The Things We Never Say

THE THINGS WE NEVER SAY

Unexpected Gifts

Chapter Eight

Draco packs the last thing into his truck. He flips his wand about and it shuts and locks itself. In a moment of frustrated weariness, he sits down on his trunk and cradles his head in his hands. Releasing a heavy sigh, he closes his eyes.

The door to his dorm slams open. He glances up in annoyance to see Crabbe holding a box wrapped in shiny red paper tied with a gold bow. He frowns immediately; the colors remind him of the Gryffindors which reminds him of Hermione.

"What is it?" Draco asks, thinking Crabbe has a present he wants to show him.

"A gift," Crabbe mumbles.

"That's nice, Crabbe. Now if you don't mind, I'd like some privacy."

"But...it's for you," Crabbe says, awkwardly holding the box out toward Draco.

"For me?" he asks in surprise as he stands up and reaches out for the box.

Once Crabbe hands the box to Draco he walks out of the room. Draco returns to his trunk and sits down. It's not yet Christmas. He wonders who would have given him a gift.

He pulls the gold ribbon and then tears off the shiny red wrapping paper. He frowns in confusion as he lifts the top off the box and peers inside. He pulls out a green plant. A tiny note has been tied to one of the branches. He flips it over and recognizes Hermione's handwriting. The note merely says, For you at Christmas.

Draco's frown deepens and creases his forehead. Why would Hermione give him a plant? He doesn't even know what kind of plant it is--and then an idea strikes him. Perhaps it is a plant that holds some sort of magical powers. He figures he has enough to time to run down and find Professor Sprout in the greenhouses.

He ignores the questions he hears asked when he hurries through the common room. He holds the plant near his chest and then covers it in his robes when he exits onto the grounds. The ground is covered in snow and the wind is chilling, but he hurries on toward the greenhouses.

He bursts through the door to greenhouse four and luckily sees Professor Sprout leaning over a tiny singing flower. She pats its petals lovingly and looks up at him.

"Mr. Malfoy? Is everything all right?" she asks, watching him as he pulls the green plant out of his robes.

"This plant," he says out of breath, "what is it?"

Professor Sprout looks at him strangely but walks over and lifts the plant in her hands. "Where did you get this?" she wonders.

"It was," he tries to steady his breathing, "a gift."

"Very well."

"Do you know what it is?" he asks impatiently.

"Of course I do, Mr. Malfoy," she replies indignantly.

"Well, what is it?" he pleads.

"It is Thyme, Mr. Malfoy. Creeping Thyme to be exact."

"Time?" he asks in confusion. "That doesn't make sense. How can time be a plant?"

Professor Sprout chuckles, understanding his confusion. "Not time as in time on a clock but thyme spelled T-h-y-m-e. It is an herbal plant. But," she pauses, "I suppose you could look at it in an abstract way." She smiles. "Evidently someone has given you some time, Mr. Malfoy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get these new babies tucked in for the holidays."
"Oh, yeah, sure," he mumbles, looking down at the green plant with its tiny round leaves. He picks up the plant and begins walking back toward the castle.

Hermione has given me time, he thinks. And then he smiles as he shields the plant inside his robes. The smile doesn't leave his face until he stands outside the portrait to his common room.

* * * *

Draco doesn't see Hermione as he boards the Hogwarts Express, and he wonders if she isn't going home for the holidays. He thinks maybe he would thank her for the gift, tell her he understood its meaning, but deep inside he knows he's not ready to see her yet, not ready for everyone to see them together.

When he finally arrives at Malfoy Manor he pushes open the front door with a grunt. His trunk is following close behind, and he's holding the plant in his arm. He calls out to his mother. Usually she meets him in the foyer with a hug or a gift, but he knows she's been depressed more lately because of his father.

He walks into the large sitting room on the ground floor where a tree has been decorated with ornaments and strung with lights. A fire is roaring in the hearth; a plate of half eaten gingerbread cookies are sitting on a tray on the coffee table. Three stockings have been hung from the mantle. He wonders when his mother will quit hanging one for his father--perhaps never.

He places the plant on the edge of the coffee table and looks at it, touches its leaves gently. He lifts a gingerbread man and takes a bite. He doesn't hear his mother enter in behind him. Before he knows it, she is sitting down beside him on the couch.

"Mum," he says startled.

She smiles and he can see her eyes are tired beneath her perfect makeup. She takes a long look at his face, and he thinks she sees his father in his eyes. He sometimes wishes he didn't resemble his father so much--perhaps then his mother would smile more when she looked at him. Her eyes shift over to the plant on the coffee table.

"Thyme," she says softly.

"Yeah," he says, looking over at the plant, too. He reaches out and touches a branch.

"A gift?" she asks.

He nods.

"From a girl?"

He turns and looks at her, question in his eyes. "Yeah."

"Someone special?" she wonders, and Draco is surprised. His mother and he have never talked of his relationships...never.

His first reaction is to lie, but his second, and much stronger instinct, is to tell her the truth. "Perhaps."

She smiles and stares at the plant. She extends her slender fingers out and touches the leaves, rubs a few of them between her fingers. A watery expression fills her eyes, and Draco feels as if she is slipping into a distant dream.

"I was given Thyme once," she begins softly.

"Really?" He immediately thinks it was from his father, and wonders why he would have given her such a thing.

"Yes. It was a gift from someone I cared for...cared for a great deal."

"From Father?" he asks, confident of the answer.

She pulls her gaze away from the plant for a moment and looks at him. She shakes her head sadly. "No. It wasn't from your father."

"But...but you said you cared for him a great deal. Who was it if it wasn't Father?" he asks.

"I fell in love when I was at Hogwarts, and it wasn't with your father." Seeing the shocked expression on Draco's face, she sighs and smiles sadly. "I loved your Father, Draco. But I was in love with someone else. We were...less than an acceptable couple in some people's eyes. It would have caused so much heartache for both of us. But," she pauses to smile and wipe a rogue tear from her cheek, "he gave me Thyme."

"And?" Draco asks, riveted and stunned to learn this about his mother. "What did you do with it?"

She looks at Draco and pushes a stray piece of hair behind his ear. He has never seen her eyes so weary, so lonely. "I let it die," she whispers. "And I married your father."

Draco turns away from her, looks at the plant and then closes his eyes. "I don't know what I should do with it," he says honestly, fighting conflicting emotions in his heart. Then, he glances back up at his mother. "If you had to do it all over again, would you change that? Would you...keep the plant alive?"

Narcissa touches Draco's face, and it is one of the few moments when they share something personal and loving, something that has not been tainted by his father's past. "No. If I changed my past, I would not have you."

Draco sighs. "But..." he stops himself. He knows it's pointless to fret over his mother's past. He can see it brings about a pain in her eyes that he doesn't want to be there.

She pats his leg and touches the plant once more before standing up. She looks down at Draco. "Would you like my advice?" she asks.

He smiles then. His mother and father are so completely different. His mother asks him if he wants her advice; his father always simply gave it--terrible or not.

"Sure," he admits.

"Water it often." And she smiles as she walks away.

Draco leans back on the couch and sighs. "Water it often?" he mumbles to himself. Thoughts of Hermione drift into his mind and he smiles again. "Sounds like a good idea to me."

He leans his head back and looks over at the Christmas lights, the tree and the stockings hanging from the mantle. He can almost imagine a fourth one there--scarlet, trimmed with gold, full of everything he's ever wanted.