Chapter Text
1 Year Later
“Does this truly look all right to you?”
Draco stands in the kitchen, circling a perfect example of Christmas pudding and looking worried. He’s been doing this concern-inspecting with unfaltering diligence ever since the creation of his moved into their cupboard for maturing. And though Harry finds it amusing how Draco’s efforts speak novels about wanting to please Ron and Hermione, it’s starting to verge on ridiculous.
“It’s fine,” Harry says, putting his drained mug into the sink. “Trust me. They wouldn’t mind either way.”
“That’s not exactly assuring now, is it?”
“It’s not? I thought it was.” Harry grins, and Draco rolls his eyes.
“There’s a difference between something not disappointing and something pulling the socks off. I want this to be the latter.”
“Draco,” Harry says, not really exasperated though thinking sometimes Draco needs the voice of reason to be him. “You made it yourself. You spent days deciding on the perfect spice and fruit combinations.”
“Yes, and if Hermione complains about the rum plums because of the kids, that will be on you.”
“She won’t. The entire thing will be drenched in liquor anyhow, plus it’s a once-in-the-year exception. And come on, we’re late for morning chocolate.”
Sighing dramatically, Draco does up his hair. “Since when are you so set on being punctual?”
“It’s called manners, Draco. I thought you knew. Besides, it’s Christmas.”
“So it is.” Draco picks up the pudding with another sigh, though he’s smirking pointedly now, and Harry snorts. It was his impulse to call the shared shower this morning their first gift to one another, but the gleam in Draco’s eyes tells him he very much approves.
“Got all the gifts?” Draco asks.
“Felix too,” Harry agrees.
“All right then.”
*
Until a year ago, Harry would never have thought that Draco would like it at Ron and Hermione’s. Even right before Christmas last year, he had lingering doubts about how their first visit together would go.
Only a minute in told him he needn’t have worried. And this year is no different.
“Uncle Harry, Uncle Draco!” Rose beams up at them from the carpet, jumps to her feet and hugs them both, Hugo not far behind.
Hoisting Hugo into his arms, Harry looks at Draco who mouths “Uncle?” at him though deciding that he looks visibly pleased, Harry just laughs.
“Where are your parents?”
“Still upstairs,” Rose says.
“Mummy said we have to wait until seven!” Hugo says, playing with Harry’s collar as though it could ease his sorrows.
“So long, huh?” Harry says and Hugo nods gravely.
“She wasn’t very nice. She said to bugger off until then.”
“Well, that’s what we’re here for,” Harry says and sets Hugo down. He’s really getting too big to carry. “Besides, we still have presents to add.”
“Presents!” Hugo bounces. “There’s loads this year!”
“So we see,” Draco says. “How’s that tooth of yours?”
“Still wobbling, look!” He presents his most tooth-baring grin, revealing a molar barely hanging by its threads.
“That’s gross,” Rose says.
“It’s not!”
“It is.” She wrinkles her nose and if it weren’t for her many freckles and slightly different hair, she’d be the spit image of Hermione at her age. “Why must boys always be that yucky? There’s this guy at school who once ate some flobberworm mucus on a dare.” She shudders. “He’s a Gryffindor too. So many of the boys in my house are dumb. No offence, Uncle Harry.”
“None taken,” Harry says and wilfully ignores Draco’s ill-stifled laugh. “No boyfriend you’d rather have liked to spend your holidays with then?”
“Ew. No. Besides, I wanted to see you and Draco.”
She hugs him again, and Harry buries his face in her hair. She smells of all the good homebound things, of sleepy mornings and family. “We missed you too, Rose.”
“Note that this wanting to see people doesn’t necessarily include her parents,” Ron says as he steps into the living room.
Unlike his children, he’s dressed in day clothes, yet as every Christmas, he likely won’t shave until noon. He nods at Harry and Draco. “Hello, you two. Ready for the battle?”
“Can we start opening presents now, Daddy?” Hugo says, already skidding around the parcels and picking hopefully at wrapping paper.
“Not until your mum’s here.”
“And we still need the marshmallow chocolates,” Rose says under Hugo’s protests. “Daddy, we need the chocolates!”
“Yes, my child.” Ron rubs one eye. “How could I forget?”
“I’ll help,” she says and rushes towards the kitchen.
“Me too, me too!” Hugo dashes after her, every footfall a stomp that would make a troll proud. The parcel he leaves beneath the shivering tree in his wake already has a flap loose.
“I’d better go too.” Ron winces at the clatter issuing through the corridor. “See for some sort of quiet…Oi! Children! Please, at least try to make less noise. Christmas will happen just as early if you manage and your mum will be much happier.”
Left behind in the living room, Harry and Draco smirk at one another, and though Draco isn’t usually a tactile one in company, he accepts Harry’s outstretched hand and lets himself be pulled against Harry’s front, back to chest.
“They even got me a stocking this year,” he mumbles, gaze turned towards the hearth where six fully adorned stockings are lined up on cuddly twine.
“I saw,” Harry says. “You already had one last year though.”
“Mm. A makeshift one. This one’s all fancy and proper.”
It is. Glitter letters, Hermione’s embroidery, and sugar canes poking out of the trunk.
“It’s like it’s trying to say I’m here for good,” Draco mumbles.
Harry nuzzles his ear. “Is it still weird for you?”
“No. Though maybe that in itself is.”
Harry huffs, not believing a word of the last bit, and smiling when Draco touches his wrist.
“Is it weird for you that I’m still keeping my flat?”
“No,” Harry says. They talked about it once last year’s tizzy had calmed and they’d visited Chrissy at the institution since Harry had to see for himself she’d be getting the help she needs. And when Draco confessed with an almost apologetic air he’d like to keep his old place, Harry didn’t mind. In fact, it was he who said Draco should keep it then and it was also he who insisted they get another tree set up in Draco’s living room this year, simply for the sake of tradition. They spent a full weekend there, decorating and misusing the couch and living on delivery cho mein and crisps.
“Though it is weird to not feel beaten by the end of December,” he admits, expecting Draco’s agreement and relishing the hum vibrating against him.
“We told you half the commissions would be good for you.”
“Yes, Draco,” Harry says. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really, to have him and Tilda ganging up on him this year, reducing his seasonal work schedule and making sure he’d stick to it. Between the two of them, plus Hermione in the background, Harry didn’t stand a chance. Not that he minds. He also doesn’t mind giving Draco the words he’s palpably fishing for. “You are very wise, and I am lucky to have you.”
“I know,” Draco says, satisfied. “How will you thank me?”
“I’ll think of something,” Harry says as Hugo bounces back into the living room. “Uncle Harry, Uncle Draco. Daddy said we can have extra marshmallows!” It speaks for Draco’s level of comfort that he doesn’t at all move from Harry’s embrace, nor freeze at the intrusion.
“Oh, good,” he says dryly. “Does that include all of us or just you?”
Hugo beams mysteriously as he hops off again, and Harry chuckles, releasing Draco if not without a peck to his head.
“I’ll go remind Ron you take none,” he says.
“Take the pudding with you.”
“I will.”
*
The day is wonderful.
Last year's Christmas was already good, having Draco with him, to exchange looks throughout the day, whether to check in with one another if things are all right or to just reassure each other of reality, enjoying the unexpectedness of the day whilst also looking forward to retreating for more twosome celebrating later that night.
But today, every attendant knows their place, and Draco had over a year to adjust to Ron and Hermione, a combination that, after a few first awkward minutes, turned out to work surprisingly well.
Now, Draco hugs Hermione for the jumper she and Ron gave him, and smirks openly when Harry unwraps his own gift from him—a new Gryffindor shawl to finally replace his old one. He enthuses with Ron over a new food store he found, and talks with Rose about the novel Molly sent her.
He stands once all the gifts have been unwrapped and the paper engulfs them like a colourful sea, helping first to tidy up the debris while Harry plays with Hugo, and then to assist Hermione with cooking, taking Felix with him whom—upon request—Harry made a new shirt with cuff links shortly after Draco moved in with them. He increasingly looks like Draco, and Harry finds it sweet. Similarly to himself, Felix has calmed greatly over the past year, never losing his cheeky spirit entirely yet unquestioningly matured.
Life’s good, and as Ron hands him a butterbeer over his shoulder, the happiness for Harry stands in his eyes as well.
“Merry Christmas, mate.”
“Happy Christmas, Ron,” Harry says.
“Could one of you help with tasting this puree?” Draco’s voice comes from the kitchen. “I think we need another opinion!”
“On my way!” Harry assures, and rises to follow his call.
If he’s lucky, and he’s starting to believe he actually will be, this will be Christmas for many, many years to come. The future starts today.
He can’t wait.