Mistletoe

Eighth Year
Harry

Look, It's not that I don't like Christmas. I love Christmas. At least, I did. But that's the thing about war: it fucks everything up.

This time last year, I was in Godric's Hollow with Hermione, trying to fight Voldemort. So I suppose this year should be a vast improvement, considering I'm not on the run from a crazy psychopathic dark wizard and all that, but it isn't. In fact, it sucks. Which is why I'm currently sitting here, in The Three Broomsticks, with half a pint of Firewhiskey and no one to talk to. Everyone I might be with is currently getting wasted back at the eighth year dorm's Christmas Party, leaving me to run away from the crowds on my own. I don't mind that though - I find it increasingly difficult to be around people these days.

There are plus sides to being a recluse. You learn a lot about people because, as you aren't talking to anyone, you can watch other people talk to each other. You see things no one else notices: furtive glances, wondering eyes, the briefest change in expression. You get very good at guessing people's relationships to each other. So I'm not actually just sitting here, looking sad and lonely. I'm observing. And it is as I'm observing that I notice none other than Draco Malfoy walk in, looking positively pissed off. In fact, he's so angry that when he opens the door, he does it with enough force to knock heavily into a dwarf, who had been standing - and is now lying on his face - behind it. The little guy springs up, and appears to be about to verbally assault Malfoy, but Draco gets's there first. I can't hear what he's saying, but all anger disappears from his face as he apologises profusely. The dwarf, clearly disarmed, nods gruffly before turning back round to continue whatever conversation he's having. Draco's face returns to its previous angry expression, and he stalks over to the bar, taking the only empty seat - the one beside me. He hasn't noticed me yet, and orders a shot of thick liqueur. Only after downing the shot does he catch sight of me.

"Oh. Potter. Didn't see you there."

I look him up and down, taking in his dishevelled appearance, and a scratch down the side of his neck which is still staining his white shirt with blood. Draco and I aren't on good terms. We aren't on bad terms either. We're not really on terms, at all. We don't have any classes together, so we don't need to be.

"Rough night?" I ask, not really joking.

He turns away and studies his empty shot glass. "If you count two of the people you used to think of as friends cornering you outside the dorm and attempting to beat the shit out of you, then yes. It has been a rather rough night."

I don't immediately answer, but instead get the barman's attention and ask him for some wet paper towels.

"Here," I hand them to him. "Put these against the cut on your neck."

He doesn't thank me, just takes the towels and holds them against his torn skin. I sip my Firewhiskey. Eventually, he turns to me again.

"So, Chosen One, why're you here? Shouldn't you be with your adoring fans at the party?"

I raise my eyebrows. "You really think I want to be at a party? I hate people."

Draco shrugs. "I didn't know that. I don't know anything about you."

"Neither do I." I laugh. He looks confused.

"What d'you mean by that?"

I shake my head. "Nothing."

He turns to look at me, piercing blue eyes studying my face, and the turns back to the bar and orders another two of his chocolate liqueurs.

"Look at us," He says moodily. "It's fucking Christmas Eve. We should be happy." and he hands me one of the drinks.