Draco is pushing through Godric's Hollow, ignoring the wizards watching him as they cross the stark white streets and pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. Children are littered through the crowd– they are chasing each other, hurling snowballs and sharing the red-green crackers between, laughter ringing in his ears.
He increases his strides as he sees a small square ahead, barely lit by the wavering streetlights. Here the snow is compacted and slippery from the constant bustle and he is stopped by a small blond child sliding into him. Chuckling slightly, he bends down to her level and extends his gloved hand to her as she struggles to sit up. Her cold fingers slide into his and Draco helps her to her feet, breath catching as he stares into familiar green eyes. She blushes, thanks him and runs away, leaving him unnerved and colder than before.
Looking up again, he finds himself in front of the Potters' memorial, under the eyes of the man with the same untamable hair and glasses and his kind-faced wife, arms protectively wrapped around the young child who plagued Draco's dreams. He resists the urge to run his fingers across the baby's forehead, unmarked and smooth, instead standing to look his fill at Harry's family.
He turns away to face the glass windows of the church, inhaling deeply and savouring the smells from the pub, listening to the bursts of drunken pleasure and pop music escaping through the doors. The sounds of carols grow as he nudges the kissing gate open, throat constricting in anticipation as he begins his journey through the snow once more.
Draco doesn't understand why he feels the need to press against the walls of the church as he edges along, hiding under the shadows beneath the glass-stained windows, shining brilliantly in the light of the full moon. He pauses as a chill runs down his back, remembering the bared teeth of Fenrir Greyback pacing through the walls of the manor and pushes the memory away, burying it beneath his memories of the warm fireplaces with his parents, the dinners together, opening his presents and watching Lucius and Narcissa kiss fondly under the mistletoe. He continues on.
The rows of tombstones draped in snow are neat and numerous, covered in the pale blanket of colours brightly reflected by the glass windows of the church. The image of a pretty brunette woman smiles down at Draco as he moves towards the nearest grave and drops to his knees to read the carvings, breaking into an uneasy smile. Of course, it is an Abbott, just like Harry had said–
He sobers and his smile disappears, standing again and brushing snow off his robes to walk carefully down deeper into the graveyard. He wades through the white water now, peering at the graves and lips quirking into a smile each time he recognises a name. The particularly old grave in the yard bears the sign of the deathly hallows and Draco fingers it carefully as he reads the grave of Ignotus Peverell, tracing the cracks in the stone in silent reverence.
Parishioners begin to file out of the church as the carolling stops and Draco looks over his shoulder to watch them, muggles and wizards alike, chattering and wishing each other in the lights of the trees lining the pathway. He watches until the square, too, began to empty and the lights in the church were put out. He turns again and continued on, towards his destination not very far off.
Narcissa would have been upset to see him like this, Draco muses, as he trudges through the snow. They had begged him to come home and join them again at their meals, but he had flatly declined them in favour of coming here. He had declined Ron and Hermione's invitation to join them, as well, alongside the staff party the Healers had decided to have. He loves his family, his friends and his job.
He loves Harry more.
And then he spots it, glowing in white marble, calling out to him. Draco sighs and decides that he is done delaying his visit, moving over and sitting comfortably in the snow. Gryffindors are saps, he decides, eyes raking over the quote clearly carved into the stone. He supposes that perhaps his own grandparents had the same wordings on them. At this moment, memories of Dumbledore's tomb steal through his mind, parallel to the images of Kendra and Ariana Dumbledore– no, he corrects himself, Potters are saps.He pulls off his gloves, pockets them and runs his fingers along the engraving, too. The script is much too fancy for his liking.
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
Harry had begged Draco to put it on his grave and he had scoffed at the idea, knowing too well immortality was dangerous. He had worried about Harry's obsession with the Invisibility Cloak and had taken it away in the end, telling him that when the time came, it was okay to let go, because he knew that they would be tied together, even if that were to be across the veil. He supposed pain would only be part of that package. It would teach them strength.
The snow shuffles behind him and Draco puts his face into his hands, breathing deeply and whispering a warming charm at long last as a presence settles beside him. He feels ice-cold lips press against his cheek and he turns to smile weakly at Harry, pulling his knees up to his chest. He lets him take his hands and lace their fingers together, as Draco continues to muse in front of the grave of his in-laws.
Harry is smiling brightly and his contentment is contagious. Draco leans into him and shares his warmth, allowing him to untangle their fingers and put an arm around his waist as they sit together in the bite of the winter on Christmas eve. He waits in silence, closing his eyes and listening to the steady heartbeat. Harry will speak when he's ready.
It is perhaps hours before he opens his chapped lips, dried in the weather and unused for days. Neither of them remember what they had been arguing about– they knew, instinctively, that they would both be here (because he had promised months ago. They needed to do this together, after all.) and it would be alright. He somehow knows that he must apologise first, Malfoy pride be damned. He knows. But he is willing to wait it out.
"I'm sorry," Draco finally croaks out. He flushes a little and tugs on his scarf. Harry had given it to him a year ago. The sentimental git had managed to learn how from Molly Weasley, who had only been too happy to show her only brunette son how the Weasley jumpers were made.
He is surprised when Harry shakes his head, although he cannot see and is sure he has made a mistake. Pulling away and looking to his eyes, he repeats it again. "Really, I am sorry," he sighs out, but Harry continues to shake his head and Draco raises an eyebrow.
"Wasn't your fault," Harry replies slowly. They rest their foreheads together and they know that no matter what the fight was, they would always come back to each other. Opposite ends of the spectrum completely magnetised, completely lost and completely happy. "But I'm sorry too," he adds hastily after a pause. Another silence follows, then a soft mumble in the darkness. "I ended up going to Ron and Hermione's."
"I was won– I– oh, fuck it. I missed you, Potter," Draco is stuttering and it's undignified but it's alright. Harry is coming home today. It would be alright. He looks down, blushing rather furiously at his suddenly lack of eloquence. He starts to fiddle with his ring.
He is not sure what happens next but suddenly Harry is kissing him, and it is safe and full of promise. Not urgent, not careless. As their lips are pressed together, he thinks it might have been better to let Harry have a go at his apology, since he obviously had something to say. But Draco knows that Harry is not good with words. Neither of them are, really, but he is better at pretending.
They break apart and again Harry holds Draco against him. They look up at the tombstone of James and Lily, feeling their weight in the snow probably resting upon their bones, or dust. Draco suddenly wishes he, too, were lying beneath the snow, remembering the Potters' sacrifice for Harry just over twenty-four years ago. As he falls again into the sound of rapid heartbeat, he is smiling like an idiot, thanking his– Harry insisted they would have loved it– parents for bringing him out of Godric's Hollow safe all those years ago.
Draco stands, yawning as the sun begins to peek over the horizon. They were late for breakfast at the manor but neither could bring themselves to care, basking in the spirit of Christmas flooding the streets as the sun rose steadily. Harry finally picks himself up and takes Draco's hand, his platinum band freezing against the other's palm. Draco shoots him a reproachful glare and Harry grins unapologetically.
The Potter-Malfoys spend every Christmas eve with Lily and James. Draco feels like he owes them that much. They spend every Christmas day with Narcissa, then to visit Lucius' grave just beyond the manor and Draco is grateful. Every year, tears are shed but it's alright, because they are together and they will always find each other in the snow.
He looks back one last time at the white marble and offers them a parting smile. "Merry Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. Potter," he says, rather softly and Harry stills rather unexpectedly. Draco watches as Harry begins to fumble with his jacket, searching within it for something. He takes out a box from his pocket and Draco peers curiously at it. Pressing the box into his hands, Harry pulls the cover off to reveal gloves that match the scarf. He takes Draco's hands into his and Draco lets him slip them on, turning a curious shade of pink as he does so.
They have come a long way since Hogwarts, he thinks, examining the green and silver gloves so carefully crafted. If anyone had told him about seven years ago that he'd be in Godric's Hollow, married to Harry Potter and visiting his parents, he would have laughed and then hexed them for good measure. But he didn't expect Harry Potter to show up to testify for him at his trial, he didn't expect Harry Potter to show up unannounced at the manor with his hawthorn wand in hand.
He didn't expect him to be his first patient at St. Mungo's. He didn't except him to invite him out to dinner months after that, either. He certainly didn't expect to be walking down the aisle next to him. But it doesn't matter, because it is perfect and he wouldn't trade it for the world.
"Merry Christmas, Draco," he barely hears, but it is full of commitment and love.
"You too, Harry."
Harry holds on tightly to Draco's hand and he pulls out his wand– ten inches, hawthorn and unicorn hair (he's lost it, more than once, but Harry always seems to bring it back to him. It's funny how that works.)– and they disapparate to Malfoy Manor.
It doesn't matter if the world is against them most days. Today, it is Christmas.