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As per usual, George was late. He stumbled through the Floo at almost twenty to seven, an apologetic smile on his lips. “Freddie wanted a bedtime story,” he said, pressing a bottle of Muggle beer into Harry’s hand. He flopped down beside Harry on the settee. “And then there were worries about monsters under the bed. Told him there weren’t any there… And that they all live in the wardrobe.”
Harry cast a cooling spell over his drink with a quick blink of wandless magic. George was fibbing, unquestionably — the wizard was nothing if not a devoted dad — but he was every bit as quick with a joke as he’d been when he was fifteen.
Another spell had a bowl of crisps levitating over to where they sat. “Salt and vinegar,” Harry said, catching their usual football snack in his fingers and grabbed a handful before offering it up to his friend. “I remembered you moaned about your cheese and onion breath last time. You reckoned Angelina wouldn’t want to snog you for a week.”
“Angie won’t snog me tonight anyway, matey,” George chortled, seizing a handful of crisps for himself. “She was almighty annoyed when I reminded her that Arsenal were playing in the cup against Liverpool tonight. Her mum’s down for the week and she didn’t appreciate being left to carry the cauldron. Dinner is in the dog, apparently.”
Of the entire Weasley clan and their collected spouses and friends, Harry and George were the only Muggle football supporters, so, over time, watching the big games of the season together had become their sacred tradition. Ron did join them occasionally, Percy every now and then, but none of them really understood what was so brilliant about it.
Harry swigged a mouthful of beer, digging out the remote from where it had fallen between the pillows. He flicked on the telly. “Angie will forgive you when Thierry Henry slices in our winner,” Harry observed wryly, switching between the channels until he found the right one. “And a win always puts you in the mood for love…”
Smirking, George threw a crisp in Harry’s direction. “The mood for love?” he repeated with an exaggerated shake of his head. “Who exactly are you, and what have you done with Harry Potter?” The wizard turned to watch the screen, his attention temporarily stolen as the introductory music played. However, George was like a crup with a bone, and he wasn’t remotely done with the topic. “You’re not just my mate,” George informed Harry. “Your shop is next to Wheezes, so I see you every day. I might play the joker, but I’ve got two working eyes in my head. Who’s the lucky man? You’ve been walking around with a cheesy grin for weeks now. Get spilling the tea,” George grinned, obviously amused. “You might be able to get one past Ron, but this is me you’re talking to now.”
With a sigh, Harry stood up and took the two steps to the side cupboard. Something stronger than Carling would be required for the following conversation. There was no wriggling off the broomstick to be done, not with George Weasley.
Reaching inside, Harry grasped the neck of a half-bottle of Ogden’s and two glasses. By the time he was finished, he wasn't sure whether it would be him or George that needed it more.
“Alright,” Harry said, pressing a glass into George’s hand. “It all began on Christmas Eve…”
~
The day had been frantically hectic, which was exactly how Harry had wanted it. Customers had been streaming through the doors of Potter’s Emporium of Playthings since the very moment that Harry had magicked the door open. All day long, heavy snow had been falling and Diagon was blanketed in white.
Harry couldn’t complain, of course. The Christmas season was a toy seller’s busiest and most profitable period of the year, and every Galleon in the till would help to keep the Emporium afloat during the lean months of January and February.
Most of his customers had brought and wrapped their main presents long ago, but that didn’t stop them from buying other, smaller things that they could sneak into their children’s stockings. Some of his bestselling products had included Firebolt-shaped pencils that really flew, plushy pygmy puffs that grew when you sprinkled them with water, and toy wands for the under-sixes that produced splendid glowing lights. Each purchase had to be rung through the tills, and by the time late afternoon had arrived, Harry’s feet and lower back were both aching. He’d only stopped for five minutes during the whole day, and that had been to eat a snatched sandwich.
Still, it was a relief to be busy. Harry always felt the loss of his parents acutely during the Christmas season. This was a time for family, and even though the Weasleys had made him feel like another son, it didn’t always fill the void inside him. Harry couldn’t help but watch the chattering, giddy families that supported their children, and wonder what it would have been like, growing up with his own mum and dad alive. His actual childhood experiences of the festive season had been awful. There’d been no pretence that he might get any gift other than a day full of cooking and pots that needed a thorough scrubbing.
~
“Bloody hell, Harry,” George cut in, “I mean, I knew the Muggles you grew up with were morons of the worst sort, but you never told us it was as bad as all that. I feel terrible.” He rolled the amber Firewhisky around his glass. “I’ll never forget how livid the old man was when we nicked you with the flying Ford Anglia. He went so red I thought the git would explode!”
Harry grinned at the memory. “Yeah. The only emotions my uncle ever had any familiarity with were outrage and anger, and any dealings with the magical world brought them bounding to the surface with alacrity.” Turning his face to the telly, he watched as the starting eleven were announced. It looked like a decent line up. “And don’t feel terrible. Christmases with the Dursleys were a lot of years ago. Anyway, your mum’s feasts over the years have well and truly made up for anything I might have missed as a youngster.”
George smiled at that. “Suppose. Mum’s Christmas dinners are things of legend. Still feel rotten though.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Harry answered, batting away his mate’s words with a wave of his hand. “I reckon this’ll be an easy win for Arsenal, matey. Liverpool don’t have anything upfront. They couldn’t score if our goalkeeper was Stupefied.”
“No counting of any gold before the Nifflers come back,” George admonished. The ref blew his whistle, and Liverpool had the first kick. Groaning, George turned back to Harry. “See what you’ve done? Cursed us! Anyway, don’t think you pull the woolly hat over my ginger head. They might not be able to score, but I reckon you’ve managed it.”
~
Yawning behind his hand, Harry watched a witch and wizard leaving the shop. It was close to five and nearly time to lock the door and roll down the shutters.
Despite it being Christmas Eve, Harry hadn’t made plans. He’d go home, pour out a decent glass of red and watch a film. It wasn’t that his friends hadn’t asked him over — Nev had asked him to Floo up to Hogwarts, and Ginny and Luna had asked him over for a slice of chocolate Yule Log — but he hadn’t been in the mood. Christmas might have been wonderful for his bank vault, but it left him full of complex feelings that he didn’t like to examine too closely.
The jingle of the doorbell startled Harry from his thoughts. Bloody hell, but this was ridiculous. This wasn’t cutting it fine to buy Christmas gifts; this was cutting it practically transparent! Still, telling potential customers to piss off wasn’t widely considered the world’s best shopkeeping technique. Arranging his face into his Witch Weekly’s Best Smile-winning expression, Harry turned to face the latecomer.
But, of course, it was Draco Malfoy.
Harry felt his heart drop. It wasn’t that he didn’t get on with Malfoy nowadays, because he did, most of the time. The wizard was very different to the stuck-up aristo that he’d been before the war who’d made his life a misery. The modern Draco was a thoughtful, kind person, quick to buy a round for their mutual friends in the Leaky and the out-and-out favourite person of Teddy Lupin, their shared relation. Draco was a Seeker for the Appleby Arrows, which automatically made him the most exciting person on the face of the earth — well, at least in Teddy’s opinion.
Draco gave Harry a sheepish smile as he stepped onto the shopfloor. He was dressed in a black Muggle coat, and there was a heavy covering of snow on each shoulder. In each hand Draco held parcels that’d been wrapped in brown paper.
“Harry,” he said, casting his eyes around the shop. “I thought that I must surely be too late.” Harry made an effort not to stare at him. It really wasn’t fair that the other wizard was quite this good-looking. Merlin hadn’t been even the remotest bit fair when he was doling out handsomeness. Shaking snowflakes from his hair, Draco smiled. “Salazar. Apologies for the appearance. The snow is really coming down outside. I look like quite the bedraggled ferret.”
~
George snorted at Draco’s joke and took a swig of his drink. “Merlin's eyes, but I knew it’d be Malfoy. You always did have a bit of a thing for the chap. No wonder the colour is back in your cheeks. Looks like Angelina owes me a Galleon and a steak dinner. She thought you’d been snogging Welbeck.” Harry felt his cheeks flush red, and he must’ve looked uncertain, because George clarified. “You know! Weedy Welbeck! The assistant manager at the Magical Menagerie.”
“Weedy Welbeck, who never stops moaning and smells like tomato soup?” Harry shuddered. “Gods, no. I’d rather embrace the life of a monk than snog him. Nope. My visitor on Christmas Eve was no other than Draco Malfoy—”
Harry would have said more, but that was the exact moment their striker volleyed the ball towards the Liverpool goalkeeper. It was a touch-and-go thing, but then it glanced at the very tips of the keeper’s fingers and it was saved. Harry and George groaned in unison. “Should have been 1-0,” George complained, gesturing angrily at the television. “They’ll not beat United looking like this!”
“They’ll not beat Liverpool looking like this,” Harry answered darkly, cleaning his glasses so as not to see the awful football on display before his eyes. “I’m going to have a serious talk with Angie next time we’re both at the Burrow. Weedy Welbeck! Your wife is crackers! I think I can do a bit better than a clown who wears a Cuddle like a Muggle tee-shirt! I saved the world, once upon a time.”
George shovelled a few crisps into his mouth before he spoke. “Very true. And now you save the day when strapping, six-foot Seekers come into your Emporium on Christmas Eve. It’s all about the details, Chosen One, and I need some more of them. What happened next?”
~
“We don’t close for another five minutes,” Harry answered, wondering precisely what was so important that Draco had tracked through the snow to get there. The end of the wizard’s nose was pink with the cold. As Harry watched, he took off his gloves and rubbed his fingers together. “You must have been shopping for a while,” Harry added, nodding at the boxes that Draco had placed on the floor. He winced slightly at how tired and flat the comment sounded, but he supposed that he could hardly blame himself. It’d been a very long, very arduous day. He made an effort to sound better-humoured. “And you don’t look like a ferret. Not even a bedraggled one.”
“Well, that’s good then,” Draco answered, turning to look at Harry’s display of wind-up dragons. They'd been rather a clever idea and actually breathed out a spark of fire. Unfortunately, the only models left were the Horntails as the parents of wizarding England had deemed them too frightening for their offspring. Draco wound one up and gave a youthful grin as it roared and blew smoke. “I wouldn’t want to offend your eyes.”
As if Draco could ever have managed that! The git would struggle to look unruly if he flew his broom into a sodding tornado. Surely, he must know the effect he had on nearly every woman and half the men of his acquaintance? Indeed, the Prophet had recently declared him to be number one in their list of the most eligible British wizards currently alive. Harry, with his birds-nest of knotty hair, proclivity for getting crumbs down his front, and highflying career as Diagon’s number one toy shop owner, had come in a despondent eighth. At least he’d beaten Cormac McLaggen by one spot, so there was still some small justice left in the world.
“Can I help you with anything?” Harry asked, deciding, at last, to peel his eyes away from the Seeker. He was a professional, and it was time he acted like one. “I’m sure there are other dragon models in the back of the shop if that’s what you’re interested in… It wouldn’t take me too long to search one out.”
Draco placed the Horntail back on the shelf. “Merlin, no. I’ve been frightened of them ever since the Triwizard Tournament. Awful, grunting, scaly monsters! Even in model form, they give me the chills… No. I was hoping you could furnish me with drawing parchment and some of those magical paints that Teddy’s always chattering about. The charmed ones that make the picture move once it’s finished?”
Oh. So, Draco had only come to Potter’s Emporium of Playthings for an extra set of Teddy’s favourite paints. That shouldn’t have been the searing disappointment it felt like. “You want a box of Potter’s Patented Poster Paints,” he answered, leading Draco to shelves filled to the brim with art supplies. “I’m surprised that you’ve left it until Christmas Eve to buy your gifts,” he said, picking up a set, as well as Teddy’s preferred brushes and parchment. “You ought to have sent a bevy of your house-elves out to do the legwork.” A tiny bit of bitterness crept into Harry’s voice. “I’m sure there are a dozen parties scheduled tonight, each with your name neatly quilled onto an invite.”
“Absolutely,” Draco answered, his eyes sparkling. As he spoke, he swiped a couple of boxes of ever-unbluntable drawing pencils from the shelf and added them to the pile in Harry’s hands. “The Minister for Magic and his wife are having a soirée — I was to be guest of honour — and the Zabini’s wanted me at their Christmas ball… Even Pansy invited me over to chez Parkinson-Nott for her annual turkey ‘n’ tinsel bash. Refused them all. Spending Christmas Eve with belligerent shopkeepers is miles more amusing.”
Harry’s cheeks flamed. He’d said too much, just like he always seemed to manage. What the hell was wrong with him? Why was speaking to Draco such a bloody trial? Somehow, he always ended up making some sly dig, and then everything became awkward between them.
Something of Harry’s thoughts must have shown on his expression because Draco frowned. “Circe above, Potter. You do understand that I was messing about?” he said, giving Harry a crafty poke in the ribs. He rolled his eyes. “Whatever happened to the famed golden Gryff of our youth? That prat actually knew how to take a joke!” With that, Draco poked him on the other side of his ribcage.
For a moment, Harry was dumbfounded.
He’d have poked Draco right back, and harder, except that he had his hands full and neither man was seventeen anymore. If he’d have poked Draco, then Harry wasn’t in any doubt that Draco would simply have poked him again. Before long, they’d both have been wrestling on the parquet floorboard and that would have been a calamitous end to the day. Since when had Draco and he touched each other anyway?
His cheeks burned scarlet — there was no way on Merlin’s green earth that Draco would miss that — and worse, his traitorous prick started to feel very interested in the proceedings as well.
~
“Mate!” George sputtered. “I’m as open-minded as the next wizard, but please, spare me the more gruesome details of this festive tale! So, obviously, Draco was trying it on, seeing how you’d react… Seeing if you’d give him a little poke back if I’m not mistaken.” He chortled at his own lurid joke. “I’m straighter than McGonagall’s wand and even I can see that much.” George shook his head in fake dissatisfaction. “Then again, Harry, you are the wizarding world’s true lord and master of the state of permanent oblivion.”
“Not fair,” Harry answered, though every word that his friend had said was true. It wasn’t that he tried purposely to be ignorant about things that were blatantly obvious to the rest of the world; it was simply that, more often than not, events seemed to fall that way. “I'm not totally innocent, George! It wouldn’t have been the first time a guy tried it on with me. I might wear thick glasses, but I’m not completely blind! The thing is… Well, I suppose it never occurred to me that Draco might like me like that.”
It really hadn’t. Despite the Saviour reputation that preceded him, Harry’s existence had been rather quiet and sedate since he’d left Hogwarts. He’d tried Auror training but had left before the first year was through. Raising his wand against another wix wasn’t something that sat well with him anymore, and as Robards had explained, ‘an Auror that isn’t able to go the full distance to protect their partner doesn’t belong on my force.’
Life had drifted for a while afterwards. All of his friends were firmly ensconced in their careers while he coasted, enjoying the twin blessings of being young and alive. Harry knew he’d spent his life in the service of other people — first the Dursleys and then Dumbledore — and he’d had to learn what it was to be his own man. There’d been a few mishaps along the way — jobs in wand-making and at the Quibbler which hadn’t worked out — but Harry had soon found his calling.
Potter’s Emporium of Playthings had been Andromeda’s idea a few years before. Harry simply loved inventing games and toys to share with Teddy, for he’d never had any himself when he was little. Teddy's joy was a wonder to him. ‘Your ideas are too glorious not to be shared,’ Andi had said one day after they’d both worn themselves out playing. ‘You’ve a talent that shouldn’t be squandered, Harry. Imagine all those other children that your toys could make happy.’
Harry had taken her idea, ran with it, and never looked back. He didn’t have a single doubt that he'd made the right choice; he loved Potter’s Emporium of Playthings and the life he’d made for himself. Set in a prime spot on Diagon Alley, his business was doing well indeed.
Unfortunately, the running of a toy shop had been entirely detrimental to Harry’s love life. There wasn’t any getting around the fact that as careers went, Harry’s was deemed both cosy and safe. Most gay wizards of Harry’s acquaintance seemed to want him to be an action hero, all buff and gallant, and Harry knew he wasn’t either of those things. Harry was an ordinary, cheerful man who’d just happened to save the world, once upon a time.
As a result, it really hadn’t occurred to Harry that Draco might want him like that. That idea was beyond preposterous. Harry was many things, but he wasn’t delusional. Draco could have any man he desired. He was a top class Quidditch player, pictured regularly in the Prophet’s gossip page with other famous wizards.
A sudden goal on the telly tore Harry from his reveries. Their top striker dive-bombed a pile of his fellow players as he and George high-fived each other.
“Get in!” George cried out; his gaze glued to the screen. “Nice one! All we need to do is keep a clean sweep ‘til half time, and we’ll have this game in the sodding bag!” Swinging around in his seat, he looked over at Harry. “Maybe it never occurred to you, Potter, but the rest of the world has had to put up with his pining over you for what seems like the whole of forever. Malfoy has pined enough to make about a dozen bloody broomsticks! So, yes, while it might not have occurred to you, it’s occurred to the rest of us plenty—”
“Piss off,” Harry cut in, though there wasn’t any heat in his voice. Arsenal were one up, in the ascendancy, and the Firewhisky had left a pleasant glow in the pit of his belly. “Enough of your sarky commentary, Weasley! Do you want to hear what happened next or not?”
“I’m all agog,” George replied, smirking. “Please, carry on.”
~
Harry was thoroughly discombobulated by Draco’s jostling and decided to take his discomfort out on the other wizard. Even as he spoke, he knew that he sounded peevish, but found he couldn’t help himself. He felt snippy, annoyed, and much, much too aroused.
“I can still take a joke,” Harry answered, going behind the till to ring up the items. “I’m just surprised that you’ve left your shopping until the last minute! Christmas Day is literally tomorrow, Malfoy. You’ll know that because I’ll be sitting opposite you, drinking a glass of red and tucking into Andi’s turkey and all the trimmings.” Harry set down Draco’s purchases on the countertop. “You know full well that Teddy has a bad case of hero-worship when it comes to you. I’d have thought you’d have managed something a teeny bit better than a box of paints and some parchment.”
Draco raised a scornful eyebrow. “And how do you know I haven’t? Bold of you to say that I’m a poor cousin, Harry. You don’t know what else I’ve brought for Teddy because you haven’t asked. The only thing you’ve done since I walked in your door is make a dig about where I ought to be spending my evening.”
Put that way, Harry supposed that Draco had a point. He had rather jumped down the other wizard’s throat.
“That’ll be one Galleon and three Sickles,” Harry said. He began wrapping the items in brown paper, though that was more difficult than he would have liked. His hands were trembling. The truth was — and he didn't like to admit it, even inside of his brain — that he was a smidgen jealous of Teddy’s sweet infatuation with all things Draco Malfoy. He'd have liked to be held in such high regard by his godson too.
“Here,” Draco said, holding the paper together so that Harry could tie the knots. “We’ll be here all night if you continue with those fumbling fingers, and then Christmas really will have arrived.” Delving inside of his satchel, Draco slid two Galleons across the wood in his direction. “And please, Harry, don't worry about the change. It’s late, and I expect you’ll be wanting to cash up. I ought to be getting these back home. Thank you for furnishing me with presents for our Teddy. He’ll love them.”
Harry felt like the worst sort of Christmas-ruining arsehole. Who was he to dictate what presents Draco ought to buy? He’d been a bad-mannered cretin, and now Draco was leaving. Things would be awkward and prickly over Christmas dinner, and that wouldn’t be at all fun.
“Don’t you have someplace else to go?” Harry asked quickly, eyeing the gifts that Draco had brought with him. “What about the Minister for Magic’s soirée or any of the other posh do’s you mentioned?”
“Not tonight,” Draco answered. “I like a free flute of Moët as much as the next wizard, but those occasions are all about dressing up and getting your picture in the papers the following day. The Arrows do love it when I get papped for the Prophet — brings the attendance up something fierce — but I reckon I deserve one night off from the glare of publicity. What about you? Do I predict a festive supper with the Weasley-Grangers tonight?”
Draco wasn’t entirely off beam. His friends had invited him and been very insistent. Harry hadn’t wanted to, though. Christmas Eve meant leaving out a glass of brandy for Santa Claus and an excited Rose that would struggle to sleep. Christmas Eve was for families, and Harry hadn’t wanted to impose upon that.
“Nope. Just Grimmauld for me,” Harry answered, rubbing the back of his neck ruefully. “I was about done for the day when you arrived. A Christmas film, perhaps, and then bed. I'll Floo over to Andi’s in the morning.”
Astoundingly, Harry’s answer seemed to please Draco immensely. His eyes lit up.
“Come home with me then! Two bachelors on their lonesome on Christmas Eve might be thoroughly tragic, but I’m sure we can find something to do to amuse ourselves.”
~
“Goodness gracious,” George muttered, his expression managing to be both appalled and delighted. “I don’t think I’ve enjoyed a story so much since Ollie Wood told me about the time he caught Perce kissing Marcus Flint in the school Potions lab. Don’t leave me hanging! What happened next?”
“I had to cash up first,” Harry said, “and set all the stock protection spells. It didn’t take all that long, but I couldn’t take the risk. You know better than anyone how many break-ins there’s been on the Alley these past few months—“
“Eyes on the prize, Potter,” George interrupted. “I don’t give a Hippogriff’s tit about your stock levels. I care about the fact that Draco Malfoy just so happened to turn up as you were closing with some spurious request and within the space of a few minutes you’d agreed to go home with him! Spill the beans: what did Draco actually buy his cousin for Crimbo? I know those Malfoys. All of them are as rich as Croesus.”
Harry drowned the last of his drink and paused his tale while he poured out another inch into his glass. “The Firebolt 3000,” Harry confessed. “That posh new model that Witch Weekly said was so fast it was a menace to society? Draco brought him that. Unsurprisingly, Andi flipped her lid. It's been locked in a cupboard ‘til Teds gets his Hogwarts letter.”
“I bet,” George snorted. “Hmmm. Anyone might think that Draco’s little visit was motivated by something more worldly than the buying of toys.”
The two wizards lapsed into silence for a few minutes and listened to the pundits wax lyrical about Arsenal’s splendid performance. Though Harry was excited by the prospect of a win — and that rarest of pearls, an authentic cup run — his thoughts weren’t focused on Thierry Henry’s silky skills or Liverpool's dire goal drought.
Harry was thinking about Draco and Christmas Eve. Harry didn’t give a Sickle that Draco had been less than sincere about his motives for visiting Potter’s Emporium of Playthings. He wouldn’t have changed a single thing about their evening.
~
As soon as the Emporium was closed and locked up for the night, Draco Side-Alonged Harry to the hallway outside of his flat. He lived in a posh new-build near Artemisia Avenue in the centre of magical London, and Harry hadn’t ever been there before.
Draco was very protective about his privacy, both because of his past and his celebrity. The building was warded up to high heaven and luxuriously secluded. The door recognised Draco’s presence and opened for him automatically. It was very swish, and Harry followed Draco inside.
Merlin, but it was agreeable inside too. Harry hung his coat on the rack and sneakily peeked at the furnishings Draco had chosen. It was a million miles away from the mismatched collection he’d accumulated in Grimmauld Place. Harry couldn’t really put his finger on what made the flat homely, but it was. Photos and paintings covered the walls, and the settee was vast and looked more comfortable than the wilted, fake-leather model waiting back at home. In the corner was a tall and stately Christmas tree, tastefully decorated with silver baubles. Draco swished his wand, and enchanted fairy lights began to glow within its branches, soft and subtle. This flat was the very antithesis of the cold nobility of Malfoy Manor, and Harry felt some of his tension leave him.
That was when Harry saw the most grotesque object d’art sitting squarely in the middle of the coffee table. Draco had placed a faux-dragon skull lamp, covered in gilt diamonds, in pride of place. The item was fantastically horrible and entirely out of place. Draco noticed him staring, so Harry frantically diverted his eyes. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Draco said, pressing a glass of wine into Harry’s hand. “My pride and joy, that. Apparently, there’s only five in existence.”
Harry wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. If there were five in existence, then that was five too many. “Er… It’s... lovely?” he answered, intending to be diplomatic and failing miserably. “Very, er… Yes. Very unique. You won’t see many of those knocking about.”
Draco laughed at his efforts. “Harry, it’s as ugly as sin! Pansy and I compete to buy each other the most monstrous present every year, and I think this year she wins the prize. We leave them out to dupe poor visitors into thinking we’re entirely lacking in taste. You were very polite though.”
Harry wasn’t sure whether to feel cross at being tricked or relieved that Draco didn’t believe that this monstrosity was attractive. He decided on the latter and took a sip from his glass. The wine was lovely; tart, rich, and it tasted faintly of cloves. It was far too good for the likes of him. Harry usually supped bottles purchased for a fiver from the local Tesco.
He dragged his eyes away from the cursed object and back to Draco. The other wizard was looking at him with a curious glint in his eyes, and Harry found his eyes dipping towards Draco’s lips, speculating what it might be like to kiss them. They were neatly cut, plush, and stained ever so slightly by the crimson of his wine.
“More polite than I managed back at the shop,” Harry countered. “Sorry, I was a bit of an arse back there. It was a shock, is all, seeing you walk in through the door. The last face I might have expected.” Harry decided to be brave. He was a Gryffindor, after all. It was supposed to be his forte. “Tell me the truth. You weren’t really there to buy paints and parchment for Teddy, were you? What game are you playing?”
Draco placed his glass down beside the eyesore Pansy had gifted him. He raised his palms in defeat. “No game. It’s Christmas Eve, Harry. The night when dreams are supposed to come true. You’re right about one thing. I wasn’t in your shop for parchment.”
And then Harry didn’t have to wonder what it might be like to kiss Draco any longer, because Draco closed the space between them and that was exactly what he did.
For a second, Harry thought he must be hallucinating or perhaps in the midst of some particularly lucid dream. Not knowing what else to do, he squeezed his eyes shut and kissed back. Draco kissed every bit as brilliantly as in Harry’s most vivid fantasies, firmly and slowly. Harry would have melted into it had it not been for the damned glass of wine that he still held.
Reality came crashing in hard with that tiny sliver of reality. Harry was standing in Draco’s home, and he was kissing him! At that, Harry opened his eyes, hot anxiety spiralling through his veins. Draco’s face was next to his, so close that he could see the golden-blond of the other man's eyelashes. Their mouths were still moving together, soft, slick, and so, so sensual.
Draco had kissed him, and Harry was kissing him back. This was everything Harry had wanted for such a long time, but his brain couldn’t process the fact it was really happening.
Jerking backwards, Harry broke their embrace.
~
“You’re a daft prat,” George cried out, interrupting the flow of the story.
The room had darkened over the course of the evening, and the light from the television cast the room in shadows. It was the second half now, and Arsenal were still ahead, but the game had been all but forgotten. George cast Lumos with his wand, and then he settled back in his chair and told Harry off some more.
“We’ve all of us — Mum, Dad, Gins — the whole gang of us had to listen to you going on and on for years about bloody Malfoy — ‘who does he think he is, parading his latest love on the pages of the Prophet?’, ‘Malfoy isn’t impressing anyone in that broom-modelling campaign!’, ‘Look at him making eyes at his new fella. They’ll be broken up in a month!’ — and now, when Draco comes to your place of work, takes you back to his home and actually kisses you, what do you do? Break it off like some first-year Hufflepuff!”
“That’s hardly fair,” Harry answered snippily, although he could, in fairness, remember saying every single one of those phrases. He could scarcely believe that he’d been as blatant about his crush as all that. In his head, he'd been a much smoother customer than that.
Then again, what was it that George had called him not ten minutes before? The wizarding world’s true lord and master of the state of permanent oblivion? It’d hardly been an obsession-level pash. He hadn’t collected newspaper clippings like some starry-eyed fanboy, and the one book he’d brought with Draco’s face had only been because he liked the Arrows.
George shrugged with staged disbelief.
“As both your neighbour and your mate, I can assure you it is very fair. D'you know that Mum has Vanished the Prophet before a fair number of our Sunday dinners because she didn’t want our favourite blondie to be your only subject of conversation! The two of you have been in love with each other for years, and then when something actually happens, you break it off. What happened to your famed Gryffindor courage? That was less of a brave beast and more of a cowardly lion!”
~
"Oh Christ,” Draco said, aghast. He took another step back to increase the distance between them. “I’m a thoughtless, stupid idiot, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I— Bloody hell. I thought you wanted me to kiss you. What was I thinking? Of course you didn’t! You must take me for the worst kind of swine.”
Harry wasn’t sure what to say. His heart was racing, and somehow his lungs didn’t want to fit beneath his ribcage any longer. He almost wanted to laugh. He’d almost buggered up proceedings. Worse, he’d pulled away. Harry knew he ought to be kissing Draco right now, but he needed a second, just the tiniest of moments, to reorient himself. Gods, the kiss they’d shared had been fantastic.
Harry could still taste Draco on his lips.
Draco, however, was still in chaos. “I’m such a presumptive fool. I’ve always been the same. See something — see someone! — I want, and I go in and grab with two hands, damn the consequences! It’s my worst character flaw, and I thought I was past this.” Harry watched as he flexed his fingers, every bit as frustrated as his voice betrayed. He refused to meet Harry’s eyes. “I’m not the brute that my behaviour depicts. I promise it won’t happen again.”
Not happening again was exactly what Harry didn’t want to happen. He wanted to kiss Draco again, as soon as possible, but Draco was still babbling. “I didn’t bring you back here with the singular reason of locking lips with you… It’s just— Harry, I saw you through the window of the Emporium, and before I knew it, I’d entered and we were talking.”
Draco had no idea how much Harry had wanted that kiss or how many long nights he’d dreamt about it.
“But you wanted to kiss me?” Harry asked, forcing his voice not to admit to the vortex of excitement and nerves swirling in his belly. The air between them felt tight and full of tension. “You’re not sorry you did?”
Draco shook his head. “No,” he said. “Never. Not a bit sorry that I kissed you. I’m sorry that I launched myself onto you without the slightest warning, though. I wanted so badly to kiss you and now I’ve gone and ruined everything, haven’t I?”
The quiet between them was fraught. Nothing had been ruined. Muted colours flickered over Draco’s pointy features from the fairy lights that decorated the tree.
Harry drew in a slow breath. It was his turn to make a move. First, he placed the wineglass down next to Draco’s. Then he stepped close to the other wizard and got into his space. Very deliberately, Harry gave Draco a sharp nudge in the ribs.
“You haven’t…” he said, giving Draco another poke, “...ruined anything. How about we give that kiss another attempt? After all, it is Christmas Eve, and somebody wise told me that’s the night when dreams are supposed to come true."
~
“And then?” George prompted when Harry lapsed into silence. “Gods, Potter. You can’t put a man on a Thestral and not let them ride it! What happened next? You never went home, did you?” He gloated triumphantly. “And that’s why Andromeda told Mum that the two of you were unnaturally sleepy after Christmas dinner! Andi put it down to all the Christmas pudding you both polished off, but—“
“But gentlemen don’t kiss and tell,” Harry said. “You’ll have to make do with the fact I’ve been walking around with a grin ever since. I'll put it this way. It would seem that a Malfoy is for life, not just for Christmas.”
There was a roar of approval on the television. The final whistle had blown on both a brilliant match and a brilliant evening. Arsenal had outclassed Liverpool in every position on the pitch. If George was annoyed with Harry’s elusive remark, then it didn’t show on his happy expression.
“Really pleased for you,” George said, smiling broadly. “I knew congratulations were in order. Thank Merlin the pair of you finally saw a bit of sense! I reckon there's only one critical question that remains unanswered: are you still up for watching Manchester United away? Think Malfoy can spare you for a night, or is love's young dream still too infatuated?” He raised his glass for Harry to tap.
Harry chinked his glass against George’s. “You bet! Even a pack of marauding dragons couldn’t keep me away."
