Reviews: 38 | Table of Contents | - Text Size +
Comfort and Schadenfreude
Ginny was leaning against her cubicle, counting down the endless hour she'd have to wait before everyone would be drunk enough for her to leave the hell known as the office Christmas party. Or, at least, one of several Christmas parties. It was amazing how many things were found worthy of celebration during the month of December, all of them ostensibly for different reasons. If you gave any sign of not enjoying the festivities, though, you were invariably told, “Lighten up! It's Christmas!” Which rather gave the lie to the pretense of celebrating the birthday of some obscure witch from the 1500s, who was on the side of the goblins anyway.
“Here.” A cup was thrust towards her. “I've found that the alcohol, while failing to get me into the Christmas spirit, at least dulls the pain.”
It was a novel idea – she'd never been much of a drinker – but it was worth a shot. She took the cup and gulped the contents, and only then looked up to see who had given it to her. “Malfoy!” A hundred thoughts ran through her mind, but the one that was spoken was a hopeful, “Any chance that was poisoned?”
“No, I don't like you that much.” The side of his mouth quirked up into something that wasn't quite a sneer or a smile. “If I've got to suffer, you do too.”
She sighed and lifted a glass. “To misery in company – may it end quickly.”
“No chance. Jenkins hasn't even taken the curtains down yet.”
Ginny shuddered as she remembered the performance of a drunken Highland Fling by the geriatric Jenkins the year before. It had only ended when he'd tangled himself so badly in his curtain-kilt that he'd sailed off the table, over the heads of half of Accounts Receivable, and crashed into the hastily erected memorial to Galatia the Goblinate. “You mean it wasn't just a one time thing?”
“Oh, no, he does it every year, like clockwork. It wouldn't be a Ministry Christmas without it.”
Ginny sighed. “And oh, what a pity that would be. Too bad we can't hide the curtains.”
Nodding mournfully, and making her wonder just how much he'd been dulling the pain before he approached her, he said, “If I'd known the miseries in store, I'd have told my father to join the Ministry himself, and gone off to enjoy my blackened family name somewhere they've never even heard of Christmas.”
“I considered that last year, around when they did the gift swap,” she said, taking another large swallow. “Well, apart from the family name business. But I need the paycheck, or I'd have to move back home and then the family name thing would apply because I'd kill someone. Probably my mum.”
He looked down at his empty cup and frowned. “Can't you work somewhere else?”
Looking down at her own cup, which still held about an inch of sickly pink liquid that radiated alcohol fumes, she shrugged and downed the whole thing in one swallow. “The girl who dumped Harry Potter is amazingly unpopular for some reason.”
“Ah. Well, if it helps, you're amazingly popular among my set.” He paused. “Or, well, you would be, except for the whole Weasley thing.”
Her eyes started filling with tears. “Nobody likes me. And I can't leave for at least another half an hour!”
“Er... Have another drink.” He snagged two more cups from the trays that floated around the room, shoving one in her hand and then gulping at his. “And I'm sure someone likes you. Somewhere.”
“No!” If the room had been less noisy, everyone would've turned to stare. As it was, only Draco noticed her drawing out her wand, and almost falling over from the lack of balance.
He stepped back to avoid being in her trajectory as she fell. “Merlin you're a cheap date. One drink and you're sloshed.”
Pulling herself together by dint of sheer willpower, and a bit by pulling herself up on the wall of the cubicle, she said, “I'm not sloshed. I'm just feeling the Christmas spirit!” She waved her wand, and the curtain that Jenkins was holding burst into flames.
Jenkins screamed and flung his hands in the air, sending the flaming curtain flying. Quite a few people cheered and applauded, thinking this was a refinement on the usual fun. The action of gravity on the fiery sheet quickly convinced them otherwise, at least those directly underneath. Others continued to cheer as Jenkins danced around madly, waving his blistering hands in the air.
Someone, in a fit of applied thinking, tried to put the fire out by throwing a cup of liquid on it. Unfortunately, the thinking hadn't gone far enough to take into account the concept of flammable liquids. The small fire flared up, and Galatia the Goblinate started burning in effigy. Much as the real one had done quite near the end of her life.
The screaming started in earnest then, as drunken Ministry workers attempted to stampede in as many directions as there were people. Amidst the chaos, a giggling Ginny was steered to the freight elevator, and then out into the fresh air. “He did the fling!” she said, breathless from the giggles and from having to run to keep up with Malfoy as he'd dragged her by the arm. “We can go, because he flung!”
“A bit differently from last year,” he said with a smile.
She attempted to nod in agreement, but quickly found that the motion was ill-advised.
He wasn't fast enough to avoid being spattered as she vomited out all of the extremely high proof alcohol she'd inhaled. She tried to apologize as she wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, but he shrugged. “I didn't like those shoes, anyway. A small price to pay for an early escape.”
“Okay.” She shivered and swayed, and said in a small voice, “I think I need to go home.”
“I'd say.” Malfoy lifted his wand hand and the Knight Bus promptly appeared. “Do you remember where you live?”
“Of course I do,” she snarled. Malfoy and the bus drivers waited. “Well, I'm not telling you, am I? You might take advantage of me.”
After a long look that encompassed her green-tinged complexion, lumpy cardigan, shapeless slacks, and vomit-spattered flats, he shrugged. “Fine. See you around.”
She made it home, despite a false start as the bus driver originally tried to take her to the Burrow and she had a crying fit, but she never made it to her bed. Rather, she spent the night next to her toilet, resting her forehead against the cool tile wall and praying for death to come quickly.
It didn't. By morning it was obvious that she was going to live, although her spine might never be the same from dozing on the bathroom floor, and the gleam of the tiles she had scrubbed while down there was near-blinding. She hauled herself into the tub, dropping her wet clothes on the floor beside it as the water ran over her, and then she crawled into bed, naked and damp. As she drifted off, she had the thought that, despite having become acquainted with the concept of a hangover, it hadn't been as bad an experience as the year before. At least she hadn't had to smile while her boss drunkenly confided his life story and constantly patted her knee as he told her to have fun and loosen up.
The thought was still in her mind when she awoke, along with others of a related nature. On Monday, when she returned to work, she sought out her proposed partner in crime, who was entombed in a dark corner of the Accounts Payable department. It was mostly dark because his was the only cubicle which wasn't sporting fairy lights or twinkling snowflakes. “Hey, Malfoy, wanna be my date for the official decking of the halls?”
The look he gave her conveyed clearly his belief that she was certifiably insane. “What?”
“You heard me.” She grinned. “Meet me for lunch and I'll explain why. But don't worry... I won't take advantage of you.”
Her hip-swinging exit was ruined as he followed her out. “Weasley, I'm sorry, I would've never given you a drink if I'd known it was strong enough to cause brain damage.”
“Yes, you would've,” she said, looking around and ducking into a side door.
He followed her in to what turned out to be some sort of file archive, complete with dust and spiders. “Okay, I probably would have. But still, do you need help getting to St. Mungo's?”
“No,” she said, turning to face him. “I need help making this a Christmas to remember. And before you go for the sexual innuendo, I'd really like to advise you not to.”
“Wouldn't dream of it,” he said, shifting his hand to his pocket instead of toying with his belt as he'd been about to.
Ginny snorted, recognizing an aborted gesture when she saw one. “Anyway, Fred and George can't help--”
“Aren't they banned by Ministry Decree from coming within two hundred feet of the Ministry building?”
“As I said.” Her words were positively glacial. “Fred and George can't help, so you're going to.”
Crossing his arms – but he'd swear it wasn't a defensive gesture, even under oath – he said, “Why should I help a Weasley?”
“Because you want to kill the Christmas spirit stone dead just as much as I do.”
“More,” he said fervently.
-----
They met again that evening after work, and tramped through the woods at the border of his estate. “Did you bring your gloves?”
“Of course I did,” she said, holding up a thick pair of woolen mittens. “I hate this pair, so I can throw them out afterwards.”
“Excellent. Remember to grasp firmly.”
She rolled her eyes and they fell to gathering large quantities of greenery. “Did someone used to live here?”
He nodded. “My great-grandfather's mistress had a cottage here. After he died, my great-grandmother had it burned to the ground.”
“Not that I blame her, but it seems a bit cruel to throw her out after all those years.”
“Oh, no, she invited her to live at the main house. The two old biddies even had their portrait painted together. They're hanging in the guest wing – I'll show it to you sometime.”
She paused to stare at him, searching for a sign that he was joking. Not seeing any, she shook her head. “That's just weird. If my husband had a mistress, I'd skin her alive, and then think of something really unpleasant to do to my husband.”
“Yes, well, don't marry into the aristocracy,” he said. “Otherwise you'll spend quite a bit of time in jail. Well, unless you've borne an heir and he's gotten control over a good chunk of the family money, then you'll just be feted as a deliciously scandalous eccentric.”
“The rich are so strange.”
“Says the woman gathering nettles.”
“Touche.”
------
Wednesday night saw the two of them dressed in formal robes, with pristine white kidskin gloves; his reached just past the wrist, and hers went above the elbows, so that only an inch of skin showed between her cap sleeves and the kidskin. They stood slightly to the side as the Minister, face glowing with seasonal goodwill as imparted by the traditional spiked punch, stepped up to the podium to give a long-winded speech. Ginny's face turned red as Malfoy – no, Draco, he'd said they should use first names if they were on a date, even if, or perhaps especially because, that date was for evil purposes – did a running translation from politician-speak to what was really meant. Who knew a Malfoy could be funny on purpose, and not just as the butt of a joke?
Finally the speech ended, and the Minister turned to the orchestra. A pitch was given and then promptly ignored as all the masses of Ministry employees and their guests joined in to sing “Deck the Halls.” And, as tradition dictated, there was a scramble as all the partygoers put their glasses down and dove for the piles of holly waiting to be placed on the walls of the Ministry lobby.
The festiveness lasted about three minutes before the scratching started. Ginny was amazed at how successful the prank was – it looked like every single attendee, except her and Draco, had practically rolled in the holly, and the stinging nettles that were mixed into the greenery. Pandemonium ruled, as screams and sobs emanated from the masses who were running in different directions, scattering greenery was they went and thus making the chaos increase. Ginny pulled Draco out of the way of a flying nettle that was about to hit his face. He nodded his thanks and they made their way out of the Ministry and onto the street.
Once her giggles had died down, she said, “Come on. Since you got all dressed up, I might as well buy you some coffee.”
He arched his hand over his throat and gasped theatrically. “But what if you take advantage of me?”
“Lie back and think of England.” She picked up the slight train of her robes and strode in the direction of the always-open pub two doors down, not looking back to see if he followed.
He hesitated, but finally shrugged and joined her at the pub, where they sat in a booth and ate enormous sandwiches; he had beer, but she stuck resolutely to lemonade. They compared observations of the evening, to much mutual hilarity, until they'd finished their food and he said, “So what's next?”
“Sleep,” she said with a yawn. “As for the Christmas stuff, hell if I know.”
Stifling a yawn of his own he said, “I have an idea.”
---------
The Ministry was a dismal, holly-free place the next day, with many a conversation regarding the efficacy of dock leaves versus mud as treatment for nettles. Opinion seemed divided as to whether the incident had been a result of a monumental cockup by the incompetents hired by the Ministry bigwigs (any comment this might imply as to the person speaking, also employed by said bigwigs, did not seem to occur to anyone), and those convinced that the Weasley Twins, figures of nigh-demonic stature in Ministry circles, had somehow gotten in and made it happen.
Ginny briefly considered feeling guilty that her brothers were being blamed, but decided they probably deserved it for something or other, and it would be good publicity in any case. She made sure she looked serious shading towards grumpy whenever anyone was around, but she found herself humming “Deck the Halls” as she plowed through the masses of paper on her desk.
She almost jumped out of her skin as Draco's blond head popped up beside her cubicle. “Lunch?”
“Of course,” she said, dropping her quill. She grabbed her wand and money pouch and followed him, wondering if he'd finally tell her his big idea. She continued wondering through lunch, but she didn't want to ask, as he'd just continue to tease her as he had the night before if she did. She was back at her desk before he said, “It won't be until tomorrow.”
She watched as he left, absently noting the fine nature of the view before she got back to shuffling paper around. Her mind kept working on the question of what was so significant about the next day when it dawned on her. Several of her coworkers stood to look around and ask if she was all right as she disguised her cackle as a cough.
-----
The next morning, she came in early, carrying two packages. One had been bought weeks ago, when the assignments for the gift swap were first given out, and the other one had been selected after several hours of intensive shopping. The first went under the giant Christmas tree in the still un-decked lobby, and the other was carefully placed on Draco's desk, after she'd looked around to make sure no one was watching.
She scurried back to her desk, vowing to kill him slowly if he made fun of her for buying him a present, and spent the morning pretending to be working hard. Not that she really needed to, since it was obvious no one was really doing any work, just gossiping about how the aurors were trying to break the Weasley Twins' alibi, and what the gift exchange would be like. Ginny wondered, as she had last year, why the Ministry even bothered being open during December, as no one did any work.
Noon rolled around, and the employees started drifting down to the lobby for the grand gift giving ceremony at two, with refreshments starting at one. Ginny waited at her desk until just before the gift giving was due to start, wondering why Draco hadn't shown his face all day.
The reason became obvious as she nibbled on a watercress sandwich and watched people open their gifts. One large woman, upon getting a tiny negligee of delicate white lace, started to cry. Another woman, waving a pair of fur-lined handcuffs, shrieked about sexual harassment and bringing formal charges. And Jenkins, his hands still sporting bandages due to the nettles reacting badly with the potions he'd used for healing his burns, just blushed and blushed at the assortment of novelty condoms in a box on his lap.
Similar reactions were happening all around, but Ginny ignored it all as she focused on her own gift. Given that Draco's fine hand was behind all this, what had she ended up with? Anything was possible, although she doubted it'd be a mug like the one she got last year, bearing an allegedly humorous saying about the necessity of madness towards the current work environment.
It was a necklace. The chain was so delicate that it seemed it would break under her clumsy fingers, and the pendant was in the shape of a flame, the colors of the enamel resembling strongly the color of her hair. She looked closely, and in the tiny gold lines delineating the flame, the figure of a pitchfork could just be made out.
The necklace was taken from her hands and she looked up to see Draco opening the clasp. Wordlessly, she moved her hair aside and let him fasten the chain around her neck. “Thank you.”
“Don't mention it. Please.” He shrugged. “I was out shopping for my mother's Christmas stocking and saw this. Seemed perfect for the flaming evil that is you.”
She punched his arm. “Just for that, I'm taking back the present I gave you.”
“What present? I didn't see one for me in the stack, and believe me, I would've seen it.” It was odd, the way that his face twisted as he tried to pretend he wasn't feeling hopeful or anticipatory.
“Because it's on your desk, which you obviously haven't visited today.”
“Come on.” This time he grabbed her hand rather than her wrist, but she was dragged along behind him as surely as she was on the night of Galatia the Goblinate's immolation. They reached his desk in short order and he tore through the careful wrapping like a savage, then went totally still as he stared into the open box.
Fidgeting didn't incite him to move or even utter a polite platitude, and neither did a significant clearing of the throat. Finally she grabbed at the box and said, “I can return it, it's--”
“Don't you touch my property, Weasel.” His hand closed over hers and held it crushingly as he pulled the box out of reach. He pulled the heavy silver bracelet out of the box and fastened it on his wrist, the engraved nettle and holly facing inwards.
“There's a little button right on the holly berry,” she said. “Don't worry, I had the engraving done at a muggle shop, it won't get back to the Ministry. And if it does, it'll be under the name of George Weasley.”
He made to push it, but paused. “What does it do?”
Taking his hand in hers, she turned it so she could reach the button. “This little compartment opens up. I thought next year you could carry cyanide pills in case you meet someone who needs poisoning. For now, it's just mints.”
“Thanks,” he said, and she noticed that she was holding his hand and dropped it quickly.
“So, um, I think I know what to do for the grand finale, but I've got to get something from my mum's house, so I guess I should go.” Still babbling, she started backing towards the door. “I don't think anyone's going to miss us, do you? They're too busy trying to outdo the goblin wars for sheer ferocity. Who knew bad presents could cause that much trouble?”
“I could,” he said with some amusement, taking a step towards her. “My father gave my mother red flannel underwear one year after she'd been sick. He couldn't walk right until February.”
“Oh.” She pondered possible responses and ultimately decided none were really appropriate. “Well. See you later!”
This time it was Draco's turn to appreciate the view of a retreating back, although hers was retreating at such speed as to make any appreciation of short duration.
--------
At the main party of the season, the last one officially sanctioned by the Ministry before people started taking leave for the holiday, Ginny sidled in a half an hour late, only to be immediately pounced on by a waiting Draco. “Well? What's the big finale? And where were you when I went to pick you up?”
“Why would you pick me up?” she asked, truly baffled. “You don't even know where I live.”
He rolled his eyes. “You're in the directory, Weasley. And what kind of man doesn't pick up his date?”
“Date?” Her eyes were, if not as big as saucers, then at least appreciably larger than eyes normally should be. Trying but failing to bring her voice down from a squeak, she continued, “Who's a date?”
“You are, although thus far you've not been a stellar one.” He helped her remove her cloak and said, “I take that back. Anyone wearing that dress as well as you are is the best date ever.”
She blushed, which made her skin nearly match her dress, which went perfectly with the flame necklace around her neck. “I knew it was a mistake. Redheads shouldn't wear red.”
“Shut up, I have better taste than you and I think you look...” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Well, suffice it to say I don't think it was a mistake.”
“Oh.” She shrugged, and then looked down to check that the sticking charm had continued to hold things in place. “Remind me not to make any sudden moves. I really should've worn a shawl.”
He nodded absently, his eyes never moving. “Sure.”
“For fuck's sake, Malfoy, surely you've seen breasts before!” Her fist made rapid contact with his stomach and he extended his arm to escort her into the main ballroom. “That's better. Let's dance while we wait for them to realize what's going on.”
They moved over the dance floor smoothly, and Draco looked around in breathless anticipation of what new evil she might have come up with. Nothing seemed to be happening. Not even the normal hijinks of Christmas parties past. He twirled her around with increasing speed and complexity, hoping that if nothing else, he might get her to breathe harder and put some more strain on her indecently cut bodice.
“I never knew dancing required such athleticism,” she said after a few minutes, when his plan was definitely starting to work. “I think we should get a drink.”
Remembering the swiftness of her intoxication, he hesitated. “I'm not sure that's a good idea.”
“Oh, no, it's fine.” She strolled over to one of the floating trays and plucked off two cups, handing him one as she started gulping hers down. He was about to say something – he actually liked the shoes he was wearing this evening – but he noticed something strange about the punch. It was just as reddish pink as ever, but tonight it smelled... fruity. Not a trace of alcohol fumes.
He took a sip and lowered his glass. “You magnificent bitch goddess. How did you do it?”
There seemed to be no limits to the smugness radiating from her smile. “Mum's very strict about alcohol, so she developed a spell that would neutralize any within the limits of the spell – a sphere covering the entire diameter of the property around the Burrow. This is, until I remove the spell, an alcohol-free building.”
“If it wouldn't give people the wrong idea, I'd fall down to my knees in worship right now.” As it was, he lifted her hand to his lips and set her to blushing again.
People were starting to file out and she sighed, although a smile still lingered on her lips. “I guess we can just go. I'd like to be home in my pajamas before you turn back into a toad.”
“Isn't it before your dress turns back to rags?” He took her empty cup and placed it on a tray before following her towards the door.
“Something like that.” Her cloak had been one of the last put in the cloakroom, and so it was returned to her in short order. “Well... Goodbye.”
He stood in the line for another moment, until it hit him that she was really walking away. “Wait!” Abandoning the line, he caught up with her just outside the doors. “What do you mean, goodbye? We have a lot of planning to do for next year.”
Looking around at the other departing revelers, she pulled him slightly down the street to where their conversation would not be as easily overheard. “I think my bitterness is sufficiently assuaged. Who knows, maybe next year all the Christmas cheer will actually be entertaining.”
“Well... What if someone traces it all back to us?” He stepped closer to her so that he could speak in a whisper. “We should get our stories straight, maybe create a cover.”
Ginny leaned in, mistakenly believing her cloak fully hid her neckline problems during such an action, and whispered, “We have one. Their names are Fred and George, and business for the Wheezes has tripled since the Great Gift Gaffe, so they're perfectly happy to be blamed.”
In the next moment, Ginny found herself being pulled into his arms. She didn't have time to adjust to this new development before his lips were on hers and he was kissing her like she was the only woman on earth -- and he was damn good at it.
When he finally let her up for air, he said, “So, how about a date?”
“All right,” she said, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again.
“Any chance on being invited back to your place?” he said when they broke apart again.
Ginny stepped back and tried to pull herself back together. “Maybe sometime next year,” she said. “But for now, we can go get coffee at the pub.”
“Coffee it is,” he said, counting down how many days remained before the thirty-first.
Ginny was leaning against her cubicle, counting down the endless hour she'd have to wait before everyone would be drunk enough for her to leave the hell known as the office Christmas party. Or, at least, one of several Christmas parties. It was amazing how many things were found worthy of celebration during the month of December, all of them ostensibly for different reasons. If you gave any sign of not enjoying the festivities, though, you were invariably told, “Lighten up! It's Christmas!” Which rather gave the lie to the pretense of celebrating the birthday of some obscure witch from the 1500s, who was on the side of the goblins anyway.
“Here.” A cup was thrust towards her. “I've found that the alcohol, while failing to get me into the Christmas spirit, at least dulls the pain.”
It was a novel idea – she'd never been much of a drinker – but it was worth a shot. She took the cup and gulped the contents, and only then looked up to see who had given it to her. “Malfoy!” A hundred thoughts ran through her mind, but the one that was spoken was a hopeful, “Any chance that was poisoned?”
“No, I don't like you that much.” The side of his mouth quirked up into something that wasn't quite a sneer or a smile. “If I've got to suffer, you do too.”
She sighed and lifted a glass. “To misery in company – may it end quickly.”
“No chance. Jenkins hasn't even taken the curtains down yet.”
Ginny shuddered as she remembered the performance of a drunken Highland Fling by the geriatric Jenkins the year before. It had only ended when he'd tangled himself so badly in his curtain-kilt that he'd sailed off the table, over the heads of half of Accounts Receivable, and crashed into the hastily erected memorial to Galatia the Goblinate. “You mean it wasn't just a one time thing?”
“Oh, no, he does it every year, like clockwork. It wouldn't be a Ministry Christmas without it.”
Ginny sighed. “And oh, what a pity that would be. Too bad we can't hide the curtains.”
Nodding mournfully, and making her wonder just how much he'd been dulling the pain before he approached her, he said, “If I'd known the miseries in store, I'd have told my father to join the Ministry himself, and gone off to enjoy my blackened family name somewhere they've never even heard of Christmas.”
“I considered that last year, around when they did the gift swap,” she said, taking another large swallow. “Well, apart from the family name business. But I need the paycheck, or I'd have to move back home and then the family name thing would apply because I'd kill someone. Probably my mum.”
He looked down at his empty cup and frowned. “Can't you work somewhere else?”
Looking down at her own cup, which still held about an inch of sickly pink liquid that radiated alcohol fumes, she shrugged and downed the whole thing in one swallow. “The girl who dumped Harry Potter is amazingly unpopular for some reason.”
“Ah. Well, if it helps, you're amazingly popular among my set.” He paused. “Or, well, you would be, except for the whole Weasley thing.”
Her eyes started filling with tears. “Nobody likes me. And I can't leave for at least another half an hour!”
“Er... Have another drink.” He snagged two more cups from the trays that floated around the room, shoving one in her hand and then gulping at his. “And I'm sure someone likes you. Somewhere.”
“No!” If the room had been less noisy, everyone would've turned to stare. As it was, only Draco noticed her drawing out her wand, and almost falling over from the lack of balance.
He stepped back to avoid being in her trajectory as she fell. “Merlin you're a cheap date. One drink and you're sloshed.”
Pulling herself together by dint of sheer willpower, and a bit by pulling herself up on the wall of the cubicle, she said, “I'm not sloshed. I'm just feeling the Christmas spirit!” She waved her wand, and the curtain that Jenkins was holding burst into flames.
Jenkins screamed and flung his hands in the air, sending the flaming curtain flying. Quite a few people cheered and applauded, thinking this was a refinement on the usual fun. The action of gravity on the fiery sheet quickly convinced them otherwise, at least those directly underneath. Others continued to cheer as Jenkins danced around madly, waving his blistering hands in the air.
Someone, in a fit of applied thinking, tried to put the fire out by throwing a cup of liquid on it. Unfortunately, the thinking hadn't gone far enough to take into account the concept of flammable liquids. The small fire flared up, and Galatia the Goblinate started burning in effigy. Much as the real one had done quite near the end of her life.
The screaming started in earnest then, as drunken Ministry workers attempted to stampede in as many directions as there were people. Amidst the chaos, a giggling Ginny was steered to the freight elevator, and then out into the fresh air. “He did the fling!” she said, breathless from the giggles and from having to run to keep up with Malfoy as he'd dragged her by the arm. “We can go, because he flung!”
“A bit differently from last year,” he said with a smile.
She attempted to nod in agreement, but quickly found that the motion was ill-advised.
He wasn't fast enough to avoid being spattered as she vomited out all of the extremely high proof alcohol she'd inhaled. She tried to apologize as she wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, but he shrugged. “I didn't like those shoes, anyway. A small price to pay for an early escape.”
“Okay.” She shivered and swayed, and said in a small voice, “I think I need to go home.”
“I'd say.” Malfoy lifted his wand hand and the Knight Bus promptly appeared. “Do you remember where you live?”
“Of course I do,” she snarled. Malfoy and the bus drivers waited. “Well, I'm not telling you, am I? You might take advantage of me.”
After a long look that encompassed her green-tinged complexion, lumpy cardigan, shapeless slacks, and vomit-spattered flats, he shrugged. “Fine. See you around.”
She made it home, despite a false start as the bus driver originally tried to take her to the Burrow and she had a crying fit, but she never made it to her bed. Rather, she spent the night next to her toilet, resting her forehead against the cool tile wall and praying for death to come quickly.
It didn't. By morning it was obvious that she was going to live, although her spine might never be the same from dozing on the bathroom floor, and the gleam of the tiles she had scrubbed while down there was near-blinding. She hauled herself into the tub, dropping her wet clothes on the floor beside it as the water ran over her, and then she crawled into bed, naked and damp. As she drifted off, she had the thought that, despite having become acquainted with the concept of a hangover, it hadn't been as bad an experience as the year before. At least she hadn't had to smile while her boss drunkenly confided his life story and constantly patted her knee as he told her to have fun and loosen up.
The thought was still in her mind when she awoke, along with others of a related nature. On Monday, when she returned to work, she sought out her proposed partner in crime, who was entombed in a dark corner of the Accounts Payable department. It was mostly dark because his was the only cubicle which wasn't sporting fairy lights or twinkling snowflakes. “Hey, Malfoy, wanna be my date for the official decking of the halls?”
The look he gave her conveyed clearly his belief that she was certifiably insane. “What?”
“You heard me.” She grinned. “Meet me for lunch and I'll explain why. But don't worry... I won't take advantage of you.”
Her hip-swinging exit was ruined as he followed her out. “Weasley, I'm sorry, I would've never given you a drink if I'd known it was strong enough to cause brain damage.”
“Yes, you would've,” she said, looking around and ducking into a side door.
He followed her in to what turned out to be some sort of file archive, complete with dust and spiders. “Okay, I probably would have. But still, do you need help getting to St. Mungo's?”
“No,” she said, turning to face him. “I need help making this a Christmas to remember. And before you go for the sexual innuendo, I'd really like to advise you not to.”
“Wouldn't dream of it,” he said, shifting his hand to his pocket instead of toying with his belt as he'd been about to.
Ginny snorted, recognizing an aborted gesture when she saw one. “Anyway, Fred and George can't help--”
“Aren't they banned by Ministry Decree from coming within two hundred feet of the Ministry building?”
“As I said.” Her words were positively glacial. “Fred and George can't help, so you're going to.”
Crossing his arms – but he'd swear it wasn't a defensive gesture, even under oath – he said, “Why should I help a Weasley?”
“Because you want to kill the Christmas spirit stone dead just as much as I do.”
“More,” he said fervently.
-----
They met again that evening after work, and tramped through the woods at the border of his estate. “Did you bring your gloves?”
“Of course I did,” she said, holding up a thick pair of woolen mittens. “I hate this pair, so I can throw them out afterwards.”
“Excellent. Remember to grasp firmly.”
She rolled her eyes and they fell to gathering large quantities of greenery. “Did someone used to live here?”
He nodded. “My great-grandfather's mistress had a cottage here. After he died, my great-grandmother had it burned to the ground.”
“Not that I blame her, but it seems a bit cruel to throw her out after all those years.”
“Oh, no, she invited her to live at the main house. The two old biddies even had their portrait painted together. They're hanging in the guest wing – I'll show it to you sometime.”
She paused to stare at him, searching for a sign that he was joking. Not seeing any, she shook her head. “That's just weird. If my husband had a mistress, I'd skin her alive, and then think of something really unpleasant to do to my husband.”
“Yes, well, don't marry into the aristocracy,” he said. “Otherwise you'll spend quite a bit of time in jail. Well, unless you've borne an heir and he's gotten control over a good chunk of the family money, then you'll just be feted as a deliciously scandalous eccentric.”
“The rich are so strange.”
“Says the woman gathering nettles.”
“Touche.”
------
Wednesday night saw the two of them dressed in formal robes, with pristine white kidskin gloves; his reached just past the wrist, and hers went above the elbows, so that only an inch of skin showed between her cap sleeves and the kidskin. They stood slightly to the side as the Minister, face glowing with seasonal goodwill as imparted by the traditional spiked punch, stepped up to the podium to give a long-winded speech. Ginny's face turned red as Malfoy – no, Draco, he'd said they should use first names if they were on a date, even if, or perhaps especially because, that date was for evil purposes – did a running translation from politician-speak to what was really meant. Who knew a Malfoy could be funny on purpose, and not just as the butt of a joke?
Finally the speech ended, and the Minister turned to the orchestra. A pitch was given and then promptly ignored as all the masses of Ministry employees and their guests joined in to sing “Deck the Halls.” And, as tradition dictated, there was a scramble as all the partygoers put their glasses down and dove for the piles of holly waiting to be placed on the walls of the Ministry lobby.
The festiveness lasted about three minutes before the scratching started. Ginny was amazed at how successful the prank was – it looked like every single attendee, except her and Draco, had practically rolled in the holly, and the stinging nettles that were mixed into the greenery. Pandemonium ruled, as screams and sobs emanated from the masses who were running in different directions, scattering greenery was they went and thus making the chaos increase. Ginny pulled Draco out of the way of a flying nettle that was about to hit his face. He nodded his thanks and they made their way out of the Ministry and onto the street.
Once her giggles had died down, she said, “Come on. Since you got all dressed up, I might as well buy you some coffee.”
He arched his hand over his throat and gasped theatrically. “But what if you take advantage of me?”
“Lie back and think of England.” She picked up the slight train of her robes and strode in the direction of the always-open pub two doors down, not looking back to see if he followed.
He hesitated, but finally shrugged and joined her at the pub, where they sat in a booth and ate enormous sandwiches; he had beer, but she stuck resolutely to lemonade. They compared observations of the evening, to much mutual hilarity, until they'd finished their food and he said, “So what's next?”
“Sleep,” she said with a yawn. “As for the Christmas stuff, hell if I know.”
Stifling a yawn of his own he said, “I have an idea.”
---------
The Ministry was a dismal, holly-free place the next day, with many a conversation regarding the efficacy of dock leaves versus mud as treatment for nettles. Opinion seemed divided as to whether the incident had been a result of a monumental cockup by the incompetents hired by the Ministry bigwigs (any comment this might imply as to the person speaking, also employed by said bigwigs, did not seem to occur to anyone), and those convinced that the Weasley Twins, figures of nigh-demonic stature in Ministry circles, had somehow gotten in and made it happen.
Ginny briefly considered feeling guilty that her brothers were being blamed, but decided they probably deserved it for something or other, and it would be good publicity in any case. She made sure she looked serious shading towards grumpy whenever anyone was around, but she found herself humming “Deck the Halls” as she plowed through the masses of paper on her desk.
She almost jumped out of her skin as Draco's blond head popped up beside her cubicle. “Lunch?”
“Of course,” she said, dropping her quill. She grabbed her wand and money pouch and followed him, wondering if he'd finally tell her his big idea. She continued wondering through lunch, but she didn't want to ask, as he'd just continue to tease her as he had the night before if she did. She was back at her desk before he said, “It won't be until tomorrow.”
She watched as he left, absently noting the fine nature of the view before she got back to shuffling paper around. Her mind kept working on the question of what was so significant about the next day when it dawned on her. Several of her coworkers stood to look around and ask if she was all right as she disguised her cackle as a cough.
-----
The next morning, she came in early, carrying two packages. One had been bought weeks ago, when the assignments for the gift swap were first given out, and the other one had been selected after several hours of intensive shopping. The first went under the giant Christmas tree in the still un-decked lobby, and the other was carefully placed on Draco's desk, after she'd looked around to make sure no one was watching.
She scurried back to her desk, vowing to kill him slowly if he made fun of her for buying him a present, and spent the morning pretending to be working hard. Not that she really needed to, since it was obvious no one was really doing any work, just gossiping about how the aurors were trying to break the Weasley Twins' alibi, and what the gift exchange would be like. Ginny wondered, as she had last year, why the Ministry even bothered being open during December, as no one did any work.
Noon rolled around, and the employees started drifting down to the lobby for the grand gift giving ceremony at two, with refreshments starting at one. Ginny waited at her desk until just before the gift giving was due to start, wondering why Draco hadn't shown his face all day.
The reason became obvious as she nibbled on a watercress sandwich and watched people open their gifts. One large woman, upon getting a tiny negligee of delicate white lace, started to cry. Another woman, waving a pair of fur-lined handcuffs, shrieked about sexual harassment and bringing formal charges. And Jenkins, his hands still sporting bandages due to the nettles reacting badly with the potions he'd used for healing his burns, just blushed and blushed at the assortment of novelty condoms in a box on his lap.
Similar reactions were happening all around, but Ginny ignored it all as she focused on her own gift. Given that Draco's fine hand was behind all this, what had she ended up with? Anything was possible, although she doubted it'd be a mug like the one she got last year, bearing an allegedly humorous saying about the necessity of madness towards the current work environment.
It was a necklace. The chain was so delicate that it seemed it would break under her clumsy fingers, and the pendant was in the shape of a flame, the colors of the enamel resembling strongly the color of her hair. She looked closely, and in the tiny gold lines delineating the flame, the figure of a pitchfork could just be made out.
The necklace was taken from her hands and she looked up to see Draco opening the clasp. Wordlessly, she moved her hair aside and let him fasten the chain around her neck. “Thank you.”
“Don't mention it. Please.” He shrugged. “I was out shopping for my mother's Christmas stocking and saw this. Seemed perfect for the flaming evil that is you.”
She punched his arm. “Just for that, I'm taking back the present I gave you.”
“What present? I didn't see one for me in the stack, and believe me, I would've seen it.” It was odd, the way that his face twisted as he tried to pretend he wasn't feeling hopeful or anticipatory.
“Because it's on your desk, which you obviously haven't visited today.”
“Come on.” This time he grabbed her hand rather than her wrist, but she was dragged along behind him as surely as she was on the night of Galatia the Goblinate's immolation. They reached his desk in short order and he tore through the careful wrapping like a savage, then went totally still as he stared into the open box.
Fidgeting didn't incite him to move or even utter a polite platitude, and neither did a significant clearing of the throat. Finally she grabbed at the box and said, “I can return it, it's--”
“Don't you touch my property, Weasel.” His hand closed over hers and held it crushingly as he pulled the box out of reach. He pulled the heavy silver bracelet out of the box and fastened it on his wrist, the engraved nettle and holly facing inwards.
“There's a little button right on the holly berry,” she said. “Don't worry, I had the engraving done at a muggle shop, it won't get back to the Ministry. And if it does, it'll be under the name of George Weasley.”
He made to push it, but paused. “What does it do?”
Taking his hand in hers, she turned it so she could reach the button. “This little compartment opens up. I thought next year you could carry cyanide pills in case you meet someone who needs poisoning. For now, it's just mints.”
“Thanks,” he said, and she noticed that she was holding his hand and dropped it quickly.
“So, um, I think I know what to do for the grand finale, but I've got to get something from my mum's house, so I guess I should go.” Still babbling, she started backing towards the door. “I don't think anyone's going to miss us, do you? They're too busy trying to outdo the goblin wars for sheer ferocity. Who knew bad presents could cause that much trouble?”
“I could,” he said with some amusement, taking a step towards her. “My father gave my mother red flannel underwear one year after she'd been sick. He couldn't walk right until February.”
“Oh.” She pondered possible responses and ultimately decided none were really appropriate. “Well. See you later!”
This time it was Draco's turn to appreciate the view of a retreating back, although hers was retreating at such speed as to make any appreciation of short duration.
--------
At the main party of the season, the last one officially sanctioned by the Ministry before people started taking leave for the holiday, Ginny sidled in a half an hour late, only to be immediately pounced on by a waiting Draco. “Well? What's the big finale? And where were you when I went to pick you up?”
“Why would you pick me up?” she asked, truly baffled. “You don't even know where I live.”
He rolled his eyes. “You're in the directory, Weasley. And what kind of man doesn't pick up his date?”
“Date?” Her eyes were, if not as big as saucers, then at least appreciably larger than eyes normally should be. Trying but failing to bring her voice down from a squeak, she continued, “Who's a date?”
“You are, although thus far you've not been a stellar one.” He helped her remove her cloak and said, “I take that back. Anyone wearing that dress as well as you are is the best date ever.”
She blushed, which made her skin nearly match her dress, which went perfectly with the flame necklace around her neck. “I knew it was a mistake. Redheads shouldn't wear red.”
“Shut up, I have better taste than you and I think you look...” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Well, suffice it to say I don't think it was a mistake.”
“Oh.” She shrugged, and then looked down to check that the sticking charm had continued to hold things in place. “Remind me not to make any sudden moves. I really should've worn a shawl.”
He nodded absently, his eyes never moving. “Sure.”
“For fuck's sake, Malfoy, surely you've seen breasts before!” Her fist made rapid contact with his stomach and he extended his arm to escort her into the main ballroom. “That's better. Let's dance while we wait for them to realize what's going on.”
They moved over the dance floor smoothly, and Draco looked around in breathless anticipation of what new evil she might have come up with. Nothing seemed to be happening. Not even the normal hijinks of Christmas parties past. He twirled her around with increasing speed and complexity, hoping that if nothing else, he might get her to breathe harder and put some more strain on her indecently cut bodice.
“I never knew dancing required such athleticism,” she said after a few minutes, when his plan was definitely starting to work. “I think we should get a drink.”
Remembering the swiftness of her intoxication, he hesitated. “I'm not sure that's a good idea.”
“Oh, no, it's fine.” She strolled over to one of the floating trays and plucked off two cups, handing him one as she started gulping hers down. He was about to say something – he actually liked the shoes he was wearing this evening – but he noticed something strange about the punch. It was just as reddish pink as ever, but tonight it smelled... fruity. Not a trace of alcohol fumes.
He took a sip and lowered his glass. “You magnificent bitch goddess. How did you do it?”
There seemed to be no limits to the smugness radiating from her smile. “Mum's very strict about alcohol, so she developed a spell that would neutralize any within the limits of the spell – a sphere covering the entire diameter of the property around the Burrow. This is, until I remove the spell, an alcohol-free building.”
“If it wouldn't give people the wrong idea, I'd fall down to my knees in worship right now.” As it was, he lifted her hand to his lips and set her to blushing again.
People were starting to file out and she sighed, although a smile still lingered on her lips. “I guess we can just go. I'd like to be home in my pajamas before you turn back into a toad.”
“Isn't it before your dress turns back to rags?” He took her empty cup and placed it on a tray before following her towards the door.
“Something like that.” Her cloak had been one of the last put in the cloakroom, and so it was returned to her in short order. “Well... Goodbye.”
He stood in the line for another moment, until it hit him that she was really walking away. “Wait!” Abandoning the line, he caught up with her just outside the doors. “What do you mean, goodbye? We have a lot of planning to do for next year.”
Looking around at the other departing revelers, she pulled him slightly down the street to where their conversation would not be as easily overheard. “I think my bitterness is sufficiently assuaged. Who knows, maybe next year all the Christmas cheer will actually be entertaining.”
“Well... What if someone traces it all back to us?” He stepped closer to her so that he could speak in a whisper. “We should get our stories straight, maybe create a cover.”
Ginny leaned in, mistakenly believing her cloak fully hid her neckline problems during such an action, and whispered, “We have one. Their names are Fred and George, and business for the Wheezes has tripled since the Great Gift Gaffe, so they're perfectly happy to be blamed.”
In the next moment, Ginny found herself being pulled into his arms. She didn't have time to adjust to this new development before his lips were on hers and he was kissing her like she was the only woman on earth -- and he was damn good at it.
When he finally let her up for air, he said, “So, how about a date?”
“All right,” she said, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again.
“Any chance on being invited back to your place?” he said when they broke apart again.
Ginny stepped back and tried to pull herself back together. “Maybe sometime next year,” she said. “But for now, we can go get coffee at the pub.”
“Coffee it is,” he said, counting down how many days remained before the thirty-first.
The End.
Mynuet is the author of 71 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 46 members. Members who liked Comfort and Schadenfreude also liked 1452 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 46 members. Members who liked Comfort and Schadenfreude also liked 1452 other stories.
Leave a Review