He was fussing about the house, the way he always did when company was coming. Draco never pinned him as the orderly sort, and he hadn't been for most of their life together, but apparently, good habits had rubbed off on him.
Draco, on the other hand, was drinking.
"Thought ice in the champagne insulted the host."
"It does, but this time, I'm insulting you, not my mother."
There was a knock at the door and Harry made a beeline for it. Hurriedly, Draco downed his glass and crunched the cold ice cubes, ashamed of his new preference.
"Harry," Narcissa lilted, "I see you haven't changed."
"Erm—thanks?"
"Oh, it wasn't a compliment, dear. And Draco! You're looking . . . well-fed. Surely, Harry here isn't ordering that awful Muggle takeaway again?"
Draco pecked both her cheeks. "Lovely to see you, Mother."
"Lovely to see you too, darling. It's been too long."
"It wouldn't be so long if we were welcome at the manor."
"Yes, well, you know how your father feels about your . . . lifestyle." She frowned and traced his jawline. "It really is a pity, you know. You would've sired a beautiful grandchild."
Harry suddenly seemed to be choking on one of the hors d'oeuvres.
"So is Father coming, then?"
"I'm afraid not."
And so they spent another Christmas together—just the three of them—along with the discomfort that laced the room.