Disclaimers et al: None of the characters belong to me. This is just
another fic where I say 'Draco ain't all bad really'. Just enjoy, and Merry
Christmas to all!
Draco Malfoy woke early on Christmas morning, opening his pale eyes slowly.
He looked out of his window at the snow landing on his windowsill, then
pulled the covers up again. Sinking back into the green sheets, he frowned.
It was just another Christmas after all, nothing special.
He finally rose two hours later, shivering slightly in the chilly air. He
dressed in smart robes, as he was expected to. With his hair neatly combed
back, he wandered down the spiral staircase. His father was already
downstairs, sitting at the table with the Daily Prophet in front of him. As
Draco entered, Lucius threw the paper down.
"Pah!" he snorted, picking up his teacup, "it's full of 'Merry Christmas'
rubbish. No decent news at all."
Draco, knowing his father's Scrooge-like attitude all things Christmas,
kept quiet and sat down in his seat. Pulling out his wand, he tapped it
against the side of the plate. Instantly his plate was filled with sausages
and bacon, sent up by the house elves.
Eating mechanically, he barely looked up as his mother entered the room.
She glanced around disdainfully at the meagre decorations -the holly on the
mantlepiece and the ivy round the candlesticks- as if wishing away their
"Good morning," she said cordially, as she did every day. Father and son
greeted her in return, then turned back to their breakfasts.
After they had eaten, they all went to different rooms in the manor; Lucius
to his study, Narcissa to her rooms, and Draco to the library, where he
pulled his Transfiguration homework out. When he had returned home from
school earlier that week his father had been disappointed. Very
disappointed, because of Draco's grades that term. He had been furious, and
had ordered Draco to work all holidays at his studies.
Not that I'm missing anything, he thought miserably, scratching across the
parchment with his quill. There's never any Christmas cheer round here. Not
that it'd be better at Hogwarts.
The Slytherin common room was mostly empty on Christmas Eve when Draco
Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, walked in through the portrait
hole, having told the painting the password, 'pure-blood'. Draco stretched
himself out on the sofa, while Crabbe and Goyle sat on the one opposite.
Crabbe fidgeted impatiently, picking at his flat, squashy nose.
"Wonder what I'll get from Santa this year," he said slowly. Draco snorted.
"Don't tell me you believe that there's a fat idiot who comes down chimneys
every year?" he sneered.
"Well, yeah," Goyle said, "how do the presents get here otherwise?"
"Magic, by any chance?" Draco scowled. "Honestly, you two are just so thick
He turned his head to look away, his hands pulling at the cushion between
It would be nice, he thought, to actually believe something like that. I've
never been told any of that stuff, not even when I was tiny. It's all
nonsense though. Father told me I'm better off not being that credulous.
He sighed and picked up a textbook from the table. He flicked idly through
it, ignoring his henchmen's discussions about the next day.
Draco looked up as the gong sounded for lunch. He shut his books and
traipsed down to the dining room, where the usual turkey and vegetables
were steaming on the table.
They ate, again, in silence. Lucius was still angry with his son for
failing to beat a Muggle-born with his grades. He watched Draco picking at
his food, and was strongly reminded of how he resembled him. The blond hair
and pale eyes almost seemed to mock him, as he had his suspicions that
Draco harboured doubts about following his father.
After the meal, Draco slouched back up to the library. His Defence Against
the Dark Arts book stared back at him, through the eyes of the photographed
Grindylows, Sea Monks, Devil Fish and Sea Serpents. Under the title
'Strange and Mysterious Creatures of the Sea', he began to write.
He was disturbed an hour or so later by his father's entry into the
library. Looking up, he saw that Lucius carried a broomstick in his left
hand. Not just any broomstick, however. This was a Firebolt. It was laid
across the desk before him, its wood shining in the candlelight.
"Father." Draco began, but was interrupted.
"This," Lucius said coldly, "is your Christmas present. As it would seem
you cannot beat Potter on your broom, which was purchased recently, we have
bought you this one. You cannot fail to win this time."
He span on his heel and strode out of the room. Draco stared after him,
then turned his attention to the Firebolt. It was as perfect as any
broomstick could be, but his father's orders had tainted it somehow, taken
out the pleasure of having it.
"Well, merry bloody Christmas," he muttered.