Part One: The Invitation

The cursed necklace had been designed to kill slowly.

Harry watched as the Healers levitated Draco Malfoy onto a stretcher, his skin grey, his breathing shallow. They'd been investigating the same black market artifact ring—Harry as an Auror, Draco as a freelance curse-breaker—and had arrived at the warehouse in Knockturn Alley at precisely the same moment.

The trap had been meant for both of them. Harry had been faster.

"Potter." Draco's voice was barely a whisper as they moved him toward the Floo. His grey eyes found Harry's, unfocused but aware. "You didn't have to—"

"Shut up, Malfoy." Harry's hands were still shaking from the counter-curse, from the split second where he'd seen the chain snake toward Draco's throat and reacted on pure instinct. "Save your strength."

Three days later, Harry received an owl.

The parchment was heavy, expensive, with the Malfoy crest embossed at the top. Harry's stomach sank before he even broke the wax seal.

Mr. Potter,

My son informs me that you saved his life on the evening of December 18th. While the circumstances of your meeting remain unclear, the debt incurred is not.

According to Section 47 of the Life Debt Accords of 1762, such a debt must be acknowledged formally within the season of its occurrence. As tomorrow is Christmas Eve, I must insist you join us at Malfoy Manor for the holiday to properly observe the traditional rites.

Your presence is required from Christmas Eve through Boxing Day morning.

This is not a request.

Narcissa Malfoy

Harry read it three times, his tea going cold in his hand.

A life debt. Formal acknowledgment. Required presence at Malfoy Manor for Christmas.

He considered ignoring it. He considered sending a polite refusal. He considered setting the letter on fire and pretending he'd never received it.

Instead, he found himself at the Ministry library that afternoon, pulling dusty volumes on magical debts and obligations. What he found made his head spin—complex magical theory about bonds and balance, pages of legal precedent, warnings about dishonored debts causing magical instability.

But nothing that specifically required him to spend Christmas at Malfoy Manor.

"You look confused," said a voice behind him.

Harry jumped. Hermione stood there with an armful of files, raising an eyebrow at the pile of books spread across his table.

"Life debt law," Harry said shortly.

"Ah." Hermione set down her files and picked up one of the books, flipping through it with practiced ease. "Who owes whom?"

"Draco Malfoy owes me, apparently. His mother sent an owl insisting I come to the Manor for Christmas to 'properly observe the traditional rites.'" Harry pushed the letter across the table.

Hermione read it, her expression growing more skeptical with each line. "Harry, this is bollocks."

"What?"

"Life debts don't work like this anymore. The 1762 Accords were superseded by the Magical Debts Reform Act of 1891, which made all these formal observances voluntary. Narcissa Malfoy is either ignorant of magical law—which I doubt—or she's manipulating you." Hermione tapped the letter. "You don't have to go."

Harry should have felt relieved. Instead, he felt something more complicated twist in his chest.

"But what if she's right?" he asked. "What if ignoring it causes problems for Draco?"

"Then Draco can send his own owl and ask you himself." Hermione studied him too closely. "Why do you want to go?"

"I don't want to go."

"Harry."

He sighed, slumping in his chair. "I don't know. Maybe I'm curious. We've been... not enemies, exactly. Not for years. We're civil when we run into each other. He's been doing good work, breaking curses on Muggle-borns who were targeted during the war. I just..." He trailed off, not sure how to explain the way Draco had looked at him in the warehouse, or the way Harry had moved without thinking, or the strange disappointment he'd felt when the Healers had taken Draco away before they could actually talk.

Hermione's expression softened. "You like him."

"I don't—"

"Not as an enemy anymore. You're curious about who he's become." She smiled. "Harry, if you want to go, go. Just know you're not obligated. This is a choice."

That night, Harry sent his reply.

Mrs. Malfoy,

I'll arrive Christmas Eve at four o'clock.

Harry Potter

The gates of Malfoy Manor opened silently as Harry approached, which was somehow more unnerving than if they'd creaked ominously. The long drive was exactly as he remembered from that terrible night during the war—perfectly manicured, intimidating, designed to make visitors feel small.

The Manor itself rose against the grey December sky, all white stone and too many windows. Someone had hung a wreath on the door, though whether that was meant to be welcoming or was just another pure-blood tradition, Harry couldn't tell.

He was reaching for the knocker when the door opened.

Narcissa Malfoy stood in the doorway, immaculate as always in dark blue robes, her blonde hair swept up. But there was something different about her face—softer, maybe, or just older. The war had aged all of them.

"Mr. Potter." She inclined her head. "How prompt. Please, come in."

The entrance hall was exactly as Harry remembered, right down to the cold marble floors and the crystal chandelier. But it felt emptier somehow, less oppressive. Maybe because there were fewer artifacts on display, or maybe because Harry was here willingly this time.

Mostly willingly.

"Let me take your cloak," Narcissa said, and Harry realized with a start that there was no house elf appearing to do it. He handed it over and she hung it herself on a brass hook by the door. "Draco is in the drawing room. I thought you might want to see him first, clear the air before dinner."

"Is he... how is he?"

"Recovering. The Healers say there will be no permanent damage, thanks to your quick action." Her blue eyes studied him intently. "We are in your debt, Mr. Potter."

"Harry's fine. And you don't owe me anything."

"Nevertheless." She gestured down the hall. "Second door on the left. I'll have tea sent in."

Harry found Draco standing by the window, backlit by the grey afternoon light. He'd lost weight since the warehouse—the curse had taken a toll—but he was standing straight, dressed in expensive casual robes that probably cost more than Harry's entire wardrobe.

"Potter." Draco turned, and his expression was carefully neutral. "Mother got to you, then."

"Your mother's very persuasive."

"She's a menace." But there was fondness in Draco's voice. "You didn't have to come. The life debt thing is mostly ceremonial nonsense she dug up from some ancient text."

"Hermione mentioned something like that."

"Of course Granger knew. She knows everything." Draco crossed to one of the chairs and sat carefully, like he was still sore. "Look, Potter—Harry—I don't know what Mother told you, but you're not obligated to be here. If you want to leave, I'll make excuses."

Harry should have felt relieved. Instead, he sat in the chair across from Draco. "What if I want to stay?"

Draco blinked. "Why would you want that?"

"Maybe I'm curious about ceremonial nonsense." Harry shrugged. "Or maybe I wanted to make sure you were actually okay. The Healers rushed you off before I could check."

"I'm fine. Mostly." Draco's hand went to his throat, where Harry could see the faint shadow of a bruise beneath his collar. "You saved my life. That counter-curse was... impressive. And stupid. You could have been hurt."

"So could you."

"Yes, but I'm trained for this. You're an Auror. You arrest people, you don't break curses."

"I've picked up a few things." Harry leaned forward. "Draco, about that night—"

A house elf appeared with tea, and the moment broke. They spent the next few minutes in awkward silence as Draco poured, his hands steady despite everything. Harry noticed the drawing room had changed too—fewer dark artifacts, more books, a fire burning cheerfully in the grate instead of the cold emptiness he remembered.

"Mother's redecorating," Draco said, catching Harry's gaze. "Getting rid of anything too... reminiscent. Father's not pleased, but Father's not pleased about most things these days."

"He's here?"

"Where else would he be? He's under house arrest for another three years." Draco's voice was flat. "You'll see him at dinner. Try not to hex him, please. Mother's worked hard on the menu."

"I'll behave if he does."

"That's not particularly reassuring." But Draco's lips twitched, almost a smile. "Fair warning: he's not the man you remember from the war. Azkaban and losing everything tends to... diminish people."

Harry thought about Sirius, about what Azkaban had done to him. "I'll keep that in mind."

They talked carefully after that, avoiding anything too heavy. Draco asked about Harry's work. Harry asked about curse-breaking. It was painfully polite until Draco said something sarcastic about the Ministry's new regulations and Harry laughed, and then it got easier.

"I should show you to your room," Draco said eventually, when the light outside had faded to dusk. "Mother's put you in the guest wing. Fair warning: it's very... Malfoy. Lots of silver. Aggressively comfortable furniture."

"As opposed to passively comfortable furniture?"

"You'll see."

The guest wing was exactly as advertised—opulent and silver and so pristine Harry was afraid to touch anything. His bag had already been brought up and unpacked by invisible hands, his clothes hanging in the wardrobe alongside the room's ridiculous number of spare blankets.

"Dinner's at seven," Draco said from the doorway. "Formal dress. Mother's insistent about maintaining standards."

"I don't have anything formal."

Draco's eyes swept over him, assessing. "You're slightly broader than me, but I can transfigure something. Stay there."

He returned ten minutes later with a set of dark dress robes that looked like they'd cost a fortune. "Try these."

Harry changed in the bathroom, hyperaware that Draco was waiting just outside. The robes fit perfectly, and when he emerged, Draco was leaning against the doorframe with an expression Harry couldn't quite read.

"You'll do," Draco said. "Try not to spill anything on them. They're dragon-hide."

"Draco, I can't—"

"You can and you will. Consider it payment for the life debt, if it makes you feel better." Draco straightened. "I'll collect you at seven. Try not to get lost. The Manor has a habit of rearranging itself when it's bored."

After he left, Harry sat on the edge of the enormous bed and wondered what exactly he'd agreed to.

Dinner was excruciating.

The dining room was formal enough to host foreign dignitaries—long table, crystal everything, enough silverware that Harry had to watch Narcissa to know which fork to use. And at the head of the table, looking like a ghost of his former self, sat Lucius Malfoy.

He was thinner than Harry remembered, his hair more grey than white-blonde, his face drawn. The hand resting on the table was ringless—his wand hand, Harry realized, though the wand itself was long gone. He wore expensive robes but they hung slightly loose, and when his eyes met Harry's, there was something hollow in them.

"Potter." Lucius's voice was cool. "How unexpected."

"Father," Draco said warningly.

"I merely meant that the Ministry's golden boy gracing us with his presence is not something one expects regularly." Lucius picked up his wine glass. "To what do we owe the honor?"

"Lucius," Narcissa said, her tone pleasant but with steel underneath. "Harry is here because he saved our son's life. We are grateful for his quick thinking and skill."

"Of course. Grateful." Lucius took a long drink. "How could I forget the life debt."

The appetizer appeared—something with asparagus that Harry couldn't identify—and they ate in tense silence. Harry was acutely aware of Draco beside him, of the way Draco's jaw was tight, of how Narcissa kept the conversation flowing with determined pleasantness.

"Harry," Narcissa said, "I understand you're doing quite well at the Ministry. Youngest Head Auror in history, or so the Prophet says."

"They exaggerate."

"Do they? Draco mentioned you've closed several high-profile cases this year."

Harry glanced at Draco, who was suddenly very interested in his asparagus. "You mentioned me?"

"In passing," Draco muttered. "Mother likes to be informed."

"I like to know who my son is working near," Narcissa corrected. "And you two do seem to cross paths frequently."

"The curse-breaking circuit overlaps with Auror work sometimes," Draco said. "It's not intentional."

Lucius made a sound that might have been skepticism. "How fortunate that you happened to be in the same location when my son was attacked."

"It was fortunate," Harry agreed evenly. "Otherwise he'd be dead."

The table fell silent. Lucius stared at Harry, and Harry stared back, refusing to look away first. After a long moment, Lucius inclined his head slightly—not quite acknowledgment, but close.

"Indeed. We are... grateful."

It was the closest thing to thanks Harry was likely to get, and from the surprised look on Draco's face, it was more than he'd expected.

The rest of dinner was slightly less tense. Narcissa asked Harry about his friends, about Ron and Hermione, and seemed genuinely interested in his answers. Draco contributed occasionally, mostly sarcastic observations that made Harry bite back smiles. Lucius remained mostly silent, drinking steadily and watching Harry with unreadable eyes.

After dinner, Lucius excused himself immediately. Narcissa suggested brandy in the drawing room, but Draco pleaded fatigue and Harry was quick to agree. They escaped to the entrance hall, and Draco let out a long breath.

"That was awful," Draco said.

"It wasn't that bad."

"Potter, my father practically accused you of stalking me, and you had to remind him you saved my life. That's the definition of awful." Draco ran a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that made Harry's fingers itch to fix it. "I'm sorry. He's... difficult."

"It's fine."

"It's not, but thank you for saying so." Draco glanced toward the stairs. "I should let you rest. Tomorrow's Christmas Eve, which means Mother will have a full schedule of traditional Malfoy activities designed to make you regret ever stepping foot in this house."

"I don't regret it."

Draco looked at him for a long moment. "You should. This place is full of ghosts, Potter. Bad memories. You of all people should want to be anywhere else."

"Maybe." Harry stepped closer. "Or maybe I want to see what it's like now. Without the war. Without Voldemort. Just... what it actually is."

"It's still a tomb. Just a prettier one."

"Then show me the parts that aren't." Harry wasn't sure why he was pushing this, only that Draco's resignation bothered him. "Tomorrow. Show me something good about this place."

Draco's eyes widened slightly. "Why?"

"Because you grew up here. And I want to understand that." Harry shrugged. "If you want to, I mean. No pressure."

"No pressure," Draco repeated slowly. "Potter, you're very strange."

"I've been told."

"Tomorrow, then." Draco turned toward the stairs, then paused. "Thank you. For coming. For not hexing my father. For... all of it."

He was gone before Harry could respond, leaving Harry alone in the entrance hall with its cold marble and crystal chandelier and the growing certainty that he'd made either a very good decision or a very terrible one.

Harry couldn't sleep.

The room was too big, the bed too soft, and every time he closed his eyes he saw the cursed necklace snaking toward Draco's throat. He kept seeing alternate versions—the one where he'd been a second slower, where Draco had died, where Harry had been the one caught instead.

At midnight, he gave up and pulled on his clothes. The Manor was dark and quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy and old. Harry wandered the halls, following witch-lights that flickered on as he approached and dimmed behind him.

He found the library by accident—or maybe the Manor led him there. It was enormous, two stories tall with a balcony running around the second level, filled with more books than Harry had ever seen outside Hogwarts. A fire burned low in the grate, and in one of the leather chairs beside it sat Draco.

"Couldn't sleep either?" Harry asked from the doorway.

Draco looked up from his book, unsurprised. "The Manor has a habit of leading insomniacs to the library. It's probably lonely."

"Can manors be lonely?"

"This one can. It's had nothing but ghosts for years." Draco closed his book. "Come in, Potter. Don't lurk."

Harry settled into the chair across from him. The fire cast warm shadows across Draco's face, softening the sharp edges Harry remembered from school. He looked tired, but also more relaxed than he had at dinner.

"What are you reading?"

"Magical theory. Very boring. You'd hate it." Draco set the book aside. "Couldn't stop thinking?"

"Something like that."

"The warehouse?"

Harry nodded. "I keep seeing it differently. Ways it could have gone wrong."

"Me too," Draco admitted quietly. "I dream about that necklace reaching me. About you not being there." His eyes met Harry's. "Why were you there, anyway? That warehouse wasn't on any official Auror business I'd heard about."

"Anonymous tip. Said there was dark artifact trafficking." Harry hesitated. "Why were you there?"

"Same, actually. Someone hired me to investigate the building for curse residue." Draco frowned. "You don't think—"

"That we were both set up? Yeah, I do."

They stared at each other as the implications sank in. Someone had wanted them both there. Someone had laid a trap meant for at least one of them, possibly both.

"Who would want both of us dead?" Draco asked finally.

"Besides half the wizarding world?" Harry tried for humor, but it fell flat. "I don't know. Death Eaters who think we're both traitors? War profiteers we've pissed off? Take your pick."

"Cheerful thought." Draco stood, pacing to the window. Snow had started falling, visible in the moonlight. "Potter—Harry—you should be careful. If someone's targeting you—"

"They're targeting you too."

"Yes, but I'm used to being a target. You're supposed to be the hero. You're not supposed to still be in danger."

"Since when do you care if I'm in danger?"

Draco turned, and his expression was raw. "Since you threw yourself in front of a killing curse for me without hesitation. Since I realized you'd do it again without even thinking. Since I understood that you're still the same stupid, brave Gryffindor you've always been and someone needs to stop you from getting yourself killed."

The words hung between them. Harry stood slowly, crossing to where Draco stood by the window.

"I'm not stupid."

"You're spectacularly stupid. You're the stupidest person I've ever met." But Draco's voice had gone soft. "You saved my life."

"You already thanked me."

"Not properly. Not—" Draco stopped, seemed to catch himself. "It's late. We should both try to sleep."

He moved to leave but Harry caught his wrist. "Draco, wait."

"What?"

Harry didn't know what. He just knew he didn't want Draco to leave yet, didn't want this moment to end. In the library with the fire burning low and snow falling outside, something felt different. Possible.

"Show me tomorrow," Harry said. "Something good about this place. Something that was yours."

Draco's throat worked. "Why does it matter?"

"Because you matter."

The words came out more intense than Harry meant them, but he didn't take them back. Draco stared at him, his grey eyes wide and searching, and for a moment Harry thought he might say something, might explain why this felt so important.

Instead, Draco pulled his wrist free gently. "Tomorrow, then. After breakfast. Wear something warm."

He left, and Harry stood alone by the window, watching snow fall on the Malfoy gardens and wondering when exactly Draco Malfoy had started mattering so much.

Part Two: Christmas Eve

Harry woke to sun streaming through windows he'd forgotten to close and the smell of coffee from a tray that had appeared on his nightstand. Pure-blood hospitality via house elf, apparently. He drank the coffee—perfect temperature, perfect strength—and tried not to think too hard about what today would bring.

Breakfast was less formal than dinner had been. Narcissa presided over a table in a smaller dining room that actually felt warm, with winter sun through the windows and food that appeared as they reached for it. Lucius was absent, which made the meal significantly less tense.

"My husband prefers to breakfast alone," Narcissa said, as if reading Harry's thoughts. "He's not suited to company before noon."

"Or after noon," Draco muttered into his tea. "Or ever, really."

"Draco."

"What? It's true."

Narcissa sighed but didn't argue. "I thought this morning we might decorate the drawing room. It's tradition on Christmas Eve, and I'd be honored if you'd participate, Harry."

Harry agreed, because what else could he say? They spent the morning in the drawing room with boxes of decorations that were probably older than Harry's grandparents. Narcissa directed while Harry and Draco did the actual work, hanging garlands and arranging enchanted candles and setting out displays that looked museum-quality.

"This was my grandmother's," Narcissa said, handing Harry a crystal ornament shaped like a star. "And this belonged to Draco's great-great-grandfather. He was an ambassador to the French Ministry."

Each item came with a story, and Harry started to see the pattern. These weren't just decorations—they were history. The Malfoy family tree made tangible, each piece a reminder of legacy and expectation.

"Does it ever feel like too much?" Harry asked Draco quietly, while Narcissa was digging in another box. "All this history?"

"Every day," Draco admitted. "But it's also all I have left. The Manor, the name, the legacy—it's either a gift or a curse depending on the day."

"Which is it today?"

Draco looked at him, something complicated in his expression. "Ask me tonight."

After lunch—another elaborate meal that appeared with minimal fuss—Draco collected Harry from the drawing room where Narcissa was still fussing with silver boughs.

"You promised to show me something," Harry reminded him.

"I did." Draco handed him a cloak. "It's cold. We're going outside."

The gardens were beautiful under a thin layer of snow. Draco led Harry down paths lined with dormant rosebushes and past a frozen fountain, his breath fogging in the cold air. They walked in comfortable silence until they reached a conservatory Harry hadn't noticed from the house—glass and iron, elegant and slightly wild.

Inside was warmer, heated by charms. The glass walls were frosted with condensation, and the air smelled like earth and growing things. Rows of plants filled the space, most dormant for winter but a few still blooming with magical encouragement.

"This was my mother's project," Draco said, running his hand along a workbench. "She started it after the war. Said she needed something living to care for, something that wasn't tainted by what happened."

"It's beautiful."

"It's hers. But she lets me work here sometimes." Draco moved to a section in the back where roses were blooming despite December. "These are mine. I've been trying to breed a variety that can survive British winters without charms. Haven't succeeded yet, but I'm close."

Harry watched Draco inspect the roses with careful hands, checking leaves and testing soil. This was different from the Draco he'd known at school, different even from the curse-breaker he'd worked near. This was someone quiet and patient, someone who cared about making things grow.

"Why roses?" Harry asked.

"Why not? They're difficult. Temperamental. They die easily and take years to breed properly." Draco's smile was self-deprecating. "I suppose I relate."

"You're not temperamental."

"Potter, I'm famously temperamental."

"Not with me. Not lately." Harry stepped closer, studying the roses. They were beautiful—deep red with silver edges, like someone had dipped them in frost. "What will you call them, if you succeed?"

Draco was quiet for a moment. "I hadn't thought that far ahead. I've been focused on just making them survive."

"You'll figure it out. You're good at this."

"How would you know?"

"Because you care about it. That matters."

They stayed in the conservatory for over an hour, Draco showing Harry his various projects while Harry asked questions and tried not to think too hard about how domestic this felt. How easy. Eventually the light started to fade and Draco sighed.

"We should head back. Mother will want us to dress for dinner, and Father will be in attendance tonight. He takes Christmas Eve very seriously."

"Of course he does."

"Harry." Draco caught his arm as they headed for the door. "Thank you. For asking to see this. For caring enough to ask."

"Thank you for showing me."

They walked back to the Manor through the gathering dusk, and Harry felt something shift between them. Something that had been building since the warehouse, maybe longer.

Christmas Eve dinner was a production.

The dining room had been transformed with silver and green, candles floating overhead, the table laden with more food than four people could possibly eat. Narcissa had dressed formally, her robes a deep navy that made her look regal. Draco wore black that set off his pale hair and grey eyes. Lucius sat at the head of the table in ceremonial robes that had probably been his father's, looking like a portrait of pure-blood nobility.

And Harry, in the dragon-hide robes Draco had loaned him, felt completely out of place.

"Potter." Lucius raised his wine glass. "To your health."

"To yours," Harry said carefully.

"And to our continued... mutual survival." Lucius drank deeply. "My wife tells me you're quite the hero. Saving my son, closing cases, generally being the Ministry's golden child."

"Lucius," Narcissa warned.

"I'm simply making conversation, my dear. Potter doesn't mind, do you, Potter?"

"Not particularly." Harry met his gaze steadily. "Though I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"I'm getting at nothing. Simply observing that you've made quite the life for yourself. Fame, fortune, the adoration of the masses. One wonders why you'd waste time at a fallen family's table on Christmas Eve."

"Father," Draco snapped. "That's enough."

"Is it? I think it's a fair question. What does Harry Potter want with us? We have nothing to offer him. No political advantage, no social benefit. Our name is mud and our fortune is depleted. So why is he here?"

The table fell silent. Harry could feel Narcissa's tension, Draco's barely contained anger. And under it all, he could hear what Lucius wasn't saying: Why would you want anything to do with us? With my son?

"I'm here," Harry said quietly, "because Draco saved my life once too. In the Room of Requirement. He could have let me burn, and he didn't. And I'm here because when I pulled him off that broom, I chose him over Crabbe and Goyle, and that meant something. And I'm here because your wife asked me, and because I wanted to see if we could all be something other than enemies for once."

Lucius stared at him. Draco had gone very still.

"Besides," Harry added, "your son's better company than half the people who actually want to be around me."

Narcissa's smile was triumphant. Draco looked stunned. And Lucius... Lucius took a long drink of wine and said nothing.

The meal continued in awkward silence for a few minutes before Narcissa smoothly redirected to safer topics. She asked Harry about his friends, about life outside the Ministry, about anything that wasn't weighted with history. Draco contributed occasionally, sharp observations that made Harry laugh despite the tension.

Lucius remained mostly silent, but Harry caught him watching several times with an expression that was hard to read. Not hostile, exactly. More... assessing.

After dinner, Narcissa insisted on taking them to midnight services at a small wizarding chapel on the grounds. It was beautiful in a stark way—stone and stained glass and ancient magic soaked into the walls. There were no other worshippers, just the four of them and a sleepy-looking chaplain who performed the Christmas Eve blessing with practiced efficiency.

Harry stood between Draco and Narcissa, acutely aware of Draco's shoulder against his, the way Draco's hand kept drifting to his throat where the curse had almost killed him. When the chaplain finished and they filed out into the snow, Harry caught Draco's hand without thinking.

"You alright?" Harry asked quietly.

Draco looked at their joined hands, then up at Harry's face. "Yeah. I am."

They didn't let go until they reached the Manor.

Harry was walking back from the bathroom—his third attempt at sleep—when he heard raised voices from downstairs. He should have gone back to his room. Instead, he found himself creeping down the stairs, following the sound to Lucius's study.

"You can't be serious." That was Draco, angry.

"I'm perfectly serious. Potter saved your life. The debt should be acknowledged, and then he should leave." Lucius sounded tired. "We don't need him here, Draco. We don't need his pity or his charity or whatever game he's playing."

"He's not playing a game."

"Everyone plays games. Especially Potter." A pause. "You like him."

"So what if I do?"

Harry's breath caught. He should leave. He should definitely leave.

"He's Harry Potter," Lucius said. "The hero of the wizarding world. You're the son of a Death Eater. You think there's a future there?"

"I think that's my business, not yours."

"It's my business when you're setting yourself up for heartbreak. He'll tire of this—of you, of us—and move on to someone appropriate. Someone without our baggage."

"You don't know that."

"I know Potter. I know his type. He saves people because it makes him feel good, feel necessary. But once the crisis is over? He doesn't stay."

"You're wrong."

"I hope so. For your sake." Lucius sighed. "But I've lived longer than you, son. And I've learned that people like us don't get happy endings. Especially not with people like him."

Harry left before he could hear more, his heart pounding. He made it back to his room and sat on the edge of the bed, Lucius's words echoing.

He doesn't stay.

Was that true? Harry thought about his relationships—Ginny, who'd ended things because he was never really present; the friendships he'd let drift; the way he threw himself into work instead of building a life. Maybe Lucius was right. Maybe Harry was just playing hero again, drawn to Draco because he was a problem to solve.

Except it didn't feel that way. It felt like Harry was finally paying attention to something that had been there all along, just waiting for him to notice.

His door opened quietly. Draco stood there in sleep clothes, his hair mussed, his expression miserable.

"I heard you on the stairs," Draco said. "You were eavesdropping."

"I shouldn't have—"

"No, you shouldn't have." Draco closed the door behind him, leaning against it. "But since you did, you should know: my father's wrong about you."

"Is he?"

"Yes." Draco crossed the room, sat on the bed beside Harry. "You're not here because you want to feel good about yourself. You're here because I matter to you, and you're too stubborn to pretend otherwise even when you should."

"I don't want to pretend."

"I know. That's the terrifying part." Draco's hand found Harry's on the bedspread. "I can't offer you anything, Potter. I'm unemployed half the time, I live on curse-breaking contracts, I have about as much political capital as a flobberworm, and my family name is associated with genocide. Dating me would be social suicide."

"I don't care."

"You should."

"Well, I don't." Harry turned his hand over, lacing their fingers together. "Draco, I—"

"Don't say it. Not yet." Draco's eyes were bright. "Not when you might change your mind tomorrow."

"I won't."

"You might. And I'd rather have this—you here, now, real—than risk losing it by pushing too fast."

Harry understood. He understood the fear that lived in Draco's voice, the years of learning not to hope for good things. So instead of saying what he wanted to say, he squeezed Draco's hand.

"Stay," Harry said. "Just for tonight. We don't have to talk about it."

Draco hesitated, then nodded. They lay down together on top of the covers, still holding hands, and Harry felt Draco's breathing slowly even out as he fell asleep. Harry stayed awake longer, watching the way moonlight caught in Draco's hair, the way his face relaxed in sleep.

This, Harry thought. This was what he wanted. Not the drama or the danger or the excitement of being a hero. Just this—Draco sleeping beside him, trusting him enough to be vulnerable.

When Harry finally slept, he dreamed of roses with silver edges.

Part Three: Christmas Day

Harry woke to find Draco gone and sunlight streaming through the windows. For a moment he panicked, wondering if last night had been a dream, but then he saw the indentation in the pillow next to his and the note on the nightstand.

Went to help Mother with breakfast. Don't let the Manor swallow you on your way down. —D

The house was quieter on Christmas morning. Harry found his way to the smaller dining room where breakfast waited—less formal than previous meals but still elaborate. Narcissa was there, looking pleased about something, and Draco appeared moments after Harry with color high in his cheeks.

"Good morning," Narcissa said warmly. "I trust you slept well?"

"Very well, thank you."

Her eyes sparkled like she knew exactly where Draco had spent part of the night, but she said nothing. "Lucius will join us shortly. He's not typically an early riser, but Christmas morning is tradition."

When Lucius appeared, he looked marginally more human than usual—less rigid, his robes more casual. He nodded to Harry without comment and took his seat.

"Gifts after breakfast," Narcissa announced. "I realize we weren't expecting an extra person, Harry, but I've taken the liberty of procuring something small."

"You didn't have to—"

"Nonsense. You're a guest in our home on Christmas. Of course we did."

Breakfast was surprisingly pleasant. Lucius was quiet but not hostile, occasionally contributing to conversation. Draco seemed more relaxed than Harry had seen him, teasing his mother about her overzealous decoration scheme. It felt almost normal, if normal could apply to having Christmas with the Malfoys.

After breakfast they moved to the drawing room, where a tastefully decorated tree stood in the corner and a small pile of wrapped gifts waited. Narcissa distributed them with ceremony.

For Harry, there was a book—first edition, valuable, about defensive magic theory. "I thought you might find it useful," Narcissa said. "Or at least interesting."

"It's perfect. Thank you." Harry felt guilty about his lack of gift in return. "I'm sorry, I didn't bring anything—"

"Your presence is gift enough," Narcissa said, and sounded like she meant it.

Draco's gift was smaller, a flat package that Harry opened carefully. Inside was a leather journal, expensive and practical, with his initials embossed on the cover.

"You're always taking notes on cases," Draco said, not meeting his eyes. "I thought you could use something nicer than those napkins you write on."

Harry laughed. "I do not write on napkins."

"You absolutely do. I've seen you."

"It was one time!"

"It was three times that I witnessed personally."

Lucius's gift was unexpected—a bottle of very old, very expensive firewhiskey. "For services rendered," he said stiffly. "Saving my son's life warrants acknowledgment."

"Thank you," Harry said, surprised by the gesture.

Lucius inclined his head and turned his attention to opening his own gifts—a new set of robes from Narcissa, a book on magical history from Draco. There was something sad about watching him, this man who'd once commanded such fear and respect, reduced to this quiet existence.

"Shall I make tea?" Narcissa asked after the gifts were opened. "Or would anyone like to go for a walk? The gardens are lovely after a snow."

"I'll walk," Draco said quickly, looking at Harry. "If you want company."

"Always."

They bundled up and headed outside, leaving Narcissa and Lucius in the drawing room. The gardens were beautiful in daylight, all white snow and winter sun, the paths cleared by magic.

"Your parents are being very... nice," Harry said carefully.

"Mother's thrilled. She's been trying to get me to date for years." Draco kicked at the snow. "Father's reserving judgment. He doesn't trust you."

"Should he?"

"With me? Yes." Draco stopped walking, turned to face Harry. "Last night—"

"You don't have to explain."

"I want to." Draco's breath fogged between them. "I meant what I said. I can't offer you much. But what I can offer—my time, my attention, myself—it's yours if you want it."

"I want it," Harry said immediately. "Draco, I've been half-gone on you for months. Maybe longer. I just didn't realize until the warehouse."

"When you threw yourself in front of a curse for me."

"When I realized I couldn't lose you." Harry stepped closer. "I know this is complicated. I know your family's history and mine don't exactly mesh well. But I don't care about that. I care about you."

Draco's eyes searched his face. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Even knowing the Prophet will have a field day? Even knowing half my old friends are in Azkaban and the other half won't speak to me? Even knowing I'm difficult and damaged and come with more baggage than a Muggle airport?"

"Especially knowing all that," Harry said. "Because you're also brilliant and funny and you care about things deeply even when you pretend not to. Because you breed roses and save cursed victims and you stayed with your family even when you could have run. Because when I'm with you, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

"That's terribly sappy, Potter."

"You love it."

"I really do." Draco's smile was tremulous. "So what now?"

"Now I kiss you," Harry said. "If that's alright."

"I suppose I could allow it—"

Harry kissed him before he could finish the sentence. Draco made a surprised sound and then melted into it, his hands coming up to grip Harry's jacket. The kiss was soft and sweet and perfect, and when they broke apart, Draco was smiling.

"We should probably discuss logistics," Draco said breathlessly. "Like where we'll live and how to handle the media and—"

"Or," Harry interrupted, kissing him again, "we could figure it out as we go."

"That's a terrible plan."

"You have a better one?"

"No," Draco admitted, kissing him back. "But I felt obligated to point out that we're being reckless."

"Good. I'm tired of being careful."

They stood in the snow kissing until they were both shivering, then made their way back to the Manor hand-in-hand. Narcissa took one look at them when they came in and smiled.

"How lovely," was all she said.

Christmas dinner was elaborate—more courses than Harry could count, each one appearing with perfect timing. But the atmosphere was different from Christmas Eve. Lighter, somehow. Even Lucius seemed less tense, though he still watched Harry with that assessing gaze.

After dinner, they played wizard's chess—Lucius against Draco in a vicious match that had both of them completely focused. Harry watched with Narcissa, who provided commentary.

"They've been playing since Draco was seven," she said quietly. "Lucius taught him. It's one of the few things they still do together."

Harry watched Draco's face as he concentrated, the way he absently bit his lip, the way his fingers drummed on the table when it was his father's turn. And he watched Lucius, the way something almost fond crossed his face when Draco made a particularly clever move.

"Check," Draco said triumphantly.

"Not for long." Lucius moved his rook. "Checkmate in three moves."

Draco swore and stared at the board. "How did I miss that?"

"You were too focused on offense." Lucius leaned back. "You always are."

"I won last time."

"Last time I let you win."

"You did not—" Draco caught himself, then laughed. "You're impossible."

"Yes," Lucius agreed, and something almost like warmth flickered across his face.

Later, after Narcissa and Lucius had retired, Harry and Draco sat in the library with glasses of wine, the fire burning low.

"This was better than I expected," Harry said.

"Low bar, considering your expectations probably involved hexes and disownment."

"They involved something like that, yes." Harry set his wine aside. "Your father's not as bad as I thought he'd be."

"He's trying. In his way." Draco swirled his wine. "He knows he can't object. He knows he lost the right to dictate my life when he made the choices he made. But it's still hard for him. Seeing you here. Knowing we're—" He gestured between them.

"Together?"

"Are we? Together?"

Harry pulled Draco closer, kissed his temple. "If you want to be."

"I do. But Harry, we need to talk about practicalities. Where will you stay after tomorrow? We can't exactly keep sneaking around."

"Who says we're sneaking?" Harry countered. "I'll tell Ron and Hermione. You tell your parents. We figure it out from there."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." Harry caught Draco's hand, studied the long fingers, the silver ring Draco wore on his thumb. "Unless you want to keep it secret?"

"No. I'm tired of secrets." Draco leaned into him. "I just worry about the fallout. For you especially."

"I can handle it."

"Can you? Harry, people will say terrible things. They'll accuse you of being under a curse or having lost your mind. They'll drag up every awful thing I've ever done. Are you ready for that?"

Harry thought about it seriously. The Prophet would be vicious. Some of his friends might not understand. There would be complications at work, whispers in the corridors.

"Yes," he said finally. "Because you're worth it."

Draco kissed him then, deep and desperate, and they stayed in the library until the fire died to embers and the sky outside started to lighten.

Part Four: Boxing Day

Harry woke in his own bed—they'd agreed it would be too much too soon to have Lucius discover them together—but Draco appeared shortly after with coffee and a tentative smile.

"Mother wants us at breakfast," Draco said. "She has something planned, apparently."

"Should I be worried?"

"Probably."

Narcissa was indeed planning something, which became clear when they sat down to breakfast and she produced an envelope.

"This arrived this morning," she said, setting it in front of Lucius. "From the Ministry. Regarding the house arrest terms."

Lucius opened it slowly, read it in silence. His expression was carefully neutral, but Harry saw his hands shake slightly.

"They're reducing it," Lucius said finally. "To quarterly check-ins. I can leave the grounds."

"That's wonderful!" Draco looked stunned.

"It is... unexpected." Lucius looked up at Harry. "Did you have anything to do with this, Potter?"

"No," Harry said honestly. "I didn't even know they were considering it."

"Kingsley mentioned it to me," Narcissa admitted. "Last month. He said they were reviewing cases, considering who'd shown rehabilitation and remorse. I may have provided some information about Lucius's cooperation with their investigation last year."

"You testified?" Draco asked his father.

"I answered questions. About other Death Eaters, about hidden caches of dark artifacts. I wasn't granted immunity, but they took it into consideration for the sentencing review." Lucius set the letter down. "Three years early release from house arrest. I can travel within Britain, though I'm barred from certain locations. The Wizengamot, obviously. Hogwarts. Diagon Alley."

"But you can leave," Narcissa said softly. "You can have some semblance of a normal life."

Harry watched emotions flicker across Lucius's face—relief, disbelief, something that might have been gratitude. It was the most human he'd ever seen him.

"Well," Lucius said finally. "I suppose that's settled then."

Breakfast continued with a lighter atmosphere than any meal so far. They talked about Lucius's plans, about places he wanted to visit, about how strange it would be after three years of confinement. Draco kept glancing at Harry like he couldn't quite believe this was happening.

After breakfast, Narcissa insisted on a family photo—all four of them, which made Harry protest that he wasn't family.

"You saved my son," Narcissa said firmly. "And you've made him happier than I've seen him in years. You're family enough."

They posed in the drawing room, and Harry stood next to Draco, their shoulders touching. When the enchanted camera captured the moment, Harry was smiling genuinely for perhaps the first time in a formal photo.

Later, as Harry packed his things to leave, Draco appeared in the doorway.

"You don't have to go," Draco said quietly.

"I think I do. You need time with your parents, and I need to face reality." Harry closed his bag. "But I'll see you tomorrow? For coffee?"

"Tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that." Draco crossed the room, pulled Harry into a kiss that made Harry's toes curl. "This is real, right? I didn't imagine it?"

"It's real." Harry kissed him again. "I'll owl you tonight."

"You better."

Downstairs, Narcissa was waiting to say goodbye. She hugged Harry properly this time, not the formal embrace of politeness but something real.

"Thank you," she said. "For giving him hope. For seeing past everything else to who he really is."

"Thank you for inviting me. For the machinations." Harry smiled at her surprised expression. "I know there wasn't really a mandatory life debt requirement. Hermione told me."

"Ah." Narcissa didn't look apologetic. "And you came anyway."

"I came anyway."

"Then I suppose my machinations were successful." She smiled. "You're welcome here anytime, Harry. Truly."

Lucius appeared then, standing in the doorway to his study. He and Harry looked at each other for a long moment.

"Potter," Lucius said finally. "I won't pretend to fully approve. But my son could have done worse."

"Is that a blessing?"

"It's an acknowledgment that Draco has made better choices than I did. And that perhaps you're one of them." Lucius inclined his head slightly. "Thank you. For the warehouse. And for not giving up on him."

It was the closest thing to approval Harry was likely to get, and he'd take it.

He found Draco waiting by the door, and they stood together for a moment before Harry had to leave.

"This was the strangest Christmas I've ever had," Harry said.

"Good strange or bad strange?"

"The best strange." Harry kissed him one more time. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Draco agreed.

Harry Disapparated from the Manor gates, and when he arrived back at Grimmauld Place, he found Ron and Hermione waiting for him with questions and tea and barely contained curiosity.

He told them everything, and if Ron made gagging sounds when Harry got to the kissing parts, well, that was what best friends were for.

Epilogue: One Year Later

The ring box was going to burn a hole through Harry's pocket at this rate.

He'd checked it seventeen times in the past hour—still there, still perfect, still terrifying. The platinum band caught the light from his bedroom window, the tiny inscription on the inside almost invisible: Semper. Always. Draco would probably roll his eyes at the sentimentality of it, but Harry had watched the wandmaker engrave it himself, making sure every letter was perfect.

"You're going to wear the finish off if you keep taking it out."

Harry jumped, snapping the box shut as Ron's head appeared in his fireplace, grinning like he'd caught Harry doing something far more incriminating than obsessing over a ring.

"Merlin, Ron, you can't just—"

"I can, actually. It's called Floo powder. Revolutionary invention." Ron's head rotated slightly, trying to get a better view. "So, are you actually going through with it? You're really going back to Malfoy Manor? On purpose? To propose to Draco Malfoy?"

"Yeah," Harry said, slipping the box back into his pocket for the eighteenth time. "I am."

Ron's expression softened. "Good. He makes you happy, mate. Even if he is a ferret."

"Ron—"

"A very elegant ferret. Distinguished, even." Ron's grin widened. "Hermione made me promise to be supportive. I'm being supportive."

"You're being a git."

"I can be both. It's called multitasking." Ron sobered slightly. "Seriously, though. Good luck. Not that you'll need it—Malfoy's been stupidly in love with you since, well, probably since third year if we're being honest."

Harry felt his face heat. "That's not—"

"Oh, it absolutely is. Why d'you think he was always such a nightmare? Anyway, Hermione says to tell you she's proud of you, and I'm supposed to say something meaningful about how far you've both come, but honestly, I just hope the food's good. We're still on for Boxing Day dinner, yeah?"

"If he says yes."

Ron snorted. "Harry. He bought you a subscription to that Quidditch magazine. He listens to you talk about Auror paperwork. He voluntarily spent three hours helping Hagrid with the hippogriffs last month. The man is gone for you. He's going to say yes."

After Ron's head disappeared with a pop, Harry stood in the silence of his bedroom—technically their bedroom now, since Draco had been spending more nights at Grimmauld Place than at his own flat for months. The wardrobe held as many of Draco's clothes as his own. The bathroom counter was cluttered with expensive hair potions Harry couldn't pronounce. There was a bookmark in the shape of a snitch holding Draco's place in the book on Harry's nightstand.

It had been a year. One year since that awkward, terrible, wonderful Christmas at Malfoy Manor, since Narcissa's machinations and Lucius's cold disapproval and that moment in the snow-covered garden when everything had changed. One year of navigating their relationship under the Daily Prophet's scrutiny, of Sunday dinners with the Weasleys where Draco gradually relaxed, of learning that Draco liked his tea with too much sugar and hated morning Portkeys and made this soft sound in his sleep that Harry never wanted to stop hearing.

One year, and Harry wanted forever.

He checked the ring one more time—nineteen—and Disapparated.

Malfoy Manor looked different in the late afternoon light.

The gates opened before Harry could knock, which was either house elf efficiency or Narcissa's wards recognizing him now. Probably both. The long drive was lined with witch-lights that would glow after dark, and the white peacocks that had once stalked the grounds were gone, replaced by something that looked almost like normalcy. The manor itself was still imposing—you couldn't change centuries of architecture—but someone had hung a wreath on the door, deep green with silver ribbons, and the windows glowed warm instead of cold.

The door opened before he reached it.

"Harry, darling, right on time." Narcissa kissed his cheek with genuine warmth, so different from the careful politeness of last year. She'd softened somehow, or maybe Harry had just learned to see past the aristocratic perfection to the woman underneath. "Draco's in the drawing room. He's been watching the drive for the past twenty minutes, though he'll deny it if you ask."

"I wasn't watching," came Draco's voice from inside. "I was reading."

"Of course you were, dear." Narcissa's smile was knowing as she stepped back to let Harry in. Her eyes dropped to his pocket—the one with the telltale square bulge—and something warm and satisfied crossed her face before she schooled it back to pleasantness. "Dinner will be ready in an hour. I trust you remember where everything is?"

As if Harry could forget. He'd spent enough time here over the past year, watching the manor transform from a museum of bad memories into something that almost felt like home. Not his home—that was Grimmauld Place, with its creaky stairs and Kreacher's editorial commentary—but somewhere he belonged anyway.

Draco was in the drawing room, sprawled in one of the wingback chairs with a book that he definitely hadn't been reading. His hair was slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it, and he was wearing the dark green jumper Harry had given him for his birthday. He looked up when Harry entered, and his whole face transformed.

"You're here." Draco set the book aside—it was upside down, Harry noticed—and stood. "I was starting to think you'd got caught up with something."

"Just Ron being Ron." Harry crossed the room, let Draco pull him close, kissed him like he'd been thinking about doing since he woke up this morning in an empty bed. Draco tasted like tea and the peppermint he'd probably stolen from the dish in the hall, and his hands were warm where they settled at Harry's waist.

"Mm. And how is the Weasel?"

"Supportive. In his way." Harry pulled back enough to study Draco's face, the grey eyes that had haunted him for years before he'd understood why. "You look good."

"I always look good, Potter. It's genetic." But Draco's cheeks flushed slightly, pleased. "You look nervous."

"Do I?"

"You've got your Auror face on. The one you use when you're about to do something either very brave or very stupid." Draco's eyes narrowed. "What are you planning?"

"Nothing. Can't I just be happy to see you?"

"You can, but you usually don't vibrate with nervous energy while doing it." Draco's hand came up to cup Harry's face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." Harry caught Draco's hand, pressed a kiss to his palm. "Just thinking about last year. How different everything is now."

Some of the tension bled out of Draco's shoulders. "Oh. Yes. Rather different." His smile turned wry. "Last year you were a prisoner of my mother's machinations and my father's hospitality. This year you're here voluntarily. I'm still not entirely sure which is more concerning."

"This year I wanted to come."

"Did you?" Draco's voice went soft. "Even knowing you'd have to endure another formal dinner with Lucius?"

"Even then." Harry squeezed Draco's hand. The ring box felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. "Besides, the company's improved significantly."

"Flatterer." But Draco was smiling, the real smile he saved for private moments, and Harry felt his resolve solidify. Yes. Tonight. Here. It was right.

"Come on," Draco said, tugging Harry toward the door. "We should probably make ourselves presentable before Mother starts dinner. She's been cooking all day—well, directing the house elves while they cook, but she's been very invested in the menu."

"She didn't have to go to all that trouble."

Draco paused in the doorway, glanced back with something unreadable in his expression. "She wanted to. Said it's important to mark the occasion properly."

"The occasion?"

"Christmas, Harry. Try to keep up."

But there was something else there, something Draco wasn't saying, and Harry filed it away to examine later. After. Once he'd asked the question that had been burning in his chest since August, when he'd woken up with Draco's arm thrown across his waist and realized he wanted every morning to look exactly like that one.

Dinner was a strange echo of last year's awkwardness, except without the actual awkwardness.

The dining room was the same—all dark wood and silver candelabras—but the atmosphere was entirely different. Narcissa kept the conversation flowing easily, asking Harry about his latest cases (the ones that weren't classified, at least) and telling a genuinely funny story about a mishap with the garden gnomes that had Draco hiding a smile behind his wine glass.

And Lucius...

Lucius was still Lucius. He sat at the head of the table, his posture perfect despite the years in Azkaban that had hollowed him out, his wandless hands carefully arranged. But there was less venom in him now, as if the past year had worn down some of the sharp edges. Or maybe Harry had just learned to see past them.

"Potter," Lucius said, during a lull in conversation. "I understand you've been reassigned. Narcissa mentioned something about international cooperation?"

Harry blinked, startled that Lucius was voluntarily making conversation. "Er, yes. The Ministry's trying to improve relations with the ICW. I'm supposed to be a liaison of sorts."

"How tedious for you."

"Father," Draco said warningly.

"I merely meant that Potter's talents lie in more active pursuits. He's hardly suited for diplomacy." Lucius took a sip of wine. "No offense intended."

"None taken?" Harry said, though it came out like a question. He still wasn't entirely sure how to navigate conversations with Lucius, even after a year of practice.

"Lucius means that you're better at action than politics," Narcissa translated smoothly. "Which is true, though not necessarily a criticism. The Ministry needs both."

"What Mother's not saying is that Father thinks the ICW are a bunch of self-important windbags," Draco added, smirking. "Which they are, but Harry's supposed to pretend otherwise."

"I said no such thing."

"You didn't have to. I've lived with you for twenty-eight years."

Something flickered across Lucius's face—pride, maybe, or fondness, quickly hidden. "The ICW does have certain... bureaucratic tendencies that can be frustrating for those accustomed to direct solutions."

It was the closest Lucius had ever come to complimenting Harry's work, and the table fell into a brief, startled silence before Narcissa smoothly redirected to the topic of the new Potion Master at Hogwarts.

Harry kept touching his pocket.

He couldn't help it. The ring was there, solid and real, and every time Draco laughed at something Narcissa said or rolled his eyes at one of Lucius's dry observations, Harry's fingers drifted to the slight bulge in his pocket. Just to make sure. Just to remember why he was here.

"Harry." Draco's hand covered his under the table, stilling the nervous movement. "Are you alright? You've been distracted all evening."

"I'm fine. Just thinking."

"About?"

"How much has changed." Harry turned his hand over, laced their fingers together under the cover of the tablecloth. "Last year I didn't know if I'd survive dinner without hexing your father."

"To be fair, Father didn't know if he'd survive dinner without hexing you," Draco pointed out. "It was a very mutual concern."

Across the table, Lucius made a sound that might have been agreement.

"And now?" Harry asked.

Draco's thumb traced circles on Harry's palm. "Now I think we're managing rather well."

After dinner, Narcissa stood with a grace that suggested she'd been planning this moment. "Lucius, would you help me in the study? There's a matter with the estate accounts that requires your attention."

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "The accounts? Now?"

"Yes, now. It's quite urgent." Narcissa's tone brooked no argument, and Lucius, who'd learned over the past year when to pick his battles, rose from his seat.

But he paused at the door, glanced back at where Harry and Draco still sat. His eyes dropped to Harry's pocket—that damned pocket—and something almost like understanding crossed his face.

"The library fire is already lit," Lucius said carefully. "In case you wanted... privacy."

Then he was gone, following Narcissa out, and Harry was left staring at the closed door.

"Did your father just—"

"Offer us privacy? Yes." Draco looked equally stunned. "I think that's the most supportive he's been about... us."

"Does he know?"

"About what?"

Harry's hand went to his pocket again, and Draco's eyes followed the movement. For a moment, something flickered across his face—nervousness? Hope?—before he schooled it away.

"Come on," Draco said, standing abruptly. "Walk with me?"

The gardens were exactly as Harry remembered.

Snow covered everything in soft white, the witch-lights casting blue shadows across the paths. The roses were dormant for winter, but the evergreen hedges were trimmed and perfect, and the fountain in the center courtyard still burbled despite the cold, kept liquid by warming charms.

They walked in silence, their breath fogging in the air, and Harry was intensely aware of Draco beside him. The way their shoulders almost touched. The way Draco's hands were shoved in his pockets, like he was holding something close.

"I wanted to show you something," Draco said finally, leading Harry down a familiar path.

Harry knew where they were going before they got there. The same spot where they'd stood last year, where Draco had fled from dinner and Harry had followed and everything had changed. The garden alcove was smaller than Harry remembered, more intimate, surrounded by tall hedges that blocked the wind. Someone—Draco, probably—had hung fairy lights in the branches overhead, and they glittered like stars.

"Do you remember?" Draco asked softly.

"Of course I remember."

"You kissed me right there." Draco pointed to a spot near the stone bench. "I thought I was hallucinating. Or dying. Possibly both."

"You kissed me back."

"Well, I wasn't going to waste the opportunity if I was hallucinating." Draco turned to face him, and his expression was vulnerable in a way it rarely was, even after a year together. "Harry, I know last year was complicated. Bringing you here. My father was awful, and Mother was meddling, and the whole thing was probably traumatic for you—"

"It wasn't traumatic."

"You spent Christmas at the home of people who tried to kill you multiple times. That's at least mildly traumatic."

"Draco—"

"But this year," Draco continued, talking faster now, nervous. "This year I wanted—I needed you to know that this place, this family, it's different now. Better. Because of you. You walked into our broken home and somehow made it feel like there was light here again."

Harry's heart was pounding. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to be the one saying these things, supposed to be the one with the carefully planned speech he'd been rehearsing for months.

"Draco, what are you—"

But Draco was already moving, pulling something from his pocket. A small box, velvet and dark green, and Harry's brain short-circuited because no, this wasn't—he was supposed to—

"I've been carrying this since September," Draco said, his voice shaking slightly. "Waiting for the right moment, and then I thought, what better moment than this? Here, where it started?" He opened the box.

The ring inside was beautiful. White gold, elegant and understated, with a single diamond set flush with the band. Inside, Harry could just make out an engraving, something in Latin that he'd need to look closer to read.

"Harry Potter," Draco said, and his eyes were bright. "You've given me a future I never thought I deserved. You've stood by me when everyone else thought you were mad. You've endured my father's commentary and my mother's meddling and you keep coming back anyway." His laugh was shaky. "You make me want to be better than I am. You make me believe I can be. So... will you marry me?"

Harry's hand was already in his pocket, already pulling out his own box, and Draco's words cut off as he registered what he was seeing.

"Are you—" Draco stared. "Is that—"

"Yes." Harry opened his own box, revealing the platinum band he'd been carrying for months. "I was going to ask you."

"You were going to—" Draco looked between the two rings, and then he started laughing, slightly hysterical. "We're both idiots."

"Apparently." Harry was laughing too, giddy with relief and joy and the sheer absurdity of it. "How long have you been planning this?"

"Since September. You?"

"August."

Draco laughed harder. "August? You've been carrying that around since August?"

"I wanted it to be perfect!"

"Harry, you absolutely terrible romantic." But Draco was smiling so wide it must have hurt. "You haven't answered my question."

"You haven't answered mine."

"I asked first."

"Technically, I bought the ring first."

"That's not how proposals work." Draco stepped closer, still holding his ring box open. "Harry. Will you marry me? Yes or no?"