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Three years into one of the longest wars in recent Wizarding memory and Ginny Weasley was trapped at a remote cottage somewhere in the Cotswolds with only Draco Malfoy for company. For Christmas. For the first time in her nineteen years, she would not spend the holiday with a single member of her family. There’d be no new Weasley jumpers or chocolate fudge or hot cocoa. Or garlands and bows and a proper tree topped by the angel that had adorned every Weasley Christmas tree since her father was a child.
Or her mother bustling and ordering everyone about. Merlin, she missed her mother most of all.
And while they were all out working for the Order, spying and sabotaging Death Eater supply lines or searching for the last Horcrux, she was stuck and isolated and helpless, feeling more like a lamb waiting for its slaughter than the capable witch who stood up to Snape and the Carrows all those years ago.
Because she had an expiration date stamped by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to submit to his ambition or die, because the memory of an eleven year old vulnerable girl had been twisted into another direction. The Dark Lord wanted an heir, simply for the sake of continuing his own rarefied blood. While he aimed for immortality, he also began to dream of a dynasty, a small litter of princes bound by blood and power to loyalty and fealty to him in ways that his followers could not be. An inner circle created by him. Unfortunately, this was not so easy to accomplish as the creation of Horcruxes, which only needed the destruction of life, and required only himself. Now he needed a pureblood and intelligent witch to serve as a vessel and only a vessel. He would have no consort. If the said witch was reluctant and a member of a highly respected Order family, so much the better to break their morale. If she was a close ally of Harry Potter and his rumoured love? Perfect.
Order intelligence discovered the plot and scrambled to hide Ginny. It was no longer safe for her to participate in Order missions, and while Ginny understood, she still chaffed at the restrictions that rendered her helpless. She could not risk the lives or her friends and family, so it was best to remain here, in the middle of nowhere. She tried to make the best of it.
At any rate, she was stuck with Malfoy on Christmas Eve, who had his own reasons for disappearing. Apparently. Not that he’d ever let her in on that. He was still just as prickly as he had been at school. Malfoy wasn’t even bad company, actually. At least he was some company and he could be funny and even charming when he wasn’t teasing her. Wouldn’t Harry just die if he knew that? He’d probably risk his own hide if he knew she’d been stowed away with Malfoy indefinitely, in the very last place anyone would expect to find a Weasley – on Malfoy property.
Ginny frowned and wiped her jumper sleeve against the window pane. It was beginning to snow, really hard.
She must have said that aloud for Malfoy got up from the sofa upon which he had been lounging and criticising her decorating skills. Not that he’d lift a finger to help her make the cottage feel a bit more like a home for Christmas. The git.
He joined her at the window and tore down the piece of garland she’d been fixing to the pane. Ginny frowned, but didn’t protest. It was crooked, after all, but she wasn’t about to let him know he’d been right.
Gone were the fluffy cotton ball flakes that had been falling all afternoon. The heavy snow, falling ever faster, blanketed the entire countryside in minutes, and the sky grew almost as dark as night without the reassuring light of the moon or stars. At least it would be a white Christmas, and perhaps she could even coax Malfoy outside to make a snowman or two – or chuck a snowball at his head, if he was really annoying her. In the morning, when it was light again and the clouds did not so much remind her of Dementors. Not that she was frightened of the dark. Much. But she had almost been kidnapped by Death Eaters in the dark and had ended up here, so there was that.
“Tonks could have brought us a Daily Prophet at least,” Malfoy murmured, interrupting her gloomy reverie. He moved the curtain aside to get a better look at the sky and his hand stirred her hair, tickling her cheek. He smelled like fresh sandalwood and something else, like the steaming bathroom after he showered. Merlin, she really didn’t need to start thinking about how good Malfoy smelled.
He was right though, Tonks should have brought them some news from the outside world. Even the Quibbler would do. They had no way of even knowing the forecast and it had been two days since they last saw their Secret Keeper. Who knew when she would be able to drop by with more news and provisions? She had promised a Christmas surprise, but the worsening weather made that unlikely. Apparating in a blizzard was risky and Portkeys were dangerous in this war. Out of the question in their case, as Portkeys could be easily traced and no one in their immediate family knew their location. Even Narcissa, who only knew that they were hidden within one of the many Malfoy properties – properties which spanned the UK and half a dozen countries on the continent and one island in the Aegean Sea – even she had no idea of their exact location. And she was in hiding too.
This tiny cottage had been a former groundskeeper’s abode for a castle which had burned down nearly sixty years ago. As neat and well-kept it had been thanks to Lucius Malfoy’s former nurse, it was a far cry from the luxury of the Manor and hence an unlikely choice for hiding the missing Malfoy heir. And the Weasley girl, who no one – not even Narcissa – knew was in hiding with Malfoy. Except Tonks, that is.
“We’d better bring more firewood in, then,” Ginny sighed, “before it gets too dark.”
Malfoy nodded. “I’ll do it,” he volunteered, “if you will start dinner.” He turned away before seeing her surprise, likely knowing it would come. They hadn’t exactly been the best of friends since their “confinement” began nearly a month ago. It pleased her ridiculously that he had learned some initiative in household chores. Probably because he didn’t fancy starving and every dish he had attempted using cooking spells had been inedible. Still, it had been a battle dearly fought.
“Manual labour? A Malfoy volunteering for manual labour?” Ginny could not resist teasing. After all, no magic was allowed outside the protective cloak of their cottage, which disguised residual magic. He had to do it the hard way, chopping axe and carrying it all by hand.
He paused, offering her a faint resemblance of his old smirk. “You’re better at the cooking spells.”
Well, she hadn’t expected that admission.
“True, but you could try. Food doesn’t cook faster just because the stove is hotter. It just scorches, Draco.”
His brow raised, perhaps at her use of his given name. “Why would I do that when you are so much better at it, Ginny?” He gave her a true, sly smirk then that made her insides feel funny and her hackles rise. “Even better than the house elves at Hogwarts.”
Talk about damning with faint praise.
She threw his gloves at him. “Get going, you horrid boy, or I will feed you that suspicious canned meat that Tonks left us as a last resort.”
Malfoy looked a little green at her threat, and as if to make sure that she wouldn’t carry through, he took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. Not quite a kiss but close enough. Certainly closer than he had ever been. She shivered and her face flamed.
He’d already learned most of her weaknesses, like her need to be touched. That if she was angry, he could almost always break through her walls by a gentle touch. A hand on the shoulder, a finger running down her arm or against her cheek. They were so lonely here that she craved it. He didn’t let go of her hand immediately. “You wouldn’t,” he said with some of his old cockiness.
“Don’t push me Malfoy.”
“You don’t want to eat that shite either.”
“Who said that I would? I think roast chicken and potatoes sounds like a lovely dinner … for me.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re all talk, Weasley. It’s Christmas.” He dropped her hand, and pulled on his gloves before reaching for the door.
“Careful,” she warned. “No magic.”
He didn’t reply. It had become a refrain.
When he was gone, Ginny carefully flexed the hand that Malfoy had held, measuring her own reaction. It had to be the close quarters.
************************************
Ginny chopped potatoes, parsnips, and carrots while watching him through the window over the sink. He was rather good at chopping firewood, surprisingly, and better than her. In a rare moment of complete honesty, when they were both feeling rather sorry for themselves, he confessed that he liked the chopping. Taking all his anger out on something was cathartic, she supposed.
And he was … appealing, all long and lean even in his winter gear. It made her wonder what his arms must feel like beneath all those layers. Malfoy steadied a piece of wood upon the chopping block in the small sheltered edge of the cottage, before bringing the axe down, cutting the wood into somewhat equal pieces. Still, later she would tease him, if only to see his petulant scowl. A Malfoy doing manual labour indeed. If all his Slytherin mates could see him now.
As for Ginny, she had to keep busy, and she slept so little. She never thought that household chores would be so comforting, but she kept this cottage so clean that she could see her reflection in the polished wooden floors.
She put their Christmas dinner into the oven when Malfoy came in through the side door, dutifully bringing more wood in for the stove before refilling the bin at the fireplace. He even scraped his boots against the mat at the back door, so she didn’t complain when melting snow left a trail of water through the kitchen and parlour.
This surreal domesticity reminded Ginny of staying with Bill and Fleur at Shell Cottage soon after their marriage when the war had just begun and when she stupidly thought that everything would be back to normal in a few months. Because even if Harry never said so, he was Harry and he made things right in the end.
Except now, they were so close to losing everything and she was stuck in obscurity … no, she wouldn’t go there. Not on Christmas. Even though it seemed like the only thing she could think about was the war.
It was harder to think about how normal things felt here in this cottage with Malfoy.
Who was now all sweaty as he entered the kitchen again, his hat long gone and the ends of his hair sticking up inelegantly. He was breathing hard too. Ginny shoved her own large glass of water into his hands, so that she wouldn’t smooth his hair; she couldn’t stop staring at his Adam’s apple as he drank. He smelled good when he was sweaty too. Damn.
He didn’t seem to notice her staring at him like a loon.
**************************************
“Weasley, that is a truly pathetic Christmas tree,” was the pronouncement that greeted Ginny when she began to arrange their table.
She rolled her eyes and only half-rose to his bait. “You might have helped.” After all his acerbic remarks and the care she had spent on their dinner, she could have hexed him. But she didn’t. Because it was Christmas.
“I don’t think so,” Malfoy replied, barely looking up from his book. “We have house elves for that at the Manor.”
She turned around, frowning, because of everything she had ever thought about him or his family, Ginny thought that decorating a Christmas tree was a universal family activity. Even the Dursleys allowed Harry to hang a few of their broken or worn ornaments where no one would see them. Still, he had participated. For the first time, she genuinely pitied Malfoy. He was spoiled and bratty, and far richer than anyone should be, and more handsome than was reasonable – but he lived in a gilded cage even if he didn’t know it. And now he was stuck in this tiny cottage of his father’s former nurse.
If Malfoys didn’t have this old but saccharine Christmas tradition, what other warmth did they lack? She didn’t want to fall back on those old clichés of wealth equalling coldness or moral bankruptcy. Well, the Malfoys, she conceded, fell into that later cliché themselves. She didn’t know anyone as amoral as Lucius Malfoy and Draco was … questionable.
“What?” Malfoy demanded, snapping his book shut.
Ginny started. “Decorating is half the fun of Christmas!”
“Only poor people say that.”
“That is so not true.”
Malfoy stood up to stoke the fire and replied without even glancing in her direction. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Avoiding her eyes. “The fun of Christmas is the presents, Weasley.”
His voice was tired, so she didn’t push too far. “Part of the fun, Malfoy.” He unsettled her though, the way he held himself and the tightness around his eyes. Even if he wouldn’t look at her directly today, she could see it, and she realised that if he gave into the despair of their situation, she might really go mad. Sometimes he was the only reason that she kept her sanity at all, because he was still Malfoy and that didn’t change. Even when Tonks came by and brought them both notes from their mothers and bickered with Malfoy … Well, it didn’t bear to think on today.
“Even Weasleys appreciate a little materialism?” he teased.
“Haha,” she answered. “Help me bring in the dinner and I might even have a present for you, Malfoy, if you are a good boy.”
He smiled then, so abruptly that Ginny thought it must be genuine. How he must have looked as a child on Christmas morning, waking to a mountain of presents. Her heart ached. The Malfoys must have had their moments; otherwise, he could not be so sad now. Like she was. The sadness was palpable, and she was tired of it. For one night, they would be as merry as if they were secluded here by choice.
She’d never asked why he was here with her or why he hadn’t handed her over to the Dark Lord when he had the chance. It was oddly noble and yet she couldn’t think he’d done it for noble reasons. She couldn’t bear it if he had. Too many people she knew had done the noble thing and died for it. Give her a selfish reason any day.
“I’m nothing if not a good boy,” he said, following her into the kitchen.
“Liar,” she said, almost affectionately.
“I did help with the tree, you know,” he pointed out, “I cut it down. You are awful with the axe.” He took the roast chicken from her and a precariously balanced loaf of bread.
She rolled her eyes again. “Points for that then, Malfoy. Thanks for your wicked skills with the axe.”
He snickered, but met her eyes this time. They had the smallest hint of blue; she’d never noticed. “Good on you for recognising your superior, Weasley.”
“Hardly – just the one thing.” She took the vegetables and the salad, and floated a few other dishes before them.
“You know,” he murmured, closer than she had anticipated, “I have wicked skills in other areas as well.” She nearly dropped the platter onto the table, causing a potato to pop onto the floor.
She flushed bright red. “Was th-that meant to be an innuendo?”
“Yes,” he answered with something like glee.
She didn’t know how to act or how to reply, which she guessed was his point – to discomfit her. So, she ignored it and gestured towards the table. Malfoy seemed disappointed by her non-reaction, but brightened considerably when she clumsily Accio’d cold bottles of butterbeer.
After dinner, she presented him with a large bottle of Merlot and a box of chocolates. “Tonks left them, and I was going to save them for New Year’s, but I think we both could use alcohol and chocolate tonight.”
“Trying to get me drunk, Weasley?”
“Absolutely,” she replied with a wink.
“Well that was disturbing,” he quipped, taking the bottle from her and popping the cork, “and terribly unattractive.”
***********************************
They’d been lounging in front of the fire for a while, their backs against the sofa, sharing the bottle of wine and box of chocolates. Malfoy was so close that she could touch him effortlessly without raising suspicion. Her hand could accidentally brush against his when reaching for the bottle or her own wine glass. And it did, accidentally. Sometimes.
They had talked about everything and nothing, running through every viable topic, the menial and the deep – from favourite Quidditch teams and books, to family Christmas traditions and what they missed of home. It wasn’t sunshine and daisies, of course, and they quibbled and Malfoy embarrassed her deliberately, but it dispelled the sadness that creeped about the place like a third occupant.
“Gin,” he began. He’d been staring at her oddly, and paused and cleared his throat before attempting to begin. “I know that we agreed not to talk of the war tonight, but I have to say something, because it’s Christmas, and we’re … here.”
She frowned but nodded.
“Don’t interrupt, because I can’t do it, if you interrupt me.”
Now, he made her really nervous.
Malfoy drained his wine glass quickly and Ginny watched his throat, too tipsy to disguise her longing. He caught her gaze this time and started, actually started, but he didn’t smirk, which made Ginny even more nervous. She played with the hem of her jumper.
“Gin, I was the one who found out what the Dark Lord had planned for you.”
Ginny had some suspicions, she admitted, “because you showed up at Grimmauld with Tonks – which was a shocker – and then everything happened so fast.” It angered her that no one thought fit to share this piece of information with her, but it wasn’t Draco’s fault that her family treated her with kid gloves.
He poured the last of the wine into their glasses and shuffled just a little closer to her. The bottle, she noticed, was no longer between them and it was just his leg next to hers. And she really shouldn’t be focusing on that.
She watched his mouth as he explained the discovery, how he went to Narcissa, and then to Tonks, and they hatched their plan with the Order. He never hesitated, never let the fear of the Dark Lord cloud his disgust. No one deserved such a fate.
“And that’s why I am here with you? I thought it was because no one would expect a Weasley with a Malfoy on Malfoy lands.”
“There is that,” he conceded. “But also, the Malfoy lands are tied to Malfoy blood, and they have their special ways to defend that blood. This cottage is on some of the oldest lands we have, from the time of the Conqueror.”
Blood magic. It wasn’t dark magic, exactly, but it was amongst the oldest and strongest. Ginny wistfully thought of the Burrow and wished that the Weasleys had done that, bound their land by blood. She’d be home, then, with her family. But not, she thought, glancing up at him observing her so seriously – she wouldn’t be with Draco. He had become rather important to her.
It was easier now for Ginny to shift closer to Draco and to curl her arm around his. “So I’m safest with you?” she asked breathlessly.
“Yeah, you’re safest with me.”
She smiled and before her courage failed her, she reached and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. Now it was his turn to flush.
“Thanks, Malfoy, for saving me.”
“Bet you never thought you’d say that.” He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
She laughed. “No, I didn’t.”
And they were quiet and Ginny watched the flames dance in the fireplace and the candles in the windows showed the wind still howling and creating enormous snow drifts. They’d have to shovel in the morning, she idly thought. Wouldn’t Malfoy love that?
“I’m so bored,” Ginny complained after a while.
“I should be insulted.”
“I mean in general,” she clarified. “There are only so many household chores one can do in a day and if I polish this floor any more, it is going to be a hazard.”
“Maybe I can do something about that,” he murmured, turning to face her. The fire cast strange shadows across his face, his eyes glittering. He was beautiful. He’d always been handsome, but she never noticed how beautiful he was.
He took her glass of wine, his fingers barely brushing against hers. The buzz of alcohol in her brain seemed to travel to her fingertips, twitching against his touch. She stared at his long, elegant hand setting the glass down on the table to his right and only then remembered to protest.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
Malfoy tipped her chin up to him and all she could see were those eyes, darker than steel or even the night sky, swallowing her whole world. “Something I’ve needed to do for a while, Ginevra.”
His lips were soft, testing, and he did not attempt to deepen the kiss before he pulled back to gage her reaction. Her hand remained suspended in mid-air, where she had been lightly caressing the back of his neck – uncertain whether to pull him to her again or to touch her own prickling lips. Or maybe his – she wanted to trace those lips with her fingertips and to feel them all over her body. This wanting, it was itching beneath her skin, flagrant, a living thing on its own.
“What are we doing?” she breathed again, because they were the only words running through her mind that made any sense at all. Except for “fuck” and she couldn’t say that, because it was exactly what she wanted to do right now.
Malfoy leaned forwards. “I think,” he said, “we should have a little fun.” He kissed her again and then along her jawline up to her ear. “Because it’s Christmas.”
A shudder ran through her. The way he said Christmas, slightly slurring – it was sinful.
His lips were insistent, gliding over hers again and hungry. He tasted of chocolate and Merlot. Her fingers slid through his hair, tugging at the longish ends; she loved the silkiness between her fingers. She wanted to run her hands along his chest and back, but she could not seem to stop playing with his hair. She’d never felt anything so soft. Softer than Crookshanks, even, she thought giddily.
His hands trailed along her side, sliding beneath her jumper, and dancing across her stomach to the small of her back. He pulled her closer and onto his lap.
“Malfoy,” she moaned against his mouth, half-heartedly pushing him away.
“Draco,” he corrected. “I think we’ve gone past surnames, yeah?”
“Draco, I love the sound of your name,” she confessed. “I’ll moan it at night when I imagine your hands touching me beneath the covers.” Merlin, it had to be the wine encouraging her to say such things to him – true though they may be.
“Gin,” he groaned, unable to express what her words did to him. One long, drugging kiss merged into another.
“This could get messy,” she said.
“Oh I hope so,” was his reply.
Ginny pulled back and Draco’s hands stilled, his expression becoming unreadable, as though he had expected her to pull away at the last minute. She smiled wickedly and pulled her jumper over her head, tossing it to the side. She was bare beneath and Draco’s brows shot to his hairline.
“Happy Christmas, Draco,” she said. She felt a little insecure allowing Draco Malfoy to see her naked breasts, but the way his eyes gleamed made her smile. “Come show me some of those wicked skills you were boasting about earlier.”
He lunged towards her again, inelegantly, and she laughed against his mouth. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad Christmas after all. Even if the tree was rather bare and lopsided and there wouldn’t be any new Weasley jumpers, and no gifts under the tree.
When his lips glided over her collarbone being confined with Draco in the middle of nowhere for an indeterminate amount of time seemed like a gift.
Or her mother bustling and ordering everyone about. Merlin, she missed her mother most of all.
And while they were all out working for the Order, spying and sabotaging Death Eater supply lines or searching for the last Horcrux, she was stuck and isolated and helpless, feeling more like a lamb waiting for its slaughter than the capable witch who stood up to Snape and the Carrows all those years ago.
Because she had an expiration date stamped by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to submit to his ambition or die, because the memory of an eleven year old vulnerable girl had been twisted into another direction. The Dark Lord wanted an heir, simply for the sake of continuing his own rarefied blood. While he aimed for immortality, he also began to dream of a dynasty, a small litter of princes bound by blood and power to loyalty and fealty to him in ways that his followers could not be. An inner circle created by him. Unfortunately, this was not so easy to accomplish as the creation of Horcruxes, which only needed the destruction of life, and required only himself. Now he needed a pureblood and intelligent witch to serve as a vessel and only a vessel. He would have no consort. If the said witch was reluctant and a member of a highly respected Order family, so much the better to break their morale. If she was a close ally of Harry Potter and his rumoured love? Perfect.
Order intelligence discovered the plot and scrambled to hide Ginny. It was no longer safe for her to participate in Order missions, and while Ginny understood, she still chaffed at the restrictions that rendered her helpless. She could not risk the lives or her friends and family, so it was best to remain here, in the middle of nowhere. She tried to make the best of it.
At any rate, she was stuck with Malfoy on Christmas Eve, who had his own reasons for disappearing. Apparently. Not that he’d ever let her in on that. He was still just as prickly as he had been at school. Malfoy wasn’t even bad company, actually. At least he was some company and he could be funny and even charming when he wasn’t teasing her. Wouldn’t Harry just die if he knew that? He’d probably risk his own hide if he knew she’d been stowed away with Malfoy indefinitely, in the very last place anyone would expect to find a Weasley – on Malfoy property.
Ginny frowned and wiped her jumper sleeve against the window pane. It was beginning to snow, really hard.
She must have said that aloud for Malfoy got up from the sofa upon which he had been lounging and criticising her decorating skills. Not that he’d lift a finger to help her make the cottage feel a bit more like a home for Christmas. The git.
He joined her at the window and tore down the piece of garland she’d been fixing to the pane. Ginny frowned, but didn’t protest. It was crooked, after all, but she wasn’t about to let him know he’d been right.
Gone were the fluffy cotton ball flakes that had been falling all afternoon. The heavy snow, falling ever faster, blanketed the entire countryside in minutes, and the sky grew almost as dark as night without the reassuring light of the moon or stars. At least it would be a white Christmas, and perhaps she could even coax Malfoy outside to make a snowman or two – or chuck a snowball at his head, if he was really annoying her. In the morning, when it was light again and the clouds did not so much remind her of Dementors. Not that she was frightened of the dark. Much. But she had almost been kidnapped by Death Eaters in the dark and had ended up here, so there was that.
“Tonks could have brought us a Daily Prophet at least,” Malfoy murmured, interrupting her gloomy reverie. He moved the curtain aside to get a better look at the sky and his hand stirred her hair, tickling her cheek. He smelled like fresh sandalwood and something else, like the steaming bathroom after he showered. Merlin, she really didn’t need to start thinking about how good Malfoy smelled.
He was right though, Tonks should have brought them some news from the outside world. Even the Quibbler would do. They had no way of even knowing the forecast and it had been two days since they last saw their Secret Keeper. Who knew when she would be able to drop by with more news and provisions? She had promised a Christmas surprise, but the worsening weather made that unlikely. Apparating in a blizzard was risky and Portkeys were dangerous in this war. Out of the question in their case, as Portkeys could be easily traced and no one in their immediate family knew their location. Even Narcissa, who only knew that they were hidden within one of the many Malfoy properties – properties which spanned the UK and half a dozen countries on the continent and one island in the Aegean Sea – even she had no idea of their exact location. And she was in hiding too.
This tiny cottage had been a former groundskeeper’s abode for a castle which had burned down nearly sixty years ago. As neat and well-kept it had been thanks to Lucius Malfoy’s former nurse, it was a far cry from the luxury of the Manor and hence an unlikely choice for hiding the missing Malfoy heir. And the Weasley girl, who no one – not even Narcissa – knew was in hiding with Malfoy. Except Tonks, that is.
“We’d better bring more firewood in, then,” Ginny sighed, “before it gets too dark.”
Malfoy nodded. “I’ll do it,” he volunteered, “if you will start dinner.” He turned away before seeing her surprise, likely knowing it would come. They hadn’t exactly been the best of friends since their “confinement” began nearly a month ago. It pleased her ridiculously that he had learned some initiative in household chores. Probably because he didn’t fancy starving and every dish he had attempted using cooking spells had been inedible. Still, it had been a battle dearly fought.
“Manual labour? A Malfoy volunteering for manual labour?” Ginny could not resist teasing. After all, no magic was allowed outside the protective cloak of their cottage, which disguised residual magic. He had to do it the hard way, chopping axe and carrying it all by hand.
He paused, offering her a faint resemblance of his old smirk. “You’re better at the cooking spells.”
Well, she hadn’t expected that admission.
“True, but you could try. Food doesn’t cook faster just because the stove is hotter. It just scorches, Draco.”
His brow raised, perhaps at her use of his given name. “Why would I do that when you are so much better at it, Ginny?” He gave her a true, sly smirk then that made her insides feel funny and her hackles rise. “Even better than the house elves at Hogwarts.”
Talk about damning with faint praise.
She threw his gloves at him. “Get going, you horrid boy, or I will feed you that suspicious canned meat that Tonks left us as a last resort.”
Malfoy looked a little green at her threat, and as if to make sure that she wouldn’t carry through, he took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. Not quite a kiss but close enough. Certainly closer than he had ever been. She shivered and her face flamed.
He’d already learned most of her weaknesses, like her need to be touched. That if she was angry, he could almost always break through her walls by a gentle touch. A hand on the shoulder, a finger running down her arm or against her cheek. They were so lonely here that she craved it. He didn’t let go of her hand immediately. “You wouldn’t,” he said with some of his old cockiness.
“Don’t push me Malfoy.”
“You don’t want to eat that shite either.”
“Who said that I would? I think roast chicken and potatoes sounds like a lovely dinner … for me.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re all talk, Weasley. It’s Christmas.” He dropped her hand, and pulled on his gloves before reaching for the door.
“Careful,” she warned. “No magic.”
He didn’t reply. It had become a refrain.
When he was gone, Ginny carefully flexed the hand that Malfoy had held, measuring her own reaction. It had to be the close quarters.
Ginny chopped potatoes, parsnips, and carrots while watching him through the window over the sink. He was rather good at chopping firewood, surprisingly, and better than her. In a rare moment of complete honesty, when they were both feeling rather sorry for themselves, he confessed that he liked the chopping. Taking all his anger out on something was cathartic, she supposed.
And he was … appealing, all long and lean even in his winter gear. It made her wonder what his arms must feel like beneath all those layers. Malfoy steadied a piece of wood upon the chopping block in the small sheltered edge of the cottage, before bringing the axe down, cutting the wood into somewhat equal pieces. Still, later she would tease him, if only to see his petulant scowl. A Malfoy doing manual labour indeed. If all his Slytherin mates could see him now.
As for Ginny, she had to keep busy, and she slept so little. She never thought that household chores would be so comforting, but she kept this cottage so clean that she could see her reflection in the polished wooden floors.
She put their Christmas dinner into the oven when Malfoy came in through the side door, dutifully bringing more wood in for the stove before refilling the bin at the fireplace. He even scraped his boots against the mat at the back door, so she didn’t complain when melting snow left a trail of water through the kitchen and parlour.
This surreal domesticity reminded Ginny of staying with Bill and Fleur at Shell Cottage soon after their marriage when the war had just begun and when she stupidly thought that everything would be back to normal in a few months. Because even if Harry never said so, he was Harry and he made things right in the end.
Except now, they were so close to losing everything and she was stuck in obscurity … no, she wouldn’t go there. Not on Christmas. Even though it seemed like the only thing she could think about was the war.
It was harder to think about how normal things felt here in this cottage with Malfoy.
Who was now all sweaty as he entered the kitchen again, his hat long gone and the ends of his hair sticking up inelegantly. He was breathing hard too. Ginny shoved her own large glass of water into his hands, so that she wouldn’t smooth his hair; she couldn’t stop staring at his Adam’s apple as he drank. He smelled good when he was sweaty too. Damn.
He didn’t seem to notice her staring at him like a loon.
“Weasley, that is a truly pathetic Christmas tree,” was the pronouncement that greeted Ginny when she began to arrange their table.
She rolled her eyes and only half-rose to his bait. “You might have helped.” After all his acerbic remarks and the care she had spent on their dinner, she could have hexed him. But she didn’t. Because it was Christmas.
“I don’t think so,” Malfoy replied, barely looking up from his book. “We have house elves for that at the Manor.”
She turned around, frowning, because of everything she had ever thought about him or his family, Ginny thought that decorating a Christmas tree was a universal family activity. Even the Dursleys allowed Harry to hang a few of their broken or worn ornaments where no one would see them. Still, he had participated. For the first time, she genuinely pitied Malfoy. He was spoiled and bratty, and far richer than anyone should be, and more handsome than was reasonable – but he lived in a gilded cage even if he didn’t know it. And now he was stuck in this tiny cottage of his father’s former nurse.
If Malfoys didn’t have this old but saccharine Christmas tradition, what other warmth did they lack? She didn’t want to fall back on those old clichés of wealth equalling coldness or moral bankruptcy. Well, the Malfoys, she conceded, fell into that later cliché themselves. She didn’t know anyone as amoral as Lucius Malfoy and Draco was … questionable.
“What?” Malfoy demanded, snapping his book shut.
Ginny started. “Decorating is half the fun of Christmas!”
“Only poor people say that.”
“That is so not true.”
Malfoy stood up to stoke the fire and replied without even glancing in her direction. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Avoiding her eyes. “The fun of Christmas is the presents, Weasley.”
His voice was tired, so she didn’t push too far. “Part of the fun, Malfoy.” He unsettled her though, the way he held himself and the tightness around his eyes. Even if he wouldn’t look at her directly today, she could see it, and she realised that if he gave into the despair of their situation, she might really go mad. Sometimes he was the only reason that she kept her sanity at all, because he was still Malfoy and that didn’t change. Even when Tonks came by and brought them both notes from their mothers and bickered with Malfoy … Well, it didn’t bear to think on today.
“Even Weasleys appreciate a little materialism?” he teased.
“Haha,” she answered. “Help me bring in the dinner and I might even have a present for you, Malfoy, if you are a good boy.”
He smiled then, so abruptly that Ginny thought it must be genuine. How he must have looked as a child on Christmas morning, waking to a mountain of presents. Her heart ached. The Malfoys must have had their moments; otherwise, he could not be so sad now. Like she was. The sadness was palpable, and she was tired of it. For one night, they would be as merry as if they were secluded here by choice.
She’d never asked why he was here with her or why he hadn’t handed her over to the Dark Lord when he had the chance. It was oddly noble and yet she couldn’t think he’d done it for noble reasons. She couldn’t bear it if he had. Too many people she knew had done the noble thing and died for it. Give her a selfish reason any day.
“I’m nothing if not a good boy,” he said, following her into the kitchen.
“Liar,” she said, almost affectionately.
“I did help with the tree, you know,” he pointed out, “I cut it down. You are awful with the axe.” He took the roast chicken from her and a precariously balanced loaf of bread.
She rolled her eyes again. “Points for that then, Malfoy. Thanks for your wicked skills with the axe.”
He snickered, but met her eyes this time. They had the smallest hint of blue; she’d never noticed. “Good on you for recognising your superior, Weasley.”
“Hardly – just the one thing.” She took the vegetables and the salad, and floated a few other dishes before them.
“You know,” he murmured, closer than she had anticipated, “I have wicked skills in other areas as well.” She nearly dropped the platter onto the table, causing a potato to pop onto the floor.
She flushed bright red. “Was th-that meant to be an innuendo?”
“Yes,” he answered with something like glee.
She didn’t know how to act or how to reply, which she guessed was his point – to discomfit her. So, she ignored it and gestured towards the table. Malfoy seemed disappointed by her non-reaction, but brightened considerably when she clumsily Accio’d cold bottles of butterbeer.
After dinner, she presented him with a large bottle of Merlot and a box of chocolates. “Tonks left them, and I was going to save them for New Year’s, but I think we both could use alcohol and chocolate tonight.”
“Trying to get me drunk, Weasley?”
“Absolutely,” she replied with a wink.
“Well that was disturbing,” he quipped, taking the bottle from her and popping the cork, “and terribly unattractive.”
They’d been lounging in front of the fire for a while, their backs against the sofa, sharing the bottle of wine and box of chocolates. Malfoy was so close that she could touch him effortlessly without raising suspicion. Her hand could accidentally brush against his when reaching for the bottle or her own wine glass. And it did, accidentally. Sometimes.
They had talked about everything and nothing, running through every viable topic, the menial and the deep – from favourite Quidditch teams and books, to family Christmas traditions and what they missed of home. It wasn’t sunshine and daisies, of course, and they quibbled and Malfoy embarrassed her deliberately, but it dispelled the sadness that creeped about the place like a third occupant.
“Gin,” he began. He’d been staring at her oddly, and paused and cleared his throat before attempting to begin. “I know that we agreed not to talk of the war tonight, but I have to say something, because it’s Christmas, and we’re … here.”
She frowned but nodded.
“Don’t interrupt, because I can’t do it, if you interrupt me.”
Now, he made her really nervous.
Malfoy drained his wine glass quickly and Ginny watched his throat, too tipsy to disguise her longing. He caught her gaze this time and started, actually started, but he didn’t smirk, which made Ginny even more nervous. She played with the hem of her jumper.
“Gin, I was the one who found out what the Dark Lord had planned for you.”
Ginny had some suspicions, she admitted, “because you showed up at Grimmauld with Tonks – which was a shocker – and then everything happened so fast.” It angered her that no one thought fit to share this piece of information with her, but it wasn’t Draco’s fault that her family treated her with kid gloves.
He poured the last of the wine into their glasses and shuffled just a little closer to her. The bottle, she noticed, was no longer between them and it was just his leg next to hers. And she really shouldn’t be focusing on that.
She watched his mouth as he explained the discovery, how he went to Narcissa, and then to Tonks, and they hatched their plan with the Order. He never hesitated, never let the fear of the Dark Lord cloud his disgust. No one deserved such a fate.
“And that’s why I am here with you? I thought it was because no one would expect a Weasley with a Malfoy on Malfoy lands.”
“There is that,” he conceded. “But also, the Malfoy lands are tied to Malfoy blood, and they have their special ways to defend that blood. This cottage is on some of the oldest lands we have, from the time of the Conqueror.”
Blood magic. It wasn’t dark magic, exactly, but it was amongst the oldest and strongest. Ginny wistfully thought of the Burrow and wished that the Weasleys had done that, bound their land by blood. She’d be home, then, with her family. But not, she thought, glancing up at him observing her so seriously – she wouldn’t be with Draco. He had become rather important to her.
It was easier now for Ginny to shift closer to Draco and to curl her arm around his. “So I’m safest with you?” she asked breathlessly.
“Yeah, you’re safest with me.”
She smiled and before her courage failed her, she reached and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. Now it was his turn to flush.
“Thanks, Malfoy, for saving me.”
“Bet you never thought you’d say that.” He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
She laughed. “No, I didn’t.”
And they were quiet and Ginny watched the flames dance in the fireplace and the candles in the windows showed the wind still howling and creating enormous snow drifts. They’d have to shovel in the morning, she idly thought. Wouldn’t Malfoy love that?
“I’m so bored,” Ginny complained after a while.
“I should be insulted.”
“I mean in general,” she clarified. “There are only so many household chores one can do in a day and if I polish this floor any more, it is going to be a hazard.”
“Maybe I can do something about that,” he murmured, turning to face her. The fire cast strange shadows across his face, his eyes glittering. He was beautiful. He’d always been handsome, but she never noticed how beautiful he was.
He took her glass of wine, his fingers barely brushing against hers. The buzz of alcohol in her brain seemed to travel to her fingertips, twitching against his touch. She stared at his long, elegant hand setting the glass down on the table to his right and only then remembered to protest.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
Malfoy tipped her chin up to him and all she could see were those eyes, darker than steel or even the night sky, swallowing her whole world. “Something I’ve needed to do for a while, Ginevra.”
His lips were soft, testing, and he did not attempt to deepen the kiss before he pulled back to gage her reaction. Her hand remained suspended in mid-air, where she had been lightly caressing the back of his neck – uncertain whether to pull him to her again or to touch her own prickling lips. Or maybe his – she wanted to trace those lips with her fingertips and to feel them all over her body. This wanting, it was itching beneath her skin, flagrant, a living thing on its own.
“What are we doing?” she breathed again, because they were the only words running through her mind that made any sense at all. Except for “fuck” and she couldn’t say that, because it was exactly what she wanted to do right now.
Malfoy leaned forwards. “I think,” he said, “we should have a little fun.” He kissed her again and then along her jawline up to her ear. “Because it’s Christmas.”
A shudder ran through her. The way he said Christmas, slightly slurring – it was sinful.
His lips were insistent, gliding over hers again and hungry. He tasted of chocolate and Merlot. Her fingers slid through his hair, tugging at the longish ends; she loved the silkiness between her fingers. She wanted to run her hands along his chest and back, but she could not seem to stop playing with his hair. She’d never felt anything so soft. Softer than Crookshanks, even, she thought giddily.
His hands trailed along her side, sliding beneath her jumper, and dancing across her stomach to the small of her back. He pulled her closer and onto his lap.
“Malfoy,” she moaned against his mouth, half-heartedly pushing him away.
“Draco,” he corrected. “I think we’ve gone past surnames, yeah?”
“Draco, I love the sound of your name,” she confessed. “I’ll moan it at night when I imagine your hands touching me beneath the covers.” Merlin, it had to be the wine encouraging her to say such things to him – true though they may be.
“Gin,” he groaned, unable to express what her words did to him. One long, drugging kiss merged into another.
“This could get messy,” she said.
“Oh I hope so,” was his reply.
Ginny pulled back and Draco’s hands stilled, his expression becoming unreadable, as though he had expected her to pull away at the last minute. She smiled wickedly and pulled her jumper over her head, tossing it to the side. She was bare beneath and Draco’s brows shot to his hairline.
“Happy Christmas, Draco,” she said. She felt a little insecure allowing Draco Malfoy to see her naked breasts, but the way his eyes gleamed made her smile. “Come show me some of those wicked skills you were boasting about earlier.”
He lunged towards her again, inelegantly, and she laughed against his mouth. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad Christmas after all. Even if the tree was rather bare and lopsided and there wouldn’t be any new Weasley jumpers, and no gifts under the tree.
When his lips glided over her collarbone being confined with Draco in the middle of nowhere for an indeterminate amount of time seemed like a gift.
Author notes: Happy Christmas to all my fellow Draco/Ginny shippers!
The End.
LadyEndymion is the author of 3 other stories.
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This story is a favorite of 6 members. Members who liked Happy Christmas also liked 299 other stories.
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