Ficlet: Master Plan
Title: Master Plan
Word Count and Rating: 820, PG
Summary: What's a little white lie (or two) if it guarantees a happy Christmas?
Notes: Written for the Holiday Movie Drabble Challenge at dramionedrabble, prompt #15: Eureka! This year Christmas will be--OURS!" -Nightmare Before Christmas and 100quills prompt #008 Wrong.
“Draco?” Hermione's voice echoed from the stairs.
“In here,” he called. “I'm watering the tree.” Draco concentrated on filling the many thimble-sized buckets hidden among the branches. As his wife's footsteps approached, he said over his shoulder, “Fairy lights may be pretty, but I think the little buggers must drink their weight each day, what with the way these buckets are always emp-Hermione?”
Hermione had a worried frown on her face and was tapping a small envelope against her palm.
“I just received the strangest letter from my mother. Look at this.” She passed him the envelope.
Draco slowly unfolded the letter, jarred as always by the bright white glare of Muggle paper. In his mother-in-law's smooth script he read “Dear Hermione, Dad and I are very worried about you and Draco. Of course, it is disappointing that you cannot be with us this Christmas, but your health comes first. If only it wasn't so contagious! Owl us as soon as you're feeling better. Perhaps we will see the two of you over the New Year. Love, Mum.”
His mouth was so dry, his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. “Um...”
“They think we're sick! And that we're not coming for Christmas.” She took the letter back and frowned at it in confusion. “Why would they think such a thing? They just saw us last weekend.” Sitting down at the writing desk in the corner, Hermione opened the drawer and rummaged for stationary. “I'd best write her back immediately. This is why I'd like a telephone, Draco. Owls are fast, but a telephone call could have this straightened out in minutes--” She froze, staring down into the drawer.
Draco sighed and stared up at the ceiling.
“What have you done?” Hermione asked through gritted teeth.
He shrugged.
Incredulous, Hermione pulled a piece of parchment embellished with the Malfoy crest out of the drawer. Elbows on the desktop, she cleared her throat and read aloud, “'Son, Christmas or no Christmas, under no circumstances are you to return to the Manor until this Muggle disease has run its course.'" Hermione glared at Draco from over the top of the parchment. "'Your mother is beside herself and recommends Dimwimple's Dysentery Deporter for the diarrhea and essence of mugwort for the pustules. This is what comes from consorting with Muggleborns and their families.'" She tossed the parchment onto the desktop.
"He wasn't trying to be mean," Draco said weakly.
"Oh, no?" Hermione snatched the parchment up again. "'Postscript,'" she read, "'Have the sense to burn this before your wife finds it. The last thing I need is another lecture on why I should be nice to your in-laws.'"
He grimaced. "Father is just concerned, that's all."
"Concerned over an imaginary illness," she exploded. "I can't believe you lied to my parents and told them we were too sick to celebrate Christmas. I really can't believe you told your father, with his history, that my Muggle family gave you a disease." She shook her head. "Do you not see how wrong this is?"
“I just wanted a holiday alone with you,” Draco pouted. “This is our fourth Christmas together, and we never get a moment to ourselves.” He sat on a corner of the desk. “Every year it's the same: Christmas eve and Christmas morning at the Manor, the rest of Christmas Day and Boxing Day at your parents' house. I want some you-and-me time.”
Hermione rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “So to get 'you-and-me time,' you decided to tell our families we're grievously ill? Or, in your case, contaminated?”
“Well, yes.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “This year, Christmas is ours. What's a little white lie or two if it keeps our parents' feelings from being hurt and keeps them out of our hair?”
“I'm all for having a Christmas just for the two of us, Draco.”
“You are?” he asked, hopeful.
“Yes. It's a brilliant idea, and one that's long overdue.” Hermione pulled two pieces of parchment from the drawer, placing them on the desk. “But you're wrong if you think what you did qualifies as a little white lie, especially the lie you told your father.” She stood up and circled the desk, taking him by the shoulders and walking him backward until he fell into the desk chair and she could climb onto his lap. “I'm not going to spend the New Year lying to our families,” she said firmly, “so make this right.”
“It's not going to be a very happy Christmas after my parents start bombarding the house with Howlers,” he grumbled, picking up the quill.
Hermione transfigured the letter opener into a sprig of mistletoe and held it over Draco's head. “That's nothing. You just wait until my mother gets through with you.”
Word Count and Rating: 820, PG
Summary: What's a little white lie (or two) if it guarantees a happy Christmas?
Notes: Written for the Holiday Movie Drabble Challenge at dramionedrabble, prompt #15: Eureka! This year Christmas will be--OURS!" -Nightmare Before Christmas and 100quills prompt #008 Wrong.
“Draco?” Hermione's voice echoed from the stairs.
“In here,” he called. “I'm watering the tree.” Draco concentrated on filling the many thimble-sized buckets hidden among the branches. As his wife's footsteps approached, he said over his shoulder, “Fairy lights may be pretty, but I think the little buggers must drink their weight each day, what with the way these buckets are always emp-Hermione?”
Hermione had a worried frown on her face and was tapping a small envelope against her palm.
“I just received the strangest letter from my mother. Look at this.” She passed him the envelope.
Draco slowly unfolded the letter, jarred as always by the bright white glare of Muggle paper. In his mother-in-law's smooth script he read “Dear Hermione, Dad and I are very worried about you and Draco. Of course, it is disappointing that you cannot be with us this Christmas, but your health comes first. If only it wasn't so contagious! Owl us as soon as you're feeling better. Perhaps we will see the two of you over the New Year. Love, Mum.”
His mouth was so dry, his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. “Um...”
“They think we're sick! And that we're not coming for Christmas.” She took the letter back and frowned at it in confusion. “Why would they think such a thing? They just saw us last weekend.” Sitting down at the writing desk in the corner, Hermione opened the drawer and rummaged for stationary. “I'd best write her back immediately. This is why I'd like a telephone, Draco. Owls are fast, but a telephone call could have this straightened out in minutes--” She froze, staring down into the drawer.
Draco sighed and stared up at the ceiling.
“What have you done?” Hermione asked through gritted teeth.
He shrugged.
Incredulous, Hermione pulled a piece of parchment embellished with the Malfoy crest out of the drawer. Elbows on the desktop, she cleared her throat and read aloud, “'Son, Christmas or no Christmas, under no circumstances are you to return to the Manor until this Muggle disease has run its course.'" Hermione glared at Draco from over the top of the parchment. "'Your mother is beside herself and recommends Dimwimple's Dysentery Deporter for the diarrhea and essence of mugwort for the pustules. This is what comes from consorting with Muggleborns and their families.'" She tossed the parchment onto the desktop.
"He wasn't trying to be mean," Draco said weakly.
"Oh, no?" Hermione snatched the parchment up again. "'Postscript,'" she read, "'Have the sense to burn this before your wife finds it. The last thing I need is another lecture on why I should be nice to your in-laws.'"
He grimaced. "Father is just concerned, that's all."
"Concerned over an imaginary illness," she exploded. "I can't believe you lied to my parents and told them we were too sick to celebrate Christmas. I really can't believe you told your father, with his history, that my Muggle family gave you a disease." She shook her head. "Do you not see how wrong this is?"
“I just wanted a holiday alone with you,” Draco pouted. “This is our fourth Christmas together, and we never get a moment to ourselves.” He sat on a corner of the desk. “Every year it's the same: Christmas eve and Christmas morning at the Manor, the rest of Christmas Day and Boxing Day at your parents' house. I want some you-and-me time.”
Hermione rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “So to get 'you-and-me time,' you decided to tell our families we're grievously ill? Or, in your case, contaminated?”
“Well, yes.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “This year, Christmas is ours. What's a little white lie or two if it keeps our parents' feelings from being hurt and keeps them out of our hair?”
“I'm all for having a Christmas just for the two of us, Draco.”
“You are?” he asked, hopeful.
“Yes. It's a brilliant idea, and one that's long overdue.” Hermione pulled two pieces of parchment from the drawer, placing them on the desk. “But you're wrong if you think what you did qualifies as a little white lie, especially the lie you told your father.” She stood up and circled the desk, taking him by the shoulders and walking him backward until he fell into the desk chair and she could climb onto his lap. “I'm not going to spend the New Year lying to our families,” she said firmly, “so make this right.”
“It's not going to be a very happy Christmas after my parents start bombarding the house with Howlers,” he grumbled, picking up the quill.
Hermione transfigured the letter opener into a sprig of mistletoe and held it over Draco's head. “That's nothing. You just wait until my mother gets through with you.”