Rapping sharply on the door, George flung it open without waiting for a reply. "Good evening, small brother. I brought you eggnog!" Ignoring Ron's startled look, he strode across to the bed and pushed one of the two warm, frothy glasses into Ron's hands.
"Ah…" said Ron, gaze darting to the overlarge chair beside the bed.
It took George a moment to realise that Malfoy was curled into the plump cushions, snuggled down in a pile of throw rugs. Crap. That wasn't a good sign.
Malfoy lifted sad eyes to the glass and held out a plaintive hand. Very gently, George put the drink he'd brought up for himself into Malfoy's fingers. "You okay, kiddo?" He tried to think back to whether there was any reason for him not to be. But the facts stood. Malfoy had spent the past few hours drinking amiably with Harry before coming back to the Burrow for a reasonably pleasant dinner.
"I'm a little spiflicated," said Malfoy. His tone was rich with the upperclass accents George mostly associated with Lucius. A sure sign that something was very wrong. The only times Malfoy used that tone was when he was trying to infuriate Harry, or when he was miserable. And Harry wasn't around right now. Lifting the glass, Malfoy took a delicate sip of his eggnog.
George glanced at his brother, but Ron shook his head. Taking the hint, George refrained from asking what was wrong. Maybe it was a Christmas without his parents sort of thing. It was jarring to realise that there was a lot to Malfoy that George didn't know. "Should I go?"
Ron tilted his head at Malfoy, who only curled more tightly into his chair. Swirling his glass in one hand, Ron waved George away with the other. "I'll talk to you in the morning?"
George gave a non-committal murmur and headed for the door, not sure whether he was being spared an evening of Malfoy melodrama or whether Malfoy needed the space.
Molly was in the kitchen making hot chocolate for herself, Charlie and Ginny, which was a relief. George took a seat at the table. He wanted to put off going back to his room as long as possible. Mill would be painfully smug when she found out that he hadn't figured everything out yet. But really, why was it so hard to figure out? Malfoy liked Harry, sure, George had gotten that memo all the way back in Hogwarts. Harry liked pretty much anyone who wasn't Malfoy, okay. That was fine. Was there more to it than that?
George sighed. Harry hadn't been drinking after the final battle. If the bartender was right, and he was pretty sure she would be, he'd been stone cold sober when he'd sat in the alley with Malfoy and – what? Flirted?
Closing his eyes, George tried to think back to that night when he'd been half-drunk and reeling from a battle that had cost too much. Harry's voice, mostly curious but also – what? Worried? As he said, "So, Ginny was – kissing Blaise Zabini." That pause, before he said kissing. And then, when Malfoy didn't respond, "I thought you were dating Ginny."
And it kind of made sense, because Ginny was the one who got caught with Malfoy under the magical mistletoe so much the first Christmas. Then another moment slotted into place – Fred and George's birthday before the war. Where Harry and Malfoy had been getting along, until Ginny jumped onto Malfoy's back and demanded that he dance with her. The kind of move that any girl would feel safe making on a boy they knew wasn't interested – or on a boy that was theirs. And Harry had assumed that Malfoy was hers, not that they were comfortable enough with each other to act that way. Which shouldn't have mattered – wouldn't have mattered – if it hadn't been for the way he'd talked to Malfoy months later. You're single then? And now I'm dating Terry. Like if he wasn't dating Terry, they'd have options. Like if he wasn't dating Terry, Malfoy would have been his first choice.
Then Christmas had come again. Harry had nearly killed Malfoy with wild magic, and everything had broken. It must have. Because Harry and Terry Boot split up, but Malfoy wasn't Harry's first choice anymore.
A clatter startled George out of his thoughts. He opened his eyes to find that Molly had put a mug of steaming hot chocolate by his elbow. "Thanks, Mum." He curled his fingers around the cup. So much more comforting than his scattered thoughts. That odd, strained conversation out in the dingy alley of that pub kept crawling through his mind on an endless track. And now I'm dating Terry. George wondered whether there had been that much regret in Harry's voice, or whether he was imagining it because he wanted it to be there. He shook himself and took a sip of chocolate.
It was probably all hopeless, probably always had been. But when George decided to give up figuring it out and head up to bed – Mill's teasing be damned – he remembered Malfoy's white, unhappy face half-buried in a mound of throw rugs – and the way Hermione had reacted to him asking about Harry and Malfoy. It's weird, isn't it? I thought when he and Callum broke up… In hindsight, it was kind of obvious what she'd hoped. That maybe time had changed something and that old fight could be forgotten.
But the mistletoe. If Harry was interested in Malfoy, he wouldn't have dragged down the mistletoe.
George took the final sip of chocolate before looking around. The table had cleared, he was surprised to find. Molly was the only one still sitting there, knitting something that looked like a scarf.
"Mum, why did you let Malfoy keep coming after the second Christmas?"
She hadn't just let him; she'd sent invitations, gone out to get his favourite foods specially, made him jumpers, bought him presents.
The knitting needles stilled as she looked up at him. "I had to."
George nodded. "Because he had no family left." The situation was impossible. Malfoy had to come to Christmas – so did Harry. But both of them being there was obviously a problem.
The needles resumed their clicking. "It was never about Draco." Molly pulled more yarn from the ball. "I'm fond of him now, of course." She smiled a little. "He needs me more than any of you do. But Harry was…" She paused the way she did when she wanted to choose the exact right word. "Better," she said finally. "Harry was better with him here."
George stared at her. "Harry almost killed him."
Molly nodded slowly. "Almost," she said, like that one word made all the difference. Considering that Malfoy was still alive, it probably did.
George frowned, pushing his empty mug aside. "What are you trying to say? You think having Malfoy here curbed something in Harry? That if Malfoy hadn't been here second Christmas, Harry would have killed one of us?"
Molly shook her head. "No, of course not." She pursed her lips, tapping her right needle against the table. "I think if Draco hadn't been here second Christmas, Harry would have died."
George dragged in a sharp breath. "Mother, really!"
Molly nodded again, as though reaffirming her statement.
"Honestly, that's…It doesn't even make sense. How do you figure that?"
"I don't figure it," said Molly. "I don't know how Draco made things better. He was horrible that year. But I saw the results. Harry began eating when Draco was around. He talked sometimes – without us having to force him. He…" Her hand tightened on the needle and she shook herself. "When Draco was in the room Harry forgot to watch the clock – forgot to make sure that he was getting his next dose of Dreamless Sleep or dulling potion or whatever else he was taking. He was so busy being angry at Draco, that he forgot to drug himself out of feeling anything."
George wished that he could remember those days more clearly – the events, not the god-awful overwhelming emotions. But when he tried to think back most of it was a jumble of grief and anxiety. Molly might have been right but being so furious with someone that you forgot to be miserable wasn't any kind of love.
If only Malfoy had let Hermione take the blame for the cauldron. Harry would have forgiven her – maybe not right away, but eventually. The 'eventually' had probably been the problem. Harry had needed to trust the people closest to him; Malfoy hadn't wanted him to lose that when he was already vulnerable. But Christ, that had been years ago. Malfoy could have told him later that it hadn't been him. That he'd been trying to protect Harry.
George sat up straighter. Malfoy didn't have to be the one to tell him. Anyone could.
#
Most people would wait for the next day to act. It had been a massive day already with the dragon and the pub and everything else. But George wasn't going to go back to Mill that night until everything was not only figured out but fixed. If he could sort the whole Harry/Malfoy mess out and open some sort of happy-ever-after doorway, he'd show Mill and Parkinson up for good. No fucking way would they ever come close to something like this. No matter what they pulled off in future, he could just pluck out photos of the Potter-Malfoy wedding of the century and fan himself with them.
Oh, and it would probably be a nice thing to do for Malfoy and Harry as well, but that kind of paled.
Harry was alone in the lounge room, sitting on the window sill, feet propped against one edge and back against the other. The lights were off, the only illumination coming from the floating Christmas globes Bill and Percy had magicked across the yard. They cast a warm glow through the window.
George studied him from the doorway for a moment before walking forward.
He was turning something small over in his hand, watching the magical globes flicker through the window. He glanced up when George sat on the edge of the closest couch, a couple of feet from the window. "Hey." He closed his hand, but George had already seen what he was holding.
"Part of your rock collection?" he asked, holding his palm out.
Harry shrugged, handing the stone over.
George glanced at it. A deep green pebble – almost the colour of Harry's eyes – with a splatter of blood-red across the surface.
"Bloodstone," said Harry. He didn't need to. George had seen this stone when Malfoy had slipped it in to Harry's belongings. Of all the rocks he could have chosen, why was this the one he brought down with him?
"Where did you get it?"
Harry's mouth twisted wryly. He lifted a shoulder. "It just showed up one day." The left corner of his mouth tugged upward. "When I really needed it."
George nodded. Sometime during second Christmas. "Weird colours."
Harry glanced from the stone to George, eyes narrowing. "I guess. Kind of reminds me of Christmas."
"Huh," said George. "Speaking of, did anyone ever tell you what happened at second Christmas?"
"Second Christmas?" Harry looked puzzled and it occurred to George that he might not count the Christmases based on when Malfoy started showing up the way the Weasleys did. "The one after the final battle, you mean?" Huh. So, he counted them that way too.
"Yeah," said George. "With the potions."
Harry frowned, making George consider that dredging this up so far down the track might be disastrous. Maybe Harry would hate Hermione for it. Maybe it would split the family and maybe everyone had the right idea just letting this slide.
"You mean Hermione sabotaging the cauldron?"
"Oh," said George. "You did know about that then."
Harry shrugged. "She told me – I don't know, about two months after." He creased his nose and leant back into the window frame. "I'd kind of figured it out. She'd been pushing me to give up the potions – and pushing Terry to cut me off. It made more sense if it was her. I mean, Malfoy's a pest but –" He ruffled a hand through his hair.
"Have you thought about being nicer to Malfoy?"
Harry studied the stone, face expressionless. "I tried it once. It didn't work." He sighed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "The thing is, no matter what I do, he's still Malfoy."
