A/N: Written for HDOwlPost'14 for awickedmemory. Okay, so apparently I need to reread the books because considering all events was harder than I thought it would be. Also, I know it's out of season but this is still a cute lil thing :)
The Gift of Joy
The white queen-inside-castle has no turrets, two of the knights' horses are missing legs and the black queen has no nose. The set is three years old and irreparably damaged – thanks to several third years who thought they could get away unpunished after picking on a Malfoy – so Draco doesn't think much of it when they fall from his bag on the way back from a game over lunch in the Great Hall. He pauses thoughtfully when they shatter apart on the stone, then dismisses them and leaves them for a house elf to clean up.
Subconsciously, he must notice that they are gone when he saunters to dinner that night, but he thinks nothing of it because it's what he expects. He certainly does notice, however, when he sees Potter across the room cradling the noseless queen like an invalid in need of comfort. Even from there, he can see her snuggling like the traitor she is into his grasp.
He can't see Potter for most of the meal because one of the ginger oafs is sitting in the way, but he seethes privately all the way through the main course. Come dessert though, the tables begin to empty and his attention diverts back to Potter, whose wand is belching smoke instead of repairing anything. If the skinny little twerp is going to steal Draco's things he should at least treat them respectfully.
But then...
All the other pieces have already been put back together, and Granger definitely hasn't pulled her wand out all evening, so Potter can't be totally inept.
It's only the next morning, when Potter has moved his attention onto the white castle, that Draco realises how careful Potter is being with what are - essentially - old, broken lumps of rock. His fingers are gentle as he slides gold-dusted stone around the tabletop, and his gaze is rapt on whatever he is doing.
There have been vicious little rumours circulating about Potter since term began. Many of them aren't true – luckily Draco remembers which he started – but there is one fiction in particular that springs to mind then, as he watches Potter alone at the breakfast table in the elephant sized attire he dons at the weekends. Some people have convinced themselves the Boy-Who-Lived is some sort of poor street urchin – looking at the tenderness in his eyes, Draco can at least surmise he is unused to having such nice possessions.
Then he sees that the queen has been crafted, with painstaking precision, a new nose.
A week later, on the day the Great Hall starts to snow, an owl arrives for his mother with his annual pre-yule presents and an ingenious idea dawns on him.
At first, he isn't sure. It might take work to remain anonymous and there is the possibility things could get complicated. He tries to factor in that he hates Potter, but that's not really true – it's more embarrassment morphing into resentment than true hate. Even that has begun to disintegrate in the face of Potter's innocent joy. There is pity at play somewhere, of course, but Draco's been trained to ignore that – it's a weakness, Lucius doesn't like weakness, and Draco doesn't like not knowing his own motives. Compassion certainly doesn't sound like his style.
Still, despite this, come the next September, he watches Potter's every move searching for some clue as to the perfect gift. He doesn't even notice he's doing it at first. Then he catches himself watching Potter trudging back from Quidditch practise and thinking something to do with the game would be a good choice.
A month later, when the winter rains have settled in for the long term, he overhears the Weasel and Potter arguing over who the most effective, efficient and tactically important member of the Chudley Cannons is, which settles the matter. He sends his order to Diagon Alley by the end of the day. It doesn't matter that every member of the Cannons pales in comparison to their counterpart in the Holyhead Harpies.
By this point, there is a house elf in the kitchens who is suitably terrified by him. He convinces it to leave the present on Potter's bedside table overnight, right next to his wand – unmissable.
His gut tingles, disappointed that he won't be able to watch Potter's discovery, but it's necessary. He leaves a brief note too; 'Merry Christmas, your personal Secret Santa'. It's a muggle tradition – his father would rescind his owl and broom privileges if he knew – he read about in a book he was browsing through at the end of summer. He found it enchanting and, should anything go horrendously wrong and suspicion fall on him – assuming Potter doesn't immediately laugh it off – he has deniability.
But that tingling grows warm when Potter appears downstairs Christmas morning, a contented smile on his face, Weasel twittering in his ear about curses, and the snow globe peeking out of the top of his bag. The snow is swirling over the frozen pitch while the Cannons whiz about on their business.
By the next year, things are more serious. Everyone knows what the papers are saying – although for some reason his mother hasn't been shoving them under his nose over afternoon tea in the sunroom like he thought she would. And then there is the Grim business that starts up with their new classes, which only makes Potter's mood more sour. Not to mention the growth spurts all the boys in their year seem to have spontaneously undergone during the holidays – the Ginger Wonder being taller than he is does agonising things to Draco's pride.
He thinks about aiming for comical this year, but decides on practical in the end. He can't very well ask Snape to go easy on his rival, so he gift wraps his second pair of scales and gives the house elf strict instructions. It may not help much, but a little is better than nothing at all.
Draco doesn't stay at Hogwarts for that year on his father's insistence. He doesn't get to see Potter's reaction again – although he vows that someday he will. But when classes begin in the new year, Potter is using the scales and fewer potions explode by his hand.
Fourth year should be complicated. He should be jealous Potter is getting so much attention and hoping for injury. He's not – which angers him. He retaliates against himself by taunting Potter and inwardly preening under the extra attention – every roll of Potter's eyes is like a fresh candle flickering to life. He sneers more at Potter's so-called friends – because any idiot with eyes should be able to see that Potter hates this – nowadays, but it has the desired effect of making Potter believe they still equally despise each other.
For some reason he develops an unreasonable hatred towards the Chang girl too. Odd.
On Christmas Eve, he wraps an old fairytale book with his neatest bow and writes in his best cursive, 'Merry Christmas. I believe you. You're very brave. Secret Santa,' because it's all true, no matter what he says aloud.
He summons his house elf and goes to bed that night content. The next morning, he finds Potter fawning over the story of 'The Unicorn and the Leprechaun,' - judging by the illustration – and stares at him for so long Pug Nose asks him if he is 'quite well.' Potter begins ignoring him more after that, but Draco blames the difficulty of the next task and their increasing homework load.
Fifth year is...unpleasant for everyone involved. Draco is no exception. Luckily, Christmas arrives with a flurry of snow quickly.
Draco finds a miniature Seeker in Hogsmeade the he knows Potter will like. When he attempts to wrap it the blasted thing won't stop buzzing around his head. His immobilisation spells don't last long enough – it takes great pleasure in smashing through the paper too – so, in frustration, he shoves it in an empty firewhiskey bottle. It thrashes against the glass angrily while he covers it but all he can do is laugh. He hopes Potter finds it as amusing as he does.
The Little Seeker is disturbing enough that he doesn't expect Potter to be carrying it around with him – especially as it raises the likelihood of his being prescribed detention to about one hundred percent if spotted. He is right, but he thinks Potter looks happy – and convinces himself he put that smile there. He is stunned to find himself almost grinning back. He doesn't eat anything sweet all day as punishment.
The summer before sixth year is the hellish time Draco will look back on as the time when his childhood suddenly became lost. The dark clouds had been brewing for a long time, but that summer is when responsibility lands on his shoulders so heavily he is afraid he will crack the floor beneath him. He feels old and slow by the time he reaches Hogwarts. He dreads every new day. He is terrified all the time, and Snape's knowing stares aren't helping matters.
By Yuletide, panic is setting in, but his little secret, their tradition, is calming. It is something no one can take away from him. Stable ground in the middle of a storming ocean. He has been so preoccupied with his task and pretending to be fine, that he hasn't left himself enough time to prepare properly. He feels like the fizz wand he buys is unworthy of the task but it's the best he can do.
Nevertheless, Potter is utterly enchanted by it. It is a silly toy children play with in anticipation of receiving their first real wand. Potter's own wand could summon the golden and red shower of sparks easily enough, but his playful innocence comes alive as he waves it in the frosty courtyard the next afternoon.
Unfortunately, life goes severely downhill from there for the both of them.
"Potter, could I have a word?"
Draco has wedged himself behind a curtain in the Entrance Hall with the specific purpose of catching Potter as he leaves breakfast. His plan has worked. It doesn't make Draco feel like he's going to be sick any less.
With the war over and his classmates all returning for what has been dubbed 'eighth year', this is really Draco's last chance to reveal himself. Which is a thought that has chilled him all the way down to the bone ever since he thought of it. But he started this all those years ago, and it's only right that he should finish it now.
Potter is curious but not outright suspicious, which is a good start. They seem to have silently settled something since Draco and his family slunk away into the night at the Final Battle. Or maybe Potter understands him more now, because of his mother. Draco will probably never know for sure.
"If you're quick," Potter says, but not unkindly. "I've got to grab some things from upstairs before class starts."
It is the last day of term and both of them know he won't need anything for class, but Draco appreciates the gesture; Potter is making an excuse so the conversation is kept short - anything longer than five sentences between them has, so far, been excruciatingly awkward, even when concerning class.
"Oh, yes, well. I wanted to give you this." Draco has found over the last year, that sometimes being a little Gryffindor can do wonders. And right now, he needs a mammoth amount of courage.
He holds out his hand, the locket clutched tightly in his fist. It's a little gold thing with tiny rubies encrusted around the edge of its circular face. Draco doesn't know if it's real gold. He found it in the room of requirement before...well, before. It's harmless, though. To start with, Draco had intended it for his mother, so three teachers have been over it with every detection spell in existence.
But Potter doesn't even hesitate to take it when he opens his palm; doesn't bother to question whether it is cursed. Draco isn't sure if Potter is just insanely stupid, or whether there is a steady trust building between them, and this is Potter's way of taking a leap of faith.
It catches in his hair when he goes to slip it over his head. Draco halts awkwardly when he realises his fingers are inches from Potter's cheek, but Potter looks at him through his thick eyelashes steadily, his eyes greener than fresh spring grass. Draco takes it as permission.
"Thank you," Potter says. It's more of a murmur really, due to how close they are.
"It's not the first gift I've given you," Draco whispers, because voicing things makes them real and he is scared. Potter's breath is warm against his cheek, and Draco doesn't think he could face the icy cold of rejection.
"I know," Potter replies, so hushed Draco could have imagined them. Potter's fingers are cold and sudden when they land on Draco's hands, stopping them where they are beginning to struggle with the chain in his panic. "I meant, thank you for all of them."
Potter's eyes are glittering at him from under the fringe of mane that has fallen alluringly over his forehead. His skin is flushed and his lips glisten in the low light.
It is strange. Draco has never considered his obsession with Potter as romantic. In fact, this is the first moment it has occurred to him he would very much like to kiss Potter, even through the lumps clogging his throat. His chest feels like there is a rabbit thumping around in his ribcage.
"The book," Potter sighs, their lips brushing. "It has your initials in the back. I wasn't sure, but I thought I saw you reading it once as well."
"Oh," Draco says, surrendering to Potter's heated mouth.