New Year's Eve.
Weasley's Wizard Wheezes is bursting with life, even more so than usual. All three floors of the shop have been rearranged to allow the maximum amount of people and games in. The shelves and products are no longer in sight — Merlin knows where they went — and all that remains are a few tables here and there filled with alcohol and food.
It's been a while since Harry's been to the store. It seems to grow every time he sees it, and he's proud of the twins for getting so far.
He doesn't usually attend the twins' New Year's parties just because of how many people usually go, but Blaise and Neville managed to drag him along this year. It helps that Draco also agreed, though if he's honest, Draco is the only reason Harry is there.
Usually, he spends New Year's Eve at the Burrow — or, more often, already asleep.
Harry waits just inside the store for Draco, Neville, and Blaise to show up, wanting to avoid the snow beginning to fall outside. Neville and Blaise appear first, holding hands, and Harry tries not to feel jealous of how openly affectionate they are.
Shortly after, Neville goes to find Fred and George before the party gets even louder and more full, leaving Harry with Blaise.
Harry likes Blaise. He's funny, he cares about Neville, and he's generally nice when he's not conspiring. But being left alone with him makes Harry nervous, because he's usually conspiring.
Blaise gives Harry a once-over without saying hello — maybe it's a Slytherin thing? — squinting and looking like he can somehow read Harry's every thought. Harry shifts uncomfortably.
"Blaise," he greets, inclining his head. "How've you been? How's the gin?"
Blaise hums, glancing to see if Neville is gone before he pulls a cigarette from his coat and ducks outside, Harry following. "I'm doing great, thanks. How about you? I take it Draco still hasn't shagged you, then?"
Harry splutters, not sure how he should even reply to that, and Blaise smirks at something over Harry's shoulder as he lights the cigarette.
"Blaise, what?" a light voice comes from behind Harry, and he freezes. How does Draco always do this?
Draco stops beside Harry, looking questioningly at Blaise, nose pink. He crosses his arms and frowns. Harry swallows nervously.
"Oh, I'm sure Harry can explain," Blaise says, smirk growing.
"Explain why you're smoking?" Draco says, an accusing note in his voice, and Harry relaxes marginally — so Draco didn't hear the whole shagging thing. "I thought you quit."
Blaise winces and drops the cigarette reluctantly, stomping it out in the snow. "I hate you sometimes, you know that?"
Draco's reply is lost on Harry, because he's too busy realising that Draco is wearing a grey Weasley sweater, the D knitted in green. And, oh Merlin, does Draco look good in it, with his hair in a braided bun and the same pink lipstick on from Christmas Eve.
When did Molly knit that for him? Why did she? Does Narcissa have one too? The questions fly around Harry's head, but they go completely out the window when Draco turns to him and smiles.
"Right, Harry?" he says, and Harry raises his eyebrows.
"Err, right, yeah," he says, and he's saved from pretending to know what he's agreed to by Neville, who pulls them back inside and sends Harry and Draco off in the twins' direction to say hello.
As they weave through the steadily growing crowd of people, Draco grabs hold of Harry's elbow to stay with him, and Harry's skin heats at the contact. Draco's fingers are warm, his grip light, but Harry is aware of it the entire time he's holding onto his elbow.
Before they can even reach the stairs, people begin to take notice of Harry, falling silent around him — though the whispers grow with every second. And then the jostling and "Harry Potter? Harry Potter!" begins, as people try to get closer to him, to see his scar or say hello or shake his hand.
Fucking hell.
It's been so long since he's been out in Diagon Alley that he's forgotten that everyone else hasn't forgotten his name. He has half a mind to duck back out of the store and sleep through the New Year, but that would leave Draco alone, and Harry alone, so he doesn't.
"Harry," Draco says in his ear. "What do we do?"
"Er," Harry starts. It's not like he can just dip under his invisibility cloak anymore.
But just then, the twins' voices sounds over the speakers, the music on pause: "A brand-new, unreleased flavour of Weasley-Zabini gin has been added to the floor —"
"—so get it before it's gone, folks!"
Harry shares a relieved look with Draco as the people disperse, either to rush to the alcohol or taking the hint. Harry silently thanks the twins. He really thought people would be over him by now.
They find the twins where Neville said they were, overlooking the first floor and making sure nobody is dying or getting too handsy. But the night is young, and there'll be opportunities for that later, Harry supposes.
"Harry! Ferret-face!" Fred greets, throwing his arms wide. George rolls his eyes, and Draco scowls when Harry laughs at the name.
"Enjoying the party so far?" George asks, side-stepping his twin to clap Draco on the back. Draco quirks on eyebrow and shrugs off the touch, and George just grins.
"There are more people here than I was expecting from you two," Draco says shortly. Fred and George share a look.
"There's a compliment in there somewhere," Fred replies after a moment, and Draco smirks.
"By the way, thanks for the rescue back there," Harry cuts in. Fred's getting that look in his eyes that Harry knows all too well not to trust. He feels an inexplicable need to drag Draco away from the twins before it's too late. "I know that wasn't a coincidence."
"Don't mention it," George says, waving it off and glancing at Fred. Harry sighs, resigning himself to whatever it is the twins are planning.
"You should come with us, Ferret-face," Fred says, draping an arm over Draco's shoulder, who grumbles at the touch.
"You won't regret it," George adds, throwing his arm over his twin's. Draco grumbles more, and Harry sighs again, ignoring the flare of jealousy in his chest.
"What're we doing?" Draco asks curiously.
"Oh, a couple of games—"
"—that's all."
Draco glances over his shoulder as the twins whisk him away, mouthing a "sorry," and Harry waves lamely at his back.
It's stupid to be jealous, he tells himself. Draco will be fine — he'll probably enjoy whatever it is Fred and George have planned — and Harry will be just as fine, thank you very much. He has Neville and Blaise for company, at least.
-x-
Harry does not have Neville and Blaise for company.
He doesn't want to admit he's sulking, but he most definitely is. With Draco dragged off by the twins to do who-knows-what, he's left to his own devices. (Which really just means he's taken shelter by the food, and trying to hide his face as more people get word that he's there.)
He's reminded that part of the reason he became a teacher was to get away from the curious eyes of the public. He'd much rather have teenagers gossip about him with their friends than journalists write terribly invasive articles about his love life.
He'll probably wind up in the Daily Prophet tomorrow — Draco might even, too, because they showed up together. How likely is it that someone got a picture of him holding onto Harry's elbow?
He really hasn't had enough to drink to process this.
He goes to pour himself more whisky, and spots a familiar blonde vigorously mixing herself a drink. He raises his eyebrows.
"Harry!" Rosmerta says when she spots him, cheeks rosy and eyes bright. "Thought I heard something about you being here."
Harry winces — of course she heard — and goes to stand beside her, staring at the self-filling, hopefully unbreakable glass tumblers, at a loss. Where are the labels?
"I didn't expect to see you here, Rosmerta. The pub closed?" Harry asks. He expected Rosmerta to keep it open as usual. Rosmerta winks as she pours something in Harry's glass. He shrugs. He may as well take it.
"Nope," she chirps, "Perk of owning the place is that I can take all the time I want off."
Harry laughs. He really does admire how she lives life the way she wants to. She seems to take it to the fullest.
"Blondie here?" Rosmerta asks, swirling her glass, the ice clinking.
"Yeah. The twins pulled him away," Harry says with a slight frown, taking a sip of his — whisky? Scotch? He doesn't drink enough to know the difference, and neither are really his cup of tea, anyway.
"Careful, love, that almost sounds bitter," Rosmerta says, and he clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.
"You find him before midnight, though, and I'm sure you won't be anymore," she adds. Harry's skin heats.
"We'll see," he says vaguely, and Rosmerta shrugs, knocking back the rest of her drink.
"That's all up to you," she says, eyes widening as the drink hits her. "You know that boy's pride will stop him from saying anything first."
Harry puts down his drink when Rosmerta glances away, hoping she won't notice, and worries at his bottom lip. There's some truth to what she said, but the nerves hit him at the thought of even trying to confess anything to Draco.
"How'd you end up in Gryffindor, huh?" Rosmerta asks, squinting at him, and Harry splutters. "You better suck it up if you ever wanna make something between you two. From here on out, you'll be gettin' no more help from me. That's my New Year's resolution."
She punctuates the sentence with a pointed finger and promptly walks away, leaving Harry to gape at her back.
Alone yet again and sticking to the shadows, Harry locates the nearest table of food. His stomach growls at the sight and smell of everything. There's a slice of treacle tart with his name on it.
It reminds him distinctly of Molly's cooking, and he wonders if she could have helped make it — or maybe Ron, who's taken baking up recently. He'll have to ask him tomorrow. There's no doubt that he's with his kids tonight.
After the treacle tart comes a decent amount of water and cheese — probably too much cheese — and Harry thinks of Firenze as he eats. He'd appreciate the selection the twins have provided.
Harry finds a chair after that, and takes to people watching. Rosmerta appears every once in a while, giving him pointed glances. A few couples get a little too handsy — George usually handles them. Surprisingly, only a few people take any great, drunken risks. He wonders if it's a bad thing that he's disappointed.
Probably.
Harry sighs heavily, pitying himself for just a moment. He wishes he had tea.
-x-
Twenty minutes to midnight.
Harry feels something shift in his chest — this is his chance — so he makes his way through the crowd to the winding staircase, trying to find a familiar blond head.
"Looking for the pointy blond one?" someone asks in his ear, and Harry jumps, turning to see George leaning against the railing and smirking.
"Pointy blond one? That's nicer than usual." George snorts. "Have you seen him?"
George points towards the ceiling with a lopsided grin. "All the way up."
Harry thanks him, resigning himself to walking up three flights of stairs, before George adds: "You might want to pop a mint in before you find him, mate."
Harry rolls his eyes and flips George off as he climbs the steps, the redhead's laughter following him up. When he's out of George's sight, though, he casts a few freshening charms on himself in embarrassment. It's entirely possible George was pulling his leg — but it's equally likely that he wasn't. He'd rather not take that risk.
He makes his way up the spiraling stairs, trying not to knock into anyone as he does, and he's breathless when he finally reaches the roof. He's surprised to see that it's only a balcony overlooking Diagon Alley, the railing wrapping around the small tower of the shop.
A breeze rustles Harry's hair. Shouts and laughter float up from below. He walks around the balcony, leaning close to the building and wondering if Draco isn't up here after all, but then he sees him, and Harry's thoughts are carried off with the wind.
Because Draco — Merlin — Draco is beautiful. Hair mussed, falling out of the bun, the strands blowing against his neck in the breeze.
"Hi." Harry's suddenly nervous. Draco turns, smiling when he sees Harry.
"Harry. Hi," Draco greets. Harry freezes, eyes widening.
"You said hello," he says in awe, and Draco stares at him in confusion, before he begins to laugh.
"You're an idiot, you know that?"
The sound of Draco's laughter makes his heart flip. He doesn't know what makes him say it, but the words tumble from his mouth before he can stop them.
"I know. I love you."
Draco's eyes go wide, laughter dying immediately, and Harry looks away, mortified that he just said that.
"Harry," Draco whispers, hand coming up to cusp Harry's cheek. Harry goes breathless, leaning into the touch and reaching up to put his hand over Draco's. Oh, Merlin. "I was beginning to think I'd have to say it first, you git."
Harry laughs, heart bursting with warmth and joy and love.
Because Draco loves Harry, too.
-x-
They're silent for some time, content with not speaking, their fingers interlocked and moving to grip the railing between them. Their hands say everything they need to.
I love you. I love you.
Below them, Diagon Alley fills with even more people, shouting and laughing, the sound carrying up to them. At some point, they begin to count down — ten, nine, eight — and Harry shares a look of surprise with Draco.
The fireworks begin at six. Hiss! Crack! Crack!
Draco's face is illuminated by the bursting lights — his pale skin tinted red, purple, blue, green, yellow — and Harry watches the colours shift.
He feels the weight of Draco's heavy stare back on him, and with his heart pounding, meets Draco's eyes. Watches Draco's gaze flit down to his lips.
Five! Four!
"Harry?" Draco whispers, his voice catching over the y. It sounds like he's asking permission.
Three! Two!
And Harry wants — he wants — so he leans into Draco, tilts his head, and Draco meets him halfway.
One!
Their lips brush. Draco's short breaths come quick over Harry's cheek. Until — finally — Draco's arms wind around Harry's neck and he presses his lips fully against Harry's, pulling him in so closely their bodies are pressed together. It's warm and full and Merlin.
Harry's hands wind in Draco's hair as he tastes him — bitter like amaro and bergamot. Harry hums into the kiss, a moment passing before the corners of Draco's lips twitch. He starts laughing — and Harry can't help but join him.
They cling to each other, laughing, as the fireworks burst all around them.
-x-
Harry and Draco are often alone together. But up here, overlooking all of Diagon Alley as Draco's arms wind around Harry's shoulders, it feels like this is the first time they've been truly alone together.
Somehow, though, it's almost strange how easy it is to do this. To hold each other, and so readily admit their feelings. It must be because they were both waiting for so long, but it's almost as if they were always meant to be this way — in love and warm and content.
Harry sinks further into Draco's embrace, sighing. He could never tire of this.
"Do you think Neville would miss us if we left?" Draco asks in his ear, voice low. His breath sends a slight shiver down Harry's spine. He wonders if Draco intended that.
"I'm pretty sure he's already left with Blaise," he responds, and he can feel Draco's laughter, more so than hear it.
There's the familiar tug of Apparition in Harry's gut, before the fireworks slip away.
-x-
Harry lands in the alley beside The Three Broomsticks, arms still around Draco. He curses at the unexpected snow, the world spinning a little. Draco's eyes burn. Harry's heart pounds at their proximity and that look.
Before he can figure out what's happening, Draco's lips are against his, hands gripping his collar to pull him close, and Harry sinks into the kiss. He can barely believe that this is happening.
He winds his fingers into Draco's hair, messing it up even further, and Draco makes a small noise of protest against his lips.
"We should get back to Hogwarts," Harry mutters.
So they do.
-x-
Harry feels alive, blood singing. Draco's hands leave trails of fire over his skin. Adrenaline courses through him.
They slip through the secret passages, hands interlocked, avoiding the portraits and the possibility of running into other people.
Once, they have to stop when Draco pins Harry to the wall in a dark passage.
Once, they stop when Harry tells him to do it again.
-x-
All Harry knows is Draco. Draco. Draco.
Draco's name on his lips, Draco's hair in his hands, Draco's face buried in his neck.
Harry mutters his praises, half-wondering if he's dreaming, and Draco silences him with a searing kiss.
-x-
Harry isn't dreaming.
He's real — so is Draco. Draco's lips travel down his neck, and Harry's back arches.
All of this is real.
-x-
Draco rolls onto his back. Sweeps his hair from his face. It splays on the pillow.
-x-
Harry's fingers intertwine with Draco's. I love you.
-x-
Saturday.
Harry wakes to Draco, and the sun.
