It was most definitely Christmas time, and Harry was thankful. Thankful for the time off, thankful for all of his friends, and most certainly thankful for not having to think about the Order, Dumbledore's death, or Draco Malfoy.
Draco Malfoy had been plaguing his mind since the previous summer. And Harry was tired of it. Tired of sleeping, eating, breathing Draco Malfoy. No one bothered Harry more than Draco. Partly his treason, partly his personality, but partly Harry's feelings for him.
First Harry had hated him. Hated him more than he had ever hated him at school. Then he was sickened by him. Sickened by what he had done. Eventually, he began to pity him. For the position he had been put in by everyone above him. And finally he had begun to love him. For his inability to do it. For being born to such horrible parents. For trying to be someone special. Harry loved him for that. He loved him so completely that sometimes he wept for him at night, wishing he was there to comfort him.
And the more he thought about Draco Malfoy, the more tired he became.