Chapter Three: Portents of Christmas Yet to Come

Boxing Day, 1997

Draco wasn't asleep yet, but he could feel his personal horrors prowling the edges of his consciousness, their eyes aglow with predatory mischief. The Firewhiskey had helped corrupt the edges of reality, and the folds on his pillow became a man's grey face. The mouth opened in the blink of an eye, the black beetles of Azkaban pouring out, and Draco knew what the figure was about to say. Where is Severus Snape? He tried to turn away, to bury himself safely under his covers, but he was immobilised. His arms and legs tingled violently but refused to obey.

"Master Draco, Master Draco!" The room was suddenly awash with light, freeing Draco of his hypnagogia. Hibby tugged at his blankets insistently. "She is here, sir!"

Draco blinked forcefully, unsure of whether or not he was still hallucinating. "What?" he replied stupidly.

"She tried to leave, Sir, but Hibby knowed Master' wishes-"

He vaulted out of bed, scrabbling for his dressing gown. "She's here right now?" he confirmed.

"The receiving salon, Sir." Draco could barely hear her reply over the rushing of blood in his ears, but her bobbing curtsey made it clear enough. He threw his navy robe on but his fingers were slow and heavy, and he struggled with his tie. "Hibby!" he whined in frustration.

The house-elf snapped her fingers and Draco's gown arranged itself and tied perfectly, his outfit topped off with a frothy silk cravat. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and groaned. "I look like my father," he complained, plucking at his neck.

"'Tis only proper," Hibby squeaked severely. He decided that removing the cravat would indeed leave him in a state of dubious modesty and he settled for frantically smoothing his hair in front of the mirror before he dashed out of his room and down the stairs as fast as his slight intoxication would allow.

In the receiving salon, looking for all the world like a spooked horse, was Ginny Weasley. Even having been forewarned, Draco was still astonished that she was actually there.

She started as he skidded into the room, and they stared wild-eyed at each other for a moment. "Draco, I'm sorry," she breathed, actually taking a step backwards. He was sure she would've brought her arms up in defense if they weren't full of packages. "I didn't know you were – I didn't realize the time, but your house-elf wouldn't let me leave."

Draco waved off her explanation. "She was doing as she's told." And a damned good thing she was, too, Draco added mentally. If he'd been forced to give Hibby clothes, he would've been greatly inconvenienced. "Please, sit down," he said softly, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. He hadn't seen Ginny in two weeks, but it could've been a lifetime ago for all it mattered. She had sat with him in the hospital wing after the final battle, telling him small stories of no consequence while he recovered from fever, but by the time he'd recovered enough to be consistently lucid she was long gone off to her family's hovel. He didn't know why she was here, but instinct told him that if he provoked her in any way this night, he would never see her again.

Ginny glanced down at her cargo. "I've brought you turkey and stuffing, and mince pies," she said, juggling the containers awkwardly. Draco rushed forward to relieve her of them, using the opportunity to take in her appearance. She was wearing a hideous pink jumper that didn't fit her properly, and her hair was pulled back in a severe French braid. She looked thin and drawn. "And I know you've plenty of food already," she continued snappishly before Draco could say anything, shooting him a withering look to curtail any objections, "but no one makes better mince pies than my mum. Well, they're not as good this year," she allowed, still refusing the seat Draco had offered her. "I helped too much."

"Been busy, have you?" he asked, noting the two Peppermint Toads she'd nestled inside one of the containers before setting the food aside.

"You have no idea," she muttered.

Draco caught a note of resentment, nearly repressed, in her voice. "Did you have a good Christmas?" he asked carefully.

"It's the worst Christmas I can remember," she answered frankly. "When I was younger I had this idea that if only the war could end, life would be perfect. But it's just terrible. George, he's a shell of himself, nothing I say can cheer him up, and Ron's so…angry. I never knew he had so much anger in him." Draco had known the Weasel King's tendency towards brutish violence and rages all along, but he restrained himself from telling her that. It was obvious that she wasn't looking for any reaction out of him, and he let her continue her stream of consciousness unchecked. "He's practically a Squib right now. We don't know what we're going to do; my dad's looking into getting a tutor to train him how to use his remaining arm properly, but he has all of this knowledge and no way to let him out and it frustrates him so. Hermione is over as much as she can be and it just makes him furious. He yells at her but she keeps coming back, and it's exhausting both of them. My brother Bill's wife is still in St. Mungo's, and Harry's been transferred to long-term spell damage. He's sort of befriended Professor Lockhart, believe it or not, but he gets very agitated when we visit. My mum's beside herself and I have to keep running around after her in the kitchen, making sure she doesn't set the place on fire or dump salt in the wassail. If I can, I just set her in the corner with a cup of tea."

"And who's taking care of you?" he asked, his voice sounding husky to his own ears.

A bark of humourless laughter escaped her. "I don't need to be taken care of."

The Firewhiskey in him demanded that he cross the space between them, but he knew well enough what could happen to him if he did. "Sit down," he said again, hoping that she would choose the loveseat and he could sit beside her.

She shook her head, her braid jumping from side to side. "I didn't mean to interrupt you."

"You're not interrupting anything. Now sit down." He fell into the loveseat to set an example and damn her, she just stood and watched him. Words bubbled all around him, effervescent, begging for his use. Months ago they would've spilled freely from his lips, but that time was over. There had been so much between them back then – blackmail, betrayal, hatred, and terror. Nothing remained now, no secrets or lies to bind them together. He still didn't understand why she had come, why she was still standing there if she was so intent on leaving. It was like he was walking on dragon eggs, liable to be burnt if he made a single misstep. He took everything he could say and swallowed it, and the sentiments burned like Firewhiskey and kicked like Toads on the way down. "I'd like to give you a Christmas present, Ginny," he said instead. "If you'd permit me, that is."

"I don't think that's-"

"I don't know if you've grown attached to your new wand," he began, overruling her objections until the proposal was made. "Undoubtedly, the Blacks had impeccable taste and I'm sure the wand is of the finest craftsmanship. However, Aunt Bella's wand has a rather…unique history and I'm not sure whether you find it suitable. I'd like to offer you your own new wand, and I'd like to take you to you Gregorovitch to get it – it's just that none of Ollivander's protégés are really up to snuff – and…well, that's it. I'll buy you a new wand, if you want one."

Ginny looked doubtful. "Gregorovitch? I can't go that far."

"Leave the details to me," he said smoothly.

She considered this and finally gave a solemn nod. "Thank you, Draco. In return, I'd like to give you your aunt's wand. It's part of your family history, for good or ill."

A grin stole across his face as he rose to his feet. "It's a deal, then."

"When will we go?" she asked, still fretting over the minutiae.

"It doesn't matter. I've got all the time in the world."

Her brow furrowed. "What are you going to do now that everything's over?"

He affected a casual shrug. "Well, I've missed a term of school, so I'm out until next fall. I think I'll enroll at Durmstrang for my last year." It was a decision he had reached after a hard examination of his circumstances.

It had to be the Firewhiskey, but he swore that her face fell a bit. "Durmstrang?"

"Well, I certainly can't go back to Hogwarts, can I? Besides, my father had always intended for me to go to Durmstrang, it was just that my mother…well, she's gone now, isn't she?"

Ginny grimaced. "I think they'd let you back at Hogwarts," she said. "After all, technically you're a war hero now."

Draco snorted in contempt. The very idea was laughable. All he'd done was fall in battle. "No one would believe that."

"McGonagall knows. And you wouldn't be the only one behind in your year, I'm sure. Lots of students in your year didn't come back this last fall."

"My friends will be gone," he said with a tactful note of finality.

"Not all of your friends," she whispered, and the look on her face made him feel like his entrails were spilling out all over again.

"Well, it's a long way off," he allowed gruffly.

"I can't wait to go back to school," Ginny said. "I know it's not right, but I just want to escape my family right now and come back when they've started healing."

"You can stay here tonight, if you'd like," Draco offered.

She shot him an annoyed look. "That's not what I mean. I don't want to abandon them. Actually," she sighed, "I should probably get back to them before anyone realises I'm not in bed. I just wanted to make sure you had some holiday food."

Draco couldn't have cared less about the food. "Thank you for coming," he said, aware that he wouldn't be able to keep her there. He stepped forward and pecked her on the cheek. "Happy Christmas, Ginny."

Her spine went ramrod-straight and her eyes narrowed. "You kissed me," she whispered.

"Yes, I did," he said haughtily, irritated at having to explain good manners. "I often kiss friends who come calling." Indeed, he had performed an identical action on Pansy that afternoon.

She looked too pale, as if she was going to be sick or faint. "It wasn't like a friend once," she countered softly.

The air in the room immediately gelled into a thick soup. Every action was sluggish and disjointed, as if he was under a poorly-cast Imperius curse. He remembered waking up that day and knowing that he'd failed her, that he was in hell and he'd never see her again. Then he'd overheard Pomfrey and McGonagall talking and realized he was in the hospital wing of Hogwarts, and from what they said she was there, and just down the hall! He'd staggered away while they were absorbed in post-battle talk and found her in the room and couldn't hold himself back. He didn't remember the kiss in any detail – he blamed the fever – but it was his supplication to her, and he had poured everything into it. Pulling out of his memories, he was distantly horrified to find that he was already answering her. "Is that what you came here for, Ginny?" he purred dangerously, stepping closer to her again and feeling the crack of a thousand eggshells under his bare foot. Ginny's pupils dilated as she stared up at him mutely, her parted lips tantalizing him. The words started bubbling up. "Do you want-"

She suddenly stepped backwards with a small noise of disgust. "Never mind," she said bitterly, her eyes shrouded in some morose emotion. "I don't know why I bother."

The flames were licking at his heels. "Ginny, wait!" He lurched forward but she sidestepped him and chucked a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace.

"I've got to go," she muttered, sounding more sad than angry. "Happy Christmas, Malfoy." And then she was gone.

Everywhere was fire.

Draco retreated to his bedchamber, tore off his robe, and flopped on the bed. His hand went out to the picture frame on his bedstand and he brought it in front of his face. It was the photograph he'd used to drill Hibby, his prized possession in Azkaban. Ginny casting an inferno off-camera, the blaze turning her person orange in its fierceness. His fingers splayed out longingly over the moving tableau, and then he let it tumble from his hands to the floor. The Dreamless Sleep remained in its cabinet.

It was going to be a very long night.