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“Happy Christmas, Malfoy.”
Harry reaches across the table for the peppermint oil, only to be slapped on the hand by his potions partner.
“Not yet, Potter! You’ll ruin the brew! And quit saying that.”
Malfoy focuses on chopping the rose thorn into fine segments while Harry leans nonchalantly on his hand.
“Why? Aren’t you excited for the holidays?”
“Forgive me, returning to an empty home sounds rather appealing, doesn’t it?”
Harry purses his lips, contemplating. He suddenly realizes that Malfoy’s staring at him. A jolt of electricity runs a prickly shock down his spine.
“Well? The peppermint oil?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Harry taps the vial precisely three times, and the potion morphs into the color of sage. He’s distracted by the sharp pierce of Malfoy’s stare.
Surprisingly, there’s no criticism, only the accidental brush of Malfoy’s hand against his as he begins to stir counter-clockwise. His skin tingles in its wake.
“Congratulations, Potter, you didn’t screw it up this time.”
Harry’s still lost in thought, finally snapping back to reality with the buzzing excitement of a new idea.
“Malfoy. Come to the Burrow with me.” He’s beaming, proud of himself like never before.
“Wh-what?”
“The Weasley’s. It’s never empty. Quite the opposite actually.”
Malfoy studies the potion, which has begun to emit spirals of steam.
“Why should I?”
“Because spending Christmas with your arch nemesis has got to be better than spending it alone.”
He smirks. “Please, Potter. I thought we were beyond all of that nonsense now.”
“That’s right. I guess our rivalry died with Voldemort?”
Malfoy still winces a bit at the name. His eyes are focused on the cauldron.
“It’ll be fun, Draco. Please.”
His gaze snaps up, and Harry’s smiling softly. The name seemed to roll from his tongue in an effortless and fateful manner.
“You- why did you call me that?”
“Isn’t it your name?”
There’s a pause, and suddenly Draco’s laughing.
“Yeah, I guess it is. Twat.”
Harry giggles; he can’t help himself.
Malfoy’s smile fades. “Do you smell anything?”
“No, why?”
“Fuck. We screwed up the potion, dimwit.”
Harry leans forward, invading Malfoy’s space. It’s a gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Malfoy’s hands shake a bit.
“Yeah, I smell nothing.”
Malfoy sighs.
“Alright, we’re wrapping up! Let me check your work before I dismiss you all for winter break.” Slughorn starts making his rounds, and Malfoy’s shoulders slump disappointedly.
“I don’t understand,” he pipes, “I never fail at potions.”
“It’s probably my fault.” Harry shrugs. “Too much peppermint, maybe?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Malfoy’s thoughtful as Slughorn approaches their table.
“Very well done, boys! A perfect concoction if I may say so myself! A flawless balance of smoked wood scent and plum pudding!”
Harry scrunches his nose at the thought of plum pudding. Draco watches confusedly as Slughorn teeters away to Seamus and Dean’s boiling brew.
“I- I don’t understand,” he states.
“I know. Plum pudding is disgusting.”
“No, you prat. It worked for Slughorn but we- we didn’t smell anything.”
“Maybe we’re immune to amortentia.”
“Maybe we-“ Malfoy freezes, a sudden dawning transforming his cheeks to a rosy pink.
Harry tilts his head, brow creased with confusion as he overhears the factual proclamations of Hermione: “I used to smell freshly cut grass, Ronald, but now I seem to only sense a very potent version of you.”
Harry draws in a breath and is suddenly very aware of Malfoy’s presence beside him. It’s intoxicating- potent- and he-
Oh. Oh. Fuck.
He snaps to find Malfoy already staring. His face is red; he looks like he might be sick.
“Malfoy, I think we used the right amount of peppermint oil.”
He nods subtly.
Harry gulps, then decides that life is far too short to miss chances. Especially during the season of Christmas.
“Please. Come to the Burrow with me. I want you there.”
He nods again with a ruminating pause. “Okay.”
Harry smiles, and it lights up his entire face. One word that, coming from the boy beside him, means everything.
“I knew you’d come to your senses eventually.”
“Shut up.”
“Draco?”
“Yes?”
“Happy Christmas.”
He laughs at the sentiment, rolling his eyes facetiously.
“Happy Christmas, Scarhead.”
Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever stop smiling again. It would be a very Happy Christmas, indeed.