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Harry and Draco were snowed in at the edge of the village the night they decided they still did not have the perfect tree. The next morning, they pulled on coats, Draco added a bright Santa hat, and they rode into town in a small sleigh borrowed from a neighbour. Overhead, icicle lights still glowed faintly in the grey morning.
They chose Norway on purpose. It was quiet and mostly covered in snow most of the year. It was far from old fights and big names. Here, magic did not feel loud or dangerous. It felt soft. It lived in the sky, in the falling snow, and in the lights that moved above the hills. Here, their life could be small, warm, and real.
The Christmas market was already alive with sound and steam. Someone was selling roasted chestnuts, another poured hot mulled cider and spiced mead, and a stall full of Christmas kittens had Draco stopping in his tracks. Wooden toys, a painted nutcracker, and jars of sweets lined the tables. A child ran past holding a gingerbread man, crumbs on their coat.
They passed a stall marked cookie exchange, where Harry traded shortbread for spiced biscuits. Draco bought a red poinsettia for their window and a box of Christmas novelty gifts he pretended not to care about. At another stall, Harry lifted a small Christmas star and held it up.
"This could be our Christmas tree topper," he said.
Draco tilted his head, eyeing the little star like a critic at a gallery. "If," he said lightly, "we find a tree that does not embarrass it."
They stopped by the frozen pond for a moment. Two people were skating in wide circles, not very steady, but they were laughing and did not seem to care. Near the old stone wall, a small choir was singing into the cold air, their voices slow and a little off in the wind. Someone had placed a big pot near a burning yule log to keep people warm, and steam rose from it in thick white clouds. Above their heads, tinsel hung between the stalls and moved when people walked past, shining in silver and gold. Children pulled at their parents' coats and pointed at the carved reindeer near the ice, their breath coming out in short white bursts as they laughed.
Draco glanced around at the lights, the noise, the crowds, then leaned closer to Harry. "All this," he murmured, dry, "and no compulsory speeches. I am already impressed."
Under a stall heavy with pine branches, they finally saw it. Tall, full, and perfectly shaped. Harry brushed snow from the needles. Draco tilted his head, judging it with care.
"This one," Draco said. "This is the one."
The seller tied it tight with twine. As they lifted it together, their hands met under a hanging strand of mistletoe. They both paused, then laughed, and Harry kissed him anyway.
On the way back, the sky cleared. Far above the hills, faint ribbons of colour moved like breath.
"The northern lights," Draco whispered, stunned.
That night, they carried the tree inside, warm from cold fingers and shared effort. They set the Christmas tree topper in place, wrapped the last gifts, and placed the tree by the window beside the poinsettia. Later, they walked to midnight mass, quiet and close, then returned for Christmas dinner that neither of them pretended was fancy.
Near midnight, a neighbour's radio drifted through the window.
"Auld Lang Syne," Harry said softly.
Outside, the market lights faded. Inside, the tree glowed. Draco leaned against him, tired and happy.
"Perfect," Draco said at last.
Harry agreed, and for once, nothing in the world felt missing.