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[ID: A photo taken from outside a living room, looking in through a window. There is a Christas tree inside, along with a somewhat transparent yellow curtain tied to the right. The exterior is dark, presumably taken at night.]
Harry is bouncing in his seat with anticipation, his face hurting from all the smiling he’s been doing. Ron is looking at him strangely over his plate, and Hermione’s gaze has a tad too much knowing behind it, but Harry doesn’t care.
They’re swapping their Kris Kringle presents tomorrow, and Harry is restless.
Not because he’s excited for his own present, oh no. He wants to watch Draco’s face as he opens his present. Wants to watch as understanding dawns on his face.
Harry smiles into his glass of pumpkin juice.
“Harry,” Hermione says, foot tapping against his shin under the table. “What are you thinking about?”
Harry blinks up at her, trying to appear innocent. “Nothing.”
Ron rolls his eyes, biting into his pasta. “Even I can tell that it isn’t nothing, mate. Who is it?”
Harry chokes. “What do you mean, who?”
Hermione glares at Ron, and Harry internally breathes a sigh of relief. If Hermione isn’t going to let Ron push, maybe he’ll get out of this unscathed.
“We all know perfectly well who he’s thinking of, Ronald.”
Harry’s hope fades out of existence. He turns to look out the window, the restaurant’s Christmas tree reflecting in the glass panes. Its red decorations contrast perfectly with the evergreen boughs, and Harry tries to count how many baubles there are.
Ron scowls. “It’s called being optimistic, ‘Mione.”
Harry looks back at his traitorous friends, deciding to feign ignorance. “What are you talking about?”
Hermione sighs and turns to face him. “Harry…”
“What Hermione is too polite to say, mate, is that you’re obsessed with Malfoy. Again.”
“No I’m not! I barely think about him at all!” Harry argues, knowing perfectly well that that isn’t true.
Hermione rolls her eyes. “No, not at all.” She shakes her head. “Not while you’re playing quidditch, or doing your homework, or eating, or—”
“That’s not true!”
“Yes, yes it is, mate,” Ron cuts in. “And when you got him for Kris Kringle, you became a nightmare. ‘I hope he likes it! Do you think he’ll understand?’ On and on, mate.”
“I don’t think we’ve had a conversation these past three weeks without Malfoy’s name cropping up at least once,” Hermione agrees. “It’s okay Harry, we all know how you feel about him.”
Harry’s face is burning, and he knows it’s going red. “What do you mean, how I feel about him? The guy’s a git!”
“Yeah,” Ron mutters darkly, “a git you want to sha—”
“Date,” Hermione quickly interrupts. “A git you want to date.”
Harry wants to argue, wants to deny it and call them idiots. He can’t though. They’re right.
And he’s clearly not as good at hiding things as he thought he was.
“You’re not even defending yourself mate. ‘Mione, he’s not even—”
“It’s true,” Harry murmurs, his head falling into his hands. “It’s true, alright? I like the bloody sod.”
Hermione hums around her mouthful of garlic bread. “We know, Harry, and we support you. Malfoy has grown up a lot since the war. Just, please don’t get hurt.”
Harry tips his head back, staring at the ceiling of the Three Broomsticks. “I’ll try.”
~oOo~
Harry is an anxious mess of nerves. All the Gryffindor and Slytherin eighth years are gathered in a circle in their common room, waiting for the last of the group to arrive. A pile of presents sits in the centre of the circle, and Harry can clearly see his present for Draco sitting a little bit to the left.
Draco himself is on the other side of the circle, opposite Harry. He is surrounded by his friends, Parkinson and Zabini on one side, Nott and Goyle on the other. Harry keeps trying to get Draco to look at him, but he hasn’t been successful yet.
Which is weird.
Normally, Draco is staring right back.
Not today though.
Harry sighs. Runs his hand through his hair. What if Draco hates it? What if he doesn’t understand, or he does but he doesn’t feel the same way?
He thinks back to charged tension in locker rooms, to harsh breathing and pink cheeks when they practise duelling, to Draco smirking at him as he makes crude innuendos… No. he’s certain Draco feels the same way.
“Welcome to the first annual Eighth Year Kris Kringle!” a voice booms from the centre of the circle. “Now that you’re all here and every present is, well, present, we can begin!”
Harry looks around, eyes flicking over every face. No one looks particularly nervous, and it calms him down just enough so that he can look at Draco again.
This time, Draco is looking at him. His silver eyes are intense against his, and Harry swallows hard and has to glance away.
The wand in the middle speaks again, directing people to close their eyes. Harry does so, and after a moment, hears the rustling of paper. When they’re told to open them again, there is a gift placed before everyone in the circle. Harry’s own present is neatly wrapped in silver paper, and tied with black string. It looks like a small box, and Harry’s curiosity is piqued.
“You can open them in: three”—everyone begins counting down with the voice—“two, one!”
Harry rips into the thick paper, tearing it away from the gift. It comes apart easily, and he only feels slightly bad at having destroyed such extravagant paper.
He holds his breath as a box comes into view. Nothing gives away what’s inside, and Harry spins it around so he can open it from the front. He peels the cardboard back, and his eyes widen.
Sitting inside the box, nestled in red tissue paper, is a pair of the new quidditch gloves he’s been eyeing off for months. They’re made from high quality dragon hide, and come in an array of colours. The gloves in front of him are pure black, and there’s only one person he’s admitted to wanting these to.
Harry glances up and across the circle, finding Draco already watching him. He smiles shyly, ducks his head. Harry grins at him, taking the gloves out of the box and running his fingers over them. They feel soft and supple, yet extremely strong and durable. He sends a mild stinging hex at Draco, and when he glances back at him, mouths ‘thank you.’
Draco looks like he fights back a grin, managing to nod at Harry. He then moves to unwrap his own present, and Harry pretends to not be extremely interested in his reaction.
Draco unwraps his present in a much more civilised manner. He peels the gold and white paper off slowly, taking care not to tear any of it. He slips the paper out from under the gift, and picks it up. Harry sees his eyes widen, and then Draco’s head snaps to look at him.
In Draco’s hands, there is a long, narrow wooden case. Draco hasn’t even opened it yet, but Harry can tell that he knows what’s inside; and that it came from Harry.
“Open it,” he calls out, knowing that no one else will hear in the cacophony of the common room. Draco looks between the case and Harry, takes a deep breath, and pries it open. Harry waits with bated breath, and when Draco slowly slides his hawthorn wand free and runs a reverent finger over it, Harry relaxes again.
Draco stares at Harry, and after a moment, gets up and crosses the circle to sit in front of him. “How did you get this?” he asks, voice dry and eyes shining. With excitement or tears, Harry can’t tell.
Harry swallows hard, unable to look away from Draco. “I always had it. I took it off you at the Manor, but completely forgot I had it.” He rubs at the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how much of an arsehole he sounds. “Once I saw you using your mother’s… I knew I had to give it back, but wasn’t sure how to. And then this happened, and I thought it was perfect.”
Draco’s throat bobs, he licks his lips. “It’s been polished.”
“Yes.” Harry finally manages to look away from his eyes, only to find himself gazing at his lips. “Thank you for the gloves.”
“I know how desperately you wanted them,” Draco says, voice a bit faint. “I know they don’t mean as much as my wand but…”
“I love them,” Harry cuts in, placing his hand on Draco’s knee. “I never would have bought them for myself, so I’m really glad you did.”
Draco chuckles, placing his own hand on top of Harry’s. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you,” he murmurs.
“You don’t have to, Draco. I didn’t do it for a reward.”
“Of course you didn’t, you’re too kind for your own good, Harry.”
Harry swallows hard, eyes dropping to look at their joint hands.
“Actually, I can think of something,” Draco whispers, gaze also on their hands.
“Oh?” Harry asks, not daring to acknowledge the flicker of hope in his chest.
Draco smiles softly, his other hand lifting up to rest on Harry’s shoulder. He raises an eyebrow at Harry, and he finds himself nodding in response. Draco licks his lips, and then he’s leaning in.
The rest of the room drops away with the first brush of their lips. Draco is warm and soft, and he makes an amazing humming sound that Harry wants to hear everyday now. His hands move to cup his face, and Harry rises onto his knees and leans into it, pulling Draco towards him. Draco licks over Harry’s bottom lip, and Harry opens his mouth to him.
Draco tastes like something citrusy—maybe oranges?—but also like those peppermint crisps Harry caught him eating earlier. Harry traces his tongue along Draco’s teeth, and Draco moans softly into his mouth. Harry squeezes him gently, before pulling away.
He blinks dazedly at Draco for a little bit, just smiling like an idiot at him. Draco is blushing furiously, looking anywhere but Harry. Harry is beginning to worry that maybe Draco is regretting it, but then his ears unblock and he can hear again.
The entire common room is cheering and clapping.
Harry looks around in bewilderment, finding every pair of eyes in the room focused on him and Draco. Everyone is beaming at them, and Harry gathers the courage to look back at Draco. Draco smiles, a small one that makes his eyes soft, and Harry can’t help himself.
He kisses Draco again.