It is Christmas now. Draco always liked Christmas. Christmas when he was younger meant everything he'd wanted, and numerous things that he hadn't know he'd wanted. Christmas for a few years after that meant wondering if he'd be alive until the next Christmas and then berating himself for his morbid thoughts and drinking a toast with friends or enemies or by himself to still being there at all. Then for four years of his life, Christmas meant parting with less money on presents, spending more time in bed, and looking at more Muggle lights in London than he ever had before. It meant red hair and blazing rows that resulted in shoes being thrown and people yelling and once oh God someone falling down a set of stairs, but Draco doesn't think about it ever ever ever. After that, he's never allowed himself to think about Christmas, because Ginny was gone before the next Christmas.