Christmas
It was infuriating.
Not just the absurd owl deliveries or how Harry always seemed to anticipate his needs before he could even voice them. It was all of it. The quiet, persistent way Harry pushed into his life, slipping past every carefully placed wall without even trying.
The way he saw him, Draco wasn’t used to being read so easily. Pansy had never been good at reading anyone, and Blaise never pushed. Even if sometimes Draco was too stubborn to reach for him, he waited until his presence was requested. But Potter? He never retreated. He just watched—with that sharp, insufferable gaze that always knew exactly when to press forward and when to hold back.
It was unnerving. Being known like that. Being seen.
And Draco didn’t know what to do with that.
He had spent years learning how to spot ulterior motives, how to brace for the moment when kindness turned sharp-edged. Nothing came without a price. But Harry—Harry gave freely. Without expectation. Without asking for anything in return. As if Draco deserved it.
As if he were someone worth the effort.
That was what made it unbearable.
Because Draco knew better. He knew this couldn’t last. That eventually, Harry would come to his senses and realize how much of a waste it all was. And when that happened—when the warmth inevitably disappeared—it would be just another lesson in why he should have never let himself get used to it in the first place.
Because despite everything, despite knowing better… he didn’t want Harry to stop. Draco hated this feeling. That heavy, uncomfortable weight in his chest, that restless tension that refused to fade. It was irritating. Unsettling.
It was vulnerability. And he hated it.
What infuriated him more: the fact that Harry had hidden something from him, or the fact that it mattered so damn much?
Morgana’s words still clung to him, buried deep in his mind.
"I should have told him how much I loved him. I should have lived that love."
What if he didn’t give Harry this chance?
Because worse than Harry realizing Draco wasn’t worth it, worse than the heartbreak Draco was sure would follow, was the idea of never having had it at all.
Because if he let himself—just for a moment—he could imagine it. What it would be like to be wanted. To be with Harry Potter, not as a mistake or an afterthought, but as something real.
And maybe that was worth it. Maybe it was worth everything. Even the inevitable end. But Draco didn’t know how to reach for something he had never believed he could have.
So instead, he sat in the wreckage of his own indecision, torn between self-preservation and the aching, unbearable want to just let himself have this.
Even if it destroyed him in the end.
Then, a letter came. And he felt angry and betrayed.
The whisper in the back of his mind was unbearable, telling him Blaise had been right all along. That he’d been naive, that there had never been a ‘them’ to betray. Just Harry Potter being Harry Potter, and Draco Malfoy being stupid enough to think he meant something.
Everything blurred.
Draco wasn’t one for impulse, but the moment he read it, his body moved before his mind could catch up. The floor felt unsteady beneath his feet. The walls pressed in, suffocating. He barely registered the way his hands trembled as he climbed the stairs, his breath sharp, pushing forward on instinct alone.
Anger was easy. Anger was safe. It was a language Draco had spoken fluently for years, one that didn’t require him to bare his soul or admit how much it hurt to feel like he was still the same boy Harry had once despised. Fighting with Potter was familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. But this time, the anger wasn’t just a shield—it was a weapon, sharpened by the sting of betrayal.
The door slammed open.
Harry looked up, startled, as Draco stormed into the room. His presence was as sharp and deliberate as a well-aimed curse, his silver eyes blazing with a fury that made Harry’s stomach drop.
“You must be exhausted, Potter,” Draco drawled, waving a piece of parchment like a weapon. His voice was deceptively smooth, but his eyes were cold, brimming with something far more dangerous than anger. “Saving the world, calling off investigations, deciding which cases are worth your moral outrage. A busy man, truly.”
Harry frowned, his good mood dissipating like smoke. “What’s that?”
“A letter. From Mrs. Zabini.”
Harry tensed immediately.
Draco crossed his arms, leaning against the desk as if he had all the time in the world. “The Ministry can’t be bothered to care about Blaise, and his mother asked me—of all people—to do something about it.” His voice sharpened. “Imagine my surprise when I find out you’re the reason no one’s looking.”
Harry exhaled sharply, jaw tightening. “Draco, I didn’t call it off, I refused to investigate you.”
“Oh, well, forgive me if that little nuance doesn’t quite make up for the fact that the entire case has been conveniently brushed aside.” His head tilted, his smirk razor-sharp. “How very Gryffindor of you. Wouldn’t want to investigate me—unless, of course, it was me during the sixth year.”
Draco wasn’t holding back. Not anymore. The polite distance, the cold civility—it was gone, replaced by something raw, sharp, and real.
“What should I have done, then?” Harry snapped. “Agree and investigate you?”
Draco’s smirk widened, cruel and deliberate. “What’s the big deal? Not the first time you’d stalk me. Might even be nostalgic.”
Harry’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms.
Draco knew exactly where to strike, where it would hurt, and he wanted to. Harry knew Draco’s weaknesses just as well, and though the rational part of him screamed don’t, he was too angry to hold back.
They said things they would later regret.
Harry knew Draco wasn’t impulsive and wouldn’t enter into a fight without preparation. Knew every word was measured, and calculated. That meant that Draco had been prepared for this for a long time, Draco knew about Blaise before the letter. And that realization made Harry furious.
His voice rose. “You knew before, didn’t you? That’s why you’ve been acting like this?” His breath came faster, frustration bubbling over. “How long? Days? Weeks?”
Draco shrugged, infuriatingly detached. “Surprise, you’re not the only one who knows how to keep secrets.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“That’s childish, Draco!” Harry yelled, “You know it’s my job, I couldn’t disclose information just because I felt like it!”
Draco scoffed, shaking his head. “Oh, of course. The Boy Who Follows the Rules. Except when it’s convenient for him.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Forgive me for assuming that the person who’s been living with me for months might’ve had the decency to tell me when my best friend was in a hospital.”
“What part of that don’t you get? It was confidential information!” Harry’s fists clenched at his sides. “I didn’t enjoy it, it wasn’t easy. But it was my job.”
“Oh, spare me the self-pity, Potter. You didn’t tell me because you didn’t trust me. Because no matter how much we pretend things have changed, deep down, you’re still just waiting for me to become my father.”
“That’s not true.”
Draco held his gaze, searching for a lie. “Isn’t it?” He stepped forward, jaw tight. “Tell me, then. If it had been Weasley, or Granger, or anyone else, would you have kept them in the dark too?”
Harry stayed quiet, that was all the answer Draco needed. So he tried again, almost pleading. “I was trying to protect you.”
It sounded honest, but Draco couldn’t understand it. What was it supposed to mean? That Harry saw him as some fragile creature that couldn't handle the reality? That didn't make him feel any better. So he didn’t accept that truth.
“This isn’t about protecting me,” Draco said, his voice low and heavy with unsaid meaning. “This is about you. Saint Potter, always knows better.” He took another step closer, eyes blazing. “Tell me, does it make you feel powerful? Be honest, you must love playing god.”
Harry’s temper snapped. “You want the truth, Draco? Fine. The truth is, it wouldn’t have made a damn difference if I’d told you. You couldn’t have done anything! You’re not an Auror, people see you as a—” He stopped, realizing too late that the damage was done.
For a moment, Draco’s face paled, his eyes widening with hurt. Then his expression hardened, and he smiled—a cold, cruel smile that trembled with longing. “You’re right, of course. I couldn’t have done anything. But neither could anyone else, and you still would’ve given them the truth and trusted them to handle it. But not me. Because deep down, you still think I might’ve done it.”
“I never thought you did it!” Harry’s voice cracked, anger intermingling with hurt. “They were looking for someone to blame, Draco. Do you really think they’d give you a fair chance? I couldn’t lose you—”
“I’m not buying it, Potter,” Draco interrupted.
“Look, I thought you deserved better than being thrown to the wolves for something you didn’t do,” Harry began, only to be cut off as Draco stepped in, voice low and searing.
“You decided for me. You talk about protecting me, yet you hide everything, leaving me in the dark—and then expect gratitude.”
The accusation struck Harry like a curse, dredging up years of silent resentment: the secrecy, the unilateral decisions made in his name. He shook his head, struggling for words. “I—I thought you’d at least try to understand.”
Draco’s eyes darkened with painful emotion. “Understand? That doesn’t justify everything. You sound just like Dumbledore sometimes—sacrificing everything in the name of the greater good.”
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, a sick, twisting feeling building in his gut. Years of resentment toward Dumbledore, the secrecy, and the decisions made without his input. And now, Harry had done the same thing to Draco.
Dumbledore had expected him to sacrifice his life to save the world. Harry had wanted Blaise to take the fall so Draco didn’t have to. He’d sought to shield Draco from judgment, guilt, and the pain of being put on trial for something he didn’t do. But at what cost?
His chest tightened as another thought struck him. If someone had told him they were going to sacrifice Ron to keep him safe, he would have lost his mind. He would have fought tooth and nail to stop them—to protect Ron, to ensure no one ever hurt him.
“That’s not fair, Malfoy.”
“Neither were you,” Draco replied, each word cutting deep. “I trusted you to be honest and have my back. And you betrayed that trust.”
Harry swallowed hard. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“But you did.” Draco’s voice softened, though the edge remained. “You did.”
For a long, heavy moment, neither spoke. The only sounds were Draco’s ragged breathing, the soft crackle of the fire behind them, and the faint rustle of the parchment still clutched in his fingers.
Then Harry exhaled, his voice quiet and raw. “You’re right.”
Draco blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting away for a heartbeat before he forced himself to meet Draco’s gaze.“I should have told you. I’m sorry.”
Draco’s eyes searched Harry’s fact—suspicion warring with something dangerously close to hope, a hope that maybe, beneath all this anger, lay the care they both refused to admit. “You can’t fix this with an apology, Potter.”
“I know.”
A heavy silence fell, charged and desperate. In that suspended moment, Harry’s mind raced. I’m losing him, he thought, the fear of loss mingling with the realization that every barrier they had built was crumbling. The memory of past hurts, the cold decisions made in the name of protection, all converged into a single, overwhelming need. He wasn’t just fighting for truth now—he was fighting for Draco, for a chance to make things right before it was too late.
Draco, too, was caught in the gravity of the moment. His thoughts flickered rapidly—anger at being used as a pawn, a raw, wounded need for honesty, and an undeniable longing that pulsed at the core of his guarded heart. I trusted you, his inner voice whispered, and now I’m terrified of what I might lose. His fingers, still trembling from the barrage of harsh words, seemed to reach out on their own accord.
Something inside Harry screamed.
He knew—knew with bone-deep certainty—that if he let Draco walk away, this would be it.
For a suspended heartbeat, the world fell away. Their eyes locked, and in that charged silence, they shared everything without words—a mutual understanding of pain, longing, and the desperate need to hold on. Then, as if compelled by a force too powerful to resist, Harry’s mouth found Draco’s in a collision of heat, breath, and raw emotion.
It was almost like their first kiss, but this time, there was no anger, no fury. This was something else entirely. Desperation. Urgency. A need so deep it felt like breathing, like survival.
Draco’s hands fisted in Harry’s shirt, gripping hard, like letting go wasn’t an option. There was no hesitation, no careful distance—only raw, unchecked need. Lips parted, breaths stolen, the taste of anger giving way to something sweeter.
Harry’s fingers slid into Draco’s hair, tangling there, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, as if he could press every unsaid word into him. I hate you. I want you. I need you.
Draco’s back hit the wall, but he barely noticed, too caught up in the way Harry fit against him, in the way everything felt terrifyingly right.
It was their third kiss—not that Harry was counting. Definitely not that Draco was counting.
And yet, somehow, each time managed to shake them more than the last. More intoxicating. More consuming. More real.
Draco had spent years mastering detachment, perfecting indifference. But this was impossible to ignore. This was ruin, laid bare. When they finally broke apart, they stayed close, foreheads touching, breath mingling in the stillness between them.
And then—
“Yucky!”
Teddy’s voice rang out, high and unimpressed.
Both men jolted apart as if hit by a hex.
“Little monster!” Draco gasped.
Teddy scrunched his nose. “Why were you eating Hawwy?”
“More like the other way around—”
“Draco!” Harry cut in, face burning, then turned hastily to Teddy. “Don’t tell anyone, we were just… doing adult things.”
“I can tell Vic?” Teddy told everything to baby Victoire Weasley.
“No! I’ll give you some chocolate if you don’t say anything.”
“Chocolate cake?”
“Sure.”
Teddy beamed, satisfied, and Draco groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “You just got blackmailed by a three-year-old.”
Harry sighed. “Yeah. And I’d do it again.”
Draco did not smile. Absolutely not.
But his lips did twitch.
…
They were in Teddy’s room, getting ready to go to the Burrow—something Draco still couldn’t quite believe. He was going to spend Christmas with the Weasleys. The thought alone made his stomach twist, not in fear, but in the kind of apprehension that came with stepping into entirely unfamiliar territory.
Harry, on the other hand, looked completely at ease, leaning against the doorway in his usual effortless way, wearing a pair of worn jeans and a thick red sweater with a big golden "H" stitched on the front—an unmistakable Weasley gift. His hair was its usual mess, somehow charming despite the chaos.
Draco was dressed with meticulous care, as if preparing for a diplomatic event rather than an evening at the Burrow. He wore a deep emerald-green open robe over a high-collared black sweater, paired with sharply tailored trousers and dragonhide boots. His hair was as perfect as ever.
Despite both adults being ready, they were still struggling with one last obstacle: convincing Teddy to wear his pants. Raising a child took priority over any unresolved tension or unspoken words between them, so any discussions about feelings or the charged atmosphere between them would have to wait.
“No pants,” Teddy declared, crossing his arms over his chest with the unshakable determination of a child who knew exactly what he wanted.
Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair—the first sign of his patience wearing thin. It was almost time to leave, and he’d have to fix his hair again.
“Teddy, please,” he tried, his voice hovering between exasperation and pleading.
“I don’t like pants. It’s hot.”
“Yes, I put a heating charm inside the house, but I can’t cast a spell on the entire world!” Draco huffed.
“But you could just put a spell on Ted—” Harry started, clearly understanding Teddy’s point, but he was immediately cut off.
“Harry! I am not walking around with this little monster in shorts in the middle of winter. It’s snowing!” Draco snapped, shooting him an incredulous look.
“But Hawwy, I’m not cold!” Teddy argued, puffing out his cheeks in defiance.
Harry was barely suppressing a chuckle as both Draco and Teddy turned to him, waiting—expecting him to make a decision. As if he had the final say in anything, he thought dryly. No one ever listened to him—Teddy’s word carried more weight than his most days.
“Well, you have to wear pants, Teddy,” he said finally, setting his mug down. “I’m pretty sure everyone else will be wearing them, even with the heating. Except Mrs. Weasley, she’ll probably wear a skirt.”
Teddy’s eyes lit up as if Harry had just given him the best idea in the world. “I like skirts!”
Harry, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, blinked at him. “A… skirt?”
“Uh-huh! Morgana wears ‘em, and she’s cool.”
“Well, wizards wear robes all the time, so it’s not different,” Draco said nonchalantly as if the conversation wasn’t odd at all.
Harry shot him a look. “You’re agreeing with this?”
Draco arched an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and then glanced at Teddy, who was now swinging his legs impatiently under the chair, eyes wide with expectation. “Right. Okay. But, uh—where are we supposed to get one?”
Draco sighed. “I have some.”
“You—wait. You have skirts?”
“I have robes that have the upper and bottom parts separated.” He corrected before turning to Teddy. “Come along, imp, let’s find you something.”
Teddy scrambled out of his seat, excitement buzzing off him in waves, leaving Harry sitting on the bed, still processing.
Harry followed after Teddy, barely stepping into Draco’s room before coming to an abrupt halt. Although he had been there a few times, never went through the wardrobe, so that caught Harry’s attention, left slightly ajar in Teddy’s hurried search for treasure. Silks, satins, fine wool—all in rich, dark tones and impossibly crisp lines. Even at home, Draco Malfoy dressed like he was ready to walk into a high-end gala at a moment’s notice.
Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He didn’t know why it surprised him—Draco had always been impossibly put together. Still, it was a stark contrast to his own limited collection of jeans and sweaters, most of them gifts from Mrs. Weasley.
Then, before he could think too much about it, Teddy spun toward him, grinning widely. It was long, so long that it was bigger than Teddy.
“Found one! Look!” He held up a soft, high-waisted skirt that flared dramatically as he twirled.
Harry blinked. His brain short-circuited for a moment.
Teddy looked ridiculously happy. But the skirt — the bottom part of the robe — was huge on him, so much that he had to hold it in place. Harry still thought it was strange, but all that mattered was Teddy being happy.
“Well?” Draco’s voice came from behind him, dry and unimpressed. “You look like you have something to say.”
“I—” Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know, I just—skirts, Draco?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Potter. It’s fabric. What exactly do you think will happen? That he’ll grow up into a menace because he liked wearing something comfortable?”
“I’m just—” Harry gestured vaguely. “Processing.”
Draco scoffed but didn’t press further. Instead, he turned to Teddy. “Alright, let’s adjust it to your size.” He pulled out his wand and muttered a quick spell to shrink the fabric.
Nothing happened.
Draco frowned and tried again. The skirt didn’t budge.
“Oh,” he said flatly. “That’s unexpected.”
“What’s wrong?” Teddy asked, his hair flickering between hopeful yellow and uncertain blue.
“The spell isn’t working,” Draco admitted. “The fabric must be charmed against resizing.”
Teddy’s face fell instantly. “But… but I want to wear it.”
“I know, Teddy,” Draco said, surprisingly patient. “But we can’t make it fit you.”
Teddy’s lower lip wobbled. His hands tightened around the fabric as if sheer willpower could make it work. “But I always get what I want,” he whispered, mostly to himself.
Harry exhaled, leaning forward. “Not always, bud.”
Teddy looked between them, visibly struggling with the concept. He wasn’t a brat—he wasn’t the type to throw tantrums—but he was used to things going his way, especially when it came to little things like this. And right now, it didn’t seem fair.
Draco crouched down to his level. “I can buy you one in your size,” he offered. “But not today. You’ll have to wait.”
Teddy’s face scrunched up. Waiting wasn’t fun. Not getting what he wanted wasn’t fun.
But…
“Okay,” he finally mumbled, even if his disappointment was palpable.
Draco ruffled his hair. “Good.”
Teddy sighed, dramatically flopping onto the couch. “Being a kid is hard.”
Harry snorted. “Try being an adult.”
Draco smirked, throwing Harry a knowing glance. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Harry shook his head with a small laugh. “You really love being right, don’t you?”
“More than you’ll ever know,” Draco said, then paused, eyes flicking toward the open wardrobe. “Though I suppose I should thank you for not making a scene about my personal clothing choices. Very mature of you, Potter.”
Harry huffed. “I wasn’t going to make a scene.”
Draco arched a brow. “Sure you weren’t. And I suppose you weren’t just gawking at my wardrobe, either?”
Harry flushed slightly, glancing away. “I just didn’t expect it, that’s all.”
Draco smirked. “Expect what?”
Harry sighed. “That you still dress like—” he waved a hand toward the wardrobe, “—that.”
Draco scoffed, clearly unimpressed. “Potter, I have standards. Just because you parade around in that Weasley sweater like it’s high fashion doesn’t mean I have to lower mine.”
Harry glanced down at his own red jumper, the giant "H" knitted into the front. It was warm. Comfortable. Familiar.
And then he looked back at Draco, who stood there in pressed slacks and a perfectly tailored shirt—because, of course, Draco Malfoy had to be impeccable even at home.
Harry snorted. “You know, I think I should be worried. You might just be raising Teddy to be as insufferable as you are.”
Draco smirked. “Only aiming for the best, Potter.”
Harry chuckled under his breath. Teddy giggled sleepily beside him. And as much as Harry wanted to pretend otherwise, he knew the truth—he wasn’t just some visitor in their lives anymore.
He was part of this.
Part of them.
….
Harry knocked on the door with barely contained excitement, the bright glow of lights spilling through the window. Inside, the hum of conversation mixed with the cheerful notes of Christmas music, signaling that at least half the family had already arrived. The warmth of it all made Teddy beam, his face alight with joy. The first time he had visited, he had woken up in an unfamiliar place and panicked when he couldn’t find Draco. But during his second visit earlier that day, he had explored the house more comfortably, reassured that Draco would always return for him.
Draco, however, was not handling the situation nearly as well. He fought to keep his breathing steady, his expression carefully neutral, but with every burst of laughter from inside, his composure frayed. He knew that the moment he stepped through that door, the laughter would die, the festive atmosphere would shift, and tension would settle over the room like an unwanted guest. His eyelids felt heavy, a side effect of the strong calming potion he had taken—likely the only thing keeping him sane. Without it, he wasn’t sure he could trust himself not to lash out at the first person who so much as looked at him the wrong way.
His thoughts, normally sharp and chaotic, were dulled and sluggish, making it difficult to focus. But the potion had granted him just enough clarity to remember how to act, what to do, and—most importantly—how to conceal just how much he wanted to collapse and sleep for the next twelve hours.
Still, for some foolish reason—probably the two idiots beside him, grinning expectantly at the door—he would endure whatever was necessary.
So when Bill Weasley opened the door, surprise flashing across his face before settling into an awkward smile, Draco returned it politely and stepped inside.
"Draco, I’m so glad you came. We were starting to worry when we couldn’t reach you earlier," Molly Weasley said as she hurried toward him, her concern immediate and unfiltered. She didn’t even greet Harry or Teddy first—her attention was solely on him. Her hand came to rest gently on his shoulder.
Startled, Draco flinched away.
Molly’s eyes softened in understanding. He wasn’t like her children. He wasn’t used to warmth, to easy affection. Gently, she withdrew her hand, her voice softening as she spoke again, carefully choosing her words. Draco could sense the sincerity in her regret, the genuine desire to bridge the gap between them.
The room had gone quiet. He had expected that, but it didn’t make it any less uncomfortable. At least there were fewer people than he had feared—nine in total. Two blonde heads stood out among the sea of red hair: Fleur and her daughter, Victoire.
“Vic!” Teddy called excitedly.
The baby, only a few months old, was already striking, her Veela heritage evident in the delicate beauty of her features. She didn’t do much beyond smiling and waving her pacifier, occasionally pulling it from her mouth and dropping it, but for some reason—perhaps loneliness—Teddy found her endlessly fascinating.
“Sorry for the delay," Harry said. "Teddy didn’t want to get dressed, and we took too long getting ready. Well, technically, I got ready. Harry, on the other hand, clearly looks like always," Draco added, his tone dry and sharp.
If he had to be in this suffocating house, he might as well ruin the cheerful atmosphere while he was at it.
But Harry only grinned, completely unfazed.
"Hmm, Harry, you look very nice," Molly interjected, offering Harry a hug. Her dress was lightly dusted with flour, and Harry was balancing a tray in his hands, but there was a warmth in her gestures, a quiet maternal affection that Draco envied. It was something he had never had.
"Sure," Draco drawled sarcastically.
“I’m sorry.” Harry shot him a smirk. "Not everyone looks good in skirts."
Draco opened his mouth to retort but hesitated as a wave of dizziness washed over him. Maybe the potion was too strong, or maybe he had simply taken too much of it. His knees threatened to give way for the briefest moment before he caught himself. When he glanced up, he found Molly watching him, trying to appear at ease, but the concern in her eyes was unmistakable.
“We brought Christmas cake,” he offered stiffly, more out of a need to fill the silence than anything else.
“Oh, how lovely! Did you make it yourself?” she asked, her smile kind but slightly forced.
Draco shook his head. “No. I just helped—Harry made it. He’s much better in the kitchen.”
“I see,” she replied, and an awkward pause stretched between them.
“But you made a pudding the other day, and it was really good,” Harry added, his tone casual, almost as if he were trying to be kind.
Draco blinked at him. “It was good? Really?”
Harry turned slightly toward him, and Draco realized too late how close they were standing. He quickly looked away, focusing straight ahead.
Then, Harry leaned in just enough that his breath brushed against Draco’s ear. “Don’t make me lie twice,” he murmured.
A shiver ran down Draco’s spine.
Molly smiled, seizing the chance to escape the awkwardness. Using the excuse of putting the cake in the fridge, she hurried into the kitchen. Before leaving, she cast a quick glance at her husband, who was deep in conversation with Charlie about a newly discovered dragon species.
"Draco, I’m going to help Mrs. Weasley. Why don’t you talk to Mr. Weasley?"
Draco didn’t bother hiding his skepticism. "He doesn’t want me here. He only invited me for your sake."
"Don’t be stubborn. He likes you," Harry lied, trying to nudge him forward.
Draco arched an unimpressed brow. "He tried to kill me."
"He wouldn’t have actually done anything—maybe a Stupefy, at most. Honestly, he cares about you."
Draco’s gray eyes narrowed, not because he believed Harry, but because he was astonished Potter could say something so blatantly false with a straight face.
"...I do a lot for you, okay? Just go." With that, Harry gave him a firm push toward Arthur, leaving Draco no choice but to move forward.
The moment he stepped closer, the interrogation began.
"Malfoy, what do you think of the house?" Arthur’s voice was casual, but the weight of expectation lingered in the air.
Draco kept his tone carefully neutral. "It’s… nice."
"Do you like dragons?" Charlie’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm.
"They’re interesting," Draco replied. He did like them—he was even wearing dragon-hide boots—but he wasn’t about to start gushing over them in front of a dragon enthusiast.
"In your opinion, which is the most intelligent species?" Charlie asked, his curiosity genuine rather than challenging.
Draco hesitated. He had no interest in small talk, but then he caught sight of Teddy, laughing as he played with Victoire. Somehow, that made answering easier. "I read that Norwegian Ridgebacks can breathe fire as early as three months old. That’s impressive, considering most species take six, right?"
"Some, yeah! I had one that started breathing fire right after hatching. She’s sharper than the others, better at hunting." That was not an invitation, but Charlie took it anyway and kept talking.
Arthur remained quiet, simply observing. A flicker of disappointment settled in his chest—not at Charlie, who was taking this all in stride, but at himself for struggling with it.
Meanwhile, Draco maintained his polite smile, though exhaustion pulled at him. It was already later than when they usually had dinner at home.
Home.
The word crept into his thoughts unbidden. It wasn’t about a place—it was about the people.
Charlie continued talking, his excitement unshaken, but for a brief moment, Draco and Arthur’s eyes met. There was something unspoken in their expressions—shared discomfort, quiet understanding. Then, as if reaching a silent truce, they exchanged the faintest of smiles.
"You two are listening, right?" Charlie asked, glancing between them.
Draco rolled his eyes, feigning boredom.
Arthur chuckled.
…
The party at the Burrow was warm and lively, the scent of pine and spiced cider hanging in the air. Laughter and conversation filled the space, wrapping around Harry like a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.
Draco, however, sat in the corner, nursing a drink in silence, his expression carefully neutral. He wasn’t scowling or sneering, just quiet. His gaze rested on Teddy, fond but unreadable, though he didn’t smile.
Harry hesitated before moving closer, just to check on him. To make sure he was fine—or at least, as fine as Draco Malfoy could be at the Burrow.
He lowered himself onto the seat beside Draco. Instinctively, Draco shifted, trying to give him more space—not to be rude, just out of habit. But he didn’t move.
His brows furrowed. He tried again. Nothing.
“What the—?” Draco snapped, then followed Harry’s gaze upward.
A sprig of mistletoe shimmered above them, golden vines pulsing faintly, humming with magic that felt almost alive.
From the other side of the room, George grinned.
“Ah, brilliant! Just in time to test my newest creation.” He strolled closer, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Of course it was yours,” Harry muttered.
George beamed. “Not just any mistletoe, mind you. This one’s special. You can move closer to each other, but not apart. And—” he wiggled his eyebrows, “—it only works if at least one of you has feelings for the other.”
Draco scoffed immediately. “Well, that’s obviously wrong, because—” He made to stand, only to be yanked back into place. His expression faltered. He tried again, jaw tightening.
Harry, frowning, simply… moved.
Draco froze.
Harry took a step to the side, then another. The magic didn’t stop him.
Draco, however, was still stuck.
George’s grin widened, and Harry saw it—that flicker of realization in Draco’s eyes, followed by a sharp frown.
“Faulty charms,” Draco said, his voice perfectly even. “Clearly, this thing’s broken.”
“Yeah, the spell is just moving you back, not holding you,” George mused, tapping his chin.
Draco exhaled sharply. “Potter’s not stuck.”
“No, he isn’t,” George agreed, watching him closely. “Interesting, isn’t it?”
Draco’s fingers curled into fists. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Mm,” George hummed. “Sure.”
The party carried on around them with people laughing, drinking, unaware. George was still grinning—until Draco exhaled sharply, his breath unsteady. His hand clenched at his sleeve, and for the first time since the war, George saw something raw flicker in Malfoy’s eyes.
Panic.
Not the sharp, defensive kind. Not anger, or irritation, or even humiliation.
Just quiet, breath-stealing panic.
Draco wasn’t fighting anymore. He just stood there, stiff, frozen in place, like he had been exposed in a way he never wanted to be. Like this—this—was worse than anything George could have done to him.
Something in George’s stomach twisted. He wasn’t fond of Draco, but he wasn’t cruel.
He let out a long breath. “Alright,” he muttered. “I lied.”
Draco’s head snapped up. His whole body was still too tense, but his voice was clipped when he spoke. “About what, exactly?”
“The mistletoe,” George admitted. “It doesn’t work if only one person has feelings. Both people have to like each other.”
Silence.
Draco’s hands trembled. Just a little. Just enough that George noticed.
Harry swallowed hard. “But I could move.”
George shrugged. “Well, Draco was right about my spell being faulty.” His smirk softened, just slightly. “But I don’t think I could ever make something strong enough to control Harry Potter.”
Draco’s lips parted, but no words came. He looked at Harry, and for the first time that night, there was no mask, no sneer, no carefully practiced indifference. Just hesitation.
Draco’s breathing was shallow, but when he spoke, his voice was as sharp as ever. “Fix this.”
George hesitated. Then, with a flick of his wand, the enchanted mistletoe vanished with a quiet pop. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Look, I’m not exactly your biggest fan, Malfoy, but I’m not heartless.” He glanced between them.
Draco took a step back instantly, arms folding tightly across his chest. His expression was angry but his hands were trembling a little.
George exhaled. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “It was a funny prank in my head.”
Draco’s shoulders twitched, like he wanted to say something—but then Mrs. Weasley’s voice rang from the kitchen.
“Harry, darling, can you help me?”
Harry blinked, as if snapping out of a trance. When he turned back, Draco was already gone.
…
The house, already warm with the scent of roasted meats and seasoned vegetables, became livelier with their arrival. The dining room, illuminated by a mix of enchanted floating candles and the soft glow of a chandelier, cast a golden hue over the wooden table laden with dishes. The flickering fire in the hearth crackled softly, its warmth seeping into the cozy atmosphere. And with that, dinner was finally served.
“Teddy, eat your vegetables too,” Draco instructed, his tone holding a note of practiced authority as he turned toward the little boy seated in a transfigured high chair. Next to him, in an identical seat, was Victoire, whose mother was struggling just as much to get her to eat.
Harry, observing the scene, smiled to himself, feeling a sense of accomplishment. After a surprisingly civil discussion—which, miraculously, hadn’t escalated into an argument—the adults had agreed that they both needed to take responsibility for improving Teddy's eating habits. Harry had a habit of indulging him with sweets, and Draco, despite his usual sharpness, was ultimately too soft when it came to denying Teddy anything. Neither of them was particularly strict, and that had to change. So now, they were trying to balance each other out.
“But you’re not eating them,” Teddy pointed out, his voice laced with simple logic rather than defiance. He wasn't accusing—just stating a fact.
Draco barely missed a beat. “That’s because I’m an adult. I don’t need to eat more vegetables,” he replied smoothly, taking a sip of his wine as if that settled the matter.
Harry let out a quiet chuckle at the flimsy excuse, shaking his head.
“Is that true?” Teddy asked, turning to Harry for confirmation.
“Of course,” Draco continued, lounging back slightly in his chair. “That’s why you should eat plenty of vegetables now—so you can grow up quickly and never have to eat them again.”
Draco must have felt the eyes on him because, he was more charming than usual. With a casual motion, he ran a hand through his platinum-blond hair, his mercury eyes narrowing slightly as they met Harry’s. There was something sharp in his gaze, almost playful, as if he were challenging him to say something. Harry, for his part, held it for a moment before rolling his eyes.
“Teddy didn’t eat much,” Draco noted, turning smoothly to Harry with calculated ease, his expression perfectly composed.
“That’s probably because I fed him before we left,” Harry admitted, shifting his gaze away to avoid the temptation of staring for too long—or worse, smiling.
Draco blinked, then frowned. “Why would you do that?” His arms crossed, his displeasure clear.
“He was hungry. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because he was going to eat here. What’s the point of going out for dinner if he already ate at home?”
Harry scoffed. “Who cares? Is it just because he might stain his clothes?”
“It’s not just that. It’s about discipline, knowing how to wait for the right time.”
Draco’s relaxed demeanor was gone, replaced by sharp edges and pointed words. He had completely forgotten the people around them, his full attention locked on Harry in a familiar clash of wills. Harry wasn’t particularly keen on encouraging Draco’s random outbursts, but he also wasn’t the type to back down from them.
“Merlin, do they argue like this all the time?” Hermione muttered to no one in particular, too exasperated to keep quiet.
Her comment was unintentionally loud enough to be heard over the background chatter, and before anyone could answer, Teddy turned to her with a reassuring smile.
“It’s okay,” he said cheerfully. “They make peace and ‘ happy again.”
Hermione stared at him. “And how is it?”
“Like this” Teddy turned to Victoire, who had been quietly eating beside him, and, without a second thought, pressed his lips to hers in an innocent imitation of what he had seen.
The reactions varied. Fleur laughed openly, while Bill looked both alarmed and vaguely offended at the ‘stolen’ kiss. Victoire, however, simply smiled, unbothered. Molly tried to maintain her composure but failed spectacularly, her expression a mixture of shock and amusement. Arthur, ever the diplomat, quickly turned his attention to the window, nodding to himself as if he had just discovered something profoundly interesting outside. Hermione, on the other hand, looked scandalized.
Ron and Ginny exchanged a glance. He groaned, rolling his eyes as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a note, which Ginny gleefully accepted.
Harry and Draco, for their part, were frozen. The implication of Teddy’s words had struck them both speechless. Then, as if a spell had been lifted, Draco burst into laughter.
It was rare, but Harry had seen it before—Draco laughing freely, completely unrestrained. And every time, it caught him off guard. It made his breath hitch, made something warm settle in his chest. And, as much as he tried to resist, he found himself laughing along.
The entire table turned to look at Draco, still chuckling, his usually composed features bright with genuine amusement as he wiped at the small tears gathering in his eyes.
“Teddy, you can’t do that with other people,” Draco finally managed to say, his voice still laced with amusement.
Teddy blinked up at him, clearly confused.
“Is that true, Harry?” Molly asked suddenly, her sharp gaze shifting toward him.
Harry froze.
“Er… no. Teddy has been very imaginative lately. He must have seen me fixing Draco’s tie earlier and gotten confused.”
“But Draco isn’t wearing a tie,” Molly pointed out, her expression skeptical.
Harry hesitated for half a second before recovering with an awkward laugh. “Of course not! Because I couldn’t tie it properly, and he took it off.”
“I see,” Molly said, her eyes narrowing. But after a moment, she let it go—though Harry could tell she wasn’t entirely convinced.
He exhaled in relief, only for Ron to speak at the worst possible moment.
“Oh, come on, Mum. That’s nothing compared to what Teddy said the last—”
Ron abruptly cut himself off, doubling over with a pained groan. Hermione, all smiles, had just elbowed him hard in the stomach.
No one said another word about it.
Sensing the tension, George grinned mischievously and leaned in. “Well, at least we know who the bad influence is now. Teddy’s already pulling moves better than I ever did.”
The table erupted into laughter, and the mood instantly lightened. Harry groaned, rubbing his face.
Draco, never one to let an opportunity pass, leaned in slightly, his voice smooth with feigned innocence. Ready to change the subject.
“Well, his imagination must be from watching too much television,” he mused, his silver eyes gleaming mischievously. Then, turning to Arthur Weasley, he added, “You understand Muggle technology quite well, don’t you, Mr. Weasley?”
Arthur’s face lit up with excitement, and in an instant, a long, enthusiastic monologue about Muggle's inventions unfolded.
Harry shot Draco a grateful look. Draco merely smirked, victorious.
…
After dinner, everyone moved to the living room, drinks in hand, ready to exchange gifts.
"Not drinking, Draco?" Harry asked, already holding a glass of butterbeer.
"I’ll pass," Draco replied, lifting his glass of pumpkin juice. His mouth watered at the thought of butterbeer, but the potion he had taken earlier made alcohol a bad idea. It was just as well—Teddy, sitting beside him, looked thoroughly unimpressed at being the only one unable to drink like the adults.
"Harry, don’t overdo it," Draco added when he noticed Harry refilling his glass for the second time in mere minutes.
Harry smirked. "Oh, relax, Mum."
Across the room, Bill chuckled. "It’s funny how well you and Malfoy get along. Didn’t he hate you at first?"
"Draco hates everybody at first," Harry said, taking a sip. "It’s his way of reaching out to people."
Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.
Fleur, sitting beside Bill, gave him a pointed look. "That’s ironic, considering we’re the married ones, and we don’t fight like that."
"Not in front of others," she added sweetly. "But last night, you annoyed me quite a bit."
Before Bill could protest, Teddy whined dramatically at Victoire, who had taken one of his gifts hostage, making Draco have to hold him, "Mon chéri, stop that!"
"Oh, you speak French?" Fleur asked, immediately interested.
Draco gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Yeah. My mother’s family was French. Also, my etiquette tutor."
Harry snorted. "No way you had etiquette lessons."
"I did," Fleur said, smirking. "Some people should have had them too." She threw a not-so-subtle look at Bill, who was too busy talking to his father about work to notice.
Draco laughed. Finally, someone in this house shared his sense of humor.
Harry, meanwhile, exhaled as he watched Draco joke with Fleur. He seemed at ease for once, a stark contrast to his usual tension. Teddy and Victoire played at their feet, both giggling, and for a moment, everything felt... right. So he allowed Draco to keep talking shit about everyone else with Fleur and stepped out of the conversation.
Hermione walked over, holding several wrapped gifts. "Your gifts," she said, placing two of them in front of Harry. "This one is from Ron and me."
Harry nodded, taking them with a grateful smile before handing over a few gifts of his own.
"These are yours," he told Hermione, who smiled as she unwrapped them.
Ron grinned as he examined his new wristwatch. Like the Weasley family clock, instead of numbers, it displayed words like work, danger, and dinner. Hermione, meanwhile, looked delighted with her set of planners, pens, and highlighters—practical gifts, as always.
Harry opened one of the gifts and knew how gave him it, a magical trunk with extra compartments, enchanted for organization, with spaces for storage, documents, and even an emergency first-aid kit.
Hermione beamed, running her fingers over the sleek stationery. "I love it, Harry."
He shrugged. "Thanks. Yours are always useful." He pointed to the trunk, and she smiled.
Then Hermione leaned in. "I, uh… I didn’t get Malfoy anything," she admitted in a whisper. "I didn’t expect him to actually come. I thought he’d be with his mother."
"Don’t worry," Harry said with a small, almost secret smile. "I got something."
There were a lot of gifts—more than he was used to. Even now, the warmth in his chest at receiving them felt unfamiliar, something he doubted he’d ever fully get used to.
A thick, cozy sock from Mrs. Weasley, charmed to always stay warm.
Some experimental sweets from George (which Harry was pretty sure were meant to explode).
A set of expensive-looking clothes from Fleur, who had sighed dramatically about his lack of fashion sense.
A Dragon board game from Charlie.
And a new broom from Ron—one Harry had admired but never let himself buy.
They walked toward the children, who were now at the center of attention—meaning, unintentionally, so were Draco and Fleur. Neither looked thrilled by the attention.
Hermione quickly handed out the children's gifts, and both adults instinctively crouched to help them tear through the wrapping.
Then Harry held out a small, wrapped box. "Here. This one's for you, Draco."
Draco blinked, genuinely surprised. He hesitated only a second before abandoning Teddy’s half-open package in favor of his own. The paper came off neatly, revealing a black leather-bound album.
Harry cleared his throat. "It’s for your photos."
Draco ran his fingers over the smooth cover, his touch lingering. No teasing remark came to mind. He simply nodded, quiet for a moment.
Harry shifted, suddenly uncertain. "You’re always the one taking them, so I figured you should have somewhere to keep them."
Draco’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the album. He had never thought anyone noticed. Taking photos was something he did absently, almost in secret—lifting the camera only when he was sure no one was looking, capturing moments in between, never in front of Harry, never openly. And yet, Harry had noticed. Of course he had.
Draco let out a soft exhale. "It’s… practical."
Harry smirked. "See? Told you I’m good at presents."
Draco didn’t answer right away, just traced the edge of the album’s cover, feeling the weight of it in his hands. Then, almost as an afterthought, he reached into his pocket.
"Here," he said, pressing a small, wrapped item into Harry’s palm.
Harry unwrapped it to find a sleek silver pocket watch, elegant and polished, with an intricate charm work that made the hands move in an oddly specific way.
He opened the lid, brows drawing together as he read the inscription:
"Try not to be late (or insufferable). – D."
Harry huffed a laugh. "Charming."
Draco leaned in slightly, voice low enough that only Harry could hear. "It’s charmed to show the exact time, hopefully, you will stop being late, and if you click here"—he pressed a small, near-invisible button on the side—"it shows how long until our next argument."
Harry glanced down just as the hands flickered, shifting and rearranging before settling into place.
"07:44:52"
He let out a soft huff of laughter. "Almost eight hours of peace? Wow, I must be on my best behavior."
"Don’t get too comfortable," Draco said, smirking. "That can change very quickly."
Harry rolled his eyes, but his fingers curled around the watch, thumb tracing its cool surface. He snapped the lid shut with a quiet click, shaking his head with a reluctant smile.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I think I can use it."
"This is my gift, Draco." Mrs. Weasley stepped forward to hand him her famous sweater.
Draco was momentarily speechless. The dark green sweater had a large silver "D" on the front, made from the same material as all the others. He simply smiled and handed her the small box he had bought. Inside were silver earrings. Since the woman wasn’t wearing any jewelry at the moment, he briefly wondered if he had chosen poorly. Regardless, she smiled and said she would wear them with care.
Beside them, Teddy couldn’t hide his disappointment upon opening his gift—a matching sweater and pants set. Though he thanked them properly, his frustration was evident. He turned to the side and noticed that Victoire had received a dress and a set with a skirt. The white sweater was quickly forgotten as his eyes locked onto the beautiful pleated fabric. It was the same shade of blue as his hair and, in his eyes, a thousand times prettier than any pair of pants.
So, without hesitation, Teddy smiled and took the skirt from the baby’s tiny hands.
"That’s not yours, Teddy," Draco scolded, trying to take it from the boy, but he wasn’t willing to let go.
"Oh, let him," Fleur said with an easy smile, waving her hand dismissively.
Draco recognized the sincerity in her permission, and though he felt slightly intimidated by the other gazes in the room, he took the opportunity to test the clothing-switching spell he had recently learned from Mrs. Weasley. With a flick of his wand, Teddy was dressed.
The skirt fit him perfectly—he hadn’t even needed a resizing charm. The shade of blue matched his hair exactly, and it went surprisingly well with his sweater. The boy ran excitedly around the room before coming back to stand in front of Draco, beaming.
"Thank you, Daddy."
Draco’s gray eyes widened, unable to hide his shock—just like Harry and everyone else in the room.
In an instant, his expression shifted from surprise to a mix of joy and melancholy. His eyes filled with tears even as he smiled. Pulling Teddy into a hug, he held him tightly.
Beside him, Harry placed a steadying arm around his shoulders.
"This is ridiculous, I’m way too young to be a father," Draco murmured, tears slipping down his face.
"I know." Harry gently tightened his hold, pulling Draco in to hide his face against his shoulder, knowing he must hate being seen like this.
"What a strange guy," Ron muttered, frowning—only to be met with a chorus of reproachful glares.
"Don’t ruin the moment, Ronald," Hermione scolded, giving him a shove.
Nearby, Arthur watched the scene before him, his eyes growing heavy with emotion. When he had seen Draco with Harry just weeks ago, all he could see was a Death Eater—just like the one who had killed his son. Fred’s smiling face overlapped with the image of his body, lying still among the ruins of the castle after the explosion.
But now, Arthur saw something different.
A boy. A boy Ron’s age, brimming with emotions just like anyone else. A boy who also knew how to love.
"He didn’t kill my son," Arthur’s weak voice wavered, barely above a whisper.
Molly placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "No, he’s just a boy."
Draco Malfoy looked very much like a lost child as he buried his tear-streaked face in Harry’s shoulder, clutching Teddy tightly in his arms. Teddy, for his part, gazed up at him with concern. Though he didn’t fully understand what was happening, he whispered words of comfort to the blond man who held him so close.