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Draco sighs and leans against the counter. He’s wrapped all the gifts, following Harry’s daft Hogwarts-house-colour wrapping scheme, he’s cleaned the kitchen, he’s organised a drawerful of coupons (how did they end up with dozens of coupons for Fortescue’s peppermint chocolate holiday flavour?). The shopping is done, the gifts piled into stacks based on where they need to go—one huge stack for the Burrow; one small stack for the Manor; one stack Shrunken and packaged to post to Albus and Scorpius in California; the rest of their children’s and grandchildren’s gifts—and Harry’s gifts—under the tree.
Harry is late.
Draco contemplates making eggnog, for something holiday-themed to fill his time (because he will not do one bit more work until January, as a matter of principle!), but truthfully he doesn’t even like eggnog. He suspects he may be nutmeg intolerant, though he hasn’t voiced that suspicion. James will never let him hear the end of it if he adds another food to the list of things he cannot eat. (Last month, James taught Tonks, only six years old, to ask Draco, ‘Grandfather, can you eat this?’ every time Draco tried to eat anything.)
It’s not a surprise that Harry is late. Harry is always late when he goes to Wheezes. He always ends up drinking Firewhiskey with George as they test new products. One time, years and years ago, Harry was so late that Draco grew worried they’d managed to explode themselves somehow, so he had Flooed there in a nervous tizzy only to find Harry and George, drunk, wearing pirate hats and prank-Flooing Ron.
He reaches into the pocket of his Christmas joggers—they’re green to complement Harry’s red ones, gifted by Lily who had made them herself for the entire family seven or eight years ago—and pulls out his phone. He immediately swipes away a bunch of news alerts from the Prophet app and opens his messages. His oldest grandchild, Capella, has sent him a message that says, “I’M FREE UNTIL JANUARY!” followed by a bunch of Christmas emoji and then, “Can you help me with my potions homework? PS Merry Christmas!” Draco snorts, amused, and texts her back in the affirmative. He hates that Scorpius and Albus live so far away, but he can’t be too upset, as he talks with his son and his granddaughter almost daily. That, and it’s an excellent excuse for multiple trips to California each year.
He’s just thumbing to his message thread with Harry when the Floo wooshes. Draco tosses his phone on the counter and walks into the living room, then freezes.
At first he thinks it is Albus, come for a surprise visit from Santa Cruz, but no—he’s wearing glasses and the red Christmas joggers Harry’d been wearing this morning, and he has the famous scar. It’s definitely Harry, but he looks much younger than even Albus.
Harry grins widely, hands out to the side, and says, “Well? Did it work?”
“What did you do.”
“How do I look?”
“What did you do.”
Harry looks young. Like, just finished Hogwarts young. Except Harry never looked like this, back then. Harry at the end of the war was half-starved and scraggle-haired, wearing clothes that didn’t fit and looking like the dangerous, slightly paranoid child-warrior that he was. This Harry doesn’t look like that. He looks healthy, robust, pink-cheeked, happy. And about eighteen. His red Christmas joggers are falling down on his slender hips, the years of treacle tarts and lagers and Shepherds Pie Wednesdays melted away.
“George and I were testing a new product,” Harry says, laughing, his young eyes sparkling behind glasses that are more stylish than anything Harry wore when he was the age he looks. “How do I look?!”
“You look like Albus just found out that Capella was not his first child. You look young enough to be on the Wall of Grandchildren.” Draco pauses, flinging a hand to gesture at the wall to the left of the hearth, which is covered with dozens of framed photos. “Why were you testing Age-Regressing Potions? Surely you know those potions are completely tested and regulated by the Ministry.”
“It’s not an Age-Regressing Potion!” Harry says, and Merlin, even his voice sounds different. Higher and less scratchy. “It’s a potion that changes according to your lover. I had to put one of your hairs in it, luckily you shed like a kneazle and I found like ten on my coat.”
Draco presses his lips together. “What the fuck did you do.”
“Okay, okay, listen!” Harry says, excited. “It’s a novelty potion that makes you look like the age your lover thought you were most attractive. For….er, a few hours, we think. We’re not really sure yet. It’s for George’s new Silver Sorcerers line.”
“Silver—oh, good grief.” Draco sighs, pinching his nose. “Harry, I just wanted to start our Christmas traditions. We still need to charm the cards, and we need to make four different lasagnas—one no meat, one no ricotta, one vegan, one gluten-free. And I thought we might mull that bottle of grenache, if you fancy.”
Harry, who is definitely drunk and looks young enough that Draco wants to sternly remind him not to drink and Apparate, steps closer. “Come off it, Draco! The magic says this is when you found me the most attractive! So like, let’s take advantage of it! We can make the lasagnas later. Admit that you’re attracted to me, and think the peak of my attractiveness was when we were in school.”
Draco rolls his eyes. “I admitted that a long time ago. But I will not admit that I find this version of you particularly attractive, because you look...doughy. Like an underbaked infant.”
Harry frowns. “But the spellwork was precise, the magic should identify—”
“Your magic must be wrong,” Draco insists, horrified that Harry now thinks he’s some sort of, some sort of—sugar daddy wannabe. “I find you most fit when you let me choose your dress robes for functions you don’t want to attend.”
Harry scoffs. “That’s a lie! You find me most attractive when I wear that flannel shirt Al got me and chop wood for exercise.”
Draco’s cheeks heat. “I’ve told you multiple times: I do not have a thing for the axe aesthetic.”
Harry steps closer. “Oh, but you do. I was sure that when I took the potion, I’d look, like, thirty-five. Remember? When my beard first started to go grey and I was going to the gym a lot because everyone was doing wizard CrossFit back then? George nearly busted a spleen laughing when I ended up looking like this. He was calling me jailbait when I left.”
Draco opens his mouth to object, but finds that he’s in a tight spot. If he admits that he finds Harry sexiest when he’s chopping wood, it will contradict years of claims to the contrary. But if he doesn’t say that, Harry will think Draco finds him sexiest like this, looking young enough to run afoul of the Restriction Against Underage Magic. “Your magic must be wrong,” Draco says carefully. “Would you like me to review the potion?”
Harry sighs. “Yeah, okay. I have the magical proof here. But I’m telling you, it’s not wrong!”
Draco holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers impatiently. Harry hands him the paper and Draco sits on the sofa, crossing his legs and Summoning his glasses from the coffee table.
Harry plops onto the other end of the sofa, flinging his much-too-young feet into Draco’s lap. Goodness, he must even be shorter, because the Christmas joggers are hanging over the back of his heels. “I was so excited to see your reaction, too.”
Draco looks at him. Harry looks put out. “Have I—have I hurt your feelings by not being attracted to a teenager?”
“Not a teenager, me as a teenager!” Harry clarifies. “And not the teenager part, really. I didn’t expect to be a teenager. But I was excited to be whatever you thought was most attractive.”
Draco’s nose crinkles. “But I always think you’re attractive. Why would you…?”
“Well yeah, you think I’m attractive because you have to think I’m attractive,” Harry says. “Because I’m the only person you ever see naked or have sex with. But I mean like, really attractive. I know we’re not as fit as we used to be.”
“Speak for yourself,” Draco says, looking back at the paper. George’s spiky handwriting spells out the magical proof for the potion. The Age-Regression part is straightforward, he just needs to find the part where they incorporate the desire of the subject.
“Oh stop,” Harry says. “You know I still think you’re fit. But we’re both kinda, you know. Saggy. Grandfathery.”
Aha, here’s the place where the magical identity established by Draco’s DNA matter is used to determine desire. And, oh.
“Your magic is wrong,” Draco says, quieter now.
“No way!” Harry says. “How?”
“You—you didn’t find when I found you most attractive. You found how old you were when I was most attracted to you.”
“Huh?” Harry asks, confusion marring his juvenile face. “But that’s not—we weren’t—”
“I know,” Draco says. “I—you must realise I found you fit before we got together, seeing as I found you fit when we did.”
“But the most you were ever attracted to me?” Harry blurts, laughing and then covering his mouth with his hand. “But Draco. How old do I look? Seventeen? Eighteen? I know how much you were attracted to me when we were older, when we were fucking each other’s brains out five times a day, and somehow it was more? Then?!”
“Well,” Draco says, trying to retain some level of composure, “I thought I was going to die. It was a very dramatic time. And we were young and hormonal.”
Harry raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t know!” Draco says. “I may have sometimes fantasised about it, back then.”
Harry stares at him.
“Oh, don’t give me that. I don’t care to retroactively psychoanalyse my teenage self. Was it you I was attracted to, or was it what you stood for in the war? Was it that you were fit, or that I wanted to be the type of person who could be with you?” Draco smiles sadly. “I don’t know. All of the above?”
Harry pushes off the sofa and makes to climb into Draco’s lap, but Draco holds a hand out and pushes him away. “I am not letting you on my lap like that. You’re making me feel like a lecherous old man.”
“You are a lecherous old man,” Harry says, pointing his finger for emphasis.
“I am not lecherous!” Draco gasps. “And I’m not old!”
“You are 63,” Harry deadpans.
“So are you!”
“Exactly,” Harry says, leaning forward again, “so let me come snog you. It’s perfectly legal.”
“Sometimes things that are legal are still…” Draco fishes for the right word, “...unscrupulous.”
“Close your eyes then,” Harry says, “because I’m coming in.”
Draco sighs and closes his eyes, but he can feel that he’s smiling as Harry sits on his lap and presses a kiss to his cheek, wrapping his arms around Draco’s shoulders and squeezing him tight.
“Thank you for telling me that,” Harry whispers. “About during the war.”
Draco grunts but squeezes Harry back. “For the record, this really isn’t how I find you most attractive. And neither is the flannel lumberwizard look, either.”
“Oh really?” Harry asks, and Draco can feel Harry’s cheek against his, but it’s all wrong—not enough facial hair, too soft.
“The most attractive is just, whatever day it is,” Draco says, feeling like a ridiculous sop but knowing it’s true. “You sitting at the table texting James in your Christmas joggers eating the high-protein breakfast I made even though I know you’d rather have toast. That’s how you’re most attractive.”
“Stop flattering me,” Harry says, pulling back to meet eyes.
“I’m not,” Draco says, raising an eyebrow. “I never flatter you. Just because our libidos aren’t as active as they used to be, doesn’t mean I don’t find you most attractive now.”
Harry snorts, and rubs the back of his hand on his nose. “I don’t believe you.”
“If what you wanted was for me to ravage you,” Draco says, putting mental effort into making his accent as posh as possible, “you should’ve given me one of the libido-enhancing potions from the Silver Sorcerers line, not this. Or honestly, if you wanted me to ravage you, you just had to ask.”
“Draco?” Harry asks, and the name looks so strange on his young face. “Will you ravage me?” He’s joking, Draco can tell, but also serious.
“Yes,” Draco says, smiling, pushing his hand against Harry’s chest. “But not until you’re back to looking your own age.”
Harry frowns.
“Not negotiable,” Draco says, pushing Harry off his lap. “Until then, we can go make the four lasagnas.”
“Fine,” Harry sighs. “Will you put on some music?” Harry stands and walks to the kitchen, and even his walking is odd—gangly, the red Christmas joggers dragging on the floor.
Draco suppresses a smile as he opens his music app, waves his wand to turn on the speakers, and presses play.
A fast guitar riff starts, and a moment later Harry appears in the doorway, hand on his hip, looking for all the world like an angsty teen.
“Load up on guns, bring your friends, it’s fun to lose and to pretend.”
“Very funny, Draco.” Harry waves his wand and the music changes to Christmas carols.
Draco throws his head back and laughs.