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FIC: Winter Retreat
This is late, and it's not even Christmas on the east coast (or other parts of the world) anymore. But I've still got 11 minutes of Christmas left where I am, so as far as I'm concerned, it's all good. <g> I meant to post the story earlier today, but I hadn't finished incorporating beta, time got away from me, and, well, it's been a v. busy vacation! Anyway, since I'm not on my own computer and don't have access to all the things I normally have access to, LJ will be the only place this story will be posted for at least another week.
Jade and I are on our way to Vegas tomorrow, so I'm off to get some shut eye. I hope everyone's holidays were/are fantastic.
TITLE: Winter Retreat
AUTHOR: Sarea Okelani
E-MAIL ADDRESS: sarea@vanishingscroll.com
WEBSITE: http://okelani.vanishingscroll.com/
RATING: PG-13
CATEGORY: Story, Romance, Humor
SPOILERS: You're safe if you've read all of the HP books.
KEYWORDS: Draco/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Pansy
DISTRIBUTION: Please do not archive -- the full text of this story will be archived at my site or elsewhere at my sole discretion (mostly for version control issues). If you'd like to link to this story from your Web site, I'd be honored -- but drop me a line first, please.
DISCLAIMER: It would be fabulous if JKR, Warner Brothers, and everyone else with a piece of the HP pie would give me a slice for Christmas, but I don’t think that’ll be happening this year. Damn their eyes.
FEEDBACK: Very greatly appreciated.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: A fun little Christmas story based on five improv elements that Sydney Lynne provided ages ago. It’s kind of crazy, the way most improv fics are. Hope you have fun with it, because I sure did! Thanks and a giant candy cane for Jade, who beta'ed and who ‘gets me.’
SUMMARY: Christmas is a time meant to be spent with family and friends, not with your worst enemy on a remote mountaintop. Oh well.
Winter Retreat
by Sarea Okelani
~.~
During Harry Potter’s seventh year at Hogwarts, tensions were high as the wizarding world prepared itself for an attack by the Dark Lord You-Know-Who and his You-Know-What forces. Students were jittery, and their parents weren’t faring much better. Preparations were being made on both sides, and parents and teachers alike were saddened to see the glum looks on their children’s faces, to see the apprehension they couldn’t quite hide in their eyes. Professor Dumbledore, ever wise and all knowing, even if you couldn’t figure what he was about most of the time, organized a winter retreat for the holidays, which would be open to all 5th-7th year students.
It was the opportunity to forget one’s cares for a little while, to enjoy being young, in good health, and surrounded by one’s friends. Parents had the comfort of knowing that Hogwarts’ finest professors would oversee the event, and would have all their tools at the ready to defend themselves and the children if necessary. There would be few places in the world safer, and it was for less than a week. So parents gladly signed their teenage son or daughter’s permission slip and warned them to pack warm clothing. They felt joy in their hearts to know that somewhere, little Amelia Witchcomb was having the time of her life and not thinking about the bad days to come.
After all, a little Christmas cheer can go a long way to brighten the lives of those on the brink of strife and turmoil, and most importantly, bring hope and peace into their hearts.
~.~
“An exercise in torture, that’s what this has been,” Minerva McGonagall muttered, taking another swig of anti-headache potion she’d stol--procured from Severus. He’d claimed not to have any, but she’d known better than to believe him. He always kept extra on hand, and, having been skillfully maneuvered into this outing by Dumbledore, wouldn’t have left anything up to chance. “Every night, I dream that it’s the last day, only to wake and find that it never is.”
“It isn’t so very bad,” said Pomona Sprout, cheerfully clipping one of the plants she insisted on hauling everywhere with her.
“Oh, what do you know, gardener,” McGonagall muttered. Due to Sprout’s ministrations, their cabin was teeming with holiday spirit. Poinsettia plants decorated bare walls, countertops, and even the dining table, which meant they were forever moving them out of the way during mealtimes (after Ron Weasley nearly poisoned himself during their first dinner). Wreaths hung on every door, boughs of holly lined the fireplace, and garlands of mistletoe hung precariously over doorways. The mistletoe was the most intolerable part, as Sprout had charmed them to appear and disappear at will. There was therefore no telling when one might appear while you were going through the door just as Blaise Zabini was doing the same thing and force you to suffer a moment of embarrassment as you told your not-unattractive student to not entertain the notion even for a second as he leaned in with a Slytherin smirk on his face.
McGonagall pinched her lips as she heard yet another burst of laughter coming from the main cabin. These walls were entirely too thin. Even with a muting charm and earmuffs on, she could often hear the girls giggling into the night. After the second night and sixth admonishment, she’d given up. Sometimes, she heard other ... things. It wasn’t that she was past the point of caring; the truth was that she just did not want to know.
“I do love my plants,” Sprout sighed, not the least affected by McGonagall’s gloomy mood. “You know, Minerva, you shouldn’t introduce so much of that potion into your system. It promotes bad temperament and a sour disposition.”
“I’m well aware of its side effects, thank you very much,” McGonagall snapped. “But if you had to decide between a splitting headache and a bit of surliness, you’d make the same choice.”
“Not really; I’d be fine with you having a splitting headache,” Sprout said under her breath.
“What was that, Pomona?”
“Nothing,” Sprout said quickly. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“In any case, I’m not at all sure that its purported side effects haven’t been greatly exaggerated. After all, Severus has been taking this potion for years, and--” McGonagall paused. “Oh yes, I see what you mean.”
“Minerva? Pomona?”
The two women looked toward the fireplace, where the disembodied head of Remus Lupin hovered amidst the flames. Lupin had been recruited to chaperone on the retreat, as he was good with the students and was the only one who would share a room with Snape.
“Yes, what is it, Remus?” McGonagall said wearily. “Have they buried Longbottom in the snow bank again?”
“Er, no,” said Lupin. “After the third time, we got wise and cast a heat charm around him so that he’ll be able to melt himself out.”
“Good, good,” McGonagall replied, only half listening. One more day, she thought. One more day, and this will all be over. I’ll be at Hogwarts again, among my things. How I miss my bed, with its lovely tartan spread that Great Great Great Great Grandmother stole from the Macmillan clan all those years ago ...
“Severus and I were thinking...” There was the sound of negative muttering coming from Lupin’s left, though the speaker remained out of sight. “... that you and Pomona might want to pop over for a card game or two?”
“I love card games!” said Sprout. “What shall we play?”
“Poker, to begin with,” said Lupin. He winked. “You might be able to convince us to play strip poker, if that will entice you more.”
McGonagall rolled her eyes. “If you think that I’m leaving this room to go out in the cold to join you for a game of strip poker, which you will most certainly lose--”
“I know for a fact that Sevvie is wearing his special leopard print undies.” Lupin waggled his eyebrows.
An infuriated “I am not!” could be heard in the background.
Outside the door, coming from the living area, raised voices -- sounding like Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy (what a surprise) -- threatened the relative sanctuary of McGonagall’s surroundings.
“I don’t want to know how you know that for a fact. Do you have scotch?” she demanded.
“Amongst other beverages,” Lupin replied mildly.
“We’ll be right over.”
~.~
Draco was not having a good Christmas, and it was the first time in his conscious history of Christmases that he could recall this ever being so. Well, there was the time he hadn’t gotten Peter, the Amazing Taffy-Making Penguin he’d asked for (his mother hadn’t been paying enough attention when he’d rattled off his Christmas list, and had gotten him Bubba, the bear version, instead, and that just wasn’t the same at all, as it was well-known knowledge amongst his friends at the time that penguins made better taffy than bears. The terrible tantrum he’d treated his mother to when he’d ripped open the package to discover Bubba had her asking him to detail his Christmas requests on parchment from that day forward), but the Bubba incident had happened nearly ten years ago and he’d just about gotten over it. Then there was the year he’d had to escort Parkinson to the Yule Ball, but during the course of the night he’d managed to successfully dodge all her attempts to kiss him, and Draco had also been immensely cheered by the sight of a despondent and socially inept Potter, so that had turned out all right.
This year seemed determined to top the Peter Penguin debacle. And it was all Ginny Weasley’s fault. Well, maybe it wasn’t Ginny’s fault, Draco relented grudgingly. It was actually the fault of her brother, Idiot Ron. It was the fault of a Weasley, in any case.
He wasn’t sure how he had gotten himself into this predicament, wherein the questionable whims of someone in the Weasley family could actually serve to affect his enjoyment of Christmas. He was a Malfoy; if anything, he ought to be ruining Idiot Ron’s Christmas. Yet the buffoon seemed to be having the time of his life, with his Sludgeblood girlfriend (Ginny had asked him to stop calling Granger ‘Mudblood,’ so he’d been trying to come up with something less unclean than mud; so far, nothing else had quite the same ring, and he marveled at the things he would do for her), Scarhead (she had to give him one of them), and Ginny by his side. Not that Idiot Ron appreciated her. Not that he appreciated her the way Draco appreciated her.
Though come to think of it, that was probably for the best.
Still, it wasn’t right that the Weasel King should have a happy Christmas whilst simultaneously ruining Draco’s; surely this was flying in the face of all known natural laws, and the four horsemen would be appearing on the horizon next.
He’d only come on this trip in the first place because Idiot Ron was supposed to be somewhere far, far away with the rest of the Weasley herd, and Draco was supposed to have an entire week of enjoying Ginny’s company fairly free and clear. He had made sure that Parkinson, who now apparently had the bad taste to fancy Potter, chose appropriately suitable cabin mates for the four of them, and he had agreed with her choices of Greengrass and Zabini, Longbottom, and Parvati Patil, who was likely to spend most of her time with her friends in another cabin. The first wrench had come when Granger insisted on being in the same cabin as Potter and Ginny -- and got McGonagall to approve the change -- but it probably wouldn’t have been too bad, as she would have spent most of her time holed up somewhere reading or studying.
Then disaster struck in the form of Ron Weasley, who decided for some inexplicable reason not to go off after all, and he whined so loudly about not being in the same cabin with his mates that Longbottom offered to let him have his place. Draco would have offered Longbottom large sums of money to stay, if only it wouldn’t have encouraged unwanted attention and speculation that he was heartily sick of (for Merlin’s sake, he had been going for the Snitch, not Potter’s arse, though that wasn’t how the majority of the student populated chose to interpret the unintentional grabbing). So Longbottom was out and the Weasel King was in, and because Ginny wasn’t ready yet for her brother to know about them (the truth was that Draco wasn’t looking forward to it, either, but he pretended to be patient, which won him many appreciative looks and hand squeezes from his new lady love), they had to be extremely discreet.
Discreet to the point of not being able to do anything, ever. Or at least for the entirety of the week, which to Draco seemed an unimaginable waste. Here they were, on some mountain in the middle of nowhere (where the hell was Aspen, anyway?), forced into dingy, cramped rooms that didn’t even have beds with a proper canopy, and there were no House-elves. The first time Draco realized that each person would be responsible for preparing a meal for his cabin mates on a given day, he had nearly taken the first broom home. Then he had caught sight of Ginny, her cheeks pink with laughter and her eyes brighter than any candle in the room, and he knew he had to stay, because she was laughing with Potter, and if Draco wasn’t there she’d be laughing with Scarhead all the time without Draco’s knowledge, and that wasn’t to be borne.
Possibly the worst thing about keeping their relationship a secret from Idiot Ron was this false relationship of Ginny and Potter’s. At least, Draco believed it was false. For the most part. Well, ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent was the doubt he didn’t like to dwell on for too long, that she enjoyed pretending Potter was her boyfriend, and that Scarhead enjoyed it too. Potter supposedly had something going on with Parkinson, but that was probably just about sex. After all, why would he want Parkinson if he could have Ginny?
The misunderstanding had occurred not too long ago -- the week before the retreat, in fact. Ginny and Potter had both gone down to the dungeons to visit Draco and Parkinson, respectively, and on their way back to Gryffindor Tower they’d run into Idiot Ron and the Grubbyblood coming down from the Astronomy Tower. The Weasel King had taken one look at their disheveled appearances and jumped to the wrong conclusion; Ginny and her disfigured companion couldn’t very well tell him the truth, so they’d allowed him to think that his best friend and his little sister had at last seen that they were meant for each other.
Never mind that if Draco saw Potter put his arm around Draco’s girl one more time, he was going to stab his wand right through the git’s left eye. At this point, he was willing to damn the consequences and just tell Idiot Ron what was what, but he knew he wouldn’t, not when Ginny clearly didn’t want to just yet. He would just have to be patient, which was not a virtue he was required to exercise very regularly.
Thank Merlin for Zabini and his pool table, which he’d shrunk down and brought from home. It had provided an invaluable and efficient way for Draco to channel his frustrations.
That and he constantly wanked off in the shower.
~.~
This wasn’t turning out to be a very good winter break at all, Ginny reflected, and it was all because of Ron. All of the careful planning Ginny’d done had been annihilated when Ron decided not to go with their parents to Egypt after all (“It was dusty and stuff,” he said about the last trip), and put up such a fuss about wanting to stay in the same cabin with his sister and two best mates. Especially once he’d heard that they’d drawn “a bunch of stinking Slytherins” as their cabin mates.
Hermione had been thrilled (she was, no doubt, a significant factor in Ron’s change of heart about Egypt), while Harry and Ginny had been less so. The cabin assignments had been very carefully detailed by Ginny and Pansy Parkinson, who had been on the retreat committee. The two girls had set aside their differences to handpick Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass, who were so wrapped up in one another that they couldn’t possibly care less what anyone else was doing, and Neville Longbottom, who slept like a log and could be counted on to be oblivious to this sort of thing. Hermione was the one obstacle they couldn’t work around, as she was friend to both Harry and Ginny, but she would have been manageable. Ron, on the other hand ... and now, Ron and Hermione together, was another matter entirely.
As a result, Harry and Ginny’d had to be extremely cautious and vigilant during the entire week, which meant that they’d spent entirely too much time in one another’s company, pretending to be boyfriend and girlfriend, than with their real significant others, who seemed to grow more tense with each passing day.
Ginny listlessly picked up the hand Ron had just dealt her and automatically began to put the cards in order. Playing Exploding Snap was one of the last things she wanted to do at the moment, but there weren’t too many options. Most of them had already gotten over the novelty of traversing the snow-covered landscape on two sticks, though Muggle-borns seemed to like this ‘skiing’ business quite a lot. It didn’t equal the thrill of flying on a broomstick at all.
“I don’t want to play this anymore. I’m bored,” Hermione announced.
Ron looked at her with great irritation. “We’ve only played two games! Harry? Ginny? Are you bored?”
The two being questioned made noncommittal gestures. If they weren’t playing this, they’d be doing something else they didn’t really want to be doing, so what was the difference?
“There, you see? You’re the only one who doesn’t want to play,” Ron said.
“Fine, just play without me, then,” Hermione said, tossing her cards down and heading toward the room she shared with Ginny. “I’ll be in my room reading.”
“Reading?” Ron repeated incredulously. “Hermione, we’re on vacation. You’re not supposed to read.”
If Ginny had felt any sort of motivation at all, she might have snapped that after seven years of friendship, he ought to be accustomed to Hermione’s ways by now. But each time seemed to be a new revelation to him.
“Hey, keep it down over there!” a voice called from the other side of the room.
“Shut it, Malfoy!” Ron said, glaring at the person he despised most in the world. “Quit eavesdropping on our side of the room!”
“As if we’d want to hear anything you have to say,” Pansy immediately joined in. “We can’t help it if you Gryffindorks don’t know what a decent indoor volume is. You’re sitting right next to each other; you don’t have to shout.”
“Well, we have to if we want to be heard above the sound of your balls!”
Ginny winced as Ron’s unfortunate phrasing was met with sniggers and whispering.
“I think Weasley has ball envy,” Draco remarked to Pansy.
“Among other things,” said Pansy smugly. “Like our pool table.”
“I couldn’t care less about your bloody stupid pool table,” Ron retorted. “All it does is take up room and make lots of annoying sounds, and ... and ...”
Ron was clearly struggling. Ginny knew that he was more irked by the fact that drawing a marker (now consisting of a scraggly line of chalk, which had replaced the trail of snow he’d first used, until it melted and left puddles for McGonagall to slip on) down the middle of the room to delineate Gryffindor and Slytherin territory had been his idea, effectively keeping him from ever using the pool table, even though their chaperones had announced that if it was in a communal area, it was community property. Ginny knew that Ron would rather cut off his right arm than compromise his pride and put even a single toe on that side of the room now.
“Just ignore him, Ron,” Ginny said, putting a calming hand on one of his clenched fists. “We don’t want anything of theirs.”
“Really? You can’t think of one thing?” Draco drawled. This taunt sounded completely different to brother and sister, and Ginny tried to control the flush that threatened to suffuse her face, so Ron wouldn’t see.
Before any of them could reply, the no-nonsense clack-clack of McGonagall’s boots was heard coming down the hallway, followed closely by the shorter, more hurried steps belonging to Sprout.
“We’re going to Cabin 12,” McGonagall barked as soon as she was in sight. She swept a glare across the room that was disconcertingly Snape-like. “Don’t get into any trouble and don’t make me come back here to sort you out. Otherwise, I promise you will regret it when classes resume. Do I make myself clear?” Without waiting for a response, she then rounded on Draco and said, “Malfoy, you will make dinner tonight. You’ve avoided it long enough.”
“But it’s Christmas Eve,” Draco said. “Do you really want to entrust me with Christmas Eve dinner?”
“No, but I’m going to,” she replied, not falling for his delay tactic one bit.
“Fine,” said Draco sulkily. McGonagall’s glare prompted him to add a hasty, “Sir. I mean, ma’am.”
Nervous giggles erupted from the other occupants of the room. Muttering under her breath, McGonagall swept outside, Sprout following and closing the door with a loud bang.
“What’s with her?” Ron asked, open-mouthed. “Ever since we got here, she’s been getting more and more scary.”
“And they seem to spend a lot of time over at Cabin 12, with Snape and Remus,” said Harry. “I mean, Professor Lupin.”
A loud snort from Draco caused Ron to lower his voice to a whisper. “What do you suppose they do over there?”
“What do you think they do?” Draco said loudly without looking up. He was lining up a shot. “They sit around drinking cheap brandy and talking about their pathetic lives, while they envy our youth and freedom. And in my case, good looks and wealth, too.” He made a sudden thrust with his cue, and one of the balls rolled smartly into its intended pocket.
Ron turned red at having been thwarted in his secretive whispering. “As if anyone envies you, Bat Ears!”
“I can’t possibly challenge such a well-aimed rebuttal,” said Draco. “I concede to your superior repartee skills.”
Ron looked as though he were going to respond again, but luckily Harry stopped him. “Maybe you ought to check on Hermione,” Harry said, hitting Ron’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “You know, just to make sure she’s all right.”
“Great idea,” Ginny enthused.
Ron looked reluctant, but Harry nudged him and he finally got up. “Fine, fine,” he grumbled. “But if you don’t see me in fifteen minutes it’s because I’ve keeled over from boredom.”
Ginny smiled and waved her hand. “Go on, Ron, the longer you take the greater the chance she’ll be put out with you.”
Ron looked from Ginny to Harry and back again. “Oh, I know what’s going on,” he said. “The two of you just want to be alone.”
“Er--” said Harry.
“Yes, that’s right, we do,” Ginny said, linking her arm with Harry’s. “So would you take the hint already and leave?”
“Unless you want us to leave,” Harry said, getting into the spirit of things.
Ron backed away. “No, no, I’ll go. You ... with my sister ... Ugh. At least out here you won’t do anything in front of the Evil Duo.”
“Yeah, we’d be sick all over our nice pool table if they did,” Draco interjected.
“That might make it worth doing,” Ginny answered sweetly.
Draco scowled but said nothing further, and Ron finally left after taking a deep breath to fortify himself for the confrontation ahead.
When they heard the door to Hermione’s room open and close, Ginny and Harry separated and put a more comfortable distance between them. Ginny nervously fingered one of her shoe ties, looking at Draco out of the corner of her eye. He was currently engaged in lining up another shot, and after a moment there was a sharp crack as his cue hit its target. Ginny silently hoped that Harry would stay with her until this awkwardness passed; was she supposed to go over to Draco or was she supposed to wait for him to come to her? Harry was probably eager to be with Pansy, but he stayed where he was and Ginny was grateful.
When Draco and Pansy continued to play pool without acknowledging either of the Gryffindors, Ginny started to feel a prickly jumble of anger, humiliation, and disappointment. They didn’t really have a spoken understanding, it was true -- Draco had never come right out and asked her to be his girlfriend ... it was more that one day they started kissing instead of arguing, and decided it was nicer -- and everything was so brand new and fragile that she supposed the slightest change in the wind could have a dramatic impact on the relationship. It was only a couple of weeks before the retreat, after all, that she and Draco had very reluctantly admitted that contrary to their constant avowals of wanting to see the other at the bottom of the lake, they might actually possibly fancy one another ... a bit. Only not in so many words.
Well, ‘a bit’ was clearly not enough, thought Ginny. Whatever he thought he felt for me, he doesn’t seem to feel it anymore. If he did, wouldn’t he have immediately come to her the second Ron left? Who knew how much time they had? Shouldn’t they be maximizing what time they were given? But he hadn’t even acknowledged her presence since Ron had made his exit.
She couldn’t remember ever feeling this awkward with Michael or Dean. Of course, neither of those boys had been Slytherins, a confounding, irritating lot who seemed to be their own species, really, and definitely neither of them had been Draco Malfoy, whom she had spent a good part of her years at Hogwarts loathing and, to a lesser extent, dreading. Quite frankly, she couldn’t even believe that she was in this position. Perhaps the previous few weeks had all been a dream. All the events leading up to the trip did seem rather blurred -- she recalled yelling, snogging and some tame groping -- and since their arrival at the cabin they had not had a single moment alone together. This was apparently enough to make him forget her entirely, or else perhaps to come to his senses. Or maybe they had both been drugged and she was still feeling the effects while he had gotten over it. That meant it wouldn’t be long before she was over it as well, and could hate him again without reservation, which was a rather comforting thought.
Harry looked at her sympathetically while trying to subdue a stubborn lock of hair that didn’t seem to want to stay down. Ginny pursed her lips. Even Harry could see what was going on, and he was the most oblivious person on the planet! She decided then that yes, feeling hatred for Draco Malfoy again would not be a problem at all.
“Why don’t you go see if Malfoy will let you shoot some pool with him?” Harry suggested in an undertone.
Ginny turned away from the Slytherins to whisper back, “Maybe I don’t want to shoot pool with him.”
“I can see plain as day that you do,” said Harry with a grin.
“I don’t,” Ginny insisted. “I hate him. We haven’t had a moment alone this entire week and now we’ve got a chance and he’s playing pool with Pansy! Well, if that’s what he wants to do, then fine. I hope Ron comes back soon.”
“Malfoy’s waiting for you,” said Harry.
“Well, bully for him. I’m waiting, too. Why should I have to go to him?”
“Because he’s Draco Malfoy, Supreme Git of the Century,” Harry responded reasonably. “You’ve got to know he’ll be different from the other, normal boys you’ve dated. He’s not going to come to you first, Gin.”
Ginny swallowed, feeling her longing war with her pride. It was all very well and good that Harry was right -- Draco Malfoy was spoiled, used to getting his own way; he probably hadn’t ever had to work for anything in his life, and that probably included girls -- but shouldn’t she be discouraging this kind of behavior? If you offered Draco a bite of your chocolate frog, he’d eat the whole thing and convince you that it was the outcome you wanted all along. She didn’t want to be one of those girls who followed him around and fawned over him; she didn’t want him to think that he could expect submissive behavior from her. She was a Weasley; she was glad to be a Weasley, and if he didn’t like it then he could stuff it. Yet ... they barely knew each other, really. They’d only so recently been at each other’s throats after ... well, being at each other’s throats. She couldn’t expect him to change overnight, as that would be unreasonable. Wouldn’t it?
Ginny was distracted from her internal debate when Pansy threw down her pool cue and crossed her arms, a pout on her face. “I hate this game.”
“What a surprise,” said Draco, setting his own cue down calmly.
“The balls never go where I want them to go! And this stupid stick is too long. It just gets in the way!”
“I’m sure you’re not the first girl to complain about that.”
Ignoring Draco, Pansy continued, “I don’t see why I can’t use my hands. And this pointless blue chalk that just gets all over my clothes -- what is the point of the blue chalk? Why couldn’t they make it colorless, or put some kind of anti-stain spell on it? This is the second shirt I’ve ruined!”
“Maybe next time you ought to try putting chalk on the end of your cue instead of on your clothes.” Draco rummaged through his cloak, which was slung on a nearby chair. Presently he drew out a small paper bag.
“Oh, shut it,” Pansy said, then turned and said in a commanding voice, “Potter. Come teach me how to put chalk on the stick-thing.”
Ginny took exception to her tone, but Harry didn’t. He got up with ease, still fiddling with his hair, and made his way over to the other girl, while Ginny tried to look occupied. She heard Pansy whisper something about Harry having a bad hair day, followed by a giggle.
Trying to block out the sounds, Ginny began to gather the scattered cards together. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this self-conscious before, not even when her breasts had seemed to grow into full size overnight and her mother had bemoaned this fact to the seamstress at the secondhand robe shop. She had just made up her mind to either leave the room or march up to Draco and give him a piece of her mind, when in her peripheral vision she saw him take a seat on the sofa in front of the fireplace -- not five feet from where she was sitting. He stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle, and Ginny could feel his gaze on her bent head as she tended to her task.
She didn’t dare look up, as she’d be mesmerized by his appearance and her carefully practiced indifference would be for naught. Today he was wearing a navy blue jumper and what was probably a t-shirt underneath. When in the cabin, Draco often went barefoot and dressed in loose-fitting jeans that managed to look new and well-worn at the same time. Ginny noted distractedly (not for the first time) that he had very nice toes, and began to shuffle the cards.
Ginny’s natural reflexes worked against her, however, and she automatically looked up when she heard the crinkling of Draco’s paper bag. Inwardly cursing herself, Ginny forced herself to meet his gaze, which didn’t falter one whit.
“Fizzing Whizbee?” he offered, holding out the bag.
She thought about it for only a second. “Okay,” she replied, sounding less confident than she would have liked. Before her fingers could touch the bag, however, he pulled it out of reach.
Ginny dropped her hand, frowning. So it was just a trick. She should have known.
About to get up and snatch the parcel right out of his hands, she was stalled when he popped the proffered sweet into his mouth, said, “Come and get it, then,” and set the bag aside.
Hesitating, Ginny got up and took a seat next to him -- on the side where there was a lot more sofa, so she could easily maneuver out of the way if he tried any funny business. He watched her lazily, arms slung casually along the back of the sofa, sucking on a sweet, a challenge in his eyes. He clearly didn’t think she’d really do it. Well, she would show him. Leaning forward slowly, Ginny touched her mouth to his. She had only just tasted the sugar on his lips when Draco moved like lightning, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her forward and over so that she was on his other side, trapped between the arm of the chair and his body.
Any thoughts she had of protesting were lost somewhere between her brain and her mouth, both of which were full of Draco at the moment. Once he had her where he wanted her, his hands and mouth were gentle, moving over her skin with a touch so soft and light that Ginny whimpered in need and in relief. He hasn’t forgotten or changed his mind, after all.
He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, and she opened her mouth in invitation, but he was a shy visitor, dipping in to taste her for only a brief moment before retreating again. When he finally decided to accept her hospitality, he brought with him a gift; a sherbet sweet that she had eaten a hundred times before but that had never tasted quite like this.
They dissolved the sweet between them, each encouraging the other to take ownership, then becoming impatient if one of them took too long, and going after it again. Ginny couldn’t remember a Fizzing Whizbee ever lasting this long before. Not that she was complaining; on the contrary, she felt happiness (or maybe it was just the sugar) racing through her veins, making her dizzy and light-headed. In fact, she felt as though she were floating on air...
“Ahem,” someone said, and Ginny tried to block it out, threading her fingers through Draco’s hair with one hand and grabbing a fistful of his jumper with the other.
“Malfoy,” the voice said insistently, and Draco pulled away from her to growl “Piss off, would you, Potter?” at the intruder. But this momentary lapse caused Ginny to open her eyes, and she was disoriented at first. Was she ... taller?
“Eep!” she squeaked as she realized that she and Draco were actually levitating a foot or so off the sofa. “Fizzing Whizbees!” she gasped. “I forgot.”
“You had other things on your mind,” Draco reassured, looking at her with hot eyes. “Speaking of which...”
“I wouldn’t,” said Harry. “Ron might come back any second now.”
“Oh, sod Weasley,” said Draco. “It’s because of that git that it’s been such a miserable week.”
Hearing those words did wonders for Ginny’s disposition. “Has it been a miserable week, really?”
“Perfectly miserable,” said a soulful-looking Draco, who was not one to pass up an opportunity when it was handed to him. He kissed her again, softly, and they continued in this vein until they heard the sound of a door closing. The magical properties of the Fizzing Whizbee they’d ingested also chose that moment to dissipate, sending them crashing down onto the sofa.
Ron was saying something about Quidditch, and Draco flung himself away to the other end of the sofa while Harry leapt over it to take his place next to Ginny as if they’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Consequently, when Ron strolled into the room a moment later, all he saw was Harry and a slightly unkempt-looking Ginny apparently being lovey dovey on the sofa, while Malfoy was staring, bored, into the fireplace and playing with his fringe. Pansy was sitting on the pool table and touching up her makeup. Ron did not notice Draco surreptitiously adjusting his jeans, but there was no mistaking that the other boy was on the wrong side of the room.
“Malfoy!” Ron said angrily. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Draco looked amused and Ginny shook her head slightly, warning him not to make the smartarse remark she knew he was dying to make. Pouting slightly, Draco answered, “What does it look like?”
“That’s -- you’re not supposed to --” Ron spluttered. “Fine, then ... I’m playing pool!”
“How nice for you. But for future reference, I couldn’t possibly have less interest in your activities, so you don’t have to ask for permission every time, all right?”
Ron looked furious, and Ginny shook Harry’s arm frantically, wanting to prevent a physical altercation. He, however, was looking at the two combatants with interest, and it took him a moment to realize what Ginny meant by her manhandling. “Ron, did you say something about Quidditch?” he interrupted (a bit reluctantly, Ginny thought).
It took a few deep breaths, but Ron managed to calm himself and turn away from Draco, apparently deciding that the other boy wasn’t worth his time. “Yeah -- how about a game? I think I just need to get away from this cabin and all the scum in it.”
Draco rolled his eyes behind Ron’s back.
“Sounds good to me,” said Harry. “Gryffindor vs. Slytherin?”
“What?” Ron exclaimed. “No, I don’t want to play with him.” He jerked his thumb behind him, meaning Draco but actually gesturing toward a potted plant.
“It’s all right, Potter,” said Draco. “Weasley can’t help it if he’s afraid to play against me. He must still be reliving that resounding loss from earlier this year. What was the score again? Four hundred and ten to two hundred? Yes, I do believe that was the exact score. What is that ... let’s see ... twenty-six goals that he let in. You’re the best member of our team, Weasley.”
Steam was going to start pouring out of Ron’s ears any moment now, and Ginny watched with a certain amount of resignation. Draco knew exactly how to push all their buttons. Ron immediately blustered that he had been playing with an injured arm that day, and fully healthy, he could take on a bunch of cowardly, cheating Slytherins single-handedly.
“Well, let’s go get properly dressed, then, and we’ll see,” said Pansy impatiently.
“Hang on there. How terribly sad for your team, Malfoy -- you seem to be short one player,” Ron said smugly, crossing his arms.
Draco shrugged. “It’ll be just me and Parkinson, then.”
“Oh, no,” Ron said. “I won’t have you blaming your humiliation at our hands on the fact that you didn’t have enough players.”
The two engaged in a stare down that wasn’t broken even when Draco said loudly, “Zabini! You up for a game of Quidditch?”
Momentarily, a door opened down the hall and Blaise’s muffled reply of, “Yup,” was then followed by the sound of the same door closing.
Draco raised an eyebrow at Ron, who said grumpily, “Fine! We’ll all meet outside in ten minutes.”
“Make it fifteen. Some of us actually have layers of clothing to put on,” said Draco.
“I don’t care if you’re wearing twenty layers, Malfoy, you’re still going to lose like the big loser you are.”
~.~
“I always knew you Gryffindors were no good at planning, but even I didn’t think you could be quite this stupid. A fact for which I am now paying dearly.”
“Shut it, Malfoy, anyone could have made the same mistake!”
“Weasley, we didn’t have any Quidditch equipment.”
“We had our brooms, didn’t we?”
“Yes, I can’t wait until the next World Cup, in which the players chase one another about on their brooms in a daring game of ‘Go Real Fast.’ First to grab the imaginary Snitch is the winner. Oh, look! What do you know? I win!”
“Okay, okay, why don’t the both of you just calm down. We’re wizards, aren’t we? Let’s just charm a couple of items that we can find round here, and they’ll serve as Quaffles, Bludgers, and the Snitch, all right?”
“Good idea, Harry.”
“Oh yes, good idea Harry, you specimen of intelligence and grace under pressure.”
“Someone shut him up.”
~.~
“Owwwww.”
“Pebbles hurt when they smack straight into your forehead, don’t they? Well, let’s not forget this was your wonderful idea, Potter.”
“I know it was, Malfoy, there’s no need to keep repeating it. Look, can someone please try and stop the flow of blood? It’s getting into my eye.”
“Here, Harry, move your hand. I’m going to keep pressure on the wound. Try not to move.”
“Thank you, Ginny -- your warm and tender touch makes me feel much better. Can you press a little bit harder? Get a little bit closer. Don’t be shy.”
“Malfoy, those twenty layers you’re wearing must be getting to you now that we’re back inside. You’re looking a little red.”
“I’m fine.”
“I think I’m going to use the hot tub. Anyone want to join?”
~.~
“We should all take a shower first, as we’re all sweaty from Quidditch,” Ginny said, and Draco admired the way little tendrils of hair clung to her damp cheeks.
“I’m not getting into any tub where he’ll be!” Idiot Ron interjected.
“Thank Merlin,” said Draco, wiping a drop of sweat away with his glove. “Have fun reading with Granger.”
“Weasley, the tub is enormous,” said Parkinson wearily. “I’m getting in, and I don’t give a flying fluxweed what the rest of you do. But I’m not going to stand round here arguing about it.” She turned and left.
“Me too,” said Potter. “I’m going to go get showered.” Draco wondered if Potter would try and horn in on Parkinson’s shower, but decided that for all their touted bravery, Gryffindors could be awfully spineless. Parkinson would more likely be the one to try anything in that quarter.
“Let’s have a look at you, first,” said Ginny, removing the towel she was holding against Potter’s forehead. Draco gritted his teeth as she ran a gentle finger around the area of the small cut, and wished he’d been pelted by the “Snitch” instead. But of course, Potter had all the luck. Even if Draco had been the one injured, he’d probably just get Parkinson examining him and carelessly poking her talons into the wound.
“Feels fine,” said Potter.
“Yes, it’s stopped bleeding,” Ginny said briskly. “Better come round to my room and Hermione can heal it right up.”
Potter being in Ginny’s room while Draco was all the way down the hall, forced to share his space with Parkinson (Zabini had moved into Greengrass’s room the very first night, though they all pretended this was not the case for the professors’ benefit), was more than he could bear. Growling, he snatched up his wand and muttered a quick healing spell, which closed Potter’s cut in no time.
Draco crossed his arms and raised a challenging eyebrow to all the witnesses (everyone minus Parkinson and Zabini, who had gone directly to his room when they came back inside).
“Okay ... whatever,” Idiot Ron said, looking confused. He stalked off to his room, closely followed by Potter, who threw a look of gratitude behind him.
But that was nothing compared to the look he was getting from Ginny. Draco felt about ten feet tall.
“That was so nice of you,” she said, standing up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
Draco grabbed her hands and used the leverage to pull her arms around him, causing her to stumble forward. “That had nothing to do with it,” he said against her lips, and kissed her hard.
He was sliding his hand up the back of her jumper when she pulled away, laughing. “I’m sweaty, Draco, and so are you.”
Draco reached for her again, wanting to feel her soft skin against his fingertips. “We’ll be a lot sweatier than this when we’re through.”
“Stop it!” she squealed, slapping his hands away. “They’ll be coming back out any minute now, and I still have to get showered and dressed.”
“We’d save a lot of time if we did that together...”
Ginny waggled a finger at him. “Behave yourself, Malfoy, or I won’t help you make dinner.” Grinning, she turned and headed toward her room.
“Who says I need help making dinner?” Draco called after her, slightly miffed. What was so difficult about making a meal? Just because he didn’t want to do it didn’t mean he couldn’t do it.
Continued here. (Story was too long and LJ wouldn't let me post the whole thing in one entry. Grrr.)
Jade and I are on our way to Vegas tomorrow, so I'm off to get some shut eye. I hope everyone's holidays were/are fantastic.
TITLE: Winter Retreat
AUTHOR: Sarea Okelani
E-MAIL ADDRESS: sarea@vanishingscroll.com
WEBSITE: http://okelani.vanishingscroll.com/
RATING: PG-13
CATEGORY: Story, Romance, Humor
SPOILERS: You're safe if you've read all of the HP books.
KEYWORDS: Draco/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Pansy
DISTRIBUTION: Please do not archive -- the full text of this story will be archived at my site or elsewhere at my sole discretion (mostly for version control issues). If you'd like to link to this story from your Web site, I'd be honored -- but drop me a line first, please.
DISCLAIMER: It would be fabulous if JKR, Warner Brothers, and everyone else with a piece of the HP pie would give me a slice for Christmas, but I don’t think that’ll be happening this year. Damn their eyes.
FEEDBACK: Very greatly appreciated.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: A fun little Christmas story based on five improv elements that Sydney Lynne provided ages ago. It’s kind of crazy, the way most improv fics are. Hope you have fun with it, because I sure did! Thanks and a giant candy cane for Jade, who beta'ed and who ‘gets me.’
SUMMARY: Christmas is a time meant to be spent with family and friends, not with your worst enemy on a remote mountaintop. Oh well.
Winter Retreat
by Sarea Okelani
During Harry Potter’s seventh year at Hogwarts, tensions were high as the wizarding world prepared itself for an attack by the Dark Lord You-Know-Who and his You-Know-What forces. Students were jittery, and their parents weren’t faring much better. Preparations were being made on both sides, and parents and teachers alike were saddened to see the glum looks on their children’s faces, to see the apprehension they couldn’t quite hide in their eyes. Professor Dumbledore, ever wise and all knowing, even if you couldn’t figure what he was about most of the time, organized a winter retreat for the holidays, which would be open to all 5th-7th year students.
It was the opportunity to forget one’s cares for a little while, to enjoy being young, in good health, and surrounded by one’s friends. Parents had the comfort of knowing that Hogwarts’ finest professors would oversee the event, and would have all their tools at the ready to defend themselves and the children if necessary. There would be few places in the world safer, and it was for less than a week. So parents gladly signed their teenage son or daughter’s permission slip and warned them to pack warm clothing. They felt joy in their hearts to know that somewhere, little Amelia Witchcomb was having the time of her life and not thinking about the bad days to come.
After all, a little Christmas cheer can go a long way to brighten the lives of those on the brink of strife and turmoil, and most importantly, bring hope and peace into their hearts.
“An exercise in torture, that’s what this has been,” Minerva McGonagall muttered, taking another swig of anti-headache potion she’d stol--procured from Severus. He’d claimed not to have any, but she’d known better than to believe him. He always kept extra on hand, and, having been skillfully maneuvered into this outing by Dumbledore, wouldn’t have left anything up to chance. “Every night, I dream that it’s the last day, only to wake and find that it never is.”
“It isn’t so very bad,” said Pomona Sprout, cheerfully clipping one of the plants she insisted on hauling everywhere with her.
“Oh, what do you know, gardener,” McGonagall muttered. Due to Sprout’s ministrations, their cabin was teeming with holiday spirit. Poinsettia plants decorated bare walls, countertops, and even the dining table, which meant they were forever moving them out of the way during mealtimes (after Ron Weasley nearly poisoned himself during their first dinner). Wreaths hung on every door, boughs of holly lined the fireplace, and garlands of mistletoe hung precariously over doorways. The mistletoe was the most intolerable part, as Sprout had charmed them to appear and disappear at will. There was therefore no telling when one might appear while you were going through the door just as Blaise Zabini was doing the same thing and force you to suffer a moment of embarrassment as you told your not-unattractive student to not entertain the notion even for a second as he leaned in with a Slytherin smirk on his face.
McGonagall pinched her lips as she heard yet another burst of laughter coming from the main cabin. These walls were entirely too thin. Even with a muting charm and earmuffs on, she could often hear the girls giggling into the night. After the second night and sixth admonishment, she’d given up. Sometimes, she heard other ... things. It wasn’t that she was past the point of caring; the truth was that she just did not want to know.
“I do love my plants,” Sprout sighed, not the least affected by McGonagall’s gloomy mood. “You know, Minerva, you shouldn’t introduce so much of that potion into your system. It promotes bad temperament and a sour disposition.”
“I’m well aware of its side effects, thank you very much,” McGonagall snapped. “But if you had to decide between a splitting headache and a bit of surliness, you’d make the same choice.”
“Not really; I’d be fine with you having a splitting headache,” Sprout said under her breath.
“What was that, Pomona?”
“Nothing,” Sprout said quickly. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“In any case, I’m not at all sure that its purported side effects haven’t been greatly exaggerated. After all, Severus has been taking this potion for years, and--” McGonagall paused. “Oh yes, I see what you mean.”
“Minerva? Pomona?”
The two women looked toward the fireplace, where the disembodied head of Remus Lupin hovered amidst the flames. Lupin had been recruited to chaperone on the retreat, as he was good with the students and was the only one who would share a room with Snape.
“Yes, what is it, Remus?” McGonagall said wearily. “Have they buried Longbottom in the snow bank again?”
“Er, no,” said Lupin. “After the third time, we got wise and cast a heat charm around him so that he’ll be able to melt himself out.”
“Good, good,” McGonagall replied, only half listening. One more day, she thought. One more day, and this will all be over. I’ll be at Hogwarts again, among my things. How I miss my bed, with its lovely tartan spread that Great Great Great Great Grandmother stole from the Macmillan clan all those years ago ...
“Severus and I were thinking...” There was the sound of negative muttering coming from Lupin’s left, though the speaker remained out of sight. “... that you and Pomona might want to pop over for a card game or two?”
“I love card games!” said Sprout. “What shall we play?”
“Poker, to begin with,” said Lupin. He winked. “You might be able to convince us to play strip poker, if that will entice you more.”
McGonagall rolled her eyes. “If you think that I’m leaving this room to go out in the cold to join you for a game of strip poker, which you will most certainly lose--”
“I know for a fact that Sevvie is wearing his special leopard print undies.” Lupin waggled his eyebrows.
An infuriated “I am not!” could be heard in the background.
Outside the door, coming from the living area, raised voices -- sounding like Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy (what a surprise) -- threatened the relative sanctuary of McGonagall’s surroundings.
“I don’t want to know how you know that for a fact. Do you have scotch?” she demanded.
“Amongst other beverages,” Lupin replied mildly.
“We’ll be right over.”
Draco was not having a good Christmas, and it was the first time in his conscious history of Christmases that he could recall this ever being so. Well, there was the time he hadn’t gotten Peter, the Amazing Taffy-Making Penguin he’d asked for (his mother hadn’t been paying enough attention when he’d rattled off his Christmas list, and had gotten him Bubba, the bear version, instead, and that just wasn’t the same at all, as it was well-known knowledge amongst his friends at the time that penguins made better taffy than bears. The terrible tantrum he’d treated his mother to when he’d ripped open the package to discover Bubba had her asking him to detail his Christmas requests on parchment from that day forward), but the Bubba incident had happened nearly ten years ago and he’d just about gotten over it. Then there was the year he’d had to escort Parkinson to the Yule Ball, but during the course of the night he’d managed to successfully dodge all her attempts to kiss him, and Draco had also been immensely cheered by the sight of a despondent and socially inept Potter, so that had turned out all right.
This year seemed determined to top the Peter Penguin debacle. And it was all Ginny Weasley’s fault. Well, maybe it wasn’t Ginny’s fault, Draco relented grudgingly. It was actually the fault of her brother, Idiot Ron. It was the fault of a Weasley, in any case.
He wasn’t sure how he had gotten himself into this predicament, wherein the questionable whims of someone in the Weasley family could actually serve to affect his enjoyment of Christmas. He was a Malfoy; if anything, he ought to be ruining Idiot Ron’s Christmas. Yet the buffoon seemed to be having the time of his life, with his Sludgeblood girlfriend (Ginny had asked him to stop calling Granger ‘Mudblood,’ so he’d been trying to come up with something less unclean than mud; so far, nothing else had quite the same ring, and he marveled at the things he would do for her), Scarhead (she had to give him one of them), and Ginny by his side. Not that Idiot Ron appreciated her. Not that he appreciated her the way Draco appreciated her.
Though come to think of it, that was probably for the best.
Still, it wasn’t right that the Weasel King should have a happy Christmas whilst simultaneously ruining Draco’s; surely this was flying in the face of all known natural laws, and the four horsemen would be appearing on the horizon next.
He’d only come on this trip in the first place because Idiot Ron was supposed to be somewhere far, far away with the rest of the Weasley herd, and Draco was supposed to have an entire week of enjoying Ginny’s company fairly free and clear. He had made sure that Parkinson, who now apparently had the bad taste to fancy Potter, chose appropriately suitable cabin mates for the four of them, and he had agreed with her choices of Greengrass and Zabini, Longbottom, and Parvati Patil, who was likely to spend most of her time with her friends in another cabin. The first wrench had come when Granger insisted on being in the same cabin as Potter and Ginny -- and got McGonagall to approve the change -- but it probably wouldn’t have been too bad, as she would have spent most of her time holed up somewhere reading or studying.
Then disaster struck in the form of Ron Weasley, who decided for some inexplicable reason not to go off after all, and he whined so loudly about not being in the same cabin with his mates that Longbottom offered to let him have his place. Draco would have offered Longbottom large sums of money to stay, if only it wouldn’t have encouraged unwanted attention and speculation that he was heartily sick of (for Merlin’s sake, he had been going for the Snitch, not Potter’s arse, though that wasn’t how the majority of the student populated chose to interpret the unintentional grabbing). So Longbottom was out and the Weasel King was in, and because Ginny wasn’t ready yet for her brother to know about them (the truth was that Draco wasn’t looking forward to it, either, but he pretended to be patient, which won him many appreciative looks and hand squeezes from his new lady love), they had to be extremely discreet.
Discreet to the point of not being able to do anything, ever. Or at least for the entirety of the week, which to Draco seemed an unimaginable waste. Here they were, on some mountain in the middle of nowhere (where the hell was Aspen, anyway?), forced into dingy, cramped rooms that didn’t even have beds with a proper canopy, and there were no House-elves. The first time Draco realized that each person would be responsible for preparing a meal for his cabin mates on a given day, he had nearly taken the first broom home. Then he had caught sight of Ginny, her cheeks pink with laughter and her eyes brighter than any candle in the room, and he knew he had to stay, because she was laughing with Potter, and if Draco wasn’t there she’d be laughing with Scarhead all the time without Draco’s knowledge, and that wasn’t to be borne.
Possibly the worst thing about keeping their relationship a secret from Idiot Ron was this false relationship of Ginny and Potter’s. At least, Draco believed it was false. For the most part. Well, ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent was the doubt he didn’t like to dwell on for too long, that she enjoyed pretending Potter was her boyfriend, and that Scarhead enjoyed it too. Potter supposedly had something going on with Parkinson, but that was probably just about sex. After all, why would he want Parkinson if he could have Ginny?
The misunderstanding had occurred not too long ago -- the week before the retreat, in fact. Ginny and Potter had both gone down to the dungeons to visit Draco and Parkinson, respectively, and on their way back to Gryffindor Tower they’d run into Idiot Ron and the Grubbyblood coming down from the Astronomy Tower. The Weasel King had taken one look at their disheveled appearances and jumped to the wrong conclusion; Ginny and her disfigured companion couldn’t very well tell him the truth, so they’d allowed him to think that his best friend and his little sister had at last seen that they were meant for each other.
Never mind that if Draco saw Potter put his arm around Draco’s girl one more time, he was going to stab his wand right through the git’s left eye. At this point, he was willing to damn the consequences and just tell Idiot Ron what was what, but he knew he wouldn’t, not when Ginny clearly didn’t want to just yet. He would just have to be patient, which was not a virtue he was required to exercise very regularly.
Thank Merlin for Zabini and his pool table, which he’d shrunk down and brought from home. It had provided an invaluable and efficient way for Draco to channel his frustrations.
That and he constantly wanked off in the shower.
This wasn’t turning out to be a very good winter break at all, Ginny reflected, and it was all because of Ron. All of the careful planning Ginny’d done had been annihilated when Ron decided not to go with their parents to Egypt after all (“It was dusty and stuff,” he said about the last trip), and put up such a fuss about wanting to stay in the same cabin with his sister and two best mates. Especially once he’d heard that they’d drawn “a bunch of stinking Slytherins” as their cabin mates.
Hermione had been thrilled (she was, no doubt, a significant factor in Ron’s change of heart about Egypt), while Harry and Ginny had been less so. The cabin assignments had been very carefully detailed by Ginny and Pansy Parkinson, who had been on the retreat committee. The two girls had set aside their differences to handpick Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass, who were so wrapped up in one another that they couldn’t possibly care less what anyone else was doing, and Neville Longbottom, who slept like a log and could be counted on to be oblivious to this sort of thing. Hermione was the one obstacle they couldn’t work around, as she was friend to both Harry and Ginny, but she would have been manageable. Ron, on the other hand ... and now, Ron and Hermione together, was another matter entirely.
As a result, Harry and Ginny’d had to be extremely cautious and vigilant during the entire week, which meant that they’d spent entirely too much time in one another’s company, pretending to be boyfriend and girlfriend, than with their real significant others, who seemed to grow more tense with each passing day.
Ginny listlessly picked up the hand Ron had just dealt her and automatically began to put the cards in order. Playing Exploding Snap was one of the last things she wanted to do at the moment, but there weren’t too many options. Most of them had already gotten over the novelty of traversing the snow-covered landscape on two sticks, though Muggle-borns seemed to like this ‘skiing’ business quite a lot. It didn’t equal the thrill of flying on a broomstick at all.
“I don’t want to play this anymore. I’m bored,” Hermione announced.
Ron looked at her with great irritation. “We’ve only played two games! Harry? Ginny? Are you bored?”
The two being questioned made noncommittal gestures. If they weren’t playing this, they’d be doing something else they didn’t really want to be doing, so what was the difference?
“There, you see? You’re the only one who doesn’t want to play,” Ron said.
“Fine, just play without me, then,” Hermione said, tossing her cards down and heading toward the room she shared with Ginny. “I’ll be in my room reading.”
“Reading?” Ron repeated incredulously. “Hermione, we’re on vacation. You’re not supposed to read.”
If Ginny had felt any sort of motivation at all, she might have snapped that after seven years of friendship, he ought to be accustomed to Hermione’s ways by now. But each time seemed to be a new revelation to him.
“Hey, keep it down over there!” a voice called from the other side of the room.
“Shut it, Malfoy!” Ron said, glaring at the person he despised most in the world. “Quit eavesdropping on our side of the room!”
“As if we’d want to hear anything you have to say,” Pansy immediately joined in. “We can’t help it if you Gryffindorks don’t know what a decent indoor volume is. You’re sitting right next to each other; you don’t have to shout.”
“Well, we have to if we want to be heard above the sound of your balls!”
Ginny winced as Ron’s unfortunate phrasing was met with sniggers and whispering.
“I think Weasley has ball envy,” Draco remarked to Pansy.
“Among other things,” said Pansy smugly. “Like our pool table.”
“I couldn’t care less about your bloody stupid pool table,” Ron retorted. “All it does is take up room and make lots of annoying sounds, and ... and ...”
Ron was clearly struggling. Ginny knew that he was more irked by the fact that drawing a marker (now consisting of a scraggly line of chalk, which had replaced the trail of snow he’d first used, until it melted and left puddles for McGonagall to slip on) down the middle of the room to delineate Gryffindor and Slytherin territory had been his idea, effectively keeping him from ever using the pool table, even though their chaperones had announced that if it was in a communal area, it was community property. Ginny knew that Ron would rather cut off his right arm than compromise his pride and put even a single toe on that side of the room now.
“Just ignore him, Ron,” Ginny said, putting a calming hand on one of his clenched fists. “We don’t want anything of theirs.”
“Really? You can’t think of one thing?” Draco drawled. This taunt sounded completely different to brother and sister, and Ginny tried to control the flush that threatened to suffuse her face, so Ron wouldn’t see.
Before any of them could reply, the no-nonsense clack-clack of McGonagall’s boots was heard coming down the hallway, followed closely by the shorter, more hurried steps belonging to Sprout.
“We’re going to Cabin 12,” McGonagall barked as soon as she was in sight. She swept a glare across the room that was disconcertingly Snape-like. “Don’t get into any trouble and don’t make me come back here to sort you out. Otherwise, I promise you will regret it when classes resume. Do I make myself clear?” Without waiting for a response, she then rounded on Draco and said, “Malfoy, you will make dinner tonight. You’ve avoided it long enough.”
“But it’s Christmas Eve,” Draco said. “Do you really want to entrust me with Christmas Eve dinner?”
“No, but I’m going to,” she replied, not falling for his delay tactic one bit.
“Fine,” said Draco sulkily. McGonagall’s glare prompted him to add a hasty, “Sir. I mean, ma’am.”
Nervous giggles erupted from the other occupants of the room. Muttering under her breath, McGonagall swept outside, Sprout following and closing the door with a loud bang.
“What’s with her?” Ron asked, open-mouthed. “Ever since we got here, she’s been getting more and more scary.”
“And they seem to spend a lot of time over at Cabin 12, with Snape and Remus,” said Harry. “I mean, Professor Lupin.”
A loud snort from Draco caused Ron to lower his voice to a whisper. “What do you suppose they do over there?”
“What do you think they do?” Draco said loudly without looking up. He was lining up a shot. “They sit around drinking cheap brandy and talking about their pathetic lives, while they envy our youth and freedom. And in my case, good looks and wealth, too.” He made a sudden thrust with his cue, and one of the balls rolled smartly into its intended pocket.
Ron turned red at having been thwarted in his secretive whispering. “As if anyone envies you, Bat Ears!”
“I can’t possibly challenge such a well-aimed rebuttal,” said Draco. “I concede to your superior repartee skills.”
Ron looked as though he were going to respond again, but luckily Harry stopped him. “Maybe you ought to check on Hermione,” Harry said, hitting Ron’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “You know, just to make sure she’s all right.”
“Great idea,” Ginny enthused.
Ron looked reluctant, but Harry nudged him and he finally got up. “Fine, fine,” he grumbled. “But if you don’t see me in fifteen minutes it’s because I’ve keeled over from boredom.”
Ginny smiled and waved her hand. “Go on, Ron, the longer you take the greater the chance she’ll be put out with you.”
Ron looked from Ginny to Harry and back again. “Oh, I know what’s going on,” he said. “The two of you just want to be alone.”
“Er--” said Harry.
“Yes, that’s right, we do,” Ginny said, linking her arm with Harry’s. “So would you take the hint already and leave?”
“Unless you want us to leave,” Harry said, getting into the spirit of things.
Ron backed away. “No, no, I’ll go. You ... with my sister ... Ugh. At least out here you won’t do anything in front of the Evil Duo.”
“Yeah, we’d be sick all over our nice pool table if they did,” Draco interjected.
“That might make it worth doing,” Ginny answered sweetly.
Draco scowled but said nothing further, and Ron finally left after taking a deep breath to fortify himself for the confrontation ahead.
When they heard the door to Hermione’s room open and close, Ginny and Harry separated and put a more comfortable distance between them. Ginny nervously fingered one of her shoe ties, looking at Draco out of the corner of her eye. He was currently engaged in lining up another shot, and after a moment there was a sharp crack as his cue hit its target. Ginny silently hoped that Harry would stay with her until this awkwardness passed; was she supposed to go over to Draco or was she supposed to wait for him to come to her? Harry was probably eager to be with Pansy, but he stayed where he was and Ginny was grateful.
When Draco and Pansy continued to play pool without acknowledging either of the Gryffindors, Ginny started to feel a prickly jumble of anger, humiliation, and disappointment. They didn’t really have a spoken understanding, it was true -- Draco had never come right out and asked her to be his girlfriend ... it was more that one day they started kissing instead of arguing, and decided it was nicer -- and everything was so brand new and fragile that she supposed the slightest change in the wind could have a dramatic impact on the relationship. It was only a couple of weeks before the retreat, after all, that she and Draco had very reluctantly admitted that contrary to their constant avowals of wanting to see the other at the bottom of the lake, they might actually possibly fancy one another ... a bit. Only not in so many words.
Well, ‘a bit’ was clearly not enough, thought Ginny. Whatever he thought he felt for me, he doesn’t seem to feel it anymore. If he did, wouldn’t he have immediately come to her the second Ron left? Who knew how much time they had? Shouldn’t they be maximizing what time they were given? But he hadn’t even acknowledged her presence since Ron had made his exit.
She couldn’t remember ever feeling this awkward with Michael or Dean. Of course, neither of those boys had been Slytherins, a confounding, irritating lot who seemed to be their own species, really, and definitely neither of them had been Draco Malfoy, whom she had spent a good part of her years at Hogwarts loathing and, to a lesser extent, dreading. Quite frankly, she couldn’t even believe that she was in this position. Perhaps the previous few weeks had all been a dream. All the events leading up to the trip did seem rather blurred -- she recalled yelling, snogging and some tame groping -- and since their arrival at the cabin they had not had a single moment alone together. This was apparently enough to make him forget her entirely, or else perhaps to come to his senses. Or maybe they had both been drugged and she was still feeling the effects while he had gotten over it. That meant it wouldn’t be long before she was over it as well, and could hate him again without reservation, which was a rather comforting thought.
Harry looked at her sympathetically while trying to subdue a stubborn lock of hair that didn’t seem to want to stay down. Ginny pursed her lips. Even Harry could see what was going on, and he was the most oblivious person on the planet! She decided then that yes, feeling hatred for Draco Malfoy again would not be a problem at all.
“Why don’t you go see if Malfoy will let you shoot some pool with him?” Harry suggested in an undertone.
Ginny turned away from the Slytherins to whisper back, “Maybe I don’t want to shoot pool with him.”
“I can see plain as day that you do,” said Harry with a grin.
“I don’t,” Ginny insisted. “I hate him. We haven’t had a moment alone this entire week and now we’ve got a chance and he’s playing pool with Pansy! Well, if that’s what he wants to do, then fine. I hope Ron comes back soon.”
“Malfoy’s waiting for you,” said Harry.
“Well, bully for him. I’m waiting, too. Why should I have to go to him?”
“Because he’s Draco Malfoy, Supreme Git of the Century,” Harry responded reasonably. “You’ve got to know he’ll be different from the other, normal boys you’ve dated. He’s not going to come to you first, Gin.”
Ginny swallowed, feeling her longing war with her pride. It was all very well and good that Harry was right -- Draco Malfoy was spoiled, used to getting his own way; he probably hadn’t ever had to work for anything in his life, and that probably included girls -- but shouldn’t she be discouraging this kind of behavior? If you offered Draco a bite of your chocolate frog, he’d eat the whole thing and convince you that it was the outcome you wanted all along. She didn’t want to be one of those girls who followed him around and fawned over him; she didn’t want him to think that he could expect submissive behavior from her. She was a Weasley; she was glad to be a Weasley, and if he didn’t like it then he could stuff it. Yet ... they barely knew each other, really. They’d only so recently been at each other’s throats after ... well, being at each other’s throats. She couldn’t expect him to change overnight, as that would be unreasonable. Wouldn’t it?
Ginny was distracted from her internal debate when Pansy threw down her pool cue and crossed her arms, a pout on her face. “I hate this game.”
“What a surprise,” said Draco, setting his own cue down calmly.
“The balls never go where I want them to go! And this stupid stick is too long. It just gets in the way!”
“I’m sure you’re not the first girl to complain about that.”
Ignoring Draco, Pansy continued, “I don’t see why I can’t use my hands. And this pointless blue chalk that just gets all over my clothes -- what is the point of the blue chalk? Why couldn’t they make it colorless, or put some kind of anti-stain spell on it? This is the second shirt I’ve ruined!”
“Maybe next time you ought to try putting chalk on the end of your cue instead of on your clothes.” Draco rummaged through his cloak, which was slung on a nearby chair. Presently he drew out a small paper bag.
“Oh, shut it,” Pansy said, then turned and said in a commanding voice, “Potter. Come teach me how to put chalk on the stick-thing.”
Ginny took exception to her tone, but Harry didn’t. He got up with ease, still fiddling with his hair, and made his way over to the other girl, while Ginny tried to look occupied. She heard Pansy whisper something about Harry having a bad hair day, followed by a giggle.
Trying to block out the sounds, Ginny began to gather the scattered cards together. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this self-conscious before, not even when her breasts had seemed to grow into full size overnight and her mother had bemoaned this fact to the seamstress at the secondhand robe shop. She had just made up her mind to either leave the room or march up to Draco and give him a piece of her mind, when in her peripheral vision she saw him take a seat on the sofa in front of the fireplace -- not five feet from where she was sitting. He stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle, and Ginny could feel his gaze on her bent head as she tended to her task.
She didn’t dare look up, as she’d be mesmerized by his appearance and her carefully practiced indifference would be for naught. Today he was wearing a navy blue jumper and what was probably a t-shirt underneath. When in the cabin, Draco often went barefoot and dressed in loose-fitting jeans that managed to look new and well-worn at the same time. Ginny noted distractedly (not for the first time) that he had very nice toes, and began to shuffle the cards.
Ginny’s natural reflexes worked against her, however, and she automatically looked up when she heard the crinkling of Draco’s paper bag. Inwardly cursing herself, Ginny forced herself to meet his gaze, which didn’t falter one whit.
“Fizzing Whizbee?” he offered, holding out the bag.
She thought about it for only a second. “Okay,” she replied, sounding less confident than she would have liked. Before her fingers could touch the bag, however, he pulled it out of reach.
Ginny dropped her hand, frowning. So it was just a trick. She should have known.
About to get up and snatch the parcel right out of his hands, she was stalled when he popped the proffered sweet into his mouth, said, “Come and get it, then,” and set the bag aside.
Hesitating, Ginny got up and took a seat next to him -- on the side where there was a lot more sofa, so she could easily maneuver out of the way if he tried any funny business. He watched her lazily, arms slung casually along the back of the sofa, sucking on a sweet, a challenge in his eyes. He clearly didn’t think she’d really do it. Well, she would show him. Leaning forward slowly, Ginny touched her mouth to his. She had only just tasted the sugar on his lips when Draco moved like lightning, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her forward and over so that she was on his other side, trapped between the arm of the chair and his body.
Any thoughts she had of protesting were lost somewhere between her brain and her mouth, both of which were full of Draco at the moment. Once he had her where he wanted her, his hands and mouth were gentle, moving over her skin with a touch so soft and light that Ginny whimpered in need and in relief. He hasn’t forgotten or changed his mind, after all.
He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, and she opened her mouth in invitation, but he was a shy visitor, dipping in to taste her for only a brief moment before retreating again. When he finally decided to accept her hospitality, he brought with him a gift; a sherbet sweet that she had eaten a hundred times before but that had never tasted quite like this.
They dissolved the sweet between them, each encouraging the other to take ownership, then becoming impatient if one of them took too long, and going after it again. Ginny couldn’t remember a Fizzing Whizbee ever lasting this long before. Not that she was complaining; on the contrary, she felt happiness (or maybe it was just the sugar) racing through her veins, making her dizzy and light-headed. In fact, she felt as though she were floating on air...
“Ahem,” someone said, and Ginny tried to block it out, threading her fingers through Draco’s hair with one hand and grabbing a fistful of his jumper with the other.
“Malfoy,” the voice said insistently, and Draco pulled away from her to growl “Piss off, would you, Potter?” at the intruder. But this momentary lapse caused Ginny to open her eyes, and she was disoriented at first. Was she ... taller?
“Eep!” she squeaked as she realized that she and Draco were actually levitating a foot or so off the sofa. “Fizzing Whizbees!” she gasped. “I forgot.”
“You had other things on your mind,” Draco reassured, looking at her with hot eyes. “Speaking of which...”
“I wouldn’t,” said Harry. “Ron might come back any second now.”
“Oh, sod Weasley,” said Draco. “It’s because of that git that it’s been such a miserable week.”
Hearing those words did wonders for Ginny’s disposition. “Has it been a miserable week, really?”
“Perfectly miserable,” said a soulful-looking Draco, who was not one to pass up an opportunity when it was handed to him. He kissed her again, softly, and they continued in this vein until they heard the sound of a door closing. The magical properties of the Fizzing Whizbee they’d ingested also chose that moment to dissipate, sending them crashing down onto the sofa.
Ron was saying something about Quidditch, and Draco flung himself away to the other end of the sofa while Harry leapt over it to take his place next to Ginny as if they’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Consequently, when Ron strolled into the room a moment later, all he saw was Harry and a slightly unkempt-looking Ginny apparently being lovey dovey on the sofa, while Malfoy was staring, bored, into the fireplace and playing with his fringe. Pansy was sitting on the pool table and touching up her makeup. Ron did not notice Draco surreptitiously adjusting his jeans, but there was no mistaking that the other boy was on the wrong side of the room.
“Malfoy!” Ron said angrily. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Draco looked amused and Ginny shook her head slightly, warning him not to make the smartarse remark she knew he was dying to make. Pouting slightly, Draco answered, “What does it look like?”
“That’s -- you’re not supposed to --” Ron spluttered. “Fine, then ... I’m playing pool!”
“How nice for you. But for future reference, I couldn’t possibly have less interest in your activities, so you don’t have to ask for permission every time, all right?”
Ron looked furious, and Ginny shook Harry’s arm frantically, wanting to prevent a physical altercation. He, however, was looking at the two combatants with interest, and it took him a moment to realize what Ginny meant by her manhandling. “Ron, did you say something about Quidditch?” he interrupted (a bit reluctantly, Ginny thought).
It took a few deep breaths, but Ron managed to calm himself and turn away from Draco, apparently deciding that the other boy wasn’t worth his time. “Yeah -- how about a game? I think I just need to get away from this cabin and all the scum in it.”
Draco rolled his eyes behind Ron’s back.
“Sounds good to me,” said Harry. “Gryffindor vs. Slytherin?”
“What?” Ron exclaimed. “No, I don’t want to play with him.” He jerked his thumb behind him, meaning Draco but actually gesturing toward a potted plant.
“It’s all right, Potter,” said Draco. “Weasley can’t help it if he’s afraid to play against me. He must still be reliving that resounding loss from earlier this year. What was the score again? Four hundred and ten to two hundred? Yes, I do believe that was the exact score. What is that ... let’s see ... twenty-six goals that he let in. You’re the best member of our team, Weasley.”
Steam was going to start pouring out of Ron’s ears any moment now, and Ginny watched with a certain amount of resignation. Draco knew exactly how to push all their buttons. Ron immediately blustered that he had been playing with an injured arm that day, and fully healthy, he could take on a bunch of cowardly, cheating Slytherins single-handedly.
“Well, let’s go get properly dressed, then, and we’ll see,” said Pansy impatiently.
“Hang on there. How terribly sad for your team, Malfoy -- you seem to be short one player,” Ron said smugly, crossing his arms.
Draco shrugged. “It’ll be just me and Parkinson, then.”
“Oh, no,” Ron said. “I won’t have you blaming your humiliation at our hands on the fact that you didn’t have enough players.”
The two engaged in a stare down that wasn’t broken even when Draco said loudly, “Zabini! You up for a game of Quidditch?”
Momentarily, a door opened down the hall and Blaise’s muffled reply of, “Yup,” was then followed by the sound of the same door closing.
Draco raised an eyebrow at Ron, who said grumpily, “Fine! We’ll all meet outside in ten minutes.”
“Make it fifteen. Some of us actually have layers of clothing to put on,” said Draco.
“I don’t care if you’re wearing twenty layers, Malfoy, you’re still going to lose like the big loser you are.”
“I always knew you Gryffindors were no good at planning, but even I didn’t think you could be quite this stupid. A fact for which I am now paying dearly.”
“Shut it, Malfoy, anyone could have made the same mistake!”
“Weasley, we didn’t have any Quidditch equipment.”
“We had our brooms, didn’t we?”
“Yes, I can’t wait until the next World Cup, in which the players chase one another about on their brooms in a daring game of ‘Go Real Fast.’ First to grab the imaginary Snitch is the winner. Oh, look! What do you know? I win!”
“Okay, okay, why don’t the both of you just calm down. We’re wizards, aren’t we? Let’s just charm a couple of items that we can find round here, and they’ll serve as Quaffles, Bludgers, and the Snitch, all right?”
“Good idea, Harry.”
“Oh yes, good idea Harry, you specimen of intelligence and grace under pressure.”
“Someone shut him up.”
“Owwwww.”
“Pebbles hurt when they smack straight into your forehead, don’t they? Well, let’s not forget this was your wonderful idea, Potter.”
“I know it was, Malfoy, there’s no need to keep repeating it. Look, can someone please try and stop the flow of blood? It’s getting into my eye.”
“Here, Harry, move your hand. I’m going to keep pressure on the wound. Try not to move.”
“Thank you, Ginny -- your warm and tender touch makes me feel much better. Can you press a little bit harder? Get a little bit closer. Don’t be shy.”
“Malfoy, those twenty layers you’re wearing must be getting to you now that we’re back inside. You’re looking a little red.”
“I’m fine.”
“I think I’m going to use the hot tub. Anyone want to join?”
“We should all take a shower first, as we’re all sweaty from Quidditch,” Ginny said, and Draco admired the way little tendrils of hair clung to her damp cheeks.
“I’m not getting into any tub where he’ll be!” Idiot Ron interjected.
“Thank Merlin,” said Draco, wiping a drop of sweat away with his glove. “Have fun reading with Granger.”
“Weasley, the tub is enormous,” said Parkinson wearily. “I’m getting in, and I don’t give a flying fluxweed what the rest of you do. But I’m not going to stand round here arguing about it.” She turned and left.
“Me too,” said Potter. “I’m going to go get showered.” Draco wondered if Potter would try and horn in on Parkinson’s shower, but decided that for all their touted bravery, Gryffindors could be awfully spineless. Parkinson would more likely be the one to try anything in that quarter.
“Let’s have a look at you, first,” said Ginny, removing the towel she was holding against Potter’s forehead. Draco gritted his teeth as she ran a gentle finger around the area of the small cut, and wished he’d been pelted by the “Snitch” instead. But of course, Potter had all the luck. Even if Draco had been the one injured, he’d probably just get Parkinson examining him and carelessly poking her talons into the wound.
“Feels fine,” said Potter.
“Yes, it’s stopped bleeding,” Ginny said briskly. “Better come round to my room and Hermione can heal it right up.”
Potter being in Ginny’s room while Draco was all the way down the hall, forced to share his space with Parkinson (Zabini had moved into Greengrass’s room the very first night, though they all pretended this was not the case for the professors’ benefit), was more than he could bear. Growling, he snatched up his wand and muttered a quick healing spell, which closed Potter’s cut in no time.
Draco crossed his arms and raised a challenging eyebrow to all the witnesses (everyone minus Parkinson and Zabini, who had gone directly to his room when they came back inside).
“Okay ... whatever,” Idiot Ron said, looking confused. He stalked off to his room, closely followed by Potter, who threw a look of gratitude behind him.
But that was nothing compared to the look he was getting from Ginny. Draco felt about ten feet tall.
“That was so nice of you,” she said, standing up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
Draco grabbed her hands and used the leverage to pull her arms around him, causing her to stumble forward. “That had nothing to do with it,” he said against her lips, and kissed her hard.
He was sliding his hand up the back of her jumper when she pulled away, laughing. “I’m sweaty, Draco, and so are you.”
Draco reached for her again, wanting to feel her soft skin against his fingertips. “We’ll be a lot sweatier than this when we’re through.”
“Stop it!” she squealed, slapping his hands away. “They’ll be coming back out any minute now, and I still have to get showered and dressed.”
“We’d save a lot of time if we did that together...”
Ginny waggled a finger at him. “Behave yourself, Malfoy, or I won’t help you make dinner.” Grinning, she turned and headed toward her room.
“Who says I need help making dinner?” Draco called after her, slightly miffed. What was so difficult about making a meal? Just because he didn’t want to do it didn’t mean he couldn’t do it.
Continued here. (Story was too long and LJ wouldn't let me post the whole thing in one entry. Grrr.)
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*sniffs*