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The Malfoy Manor is dark and cold by the time Harry arrives in the ungodly hour of 3 AM. It is Christmas Day, and the world is right to be cold, and Harry brushes away the snow off the shoulders of his coat. He pats it down, shakes the snow off his hair, before stepping out of the Floo.
Immediately, the warming charms of the Manor cool the ice on his skin, and he lets his shoulders sag in relief at the warmth and feeling of finally being home.
He had been away for a week—too long, and while he is used to long missions, he isn’t used to leaving Draco alone on Christmas Eve. It is their fifth Christmas, but it’s the first one that he’s had to be away.
They've talked about it, and Draco barely even batted an eye when Harry mentioned it—simply understood, as he had numerous times before, that it was part of Harry's station as Head Auror and that no matter their relationship and the occasion, there is a grander scheme of things and there are people needing to be saved.
Briefly, Harry contemplates quitting his position and living a secluded life with his lover in peace and gluttony. He thinks Draco would approve of that. But, he chuckles to himself, he thinks that he would probably go crazy with nothing else to do.
But now he's tired, bone tired, and Draco's upstairs, after having gone to sleep alone while the rest of the world was celebrating, and Harry can't take it, the guilt that twists his stomach and the regret that presses on his chest.
He walks through the halls of the Manor, shrugging off his clothing layer by layer and letting them fall to the floor until only his trousers are left. Quiet pops fill the night, telltale signs of the House Elves dutifully doing their jobs and whisking away his mess. One pops to his right and Harry accepts and puts on the offered sweater with a grateful smile.
He finally reaches his destination, and the kitchen is prepared as he had instructed. Blinky is a good elf, attentive to the finest detail, though a tad bit snappy.
The kitchen, illuminated by numerous floating yellow candles, is spic and span, and on a long marble island in the middle of it all sits his ingredients, all carefully chopped and measured and preserved.
They’re old recipes, hailing from his Aunt Petunia, with advice from Molly, and tweaked to his own taste. He doesn’t cook that much anymore, but it’s an old skill from childhood and one that you don’t really forget. Also, it reminds him of his days in Privet Drive, memories that he really doesn’t care to recall, but he’s getting better. After all, since his relationship with Draco began, he’s started to associate cooking with different memories.
He particularly likes the one in Grimmauld Place two years ago before he had moved to the Manor (before Draco had sweet-talked and pretty much manipulated him), where he ended up on the table rather than the scalloped potatoes he had been cooking.
Besides, Draco likes eating his cooking, no matter how much he gripes that there are House Elves to do the "menial stuff" or no matter how burnt Harry's waffles are.
Despite all the fuss he makes out of it, Harry cooks for him still anyway because he knows that Draco, privately, appreciates the thought behind doing the "menial stuff" for each other. (The sap.)
And tonight he's cooking Draco's favorites: slow cooked roast beef and gamberi e olio d'oliva, pasta tossed in a blend of sun-dried tomatoes and sauteed shrimps. It’s a bit heavy for breakfast, but Harry has a feeling they’ll get out of bed pretty late in the morning anyway.
He rolls his sleeves up, moves towards the sink, and can’t wait for morning to come, for Draco to wake him up, kiss him, fuss over him and his scratches, and greet him good morning and a happy Christmas.
He isn’t disappointed.
He wakes up to a sudden breath-freshening charm and lips pressing down on his own and prying it open. Immediately, he succumbs and opens his mouth, opens himself up and lets himself be gathered in his lover’s arms.
Draco’s kiss is gentle, so are his hands roaming down Harry’s body, and Harry feels himself relaxing into the embrace. He knows that Draco’s hands are seeking for something—wounds, sore spots, broken bones—but they’ll talk about that later.
Right now, Draco’s arms are around him, his mouth is full of Draco’s taste, and his nose is filled with Draco’s fresh scent.
It’s Christmas, and Harry feels the pent-up emotions well up in his chest: the guilt for being away, the longing and need to be together, and the relief that they’re finally in each others’ arms again.
The kiss slows down, and the movements of their tongues become lazy until they’re just repeatedly kissing each others lips, soft sighs coming out in small breaths.
For the first time that morning, Harry opens his eyes, lets the light fill it, lets Draco’s dazzling smile be the first thing he sees.
“Good morning,” Draco whispers, a small smile on his thin lips. The adoration on his face is clear as day, and Harry is grateful that it is still there even after five years.
A hand nonchalantly slides up inside his shirt and rests on the small of his back, big and warm.
Draco’s voice is light and amused. "Did you think that I was going to throw a fit because you missed Christmas Eve with me?"
A smile blooms in Harry’s face as well. "Yes."
"You're damn right I would have. You're lucky I love you so much."
Harry sighs, moves forward and buries his nose in the crook of Draco’s neck. "That, I really am."
He is warm, a stark contrast from last night, when he had been in England in the middle of a snowstorm. It is warm, the blankets are soft, and Draco is beside and all around him. He lets himself sink into the haze of the early morning.
In reply, Draco nuzzles the top of his head and murmurs, "Not as lucky as I am. Head Auror out for a week on a mission, comes home dead tired in the middle of the night, and still goes out of his way to cook breakfast because he doesn't want his fiancé to throw a fit."
The haze disappears.
He rears back, looks at Draco’s face with wide eyes and his mouth agape. "His... his what?"
Draco's cheeks are pink as he coughs and repeats himself. "His fiancé." He looks away and waves vaguely towards Harry's hand on his chest.
It's a silver ring.
Harry's eyes are suspiciously damp. "Did you... last night..." And his voice, embarrassingly, trails off, and Draco smiles warmly at it.
"I mean, you missed Christmas Eve with me. The least you could do is give me the rest of your life. I mean. If it's amenable to you."
And Harry laughs, thinks that the secluded life of peace and gluttony doesn’t sound that bad, and wipes his tears away.
"Yes. Yes."