This was written for the 2020 H/D Mistletoe Exchange on Ao3, for manixzen. The cover is the accompanying art by me. The format is based on the Fibonacci Sequence—and once it reaches 1864 words, it goes backwards in word count until it reaches 8 words again.
Friday.
Harry wakes alone to cold, empty sheets.
-x-
He dresses with unhurried movements. Isabelle, a ragdoll cat that isn't his, watches him with narrowed, keen eyes.
-x-
Few students remain for Christmas, the Great Hall nearly empty. Harry sits beside Neville, admires the decorations, and tries not to stare at Draco.
-x-
Harry accompanies Neville to Greenhouse Two after breakfast to put small scarves on the mandrakes. He's not particularly looking forward to it, but Neville always makes pleasant company.
Well, until Neville mentions Draco with a grin, just to fluster Harry.
-x-
The mandrakes are dealt with by ten. They drink tea over conversation and soft laughter. Then, they cast warming charms and step out of the humid greenhouse.
Snow begins to fall, the snowflakes, gentle things that melt when they meet Harry's skin. Harry smiles — Neville grumbles.
They walk briskly back to the castle. Isabelle greets them in the entryway, rubbing against their legs.
-x-
Back in his office, alone with the snow on the windowsill and papers to grade, Harry twirls his wand idly, leaning back in his chair. He levitates the snow globe on his desk — turns it upside down, right side up, over and over — and thinks.
There's one week until Christmas. Christmas, the faculty party, and the dreaded gift exchange. Harry has yet to get his giftee anything. He simply has no idea where to start.
After all, how is he supposed to buy a gift for Draco Malfoy, who seemingly never wants for anything?
Harry sighs. He's put off grading long enough.
-x-
It's stopped snowing by the time lunch rolls around, but it's no less cold in the castle. Harry leaves the heat of the fire in his office with a mournful look and walks down to the Great Hall for lunch. He shivers, casting warming charms as he goes.
In the Great Hall, enchanted snow falls from the ceiling and disappears before it settles on the ground. A few students and professors are seated at the only remaining table — most of the professors take their meals in their quarters this time of year, apart from Minerva, Neville, and Draco.
Draco is seated on the other side of Neville. Harry's eyes wander to him the entire time they eat, and to Isabelle, sleeping in his lap. Draco's long, pale fingers curl under her chin.
Neville shoots him knowing looks, which he ignores. He glances to Draco's face, and finds Draco staring back at him.
Draco quirks his eyebrow, and Harry turns his gaze to his empty plate, heart fluttering.
-x-
Draco enters Harry's office later, smelling faintly like whatever potions he's been brewing. Asphodel and monkshood, Harry thinks, if his potions skills have improved at all — Merlin knows Draco has tried his damndest to teach Harry something.
"A Defence professor should be able to recognise poisons, not just curses, don't you think?" Draco always argues, and Harry agrees, but potions have never come easily to him.
Draco leans against the doorframe, eyes trained on Harry as he marks papers. For a few minutes, Harry doesn't acknowledge him, and Draco remains silent. Harry's skin burns under the weight of his heavy stare. He sets aside his quill and looks up.
Draco's soft expression makes Harry's heart thrum. He finds it difficult to look away from Draco's eyes — beautiful, and full of meanings that Harry doesn't understand.
Draco shifts his stance, hair falling over his shoulder, and Harry's eyes catch on the movement.
"What do you need?" he asks, trying to keep his voice even. Draco's lips twitch.
"Do I need a reason to see my favourite Defence teacher?" he asks playfully, and Harry laughs.
"I'm the only Defence teacher."
"Oh, fine. I came to ask if you're busy tomorrow," Draco answers. "Longbottom and I are heading to Hogsmeade."
Harry rolls his eyes — Draco still calls Neville Longbottom, despite being friends for years and Neville actually being Zabini, now — but it's affectionate.
"I'll go. Got some Christmas shopping to do," Harry says lightly, and Draco's eyes gleam. Almost knowingly, Harry thinks nervously.
As quickly as Draco arrived, he's gone, leaving Harry with a windowsill of snow and papers to grade.
-x-
That evening, long after Draco has left him alone, Harry retreats to the Astronomy Tower. He leans against the railing and shivers, watching the sun dip lower in the sky until it's fallen past the trees. The world is quiet up here. Gentle.
A slight breeze ruffles Harry's hair, bitterly cold. He pulls his robes tighter, watching the trees sway below him.
And his mind, as it always does in the silence, wanders to Draco.
He thinks of Draco, and his potions lab. He remembers all the times Draco has brewed Pepperup potions while Harry has watched. It's a thing for them now, an agreement, when the students start making their annual trips to the Hospital Wing.
He thinks of Draco, and his long, blond hair pulled into a messy bun, a stubborn strand always finding its way over his eye. His bottom lip is always pulled between his teeth when he brews, eyebrows furrowed when he counts his stirs.
He thinks of Draco, and the mahogany cabinet in his office, filled with tins and jars of tea leaves. How the four shelves are completely full, organised alphabetically, the labels written in Draco's neat script. Harry will never understand what Draco intends to do with so much tea, but Draco delights in having it — as does Neville, who goes to Draco's office almost as much as Harry does — so Harry will always just accept a cup of whatever they're drinking.
His chest fills with slow, steady warmth. It's an easy, straight-forward feeling, something that he could fall into if he let himself.
Once, he would have lied to himself about what his feelings mean. But after so much time spent watching and hoping and desiring, he can't even pretend that his feelings for Draco are just platonic anymore.
Harry finds, idly, that he doesn't want to pretend.
Minutes pass, and his thoughts turn to the gift exchange.
He's been telling himself that it's impossible to find something for Draco, simply because he never wants anything. He has Isabelle, he has every potion supply under the sun, and he has his impressive collection of tea leaves. But Harry can admit that he was wrong — that's not why it's so difficult to figure this out.
He just doesn't know what will make Draco's chest burst with warmth the same way Harry's does just thinking about Draco.
He hums in thought, absently fiddling with a loose thread on his robes, and wonders whether Draco's collection could use some more Earl Grey.
A sliver of moonlight emerges from behind the clouds. The breeze whispers its gentle agreement.
Earl Grey, it is.
-x-
Saturday.
Harry wakes, shivering, to the early morning light and a dying fire. He rolls over in bed with a groan, cursing the cold stone of the castle, and his bed, too, for being so large and empty as it is.
He wants to sink into the blankets for a bit longer, not even wanting to reach for his wand to warm himself up, but a rhythmic clinking sound from across the room draws his attention. With a sigh, he sits up and puts his glasses on.
He squints through the soft light to see Isabelle, dragging a bag almost as large as she is through the door with her mouth. Her legs are on either side of the knobbly velvet sack, her gait awkward and adorable as she pulls it towards Harry. He chuckles at the sight.
He slips out of bed, sliding his feet into his slippers, and bends to scratch Isabelle's chin as she drops the bag by his feet. Her fur is soft beneath his fingers.
"What've you got for me today?" he mutters. Isabelle purs and rubs against his legs in answer. She must be especially proud of what she's brought him today. She started doing it years ago, once she finally warmed up to Harry, and since then, there's hardly been a day that she hasn't stolen one of Draco's possessions to give to him.
Harry bends and picks the "gift" up, knees cracking as he does, and he groans. The bag is soft and lumpy in his hands, and he can guess by the feeling that it's full of vials. He pulls open the string and looks inside, and sure enough, it's just a few empty glass vials.
Isabelle looks up at him proudly, chest puffed, and Harry laughs — she almost resembles Draco.
"Thank you, Isabelle," he murmurs, setting the vials on his bedside table in favour of scratching behind her ear. She trills happily.
Isaballe wanders off shortly after, leaving Harry to shower and dress slowly, thinking about how nice it would be to just stay under the hot spray of the shower forever. But he's going to Hogsmeade today, and Harry promises himself that he's finally going to get Draco's present.
He eats a quick breakfast in the Great Hall with Neville and Draco, before they set off for Hogsmeade through the snow.
They make small talk as they go. Neville talks animatedly about Blaise and the new flavours of gin he's been whipping up for the New Year's party. Draco makes a comment here or there about it, and for now, Harry is content to just listen and watch his friends' mouths quirk into smiles.
They part ways when they arrive at Hogsmeade, agreeing to meet at the Three Broomsticks at noon, and Harry briskly makes his way to Madam Puddifoot's.
Seeing the little tea shop inspires a few less-than-fond memories of his fifth year, but it was ages ago, and he's since made better memories of the place with Draco.
"I like the tins Puddifoot puts the tea leaves in," Draco once commented, and it's stuck with Harry since. It was years ago — back when Draco's hair was still short and slicked back, sleeves always pulled down over his forearms, and Harry whole-heartedly believed he would end up with Ginny.
Harry shakes off the memories and ducks into Madam Puddifoot's, the bell above the door chiming. The warmth of the shop hits him, and he gives a satisfied sigh, looking around for Madam Puddifoot. The shop is empty, save for a lone patron in the corner, face hidden behind an issue of The Quibbler.
Madam Puddifoot bustles out from behind the counter and beams at him, eyes twinkling knowingly when he asks for her best Earl Grey leaves, and sends him on his way minutes later with a tin of it.
It's rose gold in colour, which is fitting of the shop, and Harry thinks of Draco's words as he looks at it. He traces the plaque that reads Puddifoot's Earl Grey, the letters embossed in tight cursive. The lip of the lid is decorated with shimmering leaves.
He shrinks it and puts it into his pocket, continuing down the cobblestone street to Scrivenshaft's to buy Percy's present.
-x-
A wave of heat rushes over Harry when he enters The Three Broomsticks, and he sighs gratefully, releasing the warming charms on his coat.
The Three Broomsticks hasn't changed much since Harry was a student. It's still smoky, frequented by the same patrons — Harry, Neville, and Draco now part of that group, he thinks with a smile — and Madam Rosmerta is still running the place. She smiles at him from behind the counter, and they nod to each other by way of greeting.
Surprisingly, there aren't many people today. They must be staying indoors, considering that it's colder than a witch's tit right now, and he finds that he prefers the usual loud and boisterous bar over this. But at least he can spot Neville more easily than usual, sitting in a booth in the corner and cradling a steaming beverage, a few bags by his feet.
Neville grins when he spots Harry making his way over to the booth, scooting to make room for him. Like this, Harry will be sitting beside Draco, and he suspects that it was on purpose.
"Finally found something for Draco?" Neville asks curiously as Harry sits down with a sigh and sets his bag from Scrivenshaft on the floor. Neville peers into the bag, frowning at its contents. "Harry. Tell me you didn't get him a quill."
Harry has to laugh at the skepticism in Neville's tone, but his skin heats because he did consider a quill a few days ago. He immediately discarded the idea, of course, but it crossed his mind.
"No, no, that's for Percy," he explains, easing back into the seat and pulling off his gloves. Neville lets out a relieved sigh, and Harry gives him a significant look with his next words. "Anyway, you aren't supposed to know that I drew Draco's name, remember? Filius would have our heads if he knew I told you… and who knows, he could have spies on us right now."
Neville laughs, but he goes a little pale and takes an eager sip of his drink. The Ravenclaw head of house takes Secret Santa very seriously. They learned that the hard way, their first year as professors, and Harry doesn't think his left ear has been the same since.
Just then, Rosmerta — with her always-excellent timing — slides up to the table. She's carrying Harry's usual brew, wearing a smirk, and Harry eyes her nervously.
"Just you two today, or is the blondie joining ya?" Rosmerta asks as she sets the mug down heavily in front of Harry, eyes glinting mischievously. It took some time after the war for Draco to even enter her bar, and a lot more time for Rosmerta to forgive him, but Harry knows that there's a place in Rosmerta's heart reserved just for Draco now. Five years of friendship will do that to anyone, and especially a friendship with Draco.
Unfortunately for Harry, though, that means Rosmerta figured out Harry's feelings for Draco long before Harry himself did. He isn't sure if she wants to do something for Draco, or has something against Harry, but she always has a comment or a wink up her sleeve anytime they're together.
"Draco's joining us. He should be here shortly," Neville says, snapping Harry out of his reverie, and Rosmerta's smirk grows. Harry shifts at the look and takes a long draw of his beer, staring at the table like he's trying to memorise the pattern of the grain.
"If that's the case, maybe I should get the mistletoe going, eh?" Harry chokes on his drink and coughs, and Neville absently pats his back as Rosmerta continues. "I got some of the enchanted sprigs from the Weasley place, the ones that hold both parties in place until they do the deed. I was gonna save it for the Christmas party, but I'm thinking it'd look great hangin' right above this booth. Whaddya say?" Rosmerta muses, eyes on the beam above Harry's head, nodding and spreading her hands wide like she's imagining something grand.
Harry is still hacking a lung, not recovered from almost dying a minute ago, so Neville takes it upon himself to answer for him. The bastard.
"I think that's a great idea," he says, nodding enthusiastically. Harry glares between coughs. "You have a brilliant mind, Rosmerta. Mind if I take a couple sprigs back to the castle? For completely academic purposes."
Rosmerta grins, almost feral, and rubs her hands together. "I like your mind, Zabini. That husband of yours been wearin' off on you."
Harry finally remembers he's a wizard, reaching into his pocket and silently casting an airway clearing spell on himself, as Neville matches Rosmerta's grin.
"N-no! Stop plotting things! No mistletoe!" he cuts in at last, glaring between Rosmerta and Neville. "And certainly not enchanted Weasley mistletoe!"
"What's this about no mistletoe? Tsk, where's your holiday spirit, Harry?" a light voice floats over to their booth, and Harry freezes, eyes going wide. Neville hides his smirk with his hand, and Rosmerta gives Harry a pointed look, as if to say that it's not too late for the mistletoe.
Draco appears behind Rosmerta, leaning in for a quick hug. His hair and shoulders are dusted in snowflakes, the tip of his nose pink and cheeks flushed, and Harry's mouth goes dry. There's always been something about Draco and the snow that makes his mind stop working, no matter how many times he's seen it.
Draco slides into the booth beside Harry. He sits a little too close for comfort, his shoulder brushing against Harry's. He smells like cold air and bergamot and something Harry can't pinpoint, and Harry clears his throat. He slowly inches away, biting the inside of his cheek and hoping his discomfort isn't showing on his face, and Neville stifles a laugh behind his hand.
"What's gotten into you?" Draco asks, corners of his lips pulling down as he squints at Harry. "You look... constipated."
Rosmerta cackles — cackles — and pats Draco's shoulder before heading back to the bar, likely to get his usual.
Harry opens his mouth to reply, not sure what he's going to say, but Neville interrupts. "Rosmerta was entertaining the idea of putting mistletoe above the booth. Harry was against the idea of kissing you."
Harry groans and buries his face in his hands. Is no one on his side today?
"But you've got nothing against kissing Longbottom, Harry? I'm offended. It's probably for the best, though. You couldn't handle me," Draco says with a wink.
Harry's stomach does strange things at Draco winking at him, and he pinches the bridge of his nose just to have an excuse to close his eyes.
"Careful, Draco," Neville mutters. "You might make his hair grey faster if you keep teasing him like that."
Draco laughs too loudly for the joke. Harry sulks for the rest of the afternoon.
-x-
Thursday.
Two days left until Christmas, and one until the faculty party.
Harry rolls out of bed, Isabelle drags a string into his room, and he dresses in his usual black robes — the morning so far is predictable.
Once Isabelle leaves him, everything is quiet and empty. He misses the soft sound of her paws pattering on the floor the second she's gone.
And it's that quiet loneliness that makes him pause with his hand on the doorframe before he leaves for breakfast, looking back at his quarters. He looks at the battered sofa by the fire, the mahogany desk on the far end of the room right beside the door to his bedroom, shelves lining the wall next to it, the rickety little table where two people could share breakfast if they wanted to.
This place isn't meant to be lived in alone. Every corner of it invites company — for a shared bottle of whisky by the fire, or reading an excerpt from the morning paper out loud at the table, or filling the shelves above the desk with framed photos and potions supplies and books and Sneakoscopes.
Harry thinks of Draco.
He thinks of what things would be like if Draco was with him. He can imagine Draco's hand pushing open the bedroom door, shooting a sly smile over his shoulder as he slips inside, eyes inviting Harry to follow. He can imagine waking up with Draco's hair splayed out on the pillows.
Harry's bed wasn't made to be slept in alone.
And so Harry thinks of Draco, and yearns, and wishes, and remembers a million gentle smiles and a thousand glances that have spoken so loud without saying anything Harry can understand.
Something dawns on him, slowly, it's a realisation in the coming for years, and — maybe, he's never understood what all those looks have meant, until now. He may not be the best at romance or feelings, but neither is Draco, and something tells him that maybe he's not the only one who's been yearning all this time.
Lips quirked in reluctant amusement, he thinks that maybe he should've accepted Rosmerta's mistletoe — and that Draco might have, if given the chance.
Harry shuts off the lights in his quarters with a flick of his wand, then makes his way down to the Great Hall as usual. He tries not to look too long at Draco when he sits beside Neville — who gives him a suspicious look, like all of Harry's thoughts are written on his face. Harry only hopes that his thoughts aren't obvious to Draco.
Draco, thankfully, isn't looking at him. His eyes are focused on Isabelle in his lap, who's kneading his leg and purring so loudly that Harry can hear it a few feet away. It brings a smile to his face.
He turns his attention to his breakfast when Neville starts commenting about how big the sausages are today, which he would almost think was supposed to be a joke, if it hadn't come from Neville's mouth.
He spears one on his fork and sniffs it — they are big today — and takes a bite, while Neville takes five points from a Gryffindor student for less than appropriate handlings of their sausage.
Harry snorts, trying to hide it behind his hand, and evidently fails when the student starts laughing too. Neville elbows his side sharply, muttering something about professors, remember? and you're just as bad as Blaise, leaving him scowling and rubbing his ribs.
"Draco, are you working in your lab today?" Neville asks, voice light. Harry leans in curiously for Draco's response, momentarily taken from his offence at Neville's scolding.
"Yes. This batch of Skele-Gro is almost done brewing." He has a slight smile on his face, and it makes Harry want to smile, too.
"Did we go through Skele-Gro that quickly this year?" he asks, and Draco nods around his fork.
"The next batch of Weasley children are at Hogwarts, of course we went through the Skele-Gro," Neville says with a snort, making Harry and Draco laugh.
"Are you in the greenhouse today, Nev? I could join you if you need a hand," Harry asks a few minutes later as the students begin to clear the table.
"Yup," Neville replies. "I'll have to be alone for this, though, so I won't ask for your help. You know how the mandrakes get at this age. Very picky about the humans they interact with. But I'm sure someone else could use your hands."
Harry hums in understanding and finishes off his breakfast. He thinks he knows what Neville is up to — what he's always up to, since he and Blaise got married and the two of them started conspiring — because it seems that he's trying to subtly put ideas in Harry's head. Or maybe even Draco's.
"Harry, since you're not busy, I'd be glad for some help with bottling the Skele-Gro," Draco says, and Harry's pulse jumps. Neville tries, and fails, to not smirk, and Harry has half a mind to elbow him the same way he was elbowed earlier.
"Yeah, okay. I'll join you," he says anyway, and Draco smiles at him.
But at that smile, Harry has never been more grateful for Neville's meddling.
They walk to the potions lab together, the world quiet, apart from their footsteps on the stone. They walk through the winding dungeons, most of the portraits on the walls yawning and glaring at them as they pass. They've evidently gotten used to sleeping in while classes are out.
"What're your plans for Christmas?" Harry asks eventually, and Draco hums. They have this conversation every year with the same responses, but Harry always asks anyway, and Draco always answers.
"Nothing too much. Just going to visit my mother. What about you?" he responds. His voice is tight, and Harry wonders if his mother is alright, but he doesn't push Draco on it.
"Christmas with the Weasleys. All of the Weasleys," Harry says, laughing at Draco's horrified expression.
"How many are there now?" he asks, sounding appalled.
"I lost count at ten."
Draco's laughter echoes in the dungeons, and Harry's chest fills with a strange sense of pride.
They enter Draco's potions lab a few moments later. Harry purses his lips at the smell. Skele-Gro is definitely being brewed in here.
Draco rolls up his sleeves, pulling a hair tie from his wrist and holding it with his teeth as he twists his hair into a bun. Harry watches. Once, it would have been hard to look away from Draco's forearm, but now, it's hard to look away from his hands deftly twirling his hair.
Harry clears his throat and looks around the lab, at the shelves of potion tools and vials on one wall, books on the opposite wall, and a spinning rack of ingredients in the corner. They're things like asphodel and Billywig wings, used often and not needing to be kept in certain temperatures or light. In the center of the room is a large table just for brewing, three cauldrons on it with a low fire.
With his hair up, that stubborn strand in his face as usual, Draco approaches the table and gestures for Harry to follow. He does, rolling up his own sleeves as he nears the table, listening to the rises and falls of Draco's voice as he instructs Harry on how to handle the Skele-Gro. It has to be cooled and stabilized magically before put into the bottles.
It's different from Pepperup Potions, but not so different that Harry can't grasp it after watching Draco do it. It requires some concentration and an incantation, and the lab quickly grows hot from the fires and slight magical exertion — and a fair amount of it might also be from being so close to Draco.
Sweat beads on Draco's forehead and above his lip, his face flushed rather unpleasantly, and Harry swallows past the lump in his throat, willing himself to focus on the task at hand.
When they finally finish cooling, stabilizing, and bottling the Skele-Gro, they drop the bottles off in the Hospital Wing together, and Harry finds himself inviting Draco for a cup of tea before lunch.
They walk slowly back to Harry's quarters, talking about nothing at all, voices soft and echoey in the empty halls. Soft sunlight streams through the windows, glinting in Draco's hair and making it look white. Harry loses his train of thought mid-speech when he notices how bright Draco's eyes look in this lighting.
"Harry?" Draco's voice is gentle, a little concerned, and Harry swallows roughly. He turns his gaze to the floor.
"Yeah?" he asks hesitantly.
"Just making sure you're alive," Draco says, the note of concern still in his voice, and Harry breathes a laugh.
When they arrive at his quarters, Draco sets about making tea with such familiarity that it's like he lives there. Harry doesn't keep tea leaves like Draco — and certainly not as much of a variety — but Draco begins to make two cups of black tea without commenting on it.
There's a slight draft beneath the door, and Harry builds a fire — both he and Draco get cold easily — and he eases into the armchair with his tea. Draco, surprisingly, sits on the sofa, putting them closer together.
He draws his legs beneath him, cradling his steaming mug and sinking into the cushions, and Harry worries at his lower lip at the action. He looks so small, curled up that way, and Harry's chest tightens with affection.
Merlin, Draco will be the death of him.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Draco asks, blushing, snapping Harry out of his thoughts. He rubs the back of his neck bashfully.
"You're quiet," he says. Draco raises an eyebrow, and Harry recognises the look as Draco trying to figure out how to say something. He waits, and takes a small drink of his tea as he does.
"Do you think mother and I would be welcome at the Burrow?" Draco finally asks, voice soft, not looking at Harry. Harry raises his eyebrows. He wasn't expecting that.
"Of course," he says, and means it. "I'm sure Molly would love to see you both again."
The last time they saw each other was at Teddy's graduation, and only briefly. But Molly already has a soft spot for Draco, after everything her grandchildren have said about him as a teacher — and if Narcissa is anything like Draco, then Harry's sure that Molly will love her by the end of the night.
"Is your mother okay?" Harry asks tentatively. Draco's grip tightens on the handle of his mug.
"I've been worried about her lately. I think she could do well to be around people this Christmas," he says.
Harry's heart twists. He isn't sure what makes him do it, but he finds himself leaning forward and putting his hand over Draco's, a thrum running up his arm at the touch. Draco's eyes widen.
"You're always welcome at the Burrow," Harry says.
Draco's answering smile fills every corner of the room with warmth.
