Chapter Text
On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me:
Twelve mermaids singing
Eleven Nifflers niffling
Ten lords a-leaping
Nine Krampus kramping
Eight goblins smelting
Seven elves a-cleaning
Six geese a-laying
FIVE GO-OLD RINGS
Four tiny owls
Three firebirds
Two Golden Snidgets
And a partridge in a pear tree!
The wixen version of The Twelve Days of Christmas was composed by Caladrius Ogden, c 1780, to adapt a then-contemporary Muggle Christmas carol to wixen sensibilities. It is unknown why some of the Muggle lyrics remain unchanged. Some speculate Caladrius may have been in a secret relationship with Maurice Hall, a Muggle-born man—both of which would have been scandalous at the time for a pure-blood like Caladrius—and these remaining lines are cryptic references to their relationship. This rumour is verified by new letters unearthed in the Ogden estate, published and analysed for the first time in this article.
- Lyta Leyten for the The Annual Review of Magico-Muggle Research
It all starts with Harry Potter saving his life. Well, technically, Harry Potter saving his life many, many times.
Draco’s running late to open his shop. Scorpius had thrown a small fit this morning as Draco tried to bustle him out the door to primary school—on their icy front step, he burst into gulping sobs, big fat tears rolling down his pudgy cheeks, not budging an inch as Draco tried to get him down the stairs. His eyelashes were adorably clumpy with them, dark brown in a way Draco’s pale lashes could never be. It was pure Astoria, Scorpius’s brown eyes and dark lashes and chubby cheeks, and Draco was hit by a sudden pang deep behind his breastbone: missing her in a way he hadn’t in years.
Everything seemed to conspire against Draco: the snow sticking in Scorpius’s sandy hair and melting down his forehead; the neighbour’s cheery Santa enchanted to let off a ho ho ho seemingly every thirty seconds; and the jingle-jangle of the sleigh bells hanging off Scorpius’s backpack, put there by his well-meaning but hapless teacher for Christmas crafts day. Scorpius’s wails combined with the bells and the chortling of dear old Mr Klaus set off a clamorous headache, searing in the corner of Draco’s eye before he’d even left the house.
It only got worse when Scorpius reluctantly divulged why he didn’t want to go to school, in between sobs. Oscar. Fucking. Entwhistle. The little twerp.
Draco had spent nights pacing the bedroom while Astoria was deeply, ripely pregnant, swollen feet hanging out from their linen sheets, her brown curls damply clinging to her forehead. It might’ve been the deep stagnant heat of August radiating out of the walls of their flat, the feeble breeze through the open window, the oppressive stink of London in the summer, but Draco had been kept awake by the fear that he would irredeemably, irrevocably fuck up their son. Absolutely ruin him. Draco had been convinced, during the final two months of Astoria’s pregnancy, that he was actually, truly, deeply evil. Rotten to the core. Two weeks before her due date, Astoria finally snapped and yelled at him to get out of his own fucking head. Couldn’t he see she had enough to deal with the one baby growing in her? She didn’t need two babies at once.
So imagine his surprise when Scorpius turned out to be an absolute angel. A little quiet, maybe odd, definitely obsessive—first trains, then maps, and now waterfowl, particularly ducks and geese. Draco still can’t tell them apart, despite Scorpius’s many half-sensical lectures on the topic.
But Kevin Entwhistle, Oscar’s father, he’s one of the ones who hates Draco (rightfully, Draco’s brain has to helpfully supply), and now, apparently, takes it out on Scorpius.
Draco hadn’t paid a second of mind to Kevin at Hogwarts: Hufflepuff, Muggle-born, completely unremarkable. Draco’s sure he had bullied Kevin whilst at Hogwarts for all of the above and, well, yes, Draco was a little shit at Hogwarts. A big shit. Actually an enormous, awful shit.
Astoria could have fixed this. She’d soothed the nerves of all the parents of Scorpius’s nursery, diplomatically calling for tea. She’d waited—for ‘maximum empathy, darling’—until she was almost bursting open, until her face was glowing and her cheeks rosy with deep pregnancy. They had been on the waiting list for The Little Niffler for years at that point, the whole time they’d been trying for Scorpius. Draco had been half-convinced they were never going to get off it, the stain of the last name Malfoy too much to bear.
After they got off the waiting list, Draco said, “I can’t believe you’ve done it.”
Astoria gave a short laugh. “I’m still a Slytherin, darling.”
And then Astoria had fallen ill and died. Draco had been lost, but all the parents at The Little Niffler had sent gift hampers, and dropped in for tea, and brought Scorpius home from nursery, even though it had only been eight years since the war, and they all knew what Draco had done. Scorpius had been safe there, protected, thanks to Astoria's benevolent calculations extending even beyond her death.
But she was gone long before Scorpius hit primary school, and Draco, despite all of Lucius’s lessons, has never had it in him to hobnob. He didn’t at Hogwarts, too angry and jealous to make nice with Harry Potter the way Lucius had wanted. Instead, he spat and clawed and hissed.
Now, he doesn’t know how to throw fake fucking smiles at fucking Kevin Entwhistle, to ask about the parents’ Quidditch league that he’s been too scared and proud to join. And Scorpius is reaping the consequences of Draco’s failure.
So Draco spent the entire walk to Scorpius’s primary seething inside, coming up with hexes that could never be traced back to him. He won’t hex Oscar—not even Draco could hex a five-year-old—but he could hex Kevin Entwhistle.
When they reach The Tiny Owls, Draco sees Kevin dropping off Oscar. Despite coming up with at least three extremely uncomfortable and impossible-to-trace hexes on the walk, he just kisses Scorpius on the cheek. Scorpius lets out a little whuffle and presses his face into Draco’s pant leg, and Draco realises he’s spent the whole walk silent and seething, clutching Scorpius’s hand too tight, instead of letting his son chatter excitedly about ducks, geese, or various other waterfowl.
So that’s how Harry Potter finds him: run-down and impotent.
Potter’s lurking under the eave of Draco’s shop, right under the sign Greengrass’ Muggle Emporium, on the dodgy end of Diagon. A decrepit enchanted reindeer with one eye popping out, wags its tongue in the dusty window next door. The Diagon Business District’s snow fairies chitter above them. Icicles glitter charmingly from the eaves.
“Hullo, Malfoy,” Potter says genially, which is a far cry from how Potter’s been treating him. Whenever they’ve crossed paths in the past thirteen years, they’ve assiduously avoided one another. The only time Draco attempted to speak to Potter, actually talk to him, it ended in disaster. The scene: a Ministry gala, soon after the war. It was the first gala Astoria and Draco had been invited to, Astoria already tarnished by her new association with him. As the Christmas gala, it was the largest and thus easiest to get an invitation to. Draco was feeling rather cynical about the whole thing: the Ministry, galas in general, trying to reenter wixen society. Having to revisit Lucius’s lessons didn’t agree with Draco’s constitution; the thought of it made him feel like he was breaking out in hives. Astoria didn’t have the same compunctions, probably on account of her father not being a raving, murdering blood-purist who was also a generally shitty father, to boot.
But the Ministry Atrium was beautiful enough to soften even Draco’s cynical heart. Gone was the Magic is Might statue, famously pulled down by the then-wandless at the Storming of the Ministry concurrent with the Battle of Hogwarts. Instead, snow enchanted not to melt was softly drifting down from the ceiling, alighting on everyones’ hair and eyelashes charmingly, and then staying there, in Everlasting Stasis. Tiny golden fairies darted about, causing flurries and swirls and fantastical shapes to form in the falling flakes—Draco even thought he saw a dragon. Gold and green and red ribbon filigreed the walls. A band of creatures—a merman on the bass, a hag on the saxophone, three gnomes playing the trumpets—struck up a jazzy rendition of The Twelve Days of Christmas. Champagne glasses clink-clanked; there was a buzz of happy conversation.
The effect was rather magical, especially for Draco, whose last Christmas with his family had been spent with the Dark Lord swooping about their Manor, werewolves devouring raw steak in the family kitchen, and Aunt Bellatrix’s cackles echoing through the dank corridors. The whole experience had rather put him off Christmas—that was, until he’d met Astoria, who loved Christmas with a devout childlike glee. Sometimes, Draco thought she was everything good about him.
At least, Draco was having a good time until Astoria made to pull him over to Potter.
Potter was in his Auror reds, lingering in the corner, grimacing an awful smile at anyone who dared approach him. Granger was speaking to him, low and urgent, while Weasley hulked genially next to them—his sheer height enough to intimidate those less courageous than Astoria away.
While pulling him along, Astoria whispered, “We have to make the most of this invitation, Draco. Who knows when we’ll get another one? We must make nice with Potter.”
“We?” Draco hissed back. “I didn’t realise you had any problems with him.”
Astoria tossed him a wink and said, “Well, I was just trying to be polite, darling.”
Draco huffed, and Astoria let out a bright peal of laughter, loud enough to draw Potter’s gaze and, apparently, his ire. His whole body tightened up, and his glower increased to thunderstorm levels. Truly, Draco wasn’t sure how the enchanted clouds above Potter’s head didn’t congeal into a typhoon.
“Malfoy.” Potter gave him one of those awful grimaces. Draco smiled tightly back.
“Hello, Draco,” Granger said, perfectly polite.
Weasley didn’t say anything at all. Astoria pinched Draco’s flank.
“Right.” Draco took a big breath. He nodded at each of them. “Granger, Weasley, Potter. I’d like to offer my sincerest apology for all the nastiness that occurred.”
“Nastiness?” Weasley raised an eyebrow. He’d been standing so stoically, Draco had forgotten he could even speak. Astoria pinched his side again. Potter’s eyes tracked it; the scowl on his face could Summon Scylla and Charybdis at this point.
Draco swallowed. He was awful at this—he never had to practise apologising as a child, coddled by his mother and father—and now he barely knew how to do it when he needed to, desperately. “Yes, alright, fair play, Weasley. How about sorry for all the evilness and bullying and Dark Lord-ing and blood purism-ing and for my family trying to murder you all and taking you prisoner in my awful Manor, which I hope I never set eyes on again? And for all other assorted nastiness, such as our school days, which I’m sure you can remember quite easily.”
“Oh, I remember,” Weasley said, which, Draco noted, was not an acceptance of his apology. His vomited-out word salad apology. This is why Draco could never play the politics game. Lucius was probably rolling over in his grave with disappointment.
Astoria nudged him, so Draco gamely added, “And for…my part in it.”
Astoria beamed at him. Draco couldn’t help but give her a weak, shaky smile, and then immediately straightened his face. He didn’t want Potter to see that—his love for Astoria was not for public consumption. But he was too late, Potter absolutely had.
“Did she tell you to say that?” Potter asked nastily. “Is that what you were whispering about on your way over?”
There was an instantaneous clamour. Granger hissed, “Harry! He’s trying to apologise,” while Astoria, indignant, said, “Excuse me?”
Draco’s knee-jerk reaction is to respond with, “Why, yes, of course she did, Potter.”
And then it devolved into ad hominem attacks (Potter: “Well, I’ve never known you to have an original thought in your life.”; Draco: “Pot, kettle.”), and ended with Astoria pulling Draco away, exasperated. She fumed over Potter for a week. She even cut out his photo from the gala that was on the front page of the Prophet, where he appeared slightly constipated as he looked nobly off into the distance, and taped it on their newly acquired, still non-functional refrigerator, with the addition of a Spelled-on, frankly hilarious moustache. They never received another Ministry gala invitation, to which Astoria said, “Good riddance.”
Which, really, was endearing of her, but Draco knew it was only because she hadn’t witnessed Draco’s long and storied antagonism of Harry Potter—she’d only heard his heroic retellings in the Slytherin common room, a bright-eyed thirteen-year-old. That was in fifth-year: before Draco had turned twisted, anxious, and gaunt, as he discovered that living up to his ideals was so much harder and more awful than he had boasted in the common room just a year earlier. The Greengrasses had wisely already sent Astoria and Daphne off to Beauxbatons by then.
That was truly the only divide Astoria couldn’t cross. It’s not that she didn’t understand or didn’t know. Just—Draco wasn’t even angry at Harry Potter for rejecting him or his apology. What right did he have to be?
“Slytherins protect their own, my love.” She kissed him on the cheek when he asked. “And you’re mine.”
And then she pulled back and turned his face towards hers with her hand, callused from the Muggle wrench she had been using to tinker with the refrigerator all week. “But, promise me, Draco: you have to try. If not for yourself, then for our future child.”
“I can,” Draco promised. “I will. I am.”
“And”—Astoria gave him an assessing look—“you have to get over this childish antagonism with Harry Potter. It’s unbecoming, darling, and inappropriate in this political climate.”
“Eurgh,” Draco said.
All this to say, a friendly and open Harry Potter, dusted in snow is not what Draco expects to find on his doorstep, and certainly not who Draco wants to deal with. So, as Draco unlocks the door to his shop, he says, “What could I have possibly done to have Potter lurking at my door at eight in the morning? I haven’t done anything evil in, say…thirteen years.”
“Hullo Malfoy.” Potter is actually smiling—it disfigures his face.
“What’s that?” Draco asks, waving his hand about. “On your face.”
Potter immediately frowns, which—all is right in the world again. “What? What’s on my face?”
“Oh, good. You’re alright again.”
Potter rolls his eyes, huffs, and gives a little laugh—all is not right in the world. “Why are you always so difficult?”
“So difficult?” Draco raises an eyebrow and lets himself into his shop. Then, to be extra-difficult, he lets the door slam in Potter’s face instead of letting him in. He hears the smash-crash of one of the icicles dropping from the eave. He hopes it hit Potter.
“Oi,” Potter yells and Draco smirks. Take that, Kevin Entwhistle.
Potter bangs the door open, letting in a gust of snow. Draco rounds the counter to his till. He wants to get a barrier between him and an irate Potter. He says, “What do you want, Potter, really? Only, I’ve had a terrible morning and I don’t feel like dealing with anyone. Or really, particularly, you.”
Potter slams an ornate wooden box down: it’s dark oak and marbled with gold veining. Before Draco’s eyes, the gold begins to shimmer and dance and form into four tiny owls, which flit all over the cover.
Potter’s still smiling, hesitant and oddly hopeful, despite all of Draco’s best efforts. “Well, too bad, because you’ve got to deal with me, Malfoy, or, really, I’ve got to deal with you. But weirdly, I’ve a good feeling about today.”
Draco performs a quick Revealing Charm on the box and then, for good measure, on Potter. Nothing. He narrows his eyes down at it, as the owls taunt him, twirling in loops. “Just why do you have a good feeling about today, Potter? I would’ve thought any day that you came to my shop would be a bad day.”
“Well, for one, you didn’t get impaled by that icicle above your door.”
Draco tears his eyes away from the box, where the owls are morphing into— “What?”
Potter shrugs, still inordinately cheerful to have such macabre thoughts lurking behind his gormless eyes, and says, “Well, you never know what can happen.”
Draco is now thoroughly flummoxed. He glances back down at the box, which seems to draw his gaze like a peacock peacocking. He resists the urge to poke it with his wand; he’d learnt that lesson many years ago, when he and Astoria first began fiddling with Muggle things. He doesn’t want an explosion in his shop on a Thursday morning. He asks, “What is it?”
“Well”—Potter gives him a hopeful smile, which, again, what?—“it’s a music box. I’m hoping you can fix it.”
“It’s magical.” Draco’s voice is flat. “Did you not notice the sign out front? I specialise in Muggle objects.”
Potter nudges the box across the counter. Draco glances back down at it. The gold is now leaping across the lid in ten parallel lines. He wants to run his fingers across the surface; he imagines the gold would feel hot to the touch, warm him from the inside out. Muggle electricity doesn’t lend itself to highly-beautiful objects—functional, sure—but the mess of wires has to be hidden somewhere, and don’t get Draco started on the cord. Now, this is gorgeous. Gorgeous and magical. Draco can scarcely tear his eyes away as the gold filigrees itself into two little Snitches, playing and weaving around each other.
“It’s cursed.” Draco crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Why would you bring me a cursed object, Potter? Still carrying a grudge? It’s been thirteen years, good lord. Have you considered therapy? It could do wonders for you.”
“It’s not—” Potter starts, eyes shifty. “Okay, maybe it’s a little cursed. But I need you, Malfoy. Only you can solve it. You can save the world.”
“What,” Draco says.
Potter leans across the counter. His eyes are so intense; Harry Potter has never looked at Draco like this. “You can do it, Draco. I know you can.”
Draco pulls out his wand, points it at Potter, and shouts, “Revelio.” Nothing happens: it’s still Harry Potter with his beat-up trainers and a determined set to his jaw. Then Draco shoots off an Aparecium, an Anti-Disillusionment Charm, a Finite Incantatum. Radios and record players and televisions come spilling off the shelves in a series of crashes; the snow flurries that Potter brought in with him float back into the air with all the chaos.
“Ow! That hurt!” Potter protests, and ducks behind the counter. “Draco, just listen!”
“Since when do you call me Draco?” Draco screeches and then leans over the counter to get Potter back in his wandline. “Who are you, and what have you done with Harry Potter?”
Potter barrel rolls to the left, barely dodging Draco’s Immobulus, and yelps out, “Fuck, Draco—Malfoy—it’s me.” Draco flicks an Incarcerous at him, but Potter has managed to get to his feet and does a barrel roll midair over the other glass display case, which, in any other circumstances, would have impressed Draco. Now, Draco can see Potter lurking behind the glass display case of phones, hair standing at all ends. Draco is breathing hard, and wracking his brain for new spells to trap this Potter-imposter.
“I followed you during sixth-year,” Potter calls out over the display case. “I have—had, Teddy has it now—this map that showed where you were all the time. I stowed away in your luggage rack on the Hogwarts Express! You stomped on my face.”
Gobsmacked, Draco pauses his assault. “Pardon?”
Potter laughs. “I’m just trying to prove I’m myself! I Polyjuiced into Goyle and Ron into Crabbe our second-year because we were convinced you were the Heir of Slytherin.”
Quite cross now, Draco says, “I didn’t know these things, Potter, so they’re hardly convincing.”
“You tried to use Crucio on me, in the bathroom. No one else saw that.”
Draco rubs his chest with his hand. He sighs. “I did.” Then, “Did you really stalk me on a magical map in sixth-year?”
“Yeah.” Potter laughs. “Ron and Hermione were concerned about me.”
Draco gives the box another glance, where it is still lying innocuously in front of him. The oak is so marbled and veined that it seems to vibrate. The gold shimmers tantalisingly, almost as if to say Open me, open me. “You really brewed Polyjuice? Our second-year?”
“Well, that was mostly Hermione,” Potter admits, and, well, that tracks. “Can I come out now? Are you done throwing every spell you know at me?”
Draco scoffs. “I know far more spells than that, Potter.”
Potter slowly stands up and slides over the counter. The way he’s looking at Draco, it’s like he can read his every thought, like he can see everything awful Draco is thinking about himself. He slowly approaches, hands raised. His eyes are so gentle, it makes Draco sick. He says, “Good. You’re going to need every spell you know today.”
Draco is slowly accepting that this may actually be Harry Potter, asking for his help. It would be just like Potter to get himself into an end-of-the-world situation. And, that, Draco is beginning to realise means: he actually might need to save the world. Him. Draco Malfoy. Draco who can’t even stop his perfect son from being bullied by little twerps. Draco, who’s felt at least a little bit lost and unmoored since Astoria died.
Draco looks down at the box as a refuge; mustn’t let Potter see the stinging pressure in his eyes. “Why me?”
Potter taps the box with his wand, just once. The gold scatters and then slowly rearranges itself into Sanctimonia Vincet Semper. Then, below it, a gorgeous flowing script raises itself from the box: Septimus Malfoy, 1789
“Well,” Draco says, “why didn’t you lead with that?”
Potter opens the box, and then it’s a mad-dash rush to defeat the twelve fucking days of Christmas.
“What was Septimus thinking?” Draco mutters as another Krampus comes down the chimney in his shop. Potter’s breathing hard beside him, sweat pasting hair to his temples as he disposes of their seventh Krampus handily. He’s already saved Draco’s life at least five times, and Draco’s only saved Potter’s once. Not that anyone’s counting, but still, Draco fires off a Bombarda at the Krampus creeping up behind Potter.
The Krampus currently staring Draco down has a grotesque grin, double rows of sharp teeth showing, despite the fact that it has a goat head. Its crimson tongue lolls out of its mouth, easily reaching the midpoint of its chest. Somehow, anachronistically, it’s wearing a traditional Muggle Santa costume.
When Draco finally vanquishes it, Potter has already dealt with the ninth and theoretically last Krampus.
Draco slumps against the last intact counter, and wails, “Why didn’t it just have molars? Where were its molars? It’s a goat.”
Potter barks a laugh. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”
A blood-red feather drifts down in front of Draco, throwing light across the entire room as it twists and turns in the wind coming in from the blown-out side of Draco’s shop.
Then they’re off to the races again.
After they: puzzle through twelve mermaids singing; Banish eleven nifflers niffling through every gold and silver item in Draco’s shop (Draco feels a twinge of regret at the yelp of the Niffler when he Banishes it, and he has to remind himself that they’re an evil entity that must be defeated); dance with ten replicas of Draco doing a merry jig around the shop (why am I ten lords a-leaping? Draco asks plaintively, but then he rather enjoys watching Potter’s poor attempt at a partner jig); deal with the aforementioned nine Krampuses kramping; forge a sword with eight goblins (Draco certainly hopes that priceless treasure won’t disappear when they complete the puzzle); have to give seven elves socks (“Why is this in the wizarding twelve days of Christmas?” Potter grits out among the wails and tears all around them. “Well, it was written in the eighteenth century,” Draco points out); have to steal eggs from six evil, fire-breathing geese; play a devilishly-complicated logic game of double-sided rings; have four huge owls marauding through the shop (“I thought the line was four tiny owls!” Draco says, while trying to Conjure a giant rat to appease their new owl overlords); capture three firebirds, a fiendishly-difficult quest that takes them all across Diagon and eventually to the snowy moors of Scotland; and catch two Golden Snidgets zooming about the remains of Draco’s shop (Draco had forgotten how wonderful flying was), they’re at the final challenge.
As Draco races to fit the gears together to play the last line, Potter murmurs into his ear, low and encouraging, “Come on Draco, you’ve got it.” A bead of sweat drips down Draco’s temple and threatens to grease the cogs of the music box, and Draco’s wand almost slips. Potter’s been saying things like that the entire time they’ve been fighting various Christmas-related demons, things like I believe in you, Draco, and you can do it, and you’re so good at this, you’re always so good. It was disconcerting, and horrible, and made something glow in Draco’s chest that had been dormant for a long, long time.
The music box finally creaks to life. The gears turn, creaking and ancient, and click into their final position. An ancient voice warbles, “And a partridge in a pe-earrrrr treeeeeee.”
And then nothing happens.
Potter looks at Draco, and Draco looks at Potter. Their faces are so close together, both crouched over the music box. Potter’s nose almost brushes Draco’s cheek.
Potter doesn’t back away. Instead, he asks, voice hushed, “What’s supposed to happen now?”
Draco doesn’t back away either. Potter’s eyes are so green up close, almost glowing. He whispers, “I have no idea, Potter.”
Then they hear a chirp. Just one. They turn. A glowing, gorgeous, bountiful pear tree has blossomed in the middle of Draco’s shop, growing right out of the wooden floorboards. Warmth suffuses the whole room, despite the snow howling through the blown-out wall. Golden sunlight illuminates the tree, full of red-yellow pears, so succulent it makes Draco’s mouth water. A single partridge is perched on a low branch.
Potter gets up and approaches the tree. He reaches out to touch a pear, and Draco says, suddenly sure, “Don’t eat the fruit, Potter.”
Potter lets his hand hang, traces the gorgeous pear with his gorgeous fingers, lit tan and healthy. “What do you think we’re meant to do?”
Draco stands and approaches the partridge. He looks at it, its burnt orange head, its wise eyes, the dove grey soft puff of feathers on its chest. He turns to Potter. “What do you think?”
Potter’s biting his lip, circling the tree. His voice is tentative, perhaps a little scared when he admits, “I just…don’t know. I don’t know, Draco.”
Draco holds his finger out and the partridge flutter-hops onto it. Potter’s known how to handle every obstacle the box has thrown at them, calling out instructions and commands like he’s the Head Auror; it’s almost enough to make Draco suspicious that Potter planned this, orchestrated it himself. But now, Potter looks lost, hands planted on his hips, scowling at the tree.
The partridge flutters its wings, just once. Draco turns back to it. Finally, he just addresses it, “Could you please let us go?”
The partridge cocks its head, regards him with one wise, black eye, and then nods. A giant rushing sound fills the shop, growing louder and louder. The partridge flaps back to its perch on the pear tree and then the pear tree is dissolving down to nothingness. Draco and Potter are surrounded by a hurricane of magic, sparking red and gold and green and silver.
“You did it!” Potter shouts. “How did you—” His grin stretches across his whole face; Draco has never seen Potter smile so large. Tears are starting to run down his face, amplifying his green eyes, snot bubbling out of one nostril. It should be horrifying, but it is the most gorgeous Draco has ever seen Potter. “You actually fucking did it. I can’t believe—you absolute genius—fuck!”
And then Potter is sobbing, and the magic is roaring all around them, pressure building on their shoulders, distorting and compressing their faces, and Potter is reaching out, grabbing Draco around the shoulder. Potter pulls him in. Draco stumbles into his arms. And then. And then Potter’s kissing him; his lips are soft and chapped and his breath tastes like the massive amount of peppermint they had to ingest to ward off the Krampus. His stubble is scratchy against Draco’s chin, and Draco can feel the warm damp of Potter’s tears against his cheek—and Draco doesn’t know why, but maybe he’s crying a little bit too. And, incomprehensibly, Draco is kissing Potter back, filled with the golden glow of the day, in the intoxicating rush of Potter’s confidence in him, in the absolute majesty of the moment.
The pressure mounts—Draco’s skull feels like it might crack. The roaring, babbling rush of magic about them is loud enough to burst Draco’s ear drums. The light is now blindingly bright behind Draco’s closed lids. And still, gloriously, he’s kissing Potter.
And then everything goes to black, and Draco startles awake in his bed.
Draco curses himself as he groggily rubs his eyes. He’s half-hard in his silk pyjamas, and more frustrated than he’s been in a long time. He had seen a glimpse of a life, one where Harry Potter looked at him with admiration—had kissed him—and Draco had saved the world. One where Draco had done something good, and he had been foolish enough to believe it was real.
He hears Scorpius pitter-patter down the hall, sees the flash of his duckie pyjamas, red and green and yellow blurs without his glasses, and then the distinct sound of urine only half-hitting the toilet. Then, as always, a plaintive “Papa” from the loo, and Draco is now absolutely sure yesterday had just been a dream.
Draco pushes himself from the bed, Vanishes Scorpius’s pee half-heartedly, makes toast for the two of them, struggles to get Scorpius into his trousers, and then narrowly avoids a small meltdown by allowing Scorpius to wear the dumpy, puffy, bright yellow monstrosity with a bright-orange duck brim Scorpius just had to have from the Muggle shop down the road, instead of his gorgeous cloak with built-in Warming Charms and real Acromantula protective silk. It’s just Scorpius and him, together alone. No Harry Potter swooping in to provide glamour and adventure and kissing. Even though Draco loves Scorpius to bits and misses Astoria with all his heart, yesterday—or, really, his dream—felt like a next step in his life that he’s never going to take.
All in all, he’s rather exhausted by the time he’s dropped Scorpius off at The Tiny Owls, and therefore absolutely not prepared for Hermione Granger to be loitering at the front of his shop, hair askew in the bitter cold and puffing out over the top of a scarf wound half round her face.
Maybe the world-saving business had happened after all. Though there’s no hole in the wall of his shop anymore, and Draco certainly hadn’t fixed it.
“Granger.” He nods at her as he undoes the wards. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Malfoy.” She follows him into the shop, unwinding the scarf from her face, and spelling her hair into a perfect chignon, and suddenly she’s all-business, Head-of-the-Magical-Defenders’-Office, probably-soon-to-be-youngest-ever-Minister-of-Magic, war-hero Hermione Granger. Draco feels drab and dim, seeing everything Lucius had trained him to be, right in front of him, while his paltry magical baubles twinkle around him. His life seems to contort and twist in on itself, small and unworthy. He always thought that the shop was a fine and noble profession, but really, it was just that he had been avoiding Potter and his ilk since he opened his shop. Rather easier to not face his failures when they’re not staring him right in the face.
“May I sit?” Granger asks, motioning to one of the rickety chairs to the side of the till.
“Certainly.” Draco nods again, and holds himself stiff behind the counter. “What can I do for you today, Defender Granger?”
She folds her hands primly in her lap. “Well, I’m not actually here in my capacity as public defender. I actually have a…second position at the Ministry.”
What is with these Gryffindors and talking in riddles? This is just like Potter yesterday—and then Draco has to stop himself. It wouldn’t do to rest any hope on that notion. He draws in a deep breath. “Granger, I respect you immensely, of course—”
“Do you?” Granger bites her lip in an apparent attempt not to smile.
“Of course, the legal precedent you’ve been able to set on elvish—” Draco cuts himself off, and then says waspishly, “But also I’ve a shop to run. Could you please cut to the chase?”
Granger’s eyes dance. “Certainly. Though, perhaps, my colleague, Unspeakable X, who is an expert on these matters may be better equipped to describe the matter succinctly.”
“Ta daaaaa!” Pansy Parkinson trills as she bursts out from the stockroom.
“Merlin!” Draco ducks behind the counter, still picturing the Krampus bursting through the wall right there with its double-rowed canine smile. Then he peeks over, and it’s still Pansy, though, to be fair, her smile does resemble that of the Krampus. “Pansy?”
“It’s me!” Pansy throws her arms up like a chorus girl. “Unspeakable X!”
Draco bangs his head against the glass cabinet. He still doesn’t stand up. “Pans, tell me, did you practise this Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum routine ahead of time? Good cop, bad cop? Dumb and dumber?”
Granger lets out a bark of a laugh, and then covers her mouth with her hand. They had planned this.
Pansy says, “Are you just not going to react to my unspeakably big reveal?”
Draco bangs his head on the counter again. “A pun is the lowest form of wit—”
“—which means only the lowest form of people use them,“ Pansy drones. “Don’t you dare quote our parents at me when you should be acting incredibly surprised about my second job. And you love puns.”
“Scorpius loves puns,” Draco corrects her. “At least when he understands them.”
“That means they’re mostly bathroom puns,” Pansy tells Granger.
“Now, I would love to hear Draco Malfoy make a bathroom pun,” Granger says.
“Oh, there are so many good ones. What do you call a man who lives in the bathroom?” Pansy asks.
“What?” Granger says.
“Lou!” And then Pansy cackles, just like Scorpius does every time Pansy tells that one.
Draco stands up now, and fixes Pansy with a flat stare. “That’s not even a pun.”
“Oh, you old sourpuss.” Pansy pouts.
“Right.” Draco rubs his temples. “Can you explain to me what exactly is going on here?”
“Well,” Pansy hedges. “I actually am an Unspeakable. That’s not a joke.”
“So have you been lying to me about working at Witch Weekly our entire adult life then?”
“Oh,” Pansy says, deflating. “I had rather hoped that the dramatic entrance would have skipped us right past that. And I actually work at Witch Weekly too.”
“Unfortunately not,” Draco says, drily. Somehow everyone seems to be leading a life of glamour, the life they wanted, except for him. Pansy had wanted to be an Unspeakable since she was seven.
“Well, quite fortunately, Pansy had a case land on her desk that meant she could finally tell you, something she’s been strictly forbidden to do until now, under magical oath.” Granger’s mouth is set in a flat line. She actually looks annoyed at Draco for ruining Pansy’s entrance.
“A case?” Draco asks. “Does this have anything to do with the very odd dream I had last night?”
“A dream? Oh, how interesting,” Granger murmurs.
Pansy clears her throat, suddenly all business, and Draco sees the competent and formidable editor he knows her to be at Witch Weekly. “In Mysteries, I study time. I regret to inform you that Harry Potter—and you—were caught up in an experimental time conundrum.”
“Excuse me?” Draco says.
Granger says, with a steely hint to her voice, “Harry, specifically, experienced a time loop for 144 days. He, and you, had to defuse an extremely potent magical object that unfortunately breached containment on Level Nine. On behalf of all of us, we thank you for your service.”
Pansy shudders. “I don’t even want to think about what could have happened if the inherent entropy of the time-space loop allowed it to expand much further. We’re lucky you solved it when you did.”
“What?”
“Unfortunately, we do have a liability waiver we need you to sign,” Granger says smoothly, and slides a piece of parchment across the counter.
After an interrogation of Granger and Pansy about this ‘time loop’, and a very thorough bollocksing of Pansy over curry, and then drifting through his shop, half-mindedly picking through his various projects, snow follows Draco to The Tiny Owls to pick up Scorpius after school, sticking in his hair and generally making a nuisance of itself. The sleigh bell on the back of Scorpius backpack jingle-jangles as he runs out of the school doors. “Papa, Papa! Do you know The Twelve Days of Christmas?”
“I do.” Draco tries to sound as enthusiastic as he can. He hefts Scorpius up into his arms, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder—Scorpius is really too old for this, but Draco can’t resist. He drops a kiss on Scorpius’s cheek, chapped red from the cold.
“ON THE FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS,” Scorpius starts sing-shouting right into Draco’s ear.
Draco notices Kevin Entwhistle Apparate in, and give Draco and Scorpius an apprehensive eye. “Shh, Scorpius,” Draco soothes. He certainly doesn’t want Kevin Entwhistle looking at his son.
But Scorpius just continues, “MY TRUE LOVE GAVE TO ME.”
Kevin Entwistle approaches. Draco shifts Scorpius onto his hip. Entwhistle runs a hand through his hair. Draco sees Oscar trudging out the cheery red doors of The Tiny Owls behind Kevin. Draco narrows his eyes as Entwistle Snr drifts closer.
“A PARTRIDGE I-IN A PEAR TREE,” Scorpius blares. “Did you hear, Papa? It’s about BIRDS.”
“I heard, Scorp,” Draco says.
Kevin Entwhistle stops in front of him. Oscar’s now at his side, hangdog eyes towards the ground.
“Er—” Kevin nudges his son. “Oscar has something he wants to say to Scorpius.”
“ON THE SECOND DAY OF CHRISTMAS!” Scorpius sing-songs.
Draco sets Scorpius down, which immediately shuts him up. Scorpius keeps hold of Draco’s trousers as he faces Oscar Entwhistle. Draco hopes his eyes convey sufficiently to Kevin Entwhistle that if this is an elaborate fucking set-up to continue bullying his son, there will be hell to pay. Literally. Kevin doesn’t want to know some of the spells Draco knows.
“Sorry,” Oscar says, petulantly. He still won’t look Scorpius in the eyes.
“What was that?” Kevin says.
“SORRY,” Oscar says, still looking desperately at the ground.
Scorpius looks mildly startled; his hand tightens on Draco’s trousers. Then, he says, “Do you want to see my duck backpack? It QUACKS.”
“I guess.” Oscar dares a glance up at Scorpius, then at Draco, then at the ground again.
Kevin pulls Draco aside by the elbow. “Look, just know Oscar is really sorry.”
Draco nods stiffly. He really has no idea what to do, or why this is even happening. “Of course. Apology accepted.”
“Great.” Kevin huffs a laugh. “I’ll tell you, having Harry Potter burst into my work during lunch today—I just about shit my pants! Darlene in Accounting will never let me live it down.” Then he sticks his hand out to shake. “We’re good, then?”
Draco numbly shakes his hand, and then, when it finally registers, he says, “Harry Potter?”
Draco bursts into Potter’s office pushing past the bleating of his ineffectual assistant—as if some seventeen-year-old boy, who just finished Hogwarts and still has pimples, is going to stop him when he’s on the warpath for his son.
“Draco—” Potter rises from behind his broad oak desk, half a hopeful smile on his face. The look on his face is enough to stop Draco in his tracks. Potter had been in the loop for 144 days, Granger had said. “You came.”
Draco stops, dumbstruck. “Er…yes. I’m here.”
Potter fishes a bunch of cream dahlias from the bin by his desk, big dinnerplate ones with a hint of blush in the centre. One big head curls down onto the desk, toppling from its own weight and a bruised stem. He thrusts them out, across the desk. “These are for you.”
Draco gapes at him. His voice comes out higher-pitched than he’d anticipated. “Pardon?”
Potter snorts and shakes his head, like Draco saying pardon is cute. He waggles the bouquet at Draco. “Would you like to go to dinner with me? Tonight?”
Draco is awash with Harry Potter in his ear, saying You can do it, Draco. You’ve got it. I know you can, brusque and fond and completely out-of-character. It had been intoxicating, the attention, and apparently it was actually fucking real.
“Wait.” Draco holds a hand up. “This isn’t—I came here to talk about Scorpius.”
Potter visibly brightens and that’s just—no. Potter’s not—Draco wouldn’t—“Is he alright? What did Kevin Entwhistle say?”
Draco is in a tizzy. He hasn’t introduced a potential partner to Scorpius at all, ever. Is Potter even a romantic interest? Potter had kissed him. Draco had kissed him back. “Did you meet Scorpius? In one of the loops?”
Potter’s face falls, just a bit. He’s still holding the dahlias over the desk, and they seem to wilt a bit more, too. “Oh, Hermione told you. Yes—but just once. I was hoping—”
Draco clenches his fists, breathes in hard. Potter knows things about him, things about Scorpius. Potter has had 144 days to get to know Draco, to know things about him, while Draco only just learnt about this whole time loop this morning and knows next to nothing about Potter. Potter’s looking at Draco like he trusts him—like he likes him—and Draco knows that some other version of Draco—he can’t rationalise it as him just quite yet—trusted Potter with whatever sundry details of his life. That some other version of Draco had trusted Potter. That other version of Draco didn’t know that Potter was going to insert himself into his and Scorpius’s life with nary a day passing.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the loop? And how dare you talk to Kevin Entwhistle. You’re not his father. We’re not family. I hardly know you.” Draco says.
“I know what it’s like to be bullied. I don’t think Scorpius should have to go through that,” Potter says, mulishly.
Draco scoffs. “What, by me? You got one up on me every time, Potter. I would hardly call that effective bullying—you always won.”
Potter draws back and clutches the dahlias to his chest. For a moment, he has a cracked-open look, and Draco almost feels bad, does feel bad for a moment. But then Potter’s face smooths over, and he looks as he always looks on the front page of the Prophet: noble and brave and stoic, the perfect little hero. And here Draco was, just the sidekick, necessary for some incomprehensible reason, but ultimately dispensable.
“In the loop, on days where I explained it, you spent half the day just interrogating me, convinced I was an imposter or something. It was a waste of time when I only had eighteen hours to work with. I found it just went much more smoothly when I didn’t mention the loop at all.”
“So instead you just tricked me, made me feel important and special, used the things you know about me to your advantage?”
“Fuck.” Potter runs a hand over his face. The dahlias have now, finally, been placed on the desk; they spill forlornly out of the newspaper wrapping paper. “You’re always so—”
“I’m always what?” Draco asks, his voice low and poisonous. And then, because it’s still incomprehensible to Draco, he adds, “You’re the one that kissed me.”
Potter slams his hand on the desk, and then points at Draco. “You’re always like this. Prickly and rude and snobbish and funny and gorgeous and so protective of Scorpius and, goddamnit, I like you whether you like it or not. So will you go out to dinner with me? I bought you flowers, and then spent all fucking day debating if I wanted to show up at your shop with them. Just—I think we could be great. If you’d just give us a chance.”
Draco eyes the dahlias. He swallows. “Did I tell you? About those flowers?”
Potter shakes his head. “What? No. What about them? Did I choose wrong?”
“Astoria always bought those flowers. Every weekend in the summer, at the market near our townhouse.”
“Fuck,” Potter says again. “I didn’t—no, you didn’t tell me that. I just saw them and thought of you. I liked them. I thought you may like them.”
“I do like them,” Draco says, and then, “I don’t date.” He doesn’t even know why he said it. He has dated since Astoria: Pansy exclusively sets him up with absolute smokeshows from the Witch Weekly office, men and women. They’re all interesting and smart and gorgeous, and they always have a perfectly charming dinner at some see-and-be-seen Diagon establishment. Sometimes, they go home together, and have athletic, perfunctory sex.
Pansy has immaculate taste, but sometimes Draco thinks that these dates are all too similar to Astoria: like he’s trying to recreate something that was already perfect, and he’ll always be holding up the negative of this new person to Astoria’s brilliant, glossy film. So he demurs, says he has a son and is selective about who he introduces to Scorpius, and then never follows up. Pansy seems to have sensed it, too; she hasn’t set him up with anyone for a year.
Potter certainly is nothing like Astoria. And he’s gorgeous. And he perhaps actually likes Draco, for reasons Draco can’t fully understand. Potter’s looking up at him with hopeful eyes in a way that feels life-threatening. Life-ruining, maybe.
“I’d like those flowers,” Draco says.
That’s how they end up fucking in Potter’s office, on his gorgeous desk, where Draco bends him over and feels a thrill sparkle up his spine at the way Potter goes down, easy and laughing. Snow billows outside of the charmed Ministry windows, the fireplace crackles and hisses. Draco kisses Potter’s shoulder as he pushes in, and Potter lets out a groan into the crook of his elbow. Draco’s skin feels shivery and hot, like he’s brand new to this, fumbling in the dormitories of Hogwarts, instead of thirty-one years old. It’s the way Potter clings to his hand as Draco thrusts in, it’s the broad golden span of Potter’s back, the dimples at the base of his spine that Draco fits a thumb into, the rest of his hand curling around Potter’s hip. It’s the way Potter feels so familiar and new at the same time, how generous and vocal he is, the way he rolls his hips back to meet Draco’s.
When Draco comes, he flips Potter around and goes to his knees.
After, when Potter’s flopped back onto his desk, chest heaving, Draco stands up and has an awful thought. “Did we do this? Before?”
Potter’s eyes are dark and serious. He says, “No. We never—when you talked with Hermione, she told you about how the memories are locked up in my head, right? You know I would share them with you if I could.”
Draco raises his eyebrows. “You’d let me use Legilimency on you? Right now? If the memories were accessible and I said I wanted to see them?”
“Yes,” Potter says, simply.
“Merlin,” Draco swears. “You truly have no sense of self-preservation.”
Potter grins. He has a dimple on his left cheek that Draco has never noticed; Draco wishes he’d never noticed it. Sweat glimmers on his chest; some of it slides down into his armpit, where Draco has the unearthly urge to bury his face, inhale the essence of Potter.
“I trust you. So how about dinner?”
“Give me a minute to catch up, Potter, Merlin,” Draco grouses.
Potter chuckles again, and Draco feels a small spark of hope in his chest.
“Is it snowing in here?” Draco asks, and Potter laughs, deliriously, and reaches up from where he’s sprawled below Draco, bronze and gorgeous against the tawny oak of his desk, to catch a flake on the tip of his finger.