Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Draco wakes in the dark, the sound of flapping in his ears. Or not quite, but the whisper of feathers brushing wood.

“Harry?” he calls, untangling the bedding as he sits up. The Christmas lights of the city are twinkling through the window, a strange substitute for stars, and Harry is nowhere to be seen.

Instead, there’s an owl perched on the headboard, wide eyes fixed on Draco, who is too sleepy-startled to move when the owl swoops down to peck a kiss to his cheek before sailing out the open window.

“Harry!” Draco complains, but goes back to sleep.

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Draco wakes to the sound of laughing, muffled by the rain falling outside the window. He pulls on the dressing gown draped over a chair back, and glances back at the empty bed. There’s a single feather lying in the bedclothes.

In the kitchen, Harry is trying to get Teddy out of his wet socks, as Teddy is obstinately trying to draw.

“These are my holiday socks!” Teddy complains, wiggling away from Harry’s grasp. His crayon skids across the paper, and the snowman gets an extra arm.

“They’re soaked,” Draco says, leaning in the doorway. Harry glances up, and smiles.

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“Come on,” Draco coaxes, wrapping Teddy up in his jacket and scarf. “I’m sure your grandmother is missing you already.” He smoothes Teddy’s hair down, and covers it with the hood of the jacket.

“I don’t want to go home,” Teddy protests, squirming. “I want to go to Grandma Molly’s house to make mince pies with Harry.”

“I’m sure they’ll save some for you,” Draco reassures him.

They arrive a little early to a Diagon Alley that is humming with activity.

Teddy crunches on roasted chestnuts as Draco browses a display of tiny carved animals. The stag makes him smile.

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“Have fun,” Narcissa calls as Draco heads out, armed with an Impervious Charm and heavy Wellington boots. The manor grounds are muddy, the sky grey with impending rain, as Draco squelches along to the stand of cedars to gather boughs for wreaths and garlands.

He’s just found some lovely branches when the clouds open up and it begins to pour. From overhead, Harry swoops down to land on his shoulder, shaking his feathers out in Draco’s face.

“Harry!” Draco protests. Harry hoots, laughing, and swoops away again.

“You should have just come with me,” Draco shouts after him, grinning anyway.

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Draco sits at his desk, toying with the wooden aeroplane that Teddy forgot a few visits ago, and traces the grain of the desktop. It makes a funny little map, the exploration of a country he’s never visited. A country that doesn’t exist.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Harry asks, poking his head in. He’s bearing a plate of dried fruit and tiny gingerbread dragons that flap their wings, spouting little bouts of icing flame.

“I’m trying to write to Seamus,” Draco says, avoiding the empty paper, the carefully laid-out pen.

“You’ll figure it out,” Harry says, leaning against him, warm.

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The fire is crackling in the hearth, and Draco is reading a book, or rather pretending to, head resting on Harry’s lap. There’s music playing on the gramophone, a wistful melody that makes him feel oddly melancholy.

Above him, Harry sighs, letting the fingers that were running through Draco’s hair fall to the sofa instead.

“What is it?” Draco asks, twisting his neck to try to catch Harry’s eye.

“I was thinking about something I heard when I was small,” Harry says. “Christmas angels, singing.”

Draco considers. “Are those the white Dementor things?” he asks, frowning.

Harry laughs, melancholy broken.

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“Come back here!” Draco scolds. On the back of the sofa, Harry perches, head cocked. He hoots and takes off flying up the stairs, stolen garland in his talons.

“Fine,” Draco calls, trying not to laugh. He’s still annoyed though.

The flames flare up in the fireplace, and Draco’s barely turned back to the fire before a head flickers into view.

“Oh, hello Draco,” Hermione says. Her curls are twining with the flames, a whimsical picture. “Is Harry around?”

“He’s being a menace,” Draco says, taking advantage of a listener to hear him complain. From upstairs, he hears Harry squawk.

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Harry is out with Hermione. “Plans,” she’d replied, opaque, when Draco had asked.

He meanders along the park path, kicking at the soggy leaves, and tries not to feel forlorn. It’s ridiculous. The afternoon is grey and dreary and he wishes it would snow. Draco sighs and decides to stop indulging himself.

There’s the faintest chiming of bells as he makes his way home, and Draco spends a few moments craning his head before he spots the small dog out for a walk, collar jangling. Its short-legged stride is too cute, and as he heads home, Draco unconsciously starts humming.

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“Did you know that girl reindeer have antlers?” Teddy asks. They’re snuggled on the sofa, reading stories.

Harry pauses his narration of a very strange flying reindeer with unique facial characteristics. “I didn’t know that,” he says, impressed. Teddy nods, exuberant, before furrowing his brow in concentration.

“Do you think I can grow antlers?” he asks, looking up with an entreating gaze.

“I’m sure you can with practice,” Harry says, then adds after meeting Draco’s eye, “though perhaps let’s try it when we have a little more space.”

Teddy sighs, but settles for turning his nose red and glowing instead.

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Draco sighs, staring out the window. It’s raining again, the droplets beading on the glass and running down in rivulets. He feels like he’s Teddy’s age, a child waiting for snow.

“Thanks for coming out before the end of term,” Harry is saying from where he’s sitting in the armchair, being sociable with Neville. Draco rests his head on his knees, and relishes being an onlooker.

“No, thank you,” Neville says with a chuckle. “They’re decorating this weekend, and I’d rather not eat in the Great Hall until that’s done.”

They both shake their heads, as Draco sips tea, listening.

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“Come on,” Harry coaxes. Draco drags his feet, feigning reticence, but he really doesn’t mind. Harry bundles them both up in warm robes and Impervious Charms and they brave the rain to step out.

The shops are festive despite the lack of snow, with fairy lights strung up along the roofs and bright wreaths and garlands decorating doors and windows. Harry stops at a street vendor for mulled cider and roasted chestnuts, and Draco clutches the paper cone in his hands, soaking in the warmth.

“Have you finished your Christmas shopping?” Draco idly muses, then laughs as Harry’s face blanches.

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“Don’t be home late,” Draco says, waving Harry off through the window. Despite being perfectly capable of Apparating himself to Hermione’s, he apparently enjoys flying through poor weather.

Draco leaves him to it.

It’s been a while since he visited the Carré Illuminé, London’s French counterpart to Diagon Alley. The myriad of lights are still as breathtaking as ever. He pauses to admire the view and notices a small house-elf, tucked off the walkway, repairing a cluster of lights. There’s a red and white cap perched on their head, and Draco makes a note to tell Harry later. He’ll laugh.

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“But I want to go to the party,” Teddy grouses from his seat on Andromeda’s sofa. Draco plies him with milk and cookies and tries not to envy him. From Harry’s expression, where he’s waiting by the fireplace, Draco’s failing spectacularly.

“It’s frightfully dull,” Draco tells him. “Fancy dress doesn’t mean bright colours or interesting tailoring, it just means everyone is wearing black dress robes and scrunched up faces.”

“Then why are you going?” Teddy asks, wrinkling his nose.

“Yes, why are we going?” Draco asks Harry.

“That’s a good question,” Harry retorts, the utter traitor. Draco just elbows him.

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Draco stares moodily at the bottom of his empty mug. The hot chocolate is gone.

“I guess I’d better put the tree up one of these days,” he says to a feathery Harry, perched on the back of a sofa. “Much help you’ll be.”

Harry doesn’t look inclined to shed his feathers anytime soon, more’s the pity. He just hoots softly and ruffles his feathers, as though to say, “get on with it.”

Draco doesn’t even bother glaring. He’d avoid the whole confounded song and dance but Teddy’s been asking. Draco doesn’t want to disappoint him.

Nothing for it, then.

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“Oh!” Teddy says, making a beeline for the tree. Harry gives Draco a speaking look, to which Draco only sniffs.

“It’s not like you were any help,” he mutters under his breath, brushing by Harry a little more roughly than he normally would. Harry just laughs.

“I like these the most,” Teddy says, pointing to some brightly coloured baubles. The ends of his hair are already turning orange, and there’s a warm feeling in Draco’s chest at the sight.

“They belonged to my grandmother,” Draco says, reaching up to pull one down for Teddy to examine. “I like them too.”

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Draco’s pulling on his cloak and casting an Impervious Charm when he pauses in the doorway to the library. For some reason, even though the light in the room has dimmed, Harry’s still sitting at the desk.

“Would you like to go out with Teddy and me?” Draco offers, wrapping an old school scarf around his neck. His regular scarf is nowhere to be found.

Harry’s expression softens. A flick of his wand, and Draco feels something slip away.

“You had tinsel in your hair,” Harry says.

“It must have been with the scarf,” Draco replies. “It’s been a while.”

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“Can I help with anything?” Draco asks. He feels awkward, standing like a lump in the middle of Molly’s kitchen. Harry’s off with Arthur, looking at some new gadget or other in the shed, so Molly and he are the only ones in a house meant to hold an overflowing family.

It’s different from the manor, which was only really meant to hold the ghosts of past ancestors.

Molly looks up, and at first Draco thinks she’s going to say no, but she smiles instead.

“Why don’t you help me fill these stockings?” she offers. Draco feels light with relief.

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Draco glances around the study, but Harry’s nowhere in sight. Crossing over to the window, he peers down into the garden, listening—

An owl hoots from somewhere in the shadows. “Let’s have dinner,” Draco calls. The night is silent for a moment, the eerie red of the path lights staining the stone, before an outburst of flapping breaks the quiet and Harry flies up to land on the windowsill.

“What were you doing in the garden?” Draco asks, Harry’s footfalls behind him.

“Oh, just, stuff,” Harry says, shrugging. Eying him, Draco laughs. There’s a tiny icicle hanging from his eyeglasses.

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Draco sets the dip pen down, the flame of the candle flickering as he exhales. It’s done. He lets the ink dry for a few moments before folding the letter, sealing it with a drop of wax.

“You finished?” Harry asks from the doorway. There’s a soft crunch; Draco glances up to see him grin, popping another walnut morsel into his mouth.

“Now it’s up to Seamus,” Draco says, trying to let it go. Apologies are only half the equation.

There’s a crunch again, Harry cracking another walnut open with complete irreverence for the moment. Draco can’t help but laugh.

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Draco’s curled up in bed, mostly sleeping, a tendril of air trickling through the window that’s been left open just a crack.

There’s a rush, a flapping of wings, and an owl bursts into the room, the window shoved wide open, shadow and moonlight flickering across feathers. Draco jolts upright even as the wings recede into arms, and Harry perches on the end of the bed.

“I was waiting up for you,” Draco grumbles. He’s been counting down the days till Christmas, not that he’ll admit it. Teddy’s the one with a calendar.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, touching Draco’s wrist.

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“Mon étoile,” Narcissa says, reaching over to pat his arm. Draco smiles, ignoring the murmur of the conversation in the restaurant around them, the clattering of porcelain dishes.

“I’ve been well,” Draco says. His mouth is dry; he takes another sip of wine. The candlelight reflects off the glass, the Eiffel Tower lit up in the distance. He loves his mother, but sometimes it’s hard to visit.

When he Apparates back from the Portkey office, he finds Harry on the sofa, nibbling Molly’s fruitcake and watching television.

“Did you miss me?” Harry jokes. Draco just elbows himself into his arms.

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“Oh,” Draco says, pausing in the doorway to the library. He was expecting to find Harry sitting at his desk.

“Hello Draco,” Luna says, smiling. The firelight flickers in her hair, like spun gold. “I brought the Yule log.” She beckons to the waiting spot beside her, where she’s settled in the cushions of the window seat.

There’s a muffled snore; Draco glances over to Harry, curled up in the armchair, fast asleep.

“He’s working on something,” Draco complains, crossing the floor to nestle into Luna’s side. “He won’t tell me anything.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons,” Luna says.

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The crowd of family and friends applaud, Harry cheering from the plastic chair next to Draco as Teddy makes his bow, grinning.

“That was a lovely play,” Andromeda comments from his other side, standing to go and fetch Teddy from the dressing room.

They walk home together, Teddy only pausing in his excited chatter when a squirrel darts across the path in front of them.

Later, at his desk, Draco finds a letter.

You’re still a massive prat with an ugly cellar, but I guess you’re okay. —Seamus

Draco folds the letter back up, holding it tightly in his grasp.

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Draco sits beside Harry at the kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate and trying not to fidget. Molly is looking at him, not exactly at him, but more like she’s trying to figure something out.

Is this the other shoe? he always thinks.

“Is everything alright?” he finally asks, after swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“Of course, dear,” Molly says. “I’m just wondering if I made the Christmas jumper a little too large. You need to eat more!”

Dazed, Draco follows Harry back home before turning to him in a frenzy.

“But I don’t have a gift for Molly!”

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They return from an overwhelmingly merry Christmas celebration at the Weasleys to pouring rain outside Grimmauld Place. Harry heads down to the kitchen for some tea, while Draco starts upstairs to the bath. Despite Apparating to the front stoop, his feet are a little damp.

He gets distracted, though, by the paper and pen waiting on his desk in the study. Crossing over to the window, Draco considers how to begin.

“Draco?” Harry says from the doorway. In the background, Draco can hear the bells tolling for midnight mass.

Draco sets the pen down and adjusts his Weasley jumper. “Sorry.”

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“Draco?”

Harry’s voice seems to be coming from the garden, or perhaps the cellar. Draco glances up from where he’s putting together a hamper to take to the local shelter.

“Yes?” he calls, stepping into the hallway. It’s raining again, droplets pattering on the window glass.

He finds Harry at the back door, beaming broadly.

“Come on,” Harry says, and guides Draco out to where there’s—

“A greenhouse?” Draco asks, confused. It wasn’t there yesterday. Harry just opens the door to reveal a winter garden, snow falling from the ceiling.

“You finally have your snow,” Harry says.

Draco is speechless.

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“I still can’t believe—” Draco breaks off, pausing to duck under a branch, stifling his laugh as it inadvertently springs back and sprinkles Harry in the face with water.

Ahead of them, Teddy frolics in the puddles, testing the strength of the Impervious Charm Andromeda cast on him before they set out. His mittens are already damp, hanging from their strings.

“Hermione did most of the legwork,” Harry admits, picking up on the thread of the conversation.

“Look at the bird!” Teddy interrupts, pointing at a red cardinal perched on a branch, sheltered from the rain. “It matches my mittens!”

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“I’m off to Hermione’s to return the favour,” Harry says, standing by the fireplace, satchel slung over one shoulder.

“Research or—” Draco starts, stepping close to rest his cheek on Harry’s shoulder, a fleeting caress.

“Research,” Harry says, sounding much-put-upon. “I can’t begrudge her though.”

“The winter garden was just as much her work as yours?” Draco asks. Harry nods, sheepish.

Later, Draco dreams of the manor standing empty, furniture draped with snow like a winter garden. He wakes to an empty bed, Harry’s side still cold.

Not for long though, as Harry swoops in to land on the windowsill.

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The bathwater is warm; Draco leans back and lets it slip over his lidded eyes, his closed mouth, before resurfacing.

“Wha—!” he exclaims, interrupted by the owl that suddenly appeared on the windowsill of the bathroom, as it flaps down to drop a sprig of mistletoe in the bubbles.

“No,” Draco says, slightly cross. “I’m having a relaxing bath.”

Harry hoots in complaint, flapping cold air over Draco’s exposed skin. Draco ignores him, submersing himself again to escape the chill.

When he emerges, it takes him a moment to discover that a certain owl has made off with his socks.

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It’s not raining today. Draco stands in the back garden, enveloped by the night’s embrace. Above him, with the help of the atmospheric spellwork that filters out the city’s light pollution, he traces the expanse of stars arrayed across the sky.

“Star-gazing?” Harry asks, leaning from behind to rest his chin on Draco’s shoulder. His breath fans across the skin of Draco’s neck. Draco shivers.

“Just thinking,” Draco says. He hears the clink of glass as Harry slips a flute into his hands, leaning around to press a soft kiss to his mouth, champagne-sweet.

“Happy anniversary.”

“Love you,” Draco murmurs.

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Fireworks bloom across the sky, but it’s quiet in the winter garden. Draco sits on a bench, comfortable in a sweater and Warming Charm.

“Happy New Year!” Harry says, leaning over to peck him on the tip of his nose.

“It’s a minute to,” Draco says, not really a complaint.

“Just a moment then.” Harry tracks his watch dial, pressing a kiss to Draco’s cheek.

The front door sounds, the bell reverberating like a gong.

“If it’s…” Draco mutters under his breath as he follows Harry.

Ron is stood on the stoop, bottle of whisky in hand.

“Happy New Year!”