A/N: I actually wrote this story for a Secret Santa exchange two Christmases ago. Or was it three? Either way, it was before Book Five. I only recently realised that I had never posted it anywhere, so now I'm posting it here. Even though it's well past Christmas now. But its one of my favourite pieces of writing. Not sure why.

Anyway, this was written for Nikki Whitecraft.

There's a legend about mistletoe. Actually, there's several; that plant is very steeped in folklore. The Celtic Druids held it to be a scared plant, possessed of magical properties. They thought it was a gift from the gods; to bring life, to promote fertility, to cure poison, to ward off evil spirits. They were right in that, which is why you never saw Peeves around the Great Hall at Christmas time.

There were some that even believed it would ward off witches and wizards, which is utter nonsense, isn't it, since I'm sitting under a sprig. The Druids also believed it had medicinal properties. They were right in that too. I should know: I was a Potions Master. It was - and still is - hailed as a symbol of peace and love, and was woven into many local folk stories.

But I like the Norwegian legend the best. Shall I tell it to you?

Eons ago, when the Norse gods still roamed Midgard, Frigga, goddess of love, walked with them. She was the mother of Balder, the god of the sun, the source of all warmth in the world. In those times, people still believed greatly in the power of dreams. So when Balder came to his mother, telling of a dream he had had - a dream in which he saw his own death - Frigga was understandably shaken. If Balder were to die she knew it would be the end of all life on earth. We need the sun; without it we would all freeze and die.

Frigga was determined that she would not let her son die. She went to the four elements, Air, Fire, Water and Earth, and begged them to protect her son. She went to every animal and all the plants and asked them not to harm her son.

And when every plant and animal she spoke to agreed to bring no harm to her son, Frigga was happy. There was nothing on the earth, or beneath, or above it that would harm her son. Or so she thought.

At the same time there lived an enemy of Balder: Loki, god of evil and mischief. There was nothing he would have liked better than to have seen Balder brought low, even at the expense of the world. He watched Frigga go from plant to plant to animal and beg them to do no harm to Balder. But he, in his clear mindedness, saw the one plant that Frigga forget, for it was not of the earth, or of the air. It was mistletoe, and it hung between earth and air, and thus Frigga missed it.

Loki, however, did not, and he seized upon the opportunity. He took the mistletoe, and of it, he fashioned an arrow tip. Too wily to incriminate himself in Balder's murder, he planted the arrow in the quiver of Hoder, the blind god of winter.

Unknowingly, Hoder drew his bow, set the arrow and brought down Balder. True to his vision, Blader was dead. All colour leached from the sky, and the sun was gone. The animals, the plants, the gods, they all wept for Balder, their god of the sun. The best efforts of the elements, working for three straight days, were not enough to bring Balder back. He was gone, and the sun was gone with him.

On the third day, Frigga sat cradling her son in her arms, beneath the tree on which the mistletoe grew. She wept for her son, and for all the world. The tears ran down her face and dropped onto Balder's chest.

A tear fell on the mistletoe arrow tip still buried in Balder's heart. And when it did, it became a white berry, like those you see on the mistletoe today. Another tear fell, and another berry formed. As the tears fell and the berries formed, they began magic work, leaching the poison from Balder's body.

Balder was revived, the sun was restored to the sky, and in her joy, Frigga declared that the mistletoe would from that day forth be a symbol of love, and none would come to harm from it.

He was my mistletoe: that which killed me and brought me back to life.

That year, Hogwarts was covered in mistletoe. Oh, not literally. But every doorway had its sprig. Except for the dungeons. Snape burnt every piece he found. But the rest of the castle more than made up for it. The theory went that Lockhart was back and Dumbledore had given him free reign to decorate for Christmas.

I was alone somewhere in the fourth floor corridors overlooking the lake. I was the only Slytherin sixth year still at school. In fact, I was the only Slytherin upperclassman. There was a mess of second and third years, but what would I want with them, even if they weren't scared silly by my mere presence. Besides, I enjoyed my own company.

A fact that Potter plainly did not appreciate.

He stood at the end of the corridor for a good twenty minutes before approaching. I stoically ignored him. I wasn't about to be ousted from my comfortable position sprawled on the window ledge just because some witless Gryffindor had taken it into his head to stare gormlessly at me. I had better things to do than be disturbed by the fixed stare of Wonderboy; I was staring at the ice on the lake, and envying it.

How I wished that day that I could be like the ice; crystalline in its beauty, hard, cold and, above all, utterly lifeless. I wanted to invite that ice into me, wanted to reach out a hand to it. But I couldn't. To make such a needy gesture would belie my deliberately casual pose. And in front of Potter of all people, of whom I was still stoically oblivious.

He coughed meaningfully. I fought the urge to flinch.

"I heard about you father," was his opening gambit. I thought, 'Bravo Potter, you're more aware than I gave you credit for. You managed to pick up on something the whole school has been gossiping about'. I didn't reply; didn't give any sign that I'd heard him.

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry," he continued inanely. I sneered silently, turning my head away. How dare he do that. How dare he make himself out to be the better man, apologizing for the death of my father, when I laughed when his godfather died. How dare he apologize when it's not his fault, and how dare he not even recognize his supreme arrogance in doing so.

How dare he pity me.

"False sympathy ill becomes you, Potter," and like a typical Gryffindor, he riled at my idle observation.

"It's not false, Malfoy. I know what it's like! I've lost a father too, you know."

"Ah," I said and wanted to add 'before you knew him. Before you knew what it was to hate the man who sired you. Before you found out how guilty you could feel because you didn't care that he was dead'.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"Nothing, Potter. Just 'ah'." I looked coldly down my nose at him, "Did you expect something more eloquent? Don't. You're the one that approached me."

He huffed, "I was just trying to offer you some compassion."

I turned away, gazing out the window at the frosted brown lawns. When I didn't react, Potter blathered on, "Because, you know, I noticed that none of you housemates was offering you any."

'Did you ever stop to think that that might be because I don't appreciate it?' I wanted to snap but couldn't summon the strength.

"And umm…" Potter shifted from foot to foot, "It's Christmas and nobody deserves to be alone at Christmas."

'Are you talking about me, Potter, or yourself?' Because he was in the same position I was: the only upperclassman of his house still at Hogwarts. Only his situation was vastly different; he was alone by choice, and hated it. There wasn't a student in the school who wouldn't happily spend Christmas with the Boy Who Lived. I was alone because no one wished to associate themselves with the son of a murdered Death Eater. I like to think I preferred it that way.

"Don't try and turn me into your charity case, Potter."

He screwed up his face. "I'm not. Merlin knows there's two hundred people more worthy just here in Hogwarts."

Two hundred. When there was barely two dozens people left.

"Of course not," I said, and went back to my study of the empty grounds. If I had hoped he would go away, I was sorely disappointed. He stood there, not two feet away, intruding on me when all I wanted was to be left alone with the empty grounds and the numbing cold.

"I'm not sorry about your father, you know," he stopped abruptly, apparently realizing what he'd just said.

I laughed dryly, "Nobody could ever accuse you of possessing tact, Potter."

"Umm… I mean…" he stammered, and I could hear the embarrassed flush in his voice, "That's not what I meant."

"You don't say." I watched from the corner of my eye as he first shook and then nodded his head. I sighed, giving up on getting rid of him anytime soon, "Then what did you mean, Potter?"

He leant against the windowsill, his fingertips brushing the cold glass.

"When I said I was sorry before." His glasses clinked softly against the glass as his forehead meet the pane, "I wasn't actually talking about your father."

I sneered, "Pray tell, Potter, what heinous transgression on your part do you feel requires atonement?"

I shouldn't have been surprised at the blank look. There was no time in his hectic schedule of Quidditch and world-saving to expand his vocabulary. "What is it that you are clumsily attempting to apologize for?"

He didn't answer immediately, and I could almost see him choosing his words. I kept my face blank and turned back to the lake.

"Hagrid was the first person that I ever remember being nice to me. I was eleven years old, and nobody had ever said a kind word to me. Can you imagine what influence he had over me?" A fingernail began to tap on against the glass, and I focused on it.

"By the time I met you at Madam Malkin's he'd already told me that nothing good ever came out of Slytherin. And then here's this snotty little boy telling me that he was naturally going to be a Slytherin. I decided that I wasn't going to like you." His nail was broken, bitten short. "And I probably wouldn't have taken your hand on the train, even if you hadn't insulted Ron. And I can't say I regret it either.

"I don't think I'd like the person I would have become if you had been my friend. You were a snide little shit who thought everyone else was below him. You used people to get what you want and once you had it, you ditched them. You had an insult for everyone, and the less deserving they were, the more amusing you found it."

I scowled at him and stood up to leave. He blocked my path, pushing me back down on the ledge. "I haven't finished apologizing yet, Malfoy," he said with a parody of a smile.

I snarled at him and slapped his hands away, "I'm not going to sit here and let you insult me, Potter."

The smile broadened into a smirk, "Its only an insult if it's not true, Malfoy, and I make a habit of not lying."

"And a fine job you're doing of it too," I sneered. I stood up again and shoved him to the side, "Were you never informed that the idea of an apology was that you humble yourself, not the other?"

"Leave then," Potter stepped back, "You surely won't want to be around to hear me say that I think you're a coward."

I stiffened. Whatever else he could rightly call me, I was not a coward. I was a firm believer in self preservation, but I was not, and never had been a coward.

Potter took my stillness as an indication to continue.

"You only got more vicious the older we got. It was a personal insult to you when things didn't go your way, but it was never your fault. Oh no, the great and powerful Malfoy - with his greater and more powerful daddy to back him up - was never in the wrong.

"You couldn't stand that it was me in the limelight - which, by the way, I never wanted - and not you. So you maliciously sabotaged everyone around me. You got Hagrid sent to Azakaban. You brought Hermione to tears on more than one occasion. You got Ron and me in trouble more times than I can count. And then you went on a power trip in fifth year, when you became prefect. You took it out on my whole house."

I folded my arms neatly across my chest, "Are you going anywhere with this, Potter, or do you simply plan on listing my obvious myriad offenses?"

Potter shook his head and went back to tapping on the glass. "I never gave you the benefit of the doubt," he said.

I blinked at him. The benefit of the doubt? "I beg your pardon?"

He shrugged and upped his tattoo on the glass, "I didn't give you the benefit of the doubt. Because my first impression of you was that you were a nasty Slytherin git, and because you lived up to that image so well, I never paused to think that you might have a reason to be like that."

I gaped at him. He was sorry… because he now thought that I'd been hiding behind a mask all this time? He flushed, and became fascinated by his furiously drumming fingers.

"I don't pretend to know what it was like having Lucius as a father," he explained, "but I can't imagine it was easy or… pleasant. And if he hadn't died, I probably wouldn't be here. But you've been really different since… it happened." 'It'. A nice way to describe opening the front door to my father's mutilated corpse. "And I started to wonder if he hadn't…" Potter trailed off inanely, and shrugged.

Hadn't what, Potter? Hadn't forced me into a little mold of himself? Hadn't loving attached puppet strings to my limbs? Hadn't made me dance to his tune with promises of hideously malformed paternal affection and threats that he always carried out? Well, he did all that, and worse.

"So that's it?" I said coldly, "That's why you're apologizing? Because you think you've misjudged me."

The tapping stopped. He turned to face me. "Yes," he said.

Well, you haven't I wanted to shout at him. I'm that callous, that shallow, that self-absorbed! But I didn't. Because I didn't want to be like that anymore. I didn't want to be what my father had made me. But nor did I want Potter telling me that I wasn't what I had always been. How could he possibly know me when I barely knew myself.

"Yes," he said again, watching my face closely, "That's what I meant when I said sorry."

I carefully schooled my expression blank. I didn't want Potter to know that what he had said had struck a chord. I stared stonily back at him, arms folded, the nails of my hidden hand carving crescents in the palm.

"Um," he said, his eyes darting away from mine. He was gnawing on his lower lip. He stared fixedly at the ceiling for a long moment, his cheeks flaming red. His eyes dropped back to mine.

"Um," he said again and swooped in, pressing his mouth, closed-lipped, to mine. Abruptly as he did it, he pulled away. I stared wide-eyed at him, momentarily without words.

"Mistletoe," he croaked, pointing above our heads, "It's bad luck not to."

I tipped my head back, obediently following his gesture. Sure enough, at the top of the window aperture above us hung a sprig of the prevalent mistletoe. I stared uncomprehendingly at it. There was a scrape of footsteps on stone, and when I looked down again, Potter was fleeing down the hall.

I would like to be able to say that, in that moment, everything became clear to me: that I knew who I was, what I was going to do next, what exactly it was that my father had meant to me.

It would be a lie.

"Potter."

All I knew was that I heard myself saying: "Wait."