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Chapter 17 — Christmas Complications
As Christmas drew near, a warm cheer settled over Hogwarts. Students walked the corridors with bright faces, and the Great Hall looked more spectacular than ever. Holly and mistletoe ribbons draped the stone walls, and twelve towering Christmas trees gleamed in the hall—some dripping with tiny silver icicles, others glowing with hundreds of floating candles. The entire castle felt wrapped in holiday magic.
Unlike many of their classmates, both Harry and Ron signed their names on the list of students staying over the holidays. Harry did it matter-of-factly; Ron did it because the Weasleys were traveling to Romania to visit Charlie.
"Oi, Harry," Ron whispered across the table, "have you noticed Hermione's been acting… weird ever since she found out who Nicolas Flamel was that day?"
"Yeah," Harry said, nodding. "I actually caught her zoning out in class this morning."
"I saw it too," Ron agreed. "And the second class ended, she bolted."
"Something's definitely going on." Harry tapped his knife and fork lightly against his bowl, the metal ringing crisply.
"We should figure something out," Ron said.
Harry nodded again, firmly.
Meanwhile, Malfoy had his own concerns.
He could tell Pansy was avoiding him.
Once or twice could be brushed off as coincidence—but not when it kept happening. Normally, unless Malfoy was hidden away in the library, Pansy was always nearby: at the dining table, in class, even lingering after lessons so he could guide her homework or coach her through a pair of beginner self-defense spells. But lately? Nothing. She hardly came near him. The moment she spotted him, she ran.
Just like now.
"Pansy," Malfoy called casually.
Pansy, who had been curled in one of the common room armchairs, shot upright like a startled rabbit. She fumbled to hide something behind her, then practically stumbled out of the lounge, refusing to even glance at him.
"Is this karmic payback?" Malfoy muttered, helplessly amused.
In the library, Hermione was hunched over an enormous tome. Ever since discovering who Nicolas Flamel truly was, she'd stopped obsessing over sneaking into the Restricted Section. Most of what she needed could be found in the regular stacks—now that she knew exactly what she was searching for.
"No. Focus," she whispered to herself. She normally never lost concentration while studying, but ever since that day… every time she opened a book, memories resurfaced without her permission.
Their tense argument on the train, the quiet apology in the library, the trip to Honeydukes, the fear in his eyes when he faced the troll… and perhaps worst of all, the cold final glance.
Hermione tried—tried so hard—not to think of him. But she couldn't stop. She drifted off in class, drifted off over her homework, drifted off even now, surrounded by dusty books. When warm memories surfaced, she found herself smiling before bitterness crept beneath the curve of her lips.
"Hermione, stop it. Forget him for now," she scolded herself, giving her own cheeks a firm pat.
When Christmas finally arrived, the students remaining at Hogwarts dispersed to their activities—and Malfoy boarded the train home.
Half a day wasn't long or short. Long enough for Malfoy to drift into a comfortable nap before the train slowed to a stop.
Stepping onto the platform, he immediately spotted Narcissa waiting for him.
"Oh, my darling, you've lost so much weight!" Narcissa exclaimed dramatically, pinching his cheeks between elegant fingers. "Is the school feeding you properly? I'll have to speak to your father—he should bring it up at the next Board meeting."
"It's just your imagination, Mother," Malfoy said, deflecting. "Father didn't come?"
"He claims he had something important to do. As though anything could be more important than our son." Narcissa scoffed, clearly unimpressed.
"Well, Mother… perhaps we shouldn't stay standing here? The weather isn't great."
"You're right. Come along quickly. You must be freezing. The fireplace at home is certainly better than the one in that drafty castle," she fussed.
Malfoy resisted the urge to plant his face in his hands.
Using the Floo Network, they returned home swiftly—swift enough to almost justify the miserable dizziness afterward.
After a lavish dinner, Malfoy retreated to his room.
Narcissa sighed downstairs, lamenting that her son was growing up and no longer whispering to his mother—even though he hadn't exactly been talkative before.
Upstairs, Malfoy wasn't resting. He was fretting about Christmas gifts.
"I don't see them much outside meals and classes, but I should give them something," he murmured, wrapping a pair of snack bundles for Crabbe and Goyle.
"Now… the troublesome young lady." He frowned, thinking of Pansy's recent skittish avoidance. He'd gone to Hogsmeade and bought her a massive quill—her old one was shedding badly—and a bottle of rainbow ink.
Then there was Hermione.
Malfoy stared at the blank parchment for a long time.
"I suppose… I'll help her," he muttered at last, scribbling a few quick words on a small note before tying it to an owl's leg.
Once everything was sorted, he felt drowsy and went to bed. Tomorrow, after all, something important awaited.
Night passed quietly.
When he woke, Malfoy rubbed the sleep from his eyes and padded to the Christmas tree in the living room. A heap of colorful boxes sat underneath—gifts from school friends, plus assorted presents from distant relatives he barely remembered.
"Does it feel terrible being ignored by me?" read one letter. Pansy's handwriting practically smirked from the page. "But since I'm so generous, I've decided to give you a Christmas surprise. I knitted you a pair of gloves. You'd better be grateful."
Inside the box sat the gloves—hand-knitted, uneven, a bit lumpy in places, the colors clashing in a way that made Malfoy wince… but they warmed him more than any polished gift could have.
"So that's why you were avoiding me. You wanted to surprise me." Malfoy chuckled softly. The letter sounded proud, but he could practically feel her embarrassment underneath.
It genuinely made him happy.
Crabbe and Goyle's gifts came next: banana-flavoured slug lollipops and orange-flavoured chicken ones. Malfoy made a mental note to introduce them to the meaning of the word petrify.
Last came a tiny slip of parchment, written in neat, graceful handwriting:
Thank you.
"That's good," Malfoy thought.
And for the first time in days, he smiled.
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