fic!!
Many chocolatey thanks to shatter_glass who whipped this thing into shape in record time, to luzmaria8 who said "mm, oranges", and to maryavatar and tarynw who helped me with my Brit vocab. All remaining errors are mine, woo hoo.
Happy Christmas, everyone! <3!!!!
The Way of the World
It's his last delivery of the night.
Draco doesn't know how long he's been standing out in the snow by the hedges, looking up at the flickering lights and moving shapes inside the house, wondering exactly when that bolt of courage will arrive so he can attend to his humiliation and get out of these fucking wet clothes and boots already.
It's been a year for humiliation. He's had a slew of thankless jobs since returning to London, from dishwasher at the Hog's Head to birdcage cleaner at the Owlry. That was where he'd heard about this job just before being laid off, this fucking delivery boy job. While owls usually deliver much of the post, this time of year, as a charitable gesture (and excellent press and publicity), Delphin and Daughters, makers of fine gifts and housewares since 1673, was offering seasonal work to a limited number of unemployed wizards.
Draco was unemployed, and desperate to boot.
Even though he hated Madame Delphin's condescending attitude and her obvious pleasure at giving a Malfoy orders, he considered himself lucky to have found employment. Any employment.
But just when he didn't think he could sink any lower, this morning he checked the address of the final package in his rucksack and read:
Mr. Harry Pot-
He's saved that delivery for last, hoping that somehow a miracle will occur and he won't have to actually deliver it. But he has to deliver it, and he has to obtain a signature upon delivery, because it's Delphin and Daughters's fucking policy, and if he doesn't obtain a signature he's fucking screwed and out of a job, again.
The smooth brown wrapping paper crinkles under Draco's fingers. He glances down at it. The return address has been concealed, because return addresses aren't meant for delivery boy eyes. The brown wrapping has torn a bit where Draco was unnecessarily rough--and for a moment he can just see Potter complaining to Draco's employer about the unsatisfactory condition of the parcel upon arrival and Draco being forced to take a pay cut or some other cruel and unusual punishment-and he can see annoyingly festive wrapping paper underneath.
A Christmas present, then, Draco thinks. Not something that Harry ordered for himself. He wonders who it's from. A girlfriend, maybe? Or maybe he's ordered it for someone, to be presented in person.
Perhaps that's who is inside Harry's house, making those shapes against the drawn curtains. Draco doesn't feel much of anything at that realization, not jealousy or hatred, just a strange ache that feels inexplicably like regret.
Draco wonders just how much longer he can convince himself that standing out in the cold and snow is the best option.
A little bit longer, anyhow.
Harry's house is small and yet, it looks inviting. There's a balcony on the second floor. The pavement has been shoveled, so really, it wouldn't take much for Draco to just walk up to the front steps and ring the chime. There are small window boxes on the sills, empty now, but Draco imagines they might hold sleeping bulbs waiting for Spring. It looks like a place that Potter would look forward to returning to after a hard day at work-or whatever Potter does with his time nowadays. In fact, Draco really isn't sure what Harry does anymore. He's been too busy worrying about scraping together enough rent to stave off an eviction notice, and wondering whether he'll have enough left over from his meager pay cheque to buy some decent food to keep up with the goings on of Harry Potter.
Draco shivers and clutches the parcel. He's dawdled too long; soon Madame Delphin will be sending a search party after him, not for his own safety in the growing snow drifts, but to ensure the integrity of the package and the immutability of their reputation for customer service (even if they have to pry the package from Draco's frozen corpse). He can't wait any longer if he still hopes to have a job for the rest of the holiday season.
He crams his hood over his head but with his luck he doesn't hold out much hope that it will do much to conceal his identity. Besides, Potter could always pick him out at a distance, whether it be his body language or some innate sense. He walks quickly up the shoveled path and his heart starts pounding, harder with every step that brings him closer to the inevitable.
He rings the chime and waits, his heart beating out a frantic rhythm against his rib cage. It will be over soon, he thinks fiercely, one way or another.
He hasn't felt this kind of dizzy anxiety in months. It's the expectation of conflict, of combat. It's different from the four A.M. personal visits from his landlord, or the shitty treatment from the other employees at the parcel pick up area at Delphin and Daughters. It's different, he realizes, because it's Potter, and history that goes way back, and old scars, and unanswered questions.
They didn't exactly part on poor terms. In fact, they didn't exactly formally part ways either. The last time Draco saw Harry Potter was at the Hogwarts Express just days before the war broke out.
Harry had gone with Hagrid to see off the younger students and Draco had boarded the train too, on his way home. And, as everyone knew, to be Marked.
Harry had been waving to a car full of Gryffindors. Draco's very last memory of Hogwarts was Potter's hopeful smile that Draco was entirely certain had been just a stupidly brave facade.
He is still thinking about it when the door opens part way, shielded with a shimmering warding charm.
"Yes?"
Draco's heart is going to explode from the pressure. He recognizes that voice immediately. Granger's, of course.
He turns slightly so she can see the godawful company logo on his godawful uniform but not his face.
"Delivery for Mr. Harry Potter."
"Identification card, please?"
Draco knows what is coming next. He sighs and picks up his ID card from where it's hanging around his neck and holds it up to the wards for verification.
His photo on the ID card aids verification too.
"Malfoy?" she says coldly, and unnecessarily loudly, and the muted voices in the background stop. Draco thinks he can hear Harry's voice repeating his name, and the door suddenly opens wide.
"Malfoy? What the hell are you doing here?"
It's the Weasel this time, and Draco frowns. His assumptions about the occupants of Harry's house have thrown him for a loop, and he forgets about trying to hide himself now. Instead he thrusts the parcel in front of him like protection and repeats, like some kind of moron, "Delivery for Mr. Harry Potter."
"Like hell," Weasley says, just as Granger says, "His ID is legitimate."
"Get off my property before I hex you off it," Weasley says, and Draco begins despairing. He can't leave with the package, and he can't leave without a signature. Getting himself royally hexed might be the only thing that keeps him from losing his job, and he belatedly recognizes just how desperate he's become when losing face to Weasley and Granger is less important than losing his job.
Even more belatedly he realizes that Weasley said 'my' property. Not Harry's, then?
"DELIVERY FOR MR. HARRY POTTER!" he yells, and he cringes, thinking of Madame Delphin's adamant remonstration that all delivery personnel act professionally and cordially at all times. If this little scene ever gets back to her-and from the cold looks he is getting from both Weasley and Granger, it most certainly will-he will face quite the inquiry, before a most certain firing.
"Guys, what is going on here? Malfoy?"
Potter.
"Delivery," Draco repeats for the fortieth time that day, or was that number forty-one? He wants to get out of here, now, and he holds out the package, inwardly begging Potter to take the goddamned thing already. He stares at Potter and he's fairly sure the look on his face is wild and quite clearly close to being deranged with desperation, and he thinks with a vengeance just how fully he despises customer service and vows that the next job he inflicts upon himself will involve zero human contact.
Harry gives Weasley and Granger a look that Draco can't decipher, and gently shoulders them away. They retreat, muttering fervently to each other like chattering chipmunks, probably on their way to owl Draco's employer and file a formal complaint.
Fine, Draco thinks, hoping he can pick up his pay cheque and return his goddamned uniform for the deposit before Delphin and Daughters kicks him out. He doesn't care anymore whose house this is, or the mystery of the parcel. All of it is fine. He just wants to leave.
Harry reaches through the wards and Draco breathes a sigh of utter relief as the package changes hands. Their fingers brush briefly, and Draco's gaze snaps up to Harry's before skittering away.
"Your fingers are freezing," Harry says, and puts the parcel on the floor behind him.
Draco shrugs. He holds out the quill and clipboard to Harry, who takes them.
"Um," Harry says. Draco's gaze is locked on Harry's hands. Sign, goddamn you, Draco thinks wildly. Harry rolls the quill between his fingers. "So, how have you been?"
Draco sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
"Sign on the dotted line, please," he says.
Harry keeps rolling the quill between his fingers and frowning at him. "Um. I haven't seen you in ages. What, um. What have you been up to?"
Draco is this close to begging. He can't stand it anymore: the scrutiny, the wondering, the pitying looks. He can't stand that he has a shithole of a life to return to-that is, if Harry ever lets him go-and he can't stand that he's suddenly wondering how things could have been different somehow.
"Please," he says, looking right at Harry. He knows the light from inside the house is spilling onto his face and he knows that Harry's looking back at him, evaluating and wondering, seeing his poorly dyed brown hair that has never really fooled anyone and the dark smudges under his eyes.
Harry exhales softly. He scratches his name onto the parchment and holds it and the quill out to Draco. A huge weight lifts from Draco's shoulders. Maybe now he won't be fired, if he gets back to Delphin and Daughters with a completed delivery list, maybe that will be sufficient grounds to keep him on, at least for a few more days...
Except there's a small problem, Draco realizes. Harry isn't letting go.
"Potter," he says, trying to find the right grip or torque or physics-inspired move to get his supplies back without breaking them, because he would be deep in the shit if he returned with broken company-provided supplies.
"Wait," Harry says, and Draco looks at him but doesn't stop tugging. He has to go, now. Before Madame Delphin herself swooped in on her flying monkey and fired him in the field.
Draco finally manages to wrench his clipboard and quill back from Potter and hurries down the steps. He has to get to the end of the path before he can Apparate, before he does something crazy like turn around.
"Malfoy," Harry says, and Draco turns around. It's snowing again, and Harry's at the bottom of the steps, barefoot. The sight is incongruous enough for Draco to stand there stupidly while Harry walks-hm, limps-towards him. There's a hint of white bandage showing beneath the cuff of his sweats and it looks exactly like the sort of condition in which you shouldn't be wandering around outside without shoes on in this kind of weather to talk to someone you haven't seen in months.
He looks at Weasley and Granger craning their necks at them like drunken flamingos and shouting helpful safety tips like, "Harry, what the hell are you doing?" and, "You're going to die of exposure!" from the warmth and safety of the doorway.
Harry pauses in front of him, breathing hard from the exertion. Whatever injury he's harboring doesn't seem to be healed well enough for him to be chasing delivery boys across a lawn. He's carrying enough residual heat from the house not to be shivering yet. Snowflakes alight in his hair and eyelashes, cling to his skin before melting. "I forgot," he says.
Draco's mind is blank. "Forgot what?"
"I forgot to tip you." He holds out his hand and Draco can't help extending his hand. A pile of coins lands in his palm.
In fact, there are an awful lot of coins in his hand, and Draco can't help but stare. His pride and his practical side fly into confrontation. Food, and rent, and god, maybe some boots that don't leak, versus... his pride.
Even he's surprised when he says neutrally, "The conventional gratuity is ten percent of the parcel." He's reciting the rule book now, something that every employee of Delphin and Daughters is required to memorize, and he's just a little bit disconcerted at how easily he can recall it. Whatever is in the parcel can't be worth more than fifty Galleons; the more expensive items at Delphin and Daughters are far larger.
Harry considers. "And what if the customer decided to disregard the convention?"
"Then the employee would be suspicious as to the motivations of the customer, and, as the employee is required to report any gratuities earned or face immediate dismissal, the employer would be suspicious as to the conduct of the employee." He sighs. "Please don't do this to me."
Harry uncertainly takes back a few of the coins. There is still an alarming amount of money there, six Galleons, more than he ever thought he'd willingly take from Potter. Still, it's been legitimately earned, and he tucks the coins inside his jacket with a quiet, "Thank you."
Harry's doing the staring now, and Draco self-consciously tugs his hood closer about his face.
"Happy Christmas," he offers uncertainly, before turning to go. He's beyond the edge of the path now; nothing is stopping him from Apparating. Except...
"What are you doing," Harry says, "um, tomorrow? Do you have plans?"
Harry's shivering now, arms tight around his body, breaths dissipating into the darkness. But the look on his face indicates he won't be leaving without an answer.
"I have plans," Draco says. Mostly they involve trying to dry out his boots and sleeping and avoiding his landlord but Harry really doesn't need to know that. But still he doesn't leave. He's giving Potter an opening, he realizes, and for reasons he doesn't entirely understand, he is desperately hoping Potter takes it.
"Tomorrow," Harry says determinedly, "you could come by the house."
"Why?"
"Because."
"Very compelling, Potter."
"I thought so too."
"Generally speaking, isn't it bad form to invite someone over to a house that isn't yours?"
"Probably."
Well, then.
"What time tomorrow?"
***
It's midnight when Draco arrives back at his flat. He's exhausted and starving and there's a threatening note from his landlord on his door and only a jar of pickles in his fridge that's been there since the day he moved in.
He's relieved, though, that he's still gainfully employed by Delphin and Daughters. He'd had to account for one customer complaint, surprisingly not from Granger or Weasley, but from an eighty-eight year old senior citizen who hadn't appreciated Draco's 'cheek' when he'd said, "bye". Draco had managed to argue successfully that the old woman wouldn't have been satisfied with anything less than a, "farewell, Your Majesty," and escaped unscathed.
He lies back on his mattress and kicks off his boots. At least his flat is heated (some of the time) and by hunching under a stack of blankets, Draco finally begins to warm up.
He considers sleeping. He hasn't felt entirely well for months-whether it's his poor diet or stress or the constant running-and his magic seems to be suffering too. His body needs the rest.
But there is Harry.
***
As Draco stands outside Harry's, no, Weasley's house, and stares up once again at the lighted windows, he wonders what in god's name has possessed him to actually take Harry up on his offer. It's too bloody early to be awake on Christmas morning. His boots are still uncomfortably wet despite several attempts at drying spells and his hands are cold even in gloves.
Last night, he'd remembered that he couldn't just waltz up to the house empty-handed; no, he needed some kind of offering. Even if it was Weasley and Granger's house. Not entirely sure what the rules were when you didn't have a lot of money, he'd dragged himself out of bed and gone shopping without much hope.
He found that he still remembered where the best places were to buy things that would impress people: patisseries that specialized in intricately hand-formed marzipan, boutiques that sold exorbitantly priced blown glass or lush fabrics. But he had new knowledge now, out of necessity. He knew where to find the best deals, knew that merchants were practically giving away their perishable items at the end of the day. He decided that it would be hard for Weasley and Granger to find fault with something edible and therefore impermanent, so he visited the market just as it was closing and bought four oranges, the sweet, small seedless kind wrapped in tissue paper.
He'd eaten one for breakfast this morning; the other three are nestled in his cold hands.
Once again, Draco is faced with the reality of the situation: he can't stand out here forever. He doesn't let himself consider turning around and Apparating home. At least this is something different, a ripple, a tiny detour in his existence.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he walks up the path to the front door. The snow has mostly covered up his footprints but he can still see them, ghostly imprints on the concrete. Harry's footprints are still there too. Déjà vu, he thinks wryly, except he knows he's been here before.
He rings the chime.
***
Draco hadn't stayed on the train for long.
With his Nimbus 2000, all the gold he'd been able to withdraw from his vault over a month's time without arousing suspicion, and a few supplies shrunk to fit beneath his robes, Draco had pried open a window in the lavatory as the train pulled out of the station, and left.
He'd stayed hidden for the duration of the war. Most of his money was spent on temporary lodging and food as he moved from place to place, never staying anywhere too long. Of course his plan was inherently flawed: he couldn't run forever. But all escape plans usually are.
He'd kept abreast of the war mostly from what he read in the local wizarding papers. But as the casualty list grew exponentially as the days wore on, Draco stopped reading it entirely.
Draco remembers where he was when he learned that Harry Potter had defeated the Dark Lord. He'd been packing his belongings, preparing for another jump, when he'd looked out the window and seen hundreds of white owls on the horizon, wings flashing, each one bearing the news that everyone had been longing to hear.
Voldemort was dead.
***
"If you explain about your hair," Harry says, opening the front door, "I'll explain about my leg."
"What makes you think that's such a fabulous trade of information?"
He drops the oranges into Harry's hands and kicks off his boots, leaving them in a sodden pile atop a pair of trainers that have to be Weasley's.
"You are curious, aren't you?"
All right, so he is.
Harry leads him through a nauseatingly festive front hall to the kitchen that smells like apples and cinnamon and pine needles. The house seems quiet. He wants to ask where Weasley and Granger are but lets himself linger in the peacefulness of the moment instead.
Draco sits down on one of the stools and Harry shoves a mug of scalding hot cider in front of him. Just cupping his hands around it chases away some of the chill.
"I don't mean to sound ungrateful-though I've been told I have quite a knack for it-but why are you doing this? Tell me it isn't pity."
"It's not pity. I didn't want to spend Christmas alone."
"So you asked the first person who fell upon your doorstep? You have an interesting technique; perhaps they'll name it after you."
Harry snorts. "Actually, I'd been wondering what happened to you. The last time I saw you... actually, I didn't see you, exactly. Just as the Hogwarts Express was leaving the station, I saw someone on a broomstick and I knew it was you. I'd recognize your flying anywhere."
Draco blinks. He'd thought he'd made a clean getaway, no witnesses.
Harry shrugs. "I wondered how you were. What you were doing. How it felt."
"How what felt?"
"Being free."
Draco laughs. "You've got it all wrong, Potter. That wasn't freedom. Freedom implies the ability to make choices and I'd long run out of those. That was... a shining example of cowardice. Desperation."
"What about now?"
There is only earnestness in Harry's expression.
"It isn't pretty. But it's my life."
Harry smiles and he looks away. "I used to look for you, you know. On the battlefield, during the fighting. Old habit, I guess." His smile fades. "I remember being so grateful that you weren't there."
Draco's not sure what to make of that. He drinks cider so fast he scalds off many useful taste buds.
"What about Weasley and Granger? I mean... this is their house, isn't it?"
Harry nods. "They'll be back. They're visiting his parents, and then they'll be visiting hers."
"That's not what I mean. You said you didn't want to be alone. You weren't alone last night."
"Mornings are different," Harry says. "The part right after the waking... during the war, I... well, let's just say I'm not much of a morning person. Sometimes I don't like waking up to an empty house."
He seems to have said more than he meant to, because he's suddenly up and out of his seat, walking around the kitchen even though it hurts. Draco feels the need to change the subject so Potter will sit the hell down and stop making those wincing faces.
"You said you'd tell me about your leg," he says.
Potter stops hobbling about. "You were right when you said it wouldn't be much of a trade. Ron and Hermione invited me to spend Christmas hols here with them. My first day, I slipped off the front steps and sprained my ankle. I have a pretty spectacular bruise on my... um, never mind."
Draco snorts. "The end?"
"The end. Sadly enough."
Draco now has an image of Potter flying through the air with limbs askew and flailing on constant replay in his mind. He snickers.
"It isn't funny," Harry protests.
Draco smirks. "It is if you're you, and I'm me."
"Lucky for you, then." Harry narrows his eyes and oh, how Draco recognizes that look. "It's your turn. Spill."
"It's not as exciting as a spectacular fall off steps," Draco hedges. He kicks himself for thinking this was a good idea at all, and he considers making up something quickly about brown being the new blond. He shrugs. "I needed a change."
He looks up to see Harry studying him, and he looks away. "I like it," Harry says, and doesn't press for more.
Oh, Draco can tell he's dying to ask. He wants to know everything. Where he went during the war, what he did. Why he's working for Delphin and Daughters. Why his options on Christmas day boil down to 1) hang out with Potter in an improbable situation or 2) sleep. And it's not like Harry doesn't know the words to use, because he's always been blunt, no tact whatsoever.
But he doesn't say any of those things. What he says instead is, "Come on. The living room upstairs is warmer."
***
There's nowhere else to sit but the floor or the white couch. Draco doesn't understand the logic of white couches. Sure, they look nice-there was a room in Malfoy Manor with white couches and of course he was never allowed to sit on them-but they are terribly impractical. He can only assume, therefore, that Weasley and Granger are never planning to have children, and that they will be supremely unimpressed with any dirt he might leave on the couch.
Feeling petty, he tucks his feet underneath him, thereby soiling the couch beyond repair.
There's a tree in the corner with a few scattered presents beneath it. He can see himself in the reflective ornaments, warped and disfigured. He frowns and looks away.
Harry is propping his leg up on a cushion, sneaking glances at Draco.
"Go ahead and ask before you break something. Else."
"Am I that obvious?" Harry says. "And I told you, it's a sprain."
"You were always that obvious."
"All right," he says. "How long have you been sick?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your magic's off," Harry says quietly. "I noticed it yesterday when you were Apparating. Plus, you look like shit."
Draco gets up and moves away. "Since when do you patrol the streets diagnosing people?"
"I don't," he says. "I can't. Not yet, anyway."
"What's that supposed to mean?" As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Draco figures it out. "You must be apprenticing with Beth Lin at St. Mungo's."
"You can tell that just by looking at me?"
"She's the best. I wouldn't have expected any less."
Harry's really have a time of it now, keeping the blushing to an appropriate level.
"Are you going to answer my question, then?"
"I wasn't planning on it." He touches one of the ornaments on the tree. Pale blue, spire-shaped, and incredibly fragile between his fingers.
He can see Harry in its reflection, reaching for one of the oranges Draco brought and unwrapping the tissue paper. Harry's nails pierce the thin, soft rind and the scent of oranges spikes the air. Draco can feel his own skin reacting as Harry tears away long strips. For an impossible and juvenile moment, Draco can imagine those oil-scented fingers sliding through his hair, leaving fragrant evidence of their explorations all over his body. He feels...
Well, he feels, and that's something new in itself.
"Ask me something else," he says. He doesn't want to talk about being tired and stressed and starving, especially when at the moment, he feels none of those things.
"All right," Harry says. "What are you doing tomorrow?"
***
Technically it's a week before their schedules coincide with each other, but Draco thinks it's the mere fact of having something to look forward to that buoys him through the interim days. Draco has piles of new deliveries to make, reams of new and imaginative abuse to take from customers who insist that they placed their deliveries early enough to ensure by-Christmas delivery, miles of perky smiles and pleasant greetings to be doled out until Draco thinks he will snap and go on a lengthy and destructive rampage. He doesn't, though, and is certain it has less to do with any sort of personal restraint than the shivery warmth he's carried with him since Christmas.
Harry has his own obligations: spending time with Weasley and Granger, giving his ankle time to heal, studying for Beth Lin's reputedly horrific pop quizzes on human anatomy and physiology, and sending Draco tins of "leftovers that will only go to waste, or to Ron's thighs."
Draco doesn't want to spend a moment thinking about Weasley's thighs, and his practical side won't let him return good food. So he eats and works and sleeps and has dreams about being unwrapped and peeled right down the center.
***
Harry greets him with a smile and a cup of hot cocoa. Draco kicks off his boots and sees that Weasley's wisely quarantined his trainers in the corner. The house is quiet and Harry leads him to the living room.
"Where are Weasley and Granger?"
"They're at a party of some sort. I don't really know. Hermione got all dressed up, and Ron... well, he's wearing clean clothes at least."
"Why aren't you with them?"
"My ankle still hurts."
Draco raises an eyebrow, watching him walk up the stairs without discomfort. "Really."
Harry looks over his shoulder and blushes a little. "Well, no."
The tree is still up and the smell of sap and resin is strong. It reminds Draco of his time at Hogwarts: snowball fights and petty rivalries and worlds of black and white. The fire crackles and the heat is pleasant against Draco's skin. He heads for the white couch, which looks like it's been subjected to many a scouring charm, but Harry apparently has other ideas. He slides open the huge glass doors that look out onto the balcony and steps outside.
"You realize it's the middle of winter," Draco says. Not to mention that Harry's in just a T-shirt and sweats, and he's barefoot again.
"Come on," Harry says. Draco raises a skeptical eyebrow but Harry isn't turning blue or falling over so he gets up and follows.
A warming spell prickles his skin as he crosses the threshold and Harry smirks.
They lean on the railing, shoulder to shoulder but not quite touching, and look out over the landscape. The night is beautiful and clear, and the world sparkles and shines like something precious. The urge to speak comes and goes. Draco thinks it's the end of year syndrome, the need to talk about things that have happened-messy things like regret and what ifs and what might have happened-and the desire to make overly optimistic plans for the coming year. With his seasonal contract terminated and his pay cheque deposited into his account at Gringotts, Draco's big plans involve getting another job. It would be nice, he thinks, to have some stability in his life. As for regrets...
He shifts and his fingers brush Harry's bare arm. Harry sucks in a breath. "Your hands are freezing."
Draco moves to tuck them in his pockets but Harry takes both of Draco's hands in his. Slowly, shyly, Harry guides Draco's hands under the hem of his shirt and presses them against his stomach. Both of them jump at the sudden contact: Harry from the cold and Draco from, well, god, the fucking intimacy of it and the intensity in Harry's eyes and the sudden heat crackling through his body. Harry doesn't let go, and Draco keeps his hands there on the warm, warm expanse of Harry's skin. Ever so slowly, he inches them up Harry's chest and Harry's breathing staggers and his skin crawls and he shudders like he can't figure out what to feel first. Harry's fingers move from Draco's hands to clench against his waist, and his eyes close. Draco leans in very close to his ear to whisper, "Warm me up."
***
Draco's never really thought about it before, but slow kisses accompanied by tentative looks and touching outside on a balcony that belongs to neither of them is just about the best thing in the entire world. Harry's eyelashes brush his cheeks and his lips linger.
"You lost my shirt," Harry murmurs.
"I didn't lose it. It's right there. Right... down there. In the snow."
Harry snickers.
Draco's filled with contentment. Although he knows it's fleeting, because that's the way of the world, he's determined to enjoy it while it's right here in his arms.
"You know what they say, don't you?" Harry says. "About New Year's Eve?"
Draco shakes his head.
"Whatever you're doing at the stroke of midnight is what you'll be doing for the rest of the new year."
Harry holds his gaze a lot longer than is really polite, or necessary, and even then it takes a moment for Draco to catch on. Draco blinks and color seeps into his cheeks. He laughs a little, and Harry smiles.
"Better start running now, Malfoy." There's a strange mixture of affection and challenge in Harry's voice. "There's only a few seconds left."
Draco finds himself smiling. "So," he says. "What are you doing tomorrow?"
***
It's well past midnight when Draco hears the crackle of Apparation out on the walkway. He doesn't look, though, because he's rather occupied, and so is Harry, tongues and hands and everything else.
He smiles against Harry's mouth when he hears Weasley shuffling about cluelessly below them.
"What the hell? Has Harry taken to throwing his clothes out windows now? Wait, I bet this has something to do with Malfoy! Just wait till I get my hands on him-"
"Um, Ron?" Granger, now. "Don't look up. Whatever you do, don't look-"
"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"
The End
Happy Christmas, everyone! <3!!!!
The Way of the World
It's his last delivery of the night.
Draco doesn't know how long he's been standing out in the snow by the hedges, looking up at the flickering lights and moving shapes inside the house, wondering exactly when that bolt of courage will arrive so he can attend to his humiliation and get out of these fucking wet clothes and boots already.
It's been a year for humiliation. He's had a slew of thankless jobs since returning to London, from dishwasher at the Hog's Head to birdcage cleaner at the Owlry. That was where he'd heard about this job just before being laid off, this fucking delivery boy job. While owls usually deliver much of the post, this time of year, as a charitable gesture (and excellent press and publicity), Delphin and Daughters, makers of fine gifts and housewares since 1673, was offering seasonal work to a limited number of unemployed wizards.
Draco was unemployed, and desperate to boot.
Even though he hated Madame Delphin's condescending attitude and her obvious pleasure at giving a Malfoy orders, he considered himself lucky to have found employment. Any employment.
But just when he didn't think he could sink any lower, this morning he checked the address of the final package in his rucksack and read:
Mr. Harry Pot-
He's saved that delivery for last, hoping that somehow a miracle will occur and he won't have to actually deliver it. But he has to deliver it, and he has to obtain a signature upon delivery, because it's Delphin and Daughters's fucking policy, and if he doesn't obtain a signature he's fucking screwed and out of a job, again.
The smooth brown wrapping paper crinkles under Draco's fingers. He glances down at it. The return address has been concealed, because return addresses aren't meant for delivery boy eyes. The brown wrapping has torn a bit where Draco was unnecessarily rough--and for a moment he can just see Potter complaining to Draco's employer about the unsatisfactory condition of the parcel upon arrival and Draco being forced to take a pay cut or some other cruel and unusual punishment-and he can see annoyingly festive wrapping paper underneath.
A Christmas present, then, Draco thinks. Not something that Harry ordered for himself. He wonders who it's from. A girlfriend, maybe? Or maybe he's ordered it for someone, to be presented in person.
Perhaps that's who is inside Harry's house, making those shapes against the drawn curtains. Draco doesn't feel much of anything at that realization, not jealousy or hatred, just a strange ache that feels inexplicably like regret.
Draco wonders just how much longer he can convince himself that standing out in the cold and snow is the best option.
A little bit longer, anyhow.
Harry's house is small and yet, it looks inviting. There's a balcony on the second floor. The pavement has been shoveled, so really, it wouldn't take much for Draco to just walk up to the front steps and ring the chime. There are small window boxes on the sills, empty now, but Draco imagines they might hold sleeping bulbs waiting for Spring. It looks like a place that Potter would look forward to returning to after a hard day at work-or whatever Potter does with his time nowadays. In fact, Draco really isn't sure what Harry does anymore. He's been too busy worrying about scraping together enough rent to stave off an eviction notice, and wondering whether he'll have enough left over from his meager pay cheque to buy some decent food to keep up with the goings on of Harry Potter.
Draco shivers and clutches the parcel. He's dawdled too long; soon Madame Delphin will be sending a search party after him, not for his own safety in the growing snow drifts, but to ensure the integrity of the package and the immutability of their reputation for customer service (even if they have to pry the package from Draco's frozen corpse). He can't wait any longer if he still hopes to have a job for the rest of the holiday season.
He crams his hood over his head but with his luck he doesn't hold out much hope that it will do much to conceal his identity. Besides, Potter could always pick him out at a distance, whether it be his body language or some innate sense. He walks quickly up the shoveled path and his heart starts pounding, harder with every step that brings him closer to the inevitable.
He rings the chime and waits, his heart beating out a frantic rhythm against his rib cage. It will be over soon, he thinks fiercely, one way or another.
He hasn't felt this kind of dizzy anxiety in months. It's the expectation of conflict, of combat. It's different from the four A.M. personal visits from his landlord, or the shitty treatment from the other employees at the parcel pick up area at Delphin and Daughters. It's different, he realizes, because it's Potter, and history that goes way back, and old scars, and unanswered questions.
They didn't exactly part on poor terms. In fact, they didn't exactly formally part ways either. The last time Draco saw Harry Potter was at the Hogwarts Express just days before the war broke out.
Harry had gone with Hagrid to see off the younger students and Draco had boarded the train too, on his way home. And, as everyone knew, to be Marked.
Harry had been waving to a car full of Gryffindors. Draco's very last memory of Hogwarts was Potter's hopeful smile that Draco was entirely certain had been just a stupidly brave facade.
He is still thinking about it when the door opens part way, shielded with a shimmering warding charm.
"Yes?"
Draco's heart is going to explode from the pressure. He recognizes that voice immediately. Granger's, of course.
He turns slightly so she can see the godawful company logo on his godawful uniform but not his face.
"Delivery for Mr. Harry Potter."
"Identification card, please?"
Draco knows what is coming next. He sighs and picks up his ID card from where it's hanging around his neck and holds it up to the wards for verification.
His photo on the ID card aids verification too.
"Malfoy?" she says coldly, and unnecessarily loudly, and the muted voices in the background stop. Draco thinks he can hear Harry's voice repeating his name, and the door suddenly opens wide.
"Malfoy? What the hell are you doing here?"
It's the Weasel this time, and Draco frowns. His assumptions about the occupants of Harry's house have thrown him for a loop, and he forgets about trying to hide himself now. Instead he thrusts the parcel in front of him like protection and repeats, like some kind of moron, "Delivery for Mr. Harry Potter."
"Like hell," Weasley says, just as Granger says, "His ID is legitimate."
"Get off my property before I hex you off it," Weasley says, and Draco begins despairing. He can't leave with the package, and he can't leave without a signature. Getting himself royally hexed might be the only thing that keeps him from losing his job, and he belatedly recognizes just how desperate he's become when losing face to Weasley and Granger is less important than losing his job.
Even more belatedly he realizes that Weasley said 'my' property. Not Harry's, then?
"DELIVERY FOR MR. HARRY POTTER!" he yells, and he cringes, thinking of Madame Delphin's adamant remonstration that all delivery personnel act professionally and cordially at all times. If this little scene ever gets back to her-and from the cold looks he is getting from both Weasley and Granger, it most certainly will-he will face quite the inquiry, before a most certain firing.
"Guys, what is going on here? Malfoy?"
Potter.
"Delivery," Draco repeats for the fortieth time that day, or was that number forty-one? He wants to get out of here, now, and he holds out the package, inwardly begging Potter to take the goddamned thing already. He stares at Potter and he's fairly sure the look on his face is wild and quite clearly close to being deranged with desperation, and he thinks with a vengeance just how fully he despises customer service and vows that the next job he inflicts upon himself will involve zero human contact.
Harry gives Weasley and Granger a look that Draco can't decipher, and gently shoulders them away. They retreat, muttering fervently to each other like chattering chipmunks, probably on their way to owl Draco's employer and file a formal complaint.
Fine, Draco thinks, hoping he can pick up his pay cheque and return his goddamned uniform for the deposit before Delphin and Daughters kicks him out. He doesn't care anymore whose house this is, or the mystery of the parcel. All of it is fine. He just wants to leave.
Harry reaches through the wards and Draco breathes a sigh of utter relief as the package changes hands. Their fingers brush briefly, and Draco's gaze snaps up to Harry's before skittering away.
"Your fingers are freezing," Harry says, and puts the parcel on the floor behind him.
Draco shrugs. He holds out the quill and clipboard to Harry, who takes them.
"Um," Harry says. Draco's gaze is locked on Harry's hands. Sign, goddamn you, Draco thinks wildly. Harry rolls the quill between his fingers. "So, how have you been?"
Draco sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
"Sign on the dotted line, please," he says.
Harry keeps rolling the quill between his fingers and frowning at him. "Um. I haven't seen you in ages. What, um. What have you been up to?"
Draco is this close to begging. He can't stand it anymore: the scrutiny, the wondering, the pitying looks. He can't stand that he has a shithole of a life to return to-that is, if Harry ever lets him go-and he can't stand that he's suddenly wondering how things could have been different somehow.
"Please," he says, looking right at Harry. He knows the light from inside the house is spilling onto his face and he knows that Harry's looking back at him, evaluating and wondering, seeing his poorly dyed brown hair that has never really fooled anyone and the dark smudges under his eyes.
Harry exhales softly. He scratches his name onto the parchment and holds it and the quill out to Draco. A huge weight lifts from Draco's shoulders. Maybe now he won't be fired, if he gets back to Delphin and Daughters with a completed delivery list, maybe that will be sufficient grounds to keep him on, at least for a few more days...
Except there's a small problem, Draco realizes. Harry isn't letting go.
"Potter," he says, trying to find the right grip or torque or physics-inspired move to get his supplies back without breaking them, because he would be deep in the shit if he returned with broken company-provided supplies.
"Wait," Harry says, and Draco looks at him but doesn't stop tugging. He has to go, now. Before Madame Delphin herself swooped in on her flying monkey and fired him in the field.
Draco finally manages to wrench his clipboard and quill back from Potter and hurries down the steps. He has to get to the end of the path before he can Apparate, before he does something crazy like turn around.
"Malfoy," Harry says, and Draco turns around. It's snowing again, and Harry's at the bottom of the steps, barefoot. The sight is incongruous enough for Draco to stand there stupidly while Harry walks-hm, limps-towards him. There's a hint of white bandage showing beneath the cuff of his sweats and it looks exactly like the sort of condition in which you shouldn't be wandering around outside without shoes on in this kind of weather to talk to someone you haven't seen in months.
He looks at Weasley and Granger craning their necks at them like drunken flamingos and shouting helpful safety tips like, "Harry, what the hell are you doing?" and, "You're going to die of exposure!" from the warmth and safety of the doorway.
Harry pauses in front of him, breathing hard from the exertion. Whatever injury he's harboring doesn't seem to be healed well enough for him to be chasing delivery boys across a lawn. He's carrying enough residual heat from the house not to be shivering yet. Snowflakes alight in his hair and eyelashes, cling to his skin before melting. "I forgot," he says.
Draco's mind is blank. "Forgot what?"
"I forgot to tip you." He holds out his hand and Draco can't help extending his hand. A pile of coins lands in his palm.
In fact, there are an awful lot of coins in his hand, and Draco can't help but stare. His pride and his practical side fly into confrontation. Food, and rent, and god, maybe some boots that don't leak, versus... his pride.
Even he's surprised when he says neutrally, "The conventional gratuity is ten percent of the parcel." He's reciting the rule book now, something that every employee of Delphin and Daughters is required to memorize, and he's just a little bit disconcerted at how easily he can recall it. Whatever is in the parcel can't be worth more than fifty Galleons; the more expensive items at Delphin and Daughters are far larger.
Harry considers. "And what if the customer decided to disregard the convention?"
"Then the employee would be suspicious as to the motivations of the customer, and, as the employee is required to report any gratuities earned or face immediate dismissal, the employer would be suspicious as to the conduct of the employee." He sighs. "Please don't do this to me."
Harry uncertainly takes back a few of the coins. There is still an alarming amount of money there, six Galleons, more than he ever thought he'd willingly take from Potter. Still, it's been legitimately earned, and he tucks the coins inside his jacket with a quiet, "Thank you."
Harry's doing the staring now, and Draco self-consciously tugs his hood closer about his face.
"Happy Christmas," he offers uncertainly, before turning to go. He's beyond the edge of the path now; nothing is stopping him from Apparating. Except...
"What are you doing," Harry says, "um, tomorrow? Do you have plans?"
Harry's shivering now, arms tight around his body, breaths dissipating into the darkness. But the look on his face indicates he won't be leaving without an answer.
"I have plans," Draco says. Mostly they involve trying to dry out his boots and sleeping and avoiding his landlord but Harry really doesn't need to know that. But still he doesn't leave. He's giving Potter an opening, he realizes, and for reasons he doesn't entirely understand, he is desperately hoping Potter takes it.
"Tomorrow," Harry says determinedly, "you could come by the house."
"Why?"
"Because."
"Very compelling, Potter."
"I thought so too."
"Generally speaking, isn't it bad form to invite someone over to a house that isn't yours?"
"Probably."
Well, then.
"What time tomorrow?"
***
It's midnight when Draco arrives back at his flat. He's exhausted and starving and there's a threatening note from his landlord on his door and only a jar of pickles in his fridge that's been there since the day he moved in.
He's relieved, though, that he's still gainfully employed by Delphin and Daughters. He'd had to account for one customer complaint, surprisingly not from Granger or Weasley, but from an eighty-eight year old senior citizen who hadn't appreciated Draco's 'cheek' when he'd said, "bye". Draco had managed to argue successfully that the old woman wouldn't have been satisfied with anything less than a, "farewell, Your Majesty," and escaped unscathed.
He lies back on his mattress and kicks off his boots. At least his flat is heated (some of the time) and by hunching under a stack of blankets, Draco finally begins to warm up.
He considers sleeping. He hasn't felt entirely well for months-whether it's his poor diet or stress or the constant running-and his magic seems to be suffering too. His body needs the rest.
But there is Harry.
***
As Draco stands outside Harry's, no, Weasley's house, and stares up once again at the lighted windows, he wonders what in god's name has possessed him to actually take Harry up on his offer. It's too bloody early to be awake on Christmas morning. His boots are still uncomfortably wet despite several attempts at drying spells and his hands are cold even in gloves.
Last night, he'd remembered that he couldn't just waltz up to the house empty-handed; no, he needed some kind of offering. Even if it was Weasley and Granger's house. Not entirely sure what the rules were when you didn't have a lot of money, he'd dragged himself out of bed and gone shopping without much hope.
He found that he still remembered where the best places were to buy things that would impress people: patisseries that specialized in intricately hand-formed marzipan, boutiques that sold exorbitantly priced blown glass or lush fabrics. But he had new knowledge now, out of necessity. He knew where to find the best deals, knew that merchants were practically giving away their perishable items at the end of the day. He decided that it would be hard for Weasley and Granger to find fault with something edible and therefore impermanent, so he visited the market just as it was closing and bought four oranges, the sweet, small seedless kind wrapped in tissue paper.
He'd eaten one for breakfast this morning; the other three are nestled in his cold hands.
Once again, Draco is faced with the reality of the situation: he can't stand out here forever. He doesn't let himself consider turning around and Apparating home. At least this is something different, a ripple, a tiny detour in his existence.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he walks up the path to the front door. The snow has mostly covered up his footprints but he can still see them, ghostly imprints on the concrete. Harry's footprints are still there too. Déjà vu, he thinks wryly, except he knows he's been here before.
He rings the chime.
***
Draco hadn't stayed on the train for long.
With his Nimbus 2000, all the gold he'd been able to withdraw from his vault over a month's time without arousing suspicion, and a few supplies shrunk to fit beneath his robes, Draco had pried open a window in the lavatory as the train pulled out of the station, and left.
He'd stayed hidden for the duration of the war. Most of his money was spent on temporary lodging and food as he moved from place to place, never staying anywhere too long. Of course his plan was inherently flawed: he couldn't run forever. But all escape plans usually are.
He'd kept abreast of the war mostly from what he read in the local wizarding papers. But as the casualty list grew exponentially as the days wore on, Draco stopped reading it entirely.
Draco remembers where he was when he learned that Harry Potter had defeated the Dark Lord. He'd been packing his belongings, preparing for another jump, when he'd looked out the window and seen hundreds of white owls on the horizon, wings flashing, each one bearing the news that everyone had been longing to hear.
Voldemort was dead.
***
"If you explain about your hair," Harry says, opening the front door, "I'll explain about my leg."
"What makes you think that's such a fabulous trade of information?"
He drops the oranges into Harry's hands and kicks off his boots, leaving them in a sodden pile atop a pair of trainers that have to be Weasley's.
"You are curious, aren't you?"
All right, so he is.
Harry leads him through a nauseatingly festive front hall to the kitchen that smells like apples and cinnamon and pine needles. The house seems quiet. He wants to ask where Weasley and Granger are but lets himself linger in the peacefulness of the moment instead.
Draco sits down on one of the stools and Harry shoves a mug of scalding hot cider in front of him. Just cupping his hands around it chases away some of the chill.
"I don't mean to sound ungrateful-though I've been told I have quite a knack for it-but why are you doing this? Tell me it isn't pity."
"It's not pity. I didn't want to spend Christmas alone."
"So you asked the first person who fell upon your doorstep? You have an interesting technique; perhaps they'll name it after you."
Harry snorts. "Actually, I'd been wondering what happened to you. The last time I saw you... actually, I didn't see you, exactly. Just as the Hogwarts Express was leaving the station, I saw someone on a broomstick and I knew it was you. I'd recognize your flying anywhere."
Draco blinks. He'd thought he'd made a clean getaway, no witnesses.
Harry shrugs. "I wondered how you were. What you were doing. How it felt."
"How what felt?"
"Being free."
Draco laughs. "You've got it all wrong, Potter. That wasn't freedom. Freedom implies the ability to make choices and I'd long run out of those. That was... a shining example of cowardice. Desperation."
"What about now?"
There is only earnestness in Harry's expression.
"It isn't pretty. But it's my life."
Harry smiles and he looks away. "I used to look for you, you know. On the battlefield, during the fighting. Old habit, I guess." His smile fades. "I remember being so grateful that you weren't there."
Draco's not sure what to make of that. He drinks cider so fast he scalds off many useful taste buds.
"What about Weasley and Granger? I mean... this is their house, isn't it?"
Harry nods. "They'll be back. They're visiting his parents, and then they'll be visiting hers."
"That's not what I mean. You said you didn't want to be alone. You weren't alone last night."
"Mornings are different," Harry says. "The part right after the waking... during the war, I... well, let's just say I'm not much of a morning person. Sometimes I don't like waking up to an empty house."
He seems to have said more than he meant to, because he's suddenly up and out of his seat, walking around the kitchen even though it hurts. Draco feels the need to change the subject so Potter will sit the hell down and stop making those wincing faces.
"You said you'd tell me about your leg," he says.
Potter stops hobbling about. "You were right when you said it wouldn't be much of a trade. Ron and Hermione invited me to spend Christmas hols here with them. My first day, I slipped off the front steps and sprained my ankle. I have a pretty spectacular bruise on my... um, never mind."
Draco snorts. "The end?"
"The end. Sadly enough."
Draco now has an image of Potter flying through the air with limbs askew and flailing on constant replay in his mind. He snickers.
"It isn't funny," Harry protests.
Draco smirks. "It is if you're you, and I'm me."
"Lucky for you, then." Harry narrows his eyes and oh, how Draco recognizes that look. "It's your turn. Spill."
"It's not as exciting as a spectacular fall off steps," Draco hedges. He kicks himself for thinking this was a good idea at all, and he considers making up something quickly about brown being the new blond. He shrugs. "I needed a change."
He looks up to see Harry studying him, and he looks away. "I like it," Harry says, and doesn't press for more.
Oh, Draco can tell he's dying to ask. He wants to know everything. Where he went during the war, what he did. Why he's working for Delphin and Daughters. Why his options on Christmas day boil down to 1) hang out with Potter in an improbable situation or 2) sleep. And it's not like Harry doesn't know the words to use, because he's always been blunt, no tact whatsoever.
But he doesn't say any of those things. What he says instead is, "Come on. The living room upstairs is warmer."
***
There's nowhere else to sit but the floor or the white couch. Draco doesn't understand the logic of white couches. Sure, they look nice-there was a room in Malfoy Manor with white couches and of course he was never allowed to sit on them-but they are terribly impractical. He can only assume, therefore, that Weasley and Granger are never planning to have children, and that they will be supremely unimpressed with any dirt he might leave on the couch.
Feeling petty, he tucks his feet underneath him, thereby soiling the couch beyond repair.
There's a tree in the corner with a few scattered presents beneath it. He can see himself in the reflective ornaments, warped and disfigured. He frowns and looks away.
Harry is propping his leg up on a cushion, sneaking glances at Draco.
"Go ahead and ask before you break something. Else."
"Am I that obvious?" Harry says. "And I told you, it's a sprain."
"You were always that obvious."
"All right," he says. "How long have you been sick?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your magic's off," Harry says quietly. "I noticed it yesterday when you were Apparating. Plus, you look like shit."
Draco gets up and moves away. "Since when do you patrol the streets diagnosing people?"
"I don't," he says. "I can't. Not yet, anyway."
"What's that supposed to mean?" As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Draco figures it out. "You must be apprenticing with Beth Lin at St. Mungo's."
"You can tell that just by looking at me?"
"She's the best. I wouldn't have expected any less."
Harry's really have a time of it now, keeping the blushing to an appropriate level.
"Are you going to answer my question, then?"
"I wasn't planning on it." He touches one of the ornaments on the tree. Pale blue, spire-shaped, and incredibly fragile between his fingers.
He can see Harry in its reflection, reaching for one of the oranges Draco brought and unwrapping the tissue paper. Harry's nails pierce the thin, soft rind and the scent of oranges spikes the air. Draco can feel his own skin reacting as Harry tears away long strips. For an impossible and juvenile moment, Draco can imagine those oil-scented fingers sliding through his hair, leaving fragrant evidence of their explorations all over his body. He feels...
Well, he feels, and that's something new in itself.
"Ask me something else," he says. He doesn't want to talk about being tired and stressed and starving, especially when at the moment, he feels none of those things.
"All right," Harry says. "What are you doing tomorrow?"
***
Technically it's a week before their schedules coincide with each other, but Draco thinks it's the mere fact of having something to look forward to that buoys him through the interim days. Draco has piles of new deliveries to make, reams of new and imaginative abuse to take from customers who insist that they placed their deliveries early enough to ensure by-Christmas delivery, miles of perky smiles and pleasant greetings to be doled out until Draco thinks he will snap and go on a lengthy and destructive rampage. He doesn't, though, and is certain it has less to do with any sort of personal restraint than the shivery warmth he's carried with him since Christmas.
Harry has his own obligations: spending time with Weasley and Granger, giving his ankle time to heal, studying for Beth Lin's reputedly horrific pop quizzes on human anatomy and physiology, and sending Draco tins of "leftovers that will only go to waste, or to Ron's thighs."
Draco doesn't want to spend a moment thinking about Weasley's thighs, and his practical side won't let him return good food. So he eats and works and sleeps and has dreams about being unwrapped and peeled right down the center.
***
Harry greets him with a smile and a cup of hot cocoa. Draco kicks off his boots and sees that Weasley's wisely quarantined his trainers in the corner. The house is quiet and Harry leads him to the living room.
"Where are Weasley and Granger?"
"They're at a party of some sort. I don't really know. Hermione got all dressed up, and Ron... well, he's wearing clean clothes at least."
"Why aren't you with them?"
"My ankle still hurts."
Draco raises an eyebrow, watching him walk up the stairs without discomfort. "Really."
Harry looks over his shoulder and blushes a little. "Well, no."
The tree is still up and the smell of sap and resin is strong. It reminds Draco of his time at Hogwarts: snowball fights and petty rivalries and worlds of black and white. The fire crackles and the heat is pleasant against Draco's skin. He heads for the white couch, which looks like it's been subjected to many a scouring charm, but Harry apparently has other ideas. He slides open the huge glass doors that look out onto the balcony and steps outside.
"You realize it's the middle of winter," Draco says. Not to mention that Harry's in just a T-shirt and sweats, and he's barefoot again.
"Come on," Harry says. Draco raises a skeptical eyebrow but Harry isn't turning blue or falling over so he gets up and follows.
A warming spell prickles his skin as he crosses the threshold and Harry smirks.
They lean on the railing, shoulder to shoulder but not quite touching, and look out over the landscape. The night is beautiful and clear, and the world sparkles and shines like something precious. The urge to speak comes and goes. Draco thinks it's the end of year syndrome, the need to talk about things that have happened-messy things like regret and what ifs and what might have happened-and the desire to make overly optimistic plans for the coming year. With his seasonal contract terminated and his pay cheque deposited into his account at Gringotts, Draco's big plans involve getting another job. It would be nice, he thinks, to have some stability in his life. As for regrets...
He shifts and his fingers brush Harry's bare arm. Harry sucks in a breath. "Your hands are freezing."
Draco moves to tuck them in his pockets but Harry takes both of Draco's hands in his. Slowly, shyly, Harry guides Draco's hands under the hem of his shirt and presses them against his stomach. Both of them jump at the sudden contact: Harry from the cold and Draco from, well, god, the fucking intimacy of it and the intensity in Harry's eyes and the sudden heat crackling through his body. Harry doesn't let go, and Draco keeps his hands there on the warm, warm expanse of Harry's skin. Ever so slowly, he inches them up Harry's chest and Harry's breathing staggers and his skin crawls and he shudders like he can't figure out what to feel first. Harry's fingers move from Draco's hands to clench against his waist, and his eyes close. Draco leans in very close to his ear to whisper, "Warm me up."
***
Draco's never really thought about it before, but slow kisses accompanied by tentative looks and touching outside on a balcony that belongs to neither of them is just about the best thing in the entire world. Harry's eyelashes brush his cheeks and his lips linger.
"You lost my shirt," Harry murmurs.
"I didn't lose it. It's right there. Right... down there. In the snow."
Harry snickers.
Draco's filled with contentment. Although he knows it's fleeting, because that's the way of the world, he's determined to enjoy it while it's right here in his arms.
"You know what they say, don't you?" Harry says. "About New Year's Eve?"
Draco shakes his head.
"Whatever you're doing at the stroke of midnight is what you'll be doing for the rest of the new year."
Harry holds his gaze a lot longer than is really polite, or necessary, and even then it takes a moment for Draco to catch on. Draco blinks and color seeps into his cheeks. He laughs a little, and Harry smiles.
"Better start running now, Malfoy." There's a strange mixture of affection and challenge in Harry's voice. "There's only a few seconds left."
Draco finds himself smiling. "So," he says. "What are you doing tomorrow?"
***
It's well past midnight when Draco hears the crackle of Apparation out on the walkway. He doesn't look, though, because he's rather occupied, and so is Harry, tongues and hands and everything else.
He smiles against Harry's mouth when he hears Weasley shuffling about cluelessly below them.
"What the hell? Has Harry taken to throwing his clothes out windows now? Wait, I bet this has something to do with Malfoy! Just wait till I get my hands on him-"
"Um, Ron?" Granger, now. "Don't look up. Whatever you do, don't look-"
"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"
The End