he could suddenly hear the Dark Lord's voice inside his head.

"The Cabinet, Draco. The Vanishing Cabinet. I trust you to have a safe and clear passage into Hogwarts by the end of the year."

Draco had examined the sister cabinet at Borgin and Burkes, tried to memorize all its secrets. By mid-December he had tried to mend the broken cabinet at Hogwarts for more times than he cared to remember. He couldn't do it. He didn't want to any longer. The other order the Dark Lord had given him haunted him more. To kill Dumbledore. He had never been a pet of Dumbledore's, like Potter, but his sneering and cruel remarks had been fuelled by his lifelong 'What would father have said about Dumbledore's mudblood politics?' Personally he secretly admired Dumbledore's steadfast calm. Draco had never seen the Headmaster loose his temper, and Draco was raised in a house where losing one's temper was the most common emotional expression. Followed by pain. The Crucio curse or the heel of Lucius' boot. The first punishment on humans, the second on the house elves. Draco was more or less used to the excruciating pain of the curse, but he still winced inwardly when he saw an elf fly screaming across a room.

A couple of days ago, Severus had asked, in his usual demanding way, how he could help Draco with his mission. Draco had said no. Several times. He would give the bloody cabinet one more go.

Now he had, and the damned wardrobe still wouldn't… wouldn't what? Do what Draco wanted it to? But Draco didn't want it to work. He had come to realize that he didn't, under any circumstances, want that lizard-like, red-eyed, ash-pale and, most of all, moody Lord set loose in Hogwarts. Not Hogwarts, with the cozy common room in the cellar, the homey potions classroom, the Quidditch pitch.

He stared into the mirror in the boy's restroom, and a haggard-looking Malfoy stared back. He looked nothing at all like handsome, composed Lucius today. He had the nervous twitches of his mother's around his eyes, and his slivery blond hair was greasy and flat. His throat ached, almost as bad as his forearm. Horrified he saw his eyes fill with tears, and he couldn't do anything to stop it. A sound behind him made him turn around and he met the green eyes of Potter. The damned Boy Who Lived And Got Everything He Fucking Wished For. Glory, love, friends, house points. The hidden Lucius in Draco stepped in and raised Draco's wand.

Reluctantly he left the nothingness of potion-induced sleep. It had been a dark void of dreamless sleep. No fear, horrendous missions, failed tasks, blood-curdling anxiety. Draco wanted to return to that darkness, but less than ten seconds after he had identified the ceiling of the hospital wing, the motherly Madam Pomfrey was at his side. She took his hand and stroked his forehead while she explained what had happened to him. Draco heard the words Sectumsempra, Severus and healing spells, but was too distracted by her soft touch to really take it in. Or perhaps it was the pain he was becoming more and more aware of. It was all over his body, sharp, burning and itching. Madam Pomfrey speared a thyme-smelling salve on him, and the pain subsided somewhat. With the lessened pain sleep returned to him.

The days ahead became a longing for the herbal smell of the Star Grass Salve. The jar, also star-shaped, stood out of his reach, and Madam Pomfrey or someone of her house elves softly rubbed his wounds several times a day. Draco closed his eyes when he was undressed, he didn't want to see what he suspected were disfiguring scars all over his chest where the pain and itching were worst.

He briefly thought about Potter. It must have been Potter who had cast this unknown curse, but Draco found it next to impossible to feel his usual hate for the Chosen One, or whatever he called himself this week. Draco remembered that he himself had begun the fight, wanting to curse, maim or kill just about anyone who trespassed on his blatant failure of that fucking cupboard. And saw him crying. Damn!

He sighed and watched the ceiling. It hadn't changed during the week he had been at the hospital wing, but tonight there was something different. A glittering light reflected from the window danced across the ceiling. Draco struggled to focus, and saw that the reflections formed stars, fur trees, falling snow and sledges drawn by reindeers. He raised his head a few inches and saw the room he lay in decorated with Christmassy trinkets. He also saw that he was alone. The other seven beds were empty and made up.

Strangely enough it didn't depress him. He could picture himself at the Christmas party in the Great Hall if he had been well. He would have played Lucius Junior, hid this ever present anxiety and probably drunk to much Butterbeer, or even smuggled Fire Whiskey. As long as he lay incapacitated here no one, not even the Dark Lord could expect anything from him. His chest itched and burned and he glanced longingly at the green, little jar. His wand was at his bedside table, but his fingers were bandaged, so even if he could reach his wand and levitate the Star Grass Salve into his hand, he couldn't really use it properly.

A sound nearby made him raise his head again. Pomfrey coming back? Slowly the door to the infirmary opened, but instead of Madam's white bonnet, a slender, red headed girl came into view.

Ginevra Weasley? What is she doing here?

Slowly she approached his bed, and for a second Draco feared that she would repeat Potter's curse.

They're together, aren't they?

Ginny looked down on him and smiled. Not malevolently but not friendly either. Wryly, came to mind.

"What are you doing here?" Draco asked flatly.

After a few seconds, while her smile softened, she answered.

"I came to see you. Figured you were rather lonely."

"I don't mind. You don't have to…"

"But I wanted to. Wish you a Merry… well, a painless Christmas, at least."

Draco was dumbfounded. He just looked into her brilliant blue eyes, taking in her hesitation hidden behind her no-nonsense words. He'd seen her gaze before, sometimes even met it. He knew she was bright. Brighter than the mudbl… than Granger, librarian by day and secret agent or fighter or whatever, by night. Ginevra watched before she acted. Made sure she knew the rules before she joined in.

"Are you?" she asked.

"Am I what?"

"In pain?"

He tried to shrug, but winced from the pain.

"Can I get you anything?"

Draco's eyes darted to the star shaped jar before he could stop himself. Ginevra reached for it, unscrewed the lid and sniffed it.

"Star Grass. Does it help? I know the curse cut you."

Aren't you going to make excuses for high and mighty Potter now? Tell me that he had to curse me with heavens know what, because I'm on the verge of going far past Lucius in recklessness?

She didn't.

"My mother used this, when Fred and George challenged me to climb a Red Oak that grew in Ottery St. Catchpole. I was six. The Oak was 213, and moody."

Draco wanted nothing but the soothing feeling of the light green salve on his chest, and horrified he heard himself sigh deeply and shakily.

"It's elf-work, Ginevra. Call one of the house-elves."

"They're busy. I don't mind." She began unbuttoning his pyjama shirt. He could feel himself blush, but then he realized that Ginevra unbuttoning his shirt was nothing at all like when Daphne Greengrass did it, in a dark corner past the common room. This was more like Madam Pomfrey, soft and caring, and Draco's throat ached from unshed, grateful tears. When she pushed his shirt open he closed his eyes. He didn't want to see, and he didn't want her to see his eyes.

The soothing, thyme-smelling balm calmed his racing mind, his frayed nerves and, above all, his pain.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"You're welcome," she whispered back. "Have you looked at yourself?"

How come you know exactly what to ask, at the exact time when I'm at peace enough to answer?

He shook his head.

"It's not so bad. I understand the itching is dreadful, but the scaring won't be… well, not that visible, once the scar tissue has healed."

You don't sound like Ginevra. You don't sound like a 15-year-old witch. You sound composed and calm and grown up. You sound like a mother. Like a mother in a story I've read once.

"Has Narcissa been to see you?"

Draco flinched when he, for a brief second, thought she could read his thoughts. He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and shook his head.

"I'm sorry," she said, and they both knew what she meant. Sorry Narcissa wasn't the woman at his bedside, soothing his wounds and stroking his forehead.

"Better?"

He nodded, but didn't trust his voice to be steady enough for spoken honesty.

"It's still elf-work, Ginevra," he said. He had aimed for a dry, ironic tone, but failed.

"Maybe," she answered. "An elf would certainly do it. As would a friend."

"Thank you," he whispered again.

"You look as if you want to be alone. I'll go." She leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Merry Christmas, Draco."

I don't want to be alone. I want you to stay, but I can't, I just can't handle this… friendship thing. Maybe some day.

"Merry Christmas my elf," he whispered.

She smiled lopsided and left, silently closing the door behind her. Draco looked out on the dark mid-winter sky, focused on a particularly bright star and wished.