Summary: This is Draco's park. Harry Potter has no business being here.

When yet another teenage girl walks past his bench with yet another tiny little telephone playing yet another tinny festive ringing sound, Draco scowls.

"Hiya!" she bellows into the device, and Draco wonders if the caller is deaf. Perhaps they are now. "Yeah, I know... yeah, it's fucking freezing, innit? I know, babe, I'm in the park..."

He watches her until she becomes nothing more than a blur of shiny black hair and fur-hooded coat. He doesn't know what sort of animal has perished to produce the garment, but it isn't one that he recognises. She is right, of course, about the temperature—it is indeed fucking freezing. It's December; anything else would be strange and somehow disturbing. Still, Draco buries his cold nose in the folds of his scarf and wishes he'd remembered to bring gloves today. Instead, he wraps his icy fingers around his steaming paper cup and peers down at the contents, willing the scalding liquid within to reach mouth-suitable temperature as quickly as it can. He is tempted, just for a moment, to apply a Cooling Charm, but the urge doesn't last long. Spells always ruin the taste of hot drinks, and besides, this is a Muggle park.

Sort of. Draco has been coming here for so long now—two years, perhaps, three? His memory isn't as sharp as it used to be, and at the age of twenty-seven, that can't be a good thing—that he has come to think of the place as his park. The well-kept lawns, the bandstand, the children's playground with its galloping little ones and knots of gossiping, laughing mothers—all his. The dog walkers and the summer picnickers and the local students who sometimes push one another into the duck pond for reasons unknown—they are all his, too. But most of all, this bench—this one here with the wrought iron frame and the comfortable wooden slats, the graffiti declaring 'Jason did one ere' and the enviable proximity to the coffee stand—this belongs to Draco.

He knows this because he has never seen anyone else sitting here, apart from the pigeon with the one foot who occasionally turns up, emboldened by Draco's rebellious sharing of crumbs from his lunchtime sandwiches, and he is allowed to stay because he doesn't take up a lot of space, doesn't demand any kind of conversation, and seems, Draco always thinks, like a bit of a kindred spirit.

"You and I are outsiders," he had declared, the first day he had arrived and found the one-legged bugger pecking around between the slats of his bench. "Not very popular and not very pretty. I suppose we ought to stick together." He had offered a bit of wholemeal crust, it had been accepted with alacrity and, Draco thinks, gratitude, and that had been that.

~*~*

Good times for a change

See, the luck I've had

Can make a good man

Turn bad

~*~*

Draco realises that he has definitely been less popular (and less pretty) in his time, but that doesn't stop him from occasionally feeling sorry for himself. As far as he can see, it's quite acceptable to feel anything at all inside one's own head, so long as it doesn't escape and get all over everything. And that's fine, because, quite frankly, he is the master of self control these days. He has to be. The Floo Network Office is full of idiots, and if he voiced even ten per cent of what he thought about his colleagues on a daily basis, he would be out of a job before he could say intra-fireplace-transitory-incident, which he can say very quickly after all these years of practice. It would be a shame, too, because he likes his job. It's interesting.

He has even made his peace with working at the Ministry. Nobody stares at him any more, and people have long since given up asking about his parents, what they are doing with themselves and if they are ever planning to return to England. He doesn't really talk to anyone at work unless he has to, and that suits him just fine. He has—he owns—the best spot in the park for his lunch, and though it would surprise many of the people who think they know all about him, he has friends. It's just that, ever since he has had the choice, he has looked for them in more unusual places—places where nobody knows a thing about his past. Places like the comfortable little coffee shop with the rainbow-coloured flag outside, and the strange, glittery bars that stay open all night.

He has friends, and they like him just fine.

And that would be wonderful, perfect, even, if it hadn't been for the Harry Potter issue.

Harry Potter, of whom Draco didn't see a whisper for a good five years after the war was over. Harry Potter, who popped up in the newspaper from time to time, looking irritatingly dishevelled and important, leading some charity project or helping out at Hogwarts, but staying well out of Draco's way, and Draco was absolutely fine with that. And then, of course, Harry Potter had to come and work for the Department of Magical Games and Sports, just one floor above Draco's, and finally, just to add insult to injury, he turned up in Draco's park.

That was almost twelve months ago, and to Draco's silent, seething indignation, Harry Potter has taken it upon himself to walk (or wander, really, the bugger never really hurries anywhere) through his park every—single—day at lunchtime. Every day, he is just there, trundling past Draco's bench without a care in the world, and Draco can't help thinking that if he really did own this park, Harry Potter would be the very first thing to be banned. Followed swiftly by noisy girls with noisy telephones.

If anyone were to ask him why he sits here day after day, especially when there is a perfectly serviceable canteen in the Ministry building, he'd tell them it was because of the great coffee, but if he's honest, it's not about that at all. Most of the time he doesn't even have coffee; he has hot chocolate with marshmallows, because there are few things in life more comforting than a mess of melted marshmallow, the kind that sticks to your lips in a sugary glaze and makes you feel as carefree as a four-year-old, just for a moment. Not that he'd tell anyone that, of course. As far as Harry Potter the interloper is concerned, he's a hardcore coffee drinker and he sits here because he just damn well wants to be alone.

It's not true, though, not really. Draco sighs, gulping at his hot chocolate and swiping the sticky foam from his lower lip with his tongue, struggling to care what he looks like. There's no one here to see him, except for the coffee lady, and she barely seems to notice him as it is. It's not as though he hasn't tried, going against his better instincts, to make friends with her—with him sitting on the bench next to her stand nearly every day, they might as well be neighbours—but she never seems to be in the mood for talking. He wonders if she would talk to Harry, not that he ever stops for coffee. Secretly, he suspects she would, because Harry is a people person, whatever that means, and Draco... is not.

And here he is now, the invader of sacred space, the stain on Draco's quiet, restrained existence, the man who is, suddenly, everywhere. Draco wipes a smudge of chocolate from his upper lip and sits straight, rigid, barely breathing, as Potter comes ambling down the path, hands shoved into the pockets of his open coat, stripy scarf and stupid messy hair whipping around in the wind as he walks. His face is relaxed, untroubled, and the sight of it makes Draco glower even harder. His heart hammers chaotically as Harry moves closer and closer to his bench, and all he can do is hold onto his paper cup hard (but not so hard that it explodes and drenches his trousers with lukewarm hot chocolate, like that one time) and wait, and hang fast to his 'I don't care, I really don't' expression until Harry appears to notice him, grants him a polite little nod and carries on walking. That is all he can do, because to do anything else would mean admitting—perhaps even out loud—that he is quietly and horribly in love with Harry Potter.

And fuck, he hates it. He hates that he feels it and he hates that he sits here day after day and does absolutely nothing about it. It doesn't seem to matter how much he yearns and wants and tries to reach for some warmth and pleasure in his life; he never quite manages to take it. He just sits alone with his lovely sodding manners and his perfect fucking posture, weary and tightly-coiled and aching.

Groaning softly, he flops back against the bench and stares at the dazzling winter sky.

He can't be sure exactly how it happened, but after months and months of passing him in the corridors, sharing lifts and inter-departmental meetings and now the park, it has happened, and Draco suspects he never had a chance. On the outside it's all 'Good morning, Potter' and 'Please could I borrow your quill, Draco?' but beneath the surface, Draco is torn into pieces for the happy bastard. He's hopelessly and quite accidentally charming; his eyes catch Draco's in corridors and over conference room tables with such intensity that he feels as though he's quite naked, and the aura of soft, warm contentment that surrounds him is just intoxicating. He is everything that Draco isn't, and everything that Draco didn't know he needed.

And yes, it's ridiculous to be in love with someone who walks past your bench every day and sometimes, maybe two days in five, says 'hello' and smiles. Still, Draco can't remember ever wanting anything so badly.

~*~*

So please, please, please

Let me, let me, let me

Let me get what I want

This time

~*~*

"Love is ridiculous," says Darren, one half of a rather sweet thirty-something couple who frequent the coffee shop with the rainbow flag. "I was obsessed with Tony's bum for a good month before I actually plucked up the courage to talk to him."

"You still are," Tony says, grinning and ruffling Darren's floppy brown hair. "The thing is, Draco... if you like him, just jump on him. Best decision I ever made."

Draco doesn't doubt that; they certainly seem very happy, but he isn't really a jumping sort of person.

"I'm not sure he'd like that," he says, taking his vast cup from Denise, the waitress, and thanking her with a smile he would never show to the people in his own world. She has drawn a happy face on the surface of his hot chocolate with squirty cream and he knows without needing to ask that she has done it to cheer him up.

It's only just six o'clock but the sky outside is dark and the cafe, lit with an odd assortment of coloured lamps, is busy and alive with the kind of Christmas spirit Draco seems unable to muster. He has met some interesting people in this place, and they have a wide range of advice to offer about his Harry problem. His default position on sharing romantic issues with others is cold horror, but in the midst of a group of people who know him only as Draco, Draco love, or occasionally Drake darling (which Jeremy, the self-professed grumpy old queen only gets away with because on first meeting he had declared that Draco's hair was gorgeous and his shoes were fabulous) he feels liberated, almost giddy with it, and he finds himself bemoaning his love life, of lack thereof, along with the rest of them.

"Don't bother, darling," Jeremy says, face twisting into a sour expression. "It'll all end in misery. Get yourself a bottle of wine and a butt plug and have done with it."

Draco flushes slightly at the caustic, risqué words, but he's getting used to them, and he joins in with the raucous laughter of the rest.

"Oh, don't be a miserable old arse, Jeremy," chides Darren, leaning over and flicking him soundly on the arm. "A butt plug can't cuddle you in the night!"

Jeremy rolls his eyes. "You two are obsessed with bloody cuddles. You're worse than women."

"Watch your mouth," reproves Evie, appearing at their table with her tiny computer folded up under one arm. Every afternoon, she sits in the window and writes on the odd little thing, but she appears to have finished work for the day. "Gingerbread latte, please, Denise," she calls, flopping onto the sofa beside Draco. "Don't listen to him," she advises, sweeping, movie-star eyebrows drawn down sternly.

"I never do," Draco says, and receives a hearty slap on the back from Tony. "I have quite enough pessimism for myself, thank you. And anyway... what makes you think that I don't already have a butt plug?"

Jeremy cackles and winks at him. As the four of them resume the conversation without him, Draco sits back on the worn leather sofa and watches them, lost in his thoughts. He knows that some of his friends just leap into the club every night and take home whatever they bump into, but that life is not for him. Apart from anything else, he's far too fussy. And the anything else, the fact that he's embarrassingly smitten with Harry, well... that's a pretty big factor, too.

~*~*

Haven't had a dream in a long time

See, the life I've had

Can make a good man bad

~*~*

The next day is even colder, and Draco shivers as he drags in a lungful of frozen air. The bitter scent of coffee and the sweet, festive scent of pine tangle in his nostrils and remind him that in two days time, it will be Christmas. He can't say he's particularly looking forward to it. No more work, no more Harry and no more distractions for at least forty-eight hours.

Draco chews his sandwiches without enthusiasm, disappointed that his pigeon is nowhere to be seen. There are plenty of leftovers today. It's his own fault, of course; he should never have let Darren and Tony persuade him to accompany them to the bar on a work night, and he certainly shouldn't have let them buy him all of those strangely-coloured drinks. He's not sure if the terrible dancing that ensued was a memory or a dream, but his head definitely hurts enough for it to have been real.

Shuddering, Draco sips his cup of fresh orange juice—there's no coffee or chocolate for him this morning; his thirst is raging and he could have sworn that the coffee lady took in his unusual order and his hollow eyes and gave him a tiny, conspiratorial smile.

The sound of footsteps makes him look up; it's a little early for Harry, but... Draco's heart sinks. Striding up the path towards him, wrapped in a bright red duffle coat and laden with shopping bags, is Evie, and she has seen him.

"Hey," she calls, striding over and plonking herself on the bench beside him. "Ooh, you look a bit rough."

Draco lifts an eyebrow. The girl looks irritatingly healthy, all cold-pinked skin and tousled curls. He should have gone home when she did, of course, but he's not going to say so.

"Charming. What are you doing here?"

Evie laughs. "I don't live in the coffee shop, you know. Just been getting my last few little bits of Christmas shopping."

Draco looks pointedly at the small mountain of bags around her feet. "Little bits?"

She wrinkles her nose. "Well, I might've gone a bit mad, but it's Christmas."

Draco doesn't know what to say to that, so he nods and drinks his juice quietly.

"Don't be a misery, Draco. What're you doing for Christmas, anyway?"

"I don't know." Draco shrugs. "I might visit my parents."

"Where do they live?" Evie asks, dark eyes bright with curiosity.

"Bordeaux." Draco peers discreetly around her, willing Harry to be late today.

Evie's eyebrows shoot up. "In France? And you haven't decided yet? Have you got a private jet or something?" she laughs.

Draco smiles, hoping she won't decide to push the subject. "Not exactly."

He is relieved when Evie just looks down at her shopping and sighs. "I really hope Ivana likes her present this year," she says gloomily, and Draco has to fight to suppress a scowl at the thought of Evie's pretentious, sour-faced girlfriend. He has only met the woman once, but he's heard enough about her to be certain that his next words are entirely true.

"Ivana does not deserve you. Or your presents."

Evie sighs. "Don't, Draco."

"Well, it's true. What did you get for her?"

"One of those insanely complicated board games she loves so much... among other things," she says, opening a huge, shiny bag, in which sits an immense box with a dragon on the front. "I'm sure a private jet would be better, though... are you sure you haven't got one?"

Draco opens his mouth to reply but the soft sound of whistling catches their attention, and Evie twists around to look for its source before Draco can tell her not to.

"Oh my god—is that him?" she demands, thankfully in a whisper.

Draco nods, wishing to be invisible and knowing that Evie, with her vivid coat and her cascade of shopping bags, is making him more conspicuous than ever before. Harry hasn't seen them yet, but Draco knows that when he does, it will be horrible. It will be as though finally, all three of his little worlds have collided, and perhaps, he thinks dramatically, all three will cease to exist. And alright, it's unlikely that the world does, in fact, revolve around him, but to imagine that it does sometimes makes him feel better.

"Oh, Draco... he's adorable," Evie whispers.

Draco frowns. "Baby animals are adorable. Harry is... I don't know, but turn around before he sees you staring!"

Clearly amused, Evie complies, but when Harry walks past the bench a few seconds later, Draco knows she is looking at him, even though he is staring into his cup of juice as though it holds the key to life, the universe and everything. When his footsteps recede into the distance, Draco looks up. The icy breeze whips Harry's lingering scent of cloves and warm wood into his nostrils and he sighs, hating himself.

"Well, that was interesting," Evie says brightly.

"What was?"

"While you were pretending you weren't here, which was very mature, by the way, I was watching his face, and you know what?"

"You're smug and you do too much shopping?" Draco says irritably.

"No. He looked really disappointed to see you with me," she says, brimming with triumph and poking Draco in the ribs. He scowls, even though his coat is heavy enough for it not to hurt.

"I don't know," he sighs, despondent. Evie is a lovely girl, and he wouldn't put it past her to exaggerate to make him feel better. "Maybe Jeremy's right."

Horrified, Evie shakes her head. "No. Jeremy is right about a lot of things, but you should never listen to him when it comes to... matters of romance. He's a bitter, miserable old man, Draco, and bitterness and misery love company."

Draco shifts on the bench. It doesn't feel as comfortable as it usually does. "People are usually bitter for a reason," he says, hoping that she won't know that he is speaking from experience.

She nods slowly, exhaling clouds of steam into the frosty air. "Yeah. He was in love, too, once."

"I find that very hard to imagine."

Evie smiles. "So would I, if I hadn't seen it for myself. The guy was from a bit of a weird family... they insisted he get married to this girl... Jeremy didn't fight for him, and he got married. He lost him forever, and the crazy thing is, the guy was mad for Jeremy. One word from him and he would have called the whole thing off and run away with him."

"Why didn't he, then?" Draco says, finding himself pulled tight with sympathy in spite of himself. "Why didn't he say something?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. He never wants to talk about it."

Draco sags, gazing out over the sparkling lawns to where he can just about make out the dot that is Harry, making his way toward the park gates. "Oh."

Evie pokes him again. "The point is... you don't have to let that happen to you. For god's sake, Draco, it's Christmas Eve tomorrow. It might be your last chance this year."

~*~*

So for once in my life

Let me get what I want

Lord knows, it would be the first time

~*~*

That night, when Draco finishes work, he doesn't go to the rainbow coffee shop or the glittery bar or anywhere else where he might run into another human being. He goes home, stands under the hot shower for rather too long, makes himself a cup of sinfully rich cocoa, and stalks off to bed. He already knows he isn't going to sleep, so he props himself up on a mountain of pillows and drinks slowly, staring at the lacelike patterns of the shadows thrown against the frosty windows and onto the walls by the flickering light of the lamps.

Evie's words swim back and forth in front of him, back and forth, back and forth, until Draco slumps into his pillows, pulled under by his heavy eyes and the soporific effect of a good cup of cocoa. As he succumbs to sleep, fingers still wrapped around the handle of his mug, he knows that something has to be done. Something. Anything.

He doesn't wake when the mug clatters to the floor and rolls under the bed.

Still without a plan but feeling very much refreshed, Draco works his way distractedly through his pile of queries the next morning, barely protesting when Barry the office bore forces him to pull a cracker, failing to complain when a soot beetle falls out of it and leaves little footprints all over his desk, and, most shamefully, passing Harry in the sixth-floor corridor three times and jumping at the sight of him. Three times.

By the time he reaches his bench, buys his hot chocolate and sits down, he is nothing more than a bundle of nerves. Nevertheless, he is determined to say something to Harry today, because, as everyone keeps pointing out, it's Christmas Eve, and more than that—it's just about time.

Draco hasn't even had time to fish out his sandwiches when Harry strides into view. The bugger is early, and Draco is mildly indignant, even though he has never felt less like eating. It isn't the point, and the pigeon has arrived, pecking optimistically around Draco's feet.

"It will be Harry Potter's fault if you don't get anything," he advises.

The pigeon regards him beadily, head on one side.

Draco gazes down at the bird as the familiar footsteps grow louder and then stop. A feeling of impending doom settling around him, he looks up to see a mop of windblown black hair, a slightly sheepish expression and a pair of hopelessly earnest green eyes. He's lost, and he fucking hates Harry Potter. Except that he doesn't. At all.

"Hello," Harry says cautiously, swaying slightly with what almost seems like nervousness, hands clasped behind his back like an awkward schoolboy. How Draco manages not to smile, he has no idea. Exactly why he's trying not to is a much bigger question, but he doesn't need to answer it; he already knows he's a complete and utter buffoon.

"Er, hello," he mumbles, wishing he knew where this was going and wishing even more fervently that he could look away from Harry. He feels quite strongly that another minute of eye contact will crumble him completely, and then goodness knows what could happen.

Harry takes a deep breath. "Look, I know you don't like me and I'm sure you have your reasons, even after all this time, but I'm fed up of seeing you sitting there day after day and glaring at me, so..." Harry pauses, appearing to gather himself. "It's Christmas and I've decided to make a peace offering. I was going to buy you a coffee, but you've already got one, so... how about some chips?"

With that, he brings out a paper-wrapped package from behind his back and flashes Draco a warm, crooked smile that finishes off the remains of his reserve.

"Would you like to sit down?" he asks, gently booting the pigeon off the bench to make a space for Harry and brushing away the worst of the glittering frost from the slats. "I don't glare at you," he adds as Harry settles himself and unwraps the paper, sending a wave of delicious scents—salt/vinegar/hot paper—spiralling up to Draco's nostrils. He breathes in deeply.

Harry laughs and holds out the steaming twist of paper. "You do, I'm afraid."

Draco frowns, scanning for and then selecting the perfect chip. Without thinking, he bites it in half and throws one piece to the pigeon, who snaps it up eagerly and then drops it several times in a row.

"Hot," Draco mumbles at him. He glances at Harry, who is licking salt from his fingers and regarding him with quiet amusement. "I don't mean to glare. And I don't... not like you. And it's not coffee; it's hot chocolate. With marshmallows," he adds stridently, all at once overcome with the urge to confess all he can.

"Well... that's good," Harry says, and it sounds suspiciously as though he is trying not to laugh.

"Which part?"

Harry's smile is dazzling. "All of it, actually."

Draco lifts an eyebrow and selects another chip. "Really?"

"Well, I suppose accidental glaring isn't the most helpful thing in the world, but... hot chocolate is good, and I'm glad you don't not like me. I don't not like you either. In fact..." Harry hesitates, chewing on his bottom lip in a way that Draco finds ridiculously charming.

"What?" he whispers, shivering and wishing his coat was as warm as Harry's looks, all soft wool and big round buttons, forest green and double-breasted, collar turned up against the wind. He laces his fingers together around his cup and uses every last shred of his self control to prevent himself from reaching out and touching. "In fact what?"

"In fact... I like you, Draco," Harry mumbles, flushing and savagely dissecting a chip without seeming to notice.

Draco's heart swoops. "Seriously?"

Harry releases an odd strangled sound and shakes his head. "Can't you tell?"

"I can't say you've given me much to go on," Draco says faintly.

"Do you really think I've been walking through this park every lunchtime for the last god-knows-how-long for the good of my health?" Harry asks, voice tight with disbelief.

"You should," Draco says flippantly. "Walking is very good for you."

Harry lets out an exasperated breath and Draco feels for him. He knows he's being difficult but he can't seem to help it; for some reason, he can't bring himself to believe that this is any more real or more solid than the softly curling plumes of Harry's frustration in the icy air.

"Can you stop it?" Harry implores.

"Stop what?"

"Being so bloody impossible while I'm trying to do this!"

Draco stares at Harry as the terrifying, thrilling reality begins at last to wrap around him. Precious self control abandoning him altogether, he blurts, "Are you asking me out?"

Harry's mouth flickers upwards at the corners in a promise of a smile. "I'm trying to."

Just as quickly as they had arrived, the impulsive outpouring of words has dried up, and all Draco can manage is, "Oh."

"When I saw you with that girl yesterday, I nearly gave up," Harry admits, gazing down vaguely at the cooling chips on his lap. "And then I thought... well, fuck it, really. Say something or forget it." He affects a casual shrug, but his embarrassment leaps out at Draco and coils around him like a warming charm.

"Evie?" Draco laughs softly. "No, she's as gay as... well, me, I suppose."

"I'm pretty relieved to hear that," Harry says, and then he's just looking, eyes burning into Draco's, and suddenly the bitter cold is of no consequence whatsoever. Draco holds on tightly to his paper cup as he drinks in the tangle of green and beautiful chaos that is the man in front of him; he thinks of Jeremy and his lost love, Evie and her unappreciative girlfriend, and Darren and Tony, who have each endured their share of heartaches before finding one another. As he stares right back, Draco's breath is caught by the magical realisation that no one has all the answers, and it's okay. Harry likes him, even though he's moody and unsociable and even if he talks to pigeons and even if he likes hot chocolate better than coffee.

Harry's fingertips are icy as they brush across his face, but when Draco leans in to take what is his, he finds that Harry's coat and his lips are just as soft and warm as they look. Still hanging on to his cup, Draco opens his mouth to Harry's, just for a moment, heat-flooded, sliding his fingers through hair that is surprisingly soft and allowing himself to forget that the rest of the park—his park—exists at all.

"Wa-hey!" someone shouts, followed by a barrage of raucous giggles, and they break apart.

Harry, Draco is fuzzily gratified to note, looks just as dazed and off-balance as he feels himself. Turning, he scans the area, but this section of the park is deserted but for the two of them and the coffee woman, who, now that he looks more closely, is grinning at him like the voyeur she apparently is.

"You've dropped your chips," she points out, and Harry looks.

"Oh." Startled, he gazes down at the remains of his lunch, now strewn across the ground. The pigeons are already beginning to flock from all over the park to fight over the spoils. "So I have."

"Never mind," she calls, wrapping her scarf more securely and retreating to her little stool. "Looks like it was worth it."

Harry's smile is small and studiously unembarrassed as he threads his cold fingers through Draco's and looks out over the sparkling lawns. "We should probably get back to work soon."

Draco breathes in the smell of winter, of Christmas, and looks with him. "Soon."

~*~*Fin*~*~*