We're Kissing 'Cause It's Christmas

We're kissing 'Cause It's Christmas

Ron was exceedingly pissed off. Everyone else had gone on bloody holiday without him. His mum and dad were in Romania, Ginny was off visiting Dean, Hermione had gone home and Harry had buggered off with Luna. And they were all leaving Ron alone. The bastards.

Of course, Hermione had offered him a bed at her house, but from the way she'd said it, Ron was certain she'd meant her bed. And certainly not alone.

Harry and Luna had suggested that he stay at Luna's with him, but Ron could tell that Harry didn't really mean it and he didn't want to play gooseberry.

Ginny, the prat, hadn't offered him anywhere to stay. And Ron had thought Christmas was about the family.

The only reason he hadn't topped himself in true festive spirit, was because Dumbledore had given the seventh years permission to visit Hogsmeade whenever they liked over the holiday period. Ron enjoyed this. He wandered around while the snow and wind whirled about him, white icy flecks landing in his hair. He played chess against the foul old men in the Hog's Head and beat them. He curled up in front of the roaring fire at The Three Broomsticks and drunken mug after mug of toasty Butterbeer - hoping that if he drank enough, he'd be completely inebriated for the rest of the Christmas season and wouldn't remember a thing. Sadly, although it had worked for Winky, it looked like it wasn't going to work for him.

*

It was Christmas morning. Ron sighed and tried to move but he couldn't. His bed was covered with presents. He sneered and tried to get out of bed, fully intending to ignore the 'guilt' gifts. He couldn't get out.

"Bloody hell!" he yelled at no one in particular. "I'll just have to open them."

They were moderately satisfactory for the most part - a Chudley Canons poster from Ginny, a giant chocolate Santa Claus from Harry and Luna (who had taken to doing everything together), an engraved watch from Hermione and the obligatory Weasley sweater, amongst other things. Despite himself, he felt better after opening all his presents and ventured into the Great Hall for food.

He walked in and remembered another reason why Christmas bit the big one this year. Draco Malfoy was sitting, alone, at the Slytherin table, miserably peeling the tops off mince pies and eating the innards.

Ron almost left the Great Hall, then and there, but decided he couldn't be bothered. And, his stomach said, chiming in, food!

*

Christmas dinner was that night. Ron couldn't face it. All those people, all not his friends. He wandered down the path to Hogsmeade, intent on playing some chess and maybe seeing if he could get Firewhiskey off Aberforth Dumbledore. Because it's Christmas.

It worked. Glass of Firewhiskey in hand, Ron looked around the room for a table and a game of chess. All the tables were full. Only one had a single occupant, idly fiddling with a chess piece.

"Malfoy?" Ron asked, his voice incredulous. "You don't play chess."

"Yes, I do," Malfoy said, but his voice lacked its usual spite. "And I bet that I'm better than you too."

Ron glared. "Right," he said, pulling up a chair and slopping Firewhiskey down the front of his robes. "We'll just see about that."

They began to play and Ron found himself enjoying it. After an hour or so, the game was no longer played in silence but become rather raucous and Ron found himself enjoying it immensely. Malfoy had been right: he was very good. The first worthy opponent Ron'd had since Bill.

He also found himself enjoying the way Malfoy's pale hair flopped endearingly in front of his mouth and the way he'd blow it away with an irritated huff of air.

"Checkmate," Ron said, with some amusement, several hours later. "We'd better get back to the castle before Dumbledore does his nut."

Malfoy looked at him, his grey eyes slightly unfocused. "Right. Right."

They both stood up, wobbling slightly and made their way out of the pub. They were halfway up the path to Hogwarts when Malfoy collapsed in the snow.

"Fuck," Ron muttered. He lit the end of his wand and bent down towards Malfoy. Unconscious, Malfoy looked delicate and innocent. His long pale lashes fluttered open and he looked up at Ron.

"Ron?" There was a tremble in his voice that must have made girls melt. But not Ron. No.

"Yeah. Can you stand up, Malfoy?"

"Draco," Malfoy said, looking lost.

Ron smirked. "You're going to regret this in the morning, Malfoy." He could've sworn the poncy git was flirting with him.

Draco smiled, the first real smile that Ron had seen him give. In the dim light, Ron could see that it brightened his face and made him look ... sexy?

"Urgh," he said, stumbling away from Draco, who was, quite frankly, looking utterly irresistible.

Draco smile more widely. "I want you, Ron," he whispered.

"You're drunk," Ron said, trying valiantly to laugh. But it sounded flat and dull. Ron had been so sure that he didn't swing that way. But then, he was completely off his face ...

"No one can hold you to account for what you do when you're drunk," Ron whispered, and leaned forward. His lips met Draco's. They were soft and tasted like Firewhiskey, bitter but warm. He felt Draco run a finger through his red mop of hair and, with the other hand, caress Ron's cheek.

This is good, Ron thought. This is really good.

Draco's hot breath was on his ear. "I'm not that drunk actually."

And Ron realised that he wasn't either.