I do not own Harry Potter, or any thing affiliated with it... Well I do own a copy of Quidditch Through Ages... but that was a gift. Anyway... I came up with the very cliche idea of the Mastercard ads for use in fanfiction. It's not my fault my roomies are all yaoi fan girls... and that mine latched onto this idea and told me to write one. Now. So I did. Even though we both have finals tomorrow. Thus we have the shortness... and the lack of... anything really.

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"I made the robes that Harry Potter himself fought the Dark Lord in. I have been making Albus Dumbledore's formal attire for years now. But I have never in all my life been asked to tailor such…" The squat little witch seemed beyond words. "I can not believe that you, a Malfoy, one of the most prestigious wizarding families, could come to me, me for this… scandalous travesty of…"

Draco was losing his patience. "Look, Madam, it says very clearly on that very noticeable sign outside "Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions". Are you suggesting you won't make this particular outfit?"

He had her at an impasse. She ground out a furiously polite "Pick it up on Friday."

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"It's perfect, Madam. Pleasure doing business with you." He walked out into the lightly falling snow. The door closed behind, the seamstress' face was a shade similar to her mauve robes.

Draco was quite pleased with himself. He'd done a great deal of research for this particular Christmas, deigning to lower himself to buying some of the basest magazines, the Quibbler excluded, because it wasn't what he needed, and he could not lower himself to that… not now, not ever.

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Harry Potter was lying on his bed, reading Quidditch Through the Ages for the twenty seventh time. One of his first presents ever. It was approaching midnight Christmas Eve, but he just wasn't tired. One of the downsides to having a room to himself was the lack of company. He was staring blankly at wizards trying to catch the Golden Snidget, precursor to the enchanted Golden Snitch. He was just about ready to give up and try to sleep when the door to his room opened.

"Malfoy? What the fuck… are you wearing a… you can't possibly be wearing what I think you're wearing…"

"Well if I'm not wearing it in ten seconds, does it really matter? Happy Christmas, Potter, you stuck-up, self righteous prick. Now kiss me."

"What, couldn't even bother to find a sprig of mistletoe?"

"Mistletoe, shoelace, canopy, s'all the same. Now unwrap your damn present."

"Nah. I think I'll just lie here and watch you squirm in your strange parody of a Muggle prostitute."

"Potter, I'm giving you five seconds to…"

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Paying Madam Malkin to debase her professional integrity and generally fluster her: 50 Galleons

Paying Potter's stupid Housemates to let him in: 20 sickles

Pouncing on your arch-nemesis on Christmas eve in a Santa skank suit for wild sex : priceless.

For everything else… wait… there's more to life than sex?

Happy Christmas Berkeley