Sunshine Kid

‘That is – oh no, that’ll take a strong scourgify,’ Harry sighs, picking Rose off of the ground who smiles up at him proudly. ‘Lucky for us, I’ve had practice.’

His wand flicks and the multicoloured streaks of marker vanish from the television screen making Rose shriek in amusement. Harry’s sure there’ll be another artistic expression on the screen no less than an hour later. If experience, at least, is anything to go by.

Ron and Hermione have dropped off Rose for the night, with an endless list of instructions. It’s updated every time he hears it, the most recent developments being the time of television allowed having been pushed up by thirty minutes and the discovery that it’s actually milk with a bit of cinnamon mixed in that will help her go to sleep and not just regular, warm milk. 

Harry can empathise with their anxiety. He’s only ever dropped Teddy off to Andromeda and even though he had felt foolish, stumbling out advice as a twenty year old to the boy’s own grandmother, he wouldn’t have been able to relax without it. Teddy took warm milk with a spoonful of chocolate when he couldn’t sleep. He still does, given the way Harry will wake up some mornings when Teddy’s home to find messy traces of chocolate powder sprinkled on the kitchen countertop. 

He sets Rose down by the small red table that has been propped up for her and is littered with colourful crayons, sparkly glue and a set of markers that are intent on colouring the entire house. ‘Here, let me get your scrapbook for you,’ He hums, noticing the mischievous glint that reignites in her eyes at spotting her stationary again. He produces the book out of her bag, a blue witch’s hat, and sets it down in front of her.

‘Scabook,’ Rose gasps excitedly, rushing to open it. Her learning of the word is owed entirely to Hermione’s insistent distinction between a book and a scrapbook.

Mostly it’s a bunch of bright scrawlings, and an occasional leaf or four odd petals of a flower stuck in messily with a trail of pink or green glue leaking out down the rest of the page.

Assured that will keep her busy for a while, Harry settles down back on the sofa and he slumps down impossibly. He reminds himself again that he needs to buy a new one. There’s a letter in the middle of the coffee table that he has been staring at the whole evening. Fear bundled up in excitement has him waiting on opening it. 

It’s Draco’s response to the apology Harry had sent him the morning after having made a colossal fool of himself after three glasses of scotch. To feel thoroughly embarrassed, there were a number of things to choose from when he woke up.

And so – he’d written! Urgently needing Draco to understand that he was a responsible man, a responsible man who had his life together and did not habitually get intoxicated on simple amounts of drink and lean on other men mumbling incoherencies emotionally. Draco, Professor Malfoy, with his neat, black coat and well-done hair, needed to understand that.

Dear Harry, 
No worries. I rather suspect it’s been a while since you’ve had Scotland’s best. Nothing to be embarrassed about. I quite resonate with the curiosity of your sentiment. Life has a weird way of taking us places we never expected to be in.
I hope as the Yuletide season approaches that you find yourself in improved spirits. It was refreshing to sit with you again. 
Sincerely,
Draco. 

When he does finally unfold the parchment, Harry decides Draco’s letter is an enigma. 

It’s from his personal owl, no Hogwarts emblem on the seal and no signature referring to his position as professor. There’s also the welcome absence of last names. I quite resonate with the curiosity of your sentiment. God knows Harry has never hated Draco’s sophisticated manner of speaking more than when he does not understand him; resonating with the curiosity of his sentiment? Surely, that means that Draco must also wonder the same things as Harry. Does he, too, wonder the destination of a road not taken? 

If it was so bloody refreshing to sit with him again, Harry thinks, then Draco should probably want a repeat. 

Dear Draco,
If you do truly resonate with the curiosity of my sentiment, please expand further on any reflections you have made.
I would wish improved spirits during the Christmas season for you too, but I’ve seen Neville during the Hols and know, by way of being a witness, the toll marking NEWT assignments takes out on a professor. So, I hope that you have good coffee during the Chritsmas season. 
Sincerely,
Harry. 

Harry cringes reading his own words. He doesn’t know if it's obvious that he is trying to copy Draco’s manner of speaking. Truthfully, he wouldn’t be able to answer if someone asked him to expand reflections he had made on anything. 

The Ministry’s rented owl is still waiting and Harry knows he’ll be billed for some ridiculous amount because the bird’s been sitting on top of the mantle for more than two hours now. He sends it away with the letter, opening the window to let it out. A gust of wind blows into the room as he does so, and he has to shove the pane roughly for it to close properly again.

Harry looks back at Rose, thinks about his cold hands, and says, ‘I think we should put a beanie on you. Just in case.’

—

Christmas shopping, like every year, takes him longer than he expects it too.

At first, it’s near impossible to locate everything Teddy’s asked for. 

He heads to Gringotts first to get galleons exchanged for the pounds and then heads to Muggle London to find a suitable camera. Once he’s sure he’s annoyed the employee of the ridiculously bright electronics store thoroughly and finally decides on what camera to get Teddy, he finds out he hasn’t brought enough with him. A myriad of apologies, a rushed trip to Gringotts, and elbowing through about a million people later, Harry’s happy with the wrapped box he walks back into Diagon Alley with. 

The sneakers Teddy has asked for can only be bought through an OWL order, the worker at Wicked Kicks tells him, thrusting a template order form into his hands. A little girl wails near him the entire time because her mother isn’t letting her buy the pair of flaming shoes in the window. Harry thinks it’s a smart decision once he finds out that those shoes let children fly, even if it’s only about five feet above the ground, although he would’ve loved that when he was younger.

He has trouble remembering what chocolates Teddy had been talking about and cannot for the life of him recall when he bought anything with strawberry filling and he’s forced to leave that last. It takes him another hour into what should technically be his working hours to buy gifts for everybody else.

When he makes it back to his store, he has no choice but to rush to the workshop and dive straight into the tower of cursed and broken objects waiting for him. He fixes a compass that keeps locating North as the nearest phallus, a quill that will only write crude insults, a journal of a deceased witch whose daughter has brought it in because it wouldn’t open, a baby’s rattle that had stopped shaking by itself, and a wand holster that refused to hold any other than the original owner’s. At the end of the day, he tells Loic that they won’t be accepting anymore orders. 

When he gets home, he grabs a store-bought sandwich from the kitchen, ripping the cling-film from it as he stomps up the stairs, and fills out the order form for Teddy’s shoes. He groans out loud when he realises he hasn’t bothered to order an owl. 

In all the years without an owl, even if inconveniences have bothered him slightly, he’s never once been as frustrated as he has been in the past few weeks. It could be the keeping up with  Andromeda more diligently now and making sure she’s alright, or needing to answer Healer Sains’ occasional query about her that he presumes is urgent given that he is an active researcher. Or his correspondence with Teddy which has grown sombre, outside their usual banter and bickering, and Harry’s needing to outright investigate whether there’s anything going on with him that’s making him slack off in his Defence. It’s easier to pretend it’s not the dreadful excitement of answering Draco’s letters that have him thinking. 

Harry slumps on his bed, sandwich half-eaten left on the desk next to the order form that will just have to wait till the next morning. He’s exhausted in a way that he doesn’t believe the night’s sleep will relieve. 

In the next few days, the order for the SN50s is placed, Harry starts working on the necklace Mrs Poppletot, as Loic informs him her name is, is brought in, the sneakers arrive and Harry wraps the shoe box, Healer Sains schedules a check up during Sunday which Harry attends and Draco’s response arrives. 

‘Good progress,’ Healer Sains says as he flips through some papers. He’s holding a clipboard and Harry thinks it’s been eons since he’s seen someone of a medical profession hold one. It’s incredibly muggle but when he comments on it, Healer Sains say the French are more comfortable substituting items for their muggle equivalents if they’re more convenient. ‘It’s not as fast as I would like for it to be, though.’

Harry clicks his tongue, nodding slowly. He glances at Andromeda, seeing if wants to ask a question first, but she doesn’t appear to be affected by what he’s said. ‘Is that…something to worry about?’

‘Not necessarily,’ Healer Sains says, letting the clipboard levitate next to him. He takes out his wand and approaches Andromeda with it, and after a permissive nod from her, taps the bone of her wrist. ‘Does this hurt at all, Mrs Tonks?’

‘No, not at all,’ Andromeda tells him. 

‘And you don’t feel pain in your wrist at all?’ Healer Sains asks. Andromeda denies. ‘Just your chest and your head?’ Andromeda nods. ‘That’s interesting.’

Harry exhales. ‘Why is that?’

‘The location of the pain is diverting from the typically expected points,’ He says, bringing the base of his clipboard back to his chest and scribbling something onto it. The feather on the top of his quill is smaller than they typically are, but it’s still quite distracting for Harry. There’s something fancy about it; the center of the black feather has swirls of glowing red. ‘I don’t want you to worry, Mrs Tonks, I don’t think it’s an indication of anything serious.’

‘I’m past worrying about things like these darling,’ Andromeda laughs, her eyes going smaller, but it sort of dampens Harry’s mood. 

When he’s done providing new Andromeda with a new set of vials and refills the jar of soothing and healing ointment for her, Harry follows him out to the door to see him off. He doesn’t want to floo today, and will be apparating back.

‘I know you told Andromeda not to worry,’ Harry starts, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. ‘But, should I worry?’

Healer Sains grins in a sort of childish manner. ‘No, Mr Potter,’ He smiles, tilting his head. ‘It’s uncommon but not unheard of, truly nothing to worry about.’

‘Harry’s fine, please,’ Harry recoils immediately. 

‘There really is nothing to worry about, Harry,’ Healer Sains affirms. ‘It’s interesting, however, I have a few papers in mind I’m going to revisit.’ 

‘Right, active researcher,’ Harry smiles. ‘Are you sure you don’t want the floo? It’s freezing outside.’

‘It’s perfect for apparating,’ Healer Sains laughs. ‘It’s good for you too, warms you up just the right amount.’

Harry considers his words, but then looks outside at the sky through the sidelights and grimaces. ‘It’s terrible outside.’

Healer Sains laughs loudly, ‘I know from experience that it's impossible to win against an Englishman complaining about the weather so I won’t try.’ 

The denim is rough against Harry’s knuckles and he pulls his hands out to rub at the skin to calm it down. 

‘Just to make you aware, Harry, Mrs Tonks requested that I keep you updated on her treatment and you are registered as her medical proxy so you may be receiving the same standard notification owls from me that I send her.’ 

‘Cheers, yeah, I was just going to ask to be kept in the loop, I appreciate it.’

‘No problem, Harry. Enjoy your evening.’

‘You too, thanks again.’

Harry helps Andromeda cook dinner which they sit down to eat. 

‘Did Teddy write to you?’ Harry asks, trying to push peas to the side of his plate. 

‘He did. Do you know of a Macomber?’ Andromeda asks, smiling sweetly. 

Harry groans into his forkful of rice. ‘Not again? It was horrible business last year. Teddy traded flying techniques for homework.’

‘Oh dear,’ Andromeda laughs. ‘Well, not to worry, at least I think not. He was only wondering if there’s a nice book that explains traditional wizarding customs. Macomber’s a muggleborn, you see, from quite an affluent background and all he seems to care about are stuffy old traditions. Nothing Teddy knows of.’

Harry cannot imagine a young boy, especially one so desperate to learn flying techniques, caring about all that snobbery. Other than – well. ‘That’s so strange.’ 

Andromeda laughs. ‘I suppose. You know, there were so many things that seemed peculiar to Ted that I couldn’t let go off.’

The reminder hangs in the air, and Harry coughs awkwardly. He scowls at the pea he’s eaten accidentally. The green mushy thing in his mouth tastes horrible. He’s been debating the whole time whether he should let Andromeda know that Teddy’s been struggling with Defence, but he isn’t sure if Teddy will appreciate that. 

‘I can’t wait for Hols, you know,’ Harry admits instead. ‘I’m itching the whole time he’s away just to have him back.’

Andromeda’s smile is empathetic. ‘That’s how it's supposed to feel.’

Harry writes to Teddy again that night, asks after him and after the defence tutoring, and asks for him to write to his grandmother again because it will make her happy. 

He hates these weird, tense meals with Andromeda. They make him feel carved out and evil. Even less deserving of Teddy than he usually does, like he’s stolen him from Andromeda. 

It’s twisted that he gets much more time with Teddy than her, who is her last living family left. He thinks of his only living relatives and doesn’t know what to do with the fact that they exist. 

Draco’s letter is about the only thing that’s gone right the whole day. Then for the next few days, his letters remain the only right thing.

Harry,
It’s just curious, isn’t it? I have the job that my godfather was after for years and only got to do for one. I’m not sure how I got here either. It was nice to know you wonder the same thing about your life.
I’m actually awaiting a delivery for coffee grounds - the only kind I trust to get me through all the marking. You should try them; they’re Italian, and really very good.
I would also like to add that Neville brings some of that upon himself . The man has no schedule for his work, and is elbows deep in wretched soil or squeezing out some disgusting concoction out of some vine the moment he has spare time: of course, he has a mountain of things to go over during the holidays! Do feel free to impress upon him the importance of planning. 
Draco.

Draco,
As much as I would love to have a less stressed Neville to entertain during Christmas, I know better than to intervene with any of his plant stuff.
I don’t actually like coffee, I just get whatever to keep me awake. I don’t actually think any fancy beans or grounds make a difference. 
I take it you have everything planned to an impossible degree. One of those 5 year plans or whatnot?
Harry. 

Harry,
That’s exactly what Neville needs: someone courageous enough to intervene with his plant stuff. Sometimes he’s in the greenhouse before breakfast!
I will also have you know that ‘fancy’ beans do make a great difference but buying coffee grounds is a poor decision. 
In an effort to not sound presumptuous, I’ll say that I don’t have everything planned perfectly since I haven’t really planned for unforeseen circumstances should they arise. Also, I’ve only got the next two years planned, not five.
Draco.

Harry goes out to the shops, and restocks the house with ingredients. He needs more flour, bread, milk, bags of rice, packets of pasta, and then stops to place an order at the butchers.

Draco,
Thank you, I think you’ve just given a great idea for Neville’s christmas gift.
I really wouldn’t know. At home, I only have instant coffee, otherwise I buy it from a shop close to work.
Planning sucks.
Harry.

Harry,
How have you still got Christmas shopping to do? That’s terribly irresponsible. What is it, then, that you’re going to be gifting Neville?
What is instant coffee?
Planning is cool.
Draco.

Harry drags the Christmas tree out of the storeroom and unshhrinks it. Then, he brings down the box of decorations and puts it down next to the tree. The cardboard box is welting a little at the corners, and the tap that Harry had first used to make, after their first Christmas together, had begun to peel from its corners. 

Draco,
Protein bars, they keep your energy up and you can just carry them on you. Really convenient.
Instant coffee’s a muggle thing, it’s like a small packet of coffee and you can just put it in hot water and you’ve got yourself a cup.
I have a fourteen years old; I can assure you planning is not cool.
Harry.

Harry leaves the house early to go to the farmers market to buy fruits and vegetables. By early afternoon, the fridge is colourful again in time for Teddy’s return.

Harry,

That is incredibly thoughtful - be sure to pen down my name on the card as well seeing as I inspired the thought for the gift.
I must say instant coffee sounds convenient and rather intriguing. I wonder why no good wizard has made such a thing.
I teach upwards of sixty fourteen year olds, I think I’d know better. In any case, I’m sure we can agree I’ve rather had the upper hand in coolness in between the both of us.
I’m writing this on the eve of the beginning of the holidays and by the time you receive this, Edward will have returned. I wish the both of you a Merry Yuletide.
Draco.

Harry feels greedy as takes Teddy into his arms, Tether hooting wildly in her cage from the force of it swinging back. Teddy’s hair goes brown, his natural hair.. His eyes are blue, like his mum’s, and Harry has many a time held his face in his hands and told him so but right now they are light brown like Remus’. 

‘Hullo! I’ve missed you,’ Harry announces, grabbing a hold of Teddy’s trunk, but he leaves his left arm around him. ‘Journey back okay?’

‘Was fine, yeah,’ Teddy answers, looking over his shoulder. He adjusts his scarf, pulling the longer end and loosening it around his neck. ‘Got hungry, though.’

‘Ah, you should’ve gotten something from the trolley,’ Harry sighs. ‘Did you eat breakfast before leaving?’

‘Yeah,’ Teddy responds. ‘And I did get chocolate from the trolley only, I was still hungry after.’

Harry’s smile brightens: he’d been up early to cook and waiting for Teddy, at home, was a pan of lasagna and a chocolate cake under stasis. The cupboard by the table is full of packets of crisps, and one full row in the side of the fridge door is lined with butterbeer bottles. ‘Let’s hurry home then, so you can have dinner early.’

—

‘Harry!’ Teddy shouts one morning, grumpy, as he slouches down the stairs. ‘Where have you stashed my presents?’

‘I keep telling you, until we’ve done this tree, I’m not putting any gifts under it and they’ll remain hidden round the house,’ Harry recites, focused entirely on the dough under his hands. It’s too rough, and the way the indents of his fingers look on its surface isn’t how they should be.

‘It’s perfectly fine to have an undecorated tree, you know, it’s still a Christmas tree,’ Teddy argues, slumping down on the table. He sticks his finger into the bowl of melted chocolate, and then licks it off. ‘I just want to know how many presents there are.’

‘There’s enough,’ Harry sings back, smiling despite all the problems in his dough. He thinks he should probably get started again. ‘Honestly, Teddy, it won’t take more than thirty minutes to do the tree.’

Teddy groans loudly, throwing his head back. ‘Fine!’

Harry abandons his work in the kitchen, and they begin on the tree. 

It’s a tall Fraser Fir, and the majestic green stands out in their living room. The upside-down cone shape is still as rigid as when they first got it, although some of the needles have bent slightly from the force of the trinkets over the years. 

Soon enough, golden and silver tinsels are wrapped around its structure, intertwined in the way that Harry knows it will be near impossible to untangle them come New Years. The tree will probably be taken down some time after Teddy leaves for school again; a task procrastinated well near the end of January. Different coloured bobbles hang from the ends, but the shorter needles nearer to the top have golden star frames hanging off. The stars hold the light of the house, the origins of the people that reside in it. Harry can smell the glue again, and the burning of his nose, him and Teddy, so small, cutting out the faces of their parents, his godfather, themselves, and sticking it onto  white cards to place inside the small golden frames.

Some of the pictures had been difficult to obtain for it had taken a trip to Grimmauld Place which, after the war Kreacher had scrubbed clean, muttering and mumbling about Regulus’ innocence the whole time. It was at that elf’s insistence that he had decided to make Regulus’ contribution public and allowed the Wizengamot to reveal details to the press. Kreacher’s gratitude was produced in the form of his listening to Harry and agreeing to go to Hogwarts: Harry could not keep going to Grimmauld Place to check on him. 

The pictures had been in Sirius’ bedroom, in the drawer of his desk. So plain, so accessible that they could pass as normal. Sirius and Remus, Sirius and James, Sirius, Remus and James. The torn corners that were Peter. All the pictures that included his mother were from Hogwarts save the only other one from their wedding. There isn’t a lot of time to photograph during a war, Harry knows. He had only needed a picture of James, Lily and Sirius. Remus’ was to be the one with Tonks. Teddy’s was his as a baby, and Harry’s was of him at the end of eighth year. 

When the tree is finished, Harry makes an irritated Teddy stand beside it and he puts up his thumb awkwardly, showing out all his teeth in a loose smile. Harry takes a picture; he’s halfway through the thirteenth album.

At Teddy’s insistence, the presents are placed under the tree right after. Neatly wrapped boxes are levitated under the tree, and Teddy rushes down carrying whatever he is intending to give Harry too. Harry digs out a clumsily wrapped gift from the back of his cupboard and sets it atop the box he thinks contains the trainers. Harry returns to the kitchen with a laugh at Teddy’s delighted inspection. Endearing, he thinks, it is to appreciate gifts normally without the sense of feeling like a sudden debt has been thrown upon you. Teddy knows how to, for now that is enough.

He spends the evening recreating the dough and by nightfall there is a fresh tray of cookies in the shape of pine trees covered in chocolate that Harry has coloured green. 

The day before Christmas Harry remembers where he bought the chocolates with the strawberry filling from, and the only purpose of his entire life is suddenly going out and buying them.

In a haste mess of pulling a jumper over his head and stringing a scarf around his neck, and Teddy sleepily asking him what was going on, Harry apparates to an alley in muggle London, still on one foot because the shoe on his right isn’t on properly.

It’s as crowded as he expected it to be, but his determination seems to warm his body and he rushes through the masses of people. If memory serves well, the shop is at the corner of the street that starts by the bookstore Teddy likes, and is near a shoes store. 

He finds the bakery, a white building with beautiful pillars on the side, and glass panes with pink lettering. In the spirit of Christmas, a string of lights loops around the sign above the front door. There’s no bell above it, and no extra sounds are made when Harry enters and he’s accepted gracefully into the shop’s own buzz. 

The place of chocolates has changed; the last time he bought them, they had been on a table near the check out but now they are stacked neatly on a shelf not too far away from the pastries. Cellophane glints teasingly from under a deep crimson ribbon, the box a dramatic sea green. Harry collects two boxes and stands in line, grateful for the muggle money left over from the camera purchase. 

When he reenters the cold, his eyes sting from the sharp air. The numbers of people seem to have increased exponentially in the fifteen minutes he has spent inside the store.

Clutching the white paper bag to his side, Harry walks further down the street in a failed attempt to try and make it back to the alley he apparated into. He discovers this about eleven stores in the wrong direction. Behind him, his steps have been overtaken by other shoppers.

A door comes into his view, and then the young woman that pushed it open. Long blonde hair flowing from under her beanie, and donning a fluffy white coat, she walks out with her arm linked in with someone’s and a green bag hanging off of her free hand. The solid green of the bag demands his attention for the time that it remains in his view, before her partner takes the bag from her hands, and they walk towards Harry. They continue behind him. 

Harry looks up at the window next to him. The shop’s name is stuck across it in an ostentatious font, VIENNA. It is with astounding clarity of an inkling that Harry must go into the store that he steps in, pulling the door open for himself. 

He is greeted by shelves of journals, notebooks and planners. There is a long hook with calendars hung up on the wall next to the cashier’s desk, and men in dark suits boast on the cover. In the middle of the small store is a big, round mahogany table holding up eight pens. The holders resemble the vial stands that used to be in the Potions classroom at school, but neater and clear like the ones Healer Sains gives Andromeda her medicine in. 

There are thick wads of paper in front of each pen, and as he steps closer to the table, each pen is positioned in front of neat boxes of its packaged version that are ready to buy. For how fancy the store is, Harry is half bewildered that no one has come up to say anything to him even when he’s standing right next to the mahogany table but when he takes a closer look at the cashier, he understands. It’s a teenager, a nineteen year old at most, whose head is bent in close concentration of a book. 

Slowly, Harry tries each pen. He dislikes the first one because part of the casing is an ugly shade of brown and he can hear Teddy make jokes about poo in his head. The second one is satisfactory but he realises that it’s gel that is sliding across the paper and knows it would not work on parchment. The third and fourth are okay - he reserves those to be his safe options. The fifth, sixth and seven are all dip pens which Harry thinks is no more convenient than a quill. Goodness, he hates dipping quills in ink. Even for him, someone who does not have much to put down on paper other than something in the shop or a quick letter, taking the nib away from parchment to dip into the pot is nothing but an interruption of his thoughts. He thinks of all the ideas lost in the distance between the parchment and the ink pot, all the things he would have said but reconsidered in that brief to and from. The eighth is a refillable fountain pen, and so gloriously black with a silver rose encircling its curved body. When he scribbles his name onto the test paper and turns it over to review its back, it hasn’t bled. Harry picks up one of the boxes behind it and heads to the cashier. 

The boy shuts his book, looking up at Harry with hooded eyes and recites what he has been taught to say to every customer, and then makes note of the pen Harry is purchasing and asks him if he would like any pots of ink to go with it. Harry smiles brightly, thinks of scrawled red ‘A’s and requests one black and one red pot. 

Only when he leaves the store, to head back down in the right direction this time, does he notice the gold outlines on the green bag. 

The pen and inks are mailed to Draco that night. I began using these a few years ago and they work loads better than a quill. You can unscrew the pack to fill it with and it will last you a while. Merry Christmas, hope these make marking easier.

—

‘These are so good,’ Teddy speaks through a mouthful of the strawberry-filled chocolate. There is a pile of presents behind him and there’s wrapping paper scattered all over their living room floor. ‘Are they muggle?’

They have woken up early, seven in the morning, and the cold winter light shines over them. The room is warm from the charms but when they step closer to the windows to peek outside, their breaths appear as soggy circles on the glass. Teddy has been forced into a big, woolly jumper and warm socks despite his arguments of the inside not being cold enough. 

Harry nods, and pushes the breakfast tray nearer to him. The cups of tea rattle a bit as he does so. ‘Yeah, from a bakery in London,’ Harry tells him. ‘Eat a sandwich, please.’ 

They’re croissant sandwiches, and Harry’s stuffed them with cheese and egg. Teddy has never sat still on Christmas morning and every year Harry has had to resort to a recipe that is convenient for him to eat while opening up gifts. Only one side of the croissant has been sliced open, through which Harry had carved out space for the filling. The other end is still closed so Teddy can hold the sandwich up and eat without ruining his presents.

‘Are these the trainers?’ Teddy asks, pulling a box towards him. ‘Aha! They are!’ He holds up the black shoe, small yellow wavy stripes at the end.

‘I don’t see what’s so special about these,’ Harry observes. He twists the perfume potion Teddy has got him. ‘I could paint you yellow on a pair of black shoes but I have a feeling you wouldn’t want to wear those.’

Teddy rolls his eyes. ‘You know Oliver Wood worked on this design, yes?’ He asks. ‘God, it’s just so cool to have something that he would wear too.’

Harry sniffs the perfume; it smells clean and fruit-like. ‘You know, Wood used to try and drown himself in the showers if we lost a match.’

Few things annoy Teddy more than the fact that Harry has shared a field with Oliver Wood. It appears to be the thing that dents Wood’s coolness the most. The admission accosts him a grunt. 

‘I’ve got something for you,’ Harry laughs, summoning a messy gift from the bottom of the tree that he had left unlabelled. He wanted to hand it to Teddy himself, and he holds it out to him now just as he intended to. Teddy accepts with scrutinising eyes. ‘Go on. I know the wrapping’s bad but still. It’s one of those gifts that I think my wonderful, amazing, spectacular godson is worthy of.’

Teddy holds up the ostensibly blank parchment up in his hand, a wry expression forming on his face. ‘Er – Cheers, Harry, never knew I meant so much to you.’

‘Come here, will you?’ Harry beckons him to his side. ‘Got your wand on you? No? Here, use mine.’

Teddy sits at his side, too large to be gathered snuggly in his lap, and the best Harry can do is wrap one of his arms around him. 

‘Tap it, and say, very clearly, I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,’ Harry instructs. Teddy follows the directions, and when the brown names begin to spread across the page, he gasps in small surprise. ‘Unfold it now.’

The lines that make the corridors and rooms of the first place, after *his/the* cupboard, where Harry had felt peace begin to spread in front of them. They can see the students that have chosen to stay behind at Christmas - most of them are in their common rooms. Professor McGonagall and Madame Pomfrey are in her quarters. Two students are walking the halls together just shyly near the Prefect’s bathrooms. 

‘This was dads,’ Teddy speaks his realisation. 

‘And my dads,’ Harry smiles, folding up a corner of the page. His fingers reach to run over Prongs and Padfoot. ‘Sirius’ too.’

‘This is wicked,’ Teddy breathes, holding it up again. ‘They were so cool.’

‘Oliver Wood cool?’ 

‘Cooler, so much cooler, I can’t wait to use this,’ Teddy rushes. Harry’s not been able to see his entire face the whole time, obscured a bit by his hair and the position they’re in. He catches a quick glimpse of the delight on his face before it’s hidden again because Teddy’s lunged into his arms. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Harry laughs, his left arm twisted awkwardly but his right rubbing a hand down Teddy’s back. The locket that sits on Teddy’s chest, pushes into Harry’s painfully. He knows they can share this feeling, having paper as the remains of one’s father. A map as a way back to the past, a silly moniker as evidence of their existence.

He doesn’t say it but he hopes Teddy feels it when Harry grips him tighter, letting a tear fall on his shoulder; that though this map is so dear to him because his father held it once, his godfather too, Remus then, that it is still not worthy of Teddy. That Harry knows of nothing that is worthy of Teddy. 

—-

Harry and Teddy arrive at Andromeda’s living room, and Harry levitates his trunk upstairs, on Christmas evening. Teddy has no qualms about his annual Christmas stay at his grandmother’s - he has no problem spending a few nights there. The relief that Harry feels  at Molly being right is enormous.

Harry returns late at night, after dinner with Andromeda and Teddy. On his way to the stairs to go up to his room, he catches the glinting of the floor of the drawing room still covered in wrapping paper. He will clean it all tomorrow.

Draco’s reply sits on his desk, a small box of chocolates next to it. It's uneventful - dear Harry, I do not know which to express first:  gratitude for the gift or my apologies for not having bought something more personalised for you earlier. Please accept these in lieu of a better gift for now. Merry Christmas - but it is from Draco and it’s Christmas and although the whole thing does poke him a bit in a way, like an other-worldy being hinting to him that he should have more on this cold night, the paper in between his hands has him smiling on his bed with a stray tear on his face. If pens overwhelm Draco, how will he take to being gifted a book Harry has hung onto for years now?

The duvet is the wrong sort of heavy on him when he gets into bed, and when he clutches a pillow to his chest he wishes it had arms. Just for sleep.

—

An issue with the delivery of the Mrs Poppletot’s earrings has Harry in his shop three days after Christmas. A Howler of her in tears, and beside herself at not having received them. She had been planning to gift them to her granddaughter for New Years, seeing as she has just gotten engaged during the summer and it was all wonderfully planned - to gift them to her on christmas and mark the start of her new year as a new woman, an engaged a woman, a woman who now had purple, dangly,  ancient earrings free of a curse that has haunted them for a few decades now. 

Elbows deep in charm proofs, Harry is able to locate the owl through his tracking charm and futile emergency correspondence with the Ministry’s National Lost and Found Service for Valuables and finds the pair in an empty house in Newcastle. The charm alerts him to the coordinates and he’s able to apparate with moderate difficulty, having become all too dependent on the floo in recent years. It’s an enormous journey in any case, but he manages it. 

Harry finds the owl, innocent and wary, bundled up on the bedside of the empty bedroom, the packed earrings, shrunken and bright next to him. He probes his neck with his index finger, delights in the assurances he whispers to the owl as he picks it in his arms, slipping the earrings into his pocket, and apparates back to his shop. Once he’s back he realises he’s forgotten to close the white fence door at the house he’d walked through for entry. 

He contacts Mrs Poppletot through the floo and delivers the earrings through her personally. Her face was still full of tears even as she nodded and smiled at him in gratitude. Harry’s response was a bashful grin - he still doesn’t quite know how to act around old people. 

Harry doesn’t quite know how the owl had landed in Newcastle but since it was Loic that had sent it out for delivery, he can only investigate it after the New Year. He shuts down his shop again, and is locking the door from the outside when a cheery, sultry voice fills his ears and scares him half to death. 

‘Merlin help me, another Hogwarts alumni!’ 

You never forget some people’s voices, Harry thinks, no matter how little conversation you had with them. The octaves, the expressions, the accents are unfairly etched into memory. Pansy Parkinson, among others, has such a voice.  

Her face is like a fresh mint after dark chocolate, her hair still as short as it was in school, lips a little browner, eyes a little darker and her smile with more teeth than ever. 

‘God, hullo Pansy, alright?’ Harry stumbles out, turning around fully. 

The man next to her is fresher, darker, lighter, an embrace as a body.

‘Hello Draco,’ Harry smiles. Then pauses to let his eyes collect all of his features, the lips the same pink as the tint on the tip of his sharp nose, his eyebrows and eyelashes as white as snow.  The both of them are in long black coats, and Harry feels rather silly knowing he looks blown up in his thick ugly Christmas jumper, and a pudgy jacket.

‘It’s been ages, Harry Potter,’ Pansy grins. ‘And what might this be? Work during the holidays? I don’t recall you being a professor.’

‘’M afraid not, just a delivery gone wrong,’ Harry shrugs. Looks at Draco again. ‘Not all of us can have noble professions.’

Draco rolls his eyes, but Pansy sighs in agreement. ‘There never are enough to go around,’ She agrees solemnly. Draco turns to his side to look at her. 

‘The saviour of Wizarding Britain,’ Draco pans, waving his hand lazily in Harry’s direction. 

‘Draco, that’s not a profession,’ Pansy counters. Draco turns to Harry with raised eyebrows, and Harry shrugs, grinning. 

‘She’s not wrong, ‘s not a profession, I’ve asked,’ Harry intones, then looks around all of them. The wet stone floor, the closed stores, and the small number of passers-by. ‘God! I don’t think I’ve seen you in Diagon Alley for years.’

Not since we were children.

Pansy slings an arm around Draco roughly, stepping to her toes even while her boots have a long heel. ‘Draco here’s been a frequenter of the French markets instead but, we think it’s time he returns to his roots, don’t you think?’

‘Yeah, what’s France got that Diagon doesn’t?’ Harry grins. ‘We?’

It takes a moment for Pansy to catch on. ‘We’re meeting as a group for Draco’s rehabilitation into England, can you believe it? Theodore and Blaise are waiting at the Leaky.’

‘The Leaky?’ Harry exclaims. ‘That’s quite - imaginative.’

‘How do you mean?’ Pansy tilts her head, her grin innocent but eyes mischievous. 

Classy people seem to always know the places they would look foreign in but want to be told so. Harry finds it hard to indulge them. Luckily, Draco waves his hand dismissively. 

‘Let's not bother him, Pansy, it’s the holidays and he’s probably got to get home,’ Draco intervenes, pulling Pansy back to his side. 

Harry remembers his quiet house, messy from Christmas, the dinner he’s having at Ron and Hermione’s at night. ‘Never bothering,’ Harry tells him. ‘It was nice to run into the both of you, really do come to Diagon more often.’

‘We will d-’

‘Would you like to come to our New Years party, Harry?’ Pansy’s interruption has Draco looking slightly scandalised. 

‘Party?’ Harry manages. He has nothing planned for New Years. Teddy’s always been at Andromeda’s at the start of the year, and though their first year after school, everyone,  including Dean, Seamus, Neville and Luna, had gotten together, in a couple of years it was only Harry, Hermione and Ron again. This year, Ron and Hermione want to celebrate it with their daughter and Harry knows he’ll want to cry somewhere after midnight, and drink something horrible so he’s staying at home.

‘It’s more a get-together of sorts. There’ll be some Hogwarts people,’ Pansy assures him. ‘It’s at my flat, not to worry, we’re not having it in Draco’s Professor’s quarters in Scotland.’

Harry’s agreement is surprising to himself. 

‘That’s wonderful, Harry, I’ll put you on my floo, it’s Pansy’s residence,’ Pansy grins brightly. She leans in a little before she asks, ‘You can bring a plus one if you’d like.’

Harry eyes stray to Draco without his command, and he looks away. 

‘Oh - I’m - that’s -’

‘I was thinking of Lovegood,’ Pansy suggests earnestly. She leans back to Draco’s side, and her voice lowers. ‘That would be really nice. I haven’t seen her for a while. Would be nice if you guys came.’

At first, Luna’s existence seems foreign in their unexpected conversation, but then Harry brightens. ‘Of course, I’ll ask her,’ He promises.

Pansy and Draco both sport smiles when they wave him goodbye, and Harry apparates back home with looming anxiety about the lack of anything good in his cupboard. 

—

At Ron and Hermione’s house, Rose crawls on the big oak table that has just been cleared up and cleaned. Ron is looking at her as if she were doing something wildly impressive; like he can’t quite wrap his head that Rose and crawling on a table can be put together and it is mystifying that have been.

Hermione leans her head on Harry’s shoulder, and they watch Ron watch Rose together. Bellies full of food (Ron’s labour of love), the kettle on the stove, and the orange light of their kitchen make Harry want to talk about Draco.

‘Luna and I’ve been invited to Parkinson’s New Years thing,’ Harry tells Hermione. Ron picks Rose up and turns her around as she reaches the end of the table and she laughs beginning in the opposite direction now.

‘Oh,’ is Hermione’s rather astonished reply. ‘That’s good, something to do for New Years.’  Harry cranes his neck sideways to look at her.

‘Yeah, I’m looking forward to it. Wonder if Neville’ll be there,’ Harry says, moving away from her when the kettle begins to whistle loudly. Rose claps her hands, Ron picks her up and waves her around in his arms above his head as if she were on a broom. ‘They’re good friends, him and Draco, I mean.’

As Harry pours out three cups of tea, and fake-pours into a blue plastic mug for Rose to loudly sip out of with her pinky up in the air, Hermione tells him that Draco and Neville became friends rather than colleagues after they had worked on a piece of research together. It had been Neville’s project - the magical defensive properties of a flower with a name so complicated Harry forgets it as soon as Hermione says its name. Neville had needed an opinion from a defense against the darts arts expert and asked Draco, who not only provided his opinion but after reviewing the outlines and studies of his project that Neville shared, suggested a contact of his from a clinical background. Said contact had eventually ended up making extremely meaningful contributions and thus began Draco and Neville’s camaraderie - initially gratuitous and now all snark and sharing bulgy rock cakes for Friday tea. This insight from Hermione, Harry thought, was too personal and when he asked after it, she laughed, pushing a bushy, curly strand over her shoulder, ‘I went over once on Friday, when he had just returned from Spain - d’you remember his trip, Harry? He’d brought over some magnificent Butterworts, and I just knew Rose would love them, and she stuck them in her scrapbook - have you seen, Harry? Anyway, Draco was there cradling a rock cake and being terribly fussy about the quality  of the jam Neville had spread over the top.’

Harry’s forced to think of Draco’s interaction with Neville at the Three Broomsticks, the casualness of it and, again, he feels cheated. Surely, for Draco, Harry and Neville were two sides of the same coin and it is likely that there was some hindrance on Neville’s part for interacting with Draco at first - God, Draco had bullied him relentlessly when they were kids. Harry had seen the frown lines etched deep into Neville’s face, as deep as Uncle Vernon’s shouting would make the lines go in Harry’s own face, so he knows it takes time to forgive that sort of thing. And yet, it was Neville that Draco bothered about bad jam. 

He returns home with something familiarly ugly souring in his chest, and dumps himself onto his bed, relieved that he can sleep. 

When he wakes, he remembers Pansy’s New-Years-not-party-get-together like it's a burden; he doesn’t want to go anymore, at all, but it feels entirely too consequential to miss something Draco will be present at for so long. 

He floo-calls Luna, during which she pulls him through to her place to show her a dress she had started that morning. It does not remotely look like she had begun it that morning from everything he knew of dressmaking which albeit was very little. A periwinkle dress, with an asymmetrical end slanting across, short sleeves with white, frilly puff and a square neck had to have taken more than morning. In any case, Luna accepts her invitation as quickly as Harry had known she would. She is probably the most spontaneous person he knows.

It was fate, Luna says when Harry apparates to her place for them to leave for Pansy’s together, that he had called in on her in the middle of her dress making because it illuminated the purpose of the dress. She believed honestly that was the dress’ calling and so in the depths of winters, she was wearing a square necked dress with short sleeves. There are white leg warmers at her ankles stretched over sparkly heeled-boots, and for the short travel her signature red-coat provides the illusion of a winter-appropriate outfit. Harry offers to cast another warming charm when he grabs her hand and finds it cold. 

‘That’s very kind, Harry, but I’m warm enough. Did you know that Pygmy Puffs like to rest on cold hands this time of the year?’

‘God, no.’

Luna untucks her hair from her coat, and long, white ringlets spill down crimson. ‘They’re quite worn out from singing on Boxing day, warm and bothered and exhausted and gentle cold, like our hands’ skin, is soothing to them.’

Harry does not necessarily have qualms about believing anything Luna has to tell him about non-human creatures, only with the way the cold had been raging for a while now, it was difficult to believe that any sort of creature found it soothing.

Pansy’s flat is beautiful. The fireplace has them walking through the sitting area which held two dark camelbacks and a green chaise lounge all around a long, low coffee table. These are all surrounded and occupied by the people, even the table along the surface of which someone had laid their cheek against, a finger pressing their left nostril in. 

The lights have been dimmed low, and although they still provided some of their purpose, most of the light was flowing in through the big, ceiling length windows along the wall. Harry could see the moon as he helped Luna out of her coat, and took his own off. 

Pansy appears when Harry begins to look around for where everyone else has put their coats. She’s in a long, black sequin dress and the corners of her eyes are sparkling. 

‘Harry, Luna! It’s so good of the both of you to come,’ She sings her welcome, and twirls her pinky finger that has their coats flying to some corner. Harry’s quite impressed with that. All of his non-verbal, wandless magic is rather limited to housekeeping and cooking. Repairs are usually too sensitive for wandless magic to be performed on them. ‘You look wonderful.’

Harry suspects that it’s meant more for Luna, but he returns the compliment sincerely anyway. She offers a tour which Luna agrees to, and Harry declines, winking at Pansy when she grins over shoulder gratefully, Luna’s arm in hers. 

He finds the bar in no time, and orders a firewhiskey. It's served to him in a curvy glass and he notices after walking through the floods of people that he’s one of the very few - if only one - drinking firewhiskey. Everyone else’s glasses are sort of glowing.

His mind is elsewhere too occupied to truly worry, with his eyes roaming everywhere and investigating the glimpse of every face that appears in his view. He’s wondering where Draco is - he had half expected to be welcomed by him with Pansy. 

It takes ages to find him. Minutes, that resembled years, of Harry pretending to be interested in other people’s conversations even as his eyes flicked around the entire room for any sign of the face most familiar to him. He spots Neville at one point, which is less surprising than it ought to be, but he’s unable to go and say hi because someone else is feverishly kissing up his neck. It takes his eventual retreat to the balcony that looks over a big communal garden. Harry can see a bench, snow gathered around its legs and he thinks if he were sitting on the bench, he would probably be able to very clearly look into Pansy’s balcony. 

It’s where Draco finds him, the narrow tail of his black robes swaying behind him. His hair is pinned to the sides of his head to keep it away from his face and the rest of it is gathered into a neat ponytail that he has swept over his neck. The hair bobble has a small silver charm and it glows in the night. 

‘I’m glad you could make it,’ Draco smiles, swirling the drink in his cup. 

‘Likewise,’ Harry admits. He looks around, happy that Draco is by himself, but still finding it suspicious. ‘’S a good number of people. Thought it wasn’t a party?’ 

Draco rolls his eyes but its fond, and gestures over his shoulder somewhere. ‘I doubt Pansy would know how to throw anything less than dramatic and gargantuan.’

‘Or you,’ Harry comments, and the sheer fact that he knows it is so incredibly true has him hiding his smile into his glass. 

Draco raises his eyebrows, a shocked little smile on his face but then he agrees with a small shrug. ‘Or me.’

‘Lost your guests though, have you?’ Harry asks. 

‘I invited a few people but they have gotten lost, yes’ Draco admits, coming to stand next to him. He leans his back against the railing, 

‘Neville?’

‘No…yes, well he has gotten lost but he was one of Blaise’s invitees,’ Draco winces. ‘I don’t actually know if you’re meant to know that yet. Please, do not say I’ve said anything.’

‘What, Blaise and Neville?’ Harry asks, eyes squinting as if that will help him make more sense. ‘Ah, so that’s who had Nev cornered back there, couldn’t get a look at the other bloke’s face you see.’

Draco pretends to pick at something at the end of his sleeve, nose pointing up. ‘It’s terrible, it’s as though that's all they know how to do,’ He complains, but then a moment later he tilts his head, and his eyes seem to soften, the moonlight catching his right pupil which glows magnificently grey. ‘That’s not true; they’re sweet together. Neville’s been anxious about how his grandmother will take it and I feel bad saying that now. They really are good for each other.’

The honesty of the admission, the instant backtracking due to regret clears something inside of Harry, like a fogged mirror being wiped down. How silly that it was that it could all actually be this simple.

‘His grandmother is picky, I would say,’ Harry says, leaning his side against the railing. The metal feels cool even through the sleeves of his shirt. 

‘Blaise will only see it as a challenge, and he won’t fail, there’s hardly anyone he can’t charm,’ Draco tells him. Harry pockets that piece of information as possible reassurance he can offer Neville whenever it is that he does decide to confide in Harry. Or if he does.

The countdown to the new year is screamed out suddenly, almost struck upon Harry perfectly the way the end of the year, itself, had. He does not know where the two hours or so he has been at Pansy’s flat have gone much like he doesn’t know where the previous twelve months have vanished. 

When cheers erupt all around them, and everyone leans into someone, Harry stares at Draco who is staring into his glass of drink. From somewhere deep inside of him, maybe between his ribs or wrapped around his heart, he pulls out a string of courage, and manages to laugh softly, ‘What? No New-Years kiss for us?’

Draco looks up slowly, and his eyes are widened only a little, but he smiles. ‘I’m sorry if you were expecting me to lunge at you.’

‘The opposite really,’ Harry lies. His desires aside, all the bravery that the Sorting Hat may have found in him to place him in Gryffindor has vanished somewhere.

The left corner of Draco’s lip twitches, catches in Harry’s eyes. ‘I’ve - missed you, Harry, really. I have.’

‘I’ve missed you.’

Almost petulantly, Draco says, ‘I’ve missed you more.’

And Harry wants to argue, tell him, tell him, and tell him about the lonely nights and the early mornings and late afternoons and dull evenings and the weeks and months and years - every moment of solitude and company that has begged for Draco’s person in a manner so aching and distraught that romantic tragedies of love had begun to make sense to Harry.

Harry laughs. ‘But you’re - you’ve changed,’ He says. 

‘Of course I have,’ Draco says, eyes twinkling. ‘You have too.’

‘No - you’re - you’re happy,’ Harry stutters. Happy isn’t the word he’s thinking of though  it’s also not as if it’s inapplicable but Harry’s unable to find one that will convey what he means.

Draco’s head leans back slightly. ‘Are you unhappy?’

‘No, no, God, no,’ Harry denies immediately. There’s much to be happy about in his life. There is. 

Draco inhales sharply, and Harry sees him withdrawing first. ‘If you mean what I think you mean then you’re being cruel,’ Draco says quietly, his smile gone, his face serious. It takes the smile away from Harry’s too.

‘I’m not being – I’m only saying that I just thought, the last time I saw y-‘

‘I was nineteen the last time you saw me, hurt and vulnerable, of course I’ve grown out of that,’ Draco snaps, which angers Harry because there’s nothing about it that warrants ‘of course.’

‘Some people don’t,’ Harry hisses. ‘And that’s fine too. Some people can’t get over the way they were at nineteen.’ 

Harry feels like an enormous weight on the world once he had said it. He thinks of Ron and doubts that he’s ever sitting around giving thought to the way he was when he was just a teenager, and Harry feels all the worse for being able to remember miniscule details about the way he had felt back then. 

Draco’s able to see somehow what Harry’s saying and he shrinks, and lays his palm flag against Harry’s arm. They’re both silent for a minute, after which Draco suggests they go somewhere quieter and leads them through the dancing, humid crowd into an empty bedroom. 

There’s a big oval carpet under the bed, and the sheets are rumpled. Draco murmurs a cleaning charm before he sits at the edge of the bed.

‘I thought you were…You have everything you wanted,’ Draco says, picking at the ring on his finger. It’s a thick silver band, and Harry wonders what it would feel like against skin. 

‘I do – God, I do, Teddy’s amazing and I love him and,’ Harry says, ‘But I see the way you are and I…I don’t know where you are, only that – I’m different. I’m not sure of anything.’

Draco leans back against his arms, neck craning. Harry feels incredibly awkward still standing by the closed door, hands in his pockets, and slowly he walks over to the bed to take a seat at the edge. 

‘No one’s sure, Harry,’ Draco says finally. It angers Harry, again, annoys him. 

‘Don’t. That’s not true, everyone says that but it’s not true,’ Harry snips. ‘There’s something missing - I know there is. And everyone around me has it so don’t – don’t say that. I’m not a fool’

Draco grows quiet again but he’s looking at him. Harry can feel it as he twists his hands around in his lap. At some point, Harry thinks, Draco will realise how ridiculous it is that he’s in a bedroom in Pansy’s flat with him, having a conversation that neither of them should be having with each other. Ron would frown, Harry knows, and say something like, ‘But what does Malfoy know, d’you think? You haven’t seen each other in years and – what does he know?’ Some part of Harry thinks Ron would be right, but how can he reject anything that he gets from Draco?

The window in the bedroom is circular and is in the centre of the left wall of the room. Beside the door is a dresser, with a big circle mirror and a vacant top. Harry can see the edges of Draco’s head in the mirror, the parting of his hair, and the end of the ribbon he’s tied it with. 

‘Harry - you’re doing well,’ Draco whispers like it isn’t only the two of them in the room. Harry meets his eyes. ‘You are.’

Harry manages a small smile. The slope of Draco’s nose is so elegant, a line that Harry’s eyes can follow. ‘You’re - Jesus, Draco, you’re magnificent.’

Draco’s grin widens, his teeth look blue in the moonlight. ‘You’ve still not lost your sweet mouth, I see.’

‘Never,’ Harry says. It sounds like he’s promising something. ‘So, new year?’

‘Remind me how old we’re turning this year?’

‘Thirty-three,’ Harry whistles lowly. ‘God,  that’s so old.’

Draco falls back on the bed with a laugh, ‘It’s so young, so much of our lives are ahead of us. You are aware that wizards tend to live beyond a hundred years of age?’

‘That sounds awful,’ Harry admits. He feels tired just from thinking about it. ‘I’d take going out peacefully at sixty. I don’t even understand what you’re meant to do with all this time here.’

Draco’s hand is on his shoulder then, pulling him down. ‘There’s nothing to do, just lay down for now,’ he’s saying, and Harry obliges, gets pulled down.

‘How did that happen, Neville and Blaise, I mean?’ Harry asks which makes Draco snort. He presses his cheek into the mattress to find him pressing his palm to his forehead. 

‘Blaise came to visit for tea and Neville barged into my quarters holding Ellis, who is my cat, and shouting out allegations and well - Blaise never warmed up to Ellis either and they bonded over hatred at first,’ Draco explains. ‘It was a fast descent into flirting. Goodness, the tension was stifling and now they’re-’

‘Probably ruining one of Pansy’s rooms?’

‘Likely,’ Draco grimaces. He looks over when Harry lets out a laugh. ‘What?’

Harry shakes his head. ‘Nothing,’ He smiles. ‘Only - God, it’s so like you to name a cat Ellis.’

‘What’s wrong with the name Ellis?’ Draco demands. 

‘Nothing’s wrong with it,’ Harry laughs. ‘Just very you.’

‘I think that just means it’s quite magnificent,’ Draco mumbles, straightening out the front of his robes. The opening at his chest, through which silver silk teases, is in the shape of a V and one of the corners has folded down and he lifts it back up.

Harry feels a lump in his throat but he pushes past it to agree, ‘Yeah.’

Draco only looks at him furtively, but does not make another move. ‘I tried the pens you gifted,’ He says. ‘They’re marvelous, and help massively.’

‘I thought they would,’ Harry says.

‘My wrist is often strained from the constant back and forth between the pot and the parchment so, really, Harry, it was very thoughtful,’ Draco continues, nodding along to his own words. ‘Thank you.’

It’s so meagre - Harry thinks again, and it makes him want to cry. It doesn’t matter how long he and Draco have remained out of contact for, doesn’t matter that Draco’s moved on, doesn’t matter that it’s entirely Harry’s fault they stopped talking in the first place but, like the thumping in his chest, the soft pulse of blood coursing through his body, steady and continuous, the certainty rings through all of him, that he’d do anything for Draco. 

‘Harry,’ Draco softly calls. 

Harry’s thinking of James and Lily, again, and he’s thinking of Sirius and Remus, who he has seen more of. He’s remembering a half-parted door, a lit fireplace, and Remus leaning down to press his cheek against Sirius’ and then kissing him. He remembers Sirius’ arms shaking, pulling Remus down. 

God - He thinks - where does that love go? Now that they’ve died, where has it gone? Stuck behind the veil with Sirius, buried under the ground with Remus’ bones? He remembers Teddy, then, and feels guilty all over. Incredibly guilty because most of him has never been able to accept the reality of Tonks and Remus together. It feels like a dirty secret to him. 

‘Harry,’ Draco calls again. ‘You’re crying.’

Harry’s hand flies to his face to wipe the wetness he finds there and descends into a rambling apology. ‘Sorry, Sorry - I was just - Jesus, sorry, this is humiliating - was just thinking-’

‘It’s okay, Harry,’ Draco whispers, closer suddenly, and his hand is in the air, wavering in front of Harry’s eyes. ‘It’s only me.’

Another sob is pulled out of him, and Draco’s hand cradles his face, his thumb circles his cheek as Harry’s shoulders shake. It is unclear, even to him now, the exact cause of the crying. There’s a blurry mess in his head - Lily’s long red hair, James’ glasses, Sirius and Remus wrapped together, Remus and Tonks holding an infant Teddy and Draco’s white hair.

‘Harry - tell me, do pens make you sad?’ Draco asks and it’s so ridiculous in the moment, the way that it’s meant to be judging by the soft smile on Draco’s face, that Harry laughs involuntarily. It’s a horrible, wet sound but Draco joins in, wipes beneath Harry’s eyes with his thumb. ‘I’ll break all the pens in the world.’

‘It’s okay,’ Harry sighs, trying to clear his lungs. ‘You can save some so your wrists don’t hurt.’

‘As I said, very thoughtful,’ Draco says back, and his hand is still on Harry’s face, eyes beginning to hold Harry’s stare intently. ‘Are you okay?’

Harry blinks. The metal of his glasses is cool against his nose, a soft weight on his face and the bed they’re on is too soft. He sits up, making Draco’s hand fall, and runs a hand through his hair. ‘Yeah - Yeah, I’m fine, sorry.’

‘It’s alright,’ Draco grunts, sitting up. His legs disappear from Harry’s sight as he folds them beneath him. ‘Your beard is prickly.’

‘Is it?’ Harry laughs. ‘It used to be soft, but it’s been shaved off too many times now.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah, I begin growing it out once summer starts to end,’ Harry tells him. He stares at his knees a little, and then, ‘You know, when Teddy was younger, he would pull on it so hard, and a stubble would make him really fussy - I suppose it just irritated his skin, so I’d just shave all the time.’

‘I remember you clean shaven,’ Draco hums, nodding his head, and looking out the big window. 

Harry knows he’s thinking of a photograph of James that Harry himself had shown him. Of Draco’s cheerful observation, staring at him as he shaved and saying, ‘You look like him - your father - more when you’ve just shaved.’

‘You know, I am sorry, yeah?’ Harry asks, noting the futility of his own voice. It’ll never be enough, he thinks.

‘I got your letter, Harry, and it’s okay,’ Draco sighs heavily. ‘You don’t have to apologise, you were - not in a good place.’

‘Teddy’s turning fourteen soon,’ Harry says, which makes Draco look at him again. ‘In April, and you were nineteen then. That’s only five years older than him and it just - makes me sick to think of it. I don’t know what I’d do if someone said something like that to him.’

‘You were nineteen too, Harry,’ Draco reminds him. ‘And it’s okay, Harry, really.’

‘I just, I hope you know I really was the one who lost out on something good,’ Harry admits. 

Draco’s smile is tilted. ‘You lost? Surely, being with Britain’s hero is better.’

Harry shakes his head. ‘You could’ve - sometime after, all these years, you could’ve reached out and I - I would’ve let you walk all over me if you’d have asked, I realised it very early on after,’ Harry tells him. ‘But I never had the right to reach out to you. I’ve really - felt that all this time.’

Draco looks slightly scared. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘I just want you to know that I - I know I lost out on you, I’ve suffered your absence and felt like it was a punishment because I’d brought it on me in the first place.’

‘Harry,’ Draco calls out once more, but this time Harry hears a warning. 

‘God - I was stupid.’

‘You’ve done beautifully without me.’

Someone else had said that to Harry. Harry would’ve done even better had they been with him. ‘I would’ve done better with you.’

Draco inhales sharply, and then he’s off the bed. His silhouette blocks out the light from the window for a moment, and his shadow is over Harry’s body. ‘I’m - sorry, this is - It’s not - it’s inappropriate, I’ll - Good night, Potter.’

The five minutes that Harry spends collecting himself in the room in Pansy’s house feel like eternity. 

—

There’s lazy snowfall outside, and a constant thump of the chilly wind against the windows of their house, and Teddy is sitting atop of one of the kitchen counters eating a popsicle. 

‘No, you’ll get sick,’ had been Harry’s first admonition upon seeing Teddy sliding out the orange wrapper from the freezer but he had only received a barely audible, muttered grumbling in response.

‘It’s fine, you know, it’s boiling inside with all your heating charms,’ Teddy assures him, looking up from his wrist where some of the lolly has melted onto. ‘It feels like summer.’

Harry, who has been freezing the whole morning, does not agree. ‘You’re going to get sick, I’m telling you, and then you’ll be stuck in the infirmary for the first week back.’

‘It’s okay, Madam Pomfrey likes me,’ Teddy grins. Harry stirs the pot as he steadily pours in the broth to his softened vegetables; he’s attempting to make a vegetable soup that Teddy will actually eat. The cook book had assured him that there were many benefits to this recipe: better stomach function, soothing the throat, good for digestion and preventing the cold. 

‘You know she knew dad,’ Teddy starts, and Harry tenses again. They’ve had a talk about the history lessons he will be having once the term begins, and Teddy seems as excited as Harry is nervous.

‘Yeah, she would’ve.’

‘He was prefect, you know?’ Teddy tells him. 

‘Sirius told me, he was the only one of them that became a prefect.’

‘But he wasn’t headboy. Your dad was.’

Harry laughs awkwardly. ‘No one knows how that happened. When Sirius told me, he was still trying to not double over laughing’

It’s a struggle in his head about telling Teddy that these men, no matter how revered to the both of them, had just been foolish, teenage boys in their years at Hogwarts. Bullies, really. 

‘Yeah but for the best though, maybe. Dad would have gotten too tired with the headboy stuff and the, you know, wolf transformation every month.’ Teddy talks like he knows him. Knew him. Harry’s not sure what tense to think in.

‘That’s probably what it was, I reckon.’

‘Were you a prefect?’ Teddy asks and Harry shakes his head. He lowers the heat under the pot, and then puts on the lid. 

‘No, Ron and Hermione were,’ Harry says, turning around. 

‘What! But you’re so boring, Harry, you should’ve been prefect,’ Teddy protests, eyes wide.

‘I wasn’t boring then,’ Harry argues, but it’s obvious there’s no convincing Teddy otherwise. ‘How was your stay at your grandmother’s?’

‘It was good. I met her healer too because he needed to give her some potion she ran out,’ Teddy says, flicking the popsicle stick and throwing it at the trash can. It hits the wall before sliding down into the bin. Healer Sains had scheduled a visit after New Years, for a checkup and for renewing Andromeda’s prescriptions. They’re hopeful the pain should go away by fall at the very latest. 

‘D’you hear the French in his accent?’ Harry asks him, and Teddy nods. ‘Apparently, he’s a transfer.’

‘You know, I’m half French,’ Teddy announces before stopping to think. ‘Or a quarter. I’m not sure, but there’s something French about me.’

‘Yeah, the Black family has French roots,’ Harry says. ‘Sirius could speak it but I think he used it to impress other people the most. Remus found it nice.’

‘I suppose Mum used that to her advantage,’ Teddy suggests thoughtfully and Harry’s mood plummets a little. ‘Macomber speaks French.’

‘Yeah? Does he also still do your homework?’

‘God, Harry, no - that was only last year. But his mum’s French.’

‘Maybe, he can help you learn it. If you’d like,’ Harry suggests. ‘Have you packed?’

When Teddy grins, Harry sends him upstairs to focus on putting his stuff together. ‘Make sure you’re packed before bed, Teddy.’

It’s no use because early morning the next day, Teddy runs around the house collecting socks and shirts and underwear to stuff into his trunk messily. Harry’s annoyance melts away when Teddy asks him for a bowl of soup before they leave. 

They’re running a little late when Teddy puts his bowl in the sink, and gets himself a glass of water. Harry fetches his coat for him and the bright yellow scarf, waits for Teddy to put on the coat.

‘Excited to go back?’ Harry asks, placing the scarf around Teddy’s shoulders. His eyes are light brown. 

‘Yeah, can’t wait for the match,’ Teddy grins, buttoning up the front.

‘Good that, I think Ravenclaw might win for the first time in history,’ Harry teases, looping the yellow around once. Teddy rolls his eyes. ‘Teddy, you’ll be…kind, yes?’

It earns him an awkward stare from Teddy, but Harry’s far gone. Teddy will be turning fourteen soon and their fathers had not been very nice when they were around that age. Harry, himself, had been a couple of years away from obsessively stalking another student and then using unknown spells on him.

‘I’m not, Harry, I’m not walking the halls of my school being a bully or something,’ Teddy cries, the offence plain on his face. ‘God, I do a little worse in one class and you think i’m a monster!’

‘No, what? Teddy, that’s - I don’t mind about the class, your professor said it was normal and your tutoring will hel- it doesn’t matter,’ Harry stumbles. He’s still holding on to the ends of Teddy’s scarf, the yellow wool stretching under his hands. ‘I’m just reminding you to be nice to other kids. I’m sure you are, but a reminder doesn’t hurt.’

‘Okay,’ Teddy mumbles.

‘And if you see someone getting picked on or something, you should help them,’ Harry tells him.

‘I will, I will,’ Teddy mumbles again. At Harry’s pinched expression, he says more promisingly, ‘I will!’

‘Okay,’ Harry breathes out, slapping down his palm on Teddy’s shoulder, and nods. ‘Good, good, okay, we’re late, we should rush, go on, get the powder and I’ll grab Tether!’

It isn’t anyone’s business that Harry finds himself in Grimmauld Place after waving goodbye to the Hogwarts Express. Nor is it anyone’s business that Harry drags his feet to Sirius’ bedroom, and curls down on his bed, holding his pillow to his chest.

Walburga Black had left Sirius’ room untouched after he had ran away, and it had only been used since when Sirius himself had returned to the house.

If Harry thinks hard enough, and pulls together bits from all his memories of him, he can imagine Sirius sleeping in the bed or standing in the doorway. He can remember the way Sirius hugged him, one arm across his back clasping his forearm, and his palm flag against the curve of Harry’s head. If Harry folds himself the right way on the bed, cradles the pillow at a certain angle, he can find that hold again.

He can. He can. He can.