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Draco never thought he would see a simple wooden door as ominous, and yet here he was. Of course, it wasn’t the door he was afraid of - it was what was behind it.
Not that he was afraid. He wasn’t. He was… he was hesitant, perhaps, or… apprehensive. Yes, that was it. He was apprehensive about what awaited beyond this wooden door. But not afraid. Never afraid.
“Oh, will you stop fidgeting?”
He stopped picking at the edge of his sleeve, shooting Potter a mutinous look. “I’m not fidgeting , Potter. And if I was, it would be perfectly reasonable reaction to our current circumstances.”
Potter simply rolled his eyes. The bastard. “Look, you don’t need to be nervous, alright?”
“I’m not nervous.”
“They’re going to love you.”
“Of course they are. With my riveting good looks and dazzling personality, how could they not? Granted, that’s if you ignore my family’s history of bigotry and war crimes, as well as general unpleasantness -”
“Draco?”
“Yes?”
“Stop talking.”
He did, but only because he had run out of things to say anyway. His fingers drifted once more to his sleeve.
Potter sighed. “Look, Draco. It’s going to be fine. The Weasleys are the kindest, most welcoming people I know.”
“I’m sorry. Need I remind you of the time Arthur brawled with my father in a bookstore?”
“Your father was being a prat, and you know it,” Potter retorted.
There was nothing Draco could say to that. It was true. He plucked at the edge of his sleeve with renewed focus.
Potter took his hand. “They’re not going to judge you based on your family, you know,” he said softly. “They know you’re not like the rest of them.”
“Not anymore,” Draco mumbled.
Potter smiled. “Not anymore. And they won’t judge you on your past, either.”
Draco shrugged. Potter wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t. He’d never done anything wrong in his life. He was good, and he was golden, and Draco loved him for it, but - he couldn’t possibly understand how Draco felt, standing here, in front of the house of the people his family had taught him to hate. How could he expect them to forgive him?
How could he expect anyone to forgive him when he couldn’t even forgive himself?
Potter squeezed his hand, and leaned down to press a kiss to Draco’s temple (Draco would never forgive him for his growth spurt, putting him a solid head taller than he was. It was terribly unfair). “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go in, yeah? It’s cold out here.”
Draco shrugged again. Potter gave him one more infuriatingly supportive smile, squeezed his hand again, and reached for the doorknob. Draco took a deep breath.
He wasn’t nervous. Not even a little bit. And if he held Potter’s hand tighter than was necessary as they crossed the threshold together, it was purely a coincidence.
This was a terrible idea. This was a terrible, awful, horrendous idea, and Draco hadn’t the slightest clue why he’d agreed to it.
(He did, in fact, know why, and it had everything to do with Potter’s gentle smile and big green puppy dog eyes. Damn him and his underhanded persuasion tactics. He really should have been a Slytherin.)
Draco was squished between Potter and the armrest of an ancient, but surprisingly comfortable couch. Their entrance to the house had been marked by Molly Weasley and a flurry of warm hugs, kisses and welcome homes for Harry, and terse nods and handshakes for Draco. They had been ushered into the sitting room, where Molly’s welcome had been echoed sevenfold by Arthur and the Weasley children (had there always been so many of them?), as well as Hermione Granger, a lovely French woman Draco was sure he’d met before, and - surprisingly - Luna Lovegood.
After the obligatory introductions and small talk (“Yes, Mrs Weasley, I’ve been doing quite well.” “Work is fine, Mr Weasley, thank you.”), Molly had brought in a tray of Christmas cookies and mince pies and Draco had been more or less forgotten about. Conversation around him drifted to events Draco hadn’t experienced and names he’d never heard. He didn’t mind. He would much rather sit silently and watch the evening unfold around him than be part of the conversation, tiptoeing around his words, trying not to say anything that might remind them of exactly who he was and where he’d come from.
It was just... so different from any Christmas Eve with Draco’s family. It was louder, for one thing - with so many people and so many separate conversations in such a small space, the cacophony of voices and laughter almost seemed like a physical presence - and it was crowded. This small, cramped sitting room was nothing like the Malfoy Manor, with its high ceilings and wide doorways. It was so small that it seemed nobody had their own space. Ron, on Harry’s other side, had his arm around Granger’s shoulders; the French woman was half in the long haired Weasley’s lap in the loveseat; one of the twins - Draco felt a sharp pang of guilt at the sight; it was still so strange seeing just one - was perched on the arm of his father’s chair; Girl Weasley - Ginny, he reminded himself - and Lovegood were on the floor, Ginny’s right thigh pressed against Luna’s left.
And it was decorated . There was a Christmas tree in the corner, filled with so many mismatched ornaments that Draco didn’t think there was even one empty branch. There was a holly wreath above the fireplace, and matching garland on the mantle, and a row of nutcrackers along the windowsill. Above their heads, crochet snowflakes had been charmed to dance across the ceiling. Every now and then, one would get stuck on one of the branches of the tree, and Draco would amuse himself watching it wriggle free.
The Manor had never been decorated like this. They had had a tree, of course, but that had merely been for show. The house elves always decorated it, always with the same cohesive theme of silver baubles and tiny glass reindeer, always shiny and sparkly and perfectly symmetrical.
But the starkest of all differences was that it was so… warm. Not in temperature. But in energy. Atmosphere. Malfoy family events had always felt rather like stiff business meetings. People shared terse hellos and polite how are yous. The men exchanged handshakes, and the women gave hugs, and conversations from there were always the same. “How is work?” and “How are the kids?” and “Did you read that article in the Prophet?”. There were so many rules about posture and etiquette and dress and decorum that Draco’s mother used to quiz him for weeks before an event. Don’t laugh too loud. Don’t slouch in chairs. Speak only when spoken to. Don’t ask questions. Smile, because it’s polite, but not too much and only when appropriate. Do, don’t, sometimes, never.
This was nothing like that. This was closer to a Hogwarts feast than anything. Everyone was talking to everyone else, with no regards to the strict etiquette rules with which Draco grew up. He wondered if they even knew them. When people laughed, it wasn’t short, clipped, for politeness’ sake. It was real. Everything was real, from the kind smiles to Potter’s hand on his thigh. It was real, and it was warm, and it was strange .
Was this what a family was supposed to be like?
When they asked “How are you?”, they really wanted to know the answer. When they laughed at a joke, they actually found it funny. Everyone wanted to be here. Everyone liked each other. It was obvious that they did, in the subtle touches and the friendly teasing and the way nobody seemed to stop smiling for even one goddamn second .
It was strange.
It was strange, and it was wonderful, and it was too much.
He stood from the couch entirely too quickly, knocking Potter’s hand from his leg. Oh, Merlin, everyone was staring at him now, weren’t they?
“Uhm.” His voice came out thick and strained. He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, but may I excuse myself to the lavatory?”
Girl Weasley - Ginny - was looking at him oddly. “Why so formal?”
“Oh, he’s just being polite,” Lovegood said in her usual dreamy voice.
“It’s down the hall, first door on your left,” said Potter. His brows were furrowed, and he lowered his voice so that only Draco would hear. “Are you okay?”
Draco nodded tersely, and tried not to look like he was fleeing as he left the room.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Draco pressed his palms flat on either side of the sink, gripping its edges tightly as if he might float away otherwise. He shut his eyes. Everything was spinning. Everything was spinning, and everything was too hot, and too loud, and too much, too much, too much .
He shouldn’t have come. He didn’t belong here. The Weasleys were - they were a family . A real family. A good family. The sort of family who wore matching sweaters and ate homemade cookies and had been on the right side of the war and didn’t house Lord fucking Voldemort for months on end. And Draco - God, Draco just wasn’t . He wasn’t one of them, and he didn’t belong here, and he shouldn’t have come -
A knock on the door had Draco’s eyes fly open, and he caught sight of himself in the mirror for the first time. He looked a mess. He was even paler than usual, and his eyes were red, and he was reminded forcibly of sixth year at Hogwarts, crying in the bathroom with nobody but Moaning Myrtle for company…
He cleared his throat. “Just - just a moment.”
“Draco, it’s me.” Potter. Of course. “Can I come in?”
“Please do not.”
“I’m coming in.”
Draco smiled in spite of himself as the door opened and Potter wedged himself into the too small bathroom. “Why do I even bother?”
“I ask myself that very question every day,” Potter said. He leaned against the wall facing Draco, his hands in his pockets. The bathroom was so small that there was less than a foot between them. “So? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Draco, you ran out of there like you were being chased by a hippogriff.”
“They are fearsome creatures. I’ll never forget the time I was almost killed.”
“Buckbeak barely grazed your arm,” Potter said. “You don’t even have a scar. Now tell me why you fled.”
“I didn’t flee . Is it so hard to believe I just needed the toilet?”
“Your hands are shaking.”
He shoved them into his pockets.
Harry exhaled through his nose, exasperated, but in a fond sort of way, Draco liked to think. “You’re insufferable.”
“Thank you.”
Potter smiled, and kicked Draco lightly on the shin. “What’s bugging you, love?”
Draco made a face. “I hate it when you call me that. It forces me to lower my defenses.”
“I know, love, that’s the point.” He kicked Draco again. “Now quit deflecting or I’ll have to bring out the big guns.”
The puppy dog eyes. Draco was a slave to those damnable puppy dog eyes.
He sighed. “I just… I shouldn’t have come here.”
Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean -” He gestured broadly. “ Here . I don’t - I’m not -” He shook his head. “These people - they’re wonderful. They’re good, and they’ve always been good, and it didn’t take them a fucking catclysm to be good, and I’m not like that. I look at them, and I see all the mistakes I’ve made, and the people I’ve hurt, and I just - I’m not like them, Harry.”
He was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “You’re right,” he said finally.
Draco’s eyes widened. He didn’t even try to conceal the shock and hurt on his face.
“You’re not like them,” Potter said. “The Weasleys and me, we were born into good. We inherited it. It was fed to us by the spoonful from the time we were born. You inherited hate and bigotry and -”
“Twattishness?”
Potter smiled wryly. “Twattishness, yes. But you’re here, aren’t you? Being twattish in the Weasleys’ bathroom, with me, and not in the Malfoy Manor with Lucius.”
Draco barked a short laugh. He tried to ignore Potter’s smile and the warmth it sent through his chest.
“You aren’t like us, Draco. You’re better. Because you chose good, after you spent seventeen years being told it was wrong. You were fed poison and told it was pumpkin juice, and when you realized what it really was, you left. Our choices are what define us - and you chose this.” He took hold of Draco’s wrist - he barely had to stretch, the bathroom was so small - and coaxed his hand from his pocket so he could lace their fingers together. “You chose this, and I chose you.”
Draco looked away. “Harry James Potter, you are a walking cliche and it is, quite frankly, repulsive.”
Harry laughed. “I love you too.” He brought Draco’s hand to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to scarred knuckles. “So? Are you ready to go back out there? I think Mrs Weasley is bringing out mulled wine.”
Draco forced a smile, but he still couldn’t quite meet Harry’s eyes. He felt the frown against his hand.
“What is it?” Potter asked.
“No, it’s nothing.”
“Draco, don’t make me bring out the pet names twice in one night.”
He smiled again - briefly, weakly. “Just - the Weasleys.”
There was a hint of defensiveness in Harry’s tone when he asked, “What about them?”
“Nothing bad,” Draco assured him. “Just - they’re… a family. Your family. And I’m - I’m just an intruder. I shouldn’t be here.”
Harry’s frown was deepening with every word. “An intruder?” His voice was quiet, and - hurt? “Draco, how long have we been dating?”
“What?”
“How long?”
“I - three years.” Draco gave Harry a bemused look. “Have you seriously forgotten?”
Harry ignored him. “And how long have we known each other?”
“Since we were eleven,” Draco said. “Do you have a point, or have you suddenly developed amnesia?”
“Eleven,” Harry said pensively. “That’s half our lives already.”
“Yes, and?”
“So what are you waiting for?”
Draco blinked. “Potter, if your plan is to keep talking nonsense until I’m too confused to feel sorry for myself, I must say you’re doing a cracking job of it.”
Harry shook his head. He pressed another kiss to Draco’s knuckle, and then one to the inside of his wrist. “I mean,” he said against his skin. “What’s the magic number? How many years until you wake up and realize that you’re part of my life just as much as the Weasleys are? When will you see that you’re never intruding as long as you’re with me?”
Draco’s face was flaming. Even worse, humiliatingly enough, he felt tears stinging his eyes, which made him want to close them, but Harry was looking at him with so much warmth and intensity and fucking love that Draco never wanted to look away. He didn’t even want to blink. He wanted to burn this image into his retinas and be able to look at it forever.
Harry took a step forward, eliminating what little space there had been between them and caging Draco in against the sink. He leaned closer, filling Draco’s vision, his lips inches from Draco’s own.
“I love you.” Potter’s breath was warm against his cheek. It smelled of sugar cookies. “You do belong here. You belong with me.”
Draco thought his heart must have swelled up so much in his chest that it was about to come pouring out of his throat. He didn’t think he’d felt this many emotions in his entire life. His heart was full to bursting, and his eyes felt hot and sticky, and oh, god, was he seriously about to cry?
He couldn’t find his voice to speak, so he didn’t. Instead, he placed his hands on either side of Harry Potter’s stupid, gorgeous face and kissed him like he would never get the chance to again. He kissed him like he was trying to pour his feelings into Harry; like he was trying to tell him everything he couldn’t find the words to say.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
He kissed him, and Harry kissed back, one hand on the back of his neck and the other on his hip, leaning into him. He was so warm, and he was so tall, and he was so good . He was good, and Draco never wanted to lose him.
I love you. I love you. Merlin, Potter, I love you so fucking much.
Harry kissed him like he understood.