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“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”
-Mary Shelley
Four years after the battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter was still attending every Weasley Christmas gathering. The first had been the most difficult, as no one felt particularly festive, and they had all solemnly piled into the living-room with hot drinks while they cried and reminisced. He and Ginny had broken up, so their interactions were stilted, awkward. Molly and Arthur tried to decorate the Burrow as cheerfully as possible, but the death of their child had subdued their magic since the battle. Despite his mother's protests, George left early.
The second year was easier. Hermione and Ron had gotten engaged by then, so Mrs. Weasley and Fleur were able to distract themselves with wedding plans. They spent hours discussing it, asking for a wedding gift list even as the family was unwrapping Christmas presents. Fleur was jubilant because Hermione would need two weddings, one in the wizarding world and one with her muggle relatives. Ron was overwhelmed. He and the boys generally retreated to Mr. Weasley’s garage--except poor Bill, whose “experience” in getting married tethered him to Molly and Fleur--or apparated over to Diagon Alley, a broken center that was slowly coming back to life. George reopened the joke shop with almost manic enthusiasm, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione thought it was the best thing for him. The famous Chosen One’s constant presence guaranteed a good turn-out too. It felt like the start of after, rather than being stuck in before.
Hogwarts castle had reopened immediately after repairs, but most people needed more time to heal, so returning seventh years had only optional classes; Hermione registered right away for the class of 1999. There was only a small commemoration speech on May 2 that year, and Harry had attended but declined to speak. He and Ron also chose to forgo a final year of education for the time being, a decision that frustrated Hermione to no end. However, when Harry and the Weasleys were invited back in year three of after to a commemorative service, they never hesitated to accept.
After the castle was completely refurbished, the surviving staff reached out to all alumni and non-muggle parents, as well as Order members, inviting them to a memorial event on December 25, 2001. Headmaster McGonagall commissioned statues of most fallen professors, Dumbledore and Snape among them. Someone had put a Santa hat on Dumbledore's, which felt remarkably appropriate. The Weasleys and guests arrived early via portkey directly in front of a wall that stood tall near the castle’s main entrance. It listed dead student’s names and ages. Harry accidentally skimmed over it, and the carved Colin Creevey, 16 burned into his vision. He excused himself from the others and retched for five minutes behind some trees, the sun shining in his eyes the way Colin's flash-happy camera had all those years ago.
Clearing up the mess with a grimace and a flick of his wand, he straightened and went back to the path. He had told the Weasleys to go on without him; even Ron and Hermione agreed to let him alone for a bit. Because of his absence, however, he had caught hordes of now-arriving attendees. A few stopped to take pictures with him, shake his hand, request a look at his scar (that was an immediate no), ask for his autograph. Harry tried to be cordial through the whole affair, but he was exhausted and just wanted to go inside the Great Hall and sit for a few hours.
The last family parted ways with him still thanking him and gushing over his history. “My pleasure,” was all he managed. When they left, he finally felt like he could breathe again. Still, he closed his eyes and put his hands on his knees, incredibly grateful for the cold breeze floating through the grounds. He heard steps on the brick path and sighed. Steeling himself for another photo op, he righted himself and plastered on as welcoming a smile as he could muster. The man staring back at him, however, caused it to falter instantaneously.
Piercing, terrified, ice-grey eyes met shocked green. Draco Malfoy wore an all-black suit over a white turtleneck, his straight blond hair tied into a short, neat ponytail at the base of his skull (Harry suddenly felt very self-conscience about his own messy cut and sweater-and-jeans ensemble). A casual passerby would almost mistake him as a statue with how still he was standing, save for his rapid blinking and the quiet gulps of air he took.
“Draco,” Harry said on a breath. Draco closed his eyes as if savoring the sound.
Once he reopened them, Harry had already approached him. Draco flinched when he saw Harry so close, and then frowned at himself for the cowardice. His eyes darted around, and Harry realized with overwhelming sadness that he was habitually checking for his father to ensure he hadn’t disappointed him.
“Draco,” he repeated.
Malfoy finally snapped out of it. A ghost of a sneer graced his sharp features, and he whispered, “Potter.” All its venom was gone, replaced with something weary.
Their silence was so profound that it felt tangible. Hundreds of opposing questions screamed and warred inside Harry’s head, and yet he finally settled on a weak, “Are… your parents here?”
Draco shook his head slightly. “Mother felt to guilty. Father, well…” Harry said, “Right.” He didn’t need him to explain. The Daily Prophet had been explicit enough in its disapproval.
They looked at one another, looked away, over each others shoulders to the greying grounds. The promise of snow lingered in the air, and he could see the Whomping Willow shivering in the wind. The sky was grey like Draco’s eyes, somehow cold and soft all at once. Haunted.
“Walk with me,” Harry suggested before he knew the words were spilling out. Draco stared at him the same way he’d done when Harry saved him from the burning Room of Requirement, like he couldn’t believe kindness had been afforded to him. He peered up at the castle, which remained a good ten minutes away, and they were well past the zone that would allow them to apparate closer. When he made eye contact again, he still seemed unsure.
"Come on," he urged.
Again, the instant surprise, the disbelief. “Okay,” Draco agreed quietly.
They set off at a brisk pace. It was freezing, and Harry knew the Weasleys would be worrying. He felt so selfish all of a sudden, having taken so much time for himself when Molly thrived on them all staying close. Especially on Christmas. But it was difficult to get there fast when every step Malfoy took was so hesitant and small. It was as if someone had cast a full-body binding spell on him and he was only counter-cursing it in minimal intervals.
“You do want to be here, don’t you?” Harry asked, a little perturbed at this point (maybe more than a little). Seeing Draco again had awakened a not-wholly unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach, something curious and guilty and miffed all at once.
Draco came to a sudden halt and glared. Harry turned round, instantly (bracing for some sort of fight, but instead watched as Draco grabbed at his blazer. He stuffed it under his arm, ignoring Harry’s quizzical look, and then rolled up his shirt sleeve to reveal his bare left arm. In fading, but still dark and discernible ink, the Dark Mark taunted Harry, pulling him back to battles and blood. The skull screamed all his failures at him, and his breath caught. Snarling, Draco jabbed at the marred skin.
“Will a single person in that Hall agree that I belong here, Potter? That I deserve a spot to stand while they commemorate the heroes that my family murdered? Look at me!” He was close to tears, voice hoarse as he shouted at Harry like he was the only one left to hear his broken voice. “Do you think they can ever forgive me?”
“I--”
“You don’t, I know you don’t. I wouldn’t. I can’t even forgive myself most days,” he hissed. He rolled his sleeve down violently and donned his crumpled suit jacket. He stared at his feet. “Of course I want to be here,” he spat. “This place meant...means...so much to me.”
“And you--”
“I destroyed it. Spin the tale however you want, Potter, but it all starts with a spineless Slytherin that let Death Eaters into Hogwarts and betrayed everyone that mattered.”
Harry lunged forward and grabbed him by the collar, eyes blazing. “Don’t!” he shouted when Draco opened his mouth to protest. “Don’t interrupt me again,” he finished more kindly. Draco pressed his lips in a firm line but remained silent. His eyes flared angrily, but Harry's firm grip seemed to be holding another outburst at bay.
“Thank you,” said Harry. Satisfied, he released his companion. “Now, these people may or may not forgive you, and you have to live with that. The good ones, though, they will. McGonagall will, and so will the Weasleys, even Ron.” Draco made a face and Harry couldn't help it, he laughed. “Yes, even Ron. And I... “ His voice dissolved to a mere whisper. It felt intimate and illicit. “I forgive you, Draco Malfoy. For every year of misery and every bloody mistake, I forgive you.”
A pause and a shaky breath. The silence between them seemed to stretch on infinitely, the blistering wind the only witness when Draco Malfoy spoke again. “You absolute git,” he gritted through his teeth. Then his legs buckled and he collapsed into Harry, clutching at him for balance. Harry held on tightly, his mind racing back to all those years ago when he had found Draco in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. If he had just reached out then instead of lashing out, what could he have prevented? Who could have been saved?
“If anything, I should be apologizing,” Harry said with a small laugh. Draco looked at him murderously. “No, I’m serious,” he insisted. He pressed his palm to Draco’s chest where he knew the scars from Sectumsempra still remained. “For these. For trying to kill you.”
Draco’s heart jumped under his touch. This was the closest they’d ever been, and it was terrifying. Their bodies were pressed together almost everywhere, Harry supporting all of Draco’s weight, chilled breaths mingling between their lips. “You didn’t try to kill me,” Draco murmured. “You would have done it if you’d meant it. The Chosen One never fails, does he? He’s too perfect for that.”
Harry rolled his eyes. The taunts felt superficial now, like a performance rather than a feeling. It also felt dangerously close to flirting, and it stirred something timid and excited in Harry all at once. “Perfect Potter,” Harry echoed from all those years ago.
“Not as good as Potter Stinks, I’d say.”
“No.”
“No.”
They chuckled, Harry blushing when their chests rubbed. He coughed. They picked themselves back up, disentangling gracelessly and laughing about it the entire time. Harry smoothed out Draco’s jacket and Draco straightened Harry’s tie. And then they were off again, having had their moment, walking side by side with their hands brushing every so often (but never a word spoken about it). When Hogwarts' entrance came into view, Harry had a difficult time quelling a small bit of disappointment in the end of their journey.
“Harry!” Hermione shouted sternly from just inside the castle. She gestured to Ron, who had been standing a few feet away locked in what seemed to be a very uncomfortable exchange with Cormac McLaggen. He excused himself and bolted over to his wife. Together they jogged out to Harry, still so accustomed to his antics and willing to save him, which made him beam. When they saw his companion, though, they slowed.
“Granger, Weasley,” Draco greeted nervously. He shrank back, his earlier anxiety and bother returning in full force.
“Malfoy,” Hermione said curtly while Ron elected to say nothing. Her eyes burned holes in Harry’s face. “Where have you been?” she asked. “We’re about to start.”
“I was… catching up,” Harry supplied. “With Draco,” he added firmly, and Ron twitched.
She crossed her arms. “There’s time for that later! And we’d all enjoy catching up, not just you.” Ron and Draco both looked at her in surprise, but she and Harry were smiling knowingly at one another. “So let’s go.”
She grabbed her husband and Harry grabbed Draco, and they all entered the Great Hall. It looked exactly as Harry remembered it when decorated for the holidays, but if possible, with even more ornamented trees. Also, with a lot more people than he thought it was physically capable of holding. However, there was also a solemn air around it, and he could see families staring at the spots on the floor where they’d laid their dead in 1998. Grief rushed him a wave, but also joy at seeing his surviving classmates.
His entrance caused a great uproar. “That’s Harry Potter!” someone shouted, and the place erupted into applause. People lined up to shake his hand and hug him, and he lost Draco in the crowd. Each smiling face brought him closer to tears--Seamus, Dean, Cho, Luna, Neville, Hagrid, Flitwick--until salty rivulets ran neatly down his face. Molly handed him a handkerchief, Ginny hugged him fiercely, and he laughed before more guests swarmed him. On either side of him, Ron and Hermione squeezed his arms, tacitly reminding him of their presence and support.
“Settle down!” McGonagall called, voice amplified by her wand. When everyone had quieted, she pocketed her wand and rushed out to embrace Harry, and the applause broke out once more. “Welcome home,” she said, and his retreating tears resumed their attack once more. She pulled away, patted his cheek fondly, and then turned to resume her place at the dais. She was wearing black just like everyone else.
“Happy Christmas,” she began. Harry only partially listened to her introduction because he was too busy searching for Draco. When he noticed that unmistakable shock of white-blond hair, he carefully picked a path through the crowd and snuck up behind him to put an arm around his shoulders. Draco jumped, so Harry chuckled.
“You’ll be fine,” he assured Draco, who relaxed only when he heard Harry’s voice. “I saw Luna put flowers in your hair earlier.” Those lilacs were, as a matter of fact, still twisted around his ponytail.
“Neville hugged me,” he whispered to Harry, seeming somewhat dazed by the encounter. Harry chuckled and was shushed by those around them, which only led to more laughter. “And you were right,” Draco continued after they sobered themselves. “Mrs. Weasley scolded me for not visiting sooner, and then she kissed me on both cheeks. Do I still have lipstick on me?”
Harry grasped Draco’s chin between two fingers and pulled his face closer, blaming the dim lighting. He made a show of inspecting the other man’s cheeks for red stains, and then declared him fit in a shaky voice.
“Thanks, Potter.” Harry tipped his own head up so that their noses brushed.
“Anytime,” Harry said, and then kissed him.
It was brief, warm, and wet. Harry felt a little dizzy when they separated, years of tension boiling in his chest. Draco looked petrified, but also relieved, like he’d been waiting to do that for a long, long time.
“Happy Christmas, Harry,” he whispered against his lips.
“Yeah,” he replied stupidly, and Draco laughed, and they were shushed.