A/N: Merry Holigays! Which was the working title for this chapter, by the way.

Nu update schedule, who dis? It me! With a new chapter! Finished earlier today at work in between stuff. And them bois are gayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

Something I forgot to mention: since chapter 11, the end of the hiatus, this fic no longer has a beta reader, so all the mistakes are mine alone.

Dear Father and Mother

Draco put the quill down and frowned. Writing a letter to his parents was bad enough, but writing a letter to his parents who were imprisoned on conspiracy charges and most likely envying him for his freedom while also blaming him for their predicament and shame to the family name? Several magnitudes worse.

To be precise, he had to concede, his mother would probably not care as much. He could hardly imagine her giving much about the family name any more, nor would she be ignorant enough to place any blame on him. His father, on the other hand, without a doubt expected Draco to write, while at the same time detesting him. When it came to Lucius Malfoy, there was no such thing as too much respect for one's elders, Draco was quite literally painfully aware of that.

I hope this letter finds you well, how ridiculous that had to sound. I wish you a merry Christmas, the words came easier the more he wrote, the trademark formality and indifference of a pureblood upbringing shaping his words. It was pathetic, Draco thought.

Respectfully, never 'with love' or anything like that, Lucius would have a stroke (an idea that part of Draco thoroughly appreciated), not, it had to be respectfully, your son Draco.

He slid the parchment into the envelope, sealing it, imprinting the Malfoy family seal into the wax with a lazy flick of his wand. Of course the guards at Azkaban would open the letter and thoroughly examine its contents before allowing his parents to read it. The prison may have been rid of dementors in the wake of their treason, but whether human or non-being guards, the protocol hadn't changed.

With a sigh, Draco dropped the envelope back onto the table, letting his head sink back into the cushions. True to his prediction, the common room was deserted, him being the sole remaining Slythrin for the next two weeks. His thoughts briefly wandered—Nott would be in Germany by now, with relatives, the Goyle estate would host its new master for the first time—, but he quickly focused on something else. No need to dwell. What was the point, really? All too soon, the others would be back, anyway.

Across the castle, in the Gryffindor tower, one Harry Potter was staring at the wall, entertaining similar thoughts. The common room was notably less crowded, with about half the house having gone home for the holidays. Even people who had stayed the years before were now home, war-torn families eager to see each other. Ron, Hermione and Ginny had departed for the Burrow earlier, and he had spent the evening writing the best apology for his absence he could produce, to hopefully soothe Mrs Weasley. He'd put it in the mail tomorrow.

'Ayy, Harry! Gimme a hand real quick, would yeh?'

Lending Hagrid a hand was how Harry found himself spending the afternoon of Christmas Eve levitating enormous Christmas trees into the Great Hall. And then charming decorations to float under the ceiling (barely dodging being caught under a mistletoe with Romilda Vane), catching a horde of pixies that somebody had dressed up as small Santa Clauses, and at last helping Professor Flitwick fix a Miracle Snow Spell in place.

'Looks festive a'right, doesn't it?', Hagrid decided after the preparations had been completed. 'Now of course, I say she's missin' sum angels, inn't she—'

'You heard Professor McGonagall, no more pixies', Harry interrupted him, biting back laughter.

'Ah, they don' know what they're missin' out on', the half-giant remarked, before turning serious again and lowering his voice. 'So, Harry, I heard yeh an' Malfoy been tryin' ta play nice with each other?'

His face had taken on a concerned look and Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes. Why was it that every single one of his friends seemed to feel entitled to assume the role of protecting his innocence and virtues?

'You've been talking to Ron, haven't you?'

The groundskeeper had never been good at keeping things secret, and this was no exception. His face gave him away and Harry decided to have a word with Ron once he and Hermione would return from the Burrow.

'Look, I appreciate your concern but it's really nothing to worry about', he explained. 'Things have changed. He isn't who he used to be, really.' He briefly wondered where the confidence he said these words with stemmed from before returning his attention to the conversation. 'You know Ron, he's… bad at letting grudges go.'

'Aye', Hagrid grumbled. 's what Professor McGonagall says, eh? Secon' chances an' all that?' He heaved a sigh. 'Jus' promise me yeh will be careful Harry, a'right?'

After assuring the half-giant that he didn't need to worry, Harry left the Great Hall. The corridors were mostly deserted and the sound of his footsteps echoed from the walls as he strode towards the Gryffindor tower.

'Password?'

'Negatio', he answered, climbing through the hole as the portrait swung open. The common room was mostly empty too. On one of the sofas, two younger wizards were playing magic chess, and Parvati Patil had nodded off in an armchair opposite the fireplace. Thanfully, nobody bothered Harry, and he hurried up the stairs towards the dorms.

Irritated, he found that the letter he had written the night before was not on his bedside table. He quickly searched his drawers, to no avail, patting down his robes to make sure he hadn't taken it with him in the morning and forgotten about it. Nothing.

He crouched down, feeling around under the bed, and pulled a grimace at the amount of cobwebs his hand was met with. There the letter was, just out of his fingertips' reach. If only he could grip the corner—unexpectedly, he felt something else. The object was round and smooth, like glass. Stretching a little further, he managed to retrieve the envelope, placing it on his bed, and reaching under the furniture again to grasp the unknown item.

It was a vial, like the ones used to store potions. And it was all too familiar to Harry. He sniffed, and instantly recognised the smell his nose picked up.

Sleeping potion. It must have fallen from his nightstand, miraculously not shattering, and rolled under the bed, weeks ago already. His gaze turned blurry as unwanted memories and desires forced themselves back into his mind and somewhere behind the rising panic, he noted that his hand was trembling. He swallowed hard, his grip on the vial tightening as he tried to suppress the urge to open it, to try for any drops potentially remaining within.

He hadn't needed any potion recently, sleeping uncomfortably and waking regularly, but sleeping. He would not open the vial and not check its contents, he would dispose of it right now. His jaw hurt and he forced himself to unclench his teeth, trying to relax the tension in his body. His hand was still clutching the vial.

Mustering any and all strength he could, Harry loosened his grip. He felt his face burn up in shame at the moment of weakness he had just shown and, feeling the shame turn into anger against himself, hurled the vial at the wall, remorse mixing with relief as it broke, scattering shards of glass and tiny droplets of potion across the floor.

'Evanesco', he hoarsely whispered. The fluid vanished, along with the glass. He took a few deep breaths, focused on and in time with the noise of a nearby clock, to slow down his breathing and drive the shakiness from his limbs, before he stood up and grabbed the letter, perhaps a little more tight than necessary, and staggered towards the exit.

Draco pulled his coat tighter as he climbed to the top of the West Tower. The last few days had seen more rain than usual, and subsequently, the stairs on the upper floors were covered in ice, which in addition to the wind blowing through the open windows made the owlery a dangerous place to be.

After reaching the highest floor, he waited to catch his breath before producing an envelope from his pockets. He selected one of the school owls, trying not to think of the gruesome fate of the pet he had owned before the war, and attached the letter to its leg.

'Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Azkaban', it felt surreal to say this out loud, even though nobody except the owls could hear him. 'Off you go.'

Draco watched for a few more moments as the bird spread its wings and flew away, his eyes following its path over the school grounds before he turned his back to the window and walked—

—straight into Potter as the latter scaled the last few icy steps up the staircase.

'Oh. Hi.'

What in Merlin's name was the bloody Gryffindor doing here? Apparently, Draco had accidentally said this out loud, because in response, Potter awkwardly waved around a letter.

'Just, uh, sending this.'

'That much I can see. Well, as you were.'

He stepped aside, but instead of walking back down, he watched as the other boy handed his envelope to an owl (didn't Potter used to have one of his own? Draco briefly wondered). Of course, he wasn't at all waiting for Potter to be done so they could walk downstairs together. Not at all, it would be ridiculous to even suggest such a thing. It would almost make it seem like Draco was starting to get used to Potter's presence, which, of course, he was not.

Whom exactly he was trying to convince with this thinking, he had no idea.

The Gryffindor curiously raised an eyebrow upon finding Draco still waiting, but thankfully didn't ask any questions. Instead, the two began their descent down the stairs, mostly attempting to evade the spots of ice, rather than conversing. Only once they were a few floors closer to the warmth of the castle, Draco broke the silence.

'No Christmas with the redh—with your friends then?' he inquired. 'Not that it's any of my business, but I had assumed…'

'No.'

'Oh… I seem to have struck a nerve there?'

'By Merlin, Malfoy, you can't just leave it, can you?' The Gryffindor sounded more than just vaguely angered. 'Things happened, if you must know.'

'Ah. Apologies, I suppose.'

He decided it would probably be unhelpful to point out the utterly nondescript nature of Potter's reply. Both of them fell silent again, and he fleetingly contemplated the absurdity of the situation: both of them alone with each other, neither duelling nor throwing insults at each other; not only having a conversation, but (to some extent) exhibiting something akin to considerate behaviour.

'They're… not too excited about us burying the hatchet', Potter interrupted his thoughts.

Draco didn't have to ask who wasn't. The Weasley–Malfoy feud was common knowledge, and while Granger usually seemed to be the most rational one of the trio, she had shown her dislike of Draco on more than enough occasions.

'And that's why you're here instead of cosying up with them over Christmas?' Draco concluded. 'Good Salazar, Potter, you are an idiot.'

'I didn't say that!'

'Well, is it?'

'Yes.'

He couldn't help but feel slightly flattered upon learning Potter actually stood up to his friends for him, but that feeling was greatly outweighed by his anger at the Gryffindor's stupidity. These days, a Malfoy was the last person anyone would want to associate with, unless they wanted their reputation ruined, and the last thing Draco needed was trouble for supposedly leading the precious saviour astray. To his surprise, he realised that even outside such strategical considerations, he was genuinely concerned for the other boy.

Not that Draco didn't enjoy Potter spending time with him. He would never admit this to his face, of course, but when he wasn't being an uncultured brat, his new-found friend was actually more than bearable. And Draco had put in considerable effort to ensure their study meetings remained undisturbed. Nonverbal magic had come to him easy enough, and he doubted Potter had ever noticed him casting repellent charms around their usual spot in the library. Highly sophisticated magic and far superior to the cheap noise tricks Potter and his gang used.

'Are you alright?'

He snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of Potter's voice.

'You kinda zoned out there.'

'Your concern is touching, but I assure you, there is no need to worry your pretty head off.'

Trust the Gryffindor and his ever-present heroic attitude to interrupt his thinking to check in on his well-being. He even had the looks for it, Draco pondered. It was hard to deny it: the scrawny kid from their first year had grown up to be a surprisingly handsome wizard, perfectly suited to his role as Prince Charming.

'I'm sure you are aware of this, but you don't have to sacrifice your friendships for your, without a doubt noble, project of saving my soul or whatever it is you think you're doing.'

'Dra—'

'I fail to imagine what motivation might possibly be important enough to justify the potential backlash', Draco cut him off, choosing not to acknowledge the fact Potter had just almost called him by his first name. This was a new level of intimacy he wasn't sure he was ready to have with the other boy.

'Oh stop being so dramatic', Potter shot back. 'Ron will come around, I'm sure.'

'You haven't answered my question.'

'Oh Merlin, I don't know! It's the right thing to do, alright?'

They had reached the bottom of the stairs and, without giving Potter the chance to protest, Draco bid him farewell and sped off towards the dungeons. If he would have to listen to any more self-sacrificial rambling, he might just hex Potter's mouth shut.

Harry woke with a start. Blinking through tired eyes, the room slowly came into focus, the sheets, the beds, the moonlight shining through one of the windows.

The dorms. Right. He was in the dorms, in his bed.

The memory of the nightmare that had woken him were already getting fuzzy—not the usual war flashbacks but some ordinary scare instead. He thought it might have had to do with spiders, and he quickly pushed away the thought and the unwanted memories of Ron and his venture into the Forbidden Forest in their second year.

Ah. Ron. Touchy subject. He briefly wondered how the holidays at the Burrow were going. By now, the entire Weasley family would probably have heard Ron complaining about his supposed manipulation at the hand of Malfoy.

The Slytherin's repeated questioning his reasoning for attempting to befriend him had bothered him more than he had admitted. Now that they spent time with each other in peace, rather than fighting, he had come to enjoy the other boy's presence to an extent that he couldn't fully explain.

Of course, there was plenty to enjoy about Draco. He had proven a surprisingly good potions instructor and an equally good duelling partner, and over the course of their shared time, Harry had learned to appreciate his cynicism and sharp wit. Even the occasional insults thrown his way had turned into more of a sort of playful banter, lacking the malice they had held before.

He had meant what he had said to Draco, of course. During their almost eight years of friendship, Ron had always calmed down whenever he had been angry at Harry, and he was positive that Hermione, too, would eventually understand that he was merely doing the decent thing.

A quick glance at the watch on his bedside table told him it was way into morning already. Groaning, he huddled a bit deeper into the covers and tried to shut all thoughts about Ron or Draco out of his mind. The next day would be Christmas Day, he might as well catch some more sleep.

When he woke up, the sun was already well on its way over the sky. While he'd been asleep, somebody had arranged a heap of presents by his bed. Suppressing the small pang of guilt at the sight of Mrs Weasley's handwriting on the topmost package, he began to dig into the pile, spreading torn wrapping paper left and right. There was the annual Weasley sweater, a bag of suspicious looking candy from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, a rather formal greeting card signed by Percy.

Hermione, ever the opportunist, had sent The Healer's Handbook to Head & Heart, the photogenic wizard on the cover promising 'a comprehensive guide to magical mental health work', 'approved by St Mungo's Hospital's most prolific mediwizards'. Ron's gift—a box of chocolate frogs—was accompanied by nothing more than a brief 'Merry Christmas' note. Hagrid's present proved surprisingly thoughtful: a textbook on magic creatures and their use in medical care. Harry examined it for a few minutes to make sure there were no teeth, claws or jaws before putting it away with the rest of his gifts.

He spent the next few hours reading through his new books and, in lieu of the breakfast he'd slept through, eating candy. The dorm was pleasantly empty, everyone else being home for Christmas, and before too long, it was time to change from his pyjamas into his robes and head to the Great Hall for dinner.

Most of what little of the student body remained at Hogwarts was already assembled. Harry felt a twinge of nostalgia as he remembered the previous years, the absence of Dumbledore at the table painfully obvious. The headmaster's chair had been placed in its usual spot at the shared student-teacher table and been left empty while Professor McGonagall had sat down next to it.

Draco Malfoy's platinum hair wasn't hard to spot across the hall, and without thinking too much about it, Harry sat down next to him, despite the plenty of free seats elsewhere. Only when his move earned him a few raised eyebrows did he realise how odd it had to look, and he quickly hid his face behind an absurdly large portion of pudding, feigning ignorance to the surprised looks that were exchanged over his head. The Slytherin didn't acknowledge his presence, staring blankly at the food in front of him.

Desserts were served and a few wizard crackers were pulled, but it failed to lighten the mood. After all, most students who had stayed over the holidays had only done so because they had nobody to go home to, and for many, the memories were still fresh, wounds barely healed.

Harry hadn't even finished half of his meal yet when next to him, Draco stood up and left the table. Excusing himself from his conversation with Professor Flitwick, Harry hurried after him, catching up to the Slytherin at the entrance to the dungeons.

'Oi!' he called out. 'Wait up!'

Draco hesitated, then turned around.

'What is it, Potter?'

'Where you going?' Harry panted, catching his breath. 'Gonna abandon the party already?'

Whatever was tugging at the corners of the blonde's mouth barely qualified as a smile.

'You c all that joyless gathering a party? Excuse me if I disagree.'

'They're grieving.'

Draco rolled his eyes.

'Yes, and in case you haven't noticed, most of them are grieving people whose deaths, they're convinced, I'm responsible for, and I can hardly blame them. So remind me again why I would want to stay?'

'It's Christmas!' Harry weakly protested.

'Merlin, Potter, will you ever—why do you have a wizard cracker?'

'Oh, uhm, I kinda thought we could pull it? Because Christmas?'

'You can't be serious.'

'…'

'Stop it with those puppy eyes, Potter.'

'…'

'Oh fine! If it satisfies your irrational thirst to resocialise me or whatever', Draco sighed in annoyance, gripping one end of the item. Harry was beaming, holding the other. 'On three!'

The cracker burst open, showering them with confetti and sweets. Harry caught a candy the shape of a skull and held it out, dramatically.

'To be or not to be, dearest Horatio', he intoned in his best actor voice, but earned only a blank look from Draco as he giggled over his own joke.

'What in Salazar's name are you doing, Potter?'

Harry bit off a piece of the candy. 'Hamlet?' As the Slytherin kept his puzzled look, he shrugged. 'It's Shakespeare. Famous Muggle poet.'

'Blimey, Potter, you are a proper weirdo.'

'Oh shut up', Harry fondly grinned. 'What's with the gloomy face, anyway? Earlier, you looked at the Christmas pudding as if it had personally wronged you.'

'Nothing.'

'No really, you can tell!'

'I said it's nothing', Draco snapped, the slight hint of good mood from just moments ago completely gone. 'Has nobody ever taught you not to pry?'

'Not really', Harry bluntly shot back. 'Didn't really get much parenting, if you would like to remember.'

The other boy sucked in a sharp breath. 'Low blow, Potter. And I'm sure somebody brought you up.'

'Yeah, right. Whenever they weren't calling me names or punishing me for things I hadn't done, they really put effort into the whole care thing.'

'I—oh. I didn't know.'

'Forget about it.'

Draco hesitated for a moment.

'My father wrote', he finally confessed.

Harry frowned. 'Isn't that good?'

He could only describe the Slytherin's laugh that followed as bitter. 'No, Potter, it really isn't.' The blonde cut himself off. 'Never mind. I shouldn't talk about it, least of all to you.'

'No, it's okay', Harry insisted. 'I'll try to understand!'

'I—he's just—'

Harry waited while Draco gathered his thoughts.

'It's just never enough', he finally whispered. 'He blames me for his situation, for dishonouring the family…' he trailed off. 'I just can't…'

His voice cracked and Harry was shocked to notice a faint trail of tears rolling down his cheeks. He'd seen Draco cry before, in Sixth Year, and it was just as painful a sight now as it had been then.

He acted without thinking and spread his arms out as if about to hug Draco.

The Slytherin froze.

The Gryffindor froze.

And blushed.

Let his arms sink.

'Sorry', he mumbled. 'That was stupid of me.'

'No', Draco clearly struggled for words, 'no, it's ok.'

'Didn't want to make anything weird', Harry assured him.

They fell silent for a moment before the blonde spoke up again, eyes still wet.

'Uhm, is it okay if', he took a small a step towards Harry, 'I mean… may I?'

Harry nodded, unsure what exactly to, and like that, Draco closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around him, Harry returning the embrace after a moment, holding Draco as he cried on his shoulder.

A/N: So much gay.