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Draco Malfoy didn’t think that life could get any worse. How Muggles could stand this torture was beyond him. Then again, they were Muggles.
The blond glowered at his wife, who was currently singing along to said torture. He was horrified to discover that she was even including actions. She was particularly fond of impersonating a horse as she sung, “Giddy up, Giddy up, Giddy up” while racing around the room, the garish pink tinsel she was holding streaming around her like a particularly sparkly feather boa.
“My wife has gone mad!” exclaimed Draco, staring at the twirling redhead in abject horror.
He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more: his wife’s singing and dancing or the pink tinsel.
Ginevra Malfoy grinned at him, completely unabashed. “It’s nearly Christmas, Draco. Doesn’t it make you just want to get up and dance around like a little kid again?”
“No.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“No.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, you can stay there and be a grump if you like, Mr Scrooge, but I, for one, plan to enjoy myself.”
Draco rolled his eyes right back. “Not all of us have your penchant for—” he eyed the tinsel in her hands “—vulgar things. You know my parents are going to have a conniption when they see that.”
“Don’t worry, darling,” taunted his wife as she wrapped the tinsel around his neck and used it to pull his face closer to hers. “I’m not going to wound your parents’ snobbish sensibilities by decorating the house with pink tinsel, though you have to give me some leeway at least with the tree. I simply cannot tolerate that coordinated, Christmas tree look. It’s just so lifeless and contrived.”
“What is it with you and tacky decorations?”
“Christmas is tacky, love,” retorted Ginny, giving him a quick peck on the lips. “Deal with it.”
He frowned, but she was already tripping away to put more decorations on the tree. There was no use in trying to persuade her to stick to one or two colours for either the tinsel or the actual decorations. She was like a little kid with a crayon box who was unable to decide which colour to use and so simply grabbed them all in her fist and dragged them haphazardly across the paper to make a picture. It didn’t help that the tree she had found was large to the point of being ridiculous, though she still managed to put a glowing star at the top—even if it did droop slightly.
The drooping star alone was enough to make him shudder, and he hated to think what it would do to his parents. He wondered how she had ever managed to rope him into letting her have her way with the decorating. He was supposed to be the manipulative one here and yet, whenever it came to matters like this, he was always forced to give in to her wishes.
“Stupid woman and their stupid, conniving ways,” grumbled Draco under his breath.
“Stupid men and their stupid, misogynistic mutterings,” called out his wife, and then she peeped around the tree and threw him a cheeky grin. “I can hear you, you know.”
“I figured that,” said the blond dryly.
Ginny walked over to him, pouting. “Come on, Draco, don’t be such a killjoy. This is going to be our first Christmas together with both of our families present. Can’t we just enjoy it for what it is?”
“Our families hate each other. The only thing we’ll be enjoying is a Christmas massacre.”
“I’m sure it won’t be that bad. After all, your parents did agree to come to the dinner.”
Draco didn’t bother to remind her of the fact that his parents had taken two weeks of intense persuading to come to that agreement, let alone of his own reservations about the proposed dinner. He cherished no love for his wife’s family and would have preferred to spend Christmas with his own mother and father. Unfortunately, Ginny had taken it into her head that they should have Christmas dinner with both their families. He knew that there was no stopping her after that.
Well, at least he could take some comfort that they wouldn’t be having dinner at the Burrow. The house that he and Ginny had bought the previous year was the perfect place to hold the dinner. As his wife had said, their house would be the ‘neutral ground that would bring their families together’, but, as he now looked at the monstrosity his wife called a Christmas tree, he somehow doubted their home would have much of a calming effect on his own family.
“I don’t know, Ginny,” said Draco slowly. “I don’t think my parents are going to like this.”
“Why not?”
Draco looked at his wife’s happy face and found that he did not have the heart to tell her that her Christmas tree was hideous. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her lovingly on her lips.
“Never mind. I’m sure the dinner will go fine,” said the blond, keeping his more pessimistic reflections to himself.
But even he could not have predicted what would transpire on that fateful Christmas dinner, let alone that the tree would prove to be the least of his worries.
OOOO
“Draco!” called out Ginny, slipping on her shoes as she half walked, half stumbled out of their bedroom. “Draco, where are you?”
She walked down the stairs, muttering furiously to herself about her husband’s general uselessness and irresponsibility when she finally spotted him ensconced in his favourite chair in the living room, a bottle of wine in hand. Her eyes glittered with rage and in two quick strides she had snatched the bottle out of his hand and then pointed one finger menacingly at his face.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” growled the redhead.
Draco looked at her gravely. “Ginny, when I’m sober I hate your family. So, for this day to go smoothly, I suggest you give me back that bottle.”
“Not a chance. There is no way I’m letting you get drunk before the dinner has even begun. I can’t believe you would do this to me—to our families. How do you think they’ll feel when you greet them with a slurred hello?”
“Sober.”
Ginny rolled her eyes at his attempt at humour and calmly vanished the bottle in her hand with her wand. The blond looked at her pitifully, but her heart remained cold to his silent pleas.
“You’re not having any more wine until dinner,” said Ginny grimly, “and don’t think that I won’t be watching how much you drink then either. You’re twenty-seven, Draco. The least you can do is act it.”
“Yes, Mum.”
Her eyes narrowed. Draco quickly back-peddled and gave her a placating smile before the tirade could come.
“Don’t worry, love, I’ll be a veritable saint. Not a sip of alcohol will touch my lips until dinner.”
His wife continued to look at him suspiciously, but then fortune intervened: someone was ringing the doorbell, and, judging by the persistence of that infernal sound, they showed no sign of stopping.
Ginny gave him one last glare and then stomped off to answer the door, plastering a smile on her face as she opened it. Draco resigned himself to playing host—a sober one at that—and greeted the redheaded newcomers with admirable equanimity. Whatever he may think of his wife’s family, he was not so lacking in decorum as to not know how to treat them with respect.
The first to arrive were Ginny’s parents, but the doorbell continued to ring on and off with frustrating frequency as more guests arrived. Ginny eventually gave up trying to answer the door and handed the task over to their house-elf, Gorky. She had always felt sorry for the elf. It really did have an awful name, though the house-elf in question seemed to not mind it one bit. He held his head high as he opened the door to the very haughty looking couple and, knowing them to be his master’s parents, swept a low (and surprisingly graceful) bow. Unfortunately for Gorky, the couple took no notice of him or his admirable little bow.
Narcissa Malfoy, standing tall and proud on the doorstep, ignored her husband in what she considered to be dignified silence—in reality she was just sulking. When he reached out to take her arm, she shifted it smoothly away from his outstretched hand, her chin tilting with unmistakable scorn.
“I’m sure I can manage to walk through a door on my own,” said the blonde in a voice that could freeze bone marrow.
Lucius Malfoy took this reproach with unruffled composure and simply walked on inside. His wife followed with a rather sour look on her face, not even sparing a glance for the elf that held the door open for her. Gorky shook his head, bat ears flapping comically as he shut the door behind the husband and wife. Obviously the Mr and Mrs Malfoy senior were not enjoying their holidays together. He hoped it wouldn’t spoil the dinner.
Little did Gorky know that dinner was already being spoiled, though not quite in the way he had expected. It just so happened that Ginny, who had insisted on cooking the dinner without the house-elf’s help (she claimed it made it more meaningful that way), had forgot all about the turkey roasting in the oven.
“Do you smell that?” asked Fleur Weasley with a frown, sniffing delicately at the air as she cradled a small baby in her arms.
“It smells like smoke,” remarked Narcissa, who had just entered the room and now scrunched her nose up in distaste.
Ginny suddenly went very pale. She raced out of the room without a further word and burst into the kitchen, running into a thick wall of smoke as she did so. Her heart sunk as she saw the great billowing clouds of grey emanating from the oven.
“What happened?” asked Draco, coming to stand beside her.
She wordlessly opened the oven and pulled out what appeared to be a very black turkey.
“Oh,” said the blond. “I see.”
Ginny glared at him. “Don’t you dare say I told you so.”
“I never said a word.”
“But I know you were thinking it.”
“Well, you do have to admit that this would not have happened if you had just let Gorky do the cooking.”
“You’re not helping,” gritted out the redhead.
The blond fell silent and stared at the main course meal that now resembled a slab of charcoal. His lips twitched in amusement.
“Well, I guess we won’t be having turkey for dinner.”
Ginny let out a morose sigh and tentatively poked the blackened bird with a fork. “What should we do?”
“Nothing. Gorky will figure out something. He always does.”
“I suppose we have no choice, though I did want to cook the dinner myself. It just makes it so much more—”
“Meaningful,” interposed the blond. “I know, but I’m sure the dinner will feel just as meaningful when we’ve satisfied our hunger on a bird that doesn’t taste like ash.”
Ginny glowered at him, but he merely held his hands up innocently.
“Honey, I’m sure your turkey would have tasted great, but even you can’t expect us to eat that thing—I don’t think it even is edible.”
“I suppose not,” sighed the redhead in defeat.
Draco leaned down and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Burning a turkey isn’t the end of the world, love. After all, we’ve still got the rest of the food that you prepared.”
“I know, but I just wanted this dinner to go well,” responded Ginny with a tremulous smile. “This is the first time our families have been together—besides the wedding, of course. I at least wanted the food to be exempt from complaint.”
“The dinner will be fine,” said Draco reassuringly. “What’s the worst that can happen, after all?”
The answer to this question was soon made apparent once the two families had agglomerated to the dining room where the large table for the adults and the smaller table for the children had been set up for them to eat. It was not ten minutes into the meal when the strain between the families began to seep out.
“You know, Lucius,” said Molly Weasley while spooning potatoes onto her plate. “Have you ever thought of getting your hair cut? I don’t mean to encroach, but it is getting rather long, don’t you think?”
Lucius directed a glacial smile at the over-helpful woman before him. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”
Draco resisted the impulse to place his head in hands and groan. He wasn’t sure what was worse: the Weasleys’ well-meaning, but rather tactless, behaviour and remarks or his own parents’ overt snobbery.
And whose bright idea was it to assign seating positions at the table, anyway? He would have to have a talk with his wife about that later. Surely she didn’t think that placing his father in between and Fred and George Weasley was going to inspire the Christmas spirit? And nothing could be worse than seating his mother next to Ronald, the youngest of the Weasley brothers. Narcissa was staring at the redhead next to her in complete disgust—it seemed that Ronald had confused himself with a dog and could only gobble up his dinner in record speed while spraying most of it back on his plate as he talked with his mouth full of food. Draco, thankfully, was beside Fleur and Charlie (being positioned at the Head of the table), but he was not so pleased to discover that Ginny had been seated next to Harry Potter, who seemed to be having a swell old time chatting and smiling with her.
The blond glowered darkly to himself. He had never liked Potter, and he didn’t know why the short-sighted git had been invited to the dinner tonight, let alone the bushy-haired witch seated next to Percy (at least that was a placement that made sense). Ginny had said that Harry was considered part of the family, and Hermione had come to Christmas so often that they just assumed she would come (plus, it was suspected that she fancied one of the men present). In the end, however, Ginny had given him her best “they’re coming and that’s that” expression, and so that was indeed that. Not to be outdone, Draco had decided to get her back by inviting Severus Snape to the dinner, a man who was more likely to say ‘Bah! Humbug!’ than wish one a merry Christmas.
Glancing at the sallow-faced man now, Draco had to wonder if he had perhaps done his godfather a disservice. Severus looked just as sour as he himself felt, and that expression only turned all the more surly when Arthur Weasley held out the end of a vibrantly purple cracker to him with a disgustingly cheery smile on his face. His sympathy for the older man was short-lived, however, as he soon found a vibrantly cracker of his own bring thrust in front of his nose by an equally grinning Charlie.
“Go on, Drake,” prodded the redhead, waving the purple horror in front of him like it was the greatest of treats, “pull a cracker with me.”
Draco lifted an eyebrow with haughty dignity. “I’ll pull a cracker with you if you stop calling me that ridiculous nickname.”
Christmas or not, there were some things he just could not tolerate.
Charlie merely grinned (honestly, what was with these Weasleys and grinning?) and then tugged on the cracker, the blond reluctantly pulling the other end. There was a loud bang, a cloud of purple smoke, and then a red hat with a fluffy white pompom on the end appeared, along with a few other odds and ends that the blond took little notice of. He was far too absorbed with the hat—a hat that Charlie was now trying to put on his head.
“I am not wearing that travesty of a hat!” snapped Draco, pushing the redhead’s hands away. “It looks like a nightcap.”
“It’s a Santa hat,” said Hermione in her favourite know-it-all voice. “Muggles often wear them around Christmas.”
“Yes, well I’m not a Muggle,” retorted Draco.
The sneer in his voice was unmistakable. Perhaps that was why his wife ordered him to stop making such a fuss over nothing and to wear the damn hat. She herself was currently sporting a pirate hat, and although it was true that she looked ridiculous in it, the deadly glare that she levelled on him was no less intimidating. He sighed, knowing a losing battle when he saw one, and reluctantly put on the Santa Hat. His mother and father were not so obliging, but the Weasleys seemed to understand that nothing could prevail the Malfoys senior to wear cracker hats, and so dinner continued with no more excitement.
It was then that Ron’s bad eating habits manifested themselves in all their glory. One minute he was trying to cut a particularly stubborn piece of meat, and the next minute Narcissa Malfoy was letting out an outraged shriek as a very saucy covered steak hit her right on the nose and then dropped to her lap, leaving a trail of brown in its wake.
“Oops,” said Ron, blushing a dull red. “Sorry.”
Narcissa removed the steak off her lap with trembling fingers, her suppressed rage so obvious that even Draco blanched in his seat.
“These robes cost two hundred Galleons,” said the blonde, voice eerily calm. “They are now ruined because of you.”
“Oh, it’s only a bit of sauce!” said Ginny cheerfully.
She whipped out her wand and muttered a quick cleaning charm on Narcissa’s robes. The sauce was removed, leaving no stain, but the blonde did not appear satisfied. If anything, her expression had darkened even more, and if anyone had cared to notice, they would have seen that her glass of wine seemed to be doing a lot of refilling after that. But nobody did notice. Molly was too busy telling Ron that if he couldn’t eat like a normal adult then he could go join the children at the smaller table. Ginny wasn’t paying attention because she was physically dragging her brother to the smaller table, and everyone else was either too amused or too concerned with their dinner to pay attention to the sulking Narcissa Malfoy.
And that was why it came as a surprise to everyone when the blonde randomly started arguing with her husband some time later. There was an unmistakable slur to her voice, and she had since ditched her glass for the whole bottle of wine, which she now clutched in her slender fingers. It was obvious to everyone that she was horrendously drunk, and it was also obvious that she had a serious bone to pick with her husband.
“Well, I know where you get your alcoholic tendencies from,” remarked Ginny to her husband while staring at the drunken older woman in astonishment.
Draco just groaned and hid his face in his hands. This night could not get any worse. Here was his mother accusing his father of being a tyrant and bemoaning the fact that he never let her do anything that she wanted to do. His father, of course, was taking this all in his stride, merely suggesting in a dry voice that Narcissa go take her theatrical speeches to the stage where they belonged.
Narcissa stood up from her chair, swaying a little unsteadily on her feet, and looked at her husband with a dangerous glint in her eyes.
“Oh, that’s right, Lucius,” slurred the normally dignified woman, “you always have to be so composed, don’t you? Well, let’s see what you make of this!”
And then, much to the surprise of everyone, she lifted up her robe, pulled off her knickers (a rather risqué black thong) and threw said thong furiously at her husband’s unruffled face. The thong landed neatly on top of his head, looking almost like a lacy mob-cap. He didn’t look particularly composed after that, but whatever his response may have been to this dramatic display was lost at the rise of another dispute. Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world though he may be, had rather thoughtlessly commented on Narcissa Malfoy’s sexy thong and her recent exhibitionist behaviour. Draco had, unfortunately, overheard.
That was when Draco lunged at the raven-haired man and started kicking and punching at any body part that he could reach.
“Draco, stop!” cried Ginny, trying to pull her husband away from her friend.
“How dare you disrespect my mother like that!” roared the blond, completely ignoring his wife as he pummelled the hapless ex-Gryffindor.
Harry, not one to stomach a beating without putting up a fight, retaliated in kind, and soon an all out battle was being enacted on the living room floor. People screeched for them to stop, Fred and George cheered the men on with Cheshire cat grins, Lucius and Narcissa were still arguing, Arthur continued snoring with his head on the table, a pool of drool forming near his mouth (no one was quite sure when it was that he had had fallen asleep), and then a new disruption occurred that put even Narcissa Malfoy’s exhibitionist adventures to shame.
Severus Snape, who had long tired of the night’s excitement, not to mention the people surrounding him, had somehow got caught in the way of one of Harry’s flying kicks. The result was that he crashed backwards into the Christmas tree—that giant monstrosity which Ginny cherished so much with its drooping star and clashing decorations. It swayed precariously, mismatched decorations tinkling with ominous foreboding, and then the tree crashed to the ground, landing directly on top of Harry who had finally managed to escape Draco’s raging fists.
“Oh dear,” said Fleur. “I believe you just killed Harry Potter with a Christmas tree.”
“The scar-headed idiot has survived more murder attempts than I can count,” responded Draco bluntly. “You can’t tell me he died by something so mundane as a Christmas tree.”
“Well, it was a very large tree,” said Percy reasonably.
“And ugly,” muttered the twins together.
Ginny glowered at them.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” snapped Hermione. “Harry is not dead.”
She pulled out her wand and used a levitating charm to lift the tree off her friend. Then she knelt down beside him and felt his pulse.
“There now,” said the practical brunette, “he still has a pulse.”
“I told you he wasn’t dead,” said Draco smugly.
But there was no denying that the raven-haired man was unconscious, and the dark crimson staining his robes did look rather suspicious…
Molly quickly pulled herself together. “I think we had better get Harry to a hospital.”
“I’ll take him,” said Ron, hoping to redeem himself from his embarrassing display at dinner.
“I’ll come too,” said Hermione.
And so it went on until everyone except the Malfoys were declaring that they would go to St Mungo’s to be with Harry, for even Snape felt that he should be there since he was the one who had knocked the tree over in the first place, and someone had kindly woken Arthur up before he drowned in his own drool. Lucius, on the other hand, had finally calmed Narcissa down and said that it would be better if he just took her home before she worked herself up again. Draco knew that this was not the full truth, but he was more than happy to have his drunken mother leave the house and so practically thrust his parents out the door. The rest of the company Disapparated, taking the wounded war hero along with them, though there were some doubts as to whether the man in question would ever boast of his run in with Ginny Malfoy’s monstrous Christmas tree.
And so it was that Draco and Ginny found themselves alone in their house once more, the carnage of the night’s events surrounding them and serving as a horrible reminder of the disaster that was their Christmas dinner. It may not have quite been a massacre, but it was definitely something out of the ordinary, and there was no doubt that this was one Christmas that neither Malfoy nor Weasley (or Potter, Granger and Snape for that matter) would ever forget.
The blond glowered at his wife, who was currently singing along to said torture. He was horrified to discover that she was even including actions. She was particularly fond of impersonating a horse as she sung, “Giddy up, Giddy up, Giddy up” while racing around the room, the garish pink tinsel she was holding streaming around her like a particularly sparkly feather boa.
“My wife has gone mad!” exclaimed Draco, staring at the twirling redhead in abject horror.
He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more: his wife’s singing and dancing or the pink tinsel.
Ginevra Malfoy grinned at him, completely unabashed. “It’s nearly Christmas, Draco. Doesn’t it make you just want to get up and dance around like a little kid again?”
“No.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“No.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, you can stay there and be a grump if you like, Mr Scrooge, but I, for one, plan to enjoy myself.”
Draco rolled his eyes right back. “Not all of us have your penchant for—” he eyed the tinsel in her hands “—vulgar things. You know my parents are going to have a conniption when they see that.”
“Don’t worry, darling,” taunted his wife as she wrapped the tinsel around his neck and used it to pull his face closer to hers. “I’m not going to wound your parents’ snobbish sensibilities by decorating the house with pink tinsel, though you have to give me some leeway at least with the tree. I simply cannot tolerate that coordinated, Christmas tree look. It’s just so lifeless and contrived.”
“What is it with you and tacky decorations?”
“Christmas is tacky, love,” retorted Ginny, giving him a quick peck on the lips. “Deal with it.”
He frowned, but she was already tripping away to put more decorations on the tree. There was no use in trying to persuade her to stick to one or two colours for either the tinsel or the actual decorations. She was like a little kid with a crayon box who was unable to decide which colour to use and so simply grabbed them all in her fist and dragged them haphazardly across the paper to make a picture. It didn’t help that the tree she had found was large to the point of being ridiculous, though she still managed to put a glowing star at the top—even if it did droop slightly.
The drooping star alone was enough to make him shudder, and he hated to think what it would do to his parents. He wondered how she had ever managed to rope him into letting her have her way with the decorating. He was supposed to be the manipulative one here and yet, whenever it came to matters like this, he was always forced to give in to her wishes.
“Stupid woman and their stupid, conniving ways,” grumbled Draco under his breath.
“Stupid men and their stupid, misogynistic mutterings,” called out his wife, and then she peeped around the tree and threw him a cheeky grin. “I can hear you, you know.”
“I figured that,” said the blond dryly.
Ginny walked over to him, pouting. “Come on, Draco, don’t be such a killjoy. This is going to be our first Christmas together with both of our families present. Can’t we just enjoy it for what it is?”
“Our families hate each other. The only thing we’ll be enjoying is a Christmas massacre.”
“I’m sure it won’t be that bad. After all, your parents did agree to come to the dinner.”
Draco didn’t bother to remind her of the fact that his parents had taken two weeks of intense persuading to come to that agreement, let alone of his own reservations about the proposed dinner. He cherished no love for his wife’s family and would have preferred to spend Christmas with his own mother and father. Unfortunately, Ginny had taken it into her head that they should have Christmas dinner with both their families. He knew that there was no stopping her after that.
Well, at least he could take some comfort that they wouldn’t be having dinner at the Burrow. The house that he and Ginny had bought the previous year was the perfect place to hold the dinner. As his wife had said, their house would be the ‘neutral ground that would bring their families together’, but, as he now looked at the monstrosity his wife called a Christmas tree, he somehow doubted their home would have much of a calming effect on his own family.
“I don’t know, Ginny,” said Draco slowly. “I don’t think my parents are going to like this.”
“Why not?”
Draco looked at his wife’s happy face and found that he did not have the heart to tell her that her Christmas tree was hideous. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her lovingly on her lips.
“Never mind. I’m sure the dinner will go fine,” said the blond, keeping his more pessimistic reflections to himself.
But even he could not have predicted what would transpire on that fateful Christmas dinner, let alone that the tree would prove to be the least of his worries.
OOOO
“Draco!” called out Ginny, slipping on her shoes as she half walked, half stumbled out of their bedroom. “Draco, where are you?”
She walked down the stairs, muttering furiously to herself about her husband’s general uselessness and irresponsibility when she finally spotted him ensconced in his favourite chair in the living room, a bottle of wine in hand. Her eyes glittered with rage and in two quick strides she had snatched the bottle out of his hand and then pointed one finger menacingly at his face.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” growled the redhead.
Draco looked at her gravely. “Ginny, when I’m sober I hate your family. So, for this day to go smoothly, I suggest you give me back that bottle.”
“Not a chance. There is no way I’m letting you get drunk before the dinner has even begun. I can’t believe you would do this to me—to our families. How do you think they’ll feel when you greet them with a slurred hello?”
“Sober.”
Ginny rolled her eyes at his attempt at humour and calmly vanished the bottle in her hand with her wand. The blond looked at her pitifully, but her heart remained cold to his silent pleas.
“You’re not having any more wine until dinner,” said Ginny grimly, “and don’t think that I won’t be watching how much you drink then either. You’re twenty-seven, Draco. The least you can do is act it.”
“Yes, Mum.”
Her eyes narrowed. Draco quickly back-peddled and gave her a placating smile before the tirade could come.
“Don’t worry, love, I’ll be a veritable saint. Not a sip of alcohol will touch my lips until dinner.”
His wife continued to look at him suspiciously, but then fortune intervened: someone was ringing the doorbell, and, judging by the persistence of that infernal sound, they showed no sign of stopping.
Ginny gave him one last glare and then stomped off to answer the door, plastering a smile on her face as she opened it. Draco resigned himself to playing host—a sober one at that—and greeted the redheaded newcomers with admirable equanimity. Whatever he may think of his wife’s family, he was not so lacking in decorum as to not know how to treat them with respect.
The first to arrive were Ginny’s parents, but the doorbell continued to ring on and off with frustrating frequency as more guests arrived. Ginny eventually gave up trying to answer the door and handed the task over to their house-elf, Gorky. She had always felt sorry for the elf. It really did have an awful name, though the house-elf in question seemed to not mind it one bit. He held his head high as he opened the door to the very haughty looking couple and, knowing them to be his master’s parents, swept a low (and surprisingly graceful) bow. Unfortunately for Gorky, the couple took no notice of him or his admirable little bow.
Narcissa Malfoy, standing tall and proud on the doorstep, ignored her husband in what she considered to be dignified silence—in reality she was just sulking. When he reached out to take her arm, she shifted it smoothly away from his outstretched hand, her chin tilting with unmistakable scorn.
“I’m sure I can manage to walk through a door on my own,” said the blonde in a voice that could freeze bone marrow.
Lucius Malfoy took this reproach with unruffled composure and simply walked on inside. His wife followed with a rather sour look on her face, not even sparing a glance for the elf that held the door open for her. Gorky shook his head, bat ears flapping comically as he shut the door behind the husband and wife. Obviously the Mr and Mrs Malfoy senior were not enjoying their holidays together. He hoped it wouldn’t spoil the dinner.
Little did Gorky know that dinner was already being spoiled, though not quite in the way he had expected. It just so happened that Ginny, who had insisted on cooking the dinner without the house-elf’s help (she claimed it made it more meaningful that way), had forgot all about the turkey roasting in the oven.
“Do you smell that?” asked Fleur Weasley with a frown, sniffing delicately at the air as she cradled a small baby in her arms.
“It smells like smoke,” remarked Narcissa, who had just entered the room and now scrunched her nose up in distaste.
Ginny suddenly went very pale. She raced out of the room without a further word and burst into the kitchen, running into a thick wall of smoke as she did so. Her heart sunk as she saw the great billowing clouds of grey emanating from the oven.
“What happened?” asked Draco, coming to stand beside her.
She wordlessly opened the oven and pulled out what appeared to be a very black turkey.
“Oh,” said the blond. “I see.”
Ginny glared at him. “Don’t you dare say I told you so.”
“I never said a word.”
“But I know you were thinking it.”
“Well, you do have to admit that this would not have happened if you had just let Gorky do the cooking.”
“You’re not helping,” gritted out the redhead.
The blond fell silent and stared at the main course meal that now resembled a slab of charcoal. His lips twitched in amusement.
“Well, I guess we won’t be having turkey for dinner.”
Ginny let out a morose sigh and tentatively poked the blackened bird with a fork. “What should we do?”
“Nothing. Gorky will figure out something. He always does.”
“I suppose we have no choice, though I did want to cook the dinner myself. It just makes it so much more—”
“Meaningful,” interposed the blond. “I know, but I’m sure the dinner will feel just as meaningful when we’ve satisfied our hunger on a bird that doesn’t taste like ash.”
Ginny glowered at him, but he merely held his hands up innocently.
“Honey, I’m sure your turkey would have tasted great, but even you can’t expect us to eat that thing—I don’t think it even is edible.”
“I suppose not,” sighed the redhead in defeat.
Draco leaned down and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Burning a turkey isn’t the end of the world, love. After all, we’ve still got the rest of the food that you prepared.”
“I know, but I just wanted this dinner to go well,” responded Ginny with a tremulous smile. “This is the first time our families have been together—besides the wedding, of course. I at least wanted the food to be exempt from complaint.”
“The dinner will be fine,” said Draco reassuringly. “What’s the worst that can happen, after all?”
The answer to this question was soon made apparent once the two families had agglomerated to the dining room where the large table for the adults and the smaller table for the children had been set up for them to eat. It was not ten minutes into the meal when the strain between the families began to seep out.
“You know, Lucius,” said Molly Weasley while spooning potatoes onto her plate. “Have you ever thought of getting your hair cut? I don’t mean to encroach, but it is getting rather long, don’t you think?”
Lucius directed a glacial smile at the over-helpful woman before him. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”
Draco resisted the impulse to place his head in hands and groan. He wasn’t sure what was worse: the Weasleys’ well-meaning, but rather tactless, behaviour and remarks or his own parents’ overt snobbery.
And whose bright idea was it to assign seating positions at the table, anyway? He would have to have a talk with his wife about that later. Surely she didn’t think that placing his father in between and Fred and George Weasley was going to inspire the Christmas spirit? And nothing could be worse than seating his mother next to Ronald, the youngest of the Weasley brothers. Narcissa was staring at the redhead next to her in complete disgust—it seemed that Ronald had confused himself with a dog and could only gobble up his dinner in record speed while spraying most of it back on his plate as he talked with his mouth full of food. Draco, thankfully, was beside Fleur and Charlie (being positioned at the Head of the table), but he was not so pleased to discover that Ginny had been seated next to Harry Potter, who seemed to be having a swell old time chatting and smiling with her.
The blond glowered darkly to himself. He had never liked Potter, and he didn’t know why the short-sighted git had been invited to the dinner tonight, let alone the bushy-haired witch seated next to Percy (at least that was a placement that made sense). Ginny had said that Harry was considered part of the family, and Hermione had come to Christmas so often that they just assumed she would come (plus, it was suspected that she fancied one of the men present). In the end, however, Ginny had given him her best “they’re coming and that’s that” expression, and so that was indeed that. Not to be outdone, Draco had decided to get her back by inviting Severus Snape to the dinner, a man who was more likely to say ‘Bah! Humbug!’ than wish one a merry Christmas.
Glancing at the sallow-faced man now, Draco had to wonder if he had perhaps done his godfather a disservice. Severus looked just as sour as he himself felt, and that expression only turned all the more surly when Arthur Weasley held out the end of a vibrantly purple cracker to him with a disgustingly cheery smile on his face. His sympathy for the older man was short-lived, however, as he soon found a vibrantly cracker of his own bring thrust in front of his nose by an equally grinning Charlie.
“Go on, Drake,” prodded the redhead, waving the purple horror in front of him like it was the greatest of treats, “pull a cracker with me.”
Draco lifted an eyebrow with haughty dignity. “I’ll pull a cracker with you if you stop calling me that ridiculous nickname.”
Christmas or not, there were some things he just could not tolerate.
Charlie merely grinned (honestly, what was with these Weasleys and grinning?) and then tugged on the cracker, the blond reluctantly pulling the other end. There was a loud bang, a cloud of purple smoke, and then a red hat with a fluffy white pompom on the end appeared, along with a few other odds and ends that the blond took little notice of. He was far too absorbed with the hat—a hat that Charlie was now trying to put on his head.
“I am not wearing that travesty of a hat!” snapped Draco, pushing the redhead’s hands away. “It looks like a nightcap.”
“It’s a Santa hat,” said Hermione in her favourite know-it-all voice. “Muggles often wear them around Christmas.”
“Yes, well I’m not a Muggle,” retorted Draco.
The sneer in his voice was unmistakable. Perhaps that was why his wife ordered him to stop making such a fuss over nothing and to wear the damn hat. She herself was currently sporting a pirate hat, and although it was true that she looked ridiculous in it, the deadly glare that she levelled on him was no less intimidating. He sighed, knowing a losing battle when he saw one, and reluctantly put on the Santa Hat. His mother and father were not so obliging, but the Weasleys seemed to understand that nothing could prevail the Malfoys senior to wear cracker hats, and so dinner continued with no more excitement.
It was then that Ron’s bad eating habits manifested themselves in all their glory. One minute he was trying to cut a particularly stubborn piece of meat, and the next minute Narcissa Malfoy was letting out an outraged shriek as a very saucy covered steak hit her right on the nose and then dropped to her lap, leaving a trail of brown in its wake.
“Oops,” said Ron, blushing a dull red. “Sorry.”
Narcissa removed the steak off her lap with trembling fingers, her suppressed rage so obvious that even Draco blanched in his seat.
“These robes cost two hundred Galleons,” said the blonde, voice eerily calm. “They are now ruined because of you.”
“Oh, it’s only a bit of sauce!” said Ginny cheerfully.
She whipped out her wand and muttered a quick cleaning charm on Narcissa’s robes. The sauce was removed, leaving no stain, but the blonde did not appear satisfied. If anything, her expression had darkened even more, and if anyone had cared to notice, they would have seen that her glass of wine seemed to be doing a lot of refilling after that. But nobody did notice. Molly was too busy telling Ron that if he couldn’t eat like a normal adult then he could go join the children at the smaller table. Ginny wasn’t paying attention because she was physically dragging her brother to the smaller table, and everyone else was either too amused or too concerned with their dinner to pay attention to the sulking Narcissa Malfoy.
And that was why it came as a surprise to everyone when the blonde randomly started arguing with her husband some time later. There was an unmistakable slur to her voice, and she had since ditched her glass for the whole bottle of wine, which she now clutched in her slender fingers. It was obvious to everyone that she was horrendously drunk, and it was also obvious that she had a serious bone to pick with her husband.
“Well, I know where you get your alcoholic tendencies from,” remarked Ginny to her husband while staring at the drunken older woman in astonishment.
Draco just groaned and hid his face in his hands. This night could not get any worse. Here was his mother accusing his father of being a tyrant and bemoaning the fact that he never let her do anything that she wanted to do. His father, of course, was taking this all in his stride, merely suggesting in a dry voice that Narcissa go take her theatrical speeches to the stage where they belonged.
Narcissa stood up from her chair, swaying a little unsteadily on her feet, and looked at her husband with a dangerous glint in her eyes.
“Oh, that’s right, Lucius,” slurred the normally dignified woman, “you always have to be so composed, don’t you? Well, let’s see what you make of this!”
And then, much to the surprise of everyone, she lifted up her robe, pulled off her knickers (a rather risqué black thong) and threw said thong furiously at her husband’s unruffled face. The thong landed neatly on top of his head, looking almost like a lacy mob-cap. He didn’t look particularly composed after that, but whatever his response may have been to this dramatic display was lost at the rise of another dispute. Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world though he may be, had rather thoughtlessly commented on Narcissa Malfoy’s sexy thong and her recent exhibitionist behaviour. Draco had, unfortunately, overheard.
That was when Draco lunged at the raven-haired man and started kicking and punching at any body part that he could reach.
“Draco, stop!” cried Ginny, trying to pull her husband away from her friend.
“How dare you disrespect my mother like that!” roared the blond, completely ignoring his wife as he pummelled the hapless ex-Gryffindor.
Harry, not one to stomach a beating without putting up a fight, retaliated in kind, and soon an all out battle was being enacted on the living room floor. People screeched for them to stop, Fred and George cheered the men on with Cheshire cat grins, Lucius and Narcissa were still arguing, Arthur continued snoring with his head on the table, a pool of drool forming near his mouth (no one was quite sure when it was that he had had fallen asleep), and then a new disruption occurred that put even Narcissa Malfoy’s exhibitionist adventures to shame.
Severus Snape, who had long tired of the night’s excitement, not to mention the people surrounding him, had somehow got caught in the way of one of Harry’s flying kicks. The result was that he crashed backwards into the Christmas tree—that giant monstrosity which Ginny cherished so much with its drooping star and clashing decorations. It swayed precariously, mismatched decorations tinkling with ominous foreboding, and then the tree crashed to the ground, landing directly on top of Harry who had finally managed to escape Draco’s raging fists.
“Oh dear,” said Fleur. “I believe you just killed Harry Potter with a Christmas tree.”
“The scar-headed idiot has survived more murder attempts than I can count,” responded Draco bluntly. “You can’t tell me he died by something so mundane as a Christmas tree.”
“Well, it was a very large tree,” said Percy reasonably.
“And ugly,” muttered the twins together.
Ginny glowered at them.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” snapped Hermione. “Harry is not dead.”
She pulled out her wand and used a levitating charm to lift the tree off her friend. Then she knelt down beside him and felt his pulse.
“There now,” said the practical brunette, “he still has a pulse.”
“I told you he wasn’t dead,” said Draco smugly.
But there was no denying that the raven-haired man was unconscious, and the dark crimson staining his robes did look rather suspicious…
Molly quickly pulled herself together. “I think we had better get Harry to a hospital.”
“I’ll take him,” said Ron, hoping to redeem himself from his embarrassing display at dinner.
“I’ll come too,” said Hermione.
And so it went on until everyone except the Malfoys were declaring that they would go to St Mungo’s to be with Harry, for even Snape felt that he should be there since he was the one who had knocked the tree over in the first place, and someone had kindly woken Arthur up before he drowned in his own drool. Lucius, on the other hand, had finally calmed Narcissa down and said that it would be better if he just took her home before she worked herself up again. Draco knew that this was not the full truth, but he was more than happy to have his drunken mother leave the house and so practically thrust his parents out the door. The rest of the company Disapparated, taking the wounded war hero along with them, though there were some doubts as to whether the man in question would ever boast of his run in with Ginny Malfoy’s monstrous Christmas tree.
And so it was that Draco and Ginny found themselves alone in their house once more, the carnage of the night’s events surrounding them and serving as a horrible reminder of the disaster that was their Christmas dinner. It may not have quite been a massacre, but it was definitely something out of the ordinary, and there was no doubt that this was one Christmas that neither Malfoy nor Weasley (or Potter, Granger and Snape for that matter) would ever forget.
Author notes: Here is the list of “Crazy Must Haves”:
- All the Weasley and Malfoys under one roof.
- Hermione, Harry and Snape as guests.
- An odd seating arrangement (Ron Weasley sitting next to Lucius Malfoy, etc.)
- Ginny burning food.
- Draco forced to wear a Santa hat.
- Pink tinsel.
- A drunk Narcissa Malfoy.
- Draco must say: "Ginny, when I'm sober I hate your family. So, for this day to go smoothly, I suggest you give me back that bottle."
- Ginny must say: "Oh, it's only a bit of sauce!"
- Snape knocks down the Christmas tree.
- A black thong landing on Lucius Malfoy's head (be creative!).
- Draco and Harry fighting (punches and kicks!).
- Ron made to sit with the children at the little table.
- Molly telling Lucius he should cut his hair.
- Arthur falling asleep at the table.
Finally, I want to give a huge thank you to Vicky, whose speedy beta skills made my posting of this story possible. ^_^
The End.
Boogum is the author of 21 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 6 members. Members who liked In Which the Feast Becomes a Farce also liked 1204 other stories.
This story is part of the series, The Married Life of Draco Malfoy. The previous story in the series is In Which Draco Malfoy is Jealous of a House.
This story is a favorite of 6 members. Members who liked In Which the Feast Becomes a Farce also liked 1204 other stories.
This story is part of the series, The Married Life of Draco Malfoy. The previous story in the series is In Which Draco Malfoy is Jealous of a House.
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