Friday.

Christmas Eve has finally arrived, along with the party.

Harry sits up in bed and rubs his eyes, his cream-coloured blanket pooling around his waist, and he's pleasantly surprised to see the fire still going from last night — however blurry his vision may be. The House Elves must have remembered his room this morning, for the first time in forever.

He swings his feet over the side of his bed and stretches, yawning, before he reaches for his glasses on the bedside table. His hand runs over the smooth table — and meets nothing, not even close to brushing the thin metal frames. He frowns and opens the drawer, leaning in closer to try and make something out.

He can easily make out his few dreamless sleep vials and the Marauder's Map, the colours stark against the dark wood. The map, especially, has been quite handy as a professor, particularly when Teddy was still a student and in his trouble-making phase. Harry pushes aside the bittersweet reminder that he's no longer Teddy's professor, and continues to search for his glasses in the other drawers, and around the floor.

He eventually tries summoning his glasses, but gets no results from that either, and he slumps with disappointment as he tries to think of where he could possibly have left them.

He shrugs and decides that he may as well continue on with his day. He doesn't necessarily need his glasses, considering that he can see floors and walls alright, and what else does he really need to be able to walk?

After showering and dressing, he steps out of the bathroom to complete silence. He realises that Isabelle evidently won't visit him with any of Draco's belongings this morning. No clinking sounds, no soft pattering of her paws on the floor, and no purring.

Despite the pleasant warmth of the fire, the blurriness of the room and lack of a certain affectionate cat make him feel lonely all over again.

The rest of the place makes it even worse, though. While his bedroom seems strange without Isabelle, the rest of his quarters are even worse without Draco. Their mugs from the day before are still on the coffee table beside the fireplace — which is full of ashes, now, and Harry shivers at the unexpected cold.

His loneliness ebbs and flows in his chest, needing something to do with his hands to distract himself from it. Not wanting to go to breakfast like this, he begins to clean his quarters by hand — the way Draco sometimes does when he has something on his mind.

The mugs are carried to the sink first, the rings on the coffee table get wiped down next, and he simply vanishes the ashes.

As he does, he thinks of Draco. Long hair, piercing eyes, knowing smiles and shared glances.

He thinks, and he misses Draco. Together by the fire, pouring a bit of alcohol into empty mugs, voice soft and reaching into every corner of the room to fill it with comfort. Reaching into Harry.

He thinks, and he misses, and he loves Draco.

Harry loves Draco.

It's the first time he's admitted it to himself so plainly, and he wonders if he should feel something dramatic after doing so — shocked, maybe, or nervous. But apart from the warmth blossoming in his chest and the continued ever-present longing for Draco, he doesn't feel any differently.

After all, he's said it a million other ways, through little rose gold tins and blankets thrown over lean shoulders when fires start dying.

And it's that realisation that makes him wonder what's stopping him from actually saying something to Draco. From everything Neville and Rosmerta say, and from Harry's own tentative observations on it, Draco might even feel the same.

So why can't he just say it? If he was younger — if he was still dating and knew how to say romantic things — this wouldn't be a problem. He would just march right up to Draco and say everything on his mind, possibly be even bolder and pull Draco in for a kiss.

And it doesn't help that Draco is so Draco, with his smirks and knowing eyes and heart-stopping beauty. How is Harry supposed to deal with those kinds of things?

He supposes, though, that if Draco wasn't Draco, then Harry wouldn't be in the situation to begin with. He smiles at the thought, and leaves his half-cleaned-up quarters in favour of eating breakfast.

The walk to the Great Hall feels different without glasses. It reminds Harry of when he was a student and his prescription was too weak. It's a strange, unwelcome sense of deja vu, but he's shaken from it when he sees a familiar — albeit fuzzy — blond by the open doors of the Great Hall.

As Harry nears and stops next to Draco, he shifts his stance to match Harry's, and the action makes his heart flutter a bit. He has to resist invading Draco's personal space to see the expression on his face.

"Isabelle brought me something interesting this morning," Draco starts, always skipping right over greetings. "I think she got bored of taking my things, for once."

Harry raises his eyebrows amusedly. So that's where his glasses went. Figures.

"Good morning to you too. And yes, I think she did too. Now I know how it feels," Harry jokes, and Draco scoffs. Harry smirks — he knows the story Draco is going to bring up. He could never forget it.

"Oh no, you wait until she nicks your pants," Draco replies. There's a faint note of embarrassment in his voice. "And then you'll get to say that you know how it feels."

Harry laughs, the image of Isabelle dragging Draco's pants into his room still ingrained in his mind. Having to return those to Draco was the highlight of Harry's month.

"You know, I never took you for a boxers kind of guy," Harry had said when he returned them to a bright red, scowling Draco, who'd promptly told Harry to fuck off. They weren't exactly on great terms then, but the memory amuses him.

They begin to slowly walk into the hall together as Harry smiles. "I'm surprised she didn't do it again, honestly."

Draco practically snorts at that. "I keep my drawers locked now. Are you disappointed?"

Harry clears his throat. "A little."

Draco falls silent at that, and Harry wishes he could see Draco's expression clearer, worried he said something he shouldn't have. The space between them feels like a chasm.

"Harry, where are your glasses?" Neville asks as they approach the table. Harry feels the eyes of a few of the students turn to him. Their stares usually don't bother him, but today, he feels bashful under their gazes.

"Oh, right," Draco says. "Isabelle took them."

Harry almost forgot about the fact that Draco has his glasses. The blond pulls them from his pocket and holds them out to Harry. He takes them with a muttered "thanks."

Their fingers brush, and Harry's skin burns from it. The touch is gentle but undeniably there, and it almost makes Harry shiver before he gets control of himself. He puts his glasses on and blinks as Draco comes into focus. He's surprised to see that Draco's cheeks and ears are flushed.

Draco clears his throat and sits on the other side of Neville, loading his plate with the food nearest to him — things that Harry has never seen him eat — and Neville's eyebrows are high when Harry sits beside him.

"What did you do to poor Draco?" Neville mutters, and Harry laughs, but he's a little concerned, once Draco takes a spoonful of porridge that he didn't even add any sugar to.

"I have… no idea," Harry replies slowly. Neville shakes his head and turns to his own breakfast, his lips quirked.

After breakfast, Harry retreats to his quarters, realising he hasn't wrapped Draco's gift yet. He does his best job at it — which isn't very good, but it's something — and does some more cleaning until it's time to get ready for the party.

He changes into something a little less comfortable, something Hermione picked out for him years ago and doesn't quite fit anymore, and goes to meet Neville and Draco by the Great Hall as they do every year.

Harry stops in his tracks when he sees Draco, wearing blue and silver robes, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. They're patterned with snowflakes, the cut accentuating the taper of his shoulders down to his waist and… lower. Harry mentally berates himself for looking, and turns his gaze up. Draco's hair is tied in an elegantly braided bun, full lips painted pink, eyelids shimmery and blue.

Harry's mouth goes dry. Draco doesn't usually dress this nicely for the faculty party. In fact, it's been a very long time since Draco has worn anything that's not black.

Neville clears his throat, and Harry realises he's been staring. He tears his eyes away and thanks Merlin that no one can tell when he's blushing, because he can feel Draco's eyes on him.

"Draco looks nice, don't you think?" Neville asks with a smirk. Harry wants to scowl at him, and just barely refrains.

"Yeah," Harry agrees softly, pointedly avoiding meeting Draco's eyes.

"No hello?" Draco asks as they start walking to the faculty room. Harry raises his eyebrows and finally looks at Draco, heart stuttering as he does.

"You never say hello," he points out, and Draco bats his hand absently. Harry's eyes are glued to his fingers.

"Yes, yes, but you do," he replies, and Harry's stomach flips.

He finds himself unable to reply as they walk to the second floor, eyes trained on Draco's neck and wandering places they shouldn't be, mentally scolding himself every time they do. Neville, thankfully, picks up a conversation with Draco himself.

As they approach the faculty room, Harry falls a bit further behind Draco, biting his lip as he looks between the mistletoe in the doorway and the back of Draco's head. He almost grasps Draco's wrist to stop him beneath the mistletoe, fingers itching to just reach out and do it — but he hesitates, and his hand falls back at his side.

Neville sighs audibly beside him, patting his back as he walks by.

"You've got another shot when he leaves the room, at least," he says, and Harry grimaces.

"Yeah," he says weakly. Both he and Neville know that he won't stop Draco under the mistletoe.

In the faculty room, the large table and chairs have been turned into sofas and coffee tables, pushed to the sides of the room. A large fire is going, snow falls from the ceiling, a Christmas tree in the corner to put the presents under. Enchanted, wooden mice chase each other through the air,

The afternoon passes slowly, and Harry resists the urge to duck out of the party. The gifts pile up on the table, most of them small and seeming to also be wrapped by magic. He nurses a glass of gin, which was something Neville brought at Blaise's insistence, and makes conversation with the other professors when he can.

Sinistra and Hooch, who got married last year shortly after Blaise and Neville, and have a lot to say about Ginny joining the Holyhead Harpies. He never suspected that Sinistra is a huge Quidditch fan, but he meets her enthusiastically when she starts talking about how Ginny's form only gets better every year.

Cuthbert, who falls asleep mid-conversation in an armchair by the fire, and Harry has the dreadful suspicion that it might even be the armchair he died in. The thought makes him so uncomfortable that he's relieved when Binns falls asleep, slipping over to the refreshments table for a snack.

Firenze, who keeps tugging on his ugly Christmas tie, muttering about how there's no good cheese at this year's party. Harry has to agree with him — last year had a large variety, but this year there are more baked goods than cheeses. It's a shame, really.

Minerva, who's three drinks deep already. She's flushed, and her eyes are a little glassy, but otherwise, she holds herself pretty well. She keeps trying to nudge Harry in Draco's direction, and Draco notices almost as soon as she starts doing it, so Harry makes his escape quickly.

And Draco… Merlin, Draco. Harry can barely even get a proper sentence out around him. His cheeks are flushed, eyes practically burning beneath long eyelashes, voice low, standing close to Harry.

Harry has no idea what it is, or what caused it, but Draco just seems different. Intense. He almost seems like he's longing, if Harry's being hopeful.

After what feels like hours of struggling to hold a conversation with Draco, Filius finally gives up trying to get names out of people (Cuthbert, as he does every year, is the only one who broke) and deems it an appropriate time for gifts.

They all find their gifts under the tree. Neville and Draco gravitate towards each other after getting them. Harry's is quill-shaped and wrapped in red paper, Neville's is leaking, squirming, and pungent… and Harry eyes Draco nervously.

He distracts himself by opening his present. It is indeed a quill — the feather reminding him of Hedwig, and he smiles a bit — and based on Neville's embarrassed grin, it's obvious that Neville was his gifter the entire time.

"A quill, Nev? A quill?" he jokes, nudging his friend's arm, and Neville laughs bashfully. Harry adds softly, "Thank you, Nev."

Neville gives him a gentle smile before going to open his own gift, which has stopped squirming as much. Draco and Harry watch in gross fascination as Neville peels back the paper. It turns out to be a Mimbulus Mimbletonia sapling, and Neville's face lights up with joy, while both Draco and Harry take a good few steps back. They're all too aware of how explosive and disgustingly sticky the plant can be.

Harry looks at the other professors as Draco starts to tear open the paper, spotting Firenze immediately. He seems delighted in receiving a bad tie, putting it on over the one he's already wearing, and Harry laughs. Minerva is wearing a new hat, Filius is cracking open a watercolour pan, Sinistra and Hooch have disappeared — Harry can guess where to — and Cuthbert is still asleep with a wrapped package beside him.

Harry feels a pair of eyes on him, and looks up to meet Draco's eyes, holding the tin of tea leaves. His stare, intense and weighted, leaves Harry breathless, and the grin falls off his face. He swallows past the lump in his throat.

"Thank you," Draco says sincerely, and Harry sucks in a breath.

"You're welcome," Harry whispers. It's only then that Harry realises how close they are to the mistletoe. He swallows thickly, excusing himself from the party, and ignores Draco's questioning looks.

In his quarters, he takes a long, cold shower and busies himself with cleaning to get his mind off of Draco.

Well into the evening, after taking dinner in his room and changing into his pajamas, Draco knocks on his door. Because of course he does. Harry stares at him when he answers the door, afraid that he might actually be gaping. Draco is still wearing his robes, lips pink.

Harry licks his lips and turns his eyes to Draco's forehead.

Draco holds the Earl Grey up and quirks his eyebrow in a silent question, and Harry's lips twitch. He steps back and opens the door further in invitation.

Draco smirks and walks into the room, hand coming to rest on Harry's shoulder for just a moment as he passes, and Harry sucks in a breath and shuts his eyes. He smells like bergamot and gin.

Draco goes straight for the small sink and kettle in the corner, and it's a few moments before Harry remembers to close the door. He sits in the armchair by the fire, back to Draco, listening to him rummage around the cupboards, and the kettle whistle, and metal clink against glass.

He listens, and wonders what's gotten into Draco.

Draco sits in the opposite chair when the tea is brewed. He stares at the fire, sipping his tea every once in a while, and Harry gets the impression he isn't in a talking mood. Harry is happy to provide quiet company.

So Harry watches Draco.

Draco pulls his hair out of the bun, falling in a messy braid over his shoulder.

Draco wipes his lipstick off with a napkin.

Draco glances at Harry.

The fire casts shadows over Draco's face, throws his eyes into darkness, and Harry wishes he could see them. But then again, he's not sure he could handle whatever look is in them right now.

At some point, it becomes them watching each other, pretending to watch the fire and allowing each other to stare without saying anything — and they are content in it. Harry isn't sure how much time he spends glancing between Draco's crossed feet and his face, but he eventually looks up to find the fire dying and his cup drained.

He opens his mouth to ask if Draco wants another cup, but the words die in his mouth when he sees that Draco is asleep, chin resting on his hand. Warmth floods through Harry at the sight, and the simple fact that Draco could even fall asleep like that in front of Harry.

Merlin, he loves this man.

He stands and collects their cups as quietly as possible — Draco's has pink lipstick rings on it, and Harry inexplicably wants to keep them — and builds the fire again. He throws a blanket over Draco's shoulders, one Molly knitted, knowing Draco would hate it.

Unable to resist, Harry hesitantly tucks a loose strand of hair behind Draco's ear, hand lingering. In his sleep, he turns his cheek into Harry's palm.

Harry falls asleep easily tonight.

-x-

Saturday. Christmas morning.

Harry stumbles out of bed, almost tripping in his eagerness to peer from his bedroom to see if Draco is still there. He doesn't expect him to be, really, but he's hopeful. It's not even sunrise yet — so the entire place is dark — but when Harry pokes his head through his door, he can see Draco's dark form curled on the sofa.

It's too early and he's too tired to have emotions, but Harry softens so much he's afraid he might actually have to hold himself up using the doorway.

Because Draco stayed. He moved to the sofa, and he stayed. They slept with only a wall between them.

Harry looks for only a bit longer, before he retreats into his bedroom to get a couple more hours of sleep in. It's too early for anything at all, but especially pining — he can do that when he's rested.

He's woken later by a sharp knock, and he jerks awake, grumbling and reaching for his glasses. He staggers to his door, pulls it open, and blinks — Draco is waiting for him, eyeing him judgmentally, and Harry looks down at his crumpled snitch-themed pajamas.

He rubs the back of his neck bashfully. Draco has obviously showered and dressed, wearing a simple black traveling cloak with his hair in a braid. He looks elegant and put-together, and Harry's heart stutters.

"Are those snitches?" Draco asks, squinting, and Harry rolls his eyes.

"Draco, I've seen your pants — I know what's on them. So you can't even say anything about my pajamas," he says, and Draco blushes at the reminder.

"Nevermind the pants. It's almost noon, you know," he says, and Harry gawks. Noon? How?

"What? We were supposed to be at the Burrow an hour ago!" Harry says, turning on his heels and throwing open his closet to find something decent to wear. He starts rummaging around, before Draco's hand on his wrist stops him, and he swallows thickly.

"You go shower, and I'll find you something to wear. You'll pick something atrocious otherwise," Draco says, and Harry almost wants to argue, but he knows Draco is right. Hermione makes a comment every year about how Harry still can't be trusted to dress himself.

He showers as quickly as possible, exiting the bathroom in a towel to find the door closed and a set of robes spread on the now-made bed. They're deep green in colour, the trim similar Draco's the night before, and Harry eyes them suspiciously. He swears he's never even seen them before, but he puts them on anyway, and emerges from his bedroom to find Draco waiting by the fireplace with the jar of Floo powder.

"You look nice," he says. "Very spiffy."

Harry laughs, somehow loving Draco even more for that. "Please never say that again."

Draco breathes a laugh and holds the jar out to Harry, and he takes a pinch of the powder before stepping into the fireplace.

Floo travel goes at it always does for him — poorly — and he steps out of the grate to a very hectic scene.

He immediately spots Hugo and Rose chasing Teddy, who's holding something just out of their reach. Percy, trying to get someone's toddler (whose child is that?) out of the Christmas tree without injuring her. Fred and George, playing Exploding Snap with Fred's partner and cheering loudly. Fleur yelling at Victoire in the hall for "inappropriate behaviour." Charlie and Ginny arm-wrestle in the corner, money on the table between them.

Harry smiles, even as he suspects that he's going to end the night with a terrible headache. There's no place like the Burrow.

He says hello to everyone who notices that he's there, offering hugs where they're wanted and helping Percy get the toddler off of the tree (he still doesn't know whose child it is). Draco slides up beside him by the time he's gotten to saying hello to Fleur, eyes wide and soot on his robes that he evidently couldn't get off with all the commotion, and Harry's heart skips a beat.

"Holy shit," Draco mutters. "Is it like this all the time?"

Harry laughs. "When everyone is here, yes. Let's go to the kitchen. It's usually quieter there."

They walk down the hall, past Teddy, who's been cornered by Hugo and Rose — Harry gives Teddy a pointed look, as if to say to just give up whatever he took from them, and Teddy's hair turns red.

As they near the kitchen, the yelling and playful shouts get quieter, replaced by soft, calm voices and the smell of a Christmas lunch.

They round the corner, and Harry softens when he sees Hermione reading in the armchair by the fire, Ron and Bill cooking — and to his surprise, Molly, talking with Narcissa Malfoy by the window. He didn't know she was already here.

"Mother," Draco says, just as Ron says, "Harry!"

Harry grins, leaving Draco to greet his mother as he hugs Ron, taking care not to touch his dough-covered hands.

"Happy Christmas, Ron."

"Happy Christmas. Merlin. It feels like it's been years, mate," Ron says, chin grazing the top of Harry's head as he speaks, and Harry steps away to avoid the sensation.

"No hugs for me?" Bill jokes from behind Ron, and Harry laughs, going in to hug Bill, too.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," Hermione says, not moving from the armchair or looking up from her book, but there's a smile on her face.

Merlin, he's missed them all.

He looks across the room to see Molly fussing over a very red Draco, brushing the soot off his robes while Narcissa greets Draco with a fond smile. Harry's heart tightens at the scene. It's almost like Narcissa and Draco have fallen right in with the Weasleys, without any preparation needed, and Harry wonders if Molly and Narcissa have kept up some sort of correspondence. It's hard to believe they get along so well.

"Where's Arthur?" Harry asks curiously.

"In his shed. 'Last-minute Christmas presents', he said," Ron says, nodding his head in Narcissa and Draco's direction. Harry hums in understanding.

"What's with the robes? You never wear anything like this," Hermione says, peering over her book and eyeing him appreciatively. Harry clears his throat.

"Draco picked them out," he mutters in embarrassment, and Ron bursts out laughing.

"Merlin's balls, Harry, he's dressing you now? And you haven't even kissed?" Ron says, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, and Harry punches his arm.

"Well, Ronald, I was dressing you long before we ever kissed, if you'll recall," Hermione cuts in smoothly, not looking up from her book, and Ron's ears turn bright red. Harry laughs, Bill snickers — obviously having listened to their conversation, which is a little embarrassing — and Hermione stifles her chuckle behind her hand.

"I've missed you," Harry says, laughter fading.

"We've missed you too, mate," Ron says sincerely, eyebrows furrowed a bit. Hermione sets aside her book, slipping her bookmark in before turning to face Harry, eyes curious. It's the same look she gets when a theory is turning in her mind.

"I'm sorry I don't firecall more. I've been meaning to, but it just slipped my mind." Ron and Hermione share a look, and Harry fidgets nervously — he recognises that look. It's The Look, the same one Neville and Blaise share whenever they're about to do their meddling things.

"It's alright, mate," Ron says sympathetically, going back to kneading the dough with Bill, and Harry worries his lip.

"I'd forget too," Hermione starts, "if I was lonely and pining and wasting all my chances to correct that."

"Hermione!" Harry groans, hiding his face behind his hands. "That was harsh."

"It was true," she corrects, turning back to her book. She's said all she needed to say.

"That was a little harsh, 'Mione," Ron agrees, and Hermione raises her eyebrows incredulously. Ron immediately goes back to kneading the dough, clearing his throat. "Sorry mate, you're on your own."

Harry laughs weakly. "I've been abandoned."

"That should give you more time to think about what I said," Hermione says, and Harry sighs.

What she said was true, and the words stick with him the rest of the day. He watches Draco and Narcissa most of the night, fitting right in with the Weasleys. The younger ones, especially, love Narcissa — probably because Draco is their professor, so that makes him less cool to talk to, and it's likely that Rose is digging for embarrassing stories about Draco.

Oddly, the twins take to Draco very quickly, the three of them talking in low voices all throughout lunch. Harry watches them fondly.

Well into the evening, once lunch has been eaten and dinner is prepared, the beginnings of a headache creeps up on Harry, and he retreats to the garden. He sits on the porch steps, casting warming charms to melt the snow, and relishes the quiet.

The Burrow's garden is one of Harry's favourite places to be. It's full of life and the touches of family. Even in winter, buried in the snow, the plants are tall and green and beautiful. It's as messy and random as ever, and Harry loves it. Near the thicker bushes are dozens of sets of footprints — evidently, the garden gnomes still love the garden, too.

Harry's thoughts turn to Draco, and Narcissa, and how easily they fall in with the Weasleys, like they've been there all along. Two of Harry's worlds are meeting, fusing, and he's not quite sure how to take it.

The door opens, and he's pulled from his thoughts as he turns to see Draco stepping onto the porch, wrapping his robes tighter.

"I thought you might be out here," Draco says softly. Harry's heart leaps. Draco was looking for him. "I just escaped."

Harry's lip quirks. "From?"

"Ginevra," Draco says, sitting on the step beside Harry, their shoulders touching. "She was intent on informing me of what would happen if I ever hurt you."

Harry puts his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. I think they've gotten the wrong idea. What did she say?"

"I'd rather not repeat that," Draco says, a flush on his cheeks, and Harry laughs. He can only imagine what she said — she can get pretty vulgar.

"Well, what do you say back?"

"That I'd never hurt you," Draco mutters. Harry swallows past the lump in his throat. His heart races.

"Oh," he says, looking down at his lap. He doesn't know what to say.

So, as he always does, he watches Draco. It would be simple to say that he fell for Draco because of his looks — the curve of his neck as he turns his gaze towards the sky, the snowflakes on his eyelashes, or his too-pointy chin and nose.

But in the quiet, with nothing between them except the air, Harry loves Draco for the sound of his breathing. Steady, soft. For the way his fingers inch towards Harry's, but never touch. For the way he might be listening to Harry breathe, too.

And Harry has never loved Draco more.