A pile of gold. A thoughtless note. A reminder that Draco Malfoy was still Draco bloody Malfoy.
Potter —
I didn't want to wake you. My parents have informed me I'm expected to join them in France for the holidays. I'll be back on the 27th.
Please buy yourself something nice.
DM
Harry hadn't bought himself anything nice at all. Instead, he sat in the bedroom, picking away at stocking chocolate and waiting, waiting for Draco to come home.
The 27th finally came, and at nearly noon, Draco stepped inside and hung his scarf.
"France was miserable. The Malfoys really know how to put a damper on Toulon. First, my father brought up the . . . what's wrong with you?"
"Oh, I don't know . . . maybe the fact that my boyfriend left me with a pile of gold and a note . . . on Christmas?"
Draco frowned. "Well, I figured you'd rather not spend it with my parents."
"So? I still wanted to spend it with you! And to not even give me a chance to say goodbye—"
"Honestly, Potter, I saved you a week with my family and gave you a hundred Galleons for whatever you wanted. You'd think—"
"You can't replace your time with gold, Draco! You can't just buy me off like some . . . like some Slytherin trollop! Bloody hell, you haven't changed at all."
Harry seized his jacket from the rack and pushed past his blond counterpart.
"Potter, come on. Where are you going?"
"Away from you."