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Chapter Text

Amongst the Weasleys all lined up on benches at their kitchen table, Harry was trying not to sulk. He held his shoulders stiff, straight, a parallel line to the rows of dinner plates and glasses. Mrs. Weasley had squeezed his shoulder and gestured at the haphazard stack of Christmas mince pies she knew Harry favored when he’d sat down, and he was trying not to think about why. At the other end of the table, Ginny chewed absentmindedly, her nose buried in a book Hermione had insisted all year she read and she’d never had the time for. 

They both had plenty of time now. Four years of a relationship, of fights and love and awkwardly holding each other’s sharp pieces, was gone with a single conversation. Harry felt as if he had shed skin he hadn’t been ready to lose, raw and oversensitive.

“Look at that,” Ron said between two bites of toast. “Malfoy Manor’s finally being auctioned off.” 

“Ministry’s taken an embarrassing amount of time to figure out the allocation of reparations if you ask me,” said Hermione, mostly distracted by her own flip through the Prophet.

Mr. Weasley cut in before Percy could jump on the thrown barb, a tight smile for them all and his hand landing in the middle of the table. “Let’s not have any work talk at the table just yet. We have to get through the food first.” 

Percy’s rustled feathers settled, and Hermione flipped the page. Harry stared at the photograph of the Manor that had sat abandoned since the end of the war. 

“How much do you think it’ll be?” Harry asked Ron. He tapped the withered hedge and blocked out the chained up front doors with his finger. 

Ron shrugged, but he grinned when he caught Harry’s eye. “Still too expensive for me to think about, probably.” 

But it wasn’t for Harry.

“No one wants that cursed place,” Alfie, from the Holdings and Treasure department, explained to Harry. “Too much damage, for one, but who wants to sleep under the same roof as Vo-vo—” Alfie sucked on his teeth and started again, “Voldemort’s ghost?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, dragging the word out as his mind whirred and spun out in two different directions. The choice was strikingly easy to make, put like that. “Right, just out of curiosity, how do I place a bid?” 

Alfie laughed until Harry told him he wasn’t joking, and after having to raise his bid only once, Harry owned a new musty house almost as tainted Grimmauld. 

After the sale went through, but before Harry moved in, everyone asked him why he’d even wanted to. Hermione threatened to never visit; Ron shiftily asked Harry if he wanted to talk more about the war; Ginny said nothing, her bedroom door closed and Harry downstairs alone as he braved Mrs. Weasley’s coddling.

“I don’t know why you bought that dreadful place when you could stay here,” she said, and she rolled out the dough for more fruit mince pies. “We didn't mind you living with us while you were training, and I don’t see why that should change now. If it's about Ginny—"

Harry watched the pin squash the pastry dough down, the invisible blade of magic carving out snowflakes with Mrs. Weasley’s perfect hand. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mrs. Weasley. I won’t get too lonely.”

“Hm,” said Mrs. Weasley, and she left Harry with the pies still creating their own decorative shells to go check on something in another room.

Chapter Text

Malfoy Manor wasn’t what Harry expected. It didn’t spit his stuff down the long hedged-in pathway leading up to the front door when he arrived, nor did it try to sabotage his attempts at making the space brighter, the dark tapestries less musty, and the windows clear. There were no ghosts; the Manor was more silent than a graveyard, but Harry couldn’t shake the feeling it was the silence of a child holding their breath, waiting for something.

He went from room to room, touching everything on the walls and uncovering every piece of furniture, except the garrish settee and a table atop a carved centaur’s back. 

The stairs were stone, or tile, and his bare feet clapped when he freely ran up and down to search for trick steps like Grimmauld’s. The gallery hallway on the top floor stretched across the length of the building, and Harry hurdled down, waving at the portraits that didn’t move. 

It looks like something from a novel, Harry imagined saying to Hermione, and there’s a creepy piano near the stairs that echoes through the whole house.

The portraits are refusing to talk to me, but maybe we can come up with names obnoxious enough they’ll have to tell us who they are, Harry mentally suggested to Ron.

To Ginny: There’s enough land that we could play a proper Seeker’s game for once, but he remembered why he was there in the first place.

Harry did not leave, and no one visited. At the Burrow, most visits were preceded by a Floo call or, when he was still on-call as a grunt trainee, a Patronus barking his name. Wizards rarely used the front door, which was why Harry answered the knock that came at his a few days after he’d moved in. 

Draco Malfoy stood on his stoop, bold as brass and as pale blond as ever. He had the start of what promised to be an ugly rat tail bundled at the base of his neck that Harry caught sight of as Malfoy waved off the car waiting at the gate. He caught Harry’s incredulous gawking and sighed, straightening out the sleeves of his coat. 

“My current landlord is only better than the last by virtue of not murdering people. Can I come in?” Malfoy asked. He stepped forward as if Harry had already agreed, but Harry threw out an arm to clothesline him back. 

“What are you doing here?” Harry demanded as Malfoy rubbed at his chest. “This isn’t your house anymore, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Malfoy mocked, voice going nasal and thick. “Do you hear yourself? I—” He stopped, his nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed. “What I mean to say is I’m here to make you an offer that will benefit us both. Also, I’ve brought an olive branch.”

Harry’s hand slipped from the door. The corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitched upward for a quick reveal of his incisor that Harry realized was a smile, not a reminder Malfoy could bite.

“Marshmallows are in the center. I’m not sure why that’s important,” Malfoy continued with a slight shake of the red tin in his hands, “but I’ve been told these have seen the beginning of a thousand friendships.” 

Maybe if Harry hadn’t spent nearly a week alone, he would have laughed. The silence of the Manor made Malfoy’s voice reverberate, and Harry heard him twice. 

“Well. Come in, I guess,” said Harry, and he opened the door just wide enough for Malfoy to squeeze past him.

Chapter Text

After Malfoy said his piece, Harry tossed him out, grumbling about the sheer nerve of him to show up at all.

“The state of this place,” Malfoy had said with a shake of his head. The Manor was leagues better off than Grimmauld, which Harry supposed wasn’t Malfoy’s gauge for how old houses looked. “I suppose you’ve done alright, considering.”

“Considering what?” Harry had asked, but Malfoy’s only response was a heavy look and a smothered sneer, and Harry lost his temper.

But Malfoy came back with muffins, and again with uneven, spiked croissants in a wrapped gift box. 

“Mind those. They’ll take out a tooth, and I don’t think you have any Skele-Gro,” Malfoy said down his nose. 

Harry wouldn’t have let him at all in, except Malfoy was slippery. He’d said, “Have you seen the ballroom?” at the door, and though Harry had spent hours going round and round the three floors and upper spires, some rooms denied any imagined label Harry tried to stick them with.

“The brooms are kept up at the top because Father used to dive from those windows and thought I’d like doing the same,” explained Malfoy when he showed Harry the cupboard of at least three generations’ worth of flying brooms. “As if I didn’t master the summoning charm in our second year.” 

With all of his asides strung together, Malfoy wove a childhood tapestry as spoiled as Harry had imagined, but his seemingly off-handed comments never included tiny, beefy versions of Crabbe or Goyle. No noisy Pansy Parkinson, no calm and collected Blaise Zabini.

“Mother never raised her voice unless I was running down hallways,” and “Father always hoped I’d learn the piano, but I found it too boring,” and “My parents,” “My mother,” “My father.” 

Harry might have slept in a cupboard smaller than most of the Manor’s closets, but at least Dudley had been around to give Harry’s stories flavor.

“How are your parents?” Harry asked finally, only for Malfoy’s entire face to pinch lemon-tight. 

“Still in prison, thanks for asking,” answered Malfoy succinctly, and he pushed through to the end of the secret passageway he’d dangled in front of Harry’s face, along with a loaf of bread, to get through the door. The small cabinet door exit opened when Malfoy pushed a button. 

“I thought they were only sentenced to serve a year.” Harry wasn’t about to drop within range of Malfoy’s boots while discussing the topic, and he shuffled backwards for Malfoy to go first. Malfoy sighed, dropped to the floor, and crawled out into the library; he didn’t watch Harry’s undignified crab-shuffle to do the same. 

When Harry was upright, he found Malfoy touching the spine of a book, the Malfoy crest engraved at the bottom.

“They were sentenced to ten, stripped of all titles, holdings, and land. This is only year three,” Malfoy said. 

Unease made Harry hesitant. “Are you— Where are you staying right now, Malfoy? You said your landlord—”

“I live in town.” Malfoy stepped back from the book, wiping the dust from his palm onto his black trousers. “Let’s not waste more time. Are you going to let me show you how to run this place or not?” 

“Is that why you keep coming around?” Harry couldn’t help glancing back at the book; Malfoy’s finger had left an uneven line in the clinging dust, all the way down. 

Malfoy scanned Harry head-to-toe. “Why else? It makes sense. We can even start on a trial basis. Give me a few weeks— A proper traditional Malfoy Christmas— and you’ll see.”

Chapter Text

After a broody Saturday lunch with the Weasleys, Harry skulked home to find Malfoy sweating and flushed in a field of string lights. 

“Finally, you're back. I’m thinking we’ll start with the front of the house,” Malfoy decided in the middle of Harry's entryway, like he belonged there. “These go around the spires, but I quite like the white for—”

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Harry snapped, stomping across the floor and reaching out to— 

Harry wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. His hand never made it to Malfoy, who stumbled back until he was against the wall, far out of Harry’s reach. Terror had a way of making everyone look the same, and for a moment, Harry was seven months in the past, on his second mission as an official auror; Malfoy morphed into the young daughter of the family Harry’s team was investigating, more victims of a petty grapple for revenge no one was any better for, and Harry the tool, the collar, the knife. 

Looking from his extended hand and back to Malfoy, Harry said, “I wasn’t going to—”

“You don’t have any wards, Potter. Anyone can just walk in, and I happen to know every entrance and exit intimately.” Malfoy stepped away from the wall and dusted off his shirt still sweat-stuck to him from having moved everything into the entry hall. 

“So you broke in to decorate the entire Manor?” Harry wasn’t sure there was enough time in the day, even if Harry was jobless.

Malfoy brushed a hand over his hair, catching dust. “No, of course not. We’d be swimming in string lights if we were. Most of this is for the outside. The Malfoy Manor has a reputation to keep up with the local town, or I wouldn’t bother.” 

In Harry’s mind’s eye, Narcissa held up a star next to an angel for Lucius, asking, “Which for the shrubs out front, dear?” Dressing up their house to further impress townspeople felt too plebeian, though the only one free to make that call these days was Draco. 

“You expect me to believe your parents cared what a bunch of muggles thought,” Harry said, slowing his words down the way Malfoy did when he thought Harry was being stupid. 

Malfoy copied Harry’s body posture, crossing his arms and tilting his head. “Obviously, not for the past few years, but I didn’t hide all of this stuff throughout the Manor in the hopes I’d impress its next owner.” 

Most of the decorations, including the string lights, were aged, well kept. The reminder that Malfoy would have been the Manor’s next owner had things been different made Harry struggle to look at directly at him. He glanced at his red and raw hands instead, his cold-cracked knuckles.

“There was a time when my mother would occasionally take me into town to spend time with other children. During Christmas, we would host events with carolers and elaborate light displays. No one was allowed inside, but the grounds were—” Malfoy turned towards the window and the mythical scenery now being doused in falling snow. 

“Magical,” Harry guessed, eleven again. He swallowed down the familiar twinge of envy at their incongruent childhoods. 

Malfoy broke out of his trance with a jolt and dropped to the floor to continue his shuffling. “You don’t have to help me. I can do it myself.”

“With your restricted wand?” Harry waggled his wand around and definitively did not think about the hawthorn wand he kept tucked away in his room. “I’ll help, Malfoy, keep your hair on.”

Chapter Text

Malfoy’s designs took them around the entire grounds, though they only made it through half the first day.

The second, Harry stared down the grand evergreen, the wide fan of limbs at the bottom and the towering point up top. It stood far taller than any other tree close to the Manor, and the fallen snow shaped it into a perfect picture. One terrible storm, and Harry would be squished into nothingness, the walls and ceilings of Malfoy Manor turned into paste. 

Going outside meant confronting the cold, and the wet, and Harry was already dreading it. 

“Are you sure—” Harry started, but Malfoy waved him off. 

“That monstrosity has been decorated every year for generations, Potter. You’re the one who said I could show you a traditional Malfoy Christmas.” Malfoy gestured at the tree, but his gray eyes were on Harry, and the silver of his rings glinted in the mid-day sun. 

Malfoy kept his distance and his wand pocketed, relying entirely on Harry for magic. When Harry had asked about his parole particulars, he’d explained his limited spell usage, and the bubbling annoyance Harry had been fostering was snuffed out. That familiar, haunting look on Malfoy’s face, their continued distance, sat sore in Harry’s throat.

They didn’t touch, not even when Harry’s attention was caught by birds startled by their approach or the howling wind split into whistles by the wrought iron fence posts. Malfoy paused in front of him, waiting with an impatient cock of his hip, and only started walking again once Harry had fallen back into step. 

Malfoy taught him the specific conjuring charms, summoning old materials from their secret storage behind one of the many doors Harry hadn’t opened, and focused his attention of directing Harry where to place things. Their hands didn’t brush when he requested to flick Harry’s wand or corrected Harry’s hand placement; their shoulders didn’t nudge, bump, or jostle while Malfoy reached over Harry to point at one side or the other. 

“I think that looks good, don’t you?” Malfoy said, once the tree was covered in bright colorful charmed lights and ribbon. Harry thought it looked like a pit bull in a Christmas sweater, but Malfoy said, “You’re being paranoid, Potter. This tree is older than at least half of the Manor. I don’t think we’ll live to see its end, which will most certainly not be in the next month.” 

“Fine, whatever. Let’s go inside before I lose my fingers as well as my toes,” complained Harry, and Malfoy hooted amongst the birds on the way back while trying to string together taunts about Harry Potter, the toeless boy-wonder. Harry watched Malfoy’s overgrown blond hair sway in the cutting wind, glinting golden against the pale white of the Manor’s grounds, and thought even when everything had changed, some things always remained the same. 

Inside again, Malfoy quieted, scrambling with his scarf and coat, and when he was free, he went to the window once more. From Harry’s view by the door, Malfoy’s hair and eyes reflected the glowing lights from the tree made brighter by the sunken sun. Soon, Malfoy would leave for home in the muggle town nearby.

“See what I mean?” Malfoy asked, bitten red mouth smugly rising in just one corner. Different colors blinked across his flushed face, and his eyes never left the window. Ever more different still. 

Harry tugged off his boots with the toe of his opposite foot without looking away. “Yeah,” he said, a moment too late, but Malfoy didn’t notice. “Sure.” 

Chapter Text

The puzzle snapped together while Harry watched Malfoy walk down the road where he was dropped off in the mornings. All of it had to be connected to parole limitations: the reduced magic usage that kept him from aparating or putting up the decorations in haphazard bursts of energy by himself, his residence in the muggle town, his over-involved landlord in a tan Volvo idling to pick him up at night only twice in the week of him hanging around Harry like a bad smell.

“You live in town, right?” Harry asked casually the next day, but Malfoy’s dirty look told him his over-invested interest was obvious. 

“Below a bakery, in the cellar like an elf,” Malfoy drawled, his face blank paper for Harry to etch onto it whatever he pleased: disgust, dismay, dissatisfaction. 

“Good,” Harry grumbled, thinking of Dobby, but Malfoy’s tense jaw only made him feel worse. “Let me take you home. It’s too cold to walk.”

Malfoy said no, at first, but he made it a few yards, sighed, and pivoted between privets to tell Harry yes. 

The town was decorated up to the rooftops, massive banners and ribbons on doors and storefronts. Maybe it did make sense the Malfoys would see all of this and make it a competition. In front of Harry, Malfoy set off down the street with single-minded purpose and pointed to the door of the bakery as if to say, ta-da.

Matty’s Best boasted fresh cakes and muffins Harry could imagine the texture of. A man out front was handing out flyers until he spotted Malfoy and waved, revealing the full text of his jumper.

“Jingle my bells,” Harry read.

“Not on your fucking life,” muttered Malfoy, but he worked up a tight smile. “Richard, this is my… Colleague.”

“Colleague, eh? How interesting.” Richard Jingle-My-Bells held out a dark thick-knuckled hand that made Harry’s look small. “Richard Bakerton, pun probably intended, knowing my wife’s sense of humor— She’s the baker, I’m the ton. Pleasure to meet any friend of Draco’s.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Harry said, bewildered. Richard’s laugh was production, his glasses wagging when he shook his head.

To Malfoy, Richard threw an elbow. “Brought him to meet Winnie?”

“No,” said Malfoy with his eyes averted, giving away the lie. 

“Who’s Winnie?” Harry asked.

“A harpy,” answered Malfoy.

“My daughter,” Richard said over him with a wink. “She takes after her mother.”

“She’s thirteen. Brace yourself if you’re coming in.” Malfoy met Harry’s gaze as if from a cool distance, but his fingers twitched around the doorknob he held in a tight squeeze. 

Richard gave Malfoy’s shoulder a fatherly pat. “Go on. Cynthia’ll insist he stay for dinner, too.” 

Nothing seemed to make sense, not why Malfoy lived here or Richard’s affection for him, and Harry's theory unraveled. The silence grew awkward between the three of them hunkered on the store’s stoop. With a sigh, Malfoy gripped Harry’s arm and tugged him through the door. 

“Honestly, who raised you, wolves?” Malfoy snapped under his breath. To Richard, “He’s staying. God help us all.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d want me to,” Harry said as he was surrounded by warmth and the overwhelming smell of baking bread. Christmas hung from the rafters and shelves worse than outside. 

A young girl at the counter lifted her head and grinned slyly; the lights made the red tinsel in her hair glitter. “At last, I get to meet the infamous Harry Potter!” 

“A joy!” exclaimed Richard. 

“A waste of everyone’s time,” said Malfoy.

What the fuck, Harry thought to himself, and the night went merrily on.

Chapter Text

Dinner revealed nothing new, except that Malfoy had learned how to be the butt of a joke. More than once, Winnie would hand Malfoy something and snatch it back at the last second, over and over, until Malfoy gave up, rolling his eyes.

Déjà vu from his stolen Christmases at the Burrow swamped Harry with misplaced nostalgia, the flickering battery-operated candle lights giving a false warmth. Richard asked Harry about what he did for a living; Cynthia forced him to take seconds. Malfoy sat well here despite being pale and pinched where the Bakertons were warm and loose. 

He was comfortable. Cynthia leaned across the table to pluck lint from Malfoy’s sweater, and he gave a distracted nod of thanks; when Harry’s ankle had bumped Malfoy’s shoe under the table, Malfoy had jerked away and sat stiff the rest of the meal.

Harry decided he needed a breath of fresh air after the third round of flying quips and Malfoy’s annoyed protests. The street was empty, save for the mucked snow in gray clumps on either side of the road, and he sucked in sour, stinging breaths as he stared into the dark, the direction of his house. 

It took Malfoy ten minutes to follow him. 

“You have questions.” Malfoy crossed his arms against the wind, not reaching for his wand. A warming charm was the first thing Harry had cast once he was away from muggle eyes. 

“None that I think you’ll answer,” Harry admitted.

Malfoy’s look was imperceptible, and the light from the streetlamp hollowed him out. Who was this person Harry had assumed he’d known? Draco, not princely Malfoy at all. The world had divested him, but he was still so obviously loved that it made Harry want to scream. 

“Potter—” Malfoy started, but Winnie came bouncing out the front door, only half bundled and a bag in her hand. “Winifred, the grown ups are speaking now.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to step on your toes. I brought these for your house.” Winnie reached into the bag and pulled out a few small, ceramic star ornaments. “These were Matty’s favorites.”

The wind was cutting Harry through. “Who’s Matty?”

“My brother.” Winnie’s brown eyes narrowed on Draco. “You didn’t tell him about Matt? He must think you’re a freeloader.”

“I am a freeloader,” Draco muttered. “It’s hardly his business why I’m here.”

“Mum says Draco would sneak out all the time to see Matty, even when— Ow!” Winnie kicked Draco back, her trainer to his shin. 

“Shut your meddlesome mouth,” Draco hissed. “You weren’t there.”

“I’m a gift,” Winnie snapped.

“You were unplanned, and a menace to top it off.”

Preening, Winnie said, “Why, thank you,” because Draco’s tone had been so begrudgingly fond that even Harry could recognize the affection for what it was. 

The dry wind was starting to chafe. Harry rubbed at his arms and held out a hand for the bag. “I’ll take it back. Malfoy can hang them up tomorrow.” 

“Or tonight,” Winnie suggested with a wide, toothy grin like her father’s. “We could have a sleepover!”

“No, it’s late.” Draco took the bag from Winnie’s hand and placed it into Harry’s, not quite meeting Harry’s eye. “Tomorrow. Winnie, inside, before you succumb to the cold."

“You’re the frail one here, old man,” Winnie grumbled, but she let Malfoy usher her back inside. Harry held the bag full of ornaments not meant for him with two fingers, and watched the back of Draco’s head until he could no longer make it out through the frosted window.

Chapter Text

At home— and it was home, the only place Harry went where he didn’t feel like a guest— Harry renewed his search of the Manor with a focus he'd originally lacked. The room he wanted was on the second floor, not too far away from the room Harry had chosen as his. During its time wasting away, the Manor had been stripped of very few things; Harry hadn’t been told why, but he assumed it was for the same reason the Manor had been dealt with last in the pile of ill-gotten goods. 

He opened a chest of old toys, some completely incomprehensible and some familiar from memories of Dudley’s toy room. Eventually, he found what he was looking for. 

The picture was muggle still and oddly cold despite Draco’s smarmy grin. Next to him, an arm thrown over his shoulder, was a young boy with a complexion similar to his father’s and the same bright eyes of his mum. On the back, in a snotty child’s scribble: Matthew B. smells like pee. 

Harry laughed despite himself. The picture, he tucked into his pocket, and he spent the rest of the night searching through Draco’s old things in lieu of sleep. 

That next morning, Harry woke up on the floor of Draco’s old bedroom by virtue of something round and heavy being thrown at his back. He lifted his head from the floor and foolishly relaxed when he spotted Draco in the doorway, two wreaths decorated with red bows on either arm. A third was now wedged under Harry’s shoulder.

Draco heaved one of the wreaths through the air with enough force that Harry barely had a second to protect his midsection, curling up. “Did you have fun sifting through my old things, Potter? Merlin, you’re a creep.”

“It’s my house!” Harry yelled, ducking again when the last wreath was thrown at him. 

“Because you bought it half-price from a bunch of thieves masquerading as a governing body!” Draco pulled out his restricted wand, and more wreaths danced into the room. “I have about a hundred and seven of these left, you know.” 

With one hand using the satin green coverlet Harry had pulled off the bed to sleep under as a shield, Harry shuffled for his wand with the other. “Why are there so many?”

“One for each bloody window! You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? You voyeuristic, insensitive knobhead—” 

“Hey!” 

“Stupid enough to buy a magic-less house you don’t know how to take care of—”

“Magic-less?” Harry repeated. 

Draco threw another wreath, aiming for Harry's head with a contemptuous smile. “That’s right! Not an ounce of the ancient Malfoy magic is left. My father stripped this shithole, and the Ministry managed to line you up to take it on.”

“Well, I already have shithole I’m letting rot, so maybe I thought, why not two?” Harry snarled, and pushed to his feet, his wand in his hand. The wreaths he’d been pelted with formed a shield around him while the line of itchy, dusty green bullets formed behind Draco. He moved to return fire, but all at once, the conga line behind Draco crashed to the ground. 

Draco glared at his Ministry-allotted wand and threw it at the wall. With barely a clatter, it split into two pieces that rolled in different directions. Draco’s heavy breathing was the only sound, his face drained of color as he stared.

Stripped of magic, Draco and the Manor both.

With a wave, Harry’s wreaths joined the rest on the floor. “Guess you’ll just have to use mine when we put these bloody ugly things up.” 

Chapter Text

Draco was more subdued after his brief stint of using Harry for target practice. It might have been how well Harry’s wand responded to him after he’d struggled so noticeably with the piece of rubbish he had before. With a flick, ten wreaths dotted onto windows, one right after the other, and Draco had another set lined up to follow, decorative ribbons and pine cones stuffed into proud foilage. 

“If you already had a house, why did you buy mine?” Draco asked. Harry turned away from the shape of his fingers around the holly, sinking his hands into his pockets. 

“Dunno. Grimmauld isn’t really livable anymore.” 

Unsatisfied by this, Draco’s wand movements turned sharp, knife-like. Harry was enjoying it a little too much, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. Since leaving his job, he’d found most rebellions against the Ministry’s mishandling enjoyable, but this was different. 

“One could argue the Manor isn’t much better,” Draco said briskly.

Harry gestured around at the old brick and mortar, the spires that echoed, the halls that even the ghosts had abandoned. “No one’s going to bother me here, I guess. Even the post-war fanatics won’t come near this place. It’s a graveyard, and that’s all I really wanted.” 

“Death?” 

“To be alone,” Harry corrected, agitated suddenly. Draco wouldn’t understand. The Weasleys didn’t understand. Not even Ron and Hermione got it. “I just wanted some space to think. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do now, and everyone has an opinion about it except me.” 

Cocking his head to this side, Draco paused his swirling wreaths' dance, his attention fully on Harry. “You don’t want to be alone, Potter. You want your pack of gingers to chase after you.” 

“Give me my wand back if you’re going to do all that,” Harry grumbled. His coat was too thin, maybe, and he couldn’t cast a warming charm wandless. 

Draco pulled it back, not flinching when Harry stepped in closer. “Tell you the truth?” 

“You don’t know anything about me, Malfoy.” Harry wasn’t sure why he'd offered his wand in the first place. He was going to give Draco the hawthorn wand, and opportunity had struck. Harry didn’t move. 

“Did the Weaslette find your miserable brooding attractive? Or is that why she ended up dumping you?” This close, Harry could see the moment Draco’s eyes fell low on Harry’s face, the swell of his pupils. 

Harry could recognize what it meant, even if the small pieces didn’t quite fit right. He’d asked himself the question more than once: what did desire look like without Ginny? The answer was staring him in the face, looking at his mouth. Harry asked, “Do you?” 

Draco went furiously pink, faster than he had even when Harry would insult his parents at school. “I beg your pardon?” 

The entire past week of Harry noticing the distance between them, of Draco keeping the distance between them, took on a new taste, a little sweet with the bitter. Slowly, Harry reached out, giving Draco time to step back, move away, do anything, but he didn’t, not even when Harry ran a fingers over the side of his hand where the wand was still held upright. 

Large eyes, dark except for the thinnest line of gray, held Harry tight and still. 

“Do you think it’s attractive?” Harry went as far down as Draco’s wrist before moving upwards once more, taking his wand with two fingers and barely a tug. 

Draco scoffed, and for the rest of the day, he didn’t let Harry get too close.

Chapter Text

When Saturday arrived, Harry dragged himself to the Burrow once more. Lunch was the usual chaos of a shared meal, leaving him plenty of time to stare absently into space as he thought. Mostly, he noticed the decorations. Now that Draco had been putting Harry through his paces hanging up every garland and light from Malfoy Christmases past, Harry could sympathize with how much work Mrs. Weasley put into bringing festive cheer to her home each year, down to the small hand-knit sweaters on the tree. 

The two H sweaters were hung on branches close to each other, next to the maroon R; last year, one of the Hs had been next to a G, and Harry had searched for it over and over again, finding it reassuring, finding it not quite right, never where he expected it.

Across the room, a flick of Ginny’s hair caught Harry’s attention, and he caught her gaze. Her brown eyes widened, and he imagined saying, I touched someone else yesterday, but then she might ask who. She might also ask what kind of touch, and Harry had only felt the crease of Draco’s bent wrist and the curved line of his pinky as he’d held Harry’s wand. 

Ginny smiled tightly and stood, walking away to help Mrs. Weasley with something and breaking Harry from his distant thoughts about other forms of touching. 

With a sigh, Ron bumped their shoulders together. “Sorry, mate. Maybe she’ll be more willing to talk closer to Christmas. I can see if I can—”

“No, that’s fine. Hermione’s still reading?” Changing the subject to Hermione was the best way to avoid any of Ron’s unhelpful meddling. Harry hunkered a little in his seat, protective over the stiff line of the hawthorn wand in his pocket. He’d brought it to add weight to his excuse about having left it at the Burrow, like Draco would be able to know it’d been with Harry all along. 

Maybe, when he’d hand it over, his fingers would linger against Draco’s, just for a second.

He wasn’t sure he wanted more than that, and even less sure Draco would let him get away with even that much. Draco startled badly if Harry moved too quietly or quickly, and kept Harry in his periphery unless he was distracted. 

“Merlin, are you going to be like this all day?” Ron scooped up eggs from the serving bowl and plopped them onto Harry’s plate, despite Harry’s choppy protests. “Eat something. You’ll feel better. Mum made these special for you.” 

I wish she wouldn’t, Harry almost said. He wanted her to make whatever she pleased without any thought to him; he wanted to go back in time to when he was relieved she never included his choices in her lists of grievances, the breathless tirades every Weasley was accustomed to. If he’d married Ginny— 

But he’d just lost a solid minute to thinking about touching Draco Malfoy. Prolonged touching, where Draco’s calloused, long-fingered hands would return whatever damage Harry dealt. 

“Do you ever—” Harry stopped, eyes not quite meeting Ron’s. What was he even asking? Do you ever think about other boys? Do you ever think about Draco Malfoy? “Sorry, I think all that time alone’s been getting to me.”

“Yeah, I’ll say. You’re downright boring now that you aren’t sulking over your work or brooding about my sister,” Ron agreed with a snort. He nudged Harry’s arm, friendly and unremarkable. “I’m used to it, at this point.” 

Harry forced a grin and a spoonful of eggs.

Chapter Text

After the last of the outside decor had turned the Manor into a small lights show, Draco shifted focus to Christmasifying the inside. He’d hung up garlands on the banisters and charmed small candles to float around, flitting from window to window. The chandelier boasted a new collection of poinsettias Draco assured him wouldn’t wilt, and every fire place was lit, burning them through the stock of firewood Harry had at double the pace. 

“We’re missing stockings,” Harry noted, and Draco scoffed, halfway through directing a crystal ornament onto the massive Christmas tree he’d chopped and brought in from the wooded land Harry hadn’t explored yet. Independence suited him, Harry thought with a pang of guilt. 

“No stockings. It’d just be the one, and that’s a sad sight.” The next ornament was a brilliant star, reflecting the firelight into rainbow streaks at the right angle. 

Harry had been thinking two, with the frequency with which Draco came to see him. “What about at the Bakertons?”

“Four, as you’d imagine,” Draco said, off-step and out of tune. 

The idea had come from Winnie’s passing remark over the gold ornaments, and Harry had been twisting it around in his head like a rubik's cube. “Do you share yours with Matt?”

Draco’s wand twitched, and the newest ornament fell to the ground, exploding into a thousand needle-fine shards. “What?” 

Harry fought to keep his tone neutral. “You and Winnie’s brother. Are you—”

“Matty’s dead,” Draco answered flatly. “Two years ago, while he was abroad. I don’t know the details. I never even met him as an adult.” 

The shattered glass sat around Draco until Harry cast a repair charm, not sure of what to say. 

“You want to ask why they let me stay,” Draco guessed with decent accuracy. “But I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s because they were fond of me when I was a child. Matty was one of the first friends I chose to make.” 

All the pieces of crystal had come together in Harry’s hand, save for a single chip. He held it out for Draco to take, but Draco was distractedly chewing on the inside of his cheek. When he caught sight of the ornament, he didn’t reach for it, and found Harry watching him. His expression changed, a shutter somewhere in the world opened.

“I didn’t know where to go. Every magical family I stayed with was interrogated by the Ministry for possible Death Eater connections, but they always let me go. Catch and release, like I had sign on my back I couldn't see.”

Harry didn’t have to admit to it. They had both heard his testament during Draco's prolonged trial, and everything else paled in comparison. He thumbed the only visible fault left in the crystal ornament while Draco watched.

Draco cleared his throat. “Winnie has asked to come see the house. For obvious reasons, I don’t want her here.” 

“Okay,” Harry said, voice low. 

“Say no,” Draco requested, standing closer than he’d let Harry get before. Almost touching, never quite.

“Alright. Tell her I said no. I’m… Self-conscious, or something.” 

“I won’t have to lie, then,” Draco replied, but his tone was off too. “There’s a library being demolished tomorrow. The Bakertons are driving to watch, and I’m going with them.”

“Okay?”

“Come with us.” Lights from the tree warmed Draco's complexion.

“To watch a factory demolition?”

“Yes.” Draco didn’t flinch as he brushed Harry’s knee to pluck the last crystal shard from where it’d gotten stuck, and he held it between two fingers for a second before letting it go. “Say you’ll go.”

The last shard slid home. “Alright then.”

Chapter Text

The car ride to the viewing place for the factory’s demolition was shockingly pleasant, despite Harry being squished into the backseat with Draco and Winnie. Draco had taken the middle, his leg half on top of Harry’s, and Harry spent forty-five minutes staring out the window, his hands together in his lap. 

Cynthia parked the car on the street in the first available makeshift spot she could find, right in front of a snow-drenched telephone booth. “At least we won’t lose the car. Alright, everyone out!” 

A crowd of people had laid down blankets or brought chairs to watch the factory’s demise, and the Bakertons fit in seamlessly to the bunch, three more beige-coated persons to join the rest. Harry still couldn’t be in a crowd without feeling his pulse in his temples, and he watched them walk away, preferring to linger around the small ledge that offered only half the view. 

Draco stopped halfway between the Bakertons and Harry. The hand free from his pocket clenched and loosened twice as he watched them go. With a neat pivot, he crossed the few feet to join him. “Trust you to make yourself stand out even in this group.” 

“I’m not a people person,” Harry joked, eying the small distance between his red jacket and Draco’s gray coat, only a sliver of space. 

“No, you certainly aren’t,” Draco agreed a little too seriously. 

“Hey, wait,” started Harry, but Draco held up his hand, rolling his eyes. 

“This is a rare occasion in which I admit may have been off-base. You should cherish it,” Draco said, “In school, I thought you were trying to charm people on purpose, but acting coy about it.” 

Harry could read between the lines, or maybe he was making up the words as he went. “You thought I was charming?” 

“Not me. You never had any interest in charming me,” Draco said, waspish. “But everyone else was mad about you. I thought I was the soul survivor in a campaign against the best of discerning minds.” 

“You mean Dumbledore,” Harry realized with a choked laugh. “God, you really are full of yourself, aren’t you?” 

Draco swayed slightly, and just like that, they were touching. Despite the cold and the residual snow sinking into his sneakers, Harry was warm to his toes. “You remember what I was like back then.” 

“What are you like now?” Harry asked. The backs of their hands were touching. Was this flirting? 

A loud burst of sound from the factory signaled its oncoming demise, and whatever Draco was going to say was swallowed by distant booms. The building blew out through windows and crumbled with loud cracks audible even from their safe distance. Harry couldn’t tell what was the clatter and what was his heart, Draco’s warm fingers briefly brushing the scarred skin of Harry’s hand. 

In the wake of settling rubble, Draco said, “Dynamite,” and Harry took a second to realize he was answering his question from before. He burst into poorly suppressed laughter, turning his head and biting his tongue.

Harry bumped their shoulders together like it didn’t mean anything. Like he’d not just been distracted by strokes of a finger. “You don’t have it in you to be purposefully destructive. 

Fully turned away from the show of cinder and pipe falling, Draco had a back drop of smoke. “Fine, Potter, what am I then?” 

He took a minute to search, and pointed at one of the crowd clutching earmuffs to his head, his eyes squeezed closed while the rest looked on.

“Oh, fuck off.” 

Chapter Text

Nerves started keeping Harry up at night, a decent change from the usual dread and emptiness he felt once the sun went down. He wandered the halls and tried to pinpoint the stars of Draco’s childhood stories: sharp corners of chests Draco had bruised his knees with, the passageway he’d snuck Matt in through once, the portrait he had nightmares about after noticing the details for the first time. 

After two days of insisting to himself he wouldn’t, Harry tried the only bed in the house he hadn’t attempted to sleep on. 

Young Draco had chosen an unsurprising shade of green for his comforter, still piled on the floor from the last time Harry had been there. He pulled back the sheets, expecting a collection of dust like the other beds had before he’d cleaned them, but the rotten work was already done. The new sheets were covered in pairs of reindeer that dipped their heads together until their antlers joined to make the shape of a Christmas tree. 

Folded parchment sat in the middle, sealed and addressed with a simple, Harry. 

You’re so bloody predictable. No, do not try and sleep on the floor again. I’ll know you opened the letter regardless of if I see it, so don’t try tossing this either. Sweet dreams, arsehole.
   - DLM

Lying down, Harry clutched the letter to his chest. Sugar-plum saccharine scenarios danced around his head. What would Draco do once he found Harry in his bed? Should Harry move to the floor just because Draco told him not to? Things he could say— Next time, if I’m in your bed, join me— and actions he could take— one hand over Draco’s stupid mouth, but his eyes on Harry—

Draco arrived with the cresting sun, as he always did, and found Harry tied up in the reindeer sheets. The night was spent tossing and turning, and he’d skewed all but the sheet stuck on the mattress. 

For a moment, Harry was trapped between sweat-heavy dreams, not quite nightmare and not quite pleasant, but prickling awareness of Draco’s staring at his bare chest, his tight boxers, pulled him from the dregs. His heart often sped when he woke, but this was different. Draco’s red cheeks, his coat still on and buttoned to just under his pointy chin, had Harry blushing too. His trousers were tight, his legs slim. If Harry touched him, he’d find the winter chill still clinging to the fabric. 

This was not an idle musing, not a game of chicken played by himself at night with his hand on his cock. Draco was painfully real, his half-lidded gray eyes meeting Harry’s and his hands at his sides in tight fists. There was no dare on Draco’s face, no pulling back to inspire the dog-like instinct Harry had to chase. Harry had spent so long wondering how he would go about instigating that the opposite hadn’t occurred to him.

Draco sighed. “Why are you so easy?” 

The words landed harder than a hand to the throat. “Er.” 

“Er,” Draco mocked, his hands now popping the buttons at his throat. He stepped back from the bed to pick up the letter Harry had tossed over the edge in his sleep. “I know your muggles were a bit not good about teaching you the way of things, Potter, but I arrive at the same time every bloody day, and you always act like I’ve unexpectedly broken into your home.” 

“You do break into my home,” Harry replied, heart still in his throat, and spent the day trying to catch his breath.

Chapter Text

Draco knew an embarrassing amount about the Dursleys, more than Harry had intended to tell. Their conversations were constructed of strung together glimpses of Draco’s childhood, and it was hard not to meet Draco tit-for-tat. The first tidbit had slipped out before Harry could think about it, but instead of the usual reaction to Harry’s past nights locked in a cupboard, Draco had said, “No wonder your social skills are so tragic.” 

They still had lines in the sand they wouldn’t cross. For the first time in his life, Harry found it easier to talk about the Dursleys than he did the Weasleys, and all of Draco’s stories about his parents retained the past tense. 

Draco finding Harry nearly naked in his childhood bed had stirred them up more than he realized, because amidst the newly transfigured decorated table settings lining themselves down the wretched massive dining table, Draco said, “My mother always loved this part.” 

 Harry heard the grief, the quiet longing. He knew it well. “They decorated the Manor every year for you, didn’t they? Not for the muggles in town at all.” 

“I wanted my house to look like the Bakertons. Like Matty’s,” Draco admitted. “My parents thought it gaudy, but a true traditional Malfoy Christmas is simple: I get what I want.” 

What do you want right now? Harry was too afraid to ask, especially not from this close. He’d been drawn in by Draco’s masterful wand movements while turning old curtains into table runners and napkins, orbiting Draco thoughtlessly.

“Now I have Christmas with them, and my parents are locked away, and I'm showing my old school rival the ancient Malfoy secrets that barely matter without magic in the house.” 

Harry drew even closer. “It’s a weird Christmas. I used to love spending the holidays with the Weasleys, but this year... Not so much.” 

“Ginny,” Draco guessed. 

“Not really.” Harry stroked the soft fur of the placemat, catching the lingering warmth from Draco’s magic. “The Burrow was the first place I felt like I belonged, which made sense when I was dating Ginny. Now, though, I’m not sure there’s anywhere I belong.” 

“I don’t really belong anywhere either. I’m too dangerous in the magical world and too ignorant in the muggle. I’m simply stuck in a hole I dug, and keep digging deeper,” Draco said. “Sometimes I think there’s nowhere else to go but down.” 

How obnoxious, Harry thought, to hear his own thoughts echoed back to him and want to argue. 

“You’ve stopped digging the hole, Draco. I’d say you’ve made it a tunnel.” Draco turned sharply, his face twisted, but Harry sat on the table’s edge, shaking his trepidation enough to snatch up Draco’s hand and hold it between them. “You’ve made connections. The Bakertons, other people in town. You have friends, people who care. Can’t that be enough?”

“Is it enough for you?” Draco raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t move away, not even when Harry’s fingers tightened. “Your Weasleys want you around, and you’ve got friends at the Ministry and in high places, but you’re here with me. Those are not the actions of a man at peace.” 

“I’m plenty at peace now,” Harry argued, but it wasn’t true. Draco had stepped closer, his thigh now against Harry’s knee. He could push Harry down onto the flat of the table where terrible things had happened, knock the silly decorated table settings no one would see but them to the ground, and—

Draco pulled back, his face unreadable when before it had been warm. He left once the last plate settled.

Chapter Text

When Hermione owled about Christmas shopping for Ron together, Harry had thought she would wait for a reply, which was why he was asleep, nearly naked, in Draco’s old bed. The flare of the Floo was loud enough to rouse him, and his jump-started panic carried him down the stairs in just his underwear, his wand in hand.

“We only have a week left, Harry,” Hermione said with a brisk wave of her hand. “For Merlin’s sake, put your wand away and go wash the drool off your face.” 

Harry was sleeping better than he ever had, embarrassingly comforted by the idea of a bug-eyed anxious Draco having sweat his way through nightmares the same way in the not-so-distant past. Draco had probably found the same crack in the ceiling, an eye-catching strike of lightning through plaster, after nightmares the way Harry did, and counted his breaths until sleep took him back. 

Diagon Alley was worse than a nightmare, even well-rested. People crowded around them before Hermione snapped and cast a disillusionment charm. They finally gave up in favor of greener muggle pastures where she bought him a consolation prize lunch. 

“Are you ever coming back to the Burrow?” Hermione asked. She never minced words, not with Harry and Ron. Turning twenty had given her a decent awareness of other people’s feelings, but she cut to the quick with her best friends, even after she started dating one of them. 

For Harry, Ron was easier to talk with about things; together, they’d lock hands and spin around topics without a single direct comment about what was bothering them, then let go of the conversation with matching headrushes of relief. 

“To visit,” Harry answered.

“Because of Ginny?”

“Why does everyone assume that? The breakup was mutual.”

Hermione snorted.

“It was expected,” corrected Harry, flushing. “She was never going to stay with me.” 

“Not surprising. You weren’t in love with her,” Hermione said. “Not anymore.”

“I just thought trying to marry into the family after her parents walked in on us was the done thing,” Harry joked, then winced. “Don’t tell her I said that.” 

She cocked her head. “I think I get why you bought that place now, though I still think you’re mad.”

“Okay.”

“It’s the first thing you’ve done for yourself.” Hermione’s smile fluttered away. “But you can’t keep haunting the Malfoys’ old house like a ghost. All this isolation isn’t good for anyone. Molly’s beside herself thinking it’s her fault, or Ginny’s, and they’re fighting all the time—”

“Sounds lovely,” noted Harry. 

“Harry. You understand, don’t you?” Hermione placed a hand over his. “You need to live your life, not just float through it.”

“I don’t know how to do that. I always was given other people’s plans, and everyone thinks they know what I want, but I don’t even know. How could they?” Harry pulled his hand back. 

For the rest of the afternoon, Harry sullenly stalked behind her. He caught sight of a reindeer mug similar to the design of his new bedsheets, but instead of the antlers touching, the two reindeer bumped noses in a cartoon kiss. He thought of Draco turning red, staring down at him. 

Bumping his shoulder into Hermione, he didn’t bother with apologizing. He offered up something worse. “I think whatever I do now is only going to disappoint all the people expecting something. I don’t think I have ‘greatness’ in me anymore.”

Hermione bumped back. “Oh, Harry, no. Do whatever you want. It’s going to be extraordinary to you, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

Chapter Text

Their shopping trip was long, exhausting, and at the end of it, Hermione stepped back into the Manor, obviously expecting to visit. 

“It’s sort of eerie, being so empty and yet so obviously lived in,” Hermione observed once seated. 

Harry had summoned tea, pulled together what he could in terms of snacks, and they hunkered together in the downstairs sitting room where the fire was biggest and the massive tree outside was visible. “I thought you were serious about not visiting because of the— Well, you know.” 

Hermione raised an eyebrow, holding a Bakerton biscuit. “The torture, you mean?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said weakly. “That.” 

After another minute of looking around the tall ceiling, Hermione sighed. “Harry. I can’t begin to understand why you wanted this place when it’s so abysmal. And sort of ugly.”

“Not that ugly,” Harry grumbled. 

“But wherever you are is somewhere I’ll be eventually. You’re not leaving me behind now. I just needed to process this with my therapist first,” Hermione continued. “You should—”

Draco popped into existence with a loud crack, a wooden board in his hands. Three gingerbread houses stood proudly on top, one expertly constructed and the other two varying in sloppiness. “Oh. You have a guest.” 

For a moment, no one said a word. 

Draco tightened his grip on the board holding the three houses. “Good to see you, Granger.”

“Malfoy. Nice gingerbread.” Hermione bit into the biscuit, not breaking eye contact. Draco looked away first.

“Thank you. Not mine, of course. The family I live with insisted mine remain in the shop as decoration,” Draco said, the corner of his mouth jumping, tellingly smug. 

“You didn’t,” Harry accused.

“No one saw my wand.”

Harry laughed, breathless. “What did you build?” 

“Hogwarts,” Draco said with a dismissive shrug. “Only another wizard would recognize it.”

“You’re such a bloody show off.” 

Hermione cleared her throat, sipping her tea. 

“Ah, right. Any reason you’re here, Draco?” Harry asked, hoping his face didn’t give him away. All day, he’d dragged himself through the motions, but he was suddenly vibrantly awake. 

Draco grimaced. Shifted. “Listen, Granger. About the—”

“I really, really do not care about your guilt, or whatever it is you have to say,” Hermione stated. 

“Right. Naturally.” Draco glared at his feet. “I'll go.”

Harry jumped up to take Draco’s elbow. “No, no. Hermione won’t stay long, and she’s all about moving on from the war. Weren’t you just talking about the newest unjust punishments?”

“Hm,” replied Hermione, a bit too thoughtful, a touch too discerning.  

Draco jerked away, not meeting his eye. “It’s fine, Potter. Spend time with your actual friends instead of talking my ear off.”

“We are—” Harry stopped himself because they weren’t. Whatever Draco was to him defied explanation, refused labels, sat in Harry’s gut like stones. He put his hand on Draco’s, thumbing his pearl-knuckle grip on the wooden platter. 

“Hm,” Hermione repeated. “I think I see what you meant about being disappointing, Harry. I’ll make more tea. Which way is the kitchen?” 

Both Harry and Draco gestured to the right. They waited until her footsteps were further away before speaking again. 

“You’ve lost your damned mind,” decided Draco, winded and black-eyed. The house had brightened him up, Christmas lights warming his complexion. He hadn’t looked away from Harry since he’d touched his hand, wondrously baffled, as pink as Harry felt. Harry wanted to kiss him, and his thumb moved on its own against slightly chapped skin. 

“Stay,” replied Harry, not leaving room for argument. “You can both tell me how crazy I am then.” 

Chapter Text

The logs fell apart swing after swing, but Harry’s blood continued to buzz under his skin. He had hoped restocking the firewood would be annoying enough to distract him from how Hermione had said, I didn’t think you knew how to apologize, and Draco had replied, I live with a thirteen-year-old girl who’s better at the silent treatment. Apologizing is a form of survival. His thigh had been against Draco’s, while Hermione watched from the other side of the room, hands in her lap, professor-like. 

Now, she was probably telling Ron all the dirty details in hushed whispers to keep the rest of the Weasleys from hearing, not that that ever worked. Harry let the axe fall, and the thunk echoed in the small clearing around him. Magic made this easier, but obviously, he didn’t want easy. 

“Potter,” Draco said, arms crossed as he took in Harry stripped to his henley. “The sun’s going down. Come inside before you freeze.” 

Harry didn’t want to be inside, not while Draco was still lingering. Since Hermione had left, there was a vacuum of space sucking Harry in closer to Draco, and Draco to Harry. At least out here, Harry wouldn’t want to pull out his own hair, or pull off Draco’s jumper. 

Draco’s hand closed over Harry’s on the handle, and all the fight left him in a puff of hot air. He lead Harry back to the house by the hand, took him up the stairs, brought him to his room— their room, his and his separately but now together. The fire lit with a flick of Draco’s wand. 

“Granger thinks I’ve been slipping you a love potion,” Draco said grimly. 

The word love surprised him, but it shouldn’t have. Of course Harry didn’t just want Draco to kiss him and be done with it. Harry had always been a greedy person, his hands grasping at straws of affection. Hermione figuring it out first smarted, though. 

“Do you—” Harry couldn’t stand even the breath of space between them. He wanted to run, but Draco would bring him back here eventually. “Draco.” 

“Yes,” and Draco kissed him, a hand on Harry’s cheek and his nose cold. 

Everything moved simultaneously too fast and too slow, Harry stripping to his socks and making Draco match, and Draco running fingers through Harry’s hair, down his neck, over his chest, again and again. 

“What do you want?” Draco asked against Harry’s neck once they’d made it to the bed, the comforter kicked away from them. 

Harry didn’t know where to start, but he traced the wicked curve of Draco’s collarbone with a finger. “I’ve never— Only a few times with Ginny, but never… Boys.” 

“That’s alright. I’m used to being the expert between us,” Draco replied with a wry smile Harry wanted to kiss, and so he did, over and over, until Draco was clutching at his arms with both hands. “I can’t believe you were chopping firewood, you bloody cliche.” 

“What sort of cliche does that?” Harry was distracted by the point of Draco’s jaw, the sharp cut of his chin. 

“A hot one.” 

Harry snickered, burying his face in Draco’s neck. “I just want to touch you, whatever we do.” 

“I’ve noticed,” snarked Draco, tightening his knees on either side of Harry’s hips. “You stand too close. You watch my hands.” 

“Watching you use my wand was horrible,” Harry confessed, and embarrassment kept him quiet while Draco laughed, his whole body shaking over Harry’s, rocking them together. 

“Poor thing,” Draco muttered, hand on Harry’s thigh. “Let me make it up to you.” 

Chapter Text

Draco always woke up too early, and even after the late night hours they’d kept, he sat up in bed, stood up, and dressed for the day. Harry watched him through a veil of eyelashes, willing Draco to give it up and crawl back under with him. 

“Come with me,” Draco said, voice small. “It’s still last night, before the sun comes up.” 

Hot with the reminder of the deal Draco had struck the night before— if you don’t know what you want tonight, do what I want— Harry pulled himself from the bed. He tossed on clothes over his half-arsed pajamas, and let Draco lead him again. 

The small lake on the property was just out of sight from the house, and the weather had kept Harry from exploring the grounds in depth. He’d known it was there, but hadn’t realized how large it was, trees bracketing a rocky-grassy shore. This early, everything was either black, gray, or pink, except for the white surface of the water. Draco went to a large rock that looked like marble and spelled away the dirt, casting a heating charm before he pointed at it in silent demand. 

Harry sat. The morning light cut hazy and pale in the sky, and Draco pressed their sides together, shoulder to knee. “Why aren’t we still in bed?” 

“I used to do this a lot. I haven’t had the chance to start the day here in years,” Draco admitted, half-choked. His real confessions always sounded like that, pried out of a vault only Draco could access and tongue tied in the delivery.

Guilt sat on the surface as Harry stared down at the reflected clouds. The water was still, too still, no wild life left awake after the freeze. 

“Don’t look like that, Potter. I could have. I live in town. I just haven’t,” Draco added. He sat his hand on Harry’s knee, and Harry’s heart broke with the sun over the spike of trees. Why should Harry get to touch him when he’d contributed to what made Draco this way? Perfectly lonely, just like Harry. 

Harry tentatively touched him anyway, just his finger tips against Draco’s. After a night of proprietary exploration, his stomach should not be twisting, squirming, his whole body filled to bursting from the warmth of Draco’s hand. 

“Hermione said haunting your house isn’t any good for me,” Harry said, brushing the backs of his fingers over Draco’s more intently than before. We both need to let go, he thought. 

“It’s your house, not mine,” Draco replied, and Harry snorted. 

“You really agree with her?” 

“You mope around the place. It’s hard to watch. Why do you think I keep coming up with more things to do?” Draco met Harry’s eye, one sharp eyebrow raised high. The sun stood up proudly, light from on high turning the mushy frost into gold. Draco was caught in the crossfire, pink and yellow.

“You love Christmas. You’re obsessed with it. You said so yourself,” Harry answered around the hope stuck in his throat. He tangled his fingers with Draco’s to see if he could hold the light in his hand.

“Maybe not just Christmas. Sometimes old passions burn a bit brighter the second time around,” said Draco, awkward and twisted, the words caught in the back of his throat.

Harry stood impatiently, brushing off the back of his legs. “Let’s go inside. It’s cold.” 

“Already?” 

“There’s a bed there. I doubt you want to be laid out and snogged within an inch of your life in the muck,” Harry replied, and after that, he had to run to outpace Draco back inside where they stayed for the remainder of the day. 

Chapter Text

Another Saturday arrived, but Harry was alien and new, kiss-swollen, chest-aching, all while staring at the Weasley tree propped up by presents. He lost track of conversation worse than ever during dinner, watching Ron’s stoic avoidance. 

Harry struggled to work up the guilt he thought should come easy after letting Draco into his bed. That morning, Draco had left first, holding Harry’s face and kissing him pliant. I promised I’d help at the shop. It’s the week before Christmas, Potter, we’ve got places to be. 

Ron’s knee bonked Harry’s under the table, and they both jumped. He caught Ron’s wide eye, knowing Ron knew why Harry was flushed, and Ron knowing Harry knew Hermione had told him every tiny detail, even those Harry wasn’t privy to while being too trapped by the cage of his desperate and greedy body. 

A dimple appeared in Ron’s right cheek. Ron pinched his mouth closed, leaving Harry to break first, a huff of breath not quite a laugh. 

“Later, later,” Ron muttered while Percy blustered on and on about Ministry gossip only Molly was listening to. “I’m going to choke on my food.” 

Once the last serving was done, Ron and Harry stole away upstairs, back to Ron’s violently orange bedroom. Ron sat down in the middle and left Harry standing, his arms crossed. Now that Harry could explain himself, he didn’t know what to say. 

“Should I wait for Hermione?” Harry asked, only partially joking. 

Ron sat back on his hands, shaking his head. “Nah, she’s working on something for Kingsley.” 

Without Hermione, Harry didn’t have a starting point. She had a way of asking pertinent questions to turn Harry’s rambling into bullet notes, and without her, half of his vocabulary was missing. 

“I’m not—” Ron hunched forward, legs crossing to make room for Harry to sit. “I don’t just don’t get it. Why Malfoy of all people?”

Oh, Harry thought. That’s easy. 

Everything came back to the Bakertons, in a way. The obnoxious serrated edge of Draco’s personality had been dulled the moment Harry watched three Muggles spend an entire meal poking and prodding at Draco’s tender spots, leaving him flushed and indignant. Posh little thing, isn’t he, Cynthia had said, and Richard had added, Do you require anything else, my liege, and Winnie had gone for the kill with, We’re surprised you can even make friends. 

But that morning, Draco had left Harry’s bed to wear an apron in a muggle bakery. Harry couldn’t stop thinking about it, imaging Draco attempting civility and upselling bread loaves. He wanted to go home, to snatch Draco up, to drag him back to bed the way he had after the sterling realization he hadn’t run out of ideas of what they could do to each other for another thirty-six hours. 

Ron cleared his throat. “So he lives with muggles, and that makes you want to.... Er.” 

“No, it’s just— He’s different. Still a mean little git, sure, and he thinks he does all of it because he feels indebted to them, but you can just look and see right through him,” explained Harry. “It makes me think about how your family is with me.” 

Ron frowned slightly.

“You know what I mean,” Harry added with a dismissive wave. 

“You don’t think it’s weird at all he’s let you see all this? What if he just wants something?” 

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but reconsidered. “He definitely wants something. But I don’t really care?” 

“You really do like him,” Ron said faintly. 

And there was the answer Harry had been struggling with, in fittingly plain language. 

Chapter Text

What did Draco want enough to sleep with him? 

The Manor was Harry’s first thought, echoed by Ron, though his suggestion of how Draco planned to go about it was distracting. The revelation that wizards could marry other wizards made Harry itchy, tender, and annoyed no one had thought to tell him. 

“Didn’t think it was relevant,” Ron had explained with a shrug. “You’ve never looked twice at Dean, and he’s— You know.” 

“He’s Dean,” grumbled Harry.

“Don’t want to hear that from someone who wants to shag Malfoy,” Ron had said, and Harry’s blush was set off so easily, he’d changed the subject. 

Harry toured the house again, chagrined to find the corners weren’t as dark and echoing hallways were warmer. The pipes no longer screamed, and it had been two days since the last minor damage. Trailing a hand up the banister, Harry climbed the stairs and tucked into the nook at the top. Draco had tuned the piano with spell after spell, but it paid off for Harry now, who could play single-key melodies without pangs and dull tones. 

It was probably the Christmas decor Draco had managed to hang from the ceiling and walls, from top to bottom, stem to stern, but Harry’s ribs tightened at the idea of never coming back to the Manor. Even the piano sported a small collection of ceramic snowmen Draco claimed to have found, but Harry knew Winnie had given them to him, like she had the marshmallow cookies, the ugly croissants, and one of the three gingerbread houses. 

But the Manor wasn’t Harry’s, not really. If Draco’s plan was to get the Manor back, Harry couldn’t deny it had worked. He’d sign it over and pack his bags, as long as Draco promised to let him sleep in his bed again, even just curled up like a dog at Draco’s feet.

Of all the things Draco had lost, he spoke about the Manor the least. There was Matty, who was out of Harry’s reach, and his parents, who were easier to access. The question was if Harry wanted to. 

On the fireplace, the snowmen Harry had brought with him bore witness to his stupid pacing. An empty piece of parchment sat on the coffee table, and a quill was at the ready to write down whatever he said. 

“Kingsley,” Harry started, knowing his time to do this was coming to a close. “I think we should reopen Narcissa Malfoy’s file.” 

He paused, considering Lucius. He didn’t have much to offer there, and Draco’s love for his family wasn’t enough. Lucius was too loud, too noteworthy a Death Eater, to pull from punishment entirely. 

“You look guilty,” Draco said when he snapped into being, muddy shoes straight on the carpet Harry had spent an hour spot-cleaning while he ruminated. The parchment on the coffee table had rolled up tight in surprise, and Harry waved it into the crease of the couch. “Sending secret messages?”

There was flour in his pale hair, and Harry reconstructed his daydream of Draco forcing a smile to Draco elbow-deep in dough. It carried him across the room, raised his hands to pinch at the powdery residue. 

Draco smirked, using Harry to balance while he toed off his dirty shoes. “Miss me?”

“You bake,” Harry accused. 

“Winnie and I are learning. She gets angry if she thinks she’s the worst at something— Reminds me of me at her age— but thankfully, I’m shit at operating muggle appliances,” Draco explained. 

Whatever Draco wanted, Harry would probably give: the Manor, Narcissa, maybe even Lucius.

“Ah, so you did miss me,” mumbled Draco, right against Harry’s mouth.

The letter was quickly forgotten. 

Chapter Text

The countdown to Christmas came with increasing reasons to be out of bed; the Bakertons kept inviting him to annual events as Draco’s plus one, including the town-held ceremony of remembrance on the twentieth. 

“Candles, crying,” Draco said with a shrug. He tugged on Harry’s scarf, not to fix it, but because he could. “They’ll talk about Matty all night.” 

Talk about Matty included talk about Draco, younger than Harry had known him. Cynthia and Richard sold state secrets in exchange for Harry buying them hot chocolate to hold while they waited in line to place their memorial candles on the large tree in the center of town. 

“Always was dramatic. Matty shoved him once— You know how boys fight— and Draco spent hours talking about how he’d narrowly avoided death,” Cynthia said, blowing on steam. 

“Yes, well, you were heavy-handed patching me up,” muttered Draco, flushed. 

“Did he bring up his dad?” Harry asked, smirking because he knew the answer.

Cynthia only pursed her lips in thought. “No, I don’t think so.”

Later, once it was just Harry, Draco, and four unlit candle sticks, Draco explained, “I was afraid my father would want to hurt them. The same reason I didn't bring Matty back to the Manor, and I made him— I told him— He didn’t come around after fourth year.” 

They lit their candles with the attendant, misplaced jealousy puddling in Harry’s chest, contained and dirty. He placed his candles on the tree, thinking about this boy Harry had never met who’d managed to befriend someone like Draco. Whatever ideas of grandeur Harry had about Draco’s choices in the war were decimated; he’d been fighting a battle against his upbringing long before he’d chosen to not identify a stung-swollen Harry.  

“I wasn’t supposed to come back here,” Draco said when he spoke again. Their shoulders weren’t touching anymore, though Harry couldn’t stop glancing at him. “I was going to camp in the Manor until they kicked me out, before the Bakertons recognized me and offered me somewhere to live. I tried to… Explain it to them. Told them I was a soldier too, for a bad group of people. I think they thought I meant a posh gang of some sort, maybe the mob.” 

“You’d be terrible in the mob,” Harry said, just to see Draco’s glare replace the piercing sadness.

“Quite,” agreed Draco. He stood a little straighter, voice a bit stiff. “I didn’t think I deserved their help, but it was never really about me. They’d just lost their son, and I suppose they made me their surrogate. A transpotted organ.” 

Harry bit his lip against an inappropriate smile. “Transplanted organ.”

“Don’t correct me when I’m being vulnerable. Tosser.” 

“What about the Manor?” 

Finally, Draco met his gaze. “What about that wretched place?” 

“You said you were going to camp there.”

“Only because I didn’t have any other option. I still can’t believe you paid money for it,” Draco muttered, lip curling. 

Harry’s theories were turning into dust and fluttering away with their fogged breath in the cold air. “What if I hadn’t bought it? What if they’d given it back to you?”

“I’d have let the place burn,” Draco answered, voice sure but thick. “I’d let it crumble into dust and danced on the ash.” 

“You should repeat that where Cynthia can hear you. Really show her you outgrew the drama.” 

Draco shot him a dark look. His empty hands came up as if to smack him, and Harry flinched away with a laugh. 

Chapter Text

Two days until Christmas, another visitor arrived, forcing Harry and Draco to tumble downstairs, hastily dressed. At first Harry thought it was Ron but instead found Ginny, framed by the large window. Beyond her shoulder, Harry could make out Draco’s tree, the lights flickering.

“Hi, Harry,” she said, smiling tense and tight. It faltered when she noticed Draco, standing by the stairs. “Oh. Bad time?”

“I was just leaving. Potter,” Draco said with a nod, then to Ginny, “Weasley. Good evening.”

The crack of his exit was a split bone.

Ginny ran fingers through her chopped short hair. Mrs. Weasley had been having kittens about it for days, but the length sharpened her cheeks. She’d matured overnight into someone Harry didn’t recognize immediately.

“Mum has sent me to see if I can talk you into staying at the Burrow for longer than the holiday,” Ginny confessed almost immediately. “Malfoy, huh?”

“It is his house,” Harry said, feeling awkward.

“You don’t have to— Ron’s already told me.” Ginny didn’t sound angry, but her tone carried a distance matching the space between them in the room Harry had only one foot in. “You should have been the one to tell me, if you were wondering.”

“I’m not… Entirely sure there’s something to tell.” With a sigh, Harry glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “Fancy a snack?”

Food eased the need to do something with his body. He prepared quick sandwiches, snagged a couple of bottles from the counter, and Ginny helped him carry glasses, napkins, and crisps. The bottles clanked and fizzed as he poured, but by the time they had finished the first, Harry no longer wanted to crawl out of his skin.

“Mum’s going to get her hopes up if I come home obviously drunk,” Ginny said, pouring herself more from the second bottle. She looked up in time to catch him staring, and lowered her cup. “Why didn’t you say anything? If I’d started…. With anyone else, I would have told you straightaway.”

“What was I supposed to say?” Harry sank back against the couch, glaring up at the ceiling.

“This is why we weren’t going to work, you know,” Ginny snapped. “I’m used to being second or third or fourth on your mind, but I shouldn’t be. My feelings, what I want— That shouldn’t be so low on the priority list, Harry.”

It was unfair. Harry had spent hours trying to get Ginny to speak with him, and even after he’d given her the space she’d wanted so badly, after he’d bought this house to give her distance, to let himself blow up and lick his wounds in peace, he was still the one at fault.

“Only you said you were that low—” Harry tried, but with a shift, Ginny had leaned away from him, her head turned towards the window. A single candle sat lit on the sill, and Draco’s face came to mind, flushed and twisted with sadness. They were all so fucking sad, even years into their peace.

Harry’s arms and legs weighed into the cushions, and he sat up, afraid he’d sink in and never move again. Elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands.

“It’s hard to— Don’t you feel how badly it all fits together? Nothing… Meshes. And I can’t sit there with a stupid smile on my face when all I want to do is—”

Again, Draco came to mind.

Ginny prepared to leave in silence. Before she went, she said, “You still belong at home, Harry. With or without me.”

Chapter Text

Harry wasn’t sure why, after Ginny left, he stalked out into the cold, but he found himself lakeside. The flickering of a candle caught his attention after ten minutes of moping. Not just one candle, Harry realized, but two lines leading into the little patch of woods that stretched into the acres of untamed land. 

At the very end of the candle lit pathway was Draco, a dark woolen ball on a raised wooden platform meant to be a child's playhouse. The back was shaped like a boat, the stern facing the forest. Draco sat beneath the wheel.

“Draco?” Harry nearly ran, but Draco’s blond head lifted before he could descend into real panic. “What are you doing out here?” 

“I— I had a plan. There are two days till Christmas, you know,” Draco muttered. The closer Harry got, the more obvious Draco’s strong warming charm was. 

With a glance back at the candles, he asked, “Was this all for me?” 

“For you and your girlfriend,” Draco said neutrally. He lifted his head to smile with only half his mouth. 

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” 

A sneer took the wry smile’s place. “One heartfelt conversation and you’re affianced now?” 

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, letting his body sway, a little too fond and warm this far out in the cold. “That’s moving a little fast. We haven’t really even been out on a date yet.” 

Narrowing his eyes, Draco warned Harry off by curling up tighter when he stepped onto the platform. “You never took her out on a date?”  

“Draco, I’m not getting back together with Ginny,” Harry said. He knelt next to Draco’s side, grateful for whatever spells the small playhouse had been built with. 

Dark eyes, gray gone black, met Harry from over Draco’s shoulder. “What if I told you I’m using you?” 

Harry allowed the confirmation to settle in. “Okay. For the Manor?” 

“What? No. I’d give this place the same treatment as that old factory if I could.” Draco turned to Harry without looking away, his expression morose. “For my parents. Ten years— They won’t survive it.” 

“You’ve done an excellent job then, because I’ve already sent off a letter to Kingsley about revisiting your mum’s case,” Harry said dryly, the joke falling flat. 

Draco searched Harry’s face. “Why are you not angry? I just told you I’ve been manipulating you.” 

“You haven’t been manipulating me, Draco. I figured there was a reason you were trying to prove yourself the moment you showed up. I’m not actually stupid, you know.” Harry shuffled closer. “But all the— You didn’t fake wanting to—”

“No,” Draco admitted. “But who’s to say I wouldn’t have?” 

“But you didn’t,” Harry confirmed, leaning until their sides meshed.

Draco watched Harry’s face, even as Harry turned to dip his head onto Draco’s shoulder. “No, I wanted to— All of that.” 

“Great. Fantastic.” The path of candles opened to the Manor, framed by tree limbs. How much time had it taken Draco to put this together? How long had he’d been planning it? “This is painfully romantic. Kind of disgusting, really.” 

“I was hoping to appeal to your soppy heart,” Draco grumbled. He was so warm, Harry could imagine sitting like this in the mornings. Could imagine taking off Draco’s black jumper, stripping him down until he begged to go back inside.

“Stay the night with me,” Harry said, “or I’ll unsend my letter.’

“There’s something deeply wrong with you that you can joke about that,” Draco muttered, but with Harry’s head on his shoulder, he felt Draco’s nod in agreement.

Chapter Text

That next morning, Harry woke to an empty bed and starched clean sheets from a hastily cast freshening charm. He indulged in a long, annoyed groan, and dressed to find where his— Where Draco had gone. 

He’d searched two floors of the Manor by the time the Floo sounded, and more grateful than ever he’d put on pants, Harry ran down the stairs, only to draw up short at the sight of one of the taller Weasleys coming out of the grate carrying a stack of gifts. George turned, eying him sideways, flounder-like. 

“Hello, Harry! Nearly happy Christmas, just have to put these somewhere and start pouring the drinks,” he said, and another Weasley popped out from behind him, and another, and another, until Harry’s living room was stuffed full of presents and smiling family members. 

“I’ve been wanting to see the inside of this place,” Bill said when he came to give Harry a cheerful clap to the shoulder. “Hermione said it was downright festive.” 

And it was. With all the people, from the squealing new baby to the newest married addition, Angelina, Harry’s decorations had taken on a life and vibrancy he hadn’t noticed them possessing before. He and Draco had spent days dressing up the banisters and transfiguring old musty curtains into table cloths, but only now did all of their effort feel like it had purpose. 

Or, almost. Ginny still wasn’t looking at him, but for the first time, the knot in his stomach wasn’t related. 

He pulled Ron to the side. “Not that I’m not enjoying it, but why are you all here?” 

“You owled us to,” Ron said, eyebrows scrunched together into a wrinkled caterpillar. “Two days ago? You even gave us a time.” 

The only person with access to Harry’s wand, Harry’s owl, everything anyone would need to impersonate him, was Draco. He wanted to sink into the floor. He wanted to run into town and shout through the streets, Draco could have done this the whole time! 

“I think he likes me,” Harry gasped, his chest hot and itchy. 

Ron’s eyes widened. “Who, Malfoy?” 

“I didn’t send the letter. And he could have— Ron, he could have done this to send something to Kingsley weeks ago, but he didn’t.” Harry was having a heart attack. “I’m obsessed with him.” 

“I could have told you that,” Ron complained, faintly disgusted. “You’ve never been completely right in the head though. You dated Ginny.” 

Harry ignored him, his joy indestructible. In his kitchen, Mrs. Weasley was heating up food, and in the hall, he could hear Fleur singing in French to Dominique. Charlie was home for the holidays, sprawled and slightly singed. On the couch, Percy was enduring Mr. Weasley’s rant about his newest fascination. 

With a small smile, Hermione came down the stairs, trailed by George and Angelina, who overtook her when they noticed the look on Harry’s face. Only Hermione lingered, and Ron, and the three of them all pretended Harry wasn’t blinking dewy at the ceiling. 

Everyone had come there for him. All it had taken was a letter— albeit, one he hadn’t sent, but they didn’t know that— and the entire Weasley family and company was willing to brave whatever they thought the Malfoy Manor held in store for them. 

“Let’s get you something to eat,” Hermione said carefully, eying Ron like she blamed him for why Harry was spending Christmas Eve trying not to cry. 

“Man needs a drink,” Ron agreed, and it really was Christmas after all. 

Chapter Text

Harry found the bag and the card, sitting on the dresser in their room, only after all the Weasleys had been shown to the various guest rooms Harry had cleaned in a haze of insomnia, when tidying beds the closest he could get to sleep. Had Harry not woken up so irritated about having been abandoned, he would have noticed them immediately. 

 Written on the front was, Harry. 

I said give me until Christmas, but now, I’m not sure what I was trying to accomplish. Before, I wanted you to see that people are capable of change, that my parents could change, that we were people who deserved that chance. But you never thought of us as anything less, did you? That fight isn’t with you, not really. 

It’s easier to write these things. I already told you what I wanted from you, but I wasn’t completely honest. Some part of me wanted you to think I am a better person. Not good, but better.

The house is yours. It always was, of course, but I saw you thinking about it. I don’t want it. I think what I wanted most, more and more as the month progressed, was—

Well. You know what it was, don’t you?

Yours, DLM

Harry placed the letter onto the dresser with shaking hands. The bag contained more cookies, Winnie’s handwriting on a tiny card folded on top. To Draco’s friend, Harry. 

Possessed, Harry ran out the door. At some point he found his coat, his gloves, his shoes. He twisted on one foot, thinking of the tiny alleyway near the bakery, but he was so overwrought, he missed the mark by a block. Running felt nice, grounding, the cold air tunneling through his lungs clarifying.

He didn’t remember banging on the door, only he had to have done so, because soon, Draco was on the stoop, dressed in Christmas pajamas.  
 
“Why does it have to be over?” Harry asked, still breathless. 

Draco crossed his arms. “Do you see your guests enjoying having a Malfoy at their Christmas?” 

Conceding the point, Harry stepped in closer. If anyone saw them from the street, from the other side of the window, they would know Draco was not Harry’s friend. “Why did you invite them?” 

With a lift of his chin, Draco said, “The house may have no magic now, but the more people you fill it with, the more magic it can store. With a brood like the Weasleys, you might even get there within the decade.” 

“Liar,” Harry accused, and gripped Draco’s sleeve. “Why did you really?” 

Even embarrassed, he was haughty, mouth curving at a silent joke at Harry’s expense. “They want to see you. You always go over there looking like you’re walking towards your death or something, but things like this go both ways. And I’m not lying. They’ll bring their familial magic with them. It’ll be stronger the more they visit, and the longer they stay.”  

“What about you visiting?” Harry shook his foggy head. “No, what about you staying?” 

“You want Malfoy magic back in that place? We didn’t do well by it the first time.”

“Yeah, but you might not always be a Malfoy, right?” 

Draco froze, alongside Harry’s heart in his chest. “Is that… Do you mean—”

“I mean,” Harry said quickly, brushing over whatever he had meant, high on adrenaline and their reciprocated neediness, “I want you there. I want you anywhere. The rest we can figure out, beginners or experts or whatever we are.” 

He was handsome when stunned silent, or Harry really was that much of a sap. Draco opened the door behind his back after two tries, not turning away from Harry, and the smell of cinnamon bread and a wave of warmth enveloped them in a gust. “You should come in. We can head back— Back to yours after I say goodbye to the Bakertons.” 

“I should wish them a happy Christmas,” Harry agreed, and when he reached down for Draco’s hand, it was there waiting for him.