Disclaimer This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
The Christmas Truce
We didn't do Muggle history at school. I suppose they would have covered it in Muggle Studies but the halfwits that it complied of; only looking for an easy mark, were too busy trying to understand the fundamentals of electricity and simple Muggle appliances, that the ghoulish history of the people remained unknown.
One thing we did know, however, at school, was war. War thrust upon us in Harry Potter's fifth year. 'Take up the gauntlet,' they cried, silent voices echoing through our so easily corrupted minds, 'fight for yourself and your family and the assurance of a better future!' We knew war. We knew war and pain and tragedy, the sickly sweet scent of bloodshed in the air and the filmy cloying texture it left in the back of our throats as we fought not gag. Oh, we knew war.
Not war like Muggle warfare. There was no front line, no storming the beaches, weapon in hand. No sieges on unprotected villages. No arms race. No bombs. Instead it was covert; guerrilla warfare. Spy missions, intelligence gathering, the occasional ambush; but never did someone draw a battle line in the sand. Or in the snow.
It was the Christmas of Harry Potter's seventh year. Of my seventh year. The school that knew war like the back of its scarred hand fought to overcome the oppressive taint of pain in the air and readied us to rejoice the holiday. Never have I seen such a hollow celebration.
On Christmas morn I awoke to an indomitable morning chill. Dressing hurriedly and with minimal care, I bypassed all those who lingered in the Slytherin common room, staring quietly at their gifts without making any move to open them. I knew why they stayed. I knew they had nowhere else to go. I knew their hearts ached with loss. And I knew I could not stay with them, so I left them to commiserate while I went about to the Great Hall with the promise of appeasing my appetite. I had no surprises to open this morning, having done so last night, when I thought I could wait no more. I had gotten what I wanted, nothing more, nothing less, and afterwards I had sat by my window and watched as the first of the seasons snow began to fall and had entertained wild fanciful notions of awaking to find the war over and my own inner anguish, not nearly as warranted as someone who had lost their family but there and stabbing with self-indulgent hurt nonetheless, to be over
We were the only two of our year to attend our last Christmas at Hogwarts. Many were with their families, or what was left of them. The rest were out fighting; the war didn't end for Christmas. Both Harry and I had been given leave from our respective Causes, our opposing sides. Yes, that's right. Dumbeldore knew whom I was fighting for, they all did and still they let me stay for reasons unbeknownst to me, Maybe they were trying to win me over by flaunting their trust. Fat chance. Harry Potter and I were on opposing sides, light and dark, right and wrong. That's the way fate had worked it out and that's what we knew.
They're were a few others dotting the Great Hall, fourth and fifth years mostly, too young to fight and too old to be pulled out and dragged home, muffled in cotton wool, but I took no notice of them. Instead I looked across the room at the world's green eyed saviour, the very figurehead of my hatred and in the Christmas spirit I raised my glass, inclined my head. Across the room he did the same. The actions spoke volumes.
I know what you are, it said, I know what you are and what you stand for. I know that you are fighting for my enemy. I know you would rejoice my death. I know you have killed. And I respect your integrity and in the spirit of Christmas I will acknowledge it. To the end.
And to that we drank deeply. To the end and to our Christmas Truce. I did not think of him again until we met outside, the snow glowing with an inner phosphoresce, a blanket of white gold that warmed the ground from the chilly air. He was bundled up against the weather in those tasteless Weasely travesties of clothing. He had a woollen beanie pulled over his unruly hair, a garish green chosen most likely because of its similarity to his eyes. He looked to be considering a frolic in the snow but was stopped by the burden of his trauma. The Weasel and his Mudblood were absent, an Order mission no doubt. Harry had probably wanted to go with them but Dumbeldore had given him leave to enjoy his Christmas instead. The canny old man probably suspected this may be his last.
"You know what they say, Potter, tis the season to be jolly. Don't look so down, anyone would think your parents had just died."
It was cruel, yes and even more so it was sad, sad that we knew nothing but hate, sad that we spent our Christmas antagonising each other. But like all things in our temperamental existence, old habits died hard deaths in the snow.
"Hello Malfoy, don't you have whacked out experiments to be performing on poor unsuspecting woodland creatures?"
His voice was weary, not quite angry, my best was nothing to him and his words rolled off me like water off a ducks back. Our words were pointless, trivial, and in our hearts we knew it. But we also knew the roles we had to play and we did so without struggle.
"I would think you had damsels in distress to be rescuing."
"Oh, because I love nothing more then a good damsel." Harry's voice was wry and ironic now, and I started inwardly at the mild suggestion in his words. He too, had the suspicion that he had said too much, and he turned to look at me.
"Death Eater." He spat redundantly like I wasn't aware of my own affiliations or would find them offensive.
"I'm glad you've noticed, Potter. Maybe there are some intelligent thinkers on your side after all. Because I've just been so secretive about my alliances. You're a quick one aren't you?"
"Fuck off, Malfoy."
Our conversation was so static, so typical; I could have scripted it beforehand and read off it. Because that's what we did. We exchanged petty banter, disguised as hurtful words but they lacked the vitriol that was to be expected from us.
Ok then, with that in mind, lets break character.
"Wanna build a snowman with me, Potter?"
"What?"
Shock, confusion, wariness, it could be a trap after all. Even I was shocked by the implication of my words and it was I who had said them.
"Snowman. Fat, useless thing. Poor representation of the human figure made from snow."
"I know what a snowman is, Malfoy, I'm just wondering why you want to build one with me of all people, and I'm wondering if this is all an elaborate ruse to catch me unawares and kill for your Lord."
He had the right to be wary. I would expect that from him. One did just escape the Dark Lord on numerous occasions and live without caution. Once captured and tortured, forever shy.
"You know I can do no such thing, what with the prophecy and all. I just thought I would share some holiday joy that's all. Nothing sinister.
He did not seemed surprised at my casual mentioning of the prophecy that foretold his demise or the demise of my Lord, instead it seemed to coalesce the suspicion that Voldemort was aware of the full extent of the prophecy after all. He thought carefully over my proposal before agreeing.
"Too right, what can it hurt?"
He said that and neither of us realised it would hurt for the rest of our lives, would hurt him as he defeated the Dark Lord and married his statuesque redhead, would hurt me as I was atoned for my sins and lived only a half life in the wake of the wars epilogue.
I could see snow catching on his impossibly long sooty eyelashes and it made me smile.
Our snowman, my first snowman ever actually, resembled Hagrid in proportion though it lacked the half giants extreme facial hair. It had bare branches for arms, a carrot stolen from the school gardens for a nose and two mismatched buttons for eyes. One from my jacket, one from Harry's.
Its arboreal arms were spread open, beckoning the unsuspecting into a hug that would crush it's victim into its icy chest as their mouth filled with snow, sinister and cold.
We looked at our ominous little snowman and then at each other.
"It looks evil doesn't it?" I said, unnerved that we could create something by working together and still it would resemble and epitome hate.
"It does, doesn't it?" He agreed, studying our snow creation. "Lets destroy it."
I would have never have suspected to hear those sentiments come from the angelic mouth of Harry Potter, but that didn't mean I didn't agree with him. Together we rushed at the snowman and collided with him, his icy body collapsing from under him on impact and our combined force ran us straight through his heart and on the ground. We lay together laughing breathlessly, cushioned on powered snow. I removed the carrot nose from where it was jabbing me uncomfortably in the side with a distasteful expression and we were both overcome by giggle again as we saw it had snapped clean in half. When our laughter finally subsided, I looked at him and smiled. He smiled back. My button rested on the snow near his temple.
"Have you ever heard about the Muggle Christmas Truce? When the Muggles stopped fighting on Christmas, and they put down their guns and celebrated together regardless of what side they were on, for the day." He asked me quietly, almost breathily. I could feel his words ghosting over my face and saw that he now had snow caught in his hair as well as in his impossibly long eyelashes and it made a startling contrast to his dark hair.
"No. Is that what we are? A Christmas Truce?" He was so close now. I watched his eyes. Almond eyes with an almost sensual felinity to their shape; jade but not quite jaded. Sexy eyes.
"Yes." He said and leaned over and
(what can it hurt?)
kissed me softly, chastely with a closed mouth. I moaned in protest and pulled him closer, enticing him to be bolder and not so much like he was giving the Mudblood a thank you kiss. He opened his mouth and it was hot and velvety and I wondered if my own was the same and he tasted of the winter air with errant snowflakes on his tongue and I wondered what I tasted like, and even while I was kissing him I was thinking about myself and not about him and his gentle kisses and his warm hard body lying in the ruins of our creation next to my own. We stayed their for minutes or hours, I couldn't really tell, before he pulled away and stood up, gave me his hand and lead me back to the castle hand in hand. I was trapped in a winter wonderland and I never wanted to leave. Never.
Looking back on it I should have understood what he was promising me, I should understood that he was promising me nothing but that moment in time, that it was truce and not redemption, that he was not giving himself to me and that when he told me of the Christmas Truce, he had said that it was only a the day and that was all we had.
He had smiled and said 'what can it hurt?' and never have I heard such a bitter irony, Fate's joke on us that brings tears to my eyes. He has kissed me in the snow and I could think only of myself, and I want to turn back time so that I could kiss him back some more, murmur sweet nothings in his ear. He had offered me his hand and I had taken it, forgetting that it was he who had spawned my advances at friendship.
The season ended and we went back to fighting our wars against each other. I was one of the Dark sides most ruthless fighters and it was I who was solely responsible for engaging the help of the Dark creature to fight for us, one that nearly won us the war. He garnered the support of Mudblood and Pureblood alike and it was he who led the final siege against the crumbling citadel that was the Dark Lords reign. It was he who uttered the words that befell one of the strongest wizards of an age.
He became a hero and I became a pariah. He married his redhead and I was spared Azkaban by waving my considerable wallet in the face of the Ministry and was left to live my life out in solitude.
In the winter I make snowman and knock them down in a blind rage and then collapse as my tears freeze as they fall and sob harshly into the mound of snow that I make in his image.
At school we never learnt about Muggle history. We were taught many things in that stone fortress. Of war and pain and tragedy. Of the fuzzy logic of love and how fleeting the moments are to seize it. If we had learnt Muggle history they would have told us that after the Christmas Truce the fighting resumed and any further contact with the enemy was high treason. It would have taught us not to hope against hope, not to clutch at the past as if it were a pillow into which you could keen your sorrow in an empty bed at midnight. That the Christmas Truce as bittersweet as it was, was only temporary.