I. Christmas Past.
On a purely visceral level, of course, because he never read children�s stories, he knew that in books children were always celebrating Christmas: always leaping eagerly out of bed, giddy with anticipation as they ran to open their presents. Even as the children grew older, the pages always hinted that beyond the world-weary teenage disenchantment, some lingering fascination, some faint vestige of Christmas cheer, still remained.
But Draco Malfoy was not a child, and he did not read Christmas tales. The only thing he thought when he opened his eyes on Christmas morning was, Dammit. No socks again.
His feet were freezing. He wriggled around in bed for a moment, still half-asleep, before his toes met the cloth of the sock he had lost during the night and clenched it. It was another five minutes before he found the other one, and during the interim he managed to push half his covers off of the bed and wake up completely, because the brittle dungeon air was pricking his skin. He sat up and pulled his socks on, and the thought popped into his head: It�s Christmas day. Huh.
He wiggled his toes and got out of bed, shivering. His pyjamas were very thin, and even the wool socks he wore were no real shield against the cold stone of the dungeon floor. Hurriedly, he pulled on his thickest robes and slid out the door, up the steps, and into the main floor of the dungeon and the beautiful, empty common room. None of the other sixth-year Slytherins had stayed over for the holidays, for one reason or another. He could hardly blame them because the harsh winter and desolate emptiness of the Slytherin rooms were downright depressing. A fire newly blazing on the hearth told him the house-elves had already been here. So had the Manor owls. He glanced at the stack of presents piled neatly on the floor under the Christmas tree. They were all wrapped in plain white paper, and also white ribbon. He didn�t bother to open them. He knew already what each present was, because he always got just what he asked for, nothing more or less. The accompanying note from his parents he opened on his way upstairs to breakfast.
Greetings, son. Your mother and I are in Sussex. She has hit upon a rather ingenious spell that will hasten the spread of this unfortunate new bovine disease. Nothing puts me in the holiday spirit quite so fully as terrorising muggles. Doing so with cows is even more fun. Do remember to practice Quidditch while you�re lounging about at that castle, and make sure that boy Potter has a miserable, dispiriting time of it. Merry Christmas, Father.
Draco stuffed the note in his pocket and walked to the Great Hall. All but a few students had gone home for Christmas, as well as most of the faculty. Hogwarts was generally lonely and desolate. In the hallway he passed a lone ghost softly moaning, �O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,� in a dirge-like voice. It gave him chills. He paused to hex it before continuing on, musing about the various ways in which his father might contrive to spread Mad Cow disease.
The Great Hall was decked out in mistletoe and ivy, and attractive lights that slowly changed from red and green to silver and gold. Draco smirked over this whenever he entered the chamber, because no one had ever been able to make blue or yellow attractive holiday colours. He liked to imagine that the other Houses were greatly infuriated by this. He didn�t mind the combination of red and green nearly as much as he thought he probably should. They were just colours, after all, and anyway Draco had always been vastly fonder of bright things than he�d ever let on. The air was much different up there than downstairs�though hardly anyone was around to let their celebrations warm the room it was still somehow alive and crackling with excitement.
Draco did his best to ignore the perkiness of the morning, as he was still grumpy from waking up sleepy and sockless, and was generally never in the best mentality for holiday cheer even in the best of moods.
Breakfast was a solitary affair; the room was pretty much empty save for a few Hufflepuffs who sat across the room from him in a loyal little huddle, loudly comparing presents and talking in typical Hufflepuffian animation. Professor Sprout and a few of the other teachers had left their customary seats at the long table to join them�to Draco�s infinite relief Snape, on the other hand, had only cast him a perfunctory glance when he entered and paid him no more attention. Draco sat down at the Slytherin table, where the table automatically spread itself for a feast despite the fact that there was only one of him. He ate in silence, and was idly mulling over the layers of his cinnamon-eggnog roll when a slight figure trudging groggily into the room arrested his attention.
He must have gotten pyjamas for Christmas, Draco thought, because they were new. Draco noticed this without knowing how he had noticed, the same way he had noticed that the other boy�s sleeves were always rolled up around his forearms, that he used his quills until they were worn down to the nub, and that he got really fidgety when he accidentally wore the one set of trousers he owned that had no pockets. Today his robes were hanging loose, and his hands were not, in fact, shoved deep into the pockets, but holding a letter. He was reading it as he entered and moved automatically towards the nearest corner of the room. Draco had noticed the corner thing as well, and was mildly surprised. He had figured that since hardly anyone else was there the other boy probably wouldn�t care one way or the other where he sat.
Instead he headed straight for the most out-of-the-way seat in the room, which happened to be the shadowy opposite end of the Slytherin table, nearest the door. Draco straightened in reflexive alarm, but was immediately deflated since the other boy was obviously not paying attention to anything but the letter in his hand. He could just as easily have chosen any other table in the room, and that annoyed Draco. He huddled back on his bench and glared as the other boy distractedly reached for a banana. He peeled it and then broke little pieces off before chewing them, which annoyed Draco even more�if he was going to eat a banana, Draco thought, he should eat it like bananas should be eaten, nibbling away at them instead of gulping them down chunks at a time. The boy finished his letter and smiled, and then all at once his smile grew a little wistful and he set the letter down beside him on the table, looking forlorn.
That was the last straw for Draco, the forlorn look. He got assassination plans from his father in lieu of Christmas cards; Harry bloody Potter was not about to sit at his House table looking all wussy and lonely after getting a real letter from one of his friends. He stood up and marched down to the other end of the table.
�What�s all this, Potter? What are you doing over here?�
Potter looked up at him, one unbrushed strand of hair falling down between his eyes and his glasses. He pushed it hastily out of the way, and Draco noticed that his glasses were yet again askew�and yes, even that he had noticed before. �Oh,� said Potter vaguely. �Malfoy. Merry Christmas.�
Draco tried to appear quite tall. �What do you mean, �Merry Christmas?�� he snapped. �I don�t need you to wish me a merry Christmas. Not you, Potter, of all people.�
Potter shrugged and looked blithely unconcerned. �Whatever, Malfoy. It�s Christmas.� He took a sip of boiled custard. �Merry Christmas.�
Draco did not know what to make of this, so he didn�t say anything; and then he felt rather idiotic because he�d just been standing there with his fists clenched when really he wasn�t that mad and it took more energy, this early in the day, than he was prepared to expend in order to be properly vehement about the fact that Potter had chosen to seat himself in a cold shadowy corner of the Slytherin table. Potter, meanwhile, was popping a section of the banana in his mouth, looking up at him languidly. Draco really wanted to push his glasses back up on his nose. He swallowed and protested, �And what is that?� gesturing to the letter. �Love letter from one of your fangirls drooling all over herself about her undying love for the boy wonder?�
Potter blinked back at him. �Actually, it�s from Professor Lupin.�
�Lupin? My, my, Harry, the company you keep just gets worse and worse, doesn�t it?� Draco sat down beside him and grinned maliciously. �Wonder what those Muggle relatives of yours would do if they knew you had befriended a shoddy-robed werewolf.�
�Malfoy.� Potter turned to him and casually offered him a banana section. �Have some.�
Draco gaped at him, feeling strangely off-kilter. �What? Why are you offering me that? I don�t want anything you�ve touched.�
�Whatever, Malfoy.� Potter shrugged. �I�m just saying, there�s all this food and if you don�t eat it��
�I know when to eat, Potter,� Draco said sulkily, but he took the banana anyway. Potter smirked at him. Draco felt he should have something more to say, but by the time he was finished chewing, Potter was speaking.
�So what�d you get for Christmas?� he asked through a mouthful of eggs.
In the time it took Draco to swallow he stared at the other boy, whose glasses had slid even farther down on his nose, and whose hair was currently flopping all over the place whenever he ducked his head to take a bite of food. Draco pondered spitting the question back into his face and turning it into an insult. It would have been so simple, after all; but instead he said curtly, �A lot, Potter, what�s it to you?�
Potter appeared to think about this and answered slowly, �There�s a rumour that you get everything you ask for, every year.� He cocked his head. �Do you?�
�Of course,� Draco said haughtily. �I get all the presents I want. Every year.�
Potter considered. �That sounds kind of boring, really.�
�Boring? Boring, Potter? When I can get anything I want just by asking?� Potter shrugged. �What would you know about it?�
�Nothing.� Potter�s voice was pleasant. �I just think Christmas wouldn�t be any fun if you already know what you�re going to get. I mean, why bother wrapping the presents if you know what�s in them before you open them?�
�Screw you, Potter,� Draco said vehemently, ignoring the straggling pairs of eyes he could feel wandering in his direction. �You�re just jealous because you don�t��
�Yeah, yeah, I know, my parents are dead and I don�t have anybody to get me presents on a Christmas list even if I made one.�
�You�ve never made a Christmas list?� Potter flinched and furrowed his eyebrows, and that was answer enough. �Oh, come on, Potter,� Draco chuckled. �Are you saying you�ve never thought about what you want for Christmas? Not ever?�
Potter grinned and said an a tone that was full of self-mockery, �Well, not to harp on the whole hero complex you hate so much, but normally, the only thing I really want for Christmas is to still be alive.�
�Oh, well, in that case, Potter, next year you can make your Christmas list and send it to the Dark Lord with a red ribbon.�
For a brief moment Potter looked shocked; then his lips parted in a sharp burst of laughter, and his face took on a glow like the sparkling Christmas lights all around them. He laughed and laughed and somehow before he was done Draco found himself joining in. After another moment it was over, and instantly awkward silence took the place of their mutual amusement. Draco shifted uncomfortably on the bench, and Potter looked down and appeared to be concentrating on his breakfast. Finally Draco muttered, �Well, okay, if we�re done with the holiday bonding, I��
�I got a Century,� Potter blurted. �For Christmas.�
�Limited edition Windswept?�
�Yeah.�
�Me too,� said Draco, blinking. Beneath his robes Potter was fumbling for his pockets.
�So, are you�would you�do you plan on trying it out soon?�
�I was going to go after lunch,� Draco replied.
�You think there�s room on the pitch for both of us?�
�Not hardly, Potter,� snarled Draco. He leaned forward. �I�ll fly you into the ground.�
�You�ll be empty-handed.�
�You talk a good game.�
�I don�t see you putting your money where your mouth is.�
�I�ll show you what you can kiss with your mouth, golden boy.�
�Alright then, pipsqueak.�
�Your insults suck, Potter.�
�Not as much as your flying, Malfoy.�
�Why don�t you bite me.�
�Why don�t you beat me to the Snitch for once.�
Because the urge to pummel Potter didn�t feel exactly right just then, Draco grabbed a strip of bacon instead and bolted it down. �You know what, Potter, forget lunch. Meet me on the pitch in an hour.�
�I�ll be there,� retorted Harry, making a sandwich out of a buttery piece of toast, scrambled eggs, and Christmas ham.
�You always do that,� muttered Draco.
�Always do what?�
�Nothing.�
�Liar.�
�Ponce.�
�Ferret.�
�Ooh, you�ve really cut me to the quick. Are you always this slow on the uptake, Potter?�
�Only when I�m in really slow company, Malfoy.�
�Why, you little��
�Save it for the pitch, rat-boy.�
And so it went.
It was dusk before they finally quit playing. Later that night, when his muscles were just starting to settle into a deep, sore exhaustion, Draco opened his door to see Potter leaning against the frame, a tiny smile stretched over a worn-out expression. His hair was lying flat, perhaps due to sheer tiredness, and the lines of his face were etched in bold strokes of light against the shadowy backdrop of the corridor. Behind his glasses his gaze was strong.
�I brought you something,� he said slowly. Draco looked, and in his hand, Potter was holding a small box, neatly wrapped in blue paper, tied with a gold ribbon. He held it out to Draco, whose jaw slid open a ways.
�What is it?� he said after a moment.
Potter�s eyes sparkled for a second like the strand of silver tinsel that had somehow managed to get stuck in his mop of hair. �It�s a surprise,� he said, and�and winked.
Draco felt a smile creeping onto his face and confusedly blinked it away as he took the present. �I�I don�t like surprises, Potter.�
�How do you know? You said yourself you always know what you�re going to get. Try a little variety.�
Draco balked for just a moment longer, and finally mumbled something incomprehensible even to himself and untied the ribbon. It stuck to his finger, and as he wrestled with it the paper fell gracefully open and revealed a small box, square and made of tin. It had an unpromising picture of happy children making a snowman on it, and it rattled. He looked expectantly at Potter, who grinned, �Open it.�
Draco did, and found himself staring at a bracelet made of feathers. He stared at it, then pulled it out of the box. The feathers were very tiny, almost like a fringe of fuzz around the thin leather band. They glimmered all shades of gold and silver under the light. He blinked. �Potter, what is this?�
�It�s a Snidget charm. You know, made from the feathers. They�re supposed to bring players good luck.�
�I�ve seen this before.� Draco squinted at it. �You wear this when you play. It�s yours.�
Harry shrugged. Draco wondered why he�d never realised just how much he did that. �Now it�s yours.�
Draco stared at the bracelet a moment longer, and slowly wrapped it around his wrist. As he tied it, he chanced a glance up at Harry, who was smiling.
Draco thought about things, and decided to smile back. �Merry Christmas,� he said.
It was only after Harry had departed for the night, with a promise to meet him the next day for more Quidditch, same time, same place, that Draco shut the door, closed his fingertips around the band, and realised.
Technically, he had gotten two surprises this Christmas.
II. Christmas Present.
It is Christmas morning, and the foggy place between Draco�s dreams and his consciousness is filled with that warm, half-knowing feeling of anticipation that ultimately snaps his eyes open.
It�s Christmas, he thinks.
As usual, he is freezing, but he shivers out of bed and hastily yanks on his robes before running upstairs. He pauses in the common room to mumble �Merry Christmas� to the few other Slytherins who are already there. His gifts are under the tree, but he pauses there only to grab the letter from home and the sole present in his own pile that he has wrapped himself. He examines the packaging one last time, then grabs an elaborate bow from one of his own presents and sticks it onto the one in his hand. With a spell, it begins to shimmer in an incandescent cycle of colours, like Christmas lights. He is in too big of a hurry and too lazy to shut the door behind him as he leaves the common room and heads upstairs.
He doesn�t stop to think about how early it must be until he discovers that the Fat Lady is not at her portrait. He raps on it for five aggravating minutes until she appears, yawning and wearing a red and white nightcap. When he gives her the password she glowers at him and mumbles, �It�s getting so anybody thinks they can waltz in at all hours anymore.� She seems slightly mollified, however, when he pauses to thank her before springing past into the common room.
And there is Harry, wearing an atrocious green Weasley sweater�it�s the Weasley part, not the green part, that�s atrocious�and an ebullient smile. He is sitting scrunched up on the couch beside Granger and Longbottom, and while Draco is instantly deflated at seeing that the others are there as well, they all turn and smile at him, and Harry�s face lights up like a winter sunrise. It�s only at that moment that he realises that this is to be his last Christmas spent at Hogwarts.
He looks at Harry, who scoots over against Granger, forcing Longbottom to squeeze against the other end of the sofa. Draco sits down beside Harry and notices for the first time how the base of the Gryffindor tree is covered up in presents. One of them, near the front, says �To Draco,� in Harry�s oversized, sprawling handwriting. The packaging is bright and colourful and sloppily wrapped. There�s a stocking, too, with his name on it, bursting at the seams with candy and treats. Draco senses a flush stealing over his cheeks and casts a sideways glance at Harry. He is all at once glad that it is Christmas. Harry is teasing Hermione about missing the Weasel and Neville about missing Ginny. He has even, Draco notes, made an effort to comb his hair, and the result is that it is flat in some places and stubborn in others, with wild wayward flyaways sticking out all over his head.
�Who do you miss, then?� says Longbottom impertinently.
�All of my friends,� answers Harry pleasantly.
�You know what he means,� says Hermione. She gives Harry a teasing, affectionate look, and then looks up at Draco with a quick smile.
�Oh,� says Harry. �I don�t miss anyone. Not like that.�
Draco moves to put his present for Harry atop the Christmas pile, but Harry sees and stops him with a screech. He is entranced by the colour spell, and even though Draco tells him how it�s done he keeps grinning, first at it, then at Draco, as if he thinks it�s the coolest thing he�s ever seen. He insists on shaking and rattling it and listening to it to see if it makes any weird noises. The whole thing makes Draco duck his head and study his nails and worry that after all this Harry will hate the present anyway. To distract himself he opens the note from his father.
Greetings, son. Your mother and I are in London, as she has taken a fancy to visit the grave of the Princess of Wales. While I am there I shall see if perhaps I can�t send her husband to keep her company.
Draco grits his teeth and reads no further. Instead he folds the letter and stuffs it deep in his robe pocket. Harry looks over at him then and must catch something in his eyes, because he places his hand on Draco�s arm and cheerfully invites him to check out his own present.
Draco has not told Harry that he almost didn�t make a Christmas list this year. That he wanted to tell his parents to surprise him, that it was only respect for seventeen years of ritualistic gift-giving that finally dissuaded him. Draco has not told Harry that he has lain awake every night this week in anticipation of this morning. Draco has not told Harry a lot of things�but privately he suspects there are things he is not telling even himself.
He picks up his present, which is oblong and thick and weighs a lot. He has no idea what it is, and jokes that it figures Harry would wind up giving him a book. Harry is looking at him expectantly, watching him and occasionally saying things like, �Come on, rattle it more.� Draco has no idea when the others leave, but he looks up and they are alone. Harry hasn�t noticed either. When he does he blinks and suggests they have gone to breakfast. �Do you want to join them?� he asks in a thickening voice.
No, thinks Draco. And yes.
Lately Draco has been thinking a lot about Harry. He has thought about the way they wound up playing Quidditch with each other every day after that previous Christmas, until Draco started using �Harry� even in public and finally had to admit that they were friends. He has thought about how this year has passed so quickly, benchmarked by eyes drizzled with light behind those idiotic glasses, and the occasional flash of a grin, opening like quicksand in an expression that is more sober than he ever really realised before. He has thought about, but has never told Harry, how long the summer was at the Manor, where the only thing worse than being confined to his room under constant surveillance was being confined to his room wondering if Harry missed him. He has thought about the first moment they saw one another again: how he knew with a look that Harry was glad�no, relieved�to see him again; how Harry understood, somehow, without his ever having to say a word, that Draco would have contacted him if he could; how he had wanted to say or do something in that moment but couldn�t figure out what exactly it was, and has never quite figured it out since.
Nor has he figured out all that he wants to tell Harry but can�t. He thinks about how it has been in the last week since everyone went home, about how much time they have spent together, and how without the Weasel around it is so different, so much freer and open; and he thinks about how much he has been dreading the end of the holiday break, because it means that Harry will once again divide his time between the Weasel and Granger and himself; and it is stupid, so, so stupid, to be jealous of a Weasley like this, but Draco is, and he has reconciled himself to it some time ago.
Apparently Harry takes his silence as a cue to stay where they are. He grins at Draco and pulls the horrid Weasley sweater off, tossing it into the pile of presents at his feet. Underneath he wears a dark brown turtleneck. Draco isn�t sure whether this is new or not, but he is sure that it fits Harry a bit better, much better, than Draco is used to noticing turtlenecks fitting other boys.
He barely registers a sense of deprivation when Harry scoots across the length of the newly empty couch and pulls his legs to his chest, watching him. �Do you want to open your present now or later?� he asks.
�I don�t care,� Draco responds. �You�ll probably hate yours though.�
�Will not.� Harry looks down admiringly at the package with its neat corners and enchanted bow and shiny paper. �I like it already.�
After a little more hemming and hawing Harry has encouraged Draco to open his gift, which Draco does with unsteady fingers. Around his wrist the feathers of the Snidget charm gleam in the dim light. Harry has never asked him why he never takes it off, and Draco is glad because he doesn�t quite know why himself. But by now the underside has been rubbed smooth by constant contact with his skin, and he likes the feel of it. He runs his fingers over it now, wondering why he is nervous, wondering if it shows like Harry�s, whose fidgeting reveals his own anxiety.
Neither of them speaks, and the moment stretches out into silence, feeling somehow ridiculously important. Draco unwraps the package, looks inside, and gasps. It is a Celtic horn, made of sculpted bone and polished stone, said to contain an ancient spell used by wizards of old to summon the spirits of their ancestors. It is beautiful�and Draco has always wanted one. It is the sort of thing he has wanted with a wistful yearning since childhood, but failed to ask for, since it is not a thing of power or great value or any reasonable function except to have and admire and perhaps attempt to blow on occasion.
He stares at Harry, shocked. �Do you like it?� Harry asks him anxiously.
Still stunned he can only get out, �How did you know I�?� before words leave him and he resorts to gazing at Harry as if perhaps he could thank him properly by staring at him hard enough.
�You mentioned it a long time ago. Back when we were doing that report on Gaelic magic.�
�But that was in April.�
Harry looks down and shrugs, his face masking over. Draco is suddenly aflame with a thousand emotions he doesn�t know what to do with, and he fumbles to reassure Harry that he loves it, that it is perfect, wonderful, exactly what he wanted and exactly what he never expected to get.
It doesn�t take much to bring the smile back into Harry�s eyes. Draco ponders fleetingly what it would be like if Harry got his eyes fixed so he didn�t have to wear his glasses, and then realises that he could no more imagine Harry without them than he could imagine himself� well, without Harry; and this thought sets up a kind of aching giddy despair inside of him that is dispelled only by Harry saying gently that he�s really glad Draco liked it.
It is with considerable trepidation that Draco says softly that Harry can open his own present if he likes. Harry smiles and slowly, almost reverently, slits open each corner and gap in the taped paper with his fingernail.
�What is this?� he says, staring at the plain brown box inside. It is not very wide nor very long, made of thick dark wood, a mini-trunk with a tiny, tiny keyhole.
�It�s an enchanted trunklet,� Draco explains. �Actually, it�s not the trunk that�s enchanted�it�s the key.� He points to the stubby golden key lying beside the trunk. �Once you lock the trunklet only the key itself can open it. Not even the darkest magic can get inside. Only one copy of the key can ever exist, or else the magic will fail, and everything in the trunk will be destroyed.� He smiles a bit wryly. �My family�s used them for generations.�
Harry�s eyes are wide as he runs his fingers appreciatively over the box. It is not locked, and when he opens it Draco cannot help the way all his muscles tense at once. Harry looks up at him. �Draco? What are all these?�
As much as he wants to answer Draco�s throat has suddenly closed up, and instead he stares at Harry�s kneecaps. Harry slides forward towards him, with the trunk on his knees in front of him, and slowly takes out the first envelope. �They�re letters,� he says. �To�to me?� The look on Draco�s face must tell him it�s okay to open them, because he slides the letter out of its pocket and unfolds it. His eyes widen, and for a long time he just stares at the top of the letter. Draco feels his heart freeze and his insides wither, and he ponders crawling off somewhere where Harry will never find him and curling up into a ball of woe. There is a long, deep moment of nothingness where Draco sits still, afraid to look up, and Harry holds the letter as if it has frozen him in place.
Finally without moving Draco says in a hoarse voice, �I wrote them over the summer. I kept them hidden and I�I�m sorry, I thought maybe you�d want to see��
�Draco,� Harry interrupts in a hushed, impressed voice, �these are�they�� He stops speaking and Draco exhales and looks up, relief seeping through his worry. Harry appears to be transfixed. �You�ve had them all this time.� It is Draco�s turn to shrug. Harry abruptly jerks his head up and looks hard at Draco. �Thank you,� he says breathlessly.
Draco�s own breath is quickening and unsteady. Without removing his eyes from Draco�s Harry puts the envelope back in the trunk. A flickering in his gaze tells Draco that he has found the other key. He lifts it out of the box and compares it. The two keys are nothing alike�the one he holds now is long and thin and made of silver. He looks at Draco for an answer.
�I have one too,� Draco explains softly. �I don�t really have much in it�it�s smaller than yours�but I�� He cannot keep his voice from faltering. �I�d like you to keep the key.�
Harry�s answering expression is all the answer he needs.
He cannot stop the urge to lean forward and slide the key around Harry�s neck. His hands linger there, unsure of what they are seeking, but seeking it desperately. Harry�s eyes are dark and steady, and he doesn�t look away as he takes his own key, the short golden one, and slips it over Draco�s head.
�Then you�ll keep mine for me,� he says softly. Draco nods. Now their hands are resting lightly against one another�s shoulders, fingertips barely grazing the neck, and that tiniest brush of flesh seems magnified suddenly; Draco can feel the contact tingling all over him, and he doesn�t want to let go.
Harry takes a deep breath, and says with a strange resolve, �There�s something else�one more thing I really wanted to give you for Christmas.�
Draco blinks uncertainly at him. He wishes that he had had the nerve to get Harry something else too, because he had wanted to, badly. He harbours a general fear that Harry probably thinks he is clingy or obsessed or weird around him already, and maybe he is, because privately he thinks it�s almost impossible to not want to soak up as much of Harry Potter as he will give you. The more time Harry gives him, the more scared Draco becomes that he will push Harry away altogether. It has taken him so long to work up the courage to give Harry the letters he wrote six months ago that he has been petrified of giving him anything else, lest Harry shy away and retreat back to his real, his first friends.
But Harry does not retreat; instead he leans forward intently and moves his hands up to lace behind Draco�s neck. �What is it?� Draco says haltingly, thinking a bit dazedly that if Harry�s hiding any presents in those clothes then he�s got to rethink his understanding of human anatomy.
Harry starts to answer, but doesn�t, and almost too late Draco realises with a great shock that what he was really doing was simply parting his lips, because a second later he has placed them against Draco�s own, and is softly kissing him.
Draco has never had a first kiss like this before. Normally he is not the one on the receiving end, not the one whose lips are mute and still in shock until finally they fumble to return the kiss. This time it is all reversed�Harry�s lips are firm and sure even though there is hardly any pressure behind them, and it is Draco who reels. The touch lands Draco upside-down, and before he really realises what is happening he is clinging to Harry for balance and falling farther into the kiss with every touch. Things are whirling around him, and he no longer has any way to squelch the clingy obsessive weird feelings because now Harry knows and Harry is being clingy and obsessive and weird, too, only the weirdness is suddenly deep and beautiful and tightening in his chest every moment until it escapes Draco in a gasp of happiness.
Harry holds him tight, and whispers, �Merry Christmas.�
III. Christmas Yet To Come.
It will be the first light of dawn when Draco awakes. The stillness around him will creep upon him slowly, like the first gleam of morning stealing over the winter sky. He will know at first only the all-encompassing sense of warmth and rightness around him, and will instinctively snuggle further down in his covers, closer to the source of all that comfort. A little nearer to consciousness his fingers will seek out and clasp his lover�s hand, which will be as always tucked tightly around his waist. Draco will never stop adoring the feeling of waking up with Harry�s arms around him, and with the light beginning to work its way through the curtained windows of their bedroom, he will lie silently, listening to Harry�s soft breathing, hoping that a day will never pass when he will not wake up to this simplest, purest of joys.
It will take him a moment longer, once he finally awakes, to register the date, even though he will have looked forward to this morning for months. He will think about the day, and the fact that they have only been together for a year. He will try repeatedly to accept that the rest of the world sees them as newcomers to the business of being in love�will expect them to screw up, quarrel, and eventually part.
Draco will never quite reach that level of acceptance; the being in love part will preoccupy him too much.
Harry will pull him away from his reflections and shift closer, burying his nose into Draco�s neck, which will as always send Draco into a silent spasm of laughter and adoration. Harry�s toes will sting his own with cold, but the rest of him will be warm, quite toasty, really, and besides, he will always love the way Harry wriggles them in his sleep. Draco will not wake Harry, not for a while, even though it is their anniversary, and they will not want to waste a moment of it. He will not feel he has wasted this earliest moment, when he looks back later. Instead he will keep the memory of lying engulfed in love, Harry�s love, his love, and the mystical peace of a thousand-year mystery hovering around them.
He will finally feel Harry stirring, lacing their fingers together and moving his lips slowly over Draco�s skin. A few seconds of silent sliding through covers later and they will be face to face, nose to nose, bodies compressed against each other. It will be Draco who pecks Harry lightly on the nose, and Harry who will pull him into a long, slow kiss, morning breath be damned.
�Happy anniversary,� he will murmur against Draco�s lips.
Draco will respond, �Happy Christmas,� and their kisses will deepen. Their lips will do all the talking necessary in the moment, but for Draco, the thrill of telling Harry that he loves him�now or later, morning or night, or any old time at all�will never fade. He will experience this Christmas morning as he will experience all of their Christmases together: as something crystallized in time, beautiful and shining and perfectly clear, his for the taking.
He will know in that moment that they are safe. He will know then that this, this Christmas moment and all of their moments together, will last. He will slip his arms around Harry and treasure him, just he has treasured every gift from Harry, beginning with the first present, the charm that he will wear on his wrist for the rest of his days.
Later, when they are sitting in front of the hearth, trading presents under a glorious tree, he will remark earnestly that Harry has a knack for giving him the most perfect gifts, Christmas after Christmas: exactly what he wanted�exactly what he never expected to get.
And Harry will hold his gaze and smile, understanding that Draco is not talking about his present at all.
I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach.
--A Christmas Carol
Merry Christmas!