Both Harry and Ron stared for a good several minutes more. Finally, Ron said glumly, “Well, nothing I can afford for Ginny here. I suppose we’d better go on, then.”

“Yeah,” Harry said reluctantly. “Guess we’d better.”

Naturally, it took them a good fifteen minutes longer to drag themselves out of the shop.

“Oh,” Ron exclaimed, after they narrowly avoided being run over by a too-eager vendor and his cart, which seemed to hold all sorts of stoppered glass bottles, “hey, Harry, by the way, have you heard from Hermione?”

“Not since we left,” Harry said, frowning. He’d owled her, after some deliberation, about the kiss, but she hadn’t yet responded. “Why?”

“She’s at the bloody Burrow,” Ron shouted. They had passed among a crowd of young witches who were chattering fiercely just then, however, and he had to raise his voice even louder to repeat it to Harry. “Came from Goldstein’s yesterday, after I talked to you,” Ron continued, looking bewildered by the entire situation. “Spouting some rubbish about realizing he wasn’t the one she wanted to be with. Been whispering with Ginny ever since. Bloody girls.”

“That’s, er, sudden,” Harry said awkwardly. He wasn’t exactly sure what Ron wanted him to say.

“You’re telling me! As if we aren’t short of room already!”

Harry gave Ron what he hoped was a telling look. “You mean you didn’t want her to come?”

“Well, of course I wanted her to come, Harry,” Ron said, as if Harry had missed the most obvious point of all. “I always said that Goldstein was a suspicious fellow, didn’t I say that?”

“Yeah, I think you did,” Harry said dryly. “More than once, actually.”

“And now all she does is whisper with Ginny all hours of the day! They’re always giggling – I tell you, girls, they’re all mad–“

“Really,” Harry said, unsure of how to quite broach the subject with Ron. “Well, er. Who does she want to be with, then?”

Ron looked thoroughly disgusted. “Probably bloody Neville, for how often she talks about him. ‘Oh, Neville looks nice today.’ ‘Oh, I saw Neville in Diagon Alley, buying some quills. ‘Oh, I hope Neville’s Christmas isn’t too lonely at St. Mungo’s.’ Why didn’t she Floo to Neville’s house if she was so eager to see him?”

Harry had to choke back a laugh at this new target of Ron’s vitriol. “Ron,” he said, earnestly. “Are you blind? Hermione doesn’t like Neville. She likes you.”

“What?” Ron looked momentarily bewildered, but then he shook his head. “But – no, she doesn’t! She can’t, she’s always telling me to sit up straight and stop shouting and not to be a blithering idiot–“

“Yeah, you are a blithering idiot,” Harry said, grinning. “But she likes you.”

Ron stopped dead in the street, mouth hanging open, and stared at Harry. After a moment, he said rather weakly, “She does?”

“Of course she does,” Harry reassured him. Unfortunately, just then, an old and rather stooped witch stopped in front of Ron, gave him an appraising look, and let out a rather frightening cackle.

“My, my,” she said, blinking watery eyes up at him. Ron looked utterly taken aback. “Young man, it appears we are standing under a bunch of mistletoe.”

Ron yelped and leapt back with surprise. “No, no, sorry,” he babbled, as Harry doubled over with laughter. “Never trust mistletoe – very dangerous – lots of Nargles–“ And with that, he backed away rather rapidly into the nearest shop, with Harry wheezing after him.

The shop turned out to be the Magical Menagerie, and Ron nearly knocked over a large tabby cat as he stumbled inside. The cat yowled in agitation and Ron looked at it with great annoyance, then gave Harry the same look. “It’s not funny,” he said indignantly, but this only made Harry snort and turn towards the offended cat to hide his knowing smile.

“Never thought something Luna told me would come in handy,” Ron said, grinning ruefully, when he caught up to Harry beside the small number of owls on display in the Menagerie. There weren’t very many, since Eeylops’ Owl Emporium was located just down the street, but the ones they had were quite beautiful. Harry thought loyally that Hedwig was better than all of them.

“You’ll have to thank her for that one,” Harry grinned back at him. “Hey, doesn’t Ginny like cats?”

Ron’s grin turned into a halfhearted smile. “Loves them,” he said, “but I can’t afford a cat, and besides, Mum would murder me. Says she’s got quite enough to deal with, without having a cat running about.”

“We’ve got a lovely selection of Puffskeins,” a voice said behind them, and both of them turned around to see a witch with thick-rimmed black spectacles. “Bit lower cost, much more manageable – quite a favorite with the children–“

Harry thought to himself that Ginny would probably have a royal fit if she heard herself being referred to as a child, but he said nothing, especially as Ron peered at the custard-colored little balls of fur and squinted. One stuck out its long, sticky tongue and tried to lap at Ron’s fingers, but he pulled them back.

“I reckon I could afford it,” he muttered, frowning, “I’ll just – maybe Fred and George could lend me–“

“Hey,” Harry said, “I haven’t got anything for Ginny, let’s go halves.”

Ron stared at him. “Harry – you don’t have to–“

“No, I want to,” Harry insisted. “Ginny’s great. I meant to get her something. Come on, pick one out.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure,” Harry said impatiently. “Hey, that one sort of looks like Susan Bones’s hair, doesn’t it . . .”

As they made their way back outside after making their purchase, Ron glanced around for any sign of the witch who had accosted him, but to his great relief, she seemed to have disappeared.

“I had a Puffskein once,” he said, ducking out the door after Harry. “Handy little thing. Ginny liked to play with it, too. Of course, Fred and George stole it to use as a Bludger, and that was the end of that. Mum scolded them for days. I still think that’s why Percy gave me Scabbers.”

Harry laughed. “Bad luck then, but maybe it helped us win a Quidditch match later. You know, gave them some good practice.”

“Speaking of the twins,” Ron said, “I’d better be getting back before Mum comes after me. She’ll want me to polish the silver, no doubt, and set the table, and comb my hair . . .”

Harry grinned as they made their way back towards Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes; he had heard Mrs. Weasley screech all of the former at one member of her family at one time or another. “Tell Hermione I said Happy Christmas,” he said at the door. “And, you know, Ron, she really does like you.”

Ron paused outside of Fred and George’s shop, looking thoughtful. After a minute, he said, “Thanks, mate.”

“Have a happy Christmas yourself,” Harry added, “and the rest of your family. From Remus too, I mean. I hope Ginny likes the Puffskein.“

“Yeah, tell Lupin we all wish him one,” Ron said. He grinned at him. “Hermione and I will send you an owl tomorrow.”

“Right,” Harry said, as Ron turned towards the door. “Happy Christmas . . .”

But Ron turned around, then, and gave him a rather guilty look. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he said, so quickly that it took Harry a moment to decipher what he’d heard, “HermionetoldmeaboutMalfoy.”

Harry swallowed. “Oh,” he said, feeling as if he had just found a Bludger in the pit of his stomach. Ron couldn’t possibly hate him, could he? They had just spent the afternoon laughing. “Look, Ron, I wanted to tell you, I did – wait. What did she say?”

“That you’ve been helping him with Defense, you don’t think he’s half the stupid tosser we’ve always thought him, and he might not be a Death Eater,” Ron recited. He peered at Harry. “You haven’t gone mad, have you? Thinking Malfoy’s decent? He could be planning something, you know.”

“I know,” Harry said, although the image that came to mind first was not Draco, wand out to hex him, but Draco, sprawled on his bed, lips parted, practically waiting to be kissed. “I – I’m being careful.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Like I said, I should’ve told you–“

“Yeah, you should’ve,” Ron said frankly, sounding slightly put off. “But I talked to Hermione about it. And I reckon I would have gone a bit mad, hearing it with no warning.” He folded his arms. “I can’t say as I like you being friendly with Malfoy, but I can’t stop you.”

“You’re still my best friend, Ron,” Harry said, hoping the lump in his throat wasn’t audible.

Ron grinned at him. “Bloody well better be.” And then, he added, still grinning at the absurdity of the idea, “Anyway, it’s not like he’s staying for the hols with you, or anything.”

“Er,” Harry said, finding it suddenly difficult to look at Ron. “Ha ha. Actually . . .”



&*&*



After leaving Ron, who was still muttering about Malfoy being at Grimmauld Place, Harry wandered back through Diagon Alley, the toes of his trainers soaked with snow. He spent the next hour searching for a present for Remus, and once he’d found what he was looking for in the dusty back shelves of Flourish & Blotts, he ran – almost literally – into Lisa and Padma, who jumped in embarrassment when he caught them in the Romance section. Still, they convinced him to join them for dinner, and the lights in the shops were beginning to go out when he took a rather bumpy Knight Bus back to 12 Grimmauld Place.

Harry was busy thinking of how he had reluctantly told Lisa and Padma the story of Hermione leaving Anthony, and how they had snickered as if it were obvious all along, so that when he walked into the kitchen and found Remus sitting up with a cup of tea and a small box of photos, he was startled.

“You’re home,” Remus said, giving him a mild smile. “I was beginning to get worried. But Draco assured me that I was being a paranoid old man, so I decided not to chase after you immediately.”

“Oh,” Harry said, and glanced over his shoulder, as if Draco were about to materialize from the shadows. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs, I should hope. We had dinner and he went to owl his mother. I said I’d stay and wait for you. Tea?”

Harry sat down next to him with a sigh. “Sure. Are these of my mum and dad?”

“Some of them,” Remus said absently as he rose to retrieve the tea kettle. “Most of them are of me and Sirius and your dad and Peter. Mostly from our school days. There might be a few of your mum, but that wasn’t until seventh year. She didn’t want much to do with us – or at least James and Sirius – until then. Sugar?”

“Yeah,” Harry said absently. Harry lifted the lid of the box and immediately saw a picture of his father beaming up at him. He seemed to be hoisted above several people’s heads, considering the hands that were holding him up, and he winked rakishly at Harry.

“Quidditch,” Remus said from over his shoulder, as if that explained everything. He handed Harry his tea. “I found them today while I was cleaning and thought you might like to take a look.”

Picking up the picture of his dad, Harry glanced down at the next one, which was of Remus sitting next to an enormous pile of books.

“My downfall as a true Marauder, Sirius liked to say,” Remus smiled as he sat down across from Harry.

Harry went to shuffle through the rest of the pictures when a sudden, chilling thought occurred to him. He said, very quietly, “Did you show these to Draco?”

Remus marked the dangerous note in Harry’s voice and sighed. “I did, Harry, but only because he asked. Nor did he make one – well. He didn’t make many rude comments, let us say. And I think he genuinely liked hearing about them.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. For some reason, the idea that Draco had been shuffling through the pictures of Harry’s dad and godfather before Harry had even gotten a chance to look at them made his head swim with anger. “He had no right–“

“Harry,” Remus said gently, “he had every right, because I invited him. They’re my pictures. I decided to show Draco, because he wanted to listen. Now are you going to, or not?”

For a moment, Harry’s temper warred with how much he wanted to look at the rest of the pictures, and he glared down at the box, his vision blurring. But, after a moment, he only sighed and picked up the next one, setting it down rather forcefully on the table.

“Ah,” Remus said, ignoring the remnants of Harry’s aggravation and taking a patient sip of his tea. “Peter and James, at James’s fifteenth birthday celebration – if you squint, you can Sirius attempting rather awfully to kiss every girl there in the background–“

But Harry was not looking for Sirius; he stared, instead, at the chubby face of Peter Pettigrew, which was smiling up at him. This was the boy who would grow up to betray Harry’s parents. To serve Voldemort. To face Harry in the graveyard, just after Cedric died.

Harry felt ill. He quickly grasped for the next picture, in the hopes that it would not include Peter, but there he was, frowning at a chessboard as Sirius did some sort of victory dance around him . . . in the next, Peter and Remus were watching skeptically as Sirius mounted his broomstick backwards . . . the next photo was of Sirius and James, both leering rather groggily at the camera, jostling at each other . . .

“I’m afraid they were a bit too drunk to stand up that night,” Remus said, amusement twitching the corners of his mouth as he looked with Harry at the picture. “Sixth year, I think. Sirius had just been disowned by his mother and James thought the best solution would be getting completely sloshed–“

“Am I a lot like my mum?” Harry asked, suddenly.

Remus looked thoughtful but not entirely surprised. “Quite a bit, I’d say,” he said at last. “You’ve certainly got her temper. And Lily could never stand for anything being unjust; she’d like Hermione a lot, I think. She was very–“ He seemed to be struggling. “Alive. Vivid. I’m sorry, Harry, I don’t know how to put it better.”

“I just – everybody says I’m just like my dad, but I don’t feel like it,” Harry muttered. “I just, I’m not–“

“You don’t think of yourself as the greatest gift to humankind, you mean,” Remus said, and laughed quietly. “Harry, you’ll never be just like James, and do you know why that is? You’ve had to be grown up since you were eleven years old. All this time at Hogwarts, and you’ve had to deal with being Harry Potter, and with the knowledge that somewhere out there, people want you dead. And what were we doing at sixteen years old? Getting drunk off our arses and watching James make a fool of himself in front of Lily, that’s what. We hadn’t anything else to do. Sirius and James, they were – we were all young, we didn’t have to be serious. But Harry, your dad was courageous when he had to be; despite all the pranks he and Sirius played, his heart was in the right place. You’re more like him than you know.”

Harry swallowed hard, determined not to cry. Glancing down at the next picture, he saw Sirius and his dad play-fighting in the grass. As he watched, Sirius pinned his dad to the ground and looked up to wave triumphantly at him.

Harry said, rather hoarsely, “I wish I knew more about them, that’s all.”

“We were horrible,” Remus said fondly, “the way Sirius and James strutted about, you’d think they were kings. Once Sirius set Gryffindor Tower on fire, did you know? James saved the day with a few well-placed spells; I always told him that’s why he was made Head Boy. Sirius, though. Not repentant in the least.” He paused, smiling, in thought. “Trying to make fireworks, I think. Something about Peter’s birthday.”

Harry felt a sudden ache in his stomach, watching Remus; he wondered how it felt, to be looking back on people who were dead, or might as well be. He, Harry, had hardly known his parents, and he’d only just been getting to know Sirius. They had been Remus’s best friends.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly.

Remus smiled over at him. “And I’m sorry, Harry, that you had to grow up like this,” he said. “Never knowing your parents, having Sirius and then losing him, your cousin – Lily and James would be so proud of you, you know.”

Harry felt a knot in his throat, aching when he swallowed. His eyes burned. “But I can’t do anything, I’m just–“

“Harry,” Remus said, his voice firm, “you are doing what you can. What you’ve done with the DA is more than we ever hoped for. How you’ve proven yourself against Voldemort is more than anyone could ask. And Harry, people take strength from the very fact that you’re alive, don’t you know that?”

“But why?”

“Do you remember all the owls you got on your birthday? People look to you, Harry. You’re their hero.”

He felt sick. “But I’m not a hero,” he said fiercely. “How can I be? I’ve gotten people killed. And Snape! He didn’t even like me, and he died.” Harry’s eyes burned. “And if I hadn’t been so stupid, Sirius wouldn’t have–“

“No,” Remus said. “No. None of that was your fault. You couldn’t have known. You’ve done fine, Harry.”

“I haven’t, I–“

“Harry,” Remus said, and waited until Harry looked up at him. “None of us are perfect. Do you know how many mistakes we all made when the war began? People were killed, whole operations lost, because Aurors – trained Aurors, Harry, not sixteen year old boys – made mistakes. You’ve saved people’s lives, Harry, you haven’t given up, you’ve done everything you could do. And that is why you are so like your dad.”

Remus was smiling at him when Harry blinked and met his eyes. “Besides,” Remus said, “all of this with Draco, your dad never could have done that.”

Harry looked bewildered. “Done what?”

“Made friends, reconciled with him. I’m impressed by the maturity you’re showing in giving him another chance.”

Was that it? Harry frowned. Were they friends? Was this Draco’s second chance? “I’m just helping him with Defense,” he said, rather quickly. “I don’t – he’s always been rotten to me, and Ron especially, and I–“

“Don’t trust him?” When Harry nodded, Remus sighed. “Well, in these days, it’s better to be cautious. But I think you’ve found him to be more complicated than the boy who used to pull faces at you in Potions, haven’t you?”

This turn of conversation was making Harry increasingly uncomfortable. He sighed. “He’s still Lucius Malfoy’s son,” he said. “Sometimes I want to hex him senseless, he’s so – oblivious, so blind about it. And the things he says, I don’t–“

“But?”

“But sometimes he surprises me,” Harry said and meant every word. It was true, after all. And he certainly couldn’t tell Remus how he’d first come to give Draco a second glance: his inevitable subconscious, conjuring thoughts about Draco that Harry hadn’t known he’d had.

“You can’t expect too much from him,” Remus said, sitting down his tea. “You can’t go looking at the Slytherins as people you have to convert. Redemption is such a strange idea, like you must transmute them all from one thing into another thing entirely. You’ll find, I think, that Draco is who he is.”

Harry frowned. What was that supposed to mean? He thought of Draco, arms folded, talking imperiously with the portrait of Sirius’s mother as if he owned the House of Black. He thought of him, mouth set stubbornly, casting a hex for the twentieth try, the surety in his glare suddenly giving Harry a chill. He thought of him, kneeling at Harry’s side, eyes dark and unreadable, just after he’d kissed Harry.

“But what does that have to do with Voldemort?” Harry said, after a moment.

“Think about it,” Remus told him quietly. “Being around you is good for Draco. It makes him think twice about things.” He stood up, stretching. “But it’s late, and I’m not as young as I used to be. I believe my bed is calling. Goodnight, Harry.”

Harry said, absently, “’Night.”

Was this why he was so fixated on Draco, then? Because he wanted to save him? But no, there was some surety in the way he looked forward to their Defense sessions; there was something about the way he knew the bitter lines of Draco’s mouth, even when he was sneering, even when Harry wanted to punch him for something he’d said. And if he were being entirely truthful, he’d seen it back in July, that night at the club, when Draco had tipped his head back and moved against Pansy and looked at Harry, as if he knew, as if he wanted to know. Jealous and furious and challenging, his gaze had been, but he’d looked at Harry and Harry only, and Harry had remembered that.

He sat there, staring down at the photos and the picture of his father and Sirius wrestling in the grass without really seeing it at all. The picture turned into shadows when Remus Nox’d the lights and, with a last goodnight, moved to the stairs, but it was a long time before Harry followed him, and even longer before he finally descended into sleep.



&*&*



Harry woke out of habit in the early morning on Christmas, padding out of bed and to the window. Snow had built up on his windowsill and the world outside was covered in white, but the sky perfectly clear. He thought it fitting: surreal, like the past few days had been. He almost expected it when Draco appeared like a ghost at his door, looking irritable, hair rumpled from sleep.

"Some horrible owl is trying to bite me," he muttered. "Got packages for you. I expect it’s because your room has no windows. They're on my bed."

"Ron and Hermione!" Harry exclaimed eagerly, shouldering past Draco. The owl was gone, but Harry found an abundance of presents among Draco's sheets that suggested more than one trip. He sneaked a guilty glance at Draco. "Sorry if they woke you up."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm not friendless, you know. I've got owls of my own. Sit down, Potter. You're up, I'm up, so you might as well."

Sliding uncomfortably onto the edge of Draco's bed, Harry glanced towards his pile. He pulled a package from Hermione towards him, sliding his finger under the edge of the attached letter. Draco sat cross-legged towards the head of the bed, already engrossed in his own haul.

Harry lost his reluctance in the excitement of gift opening. They both paid more attention to the piles in their laps than to each other: Harry gave a murmur of appreciation when he saw that Hermione had found him books that weren't quite as dry as Hogwarts: A History, and Draco "hmph"-ed his disapproval at a set of dress robes from Pansy. Their eyes met once, almost furtively, in the middle of tasting sweets. Harry had Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans (New and Improved Flavors!) from Ron, as well as several suspicious tins, care of Fred and George, that he refused to touch. Draco was perusing his stash of gourmet chocolates.

"Um," said Harry, who had almost forgotten that he was sharing a bed with Draco. "Good year?"

"Not bad." Draco proffered a chocolate, which Harry took, then leapt back as if stung. "What is that?"

Nonplussed, Harry looked down. "What's what? Oh, this? It's a Weasley jumper. Mrs. Weasley sent it for me."

"What," said Draco, in the same distasteful tones, "is it doing on my bed?"

Harry laughed. "What's the matter? Afraid it'll corrupt your wardrobe when you've got your back turned?"

"That thing is not going anywhere near my wardrobe. It's a disgrace. Just look at it! It's got a banana on the front! What kind of Christmas gift is that? Does she think you have gorilla blood?"

"Draco–”

"Now that I think about it, you do have a certain resemblance to Goyle. Not to mention–“

"It's a lightning bolt, idiot."

"Oh." Draco gave him a skeptical look, as if he had known that all along. "Well, don't let it go to your head. Ha ha ha. Your head."

Harry rubbed his scar, looking exasperated. "That wasn’t funny. If I didn't know better, I'd say you've been waiting years just to say that."

"What can I say? I've got a natural talent."

"For making my life miserable?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Now that you mention it, yes."

They stared at each other. Harry had never seen Draco quite so open: he seemed different, less precise, with his hair falling all over, leaning back against the headboard of his bed. Harry thought of the way Draco had looked just before he kissed Harry, laughter in his eyes, leaning down beside him.

"Well," Draco said, rather abruptly, "Happy Christmas, anyway."

That decided Harry, and he slid off Draco's bed with a quick, "Don't move! I'll be right back." He left Draco staring after him as he hurried to retrieve the little package tucked away in a pocket of his robes. He’d bought it for Ginny, but had been forced to keep it when he’d lied to Ron so they could buy the Puffskein.

"Here," Harry muttered sheepishly when he returned and thrust the package at Draco. The other boy looked shocked and almost dropped the bundle, confusion creasing his expression as he slid a fingernail under the Sellotape.

"I wasn't aware that we were exchanging presents."

"Well, we weren't – it's not much, I just – had it around – well, you probably have a million of them anyway, but–" Harry paused, suddenly aware that he was babbling, and shut up. For one stunned, quiet second, he realized that he actually wanted Draco to like it.

"Oh!" Draco exclaimed, and then, holding the Snitch up between forefinger and thumb, smirked. "Rubbing it in, are you, Potter?"

"What?"

"That I never catch it." To Harry's surprise, he didn't sound malicious. More amused than anything. "I used to have one that I stole from Madam Hooch, but I lost it. Thanks."

Harry found, sizing up Draco's expression, that the thank you was genuine. He was gratified. "You've got to put a Mobilipennae charm on it to make it fly, I think. The salesman said it was good for Seeker practice."

"So eager to lose, are you?"

Harry laughed, too. "Like you could ever beat me. I'm not worried."

"You should be." Draco glanced down at the gold wings and smiled. "Thanks," he said again. "I didn't get you anything. I would have. I'll have to–"

"It's a present," Harry exclaimed. "It's not something you owe."

"I suppose." Draco looked thoughtful, glancing down at the pile of gifts beside him.

“Anyway, you already gave me something.”

Draco’s eyes flew up to meet his. “Excuse me?”

“The dragon, remember?”

“That was repayment, Potter. Lord, you’ve the memory of a goldfish–”

Harry leaned forward, effectively cutting Draco off mid-sentence. “You know,” he said softly, “I think the lines have kind of been blurring since we started Defense.”

“Which was after–“ Draco began, and halted again, looking at him uncertainly. “Potter–“

“Come on,” Harry breathed, entirely aware of the subtle tension that had sparked up immediately between them. Draco was staring at him as if transfixed. He was staring right back. He said, quiet, “I’ve got something to show you.”

And leaned back. Draco blinked, as if waking up, and gave him an annoyed glare.

"Right now?" Draco's voice was indignant, the spell broken. "Aren't you hungry? It's barely morning."

Holding up his stash of sweets, Harry shrugged. "Not particularly. If you don't want to come, fine, I’ll go by myself–”

"I'm coming," Draco said hurriedly. "Just let me get dressed."

Harry went to leave his packages in his room and change out of his pyjamas. When he stepped into the hallway, Draco was waiting. “It’s downstairs,” he whispered, gesturing towards Remus’s door in a signal for quiet. Draco tiptoed carefully downstairs behind him.

“This had better be worth it,” Draco began, sounding irritable, but Harry held a finger to his lips.

“Shh. I don’t want to wake Remus up.”

Remus had showed Harry the motorbike before school had started, and he found it in the exact same place, in a dim little shed that opened into the outdoors. Spellbound, he ran a finger across the seat.

Draco said contemptuously beside him, “What is it?”

“It’s Sirius’s motorbike,” Harry said. “He gave it to me.”

Sounding, if possible, even more skeptical, Draco said, “It’s some Muggle contraption, isn’t it, Potter? I don’t trust it. Is this what you wanted to show me? Because I’m certainly not impressed–“

“It flies,” Harry said casually. “I thought we could try it out. You know, unless you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Draco snapped. “Although you’re thick if you think you can make me do everything by simply telling me I’m too scared to do it.”

Harry grinned at him. “But you always respond so well. Come on. Technically it’s not anything Muggle anymore, because he made it fly.”

“It was made by a Muggle,” Draco sneered.

“Well, fine,” Harry said, making a big show of pulling off its cover and climbing onto it. It gleamed at him under a thin layer of dust, and he blew gently on the controls, wiping at them with his sleeve. One of the switches read INVISIBILITY in large black letters. “Look, I’ll go, and I’ll just tell you about it when I get back–“

That seemed to do the trick, because it was only seconds before Draco settled on behind him, his knees bumping the sides of Harry’s thighs. “Potter,” he said, his breath hot in Harry’s ear, “you do know how to fly this ridiculous apparatus, don’t you?”

Harry glanced down at the controls, and then to where the key hung, tantalizing, in the ignition. He had no idea.

“Of course,” he said confidently.

Several minutes later, they were in the sky.

The wind was whistling by Harry’s ears, and the bike was emitting a low roar, thrumming beneath him; it was so much more real than flying on a broomstick, here with his fingers clutching the handles and the streets of London spread out below them. Harry could feel Draco’s hands fisted in his jumper, the press of his knuckles against Harry’s ribs, and there was a faint tickle of warm breath on the back of his neck. He swallowed.

Yeah. He wanted this.

They didn’t stay up for very long, mostly because it didn’t occur to Harry until they were in the sky exactly how the motorbike was fueled, if it even needed to be, and then he had no idea what would happen if somehow they ran out. Also, he wasn’t exactly certain if the Invisibility control worked, though he thought it did, and the last thing he wanted was to be confronted with an angry Ministry owl on Christmas.

Still, it was one of the best experiences Harry had had in months, he realized as they landed and purred to a halt back in the shed. He felt almost as if it were Sirius’s Christmas present to him; he felt closer to Sirius there, even if Sirius was gone forever, even if he was dead.

And, for the first time since Sirius had ceased laughing and stepped backwards into his long, endless fall, Harry almost felt – at peace with it.

He felt closer to Draco, too: it was impossible for Harry not to be acutely aware of how closely Draco was pressed against him, how Draco’s chin had nearly been resting on Harry’s shoulder the entire time, Draco’s arms around his ribs. As they settled to a stop, he could feel Draco breathing harshly against his ear for one fleeting moment, and then the other boy climbed off.

Harry turned the key and climbed off himself, feeling slightly shaky. He wasn’t sure if this was to be attributed to the experience itself, or to Draco.

Both, maybe.

“So,” Harry said, leaning against the still-warm bike. His palms were resting behind him on the seat, hair impossibly mussed by the wind.

“Yeah,” Draco said. He was suddenly a lot closer than Harry had thought, and Harry’s mouth went dry.

He managed, rather breathlessly, “It’s kind of like flying.”

“But different,” Draco added, his voice low. “Don’t you think? More–”

“More – physical,” Harry said hoarsely, as if the words weren’t his own. Draco looked a mixture between terrified and defiant, and without thinking, Harry reached out a hand and settled it gently in the material of Draco’s shirt. It was slippery in his fingers, and he tugged it forward, a little. Draco stumbled forward with it.

“Potter,” he said, uncertain.

“Hey,” Harry said, softly, and with that, leaned forward, pulled Draco into it, and kissed him.

Draco’s lips were hot and chapped from the wind, and they opened in surprise against Harry’s. He felt his pulse thundering as the kiss deepened and Draco’s hands settled tentatively at his waist, Draco’s fingers curling around the wool of his jumper. Harry ran his hand up Draco’s side, the silk dragging against his palm, and Draco gave a soft, sharp breath against their kiss. Curiously, Harry slid his hand back down to Draco’s hip, and felt his breath hiss in again.

This, this was interesting, this experimentation – it was like mapping out a new continent, spread out under his hands. He learned the way Draco’s lips moved, more gently than he’d expected. He opened his eyes, once, and watched the shadows play over Draco’s eyelids, the soft angles of his cheekbones. Harry pulled on his bottom lip gently with his teeth. He slid his tongue hesitantly against Draco’s parted lips until they opened and Harry pulled him closer, swept his tongue into Draco’s mouth. He remembered the sounds Draco made, the way he moved into Harry, the way his cool fingers slipped up under Harry’s jumper and settled around his hip, and the way that made Harry’s stomach squirm pleasurably.

When they stopped, and Harry let his hand fall from Draco’s side, Draco’s fingers were still curved possessively around Harry’s hip. Harry flushed as they broke away and he turned to take the key from the motorbike’s ignition. It was better than speaking. He had no idea what to say.

“I – suppose we should go in, then,” he said haltingly after an awkward moment had passed. It was awful, this not-knowing, having just spent several minutes attached to Draco Malfoy’s lips and now having nothing to say to him, not even a half-arsed insult.

But Draco looked over at him, and blinked sort of slowly, and it was like a secret, really; like the night of Harry’s birthday, like Tonks, but better, because there was something about the curve of Draco’s fingers as they hung at his side, the way he looked up, heavy-lidded as if from sleep.

“Unless you were thinking of setting up residence in this dingy little shed, Potter,” he said, mockingly, but he was smiling. “It seems your kind of place. I, for one, am starving.”

“Right,” Harry said, “yeah, breakfast,” and caught the door as Draco swung it open. From inside the kitchen, he heard Remus’s voice say,

“There you are – good morning, Draco – had a good Christmas?”

Harry stepped inside after him, trying to keep the smile off his face, with little success. “Morning, Remus,” he said innocently, shutting the door behind them. It was only breakfast, and it had been a very good Christmas already.



&*&*



The day seemed to drag on excruciatingly after they had gotten through breakfast, as Harry’s thoughts remained solidly on the feel of Draco’s lips on his own, his fingers brushing against Harry’s hip. He relived it while playing chess with Remus; while talking through the fire to Ron and Hermione, who flushed when he asked about why she’d left Anthony’s; while watching Draco read an owl from his mother, sneer, and crumple it up. He thought about it so much that, by the time they both climbed the stairs and stood there in the darkness, he was nearly paralyzed by what to do next.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Remus’s footfall sounded on the stairs below them, and Harry was forced to say quickly, “Goodnight, Draco,” before hurrying off to his own room. He wanted to reach out to touch him, to grasp his wrist, before they separated, but there was no time, and he went to his room feeling strangely dejected.

It took him less than half an hour to give in and climb out of bed again, creak his door open softly, and tiptoe back across to Draco’s room.

Draco was lying on his stomach, carefully writing what appeared to be a very long letter, and he looked up with alarm when he heard the snick of the door. At the sight of Harry, he raised an eyebrow. “Potter,” he said.

“I – couldn’t sleep,” Harry said lamely, slipping the door shut beside him. Now that he was here, he felt presumptuous to have come. “Who’re you writing to? Your mum?”

“Hardly,” Draco snapped. “If she hasn’t the time to meet me, I certainly haven’t time to owl her. I was writing to Pansy.”

Harry frowned. So that was what his mother’s owl had said. Feeling suddenly sorry for him, he forgot his trepidation and crossed to sit beside him on the bed. “Well, maybe you can meet Pansy,” he suggested, unsure of what more to say. “Or, er, Blaise, or something.”

Draco gave him an annoyed look. “Potter,” he said. “Why do you think I didn’t stay at Pansy’s? Her parents think she should spend less time with me. It’s a sentiment most Pureblood families share.”

“But why? Because of your father?”

“An association with the Malfoy family might signify certain other alliances,” Draco explained irritably. “Fudge is paranoid, so he’s overzealous. You can see where it might lead.”

Before Harry knew it, he had his hand on Draco’s arm. “Sorry,” he said, softly, and was shocked to realize that he genuinely meant it. He was sorry that Draco’s entire world had turned against him when his father had been arrested. Yet he added, with quiet smugness, “But I’m not sorry that you didn’t stay at Pansy’s.”

“Oh?” Draco rolled over on his back and looked up at him, one eyebrow quirked. “And why might that be?”

“Because I couldn’t do this,” Harry whispered, heart pounding, sliding down next to him on the bed. “Or this.” He slipped his arm over Draco and his fingers found the space where Draco’s pyjama bottoms met his shirt and touched the skin there. Draco felt warm and malleable beside him. “Or–“

“Potter,” Draco said, sounding impatient, and reached up to tug Harry down to him.

Kissing Draco was different this way: Harry ended up slanted over him, one arm propping him up, the other stroking at Draco’s shoulder without Harry even realizing he was doing it. It was easier this time, Draco’s mouth open under his, the rough brush of his tongue on Draco’s, the way he slid one hand up Harry’s back as if he couldn’t stop himself.

Harry had been thinking about it all day, as much as he’d dared, but nothing could compare to the way Draco was pressed up against him, warm and willing. He smelled faintly of soap and something unnamably sweet, and when Harry’s knee slid somehow effortlessly between his thighs, he arched up to meet him.

Draco hardly protested when Harry’s mouth found the juncture of his neck and shoulder, then slid up to plant warm kisses along his neck until he mouthed the skin just behind Draco’s ear and felt Draco surge up against him. It was all instinctual now, Harry’s fingers yanking impatiently at the buttons on Draco’s pyjama top, his mouth coming back down on Draco’s, which opened eagerly for the kiss. They were rocking against each other, the friction unbearable, and Harry thought distractedly how smooth Draco’s skin was –

It was like exploring again, his hand curled around Draco’s hip, sliding upwards around his side as Draco sighed in his mouth, palming across the tautness of his stomach and up against his ribs. A whole expanse of warm, silk-smooth skin, and his palm brushed across one of Draco’s bared nipples, which made him shiver and breathe heavily against Harry’s mouth. Harry found it incredibly addicting, and did it again.

He said, in a strained whisper, “Can I–“

“Can you what, Potter?” Draco managed to snap amusedly, even out of breath, his cheeks flushed. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific, I’m afraid I haven’t a clue what you’re asking.”

Not being in the mood to retort, Harry gave up asking, stopped Draco from talking with his mouth, and slid one hand down over his ribs and into his pyjama bottoms. Draco hissed sharply.

“Potter, what–“

“Shh.” It was awkward from this angle, and the feeling of somebody else’s cock in his hand was entirely alien to Harry, but Draco was hard and drew in a jagged breath when Harry slid his thumb over the head, Harry feeling a strange surge of power low in his belly. He could feel Draco’s pyjamas wet against the back of his hand as he tightened his grip and Draco’s hips jerked a little as he pulled.

“H – harder,” Draco muttered, tearing his mouth away from Harry’s, and he sounded irritated at having to say it at all, embarrassed even in the darkness between them. Harry thought it endearing, amusing, and incredibly hot.

Draco moaned before he came, a guttural “oh,” and then shuddered against Harry. This, too, was different, his hand sticky with come, dragging it awkwardly against the waistband of Draco’s bottoms. He had little choice but to wipe it on his shirt as Draco slid over him without preamble and seized Harry’s mouth with his own.

This wasn’t like kissing in the shed, lazy and tentative in the weak morning light; Harry was gasping up into his mouth, pleasure shooting up his body, and they were kissing sloppily, desperately, a mash of tongues and lips and teeth. Draco bit him too hard, once, and he groaned, “ow,” and Draco licked at it, then kept licking, tongue hot and wet against Harry’s jaw, and he groaned for an entirely different reason.

Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever felt like this.

The rest of the holidays flew by, and if Remus suspected that anything was happening between the two boys, he said nothing of it. In fact, 12 Grimmauld Place felt silent and dark most of the time; without the entire Weasley family in residence, and Mrs. Weasley’s ever-present insistence on warmth and cleanliness, it seemed to have reverted to its empty, shadowed self. Remus spent most of the time in the library, which left Harry and Draco alone for a good part of the time.

Not that Harry minded in the least.

He hadn’t told Hermione what he had decided, yet, though she had owled him twice; Harry had said simply that he was getting to know Draco. Which was true, in a fashion. He was becoming very well acquainted with the way Draco squirmed under him when he put his mouth on Draco’s neck, and the exact way he hissed if Harry pulled too hard, and the swollen sight of his lips when they’d spent all afternoon kissing. He knew well the touch of Draco’s long fingers curling around his cock, and the sensitive spot just beneath Draco’s hips, and the way he shuddered against Harry, eyes squeezed closed.

It seemed to Harry that it was an interlude in time, a strange week where neither one of them had to acknowledge much of reality, trapped in this bleak, shadow-cloaked house in each other’s arms. A growing feeling of dread niggled at him as the end of the holidays approached. He realized that he wasn’t the only one when, on the day of their departure, Draco nearly dragged him inside his room and pushed him back on the bed.

“Remus will be looking for us,” Harry gasped out as Draco wrenched at the button on his trousers.

“Don’t talk,” Draco whispered harshly and sank down on top of him, both of their clothes half tugged off, Harry’s hands tangled in his hair. Harry’s foot curled around the back of his knee and pulled him closer, and they surged against each other; Harry could feel the slide of Draco’s cock against his abdomen and Draco was breathing heavily in his ear, faster now, as pleasure shocked through Harry’s body and he felt Draco tense, bucking against him, and watched his face as he came, mouth a silent O.

Draco collapsed against him and breathed, “Potter,” and the way he said it nearly made Harry come right then. But Draco snaked a hand between them and curled his fist around Harry’s cock, and in a few short minutes Harry was gasping – his body arced upwards, one hand curled almost painfully in Draco’s shirt – he could hear himself moaning, hips jerking upwards in Draco’s grasp –

– and he came, shuddering against Draco, just as they both heard Remus shout from downstairs, “Boys? Harry, Draco? Are you ready?”

"We've got to – we've got to go," Harry said, barely waiting a moment before scrambling to his feet in order to pull on his trousers and press helplessly at his hair. For a moment, he saw Draco lying there, trousers and pants around his knees and his shirt flung open, unbuttoned, looking up at him with a half-lidded, almost contented gaze; and looking at him, Harry felt almost – what? Possessive? Protective? But the moment passed as Draco sat up and pulled his clothes back on, just as Remus shouted for them again.

"Coming," Harry yelled back, stuffing his feet in his trainers without unlacing them. The back of one was crammed under his heel, and he wriggled his foot until it slipped on. He reached for his robes just as Draco stood up, startlingly close, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"We've got to–" Harry said, much quieter, and then trailed off.

Draco leaned in and kissed him, swiftly, so that one second Harry was opening his mouth to the familiar press of lips, and the next, the touch was gone. Draco reached up with his hand, ran a thumb across Harry's lower lip, and said almost softly, "Lupin's waiting."

They went.

 

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