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You can’t quite believe you’re doing this. Even if you’ve been psyching yourself up for it for months. Really, a year. It’s nearly Christmas and you made a promise. True, you were drunk at the time, but that’s besides the point. A Malfoy keeps his word, even if you’re the first Malfoy to abide by this code of conduct. When you’re the son of a turncoat, there isn’t really much of a reputation to uphold except doing everything in your power (namely, for the rest of your life) to prove to everyone who cares you’re not like your father. You’re not even like your younger self, the misguided boy who made all those mistakes. You’ve been trying to prove this, much to the dismay of your friends (who think you don’t have anything to prove to anyone, yours were impossible choices). But the real reason you’re doing it is because of him. Of course it took you a very long time to recognise this, even longer to accept it. Therapy surely helped. He’s the real reason you want to keep your word on all matters, even when he has no way of knowing you’re doing it. But you made a promise to yourself last New Year’s Eve, a promise you made while being slightly drunk on cheap champagne. Only Pansy knows of this silly promise of yours and she’s not about to force you to make good on it, since her feedback on the matter was: Gosh, Draco. You used to have better taste. Except, you really didn’t. If only she knew (hell, she probably suspected and was just being nice — or more accurately in denial), your taste had always been the same. That is, when you allowed yourself to go there, which wasn’t all that frequent. Thank Merlin for compartmentalization, the fancy word for what your mind did whenever you were afraid. According to your therapist it was a good survival method, say, while being in the middle of a war, not so much while trying to live a normal life. But what the hell, you like your boxes, everything in neat boxes, so why should you give that up, hum? (To which your therapist asks what are you so afraid of? And you stare her down, then simply stare, then give up and stare at your nails). The answer is simple, though. You’re afraid of him. Of how he makes you feel. It’s the simplicity of it that scares you the most, really. When this fear gets worse it even makes you laugh. You think you sound a bit deranged. He terrifies you and you can’t even pinpoint when it started exactly, because it was already happening when you noticed it and now it’s always happening.
That’s how you find yourself going to his house, on a cold Winter night, three days before Christmas. Because you made a promise to your drunk self, and to your best friend (who, by the way, totally disagrees with you and has vowed to unfollow you on some ridiculous Muggle social app if you decide to go ahead with it. Whatever, you’ll take your chances). So you brave the cold and the knot on the pit of your stomach and your shaking hands and your dried up throat and your terror of all things Harry and you knock on his door. You instantly regret it. You turn on your heels so fast you nearly get whiplash and you… fall right into him.
It’s quite the blur from there. Your hand catches on his arm, you both sway on the spot, he says Draco, you say sorry. He’s coming back home, holding a bag filled with Christmas presents, a green wool scarf around his neck, his glasses fogging a little, his hair all kinds of messy and he looks so gorgeous you swear your heart stops. Then you notice your hand still gripping his arm, exactly at the same time he does. You jump back, he says Draco again, you feel like you could die. You should be giving him some sort of excuse for being there at his door. You should leave immediately, but he’s already searching for his keys, inviting you inside, and your body is moving. Inside everything is warm, there are Christmas lights hanging around his living room (you don’t remember getting there), he takes your jacket and gloves (you don’t remember taking them off), he sets a warm mug on your hands (you don’t remember him offering), you take a seat on his sofa (you don’t remember deciding to stay) and then he’s asking you why and you remember the promise you made. But you can’t say it. You take a sip of the tea he prepared. You notice it’s done how you like it. Black, just a drop of milk, no sugar. You set the cup on the coaster on the table. The coaster has little reindeers on it and it makes your heart clench. You look at him and that is a mistake because you’re never more afraid than when you look at him. It’s all that green, all that honesty. This, this is what you’re afraid of. But you made a promise.
I made a promise, you say, quiet. A promise, he asks. A promise, you say. You know you’re sounding cryptic. You need to say more. Just get it out there. The year is about to end, and I promised I wouldn’t let it end without — Without? He asks when you’re silent. You think his voice might be shaking. You look at him. He seems to be hanging on your every word. You take a deep breath. I like you, Harry. All these months, years, really, I — You like me, he sounds stunned, his eyes are wide, beautiful. I have feelings for you and I’ve been trying to sort them out. See, last year I made a promise, I was sort of drunk, but it doesn’t matter. I swore to myself I wouldn’t wallow in my own misery anymore. I swore I wouldn’t pine forever. So I’m telling you. You… what? The look he’s giving you takes your breath away. He’s half bewildered, half hopeful. I promised I was going to tell you how I felt. I think I’m in love with you, but I don’t know when it started, if it was when we started working together, or the weekend Quidditch matches or going out with the group, or watching you with Teddy or maybe it was before all of that, maybe it’s always been there, I don’t know, so don’t ask me for reasons, I don’t have reasons except you terrify me, when I’m around you I feel like my past doesn’t matter which is weird because you’re you and I’m me and if anyone has any reason to hate me is— Draco, he says, and he stops your words just like that. And then he’s kissing you, arms climbing up around you and you don’t remember when he got so close but you don’t care, you’re sure you’re dreaming, coming up with a fever, delirious. But he bites on your lip and it lights you up from inside, igniting you, it’s happening, this is real. Say it, you can’t help but ask him. He smiles. I was gonna tell you this Christmas too, he says and he laughs and he’s shaking, climbing on your lap, kissing you until you believe.